The Story of Mom

 

The Story of Mom 

I want to Thank the Ringgold Church for hosting the service.  We thought the Tryon Church would not have enough seats and we knew Mom would want a Church Funeral.  Many thanks to Pastor Jon Parsons.  There used to be a school right across the street and Mom taught a lot of years there, so Ringgold is a part of who Mom was.  I also want to thank Mike Montgomery with Adams & Swanson.  Mike was a familiar face to us because Mom played for so many funerals in the Sandhills.  Mike and Mom knew each other well.  Mike has handled all the affairs with Mom and it really has put our hearts at ease.

 Every family tree has its roots and Mom was the roots to ours.  She nurtured us so we could grow, she kept us propped up and never let go through any storm.  I am lucky to have married a woman much like Mom.  She definitely has that Sandhills grit and she is here by my side to take over if I can’t finish…. So, if you see her take over, Liz is just finishing what I started.

 I just want to make mention of Mom’s casket.  Since my brother’s and I were little our Mother would tell us that she wanted to be buried in an old pine box…because she didn’t plan on being there anyway.  I am not sure any of us were crazy about the casket and color, but it was the closest representation of an old pine box we could find.  I believe this to be a testament of Mom’s Faith.

Many of you may know that my Brothers and myself were “late bloomers”.  Mom was so afraid she wasn’t going to get grandchildren.  I think there were several other women in Mom’s circle of friends whose grandchildren had already had children before my brothers and I beared any fruit for Mom.  Addison was the first.  Liz wasn’t sure if Mom really liked her or just liked her because she seemed to be fertile and could bear grandchildren.  It was a joke between Liz and I that there was a chance that Mom would push the doctor out of the way and catch Addison herself!  When Mom acquired grandchildren she acquired them all at once.  And she loved them all…. Alani remembers making endless microwave cakes where a recipe was never used.  Mom rarely used a recipe for much.  It was all dump, pour and taste.  Once it met the taste test approval, it was served.  The girls have tried to replicate Mom’s dinner rolls multiple times, but for some reason the written recipe is not what they end up with at home.  Grandma’s dinner rolls were best.

 While Mom was on hospice, a strange number kept calling her phone.  Finally Trevor answered it.  It was Jeff?  Of course Trevor was puzzled and then Jeff was passed to my Dad who was in just as much confusion as Trevor.  I finally snatched the phone thinking it was probably some strange telemarketer that had quite a sales strategy and relied on the art of confusion to swindle his prey.  I am not going to lie, I was a little short with Jeff.  "How can I help you Sir??" I asked!  Well, Jeff claimed to be a pen pal of Mom’s.  They had been friend for years!!  Jeff was from Pittsburgh and had read a New York Times article 20 years ago about the impoverished people of the Sandhills and Mom’s little one room school house in Ringgold had been highlighted in the article.  I finally remembered Jeff.  He had written Mom after the article and wanted to help.  He too was an educator and understood the hurdles and struggles educators faced in their teaching careers.  Of course Mom had told Jeff multiple times that Sandhills Folks were some of the richest people in the nation, but our riches just weren’t on paper.  Jeff didn’t care and was bound and determined to help.  He sent Mom a microscope, a couple of atlases and a few other things.  It was a true token of kindness and generosity.  I then told Jeff Mom was on Hospice.  At that point, I could hear the shake and concern in his voice..  "Your Mom is great!!  She is a true gem!  I got worried about her when she didn’t return my last letter!  I am so Sorry Tyler."  He then says he has a family picture from last Christmas sitting in front him and wanted to know which one I was.  “Your Mom told me so much about her Family. You are so lucky Tyler!”  Jeff from Pittsburgh knew what we had for a Mom from 1,200 miles away and I have taken her for granted for most of my life.  Mom never knew a stranger.  

