Still Walking: Until the Arrowhead Fades

Chapter 1: Philmont: 2016 — What Have I Gotten Myself Into?

Ten years ago, my daughter became eligible to attend Philmont.

As a youth, I was far too poor to afford a trip like that — but I had always dreamed of it.

So I told the Scoutmaster that I would love to go.

At the time, I was a Cub Scout Den Leader — and nearly 250 pounds.

The Scoutmaster looked at me and said,

“Drew, no freaking way. You have no idea what you’re getting into. You’d have to be below 220 pounds to go. We do Super Strenuous treks — 90 to 100 miles… more.”

But he left the door open:

“Start walking. Show me progress. Then we’ll see.”

So I started walking the hills in my neighborhood.

One foot in front of the other.

Three miles a day.

Every day.

When it rained, I got wet.

When it baked, I sweated.

When it iced, I slipped up and down those hills.

I named each hill like they were giants to conquer:

11th Street became Mount Ma-Kill-Me.

12th became Kill-a-My-leg-o.

Riverside became El Diablo and La Diabla.

I climbed them. Up and over.

Then I turned around and did it again.

Uphill both ways, you might say.

The results were amazing.

I was burning 600 calories an hour, and my pace climbed to nearly four miles per hour with 30 lbs on my back.

I shredded the weight.

I got strong.

And I was invited on the trip.

That grumpy Scoutmaster’s honest feedback changed the direction of my life — and maybe even saved it, steering me away from my family’s long history of heart disease.

It wasn’t the first time a Scoutmaster changed my life.

I went from being overweight and unhealthy to being trail-ready.

And I won’t lie — Philmont was hard.

I don’t remember much of that trek — i12-33.

I was in my head the entire time.

What if it rains tomorrow?

What if it’s too cold?

Am I packing my gear the right way?

Is my daughter doing ok?

The questions tumbled through my brain.

I knew how to read a map, and I tracked every mile alongside our crew leader, but I was lost in my thoughts more often than not.

Moments come back in snapshots.

A brilliant sunrise at Sioux.

A pilot/copilot toilet seat perched absurdly in the open on a bluff overlooking the town of Cimarron — like a throne for kings of the wilderness.

Scouts learning to climb spar poles in Pueblano, then grinning as they led reluctant burros down the trail.

God, I hated that burro — slowed us to a crawl and carried practically nothing.

No lie, the burro’s at Philmont live a gilded life, and they know it.

They are all assholes.

The long endless climb into Miranda, the field grasses swirling like waves in the breeze.

Day 5: Baldy.

That view blew my mind.

The scale of it. The height. The silence.

French Henry — Hate.

Not the place, but the cruel logic of climbing Baldy then doing a mean set of switchbacks while dropping so far down only to crawl all the way back up.

A punishing southeast slog to pick up food at Ute Gulch — sun pounding down.

The porch at Sawmill, though… that view over the valley? That one was for the soul. I sat on the swing for an hour just lost in the majesty of the wilds.

Sunset on Phillips.

Sunrise on Comanche.

Sunrise on the Tooth.

Moments of stillness before the final endless switchbacks to Base Camp.

The joy of walking through the “We all made it!” arch together.

Smiles and hugs.

I look at the pictures from that trek, and I don’t recognize myself.

They are an old me.

Trying so hard to prove something.

And maybe I did.

One foot in front of the other.

From Ponil to Miranda, from Baldy to Ute Gulch. To Phillps and Big Red and finally, to Schafers and the Tooth, and on into Philmont Base Camp.

Triumphant.

My tracker showed just over 120 miles in 11 days.

It was brutal.

It was life-changing.

It pushed me further than I had ever known I could go.

As we finally left — exhausted and raw with emotion — I looked over my left shoulder one last time… and saw Arrowhead Rock blazing in the 5:30 a.m. sun.

A beacon to guide me back.

Chapter 2: Philmont: 2019 — Taking Measure

We took a break for a few months after getting home.

But another trip was just a few years away — in 2018.

But it was delayed due to a massive forest fire that cut the ranch in half.

I didn’t know it then, but that amazing view from Sawmill was gone.

