The Love of Mountains

I love the mountains. I love the long, slow burning story they tell. I love their offerings of challenge and reward. I love their immensity and their immediate ability to put things in perspective.

I think I love the mountains because of my grandparents. Growing up, they had a beautiful house in West Virginia. If you stuck your head out the window as you climbed their winding gravel driveway, tall, rich green trees said hello with the fresh smell of the woods. At the door, we would meet Nana and Pops with smiles and hugs as we crunched the gravel beneath our feet in excitement.

Inside were sure to be treats, conversation, laughter. The living room had one face with a series of sliding glass doors that lead to one of my favorite places in the world: a wooden porch looking into the mountains. Rocking chairs beckoned you to take a seat, relax, and take in the view. From this heavenly throne, you could see the mountains calling to us, begging to tell us their old secrets and wise observations.

It is one of the most peaceful places I’ve ever known, no doubt a feeling crafted by the love that my grandparents gave us. They encouraged us to chase our dreams with absolute confidence. As a result, mountains became a powerful symbol for me. In the background, mountains see the world made. They represent at once the peace of those rocking chairs and the vibrant conversations around the kitchen table about tomorrow.

Along the way in South America, I saw many mountains and they brought me great joy. I find myself calm and at home in their embrace. While Pops passed away years ago and Nana has since moved away from the mountains of West Virginia, I felt like I was visiting their house every time I took in the dominating presence of mountains all over the continent. I was on the porch again, listening carefully to the landscape.

Kindness in the Arena

Anyone that knows me well enough will say that I have a certain passion for argumentation. (I’m submitting that for Euphemism of the Year.) I like to picture myself as Maximus Decimus from Gladiator: confident, precise, and determined. Getting closer to the truth, if you put me in the arena, I can be a little rough around the edges.

One thing I’ve always admired about my brother Garett is his incredible tact; he can disagree without being disagreeable. (As semantical note, Garrett is technically my brother-in-law but my biological brother Josh and I have long agreed that this distinction hides more than it shows.) He has this way of pushing back, then pulling together two disparate view points in order to find some common ground. It’s something that I often struggle with in the heat of an argument and I’m always grateful when he’s around to help nudge me in the right direction.

I thought of him when I hung out for a few days with a Chilean journalism student named Antonia. We met on a bus across the Chilean-Bolivian border and she offered to show me around Santiago when I made my way there after visiting San Pedro de Atacama. She’s interested in international relations - the field of my undergraduate studies - and we talked a lot about the way the world is changing as we strolled around Santiago. What I noticed is that like Garrett, she has the same natural ability to not bite down too hard in a discussion and keep things moving and it led to some great conversations.

I’m grateful that I have an aggressive instinct when it comes to the debate of ideas. I think that with the right people, it can push the conversation to more useful and interesting places. With that said, I’m also aware that I don’t always need that killer instinct. Sometimes, it’s much better to connect ideas and to bridge gaps. It’s from random connections like Antonia and close people in my life like Garrett that I hope to learn how to do just that.

The Long Haul

My brother and sister love to tell the story of the day Dad came home and told them, “We killed Joe Camel.” My dad worked at the FDA at the time and was engaged in an all out war to regulate the tobacco industry. I was too young to really have a memory of this story, but I do know that it didn’t end there. He had committed to something much larger than himself, something that might not bear fruit until years later. He was right. The fight over tobacco regulation continued long after he left the FDA until President Obama signed the Family Smoking Prevention and Tobacco Control Act into law in 2009.

Recently, I came across a powerful statistic published in a paper in the Journal of the American Medical Association:

between 1964 and 2012, eight million premature deaths were avoided as a result of tobacco control.

History is a messy and complicated affair. Occasionally, however, you are able to step back a little and see the arc of smaller stories. With the aforementioned retrospective, the tobacco fight is one of these little arcs that I feel I can actually grasp and I think I’ve learned a lot about the long haul from being able to see the story happen in my own lifetime. It gave me a sense that committing yourself to the big things isn’t an act of naiveté. It’s an act of courage.

I was able to get a sense of another smaller arc when I visited the museum in Santiago. After walking through the second floor, a floor of dark corridors filled with the shadows of abuse and terror of the Pinochet regime, you reach the open and light space of the third floor. The third floor represents the resistance, the fight, the overcoming of the Chilean people.

In 1988, there was a national plebiscite to determine whether Pinochet should continue his rule. YES meant more Pinochet; NO meant elections for a new government. The campaigns from the opposing sides became the stuff of legends. The NO movement won out, capturing almost 56% of the vote. Pinochet’s time as the leader of Chile had come to a close. The NO movement is perhaps best represented by their cheery jingle: “Chile, la alegría ya viene” (Chile, joy is on its way).