Where do you begin?  I think that is the question we all ask when we are trying to put together the perfect words to describe a life.  Mom was involved in so many lives that I think 12 different people could be standing here and give 12 different eulogies but at the end, they would all end the same.. How much she meant to them and how she shaped the trajectory of their life.  Without a doubt, I could stand here and tell you funny, heart-warming stories of Mom.  I am sure we all have a memory that we shared with Mom that could bring a smile to our face, a chuckle and joy to our heart.  Without a doubt, we should celebrate those memories.  But now, as we are saying goodbye, I think we should take this time and reflect on who Mom was.

Galatians 5:13-14 says:

You, my brothers and sisters were called to be free.  But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love.  

 Mom was a servant.  Serving can be inconvenient.  It can be uncomfortable.. and without a doubt it can be work.  The Bible speaks of Jesus serving others when washing his disciples feet.  In John chapter 13 versus 14 - 17 Jesus says:

You call me Teacher and Lord and rightly so, for that is what I am.  Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you should wash one another’s feet.

I think we can all agree, it was work for Jesus to wash the feet of his disciples.  It was inconvenient and may have been uncomfortable.  I am not sure..  But Jesus was setting a precedent.  No matter how big or small the task may be, we must get over our humility and serve one another.

Mom endlessly served.  Serving was what brought purpose and meaning to her life.  Mom served others through the chalkboard in a one room school, sharing a piano bench with an aspiring musician and playing the organ or piano for the Church and Congregation she loved.  I don’t believe there was a wedding or funeral in the Tryon Community Church that Mom didn’t play for.  Mom’s door was never closed.  If you were to stop by and visit, you were greeted with a smile.  She would start the oven and bake cookies to serve you a warm treat with ice cream or homemade canned peaches on the side.  If the visit carried over to dinner time, it just became an expectation to stay for dinner.  Mom would reassure that it was not an inconvenience as she prepared a meal for more. 

Mom served her family.  I can personally attest to all the meals she made, the tears she patted dry, the clothes mended and the unconditional love that she gave.  She served us breakfasts and dinners;  Homemade donuts and birthday cakes.  She made us blankets and afghans.  She found a way to warm us when we were cold, fill our stomach when we were hungry and lend us a hand when we needed help.  Mom and Dad’s love for my Brothers and I never ended.  Her serving us as our Mother continued even as her health deteriorated.  During her worst of times, she found a way to personally make a Christmas present for each family, each daughter in law, grandchild along with friends and family.  A present not rich in value, but made and engrained with love.

Mom served her Dad and Siblings.  After their Wife and Mother passed away Elnora stepped in to be a part time Mom to her younger siblings Leora and Errol who were still at home.  Her Dad, Lee, had a permanent seat at the Sunday dinner table.  Mom knew when Grandpa was sick that tapioca pudding was always the cure.  She kept a close eye on her brother Wayne and was there for him when he needed her most.  She milked the cow for Vernon when he took the kids on vacation and always made sure Errol was at home when he flew back for Christmas.

Mom found purpose in the simple things in life.  She could find value in things that most people would discard.  On her Christmas tree there would be all of these raggedy ornaments.  Time had taken its toll and many probably should have been tossed out years ago.  She could tell you the story behind each one.  Craig and Trevor made these in 5^th grade.  Gina made this one while at the Ringgold School.  “She has so much artistic talent.” she would say.  We made these in 1994 and the kids had so much fun.  Each ornament had a story and each story had meaning to Mom.  Mom had a different relationship with the kids at the Ringgold School.  Most were not only her students but also her nieces and nephews.  It was school but it was also family.

If you were to see Mom’s study Bible it was one she found at an auction.  Dad said there was a box of books that no one was bidding on and in that box was a Bible.  Mom knew that Bible would be thrown away if she didn’t bid on it.  A dollar later Mom took this rickety old family Bible home and it became the one she wrote in, stuffed full of notes and memories.  If you flip through this Bible there isn’t a page that doesn’t have Mom’s handwriting on it.  A Bible with no value and no meaning was put on the auction block.  Over the years, Mom packed this Bible full of meaning and memories.  She poured her heart into it and now it has indescribable value.  Mom also found a way to do this with the people in her life.