But we were finally able to return in 2019.

Fresh and ready.

This time, I was with my son and a group of his Scouting buddies.

I wasn’t just a dad tagging along anymore.

I was an advisor — watching a crew of eight Scouts grow up mile by mile, right in front of my eyes.

I was honored — and scared — to serve in that role.

On my first trek, I had simply followed along.

Now, I was responsible for helping guide the next generation.

But I did what an Eagle Scout does:

I rose to the occasion.

I learned the maps.

I kept up my daily walking.

The neighborhood knew me as that guy always stomping around with a pack.

One foot in front of the other.

I was determined not to slow them down.

To move at their pace.

To give them room to do their thing.

We started in Chase Cow in the central country and headed into the far north.

That part of the ranch isn’t treeless because of fire — it’s just how the land is.

Open. Exposed to the sun. Wide under the pale blue sky.

It was brutal.

It was breathtaking.

This trek also introduced me to my first Scout who was clearly dealing with a negative inner voice.

He was a bit overweight but had completed all our prep and training hikes.

As we moved up that long valley from Indian Writings to Whitman Vega, the crew’s frustration with him was rising.

But I knew he could do it — he was just in his own head.

Doubting.

Fighting the pain that always comes with doing something amazing.

And of course, he ended up right in front of me at the very back of the line.

I pressed in on him.

Close.

He couldn’t take a step without feeling me behind him.

Hearing my breathing. My footfalls.

I was watching his feet.

Staying close, a shadow he couldn’t shake.

Tap tapping on his pack with my hiking pole when he needed to move faster.

So I saw it happen.

I saw him hook his foot behind his calf… and fall forward.

Softly.

In a controlled way.

Immediately grabbing the ankle he’d just faked twisting.

And I knew.

I knew right away it wasn’t real.

Twenty years of buried training came roaring back — my old Drill Instructor channeling through me like lightning.

I was on him.

Spittle flying from my mouth.

“WHAT WAS THAT!? I WATCHED THE WHOLE THING! GET OFF YOUR ASS! YOU WANT OFF THIS TRAIL? FINE!”

I pointed back down the valley, not even looking.

“IT’S 20 MILES THAT WAY! THERE IS NO BUS! MOMMY IS NOT COMING FOR YOU!

SO YOU CAN BE RESPONSIBLE FOR MAKING ALL YOUR FRIENDS TURN AROUND TO WALK YOU OUT — AND THEN WALK ALL THE WAY BACK HERE!

OR YOU CAN GET UP, PUT ONE FOOT IN FRONT OF THE OTHER, AND KEEP GOING LIKE THE REST OF US!”

The look on his face told me:

No one had ever called him out like that before.

Not once.

He stood up.

I took a breath. Slow exhale.

“You really hurt?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Ready to move?”

“Yes…”

“Good — ‘cause you’re finishing this trek if I have to put my foot up your ass and wear you like a boot.”

He grinned and nodded.

Then turned to his friends and said, “I’m sorry. My feet hurt.”

And they said, “Ours too but we’ll get through it together, right?”

He nodded again.

Instant forgiveness.

They understood, each working their own inner voice.

We walked on.

One foot in front of the other.

We trekked through Hellsfire Canyon, Indian Writings, Metcalf Station, and Whitman Vega.

Down to Sealy Canyon, across to Head of Dean, then up to Ewells Park.

Between Ring Place and Sealy Canyon, we were caught in the open as an afternoon thunderstorm slammed down around us —

No time to react.

Lightning cracked and exploded, dazzling our eyes and deafening our ears.

The thunder rolled like cannon fire, shaking the earth beneath us.

Scouts cried from fear.

We held fast.

Looking west I could see a wall of hail moving at us.

Grinding towards us. Hearing the vibration.

We quickly regrouped and threw up the dining fly just as golf balls started slamming down around us.

Soaked. Shaking. Stunned. We emerged, still standing.

And on Day 9 — Baldy.

That breathtaking, fisheye view from over 12,000 feet.

Home.

And that Scout — the one who nearly quit on the trail days before —

He was vomiting from nerves before the ascent in Baldy Town.