The song felt like the fruition of a movement, the closing of a narrative. It was powerful. In that moment, I thought of my dad and his unrelenting commitment to the long haul. These commitments matter. As we sum up these arcs, we start to bend the bigger story. It’s often worth it to take a step back and wonder what arcs we are engaged in.

Enabling Authenticity

At home, there’s always a sense of being a known entity. You’ve met your neighbors. You’ve shared coffee and beers with your friends. Your parents and community have watched you grow up and learn. Your identity has been slow-cooked through the years, occasionally altered by the random spice of life.

Travel, on the other hand, lacks this fixedness. It puts you into contact with lots of new people. Every bus and hostel is a chance to reinvent yourself. They don’t know where you came from, what you do, or what you are like.

You can approach these moments of self-creation with terror or excitement. I choose the latter. There is a danger in this creation, though: you might enter an inauthentic space of self. You might present a charade to your new companions and, in the process, chip away at who you really are.

I’ve found the key to authenticity in these moments of self-creation has two key components. First, you must bring everything you are to the table. Second, you have to encourage others to do the same. When I do these two things, I can skip past the formalities and get to the good stuff: a space to be honest. It’s there that chance encounters feel like fate and quiet moments extend into eternity.

I think the first component is easy when you have a little bit of confidence. I have plenty (probably too much). The second, however, can be tricky. How can you enable another person to be authentic? It requires you to be non-judgmental and appreciative of everyone’s little quirks. I can’t think of someone better at this than Sara.

Everyone in my family has this strange mix of incredible seriousness and outrageous goofiness. My brother is no exception and I think it’s why he and Sara get along so well. She has the rare gift of giving people around her the green light to be themselves. No one feels the need to tone down their eccentricities. To feel comfortable in your own skin around others is no small thing.

When I was traveling, I tried my best to encourage new people I met to come along with me to that interesting space of companionship, but I know that I can always do better. I’m very thankful that I have people in my life who can help me continue to learn.

Down the Mountain

Everyone has a “thing”. Some people like to fix up old cars, pursue the perfectly brewed cup of coffee (ahem), or watch documentaries. My mom likes to trail run. She’s completed an untold number of 50Ks, a sizable amount of 50 milers, and a handful of 100 milers. I don’t know how it became her “thing”. Years ago she, like Forrest Gump, started running and just kept on going.

In 2012, she roped the whole family into doing a 50 miler in the Headlands of California. By the whole family, I mean my mom, dad, brother, sister, brother-in-law, brother-in-law’s twin brother, and me. It took us 12 hours, 34 minutes, and 56 seconds, but we did it. It was one of the most memorable moments of my entire life.

After completing a marathon, a 50k, and then a 50 miler, I decided to retire at the top of my game. There could be some more big runs in my future, but I think I’ll stick to hiking for the near future. It’s a bit more speed. That doesn’t mean I don’t run occasionally, though. When I do, I feel like my mom is with me.

One such moment was the last part of my trek to Machu Picchu. After five days of walking (about 50 miles in total), we had made it to the entrance. I spent the day exploring the site, soaking it all in. On the way down, my legs started moving a bit faster and I found myself running down the mountain that I had labored up hours before. I fell into a smooth rhythm, leaping from stair to stair, rock to rock. After five days of trekking, the change in pace felt good.

My mom was with me in that moment, moving carefully right next to me. Together, we closed out the magnificent five days by gliding down that mountain. During the descent, I found myself in a state of immense bliss and peace. As I crossed a bridge and waited for a friend to catch up, I could only smile. Distance really does feel like an illusion sometimes.

Back to the Mission

I’m incredibly grateful to have been able to travel free from commitments and worry for three months through a dynamic place like South America. Amidst this gratitude, though, there is a little pang of guilt. As I traveled through these places, I was reminded that this type of movement is simply not an option for most of the world. For many, seeing a new place is not some chance to explore, it is migration in the search of safety and a better life. This realization sits quietly and powerfully in the background.

I think I’m so aware of this contrast because of the way my family has come into contact with the world outside our home. Ever since my sister and mom went to work at St. Gabriel’s in Malawi years ago, seeing the world has always been framed by the context of being part of it. This especially applies my brother, Josh. His work at Medic Mobile takes him to some interesting places all over the world but he always gets on a plane with a mission in hand. I think calling him well-traveled would miss something. Josh went to Colombia to work in areas affected by land mines with the military; I came to Colombia to stay on a coffee farm.

