Quandary 2019

I’m pretty sure the last thing I wrote outside of work was my dad’s obituary. The urge to write things down has come for a time since then, but never long enough to commit words to page. I decided it was time to start putting them down and see what comes of it. The first thing that really pushed me to write again was the trip I took with my brother and sister to Colorado in September.

Calling it a vacation seems silly. I was not working, and I was away from home, and some of it was certainly delightful and relaxing. But it was emotionally and physically taxing as well. It’s been nearly two years since my dad died. Feels like ten years ago or two weeks ago, depending on the day. But while in Colorado, it seemed often like he was right there. Four years ago, my brother and I did this trip with my dad, hitting nearly all the same spots. We did what was at the time, and perhaps still is, the hardest physical challenge of my life. We climbed Quandary Peak, a mountain 14,265 feet in altitude. The trail is a little under 7 miles, and it is hard terrain. At places we had to choose each step to make sure our ankles stayed intact. Granite is unforgiving in all its forms, from large slick rocks with sharp edges, to small gravel churning underfoot. And on Quandary, there is a lot of granite.

My dad struggled his way up this mountain, proud in the end that he only quit once before deciding to persevere and get to the top. We took the last few steps up the mountain together, soaking in the views and reveling in our accomplishment, before facing the next struggle of getting back down. This time, it was my sister’s turn to struggle up the mountain. And struggle she did. She never officially quit, not even once, though I’m certain that the thought more than danced across her mind. Nothing about this trip was easy for her, including the “warm up” hikes we did in the days leading up to Quandary. But, just like before, we took the last few steps together and made it to the top eventually. And just like before, we realized the job was only half done, and trudged our way back down.

I remember years ago going to Israel with some of my family. The most beautiful part of that trip for me was walking through the Bible stories of my childhood. It was as if Narnia had come to life and I could see with my own eyes what had only been described in words before. Hearing those stories again, in the places they occurred, brought them to life and made history real before my eyes. Whatever your beliefs, it’s hard to underestimate the historical significance of the life of Jesus. Walking where he walked was an experience I’ll never forget.

Similarly, walking these steps I last walked with my father brought him back to life for me, in a way. It sounds beautiful, and it is. But it is also torturous. I think Colorado is unique because I’ve only been in those places with him, my brother, and now my sister. Everywhere around “home” I’ve been with him, I’ve also been with lots of other people. And everywhere else I’ve traveled with him has been brief, or crowded, or too anonymous to be memorable. But in Colorado, we walked where few people do. Being that close to him, but not being able to see him or talk to him, reminded me what is missing all over again. Time has not yet healed that wound, and I suspect it never really will.

The funny thing to me about that trip four years ago is that we had no idea we were nearing the end with him. It was not a “do it before it’s too late” trip. It was a “do it and then later do it again” trip. We thought there were decades of adventures left, and were planning the next one when he got sick. But I love that about my dad. The older he got, the more he lived. He bought a motorcycle in his 50s, went to a bunch of concerts with Dee, and was up for more adventure than I ever would have guessed. I even convinced him to try seared tuna once. Rare fish. Rare indeed. I try to remind myself of these things on the days I don’t want to get out of bed. There is much life yet to be lived, and no excuse to put it off. Some days though, it is the best I can do to put one foot in front of the other. Inch my way along the trail. One more step.