At the end of life I think we call have questions about what our legacy is??  As I look out into this Church, I see Mom’s Family and Friends.  Her husband of 60 years; her sons that she loved and never stopped caring for.  I see daughter in laws whom she adopted as her own and grandkids that she wished and longed for.  I see brothers and sisters that never left her side and a Church congregation that she dedicated her life to.  I see students she studied relentlessly for and a community she had passion for…  I see a group of people she loved unconditionally.  My Mom’s legacy will not be a large ranch, stacks of cash or a pile of gold.  Mom’s legacy is all of you. At the end of this road, Mom gave each of you her most valued treasures. Her heart was her diamonds…Her wisdom her pearls.  Her song was her jewels and her time was her gold.  For 80 years it was all of you who gave purpose and meaning to Mom’s life…

I have asked that the doors of the Church to be cracked open.  Everyone, please grab a hymn and turn to page 85 and let’s sing Amazing Grace as a church congregation and a family.  I don’t think anything would make Mom happier than to know that a favorite old Hymn was sung at her funeral.  Please sing loud, with joy and sing with your heart.  Let’s let this song carry into the streets and ring through the Sandhills.  Let’s give Mom one last song….

 

 

Nebraska's Wild Spaces and Forgotten Places

     Edward Abbey once described wilderness as a relationship between time and space in his poetic ramblings of time spent in what was to become Arches National Park.  As time increased to explore or travel in a space, the larger and vast the space seemed.  If we wanted more Wilderness, we merely needed to limit they way we explored it.  I have always been fascinated with simplistic ideals of exploring and travel;  Stripping away the non-essentials to life and figuring out a way to live and survive out of a backpack or a canoe for days on end.  I really am not sure why this desire and fire burns inside my soul, but it does...  Lately, it has been a goal of mine to find and explore these wild spaces in Nebraska... Prove to myself that Nebraska has the Wilderness I need and that there are plenty of wild spaces to explore.  What I am finding is that these wild spaces exist, but there is a cost...and that cost is due to the forgotten places...

    As with all backcountry adventures, I had aimlessly fretted, packed the essential gear, put together a menu, lined up a shuttle, talked with area landowners, reached out to my adventurous rolodex of friends for advice, packed and repacked, double and triple checked we had the teepee and... HOPED I was not putting my teenage daughter through, yet, another pain staking adventure that she would use as leverage for the home she may put me in one day.  These were all stressful ideals for a Father whose "coolness" was definitely fading with time as my once little girl was maturing into a refined young lady.  The day came and we began our slow three day river journey by canoe on a small meandering stream in the Sandhills of Western Nebraska...

    The call for wet and rain was in the forecast.  It was something I had worried about but as all Sandhills Folks know, you never complain about a good rain.  As we began our trip, the dark clouds were low.  You could see and almost feel the glut of moisture they were about the spill..their seams barely holding the droplets of rain together.  As we traveled down the river, the clouds couldn't hold back much longer and the rain began to fall.  Luckily for us, it was an enjoyable rain.  The moisture was soft and the breeze was cool.  To be honest, it was pleasurable.  A rain jacket and a wide brimmed hat was all you needed to be comfortable.  The bends kept coming and going and the river miles began to pass by.  Our conversations were of the simple things; the things that truly matter; as we left the advancements, progress and complications of life behind us.  Our conversations were about the river and the wild; the eagle and the mink; the raccoon and the scree of the hawk.  The simple pleasures forgotten and ones that daily life doesn't allow for between cubicle walls and computer screens.  These are the things that make simple people tick and think and wonder why we have complicated life in the way that we have.  It was days like this that you wish you could fold your cards, cash in your chips and leave this complicated life behind....
    