Coincidentally, the first cup of coffee I ever tried came from beans Josh brought back from that very trip. I took it black, not really knowing that there are all sorts of crap you can add in. That framed my entire experience with coffee. It’s meant to be black. Likewise, my first experiences in other countries came about through the chance to do something. Seeing the world is meant to be paired with engaging with it. Sometimes, the absence of this framing during my travels through South America felt indescribably off. I can’t shake that feeling. I’m not sure I ever want to shake it.

Josh and his girlfriend, Sara (who, not surprisingly, runs in the same circles as Josh), came to Ecuador to travel with me for a week. It was the first vacation that either of them had taken and it was great to see two hardworking people treat themselves. Despite it being their vacation, I could still see the wheels turning as they explored Ecuador. I suppose once you open your eyes, it’s hard to train them to shut. Even though they enjoyed their adventures in Ecuador, I could tell that they would be excited to get back to work.

Travel can offer unforgettable experiences. I don’t regret the adventure I had in South America one bit. But, by the end, I was itching to get back to the mission. Back to being part of a community. Back to shaping the edges of a brighter tomorrow, today. My brother - and my family - have ingrained that in me.

I suppose that is travel’s true power for me: I go somewhere else to feel the pull of home even harder.

Well, now I’m home. And I’m ready to build something.

Applause for Uncertainty

Uncertainty is a common companion for a traveler and people can react to this companion in different ways. I’d consider myself to be a somewhat easygoing traveler. I’m by no means the zen master of travel but I’d say that I scored high marks in a few advanced courses during my trip through South America. When I got back, I started to think about why I had this approach to the curveballs that travel throws at you. My mind kept drifting back to the very first time I left the United States, to the orange skies of Malawi.

Malawi was a cornerstone experience for me. I was young and eager to expand my understanding of the world. I don’t think it was some grand, clichéd moment of enlightenment, though. For years, everyone in my family had told stories about the many ways in which we can choose to engage with the world. The stories were what enlightened me, but they also gave me a great hunger for more understanding.

Malawi fed that hunger. It was my first contact with something so different yet so the same to what I knew. Throughout the process, my mom and sister were my guides for sorting through my experience. I was close with my mom that summer, working at her side to help educate the hospital staff in physical therapy, but I was even closer with my sister. We spent a lot of time together in high school and even though it had been a few years since we had been around each other for a long stretch of time, we fell back into the unique rhythm only a brother and sister can have.

We worked side by side on projects. We played soccer with the kids until the darkness sent us home. We stayed up late watching bootleg DVDs and drinking hot chocolate. We decided together to become “tea people” when our stash of hot chocolate powder ran out.

Most of all, I think Elizabeth taught me how to react to uncertainty. Malawi is a friendly, beautiful place, but a place of funny uncertainty. You have to be okay with all sorts of twists and turns. When things did veer away from the expected, I would look to my sister to see how to react and what I saw was serenity and joy. What I learned from her in Malawi I took with me as I continued to travel in the years to come.

As William Carlos Williams said, ‘The proper response to life is applause.“ So, instead of shouts of anger and frustration at the unpredictability, I learned that the right response to uncertainty is to applaud, to embrace it and treat it like music. The world is always playing some sort of improvised jazz. Go ahead, clap. Then, play along.

Asking for Directions

People always struggle to ask for directions and I think that’s because to ask for directions is to tell the world that you don’t know. It is to admit that you had a plan and that so far, your plan has failed. To ask for directions is to humble oneself. These things aren’t the easiest to do willingly, so we resist it.

When I arrived in Quito, I decided I would take the bus into the city and then try to figure out how to use the bus system to get to my hostel. I hadn’t really done the necessary research, so the first thing I did after getting off the plane was to ask someone how to get into the city. Then ask someone whether I wanted to go to the North terminal or the South Terminal. With a little bit of knowledge in my pocket, I made my way into the city.

When I got to the North terminal, I asked how much the fare cost, then asked how to get to San Blas. When I followed the man’s instructions, I tried to confirm that the line I was in was correct with the man next to me. No, it’s over there, he said. I followed his fingers, got in a line, and tried to confirm again. No, it’s those trolleys over there, she said. I felt like a pinball in the game This Guy Has No Idea What He’s Doing. I went to the trolley line and got on the next one. I asked the conductor if I was on the right one. He said no, but he would help me get to where I was going if I stayed on.

We got to a new station on the trolley and the conductor err… conducted me to a transfer point. I confirmed successfully in line there that it was heading in the right direction. I rode the packed bus to my hostel.

