"Why don't we hike in Europe?" Wait, did I just hear my wife ask me if I want to go to another country? Sure, the thought of backpacking in a part of the world that both of us have never been to certainly has its perks, but could I really pull it off? My internal judge (the glass-half-empty curmudgeon) screamed, "You're not strong enough," followed by, "Get real, you're barely a year out from chemotherapy and a major surgery!" Doubt ensnared my dream, leaving me to question if I'd ever make it to Europe mind any other outdoor adventure in the near future. I began to wallow in a pool of negative emotion; my free spirit and adventurous self paralyzed by these venomous jabs of internal pity. Jen, undeterred by my doubt, showed me webpages of top hiking destinations in the Old World. What really got my attention was The Alps and the famed Tour Du Mont Blanc, a 110-mile saunter around the summit of the Mont Blanc massif through France, Italy, and Switzerland. One hundred ten miles didn't sound bad, heck, Jen and I hiked double that on the John Muir Trail in California, but this time things were different—or so I thought. Planning a trip such as this requires a great deal of effort, and after a year of being dragged through hell, I was intimidated by the thought of leaving the comforts of home. Things were so tumultuous for me earlier in the year with doctors' appointments, lab tests, CT scans, surgeries, and an arduous recovery that the thought of leaving the country, albeit temporarily, had never crossed my mind. What if something happens while I'm backpacking? I thought. No one in Europe knows what I've been through, has my medical records, or can understand my eighth-grade-level French. "Are you going to let this stop you?" Jen asked, bursting my bubble of indecision. I knew she was right. I couldn't let my worries earn my attention. I would never get anywhere if I did.

We're always changing—every day of our lives. No matter if it's a new job, school, or lifestyle, change is never easy; yet it's during these difficult times when we learn the most about ourselves and what we're capable of achieving. This year, Jen and I endured the toughest change—the kind that barges into your life unexpectedly. It was unwelcome and we wanted it out of our lives immediately. We were impatient and we struggled to allow time to heal. We knew we'd have to change ourselves, especially our mindsets, to make progress. We actually employed a mantra we learned from our early backpacking days to get us through some challenging times: A step forward, no matter how small, gets you that much closer to your goal. Instead of being held back by doubt, we would take steps every day to leave our struggles behind.

When it came time to go all-in and make the decision to buy plane tickets to Europe, I fought the urge to cancel the order and hole up in my house where I felt safe and away from the dangers lurking in the world. But after we purchased the tickets, I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. This time, my willingness to change was in my control. If I was ever going to regain the adventurous self I was before this medical catastrophe, I was going to have to fly away and effect the change I wanted to see.

It's not easy deciphering train schedules, especially when everything is in a foreign language. Here, Jen double-checks that our train to Chamonix is à temps.

Exhausted, Jen and I set up at a hiker campground in Chamonix. There's a lot to do before we start the 110-mile Tour du Mont Blanc in the morning.

One of the more popular villages to start the Tour du Mont Blanc, Bellevue, France, offers breathtaking views and a taste of what's to come on our trek.

There are no shortages of places to eat lunch along the trail. Cattle fields at the base of glacier valleys were top on our list.

Jen and I were often stopped in our tracks by the stunning beauty surrounding us.

Hiking in the springtime afforded us opportunities to connect with, as John Muir would say, "nature’s beauties."

We met many hikers from all over the world, including a younger fellow from Germany.

It took three days of rigorous hiking for me to regain my endurance and mountain legs. I felt defeated early on, but began feeling stronger and stronger as time went on.

From efflorescing mountain meadows to frozen snowfields, we experienced a variety of microclimates along the way.

We struggled to find an unsuitable place to take a photo in front of the Mont Blanc massif in Italy.

Courmayeur, Italy, as seen from Mont De La Saxe. We took a day off in this quaint mountain village to rest our sore muscles, sample local food and spirits, and tour the outfitters and galleries.

The Tour du Mont Blanc meanders through high-mountain cow fields where the residents show little interest in foreign onlookers.

We gazed down Val Ferret, reminiscing at how far we've come, as we neared the Italy–Switzerland border.

Many people from Israel hike the Tour du Mont Blanc and the surrounding Alps region in summer, including a father and son from Tel Aviv.

Digital cameras are worth their weight when you’re rewarded with compositions like this one in Switzerland.

Back in Chamonix, after ten days of incredible weather and memories, Jen and I celebrate our accomplishment by sharing a cold bière with hikers from Germany and the UK.

Until next time, peace and love,

Coming Up:

December 2018: Adopting a New Direction

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Hey, friends and followers of Rooted in Light Media,

Jen and I just returned from a two-and-a-half-week backpacking trip in Europe where we hiked the 110-mile Tour du Mont Blanc in the French, Swiss, and Italian Alps.

