December 21, 2013

News from Lake Pressinon

 

It’s been a quiet week back in my hometown of Lake Pressinon. We had our first real snowfall of the winter, and nobody is quite sure what to do about it yet. We don’t usually get much snow before Christmas so when it comes it catches us by surprise and we all sit indoors just looking out the window at the heavy blanket that has covered everything. Perhaps, if we just let it be for a while, it will go away. If we can just hold out long enough, life will return to normal and we can go back to our routines and shopping and holiday parties, and just wait until after the holidays to be ready for snow and cold and winter.

 

Except for Frank Young, who is outside dutifully clearing his driveway and cars. You see his wife, Julie, had worked in the office at Lake Pressinon High School, and left very early every morning. So whenever there was any snow Frank would be sure to clear it off right away so that she would be able to leave in the morning. It was just one of the things that he did over the years. As the kids grew up, Frank may not have been able to do everything, but this was something that he could do, something that he could do to make his dear wife’s day a little easier.

 

So Frank was out, as he always was, clearing all the snow. And the neighbors, as they looked through their windows to see if the snow was gone, would see Frank and just shake their heads. The thing is that just two months earlier, Julie had collapsed while doing housework. She had mentioned that she was not feeling too well, but would get the dishes done before she rested. She lingered in the hospital for just a day before she passed.

 

And then Frank was left to figure out what to do with himself. After so many years of serving and helping his family, he found himself without really wanting anything for himself. That will happen after some time, usually without you even noticing it. And then the kids all move out, and one fateful day you find yourself alone, not sure how to go on. So you try to keep doing what you have always been doing, even if you’re not sure why, but it helps.

 

So Frank was out shoveling, even though he was retired and did not have anywhere to go in the morning, because it was what he did whenever it snowed. He had the house decorated with all the Christmas lights, which he did right after thanksgiving like he always did.

 

But not everything can pass by so easily. You see he had been planning to surprise his wife with a new dishwasher for Christmas. He had been saving up for most of the year, and now with the irony of it he just couldn’t buy a new one. So now he has this money that he saved and Frank doesn’t know what to do with it. He kept trying to think of something else, but without Julie to help him decide, he didn’t know what to do.

 

Finally it was his daughter Emma who talked with him and reminded him of Julie’s favorite Christmas tradition. Every Christmas the Young family would go through their presents and choose one to give to someone less fortunate. Emma of course remembered this as it was one of her least favorite Christmas traditions. But her mother would always say that to be really thankful you would give the present you liked the most. Emma, however, always figured a needy child would be more interested in socks or pajamas than an ipod.

 

So Emma told her dad that the dishwasher would certainly have been mom’s favorite present, so he should give the money to someone who needed it more for Christmas.

 

So Frank Young did exactly that and took the money and gave it to Bishop Kimball to pass on to a family that could use some extra money for the holidays.

 

Now Bishop Kimball knew who to give the money to, the real question was how. He knew the Harris family had been going through a hard time lately, but Sam Harris was determined to make it through without any help.

 

Sam was the type of person who really believed in work. That hard work was the real measure of a man. It’s not surprising, when you consider his father, old brother Harris, was known until his dying day as a man who would introduce himself by saying “I work for a living, what do you do?”

 

So Sam had spent his whole life working, from the time he was just a boy. He grew up and worked three jobs while going to college just so he could get a degree and find a nice salaried position where he could work as much as he wanted and still get paid the same amount. So he finished school and brought his young family back here to Lake Pressinon where he worked at the Whitney’s store for years and years.

 

But then this last spring old man Whitney decided it was time to retire and move to Aruba. Now no one in Lake Pressinon had ever been to Aruba, or really even knew where it was. To be honest some people in town wondered if the Whitney’s really did move to Aruba, or if they just moved to the city and didn’t want the bother having visitors or phone calls, to just spend their last years in peace.

 

The problem was that none of the Whitney’s children wanted to take over the family business. Each of them had grown up and done their own thing with their life, and had moved on. So the Whitney store closed, and Sam Harris found himself without a job for the last six months.

 

Bishop Kimball had talked with Sam to see what help they needed, but Sam would not hear of it. He was going to do all he could and his family would make do with what they had. But the Bishop knew they didn’t have enough, the Harris boys now were always too busy to go on any of the scout camps, and he could see that the girls shoes that they wore to church were small and worn out. You know, there were clues. And he knew that there was not going to be much for Christmas at their house.

 

So Bishop Kimball devised a plan, which seemed simple enough. He was going to take his Priest Quorum 1^st assistant out later in the evening and have his assistant, Parley, run up to the Harris’s door, ring the doorbell, and leave an envelope with the money at the door. A classic doorbell ditch. How can Sam Harris refuse the money now?