    As far as the River, you never really knew what you were going to get.  It's dynamic changed with every bin.  At times, it would be as wide as the Platte and not enough water to carry the canoe.  We had to chase the channels and try to outsmart the river.  The next bin would bring a fast river with a strong flow.  We would dig our paddles deep to grip the water for the power strokes needed to maneuver the canoe.  The river bed would turn rocky and ripple; the water flexing it's muscle letting you know who was really in control.  At one point there was a small falls; the rocks and the current growled taunting us to give them a try.  We took our time and decided to line our canoe through the obstacles with ropes to not upset and lose the provisions we were carrying for the next few days.  Yes, we were in Nebraska, the land of endless corn...but here was the wild side of Nebraska; the side that many don't see.  Nebraska can be like a calm horseback ride in tall green grasses and a setting sun; or you can find the wild side; when the mean ole nag decided to throw a couple crow hops out right as your are throwing your leg over the saddle to leave you eating dirt, picking out stickers and hoping you catch her at the next gate as she heads back home to the barn...

    That night we made camp.  A place I had scouted on the map, not knowing what it really entailed.  It was off an old road that didn't seem to lead to much of anything...public land and public access, something that I had been centering my life around this last year as I had fought hard for on the Dismal River.  People need these wild spaces; places for us to decompress and immerse ourselves.  Suitable campsites were half a mile or more off the river.  We decided to hike in; carry our dry bags full with tent, backpacking chairs, sleeping bags and more.  Each load from the canoe to camp seemed to go by quicker as Addison and I talked about setting up camp and dinner; indulging in this lost and forgotten place.  It was to be home for a couple of nights.  We had brought books and journals to record our time, our thoughts and experiences.  The last person we saw was our shuttle, Fr. Neal, a man who now I could now call a friend.  We just completed a private tour of the river and now were were going to camp in a "gated" and secluded area.  It was guarded by three strands of barb wire and a cheater bar to stretch it up tight to hold cows in or keep cows out; on this particular occasion not sure which one..

    The next day was a day of exploring; walking the game trails and the lost and forgotten roads of Western Nebraska.  This is where I began to truly understand a concept I had known but not understood...  As our Western States and neighbors are building condos and cabins; slowly "developing" their wilderness and shrinking the size of these wild spaces; here in Nebraska our wilderness is only growing.  The financial hardships of living in rural Nebraska is slowly plucking away at its residents.  People are leaving the Sandhills and other rural areas due to lack of opportunities and the difficulties of making a small ranch or farm run.  At one time, someone lived on almost every section in Western Nebraska.  Their callused hands, dirty feet and tattered straw hats showed the relentless work of trying to make 640 acres of land work.  Over a hundred years later, most of these homesteads have been forgotten.  The remnants of clay like foundations may be all that is found. For the families that made it a little longer; their once homes now have broken out windows and fallen in roofs.  The barns have all leaned over and the corrals are held up by sunflowers and over grown weeds; The gates no longer swing and ground rot has ate the posts away.  The ancestry from these forgotten places are no longer around.  Their genetics can now be found in cities and states far away..their offspring never truly understanding the hard work and hardships their heritage once endured.  If the family name still lives it is used by the large rancher to name his pasture and tell the local well man that the "Gibbs Place" windmill needs work or the possible hired man where to throw salt out for the cows.  As we walked these old roads to these abandoned places, the sand was deep, the grass was tall and for several days, we hardly seen a soul on them.  Yes, our Wild Spaces are growing in Nebraska, but it is at a cost... The cost of the Forgotten Places that, soon, will no longer exist...