Pale. Shaking. Silent.

He looked to me for comfort.

I had none.

“Yea, it is going to be hard. The easy day was yesterday.” I said.

And he climbed.

Head down. One foot in front of the other.

Until his head crested the summit…

And there I was — waiting for him.

A smile on my face. Arms open.

He cried.

“I made it?” he asked, stunned.

He vomited again.

“God damn right you did,” I said, pulling him into a hug.

Cleaning his face.

“Nothing can stop you. Don’t listen to THAT voice.

Listen to the one that says you can do it — because you just did.”

The crew surrounded him — proud, joyful, present.

They’d all just summited Baldy too… but they knew.

It meant more for him.

He had overcome more.

He had overcome himself — maybe for the first time in his life.

From then on, that crew flew.

On the second-to-last day, they were moving at four miles per hour — the adults struggling and gasping at the back.

That same Scout tripped and fell again… but this time?

The crew picked him up, dusted him off — and kept going without missing a beat.

I smiled at the back.

Before, that would have been an excuse.

Now he laughed about it.

And then, finally, we exited through Ponil.

It was a grueling trek, testing our endurance, nerves, and unity.

My tracker logged just over 110 miles.

And again, as we drove back to Denver to catch our flight, I saw it over my shoulder:

The Arrowhead, glowing red in the sunrise over my left shoulder.

A marker calling my soul back to my second home.

But I didn’t know what the future held.

Oh, and that Scout…

He’s majoring in Wildlife Enterprise Management now — and spending the summer hiking and fishing in Montana as a guide.

He found his trail… one foot after the other.

He found himself on that mountain.

Chapter 3: Philmont: 2021 — Fate and Healing in the Mountains

That was June of 2019.

Things couldn’t have been better in my life.

In August, I was asked if I could lead the entire 2021 expedition — three full crews.

Of course, I said yes. That place had changed me.

I had watched it change the Scouts with me.

It is a holy place.

Baldy — my Mecca.

That same month, I started feeling pressure in my wrist.

Knowing I had Philmont again on the horizon, I went to the doctor, thinking it might be the start of carpal tunnel — something I could fix in plenty of time to heal.

But it wasn’t carpal tunnel.

It was a tumor.

It was bone cancer.

And just like that, my dreams of Baldy blew away on the wind —

lost in the swirl of medical appointments; radiation and chemotherapy.

By February, I had been in remission and back out.

But it wasn’t good or bad.

It was dire.

I would need radical chemotherapy.

Twelve months — if I made it that long.

So on March 8th, 2020, I found myself halfway across the country meeting a research team, signing papers, and agreeing to be a guinea pig.

And while I was there, something else was breaking in the world: COVID.

The doctors pulled me aside.

“You need to get home. ASAP. People on chemo have a 95% mortality rate from this thing.”

No one knew what was going on — but they were crystal clear:

Get home. Stay away from everyone.

I took that flight home scared. Mask on.

On my iPad, I scrolled through my Philmont pictures.

Heartbroken doesn’t begin to describe it.

Meds were shipped to me.

I learned to use an infusion pump.

And I learned what it meant to be bed-bound.

My muscles melted away, replaced by whatever it is that steroids create with no exercise.

My heart rate spiked.

And I wanted to die.

Deeply.

I could only stare out the window at the trees in my backyard…

and dream of the Aspen groves in Philmont, their twinkling leaves dancing in the wind.

I dreamed of Baldy — of that breathtaking, sacred view.

The place called to me from across the miles and the months:

Come back.

But I couldn’t.

In August, I was in remission again.

But I still had six months of chemo to go.

The world was slowly coming out of COVID, and I asked my doctors:

“Is there a chance I could… you know… go to Philmont?”

“Maybe,” they said.

“But you still have six months of chemo to go.”

They were being kind, their answer was no.

By November, I couldn’t take it anymore — not physically, not emotionally.

So the team and I met. We discussed the risks.

And they agreed I could come off chemo early.

But they warned me:

“Philmont is out of the question this June.”

Really?

Nothing stands in the way of the holy land.