 

What the Bishop also knew is that this plan was not as simple as it seemed. You see, Parley was one of those young men that was always very enthusiastic to attend activities, yet seemed to always fall into terrible misfortune. He was the scout that would fall and hurt his knee on the first day of a weeklong backpack trip. The scout that would rip his tent whenever it rained;  lose his glasses in the woods, and get poison ivy looking for them, and would always lose his buddy. Sometimes it seemed there were special rules of gravity just for Parley. That if he was standing next to a creek and happened to trip, which was not too uncommon, even if he fell away from the creek he would somehow, after he hit the ground, be inexplicably pulled into the creek. The Bishop could close his eyes and review what he saw and never be able to really explain how Parley ended up in the creek.

 

But you just never give up on these young men. As long as they are willing and will come you give them every opportunity, and just hope that in the end they will go on a mission and stay active, you have to keep this hope always when you work with the young men, otherwise you would quit after the first campout. So Parley was the 1^st assistant and Bishop Kimball just always had an extra prayer in his heart that things will not go too terribly wrong.

 

And in the case of the Harris house, it seemed pretty straight forward. The Bishop explained the plan and they drove over to the Harris’s house. The Bishop parked the car and turned out the lights at the end of the block and watched as Parley went running up the street. This made Bishop Kimball nervous, and as Parley approached the Harris’s house he realized he didn’t tell Parley to stay on the sidewalk. You see, the Harris’s had landscaping. And there goes Parley running through the yard, a foot of fresh snow and he is running right through it, and the Bishop is thinking “Noo, noo, you haven’t even rung the doorbell yet.” and then he gets to the bushes by the front door, and that’s when it happened. Inevitably Parley trips and in spectacular fashion flails across the front porch and into the front door with a loud yell.

 

Parley, though shaken and cold from the night air, starts to stand, and Bishop Kimball is thinking he just might pull it off after all. But no, the door opens and there is brother Harris looking terribly alarmed. He sees this boy standing at his front door, covered in snow from head to foot, and then he sees the envelope. And Parley knows that he sees it and can feel it burning in his hand. And for a long awkward moment they just stand there looking at each other. The night clear and crisp with the stars sparkling in the sky the way they do on cold winter nights. Their breath hanging heavy in front of them.

 

And then Parley does something that no one would have expected him to do. He starts to sing.

 

(sing softly)

Silent night, Holy night

All is calm, all is bright

'Round yon virgin, mother and child

Holy infant so, tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace.

 

And then Parley reaches out his hand with the envelope and says “Merry Christmas.” And Brother Harris takes the envelope, and replies softly “Merry Christmas.”

 

And that’s the news from Lake Pressinon, where all the women are compassionate, the men are faithful, and the children are praiseworthy.

August 18th 2017

And I did go into the mount oft, and I did pray oft unto the Lord; wherefore the Lord showed unto me great things.

I thought I knew what ideas I was going to work through as I started this hike. The mood in our country was permeating. You couldn’t ignore what was happening. You couldn’t help but try to think it through and make sense of it. I wanted to come up with a way to express myself, to express my feelings that the real inspiration in the founding of our country was that they baked in the ability to change. Throughout our short history we have seen that when big changes must happen, they happen. Usually the country almost rips itself apart in a clash of voices, ideas, and violence but in the end we change. And we survive. Our future depends on figuring out how to do this. I needed some time in the mountains to get these thoughts straight. 

The mountain had other ideas.

Since I have moved to Utah I have been drawn to Mt Ogden, sitting high above the city (although I cannot see it from my home). Well not Mt Ogden per se, more Allen Peak, just to the north. Not really even Allen Peak, but the rocky north ridge that leads (mostly) to it. Let me just show you a picture.

I didn’t know it until very recently but this is Taylor ridge. When I drive by and look at these mountains almost every day this is what my eyes are drawn to. It seems like the best, possibly the only, route to the top for me. I could spy it on other hikes to the north, especially from neighboring Lewis Peak. I really wanted to attempt it. Of course there are no trails. No information guides. Just me and the mountain and figuring it out. And I love me a good ridge.

By my study of the maps available the Indian Trail showed promise of getting me close to the ridge proper. Close to my target timing I spied the ridge and my jumping off point just as dawn arrived. A short section of picking through the scrub oak up a rounded hill and I am on the ridge. So far so good as I thought the off trail approach would one of the biggest challenges besides figuring out how to get back down. But we’ll get to that later.