    Later that afternoon, we got a tour from a "local".  A landowner that my Mother had ties to.  Debby was a student of my Mother's in her first teaching job at a one room school house in the Sandhills.  Debby and her husband have a small ranch that they worked hard to keep.  Over the years they had put together a small business outside of agriculture that has allowed their family to find a sustainable living in rural Nebraska.  Debby has to be one of the kindest women I have ever met; hardly speaking an ill word.  Her warm personality; life appreciative and positive attitude was truly admirable and one that was contagious.  This lady would make anyone feel good about life.  We bounced around in her little Subaru.  She spoke of exactly what I knew...Told about the river community that once lived there but now gone through the hardships of rural America.  She showed us her favorite spots in the valley and told stories of the old cemetary and homesteads that are now gone.  I found a new respect for these Sandhills Folks.  They are people I grew up with, but over the years had forgotten their gratuitous ways.  I also found a new respect for a Subaru.  She took that thing on and off road; we bounced through the prairie with no roads and took it over deep sand that would get a Ford stuck.  Those folks in Colorado truly don't understand what a Subaru can do.  A Subaru is definitely capable of more than trips to Whole Foods or Saturdays to the ski lifts following the snow plows the whole way...

 

    That night over an old Coleman single burner camp stove, Addison and I reflected on our day.  It was truly a moving day.  Debby and her family worked hard to find a viable way of life in these hills...  Debby was also an artist and her environment was an inspiration daily in her works.  She loves the Sandhills, loves the valley and loves her heritage and connection to the land.  As we ate our simple meal of chicken and mashed potatoes we talked about their business, Debby's chickens and chuckled at the Subaru ride across the hills...

    On Sunday morning, we packed our gear and I tediously loaded the canoe.  Making sure each dry bag found its rightful place to balance the boat for our trip out.  Today was tainted, we had a beautiful day of canoeing in front of us, but we both knew that when we reached the next bridge, our trip exploring this Nebraska Wilderness was done.  We figured 6 hours on the water, but the river was low and I was planning for more.  We started early, to make sure we met our shuttle on time.  The sun was just peaking over the walls of the valley and it was a beautiful cool morning.  We spoke very few words...I think the previous days experiences and adventures were still replaying in our minds.  It is at these moments that my mind truly wanders and processes my recent experiences.  It is at these moments that I understand and connect them with how I feel.  I can sometimes get frustrated with the history that is currently trying to be passed, pushed and re-written about my heritage and these hills.  The people that came to settle rural Nebraska were poor.  They scraped every bit of money they had for an opportunity...and that opportunity was food on their table, a piece of land of their own and a future for their children.  Yes, there were some atrocities along the way.. But these people came here out of pure desperation.  They were fleeing lives of poverty, indentured servitude, soils to rocky and poor to farm, famine and disease.  They put their children's lives in danger, they lost their wives, husbands and babies knowing the dangers just for an opportunity to make a life of their own. That is the story that is being lost with the forgotten names, shambled homes and now forgotten places...and that is the true story of our heritage in these Sandhills...

    

    The rest of the day, the river was never very predictable.  At times, it seemed vast and endlessly wide. Like before we had to chase the channels and not let the river outsmart us.  Other times, the river bed would be narrow with plenty of flow, but I would wonder if somehow, the river was mysteriously losing water due to it seeming so small.  We stopped and talked to a rancher checking his cows and like all simple conversations we merely talked about the weather and how thankful we should be for yet another fine day.  We seen more eagles and hawks carefully watching us from the highest perches they could find.  The Blue Heron would fly from river bend to the next river bend never understanding that the river would just take us to his next roost.  The deer and baby fawns would spot us from afar and would patiently wait for us...waiting until the very last glimpse trying to understand who we were or what we were before darting into the tall grass for sanctuary.  At this point, there was very little conversation but what was in front us and what we had to do navigate this wild space.