Hello neighborhood — I’m back.

I worked from a flat half mile on the treadmill to 5 miles on the hills.

I racked up miles.

I racked up medical tests.

Everything was looking good.

The doctors relented and signed my release.

And then — the date arrived.

I was on the plane, leading three crews.

My own children, now aged out, were back home with my wife, cheering me on.

The trek was extraordinary.

A route few get to experience.

Honestly, I’m not sure anyone has ever done that exact route before.

We entered at Ponil, trekked through Pueblano and Copper Park.

Because of the COVID gap, the wildlife was everywhere.

Bears in Pueblano ate our hand sanitizer while we were spar-pole climbing.

It must have tasted awful — because one of them knocked over three tents while running from camp.

But disaster struck on a gentle slope walking into Baldy Town to get food.

One of my Scouts stepped funny and blew out both menisci in his knee.

He had to be pulled from the trail.

There were tears and hugs — but no solace.

Another Scout, on his second 120+ mile trek, started having stomach issues — but powered through.

We were fortunate to have a doctor on our crew, monitoring him carefully.

So he stayed with us as we turned north toward Copper Park.

Then came the next challenge.

The water at Copper Park was dry.

And our backup route to the creek above French Henry?

Blocked — by a bear.

We sat there for two hours — bone dry and thirsty — waiting for him to move off.

Eventually, we collapsed into exhausted sleep, still mourning the loss of our crew member that morning.

At 4:30 AM, we were up.

Dragging ourselves to the infamous Copper Park to Baldy switchbacks — each pack 50+ pounds, of water, food and gear.

Ready for 5 remote days away from everyone.

At the top we dropped our packs.

And we summited Baldy.

I cried to be there again.

“F* you, cancer. I am on Baldy again!” I screamed into the void.

Before we descended into Greenwood Canyon, I pulled aside the Scout who’d been struggling with stomach issues.

“Can you go on?”

We were about to head into no man’s land — remote, rugged, and far from help.

Rescue would be much more difficult from this point forward.

He was a tough kid.

He said yes.

He could go on.

The Scout had gotten some food down.

He was keeping water in.

The doctor was concerned but agreed.

One foot in front of the other.

So down we went — into Greenwood Canyon, where bears lurked around every corner.

That evening, things took a turn.

The Scout got worse — vomiting, diarrhea.

Still, our doctor wasn’t sounding alarms yet… but dehydration was now a concern.

And the next day called for a grueling 10+ mile stretch toward Ash Mountain.

That morning, we checked him again.

He wasn’t better.

But he was tough, a lineman — determined to keep going.

So we started the march north.

It was a death march.

No trees.

The sun baking down on us.

90 degrees.

A 4 to 7-degree incline for 10 miles.

No shade. No mercy.

And slowly, he went from bad…

to worse.

The doctor was beside himself.

Afraid.

Crying. “We need help now!”

We had no cell signal.

We stopped to soak him in a mountain stream, to cool him down.

A little better.

And finally — finally — after 10 miles we crested the valley and reached the gravel road at the top.

The crew set up a tarp for shade.

We poured water on him to keep him cool.

He was still conscious — but fading.

I mentally prepped to jog 5 miles toward where I believed I could find signal —

after already hiking 11 miles uphill.

Determined.

I pulled out my summit pack, stuffed in a Pro Bar and two liters of water, and stepped onto the gravel road.

Then…

Car sounds?

An SUV appeared.

Two retired teachers, out for a scenic drive.

I flagged them down and explained.

They agreed to drive me to the overlook where I could get signal.

I called Base Camp.

Told them our doctor said it was urgent.

The Scout was stable — but could not continue.

They scrambled a rescue team.

The medics picked me up and returned me to the crew.

More tears.

More anguish.

Another member of the crew, gone.

But there was no time to rest.

We still had two more miles — through a swampy canyon — to reach Little Costilla Low Impact Camp.

One foot in front of the other.

We pushed through, together.

We had a scheduled zero day the next day.

We made it to camp.

We ate dinner.

We collapsed into sleep — too worn to even appreciate the spectacular wilderness around us.