Initially the ridge has only a mild incline so I easily skip along the jagged rocks. But then it steepens and I am forced to fully engage. As soon as my hand touches the rough stone I am overcome;

He is the Rock.

I refer to my conversations with the mountains like those with an old friend. Some back and forth, but often you tread along together in silence knowing each other without speaking of it. Sometimes, on rare occasions such as this, that friend will sit you down, take your hands, and look you in the eye. You know the words that follow will be of great importance, that you are about to experience something that you will always look back on as a sacred moment in your friendship.

He is the Rock.

I can hear the words ringing in my head, but more importantly I can feel the words, the meanings.

I felt much more than I could fully comprehend, let alone put into words. I am frankly at a loss of how to communicate my journey up Taylor ridge. I have thought it over for two months and I simply cannot lay everything out. While being taught in such a way was certainly a personal experience, what I was taught was not particularly personal. In fact, I wish I could share it with everyone, which is why I am even endeavoring to put this into print, despite the challenges.

The best I can do is say that what follows is an allegory and encourage it be read as such. I really don’t think you can read into it too much. I will try to point you in the right direction as needed. Every step, every movement was filled with meaning. I labored up the mountain, but all the while I was kneeling at the altar.

He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.

I have to be honest, it took me a little bit to understand what was happening and to adjust to functioning on two planes. Mountaineering, even at this small scale, requires focus and diligence and after a bit of clumsy wandering I am able to give it the attention needed while also understanding meaning in what I am doing.

So I climb. And I love it. I have had so little opportunity lately to just put my hand to the rock and climb. It feels free and wonderful. Before long the sun peaks over the neighboring mountains and it fills me with warmth. I cross back and forth on the ridge as led by the cliffs, plunging into the coolness of the early morning shadows and back into the light and warmth.

The Rock.

The exciting thing about being free on a ridge like this is you get to pick your challenge. You can usually avoid steep, exposed sections by traversing around them, but sometimes that pushes you off the rock which introduces its own challenges. Every step of the way you are weighing your options. The more time you have spent on the rock more comfortable you are with it and the more you prefer it to the scrub oak that waits for you below.

Let me pause. Anyone who has hiked through scrub oak before and is paying attention is probably thinking “Scrub oak is the Devil!!” It is an easy connection to make and nicely contrasts with Christ as the rock. But no, it was clear that the scrub oak are trials. Unavoidable trials. Do they come from the devil? Maybe. I’ll let you find your own meaning.

I press up the ridge as it steepens and pick my route up, over, or around the cliffs. Sometimes I am forced off the rock and into the brush. I pick my way around it trying to find the easiest path, but rarely successful. Back on the rock I find plenty of challenges as well. I weigh the risk I am willing to take climbing free solo miles from any trail. At one point I elect to make a “technical leap.” I don’t know if it’s a real term, but one I have used for many years to describe when your best option is to make a jump under strenuous circumstances. Naturally some degree of chasm is involved (why else would you have to jump?), usually midair twisting, and more than average drop in elevation. I land solidly on the ledge, but my right foot only half way on a small unseen rock. I roll my ankle but hold firm to the rock and climb up and over the ridge to finish the sequence. I rest and take stock. Fortunately the ankle is not in terrible shape and I can press on. Honestly at this point I am past where I would consider turning back. Even the rock can be hard.

Remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation.

Suddenly I top out of the cliffs and find myself atop Taylor Peak with the winds beating against me. I now have view of the rest of the ridge to Allen Peak. I feel like I have covered only a small fraction of the route. I check the time, just after 0900. Did I mention I’m going to work today? I know I can’t go back down the ridge. Pressing further up the ridge only further complicates my egress route. I need to cut off and find my way down. Another day, when I have the whole day, I’ll complete the ridge and make sure I have a ride out by taking the relatively easy route on the backside down Snowbasin.

The ridge to Allen Peak.

View from Taylor Peak of Lewis Peak and Ben Lomond.

I assess my options. The direct route would be off the ridge to the northeast to catch the Coldwater Canyon trail. It is very steep and completely choked with scrub oak. Even from my perspective it does not look possible. To the south I see a major drainage that I know has a trail that leads to Mt Ogden. The trailhead is in Ogden and nowhere near my car. I open up Google Maps on my phone to see if I can make the Bonneville Shoreline trail connect back to my car. I study the map and notice another trail, Hidden Valley. It is down the covered ridge to the west and links back to the Indian Trail and my car.

That looks easy enough.