The whole ordeal, from plane to hostel door, took three hours. It was rush hour on a Friday and everyone was going everywhere. The ordeal was exhausting, but not because of the crowded buses or the amount of time it took. It wore me out because it was a constant reminder of how much I don’t know.

Honestly, to confront my pride and admit my ignorance is a daily struggle for me. More than money, I find that knowledge is an alluring currency for me and laying bare my poverty shakes me. While it’s difficult, I also think it’s incredibly important that we are transparent in our intellectual humility. To suppose that we know everything is to close off the possibility of actually enriching our knowledge and learning more. To give the world the effort that the whole show demands, we need to shed our egos and embrace intellectual humility.

We are learning more and more that certain mental traits can be strengthened through action. For example, a study finds that through meditation we can cultivate our capacity for empathy. I see intellectual humility as just another mental trait for development. Perhaps asking for directions is a way of strengthening that muscle. So if you see me asking for directions, maybe I’m not lost. Maybe I’m on my way.

Usted a Tú

In the north of Colombia, I completed a five day trek through the jungle to get to La Ciudad Perdida (“The Lost City”), a sacred site of the indigenous people in the region. I ended up with a small group: a couple from Belgium (Marie and Greg), a doctor from Bogota (Carlos), a guide from the local Wiwa tribe (Lorenzo), and a talented chef (Josè). We were a good crew: friendly, curious, and determined to meet the challenges that the jungle offered.

Lorenzo is a guy with a quiet energy who occasionally flashes a big, heartwarming smile. He’s the kind of person that you immediately want to be friends with. He only spoke Spanish, so that gave me a lot of opportunities for practice. At the beginning, we mostly asked Lorenzo questions. We were curious about the local culture and wanted to get to know him.

In Spanish, there are two ways of saying “you”: usted, which is formal, and tú, which is familiar. (There is actually some more nuance than this. If, like me, you’re crazy, dive down this Wikipedia rabbit hole.) It’s common to begin your relationship with a new person using usted and then to transition to tú as you become more familiar. There are some cases where usted persists; for example, if you want to show respect or it is some kind of service or customer relationship. Colombian Spanish is traditionally more formal, so usted seems to stick around a little longer than other places. As a result of this delayed transition, the point where someone does switch becomes that more interesting.

Lorenzo eventually started asking us questions. What is dancing like in your country? How many people live there? What do you study? All in the “usted” form. As the days went by, Lorenzo would smile a bit more and give us brief glimpses of a very dry humor.

Then, a change. He asked a question using the “tú” form. This might seem wholly unremarkable. Maybe it is. Maybe there are equivalents in English. But to witness the transformation of a relationship - with the “you” form as the focal point - was absolutely fascinating. The decision to use “tú” says that there is some level of familiarity and comfort with the other person. It’s almost like an affirmation of a growing relationship.

On the way back from the Lost City, I started to run a bit on the downhills. The quickening pace was a welcomed change. Lorenzo told me that he likes to run sometimes, too, and we found ourselves lagging behind the others on the very last day. He looked at me and asked if I wanted to run up the massive hill before us. I grinned and nodded and we started the slog up the hill. We reached a plateau and almost as if in sync, immediately stopped, laughing at the difficulty.

Ultimately, our languages are just symbols: we are conveying meaning by making sounds with our mouth or moving our body in a certain way. The meanings we attach to words like “tú” and “usted” are completely arbitrary. Yet, there is real value there, created out of thin air. We can’t forget to pause and notice it.

Get It Down

When constructing my packing list, I briefly considered taking a Bluetooth keyboard. I was planning on writing while traveling and thought that it was a no-brainer. Then, I wondered if I could ditch the physical keyboard and write on virtual ones. It would be certainly be lighter and make the process of writing a little less fussy. Could I do without?

Turns out, I could. I’ve written quite a bit in the last three months. The vast majority of it was typed up by my fingers on my iPhone. In fact, I think the constraint of the iPhone helped me: it forced my writing to be more concise. I composed posts on packed buses, lounging in hammocks, sprawled under the shade of trees, and waiting for food at restaurants. Everywhere - and every moment - was a chance for creation.

There is a kind of obsession with the tools that we use to do things. Productivity and creativity often fall victim to this obsession. There seems to be a mysticism surrounding the work that we do and I’ve become all too familiar with the cult of specificity surrounding the written word. This writing app. That fountain pen. This time of day. That sanctioned amount of isolation.

No, to write, you just need an idea and somewhere to put it. Pen and paper during a quiet moment at work. The Notes app on your iPhone in the stumbling moments after a deep sleep. The back of your airplane ticket as you wait in line for coffee. Words are apathetic to how they greet the world, but they do care that you get them down. At the end of the day, that is writing. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.