Only the eerie sound of mountain lions chirping in the darkness reminded us:

The wild wasn’t done with us yet.

We had been up every day at 4:30 AM, chasing miles before the sun could scorch us.

But now — a spa day.

A zero day.

We slept until we woke.

And only then did we see where we were.

It was magical.

Were we the first Philmont crew ever in this location — a secluded valley in the far north, untouched and unseen?

A herd of elk grazed quietly up the canyon.

To the south, nearly 20 miles away, loomed Baldy — the very summit we had stood on just 40 hours before.

Purple wildflowers carpeted the green valley.

Humming birds zipped around drinking nectar.

An icy stream wound through it.

The air was still, and everything felt right.

After all the heartbreak… The mountain gave us this.

The universe offered us a place to breathe.

To soothe our souls.

To regroup.

To simply be alive.

We rested.

We talked.

We laughed.

We watched mountain lions silently prowl around the elk herd up the valley.

And as the sun set — the sky unfolded into something holy.

The universe itself, laid bare above us.

We felt small.

We felt humbled.

We felt ALIVE.

The sun rose the next day —

And we were waiting for it, impatient, ready to finish what we started.

We hiked to Ring Place for food and the strange comfort of “civilization”, a million dollar toilet — our first staff camp since Day 2.

A peaceful night before bushwhacking our way to Dan Beard.

Then onward to Indian Writings for our second-to-last night on trail.

But Philmont wasn’t done with us yet.

The next morning: Another injury.

Our doctor’s son — ten miles from the end — pulled from the trail with a hurt leg.

The doctor went with him.

Another separation.

Another loss.

More tears. More hugs.

And then… the final stretch.

One foot in front of the other.

One last push.

125 miles on the tracker.

And as we drove out — tired, changed, whole —

There it was again.

That Arrowhead, glowing over my left shoulder.

Calling me back…

Chapter 4: Philmont: 2023 — Cancer’s Revenge: A Final Goodbye

2021 was hard.

Despite all the prep, all the training — three injuries.

Three solid, athletic kids off the trail.

Two football players. A cross-country runner.

But we already had another group lined up for 2023.

Only one crew this time.

And you know I was game.

I kept walking.

I was again the lead advisor, this time with my best friend backing me up.

Our crew was shaping up to be something special:

Four Scouts who had already been to Philmont.

Five more — all super athletic.

I was pumped as training began.

My health was great — right up until my November 2022 checkup.

Bad numbers. More tests through the holidays.

Nothing good.

Only the Worse.

“There’s nothing further we can do. Prepare. 18 - 24 months.”

One foot in front of the other.

But Philmont — a final Philmont — was just six months away.

This trip… it wasn’t optional anymore.

It became a need.

I could feel the land calling me — a final goodbye.

I cried.

I raged.

I accepted.

Not really.

But I moved forward.

Day by day. Step by step. One foot in front of the other.

This crew was the dream team.

Another hard trek — the Peak Baggers.

North to South. Miles and summits.

Baldy. Cimarroncito Peak. Comanche Peak. Mt. Phillips.

Big Red. Bonito Peak. Black Mountain. Shaefer’s Peak.

And the Tooth of Time, right above Arrowhead Rock.

Then, finally — walking triumphantly into base camp.

That was the plan.

And this crew was up for it.

“Miles and peaks are our program. Anything else is a distraction.” said our crew leader.

2021 had been a heat wave year in June.

90 degrees at base camp.

2023 was the opposite. Cold.

Ten feet of snow still sat on Phillips.

The approach to Baldy was uncertain.

We hit the trail with our Ranger and made it to Pueblano Ruins.

Snow and hail fell on us.

We pitched tents on hail pellets and frozen ground, shivering through the 2nd night.

The next morning, we hiked toward Baldy Town via Ewells Park.

That slot canyon trail had become a river of melting snow and hailstones.

And then — disaster.

My best friend.

The person I wanted to summit Baldy with, one last time — slipped on a slick rock.

Broken leg.

Day three.

Only one way out, up.

We taped him up.

Split up his gear.

And he hobbled — five miles — to Baldy Town.

