on shaky ground

Taylor Pass, Colorado- September 2016

Rule number one: if you live in a mountain town, never, ever ask someone to go on an outdoor adventure with you unless you know the person in question is 1) incredibly fit, 2) has the right equipment, and 3) can keep up with you––or even better yet––is faster and stronger than you.

Having spent the last twenty-five years regularly visiting a small ski town, I thought I was pretty observant. I thought I had a decent read on the social norms. Yet, I had little awareness of this fundamental rule. Nor did I fully realize that hikes are not just hikes, ski outings are not just outings, and mountain bike rides are not just rides. There is always an underlying purpose behind the activity. Whether it is to train for a race, chart a new route, or stay strong; there is always a reason. It's not so different from my hometown of Washington, D.C., in that nothing is what it seems on the surface. Type A people abound. You can smell the ambition in the air. In Washington, socializing isn't just socializing; it is "networking." 

Rather than staying in D.C., I spent a large part of my adult years bouncing around the world. Dedication to my work acted as the gravity pulling me back down to earth. That work––which was my only constant companion––was also the same, not so loving partner that required me to spend interludes of my life in war zones around the world. I would barely feel the dirt seep between my toes before I would find myself in another middle seat for another 13-hour flight, moving to another country, plagued by yet another conflict. 

Although I could rattle off international human rights law at the drop of a hat, provide detailed descriptions of complex ethnic tensions in south-central Somalia, and write reports on human rights abuses in Syria; I was a pathetic sight to behold when I traveled back to my parents' vacation home high in the mountains of Colorado. There, I was, a workaholic tourist from the city–– a sea-level urchin huffing and puffing in the thin mountain air, unable to read a topographic map, unsure how to use an avalanche beacon, roaming the streets without a car, and putting up my thumb to hitchhike to and from my family's cabin 10 miles from town. 

Simply put, I stood out like a suit in a sea of sweatshirts. I was a new breed of contradiction in this mountain environment to which I kept returning. I was both remarkably independent––having spent what felt like a lifetime taking care of myself around the world––while at the same time surely radiating a strong scent of ineptitude at 10,000 feet.

Locals belonged, as evidenced by their uniform of puffy jackets, well-worn from backcountry skiing and accessorized with duct-taped patches. But tourists, tourists existed to keep the economy booming and exhibit the latest in shiny Patagonia gear, as if the main drag, Elk Avenue, was a catwalk for the Outdoor Retailer Convention. Which brings me to the next rule: if you are one of the locals who tourists look to with envy for your superhuman quads and your ability to live in one of the most beautiful places on earth, enjoy that status and enjoy the tourists, but never date one.

"Wow, this is gorgeous; I don't even know where we are. What are those mountains over there again? Is this route called Star Pass?" When I was a kid, my parents, like most, taught me not to talk to strangers. But here I was, not only talking to a stranger, but having agreed to go on a hike in the middle of nowhere with him. There was no cell service, no people in sight, and we were hiking farther and farther away from civilization. All with someone I had briefly met for mere minutes before saying, "sure I will go on a hike with you; it’s just a hike."

My mother would be pleased to know I was not actually alone with the tall, handsome man from the mountains. Two furry friends, Peaches and America joined us, together with their elderly owner Curtis. Peaches and America were donkeys which we brought along to help transport an 80-pound radio repeater down the mountain. After all, this was not exactly a hike and certainly not a date, but a "work trip" to which my new friend Andrew had invited me. 

Andrew was quiet and introverted. I was loud and talkative. I am not sure I said more than three words to Andrew during our ten-hour hike. Instead, Curtis and I spent nine and a half hours talking, bouncing thoughts, ideas, and witty responses off each other. Together, the three of us traversed across the most stunning terrain, virtually untouched by humans. A halo of mountain peaks encircled us as we slowly walked with Peaches and America up the seldom-traveled, rocky paths. 