This ridge is not completely covered in scrub oak, but the rocks are not consistent enough to rely on them. I start off seeking to link together open patches between the brush. I find some success with this technique, however there are times when there are no thin patches to push through. In these circumstances much time can be wasted in trying to avoid your fate. The best path is to plunge straight in, to embrace whatever lays before you, to reach out and grab the scrub oak to pull you forward and keep you balanced. At times I’m not even walking on the ground, the brush is so thick it seems you are completely separated from the rocks of the earth. It can be a fight but soon you are on the other side, once again able to choose your path.

The sun is now in full strength and I am acutely aware of other possible dangers in these rocky hills. Now each time I enter a clearing I must quickly make an assessment of every stick and skittering lizard to determine if any rattlesnakes are present. Large, dry leaves litter the ground and it takes some practice to get used to the lizards (i.e. the snakes food source) running through it. On occasion I heard a different type of rustling in the bushes which may have been a snake, but no direct confrontations on my trailless descent. I check my phone regularly using the GPS and terrain map to check my location and heading. While my path is very winding by virtue of seeking the easiest terrain, for the most part it is true in leading towards the trail.

As I near the trail the oak starts rising and mixing with aspens. I talked about diving headlong in when no alternative was available, but I run into a wall. I trace it hundreds of feet in either direction with no break. I must give way to the mountain and plunge into the darkness. Gradually the brush gives way but the trees remain and so does the shade.

Looking for a trail in the mountains is a most peculiar experience. You have spent hours on your own, finding your own route and getting battered and broken in the process. Sometimes you are content with this journey, while other times you are almost frantic, worried you will never cross the trail. Either way the moment you step from the brush and onto the trail is a singular experience. It almost feels like a moment of enlightenment and a weight is lifted from you. Suddenly you have a path laid before you, you know almost exactly where you are, and now you are part of the “in” crowd that knows where to go. Just two steps ago you had none of that. When it comes to finding a trail your very best bet is to first spot someone else who is on the trail, as finding the trail by yourself can a great challenge. I once bushwhacked for almost a mile within a hundred feet of a road. It was cold and rainy and when I came on the road I was gob smacked that it even existed. I stood dripping in amazement when a car approached. Although the logging road was a godsend, I still wasn’t sure what way to go so I waved my arms to hail the car. The passengers averted their eyes and narrowly swerved around me leaving me feeling lost and alone once more. In all my failures in the mountains, nothing has broken my heart more than that moment. The exultation of finally being found dashed to pieces by those already in the “in” crowd.

Although my phone helps me know I am close, there is still a sense of wonder when the trail appears beneath my feet just before 1100. Uncertainty flees and now I know what to do. Run four miles (it ended up being over five) and I’ll be back to my car and heading to work. I make quick work of the trail out of Hidden Valley, but the Indian trail proves to be more challenging. I think the original name was Indian Death March trail. A look at the post hike data doesn’t show significant elevation gains and losses, but after my long morning it takes it’s toll. Despite my weariness I am able to appreciate the grand views offered at the tops of the cliffs. With each turn I hope it will lead to the final descent as my ankle is throbbing by this point.

Once I reach the descent I fall into a comfortable jog make good time in the shade of the trees. In mid-stride an alarm goes off right in front of me. Right where my left foot is going to land is a Great Basin Rattlesnake coiling and frantically rattling. For a split second our collective reaction is “AAAAAAGHHH!!!!!” I swing my left foot to the right and up the loose dirt of the mountainside. With much momentum still at play I kick down with my foot to spray as much dirt as I can in the direction of the serpent and bring my right foot back to the trail a few feet further down and stop. Still rattling the snake uncoils while keeping an eye on me. Then it turns and continues up the trial in silence. You are never completely safe, even when travelling easy on the established path.

Eventually the trail comes full circle back to where I left it hours before. Toward the end of the journey I cross a flowing spring. I stick my head fully under the icy cold water and let it wash over me. I drink freely and am revived. I am made whole again.

I start down the trail again and my senses once again become my own. It is now only me contemplating my hike as I easily finish it. I sit in my car and take a moment to think over it all. Even immediately afterwards it seems overwhelming. I marvel how I thought I was going to come up here and think through our countries problems and find solutions, and what I received instead. But as I think more about it, maybe I received the answers I was looking for after all. Now I just need to spread the word.

Remember the allegory.

He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.

The hike is finished but the light still shines from above.

My Altar

August 7th, 2017

There are many dangers one encounters when they spend a significant amount of time in the mountains. The buffeting of winds while working along a large precipice, aggressive wildlife, exposure, BO mixed with patchouli, dehydration, unpredictable weather and so on. Some dangers are not as easily seen and others exist only in the mind. I have put off writing about this hike because I am wrestling with a common danger of the last type: snobbery. Last time I wrote about running a ridge even though I didn't really WANT to. Cry me a river. But it was a high point for two counties! Further condemnation. Do I really climb a mountain just because it has some title attached to it? Shudder.

