Dear Family, 

Listen, I warned you in September’s letter that updates would be sporadic, so I shall stubbornly plead not guilty of all charges, on the grounds that there was an exculpatory clause included in our contract. Even though I’m fairly certain that the word “plead” is not used in breach-of-contract lawsuits. Or “charges,” for that matter. Are you charged for breach of contract, or is it more of a suing situation? My knowledge of legalese is limited to 1) vague memories of high school-level government classes, and 2) the deep Wikipedia dive I just took to find a sufficiently legal-sounding term to use as my defense in this lawsuit joke. I settled on “exculpatory clause,” which probably wasn’t worth the three-quarters of an hour I have now spent poking around the internet. 

I put far more thought and effort into these letters than anyone—lawyer or otherwise—could possibly justify. Sure, I’ve skipped more months than I haven’t, but when I do actually write one, it takes a stupidly long time.¹ So let’s get into it, shall we?

The One-Day Hike

If you know me, you know how much I love my trails. Hiking is perhaps the only physical activity for which I’ve ever demonstrated any sort of aptitude, and not for lack of trying at other things. I love it so much, in fact, that I registered for the Sierra Club’s 49th annual One Day Hike—a 100-kilometer trek along the C&O canal towpath ending in Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia. The event would begin at 3:00am, and participants must finish by midnight. (There’s also a 50-kilometer version on the same day, but where’s the fun in that?)

I’d longed for an event of this sort ever since I completed the Amos Alonzo Stagg 50-miler in 2019, which you can read about in this old letter of Dad’s. He there described the event as “one of those things that sounds pretty hard until you get about a third of the way in and realize that it’s going to be much harder than you thought.” I, having made the decision to come along on the very day of the event and had therefore not done any training whatsoever, completed the hike in 15 hours and change, putting me in a tie for third with the Scoutmaster, who had become my de-facto hiking buddy halfway through—not that anyone’s counting. (I’m a liar. I’m counting.) It was fun and fulfilling, and completely miserable at the same time. 

So, if I was going to do it again with an extra twelve miles tacked on (100K is about 62.1 miles, for those of you who struggle with math), I would have to, you know, actually train this time. But the trail behind my house only spans about 3.8 miles, and even I would get bored of going back and forth along that a bunch of times in one day, so I started getting a little more creative with my routes. On Friday, February 2, rather than going out and back along my typical route, I crossed a bridge to a different trail. I quickly discovered that, by sticking to one side of the creek, I had been missing out. Don’t get me wrong—I love my trail. But this other one is wilder, narrower, and just magical in ways I can’t quite describe. 

The next day, I walked a touch over four miles through the woods to a dog park (crossing a single road to get to a different trail at a big park), stayed for a while, and then walked those same four miles back home. Ceres, who delightedly comes with me on practically every hike in these woods, had no idea what to do with all these other canines and ended up simply demanding pets (as is her wont) from the other humans present. 

I also found some deer bones at some point. Enjoy!

Between then and the big day on April 20th, I continued to train. My two longest training hikes were completed with groups organized officially by the Sierra Club in preparation for the event. I talked to some really nice people along the way, and I was feeling great. 

That all brings us to yesterday. My gracious father and I arrived at the starting point in Georgetown around 2:15 in the morning—the officially scheduled arrival time, which offered ample time for everyone to mingle, get outfitted with GPS trackers, and receive instruction before setting off at 3:00 on the dot. I spent the time talking with some lovely people, glad to find some who had also signed up by themselves. I feel weird inserting myself into an existing group. (That didn’t end up stopping me after the last support station, though. Ooh, foreshadowing!) 

Despite the connections I made throughout, I spent the vast majority of the hike on my own. I spent some miles walking and chatting with fellow hikers, and a few others using the person in front of me as motivation to keep up my pace, exchanging nary a word. 

The first ten miles were behind me in less than two and a half hours, putting me at a pace of over four miles per hour. That, of course, did not last. I’d say the darkest hours came right before the dawn—quite literally. In the time leading up to sunrise, I felt myself slowing down. The combined factors of having gotten about three and a half interrupted hours of sleep the night before and being unmedicated (I had decided not to take my daily medication until later, not wanting them to have long since worn off by the finish.) I was painfully aware of my slack jaw, my mouth hanging open, my half-lidded eyes. Then the sun came, I took my medication, and I kept going. 

Somewhere around mile 45, I felt a blister form on the ball of my foot. And here’s the thing: I don’t get blisters.² Not on runs, not on backpacking trips, not on the 50-miler I mentioned earlier. I pressed on three more miles to the next support station, got some moleskin on the monstrously huge thing, took some ibuprofen, let out a probably-deranged-sounding laugh when one of the first aid volunteers referred to me as “this poor, miserable son of a bitch,” and kept going. 

There was one more support station between that and the final destination. I felt plenty more blisters form and some rupture before then. I didn’t seek first aid for when I got there. I knew that if I took off my hiking boots, it would be a painful squeeze to put them on again. 