Andrew might not have been talking, but he was listening. He was listening to me talk about my family of five brothers, my childhood on the East Coast, my work overseas, and my various heartbreaks, of which there had been many. The most recent one, though, dominated the conversation. It was especially stinging, leaving a bitter taste in my mouth and an indignant bite to my voice when speaking about relationships, love, and men. But here I was, with a kind, bearded man in the mountains who listened attentively, hiked methodically, and prudently brought a simple yet delicious spread of apples, cheese, French bread, and prosciutto. The picnic we had was breathtaking.

Rather than turning him off, Andrew's listening intrigued him. We got together the next day in town, we met the following afternoon to play outside with his kids, and we met for dinner the night after. We both knew the cardinal rule of the town: never date a tourist. But we weren't dating. We were just keeping each other company after our own recent heartbreaks and before I had to inevitably leave as all tourists do. 

After two weeks of spending time together every day and feeling more and more at home in a town where I was always an outsider, my tourist status jolted us both back to reality. I had to leave for a work trip to Kenya. Following Kenya, I got a job in Bangladesh, and then a job back in D.C. For five years Andrew and I balanced calendars and work trips and kids’ schedules and bank accounts as we made sincere efforts to see each other, reconnect, and keep the relationship going. It was tough. It was beautiful. It was complicated. But somehow, "keeping each other company" quickly turned into love. 

It was a love that was pure and solid as we navigated time zones, virtual communication, and in-person rendezvous. It also was essential, at least for me. While always a bit of a tourist in this small mountain town and without the obvious athletic prowess of the duct-taped, down-coat-wearing locals, I could usually keep up. Occasionally, I was even the one leading the charge. But then, that started to change. 

I was in Greece setting up an office for refugee legal aid and I noticed I was trembling. Actually, I didn't notice, but my colleague did. At late-night dinners, after 15 hours of stressful workdays––all sustained by copious amounts of caffeine––I would pour water, and my right hand would ever so slightly shake. I was more than 100 percent sure it was because of the stress and the delicious freddo cappuccinos. It turns out when I got back to D.C.; the neurologist thought something else. 

Being told at 35-years old that you have an untreatable, degenerative brain disease––usually reserved for a small percentage of senior citizens––is a true nightmare. It sucker-punched me in a way that knocked my breath out from inside. Shocked can’t even begin to describe it. Those words, "you…have…Parkinson's disease" left me trembling––not from the physical manifestations of the disease––but from the sheer fear of the future. 

Andrew was the first person I called. "Is everything alright?" he asked from his quiet, snow-covered office, hearing the sirens in the background as I stood on a D.C. street corner. I, the loud, talkative, boisterous half of the relationship, was silent. All I could say was, "No," in-between panicked tears.

I continued my work, and we continued long-distance. A handful of people knew about my condition. Most did not. Andrew was my confidante. He was my person. I could tell him anything, cry to him, or just use his stoic, loyal, encouraging personality to pull me along and keep me going. And going was what I was known for. Indeed, it was the crux of my identity. Going from one place to the next, from one activity to another. But after that November day at the doctor, the thought of continuing on became a daily struggle. The future, which was once exciting and full of possibilities, turned into a terrifying, inescapable progression toward disability, creeping in little by little. It was like I was walking toward a malicious intruder who had vowed to rob me of my essence, to rob me of the ability to do everything I love. 

Yet at the same time as I was moving toward the inability to walk or talk, I was also moving toward Andrew. While we broke the rule for so long––a local together with a tourist––I finally relocated to the small Colorado town and shed my tourist label. 

And although I might never truly fit into a place where movement is prized above all else; where everyone is skiing, hiking, or biking, while I am sitting in the waiting room of a movement disorder specialist; it's ok. It has to be. After all my traveling, flying around the world, and moving from place to place; I have found my home. And as Andrew and I take a hike in the mountains surrounding the house, he grabs my shaky hand, holds it, and I am reminded once again, a hike is never “just a hike.”