It was the late 1980s, somewhere between 1989 and 1990. Oddly, I can’t recall the exact year, but what I will never forget is that I was living in Colorado Springs, Colorado, in the United States, completing my engineering degree. Those were the good old days.

Another beautiful weekend was about to begin, and weekends in Colorado were something special. I had planned to do nothing but rest, watch HBO, and maybe hang out with friends. Then, I ran into Radwan Al-Jallad, my Syrian friend, who suggested I join him on a volunteering assignment sponsored by our college.

I refused at first. But Radwan kept insisting, promising me a good time, until I reluctantly agreed—bidding farewell to my peaceful weekend.

He picked me up before sunrise on Saturday. I did my best not to hide my irritation, while Radwan did his best to lighten the mood with some country songs he knew I didn’t understand but still enjoyed. I always joked it was the influence of the tobacco they chewed.

We took I-25 toward Denver, then I-70 west toward Golden, home to the Colorado School of Mines, where students are famously put through the wringer, and Idaho Springs, a place that holds a piece of my heart. Somewhere in that area, Radwan turned off the main road onto a rugged path. Soon, we arrived at a camp filled with dozens, if not hundreds, of volunteers.

“What are we here for? What are we volunteering for?” I asked Radwan.

“We’re going to help build a wheelchair pathway to the top of the hill,” he replied proudly.

“Seriously?!” I thought to myself.

We were warmly welcomed and asked to sign our names and details in a large register. Radwan mentioned that these names, including ours, might be permanently displayed at the entrance of the pathway. “Will they even be able to read my horrible handwriting?” I wondered.

Radwan and I were separated and assigned to different teams. My team consisted of four members, including myself. At the time, I was in my early twenties, while my teammates were in their late 60s—maybe even their 70s!

I was quiet and slightly embarrassed. I barely understood them, even though they weren’t chewing tobacco. They certainly weren’t speaking the kind of English I was used to in college. But we didn’t need much conversation to get the job done. It was clear that a massive boulder, buried in the mud, was blocking the path, and our task was to remove it. We had simple tools and a heavy-duty crowbar, which in the UAE we call "Mantool" (a word that’s definitely not Arabic).

For hours, my teammates tried digging around the boulder, but they made little progress. It seemed like more talking than doing, but it was clear they were enjoying their day out.

Frustrated, I grabbed the crowbar and started striking the top of the boulder with force.

“What are you doing, son?” one of the team members asked sarcastically.

Since I had no idea what I was doing, I just kept hitting the stubborn rock.

“Oh! I see what he’s doing,” another teammate remarked.

To my surprise, thanks to a combination of my youthful strength and the team’s support, we managed to loosen the boulder. The repeated strikes from the crowbar shook it free from the ground, and with some effort, we finally moved it out of the way. Mission accomplished. It was a happy ending. Just as I began to enjoy the day, the sun dipped below the horizon, signaling the end of our work. I didn’t want it to end.

I never went back to see how the pathway turned out. To this day, I don’t know where that park is located, nor do I remember the names of my teammates. I don’t even know where Radwan is now or how he’s doing. I wish we had social media back then.

But one thing I know for sure: as long as I live, I will owe him the joy of that unforgettable day—building a path.

To my friends, wherever you are: stay beautiful as usual.

I love you !