A pair of fellow 100Ker’s caught up to me on a particularly coarse, gravelly stretch, with about eight miles to go. We arrived at the last support station at the same time, took a rest for food (and, in my case, more ibuprofen), and then stuck together until the end. We’ll probably never meet again, but I cannot express how much better that final stretch was because they were there. Thanks, Marty. Thanks, Jennifer. 

I knew Dad was going to pick me up at the finish in Harper’s Ferry, but I hadn’t expected him to come running to meet us with about a mile left. Apparently, he’d been constantly checking my progress via the GPS I had been issued, and while I’d figured he’d check the tracking link I gave him at some point, I hadn’t anticipated the obsessiveness with which he ended up doing so. Love you, Dad.

Another surprise came in the form of Mom waiting for us at the end. I’d expected her to be in bed at a reasonable hour, especially considering her recent surgery. But no! She came too, to support me! Love you too, Mom. 

I reached the end a couple minutes before eleven, putting my final time at barely under 20 hours. Not nearly as fast as I’d hoped, but I’m just glad to have finished. 

Strangely, not once did I think I was going to quit. I didn’t have a second where I considered the possibility the next support station would be my last one. At times I suffered, I nearly cried, and there were even miles when I wanted to quit. But even in those hardest moments, it simply wasn’t in the cards. I always knew it was an option. It just wasn’t my option. 

So, here we are, one day later. My muscles are sore, my feet are blistered, and my ankles don’t want to move. And I’m truly, genuinely, so, so happy.

Now it’s time to make up for all the months I’ve missed. Hopefully, I’ll manage to keep this to a readable length.

Surgery Recovery Part 2: The Happily-Boring Sequel

I’m including this part, not because it is particularly interesting, but because I know people will ask about it if I do not. 

I have been entirely recovered from my top surgery back in October for months now. There were no further complications following the draining of my seroma, unless you count the painless, acne-like reaction I got around one of my scars from unknowingly leaving the surgical tape on for too long. My movement restrictions were lifted at my five-week post-op, and it only took a couple-ish weeks after that to get used to raising my arms again. 

I’d say I feel fully returned to form, but that would be a lie. 

I’m so much better. 

New Year’s Resolutions

What’s that, you say? I forfeited my right to discuss the New Year by neglecting to buckle down and finish this letter until April? Ah, but you see, I have a counterargument: You’re not the boss of me. 

We spent New Year’s Eve with some of our dearest family friends. It was a fun time, as it always is when our two families get together, as well as a time for deep conversation. Emily spoke very profoundly and eloquently about her personal goals for the upcoming year. She talked about how the world felt like a scary, contentious place, and how she hoped to bring peace to it where she could by bringing peace into her own life. This was followed by a long moment of contemplative silence as we all considered her words, until finally I broke through the hush with:

“My New Year’s resolution is to get jacked.”

What can I say; I take after my father. If he didn’t want me to grow into the adult equivalent of a class clown, he should’ve set a different example. 

As proud as I am of the laughter I got in response to that jape, I’m not bringing this up just to brag about how funny I am. Emily’s words resonated with me for the rest of the night, and I spent the next several days thinking about how I could bring peace into my life and the lives of others. I decided to center my resolutions around building habits that would help the world around me. After some general brainstorming and research on local organizations, I came up with three goals:

1. Donate blood at least three times this year,
2. Bring a trash bag to work and pick up litter on my walk home from my before-school shift at least once a week, and
3. Volunteer at a local food kitchen (or soup kitchen, meal center—whatever you want to call it) at least twice a month. 

My efforts towards each goal have yielded varying degrees of success. My pulse was too high for me to donate when I went to our church’s first blood drive of the year, and I haven’t managed to get myself in a position to try again since. 

I haven’t really been keeping track of how often I’ve been picking up trash, but I know I’ve been inconsistent. Some weeks, I’ve taken three different routes home over the course of as many days to spread my cleaning efforts as wide as I can. Other weeks, it has completely slipped my mind. On the days when I do remember, I am almost always met with gratifying expressions of appreciation by the people I pass on the sidewalk.³ Last week, a kindly older gentleman noticed me as I passed his house, beckoned me over, and handed me a trash grabber from his shed. I’m… honestly not sure if his intention was for me to ever give it back, but that potential awkwardness was prevented when I found another grabber in our own basement. I returned the man’s to his house later with that explanation and my gratitude. 

Then, there’s resolution number three: Volunteering at Shepherd’s Table. I was aware of this organization in Downtown Silver Spring due to volunteering there twice in 2020 as part of some sort of church thing. As mentioned above, the goal for this year was to take two shifts a month—maybe four, if I had extra time and energy. 

As of today, a little under four months into 2024, I have volunteered 23 times this year. After the first few shifts, I decided to up that goal to once a week. Shortly after, I started doing it about twice a week—sometimes thrice. I was riding a high; I don’t know how else to describe it. 

