At this time two years ago, we were living in the most painful unknown. Ian was classified as a missing person. The search ended without any clues of where or how or why he disappeared. 

Even after sixteen days of hiking and biking thousands of collective miles to find him. Even after hundreds of hours of drone footage were combed through by volunteers across the world. Even after we prayed, hoped, searched, sang, hugged, and begged the mountain to give us a clue. He was nowhere to be found. 

I was a wreck. I drove home to Virginia to be with family, simultaneously hoping Ian would be found and not found. I didn’t want to be 2,000 miles away if he was found. I also didn’t want him to be missing forever.

The mystery of a missing person was more painful than death. 

When I remember the search now, contradictions come to mind. 

The grim reality of looking for a hurt or deceased lover through fields of wildflowers in superbloom. My love for walking off-trail turned sour from searching. The exhaustion of bushwhacking ten miles supported by volunteers delivering coffee, breakfast, lunch and dinner. Feeling overwhelmed by the monumental task yet finding a rhythm in the simplicity of waking up, eating, walking, eating, walking, eating, sleeping. 

The loss of one person but the coming together of thousands. 

Grief elongates time. I need to write two years since the search in as many journals as possible so that I can reckon with the discrepancy between the calendar and my heart. 

Tracking a world without Ian was overwhelmingly confusing at first. Hours stretched into numb days. Days melted into empty weeks. Weeks blurred into the lost months and time moved differently for a long while. 

Once Ian’s body was discovered, I was able to engage with my grief. Tears flowed. Friends called. We cried together and planned the most beautiful memorial that celebrated Ian’s life. We gathered under the yellowing aspens to sing songs, ride bikes, hike down to the creek and share fond memories of Ian in one of his favorite places: the La Plata Mountains.

What I learned from his memorial and the search is this: sharing grief lightens the load. 

It is a communal, universal feeling. Too heavy to carry alone. 

Which is precisely why I hate the phrase, “I’m sorry for your loss.” 

Because it’s our loss. 

Ian was a partner, friend, son, brother, mentor, co-worker, community member and an inspiration to many. Ian is important to a vast community across the country and world.

As much as I have experienced the magic of grieving and loving together, I still hold myself to silly standards of suffering.

As the two year mark of the search for Ian approached, I pictured myself driving back to Hesperus alone. Telling no one. Sitting in the forest staring up at the mountain and sobbing. 

I told myself that’s how I should feel my grief. I should feel awfully depressed on that anniversary. I should be alone because obviously my grief is too heavy to be in the presence of others.

Why would I force myself into solitude when I have people knocking on my door, calling my phone and asking to visit? I needed to remind myself that grief is not the same as unnecessary suffering. 

Don’t let this loss be a crack in my relationships.

So I picked up the phone when friends called and we talked about the two year anniversary approaching. 

I talked about what I miss most: chatting with Ian, seeing that spark in his eye and feeling his intense, present gaze. Riding my bicycle behind his, hollering in the downhill wind. Watching him draw canyons in his grimey sketchbook. 

Listening to others share what they miss, how they’re feeling and ways they still feel connected to Ian helps ease the pain, confusion, and loneliness of loss. 

I don’t want to feel so much heaviness. I resist the doom and gloom that tries to latch on to Ian- my best buddy! A man who breathed so much life into me. I want to feel warm when I remember him. A silly man who blew normal expectations out of the water. I want to crack up at the things he said and say them again. 

I want to honor his life, not dwell on his death. 

More than anything, I wish to spend more time with Ian. So I packed up the truck and went to the mountains with people who still carry a piece of Ian with them. 

This July, my brothers, sister-in-law, nieces and nephews got on a plane to camp with me near Hesperus. Friends from across the West got in the car to drive those familiar dirt roads to meet me in the place that holds so much of Ian’s spirit. 

For almost a week, we camped next to a pond with inflowing streams trickling by. We stopped to gaze at Hesperus whenever she appeared through the trees. We watched the full moon rise over the La Plata peaks and wandered through old growth aspen forests, yelling “Woah!” at the thick trunks.

My niece turned five at 10,000 feet, waking up in a tent with donuts delivered. She opened presents in the dirt and then she hiked up to 12,000 feet in crocs while carrying her unicorn that she named Magical Tom. She led the hike, flexing her muscles and encouraging us all to keep up! 

My partner Jaden, who worked with me and Ian and helped search, celebrated a birthday in the woods as well. My family arranged a scavenger hunt of dinosaurs that led away from his tent into a meadow with presents. Jaden and my niece blew out candles together on a chocolate and vanilla cake and wore birthday headbands that sparkled. 

My younger brother Scott saw the Colorado mountains for the first time two years ago when he came out for Ian’s memorial. This summer, he hiked above treeline for the first time!

One of my oldest friends from middle school joined us as he has for nearly twelve years of family vacations.

My nephew was ten when Ian went missing. He demanded to help search. He told my brother, “I have a drone. I can help.” And he did help. He hiked more miles in a day than he ever had before at a much higher elevation than he was used to, reckoning with the possibility of never finding Ian.

This summer as we swung in hammocks he said, “The search is the thing I remember most in my life so far.” 

I choked up when he said that. The search is among the most vivid memories of my life too. The community response was so potent and inspiring amid the pure agony of Ian’s disappearance.

This summer we spent each night and every morning sitting in a circle of camp chairs without a campfire due to the dozens of nearby fires and a fire ban in the forest.

Talking about the search with people who were there makes it feel real again. Tender. Hearing different experiences searching raises the hair on my arms. New stories unfold. More reflection and understanding comes. 

Mike and Ashley drove up to our camp in their shiny new green Jeep. They talked about their experience continuing to volunteer with Montezuma Search and Rescue (SAR)- the kind people who answered my desperate call and came to look for Ian after midnight. 

In the last two years, Montezuma SAR has gained over sixty members, and a beautiful thing is happening- the old timers are passing on wisdom from their multiple decades worth of experience. The younger generations are stepping up with technical rope skills and strong hiking capabilities. 

The truth of the matter is that Ian likely drowned before we started searching for him. There’s nothing Montezuma SAR could’ve done differently to find him alive. We did absolutely everything we could think of. We covered a heroic number of miles and the best qualities in our community took the lead: team work, compassion, altruism, respect, consideration, grit, creativity, and hope. 

Everything Montezuma SAR learned from the search for Ian can and has been applied to help save lives in the future. Ashley noted how often they reference the search for Ian in their training scenarios. She spoke about the improved maps and communication systems they use due to the search for Ian.

This is perhaps the most important ripple effect in my mind. 

Creating new memories in the mountains where Ian died is important. It’s healing.  

I felt Ian’s happy and proud presence there. At times, it felt like he was smiling at us all together. Snickering at Scott complaining about the hike more than my five year old niece. Marveling at my ten year old niece’s artistic capabilities. 

Honoring Ian’s life means continuing to drink copious cups of coffee in the woods with the sunrise. It means walking further than we think we are capable of. It means riding bikes and sharing our feelings in an authentic way, waking up under a canopy of spruce and letting go of time. It means bringing a GPS and first-aid kit when I’m in the backcountry. 

Ultimately, honoring Ian’s life means keeping our hearts warm. Loving each other and respecting the wonders of a wilderness, just as he did.

With love and thanks,

Beth

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