Mr. Beast.

One foot in front of the other.

More tears.

Real, deep heartache.

Our powerful crew, laid low by a slick rock and frozen melt.

But we had to go on.

We were in the shadow of our first peak.

Baldy loomed over us.

We rested.

We consoled my best friend’s son.

Then we got up. And step by step, we went on.

One foot in front of the other.

Dark and early, we started climbing.

We hit the summit of Baldy before 7:00 AM — moving like machines.

That crazy fisheye view of the world was back — slightly tilted, surreal.

I walked to the northeast edge, where no one goes.

I sat alone.

And I mourned.

I mourned myself.

My life.

My family.

My friends.

My Scouts.

My best friend — down there somewhere, packing up, heading home.

Until then, I’d held it all in. I was processing — but I wasn’t accepting.

But up on Baldy… in the frigid, clear morning air…

The wind howling in tune to my anguish.

I let it out.

The solitude, the noisy wind — they made room for it.

I cried.

I screamed in rage.

I sagged.

When I opened my eyes, I looked across the gap to the north and those dreaded switchbacks.

There — sitting still, watching me — was a giant black bear.

He had no right to be there.

Not in that blistering cold, not at that elevation.

He should have been miles north, down in the Greenwood.

Eating.

But there he was.

A quarter of a mile away.

Just watching.

And I smiled.

It would be okay.

This universe… it would go on just fine.

I wiped my face.

Done mourning.

And I did what we do.

I stood up.

Walked back to my waiting crew.

They knew something was going on but not what.

They had given me the space I needed.

The crew doctor threw his arm over my shoulder, the most aware of what was going on with me.

“You good?” he asked.

“Time to move on.” I said.

And we put one foot in front of the other.

And we kept going.

That crew was magical.

They were fierce.

They were lionhearted.

The next morning: 15 miles to Mistletoe Camp.

Done early.

A virtual spa day followed — 4 miles to Cimarroncito, done by 7:30 AM.

Then came a “dinner for breakfast” day.

We couldn’t hike through the burn scar to Sawmill until 7.

So we ate our evening meal for breakfast and hit the trail promptly at 7 AM.

Sawmill by 10:15 AM.

A speed record.

We carried water forward to Whistle Punk, a dry camp.

This crew — I couldn’t slow them down if I tried.

They just naturally ate miles before lunch.

That evening, we side-hiked to Cimarroncito Peak for our cold dinner —

And another view worth every blister.

Next morning — up with the sun.

Comanche Peak and snowbound Phillips before breakfast.

Then, in the afternoon:

A snowy windstorm, hunkered down in Divide Camp, the trees bent sideways, and us smiling, laughing — alive.

As the sleet came down in sheets.

We were there, witnessing.

Then over Bonito Peak, and down and down again into Beaubien and Phillips Junction for food.

The trek was almost behind us.

But we didn’t realize the real monster was waiting for us the next day:

Black Mountain.

From the Black Mountain Camp side.

And with all my miles at Philmont,

I didn’t know this beast was out there.

We left Beaubien as soon as we could see our feet.

Arrived at Black Mountain Camp before 7:00 AM.

The staff looked at us, surprised.

“Program?” they asked.

My crew leader pointed up the sheer slope behind camp.

“Our program is up there.”

“With full packs?” they asked.

“Well, we’re not coming back for them,” he said.

They smiled at us with pity, thinking “They just don’t know.”

And we smiled back, thinking “They just don’t know.”

And the truth is — we both were right.

The trail up Black from Black Mountain Camp is the hardest trail I have ever hiked.

Grueling.

Unrelenting.

Unforgiving.

Vertical.

The wind howled around us again.

Cold.

Objecting to our brashness.

And we keep walking.

One foot in front of the other.

And it was worth every single step.

It was the final thing Philmont could throw at me.

And that crew?

They looked it dead in the eye and said:

“Challenge accepted. Follow us Mr. Drew, we have a dragon to slay.”

And one step after the other, we did.

After, we slid gently into Schaefer’s Pass, collapsing into nap mode.

A group side-hike of 4 more miles to North Fork for water.

