For a brief time one year when I was in college, I toyed with the possibility of becoming a wildfire fighter. My father flew fire patrol for the US Forest Service and Yellowstone National Park for a quarter of a century and we had contact with smokejumpers from time to time. I admired their courage and commitment and thought it might be an exciting thing to do. As I explored the requirements for the job, it became clear that I wasn’t exactly their ideal candidate. I’m not among the tallest of persons. There is no minimum height for smokejumpers, however, as long as you are strong enough to carry a very heavy pack. I wasn’t worried about the pack and the hiking. I’d done lots of hiking and I loved backpacking and I had learned to carry heavy objects working in the feed warehouse and at other jobs. We still handled 100# bags of fertilizer by hand in those days and I could keep up with any of the others who worked in the warehouse unloading and loading trucks. I could not, however, pass the vision test. Although my vision is well corrected by glasses, a smokejumper has to be able to deal with the possibility of losing glasses, not uncommon if one lands in a tree when parachuting into a fire. Without my glasses, my vision is limited enough to make me a liability to a team of hotshots. I didn’t purse the application after I learned that. There were other options for me and I moved on with my life.

I don’t have regrets about the directions I have gone with my life, but the romance of a job in the wilderness still is a bit of a lure for me. I think that it is fairly common for those of us who work daily in intense relationships with others to carry a bit of romance about jobs where one is alone in lonely places. I know I love to go hiking by myself and I paddle alone when I am in safe or familiar waters. I read a lot of stories about those who have spent extended time alone in the wilderness and I admire the sense of adventure and personal resourcefulness that enables them to have their adventures.

I recently was reading about Trevor Thomas who is a solo backcountry hiker. A little over a decade ago, Thomas was diagnosed with a rare eye disease and was told that the result of his condition is that he would lose his sight. The doctors weren’t clear about how long that process would take, but somehow Trevor thought he would have a few years. He had just finished his law degree and was looking forward to getting out of corporate sales and into a profession that would give him more freedom and control of his life.

It only took eight months for him to lose his sight completely. He didn’t have time to try to fill his memory with sights of beautiful sunsets or familiar faces. It all went too quickly. He also didn’t have time to master his new profession in ways that would enable him to practice law. He did master Braille, something that adults find especially challenging without the fine tactile sensations of a child, but he reads much too slowly for the challenges of practicing corporate law. There are other technologies available to assist him, but he needed to find an outlet for his emotions. When he was sighted, he raced downhill on mountain bikes.

Looking for an alternative for a white cane for more rugged terrain he was in a camping goods store one day and ran into a teenager who had just completed a solo hike of the Appalachian Trail. The AT stretches 2,180 miles and crosses 14 states from Georgia to Maine. Trevor decided to solo hike the trail.

He didn’t find much support for his idea. There are bears on the trail. There are plenty of obstacles such as fallen trees. There are multiple opportunities to get lost. There are lots of potentials for serious falls when the trail goes close to cliffs and follows ridge lines. Less than 25% of hikers who attempt to “thru-hike” the trail complete the trek.

Trevor completed the hike in six months and two days.

He continued to hike solo for the next 5 years, including some very remote and challenging locations in the Rocky Mountains, covering over 12,000 miles, some of it with a sighted person, some of it solo.

Then, in 2012, Trevor and a black labrador named Tennille graduated from the Guide Dogs for the Blind school. Tensile was the first guide dog specially trained for long-distance hiking.

“Being alone in the backcountry is terrifying at times and to this day, still can be, but it is also invigorating,” he says. “It is one environment which does not discriminate. It treats me the same as everyone else. It will, also, not take pity on me because I am blind.”

One of my monthly meetings is with the Human Rights committee of Black Hills Works, an institution that provides services for adults with disabilities. I read dozens of support plans at each meeting, looking to make sure they are using the least restrictive means in working wit the persons they serve. I know the stories of hundreds of people in our community who others recognize as disabled. What strikes me each time I am immersed in that particular culture, however, is not the extent of disabilities that are a part of some lives, but rather ho similar we all are. I’m not blind, but I don’t see perfectly, either. I don’t need a wheelchair for mobility, but I can’t do everything I wish I could do.

I know also, from my experience in this life that we are all just one accident or illness away from a permanent disability. It can happen to any of us.

Knowing that it is somehow reassuring to me to know that Trevor and Tennille are out there, somewhere, hiking and demonstrating that limits can be overcome and there are many ways to experience the wonders of Creation. I take pictures of sunrises. Trevor takes in the experience in different ways.

He inspires me to learn to remember more than just the view.

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