As most of you know, a trip this long and arduous was far from our radar this time last year. In July 2017, I underwent an 11-hour surgery at Massachusetts General Hospital to remove a mass and 37 lymph nodes in my abdomen, leaving me stiff, sore, and far from the hiking trails I so desperately wanted to return to. Recovering from surgery was very hard on me and Jen. I could barely walk—mind cough, sneeze, or eat properly—without feeling some sort of pain in my torso and my digestive system. The nights were long and sleepless for us. On a couple of occasions (usually in the middle of the night no less) Jen would have to rush me to North Shore Hospital's emergency department due to a fever and spells of vomiting. The recovery process was extremely humbling, especially since I'm a do-it-all kind of guy who is uncomfortable having people labor at my expense. I had just spent my spring enduring three rounds of knock-you-off-your-feet chemotherapy where I relied every second on my nurses, family, and my wife to buoy me above negativity and despair, and now I was back in a sorry state, no more than a couple of months later, crunched over and unable to bathe myself or prepare my own food. Life asked me in those moments what I was made of. In my weakest moments, I'd suddenly burst into tears yelling in garbled frustration at how difficult this was, pissed off at God and my own body for failing me. I'd eventually find my breath and stumble my way into a haphazard, desperate meditation in hopes of never returning to those taxing mental breakdowns.

After weeks laid up on my couch binge-watching soothing episodes of painter Bob Ross on Netflix, I finally found the strength to hobble short, pain-filled steps from one end of my house to another. My slow progression made me realize how hard I would have to work to get back to feeling 100 percent again. Every day, I’d fight off the debilitating thoughts of not ever healing completing. I wouldn’t allow myself to accept this as the truth. I’d start praying anytime I felt myself slipping into these moments of weakness, leaning on God to hold me up.

As the days passed, I tried to walk a couple of steps on the street only to double over in pain gasping for breath in the soupy, humid summer air. I'd stick to this effort for days on end, eventually walking to the end of our road, and then around the block. It wouldn't be uncommon for me to come back from a half-mile walk feeling like a had just run a marathon. Patience was going to be key to my success. Even short workouts required copious amounts of time to let my body rest and rebuild my system from the core out.

Time passed slowly. I'd sometimes catch myself looking down at my 12-inch incision extending from the middle of torso to below my belly button. Little hairs were slowly beginning to grow back, some almost directly on top of the scar. I couldn't believe how my body was recovering from this traumatic and invasive surgery—but it was. Just as wildflowers find ways to grow through the cracks of an abandoned parking lot, life was finding a way to heal and sustain me.

In mid-August, Jen and I drove into Boston to discuss the results of the surgery with my team of doctors. Going into the procedure, they informed me that if the lymph nodes that were removed showed any signs of cancer, I'd most likely need more chemotherapy. During recovery, I fought off the urge to let myself believe I’d need more treatment. I tried staying as positive as I could, resisting the urge to let my thoughts spiral into a swamp full of thorny snags. During the days leading up to this appointment, where every minute felt like an hour, I struggled to refrain from looking at Facebook or Instagram where I’d see my friends' photos from at the beach or from an adrenaline-filled hike in the mountains. These were the places I wanted to be: enjoying life and freedom from hospital appointments, blood work, and the soft-food diet I was on. Tears would well up in my eyes when I read words of encouragement written by my friends on my social media wall. I wanted so desperately for this ride to end. I couldn’t bear to hear the results.

I was a wreck on the ride in to the hospital. I didn’t sleep the night before, I didn't eat breakfast—heck, I didn't even want coffee because I was so wired.

When the doctor's resident assistant walked into our room, I nervously stood up to shake his hand. He sat down in front of me and Jen, brought up my records on the computer, and without much more of an introduction, told us that the pathology showed no signs of cancer. I leapt out of my chair and hugged the young doctor, probably surprising him with my overwhelming display of affection. I then hugged Jen and cried tears of joy and disbelief. I didn't know what to say next. I hadn't prepared any questions. The wall I built to fend off an army of negative news crumbled at my feet. I could finally pick up some of the pieces of my life and declare peace with my body and the constant war of uncertainty being waged.

So now, a year out from that amazing moment in the doctor’s office, Jen and I continue to find ways to be grateful every day for life, healing, and the simple, often overlooked, things, including sunsets, cool morning breezes, and the songs of backyard birds.

As a form of recovery, Jen and I have hiked, skied, paddled, climbed, and, after this last trip to Europe, completed a bucket-list backpacking trek. Moving forward, we hope to share many more of our adventures as a way to heal and encourage others to do the same. We want to show how we've been able to turn negatives into positives by way of photos, words, and other creative expressions. Because when you go through a medical scare like we did, you quickly understand how short life really is and why some doors close and others open. We learned not to wait, just go out and do.

Until next time, peace and love,

Coming Up:

October 2018: For Good or for Ill, Change Helps Us Recover and Grow

Growing Our Roots:

We're always looking for ways to connect through art, photography, and storytelling. Reach out to us to let us know what you're thinking. We'd love to hear from you.