Then our final night.

I could not have slept.

I lay beneath the Milky Way, watching it wheel above us,

knowing that it was my last night under these stars in these mountains.

It was ok.

My final morning.

Up before 4:00 AM to reach Schaefer’s Peak for sunrise.

My last Philmont sunrise.

It was beautiful.

The Milky Way faded as the sky burned orange and pink to the east.

And that moment…

when the sun broke the horizon —

a blaze of light on my face…

It was worth everything to me.

It washed away the last of my pain and sorrow.

I savored it. I etched it into my memory.

No more tears. That was done.

Just a long, sad smile.

And then —

One foot in front of the other.

Onward to the Tooth of Time,

and the endless switchbacks

that dropped us into Philmont Base Camp.

And this time, as we drove out,

I had to look back.

And there it was again —

that glowing Arrowhead,

a beacon on the mountainside.

I smiled wistfully.

But I shook my head.

Not this time, my friend.

Not this time.

Chapter 5: Philmont: 2025 — From Then to Now and Then Again

I got home that June, and I started to prepare.

I quit my job.

I planned my funeral.

I started working on my bucket list.

Philmont in 2025 was still happening — three full crews.

I couldn’t go again, but I could still help.

So I did what I could. I built the plan.

Put together the prep schedule.

Offered what I had.

I wasn’t sad anymore.

All those peaks had healed my soul.

I was okay.

I had made peace.

I knew I wouldn’t do Philmont again —

but I could still hike.

Still walk.

Still… be.

I planned a solo thru-hike of the Santa Monica Mountains Backbone Trail.

And as I crossed a breathtaking ridge, wind in my face, my phone rang.

It was my medical team.

“Drew, we have an option,” they said.

“An option?” I asked.

“Yes. How fast can you get here?”

“Well,” I said, “I’m 30 miles from a trailhead —

But I’ll get there.”

And I did what we do.

One foot in front of the other.

And so genetics entered my life.

New.

Groundbreaking.

Experimental.

I knew what they weren’t saying.

“You’re going to die anyway. Might as well give it a go, yeah?”

Yeah.

And hell if it didn’t work.

And damn fast, too.

Sixty days later — remission.

I won’t lie - I wasn’t ready for that.

I had mourned.

I had accepted.

I had lived with my fate.

I WAS ok.

But… now… The questions. The people I went through treatment with — they’re gone.

Why now?

Why me?

What the HELL.

The universe gives no answers.

And so here we are.

And I am again leading three crews to Philmont.

608-M-1, 2, and 3.

My crew — Dash 1 — i12-20.

Goes north into the low-impact areas, walking some of my favorite wide open land.

Saving Baldy for the end.

Doing those switchbacks into Copper Park… twice.

A grueling trek with a donkey at the end…

Because my Scouts know how much I hate the Philmont donkeys.

Scouts are jerks.

But the final laugh will be mine.

Dash 2 goes south to central — i12-23.

Our girls crew. Planning on crushing a super strenuous trek.

Starting in the south, hitting the Tooth of Time as a side hike on Day 3.

Before grinding out 50 miles to climb Baldy on day 8.

Led by my bestie, these women are STRONG.

I have no doubt that they will slay a dragon or two in between 15 mile days.

Dash 3 goes south to central - i12-24.

Taking Baldy by storm on day four, before grinding out 60 miles to the south.

Catching that sunrise on Shaffer’s that is burned into my brain.

And then walking the endless switchbacks down into base camp.

Led by another best friend and some of the best men I know.

They are ready.

I am blessed to have these humans in my life.

The small ones, and the big ones.

They provide some meaning and it is a gift they do not know they give.

I know I am unworthy of this gift.

Someone else should have this extra time, the people I knew during treatment deserved it more.

But I accept it.

And I carry it as one carries the burden of an unfulfilled promise.

A constant weight.

One foot in front of the other.

And that old Scoutmaster from 2016 told me that if you see Arrowhead Rock as you leave Philmont, your fate is sealed — and you will be destined to return.

So far, I am grateful to say…

He was right and I am still walking until that Arrowhead fades.