Did I burn out? Not really. But I was having a little trouble finding time for… well, anything else, so my therapist gently suggested that I consider pulling back a bit. Then I signed up for four shifts in a single week, and her suggestion became a little less gentle. So I grudgingly decided to go back to only one shift per week, and… yeah, my therapist was right. I have more time and energy to devote to necessary tasks in my own life. She’s the best. 

All in all, I’m grateful for Emily’s inspiring words on New Year’s Eve. Thanks to her, I now feel like I’m making the world a bit of a better place, and I myself am happier for it. 

Eclipse

Many months ago, when I first learned that there would be a total solar eclipse in April of 2024, I almost immediately ran into my parent’s room and asked Mom if we could drive to the path of totality. She suggested that we drive to Ohio and visit my aunt Mimi’s parents, who graciously agreed. 

We drove up on Sunday, April 7 (the day before the eclipse), spent the night at an inn, and showed up at Ruthie and Nick’s at around one in the afternoon—approximately one hour before the eclipse would begin. They were very kind and delightful hosts, and I’m glad I got to spend hours staring up at the sky with them (wearing special eclipse glasses, of course). 

I’d never seen a total eclipse before. I could spend hours trying to find the right words to describe it, but I know I’d come up empty. “Breathtaking” feels accurate, but it’s not nearly descriptive enough. Millions of things are breathtaking. Not one of them is the same as a total solar eclipse. 

Picturesque. Equally useless.

Still. That’s getting closer. 

Peaceful. Also better than the first two, but again, far too broad. 

I could go on, but I don’t want to put you through that agony. At least there’s one aspect of the experience that I can capture in a single adjective: 

Brief. 

Far too brief. We had over two minutes of totality, but it felt like a mere fraction of that. The moment the moon moved out of its perfect position, I found myself wishing I had appreciated it more. I don’t honestly think that would even be possible—there’s little I could’ve done to take it in further. 

Nonetheless, I immediately felt its loss.

Side note: Have you ever thought about how the moon is slowly moving farther away from the earth? I mean, really thought about it? Have you realized the implications of that fact? That about 600 million years from now, the moon will be too far away to completely block out the sun, rendering total eclipses a thing of the past? Do you ever wonder if—supposing there is still some form of intelligent life living on our planet by then—they will have calculated the date of the very last one? Will there be giant festivals, drawing crowds from across the globe to the path of totality? Will people mourn? Will their children, and their children’s children, ever wonder if this event—this final, legendary darkening of the sky—was simply a fantastical bedtime story? 

How wonderful it is, I think, that we get to live in this era, on this planet, where our moon and our star are so perfectly placed. 

Anyway…

We got home around 3:00am. 

Work, and the Kid Quote of the Month

This one requires a bit of context:

Inventor, a third grader, offered me an invisible bottle and told me that it contained one of two very different potions. There was a fifty percent chance it would cure me of all of my fears, and a fifty percent chance that it was a “nightmare potion.” I refused his offer, of course, telling him that neither of those sounded like particularly good outcomes! If I had no fear, nothing would be stopping me from doing stupid things! He persisted, clarifying that it would only get rid of my unhelpful fears. When I said that I have a therapist for that, he composed one of the best sentences I’ve ever heard:

“This is basically Omega Therapist in a bottle.”

Listen: I know this kid well. I have been his favorite sounding board for ideas, anecdotes, make-believe games, and general rambles for heaven knows how long. And if that interaction doesn’t sum up Inventor as a person, I don’t know what does. 

Alrighty gamers, that’s all for now. I considered going into greater detail on all the things I’ve missed, including Thanksgiving, Christmas, the ever-important Appreciate a Dragon Day, and our trip to Nicaragua, but you can read about (most of) those in past letters of Dad’s. 

I’ll close with this picture of the origami dragon I made following this video tutorial by Jo Nakashima in anticipation of Appreciate a Dragon Day back in January (even though, for me, every day is Appreciate a Dragon Day. Dragons are awesome, y’all). I made a mistake while forming the head, which somehow ended up giving my dragon a ridiculously long neck. I spent a few minutes lamenting the fact that my dragon now looked like a winged giraffe, but I am nothing if not resourceful, and I know how to make the best of a bad situation. 

Meet Geraldus the Giragon, and bask in the glory of my genius. 

With a heart full of love and blisters full of fluid,
Ari

1. …evidenced by the fact that I started this letter in December (though, most of the events documented in the few paragraphs I wrote at that point will probably be cut from the final draft; we’ll see).
2. It feels important to add the words “when hiking” to this statement. Give me some wool socks and nice boots, and I’m good. Put me in Crocs or flip-flops for sixty seconds, and a blister will form fast. My solution: Wear thick socks with Crocs, and never touch a flip-flop.
3. It would feel dishonest not to also mention how terrible I am at figuring out how to respond to these kind words.