You’re thinking about ice cream now, aren’t you? As Blue Bell describes, Rocky Road is “a rich, dark chocolate ice cream sprinkled with chopped, roasted almonds and miniature marshmallows.”

Ew, I say.

I’ve never been a fan of chocolate ice cream. It doesn’t taste like chocolate. It doesn’t even taste like chocolate milk. I don’t like marshmallows either, unless they are melted with sticks of butter and mixed into crispy rice cereal.

But this story isn’t about ice cream at all. Especially in my middle years, I appear to have become “ice cream intolerant” having to steer more toward Tropical Café Smoothies or fruity sorbets rather than anything in the frozen cow’s milk category. It’s a little sad for me. I have such fond childhood memories of ice cream, including trips to the DQ on a hot, Nebraskan summer’s day when my dad would catch a craving for a creme de menthe sundae or a lime Mr. Misty. That is, if he had run out of grocery store ice cream at home. Rum Raisin was his go-to flavor—a brilliant choice, since no one else would touch it.

Ew, I would say.

The Rocky Roads I speak of here are in Colorado, in the Rocky Mountain range, where my oldest of The Precious Pair is spending her summer, and where she’s busting up boulders with sledgehammers and such. Her current employer, the Rocky Mountain Youth Conservation Corps, calls this “trail work.”

Their website describes the scenario poetically: “As part of a tight-knit team of 8-10 individuals, you’ll live and work together in a camping setting, tackling priority projects throughout the week and unwinding by exploring the stunning Rocky Mountains on weekends. While it demands hard work in challenging conditions, this journey creates unforgettable memories and transformative experiences.”

The crazy thing is that she did similar work last summer, yet in Maine. There, she was also assigned to a trails team that required mastering multiple tools I’ve never heard of, all while wearing hard hats and steel-toed boots. Toward the end of the season, one of her teammates suffered an injury when he jammed his thumb beneath a rock. “It busted open like an orange out of its peel!” as she described the gruesome scene.

Ew, ew, ew, I said.

“Are we sure you haven’t volunteered for prison camp?” I asked her more than once last summer when I heard her reports of those long days hauling rocks.

I should be clear that it is a paying job, not a volunteer assignment, and not a jail sentence. But since the program is part of Americorps, we hope the paychecks keep coming for the duration of the summer. She assures me that “they have the money.”

So, Colorado has been home to the 20-year-old for four weeks now, with another eight weeks of physical labor to go. How does a sweet child of mine end up as one who slings sledgehammers? I haven’t a clue. She’s my tough little tree hugger. (Not little anymore.)

Her cell phone reception at the high elevations and in the forests is spotty at best. I get a notice when she expects to be without service for multiple days. After one of her recent outages, we exchanged a text thread that went like this:

E: I do miss hearing from you. I know I don’t have reception, but I hope to see more pictures and updates about everything you guys have going on when you have the time. It made me sad when I came back without any texts from you this week.

ME: Knowing you were off the grid, it did not occur to me to send you texts and photos. I feel like they might not be getting through to you if you are out of service. I will be more intentional about sending you updates.

As proof to this child that she is out of sight, but never out of mind, I am writing about Rocky Roads – both the literal type she’s working on, and the figurative type I’m working on.

Rocks along our route can make things difficult, can’t they? If by car, they can flatten your tire. If by foot, they can get stuck in your shoe. There’s nothing worse than a tiny sharp pebble that wedges into the comfort of your boot. It’s hard to shake it out, and as soon as you think it’s gone, you realize it’s still there, piercing into your heel.

Sometimes, we can’t see what’s coming next, past the curves and bends in the rocky road. I can’t fully visualize the path ahead this summer, yet I do know the people I want alongside me. My girls (one here and one there). My family. My friends. My true love. If they are with me, either in person or in spirit, I can handle a bumpy ride and an uneven trail.

Rocks eventually tumble into place. There isn’t a map showing me where they will fall, yet that’s how patience insists on me honoring it. I will learn soon enough.

In August, I will travel to Banff, Canada – another place with a gorgeous mountain range. There, you will find me hiking with two walking sticks and a dozen ladies, huffing and puffing at the back of the pack. A vacation like this ranks nowhere near the level of nature that the Conservation Corps embraces daily, yet it’s outdoorsy enough for me. (Especially considering my favorite part of summertime is air conditioning.)

Upon my return from the north, my favorite environmentalist will be back home again in Indiana, right where I think she belongs, yet I know better. There will always be new roads to tempt her away. The same will be true for her younger sister before long. My wish for both of them as adults is smooth pavement.

On the rocks,
Meesh