May is skin cancer awareness month. I don’t know that we learn from other’s mistakes, so I’ll refrain from preaching and just tell you a little story of how I safely enjoy the sun as a stage four melanoma survivor.

Last week we hiked on a gorgeous sunny afternoon and sweat poured down my back, and my legs felt like smoldering logs inside my pants. My long sleeve shirt, hat and thin fingerless gloves covered every inch of my skin. We passed many people in shorts and tank tops, their skin glistening in the sun, muscles ripped and visible for the world to see.

Anger and resentment flowed up through my veins and I wanted to rip off all my clothes and walk naked down the trail. I have muscular legs, too, I thought. These sweaty, pale, fiery logs you can’t see are strong.

Jealous of their exposed flesh and cute shorts, I closed my eyes and imagined my old bronze skin and my favorite shorts and tank top, the breeze dancing across my arms and legs, my skin warm and free. Free from the layers, sweat and embarrassment. Free from this label of skin cancer.

The air felt hotter fueled by my rage and grief as I pined over memories of sun-bleached hair, days on the beach, or just sitting on my deck. I wanted it all back. I let out a big sigh knowing those days will never return.

Looking out on the city skyline breathing in the sweet smell of pine, I experienced a wave of gratitude for the beauty around me. It pushed me off my pity pot as I realized I am the lucky one who GETS to wear all these layers and still hike. It reminded me of another moment of gratitude gifted to me by a random man on a mountain trail who saw beyond my cloth-covered skin.  

Boreas Mountain, July 2, 2018

It was a beautiful summer morning in the middle of the week and we imagined a solo hike up to the top of the peak. As we gathered our gear another truck pulled in beside us. Three dapper men got out and started comparing notes on how to get to Boreas Mountain, the same mountain we planned to summit. Bummed to have intruders on our solitary hike, we decided to hit the trail and get a head start.  We slung our packs on our backs and grabbed our hiking poles and wound our way through the willows to the start of the climb.

We started walking straight up the side of the mountain through a sea of green, white, red, orange, yellow, blue and purple flowers. I kept looking back to check on the progress of our interlopers, but I couldn’t see them anywhere on the slope. I slowed down and took pictures of the colorful carpet before me.

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We spent a half hour on the summit admiring the views and decided to take a longer route back to our truck. We picked our way through the rocks down to the path that lead back to the parking lot.  About halfway down, a man stood on the side of the trail leaning over taking pictures of the Indian paintbrush. I walked by mumbling hello through the fabric covering my mouth, keeping my head low and avoiding eye contact so as not to catch any awkward glances from the man.

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He cheerily said hello and asked if we had seen two guys on the ridge heading to the peak. I let my husband describe where we saw them and how long ago. I shifted my feet, looked down at my boots and pulled the buff down to my chin nodding and smiling politely but barely listening as the man chatted away about his friends. They were hiking together, but he didn’t feel up to the climb to the peak so decided to stroll the valley soaking up the sights. He talked about the wildflowers, the gorgeous views and lamented the wildfire haze. I kept my head low and wished he would stop talking.

Then he turned to me, a more serious look on his face and said, “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I have to tell you that you are the first woman I have seen who is appropriately attired.”

I looked at him. Appropriately attired? Seeing my 10-year-old hiking pants with the seams fraying, my sweaty long-sleeve shirt and all my sun protection, it took a second to figure out why he thought my outfit to be appropriate attire. I lifted my head higher, smiled widely and said, “Thank you!”

He told us of women with strappy shirts and shorts and wondered how they could wear so little knowing that a big cancer is shining right down on them. It’s not just basal or squamous cell, but melanoma, he explained. He and his friends could not believe what they see sometimes. Turns out, the dapper men were all physicians.  

I waited for him to take a breath and told him I am a stage four melanoma survivor. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He looked at me, over to my husband and back to me before saying, “Clearly I don’t need to preach to you. That’s amazing. And you’re on a mountain!”

I nodded, “Yes, it’s pretty much a miracle, and it’s actually been five years.”

His hand went up to his forehead and down to his chest making the sign of the cross, and he agreed it was a miracle. He kept shaking his head in disbelief. “Wow, that’s great. That’s so great – and you’re on a mountain.”

I thanked him for the comment and chatted more about the glorious beauty Mother Nature had on display and wished him a good day. 

I started down the trail and tears welled in my eyes until they rolled down and absorbed into my face covering. Tears of gratitude for a man who did not see anything odd about a woman covered head to toe in hot summer heat. I pulled my sun buff higher on my cheeks, stood taller and looked out across the flower-studded mountains and gave thanks for the appropriate attire that allows me to still do what I love doing.

Mother Nature is amazingly powerful. Enjoy her, respect her and be safe out there.