    I knew we were getting close to the end when we came across our last real obstacle of the trip.  A small, yet power full, waterfall.  Without a doubt, there was always something new to see on this river.  Addison and I got the ropes out and decided to safely line the canoe through the falls.  I was upstream with the stern and Addison was on a point her rope tied to the bow.  I slowly fed the canoe down the river and through the falls; one handful of rope at a time; Addison making sure the canoe remained true to the current.  If nothing else, this was just experience for future adventures to come.  The blood that runs through my Daughter's veins is the same blood as her Father's.  The desire and thirst for adventure is there...simplicities of life.  Her and I without a doubt have more trips in front of us....  When the canoe was safely on the other side of the falls, I looked up at the bank and noticed an elderly gentleman watching us.  I walked up the side of the bank and shook his hand.  His grip was firm and pure and one that I knew.  He was on oxygen and I could hear the little shots of air helping him breathe.  The old man smiled and told me he lived just right here pointing at the roof of a house in the trees.  He went into detail about his connection to this place and his heritage.  I smiled and listened...fully understanding his pride.  He ended with letting me know that the bridge was just around the next couple of bends and next time to give him a call because it was going to be easier taking out on his ground than it was going to be at the highway.  I smiled, thanked him and we moved on; now knowing our trip was done.  As we paddled away he waved from the bank; we smiled and waved back giving our new found friend as big of a send off as we could.  I can't help to wonder what stories will be told about this man twenty years from now.  Without a doubt, his story and kindness was memorable; that place will live with me and will not be forgotten as long as I walk this Earth...

    A few bends later, the trip was done.  This section of water rarely gets seen by a canoe.  Getting a boat and equipment out of the river bed was a true chore.  The wild sumac and endless poison ivy was nature's way of saying this was still wilderness and her way of protecting herself from the harm of being overran by herds of people.  Without a doubt, I found what I was seeking; a wild space with wilderness, right here in the boundaries of a state I call home.  Our wild spaces will continue to grow as it continually becomes a challenge for families to find sustainability in rural Nebraska.  Part of me embraces this ideal, but I also think it is necessary for us to continually acknowledge this proud heritage and understand the hard work and determination that was lost in these Forgotten Places....

Internet Kayak Dating, the Fountain of Youth and the Green River

     It's not very often where you truly get to be part of something great.  A time, a trip, an adventure where you wish you could stop time and indulge in the moment...  You could hit the pause button on the outside world, stopping life and progress at home with the wife and the kids.  The job no longer mattered, the bills no longer needed to be paid and the money in the checking account was no longer needed.  I just had one of those trips... An adventure where I wish I could pause time and completely indulge and engulf myself in the moment.  A trip where I could get lost in those Utah Canyons and time would pause so I didn't miss anything at home with my wife and girls...

    

    "I want to run the Green River." was what Ted's text read.  I was giggling like a school girl as I began typing out my reply.  My friend Ted is a lawyer and we were like junior high friends taking brash jabs at each other every chance we get.  "Is that your BFF, Ted?" Liz asked as she watched me snickering at my reply somehow twisting my rebuttal to poke at him and his profession.  I quite often got a text from Ted saying he wanted run this river or mimic a trip he had seen on a paddling forum we were both a part of.  Ted and I had met on the internet.  It was something that seemed pretty common amongst lonely single men and women these days..but not that common for grown men and women who just seeked an adventure companion.  We wanted nothing more than a partner with his own boat and gear, good campfire conversations and a strong helping hand when we were in trouble on the river and literally stuck between the rock and a hard place.  Our first trip was several years ago on the Dismal River.  It was a river that Ted had wanted to run and I had grown up with it in my backyard.  The trip went well.  He promised he wasn't an axe murderer as I invited a complete stranger to stay in my parents home the night before we were to put in on the Dismal River.  By the end of the weekend, we had had a lot of laughs, Ted had his inauguration Dismal River run under his belt with the scrapes, scratches and bruises to prove it..and well, my parents had taken a liking to him.  Not as if that was needed, but definitely frosting on the cake when meeting people on the internet.  We were no longer strangers, but friends, both seeking the next adventure.  My final text to Ted was.. "So you have wanted to run the Upper Missouri in Montana, we have talked about the North Platte River in Wyoming and now it's the Green River in Utah, which one do you want to do in 2020."  Ted's text back was plain and to the point.  No jabs or brassy comments.  "The Green" he replied.  And so, the Green River trip was born...