So let's talk about Mt Elbert. It is also the county high point for Lake County, CO. And the high point for all of Colorado. And the highest point in the entire Rocky Mountains! The highest point in the whole stinkin' Mississippi River drainage!!! ARE WE EXCITED YET!?!! Well, no. Of all Mt Elbert's distinguished characteristics, interesting is not one of them. To me at least. I feel awful about it, but come on, look at this picture. It was the best picture I could get of the mountain.

Do I have reverse snobbery? Do I disdain the mountain because of its titles? I did once pass up the opportunity to climb Mt Whitney (with even more titles) for a number of reasons and opted instead for a summitless trek through the heart of the Sierras and never once regretted it. Or am I more garden variety snob who looks down on mountains that are not technically challenging. "Hmm, I suppose that may be fun for you simple hikers, but not something I would find exciting." You see snobs of this sort in almost any outdoor pursuit, but I have noticed it is pervasive to some degree in hiking and climbing, and here I am in the thick of it.

Since this is turning into a confessional I should put something else out there. I never summited Kings Peak. Since we are talking about boring, high points it seems like the right time to do it. I was wrapping around the side of it, and then about ten feet from the summit my buddy and I thought South Kings Peak looked taller. We couldn’t remember if Kings Peak was the north or the south one (we probably didn’t have a map, because … um, not our style at the time?), so we ditched the proper summit and took the ridge over to South Kings Peak, which turns out to be about twenty feet shorter. While on that summit, some scouts made the top of Kings Peak and started hooting and hollering about it. We used our eye levels and realized our mistake. Oops. I don’t think I have ever regretted that one either, although I haven’t admitted it openly before now. But I think my point is made that even so close to the summit I didn’t even realize it was the top of the mountain, let alone the highest point in Utah.

Kings Peak. Somewhere up there.

I need to step back and make some things clear. I was in no way coerced to climb Mt Elbert. I jumped at the opportunity when offered and was excited. I would have been excited to get out in the mountains of Colorado anywhere, even if a summit wasn't involved. Given the limitations of time, location, and weather Mt Elbert was a great choice.

But the mountains know me best and once I put my foot to the trail they knew. I might have put it to the back of my mind, but the seed was there that Mt Elbert was not interesting, impressive, or whatever enough. So I hiked and got drilled with questions. Why don’t you like this mountain? Why are you climbing it then? Why? Why? I write most of this now in an effort to be truthful about my experience, even though I’m not proud of it. Fortunately this was not a solo adventure, so I attempted to distract myself from what was pressing on my soul by talking. I talked and talked and talked. I was like a nervous middle schooler trying to impress his high school friends. I’m not usually one for talking, especially while hiking where I love to retreat inward and have these conversations with the mountains.

I am obviously not comfortable with these ideas. I skated around it a bit with my last hike. I avoided writing about it this time for a month. So yeah, I guess you could say I am in full existential crisis mode.

Breath. Relax.

I’ll put the paper bag down and tell you how it went down.

Do tell...

I had a blast. Great early start with an overly cautious Jeep driver, some trailhead/campground psycho’s, cool weather with a strong possibility of storms coming, and minimal crowds on a Monday morning. The trail was a no nonsense affair that cut straight up the mountain, without being overbearing. The surrounding mountains were beautiful and it was a joy to be out there hiking. Some friendly folks on the summit and since there is no dramatic edge at the top, I nailed a head stand for my summit pose instead of the traditional legs in the air.

I just love the mountains. I love being in the mountains. My head got wrapped around these why questions and it blurred my vision from what I knew all along. Long, long ago I came to this realization about skiing. Any day skiing is better than a day not skiing. I am heading into our second season at Utah’s smallest ski hill, but it’s still skiing and it’s great. Any day climbing mountains is better than a day not climbing mountains. With so many mountains to choose from where I live now I may still have to consider why pick one over another, but in the end I need to realize I would be happy to have the opportunity to spend time with either mountain.

Mt. Elbert showed me a great time and on the way down, just before the final really steep part of the trail we ran into a trail crew. They had spent the last ten weeks creating a new trail that would be “way more mellow.” Today was the last day the old trail would be open. So if I ever happen to meet someone else who just climbed the East Ridge, I can let them know I did it before the trail was easy. Because, come on, we all can be a little snobby sometimes, right?