    There were four of us that started on the Green River that day.  Our canoes were packed full for our four days and nearly 50 miles of wilderness paddling.  Steve and Ken had decided to join us.  It was another internet kayak dating experiment in works.  Steve was merely an acquaintance.  We were Facebook friends and we had connected through friends of friends.  I knew Steve was an adventurous soul.  I figured he was retired and had seen pictures of him at the Everest Base Camp Trek in the Himalayan Mountains.  I can distinctly remember him on the summit of Lobuche and the smile said it all.  He had a fire that burned within him and it was only soothed by an expedition...an adventure to snuff out the everyday domestication that we as humans live in today.  Steve's trip to the Himalayas were without a doubt campfire worthy stories to be told and carry on the conversation after a long day on the river...one of the simple characteristics needed on every outdoor excursion.  He brought his friend Ken with him.  A soft spoken man who just seemed excited to go.  Ken and Steve were cycling buddies and had biked trails together across the entire Midwest.

 

    The trip started in a desert valley.  Nothing really too exciting.  A bleak, dry and barren spot.  I think the country term that came to mind was "Drier than a popcorn fart.", a saying I never really understood but knew the term was synonymous with "Damn dry". There was very little flora and the only green was the irrigated farm ground next to the river and you could hear the hum of the electric motors pumping water out of the river onto the alfalfa that I could tell the rancher desperately needed to grow.  The put in was on a private ranch and we had to buy our access to the river.  I think we all hoped that there was more to the Green River than this.  It didn't coincide with the pictures we had seen and the videos we had watched.  As we traveled down the river that afternoon, the rocks from the dry valley grew.  They slowly turned into bigger rocks and then into short canyon walls.  I think we could all feel the river leisurely digging its way deeper into the Earth. The canyon walls grew as we put miles and hours between us and our initial put in point on the ranch.  The soulful red, rust, tan and brown colors began to paint the canyon walls and I think we all finally settled in and breathed a sigh of relief.  The adventure of the trip finally started.  We didn't initially see it at the ranch and the last signs of civilization, but now it was here and apparent.  The desert wilderness was flaunting itself to us...

    

    The first night of camping was on a sandy bank overlooking the Green.  Fire restrictions were in place and we couldn't have a campfire, but that didn't stop the conversations, story telling and laughs of past experiences.  We hiked one of the side canyons of Labyrinth Canyon, swam in the river and let the waters of the Green cool us off after an afternoon of paddling in the hot sun.  Even though we had all just met, our group dynamics were meshing well.

    Day two was the big day of our four day trip.  We had 20 river miles to paddle before arriving at the bottom of the "Saddle", a point on the Green where the river travels 7 miles before doubling back on itself.  The Saddle is a location where you can take a picture of the river traveling in opposite directions and is only divided by 400 yards of canyon wall.  The day was hot, but the Canyon was beautiful.  Ted and I talked about how amazing the scenery was as we maneuvered our way through the twists and turns of the river.  Our conversation was never stale.  It was almost as if we had known each other years as we discussed life, past adventures, our kids and the scenery in front of us.  Steve and Ken seemed to be doing well, although they had never shared a canoe together before.  I honestly don't think anyone suffered from even an inch of boredom.  The trip was truly amazing and we were all just taking it in...

 

    We finally reached the bottom of the Saddle.  We still had to hike to the top of the canyon.  I could tell the river miles and heat of the day had taken its toll on all of us.  I had been offering Cokes to my companions earlier that afternoon.  I knew that we all were starting to suffer a little from the almost 100 degree day.  The sun was beating down on us from above and the now deep canyon walls were only aiding the desert heat and created an almost oven affect.  I hoped the sugar and caffeine would act as a drug and give us the boost we needed to do the climb before setting up camp that evening...  Without a doubt, the trail was steep.  There were even a couple points where we almost had to do a rock scramble similar to summiting a "fourteener" in Colorado.  We all pitched in now.. Giving that strong helping hand we all desired of an adventure partner.  We were no longer strangers, but friends, all seeking to tame the same fire that burned inside of us..  I was behind Steve when we reached the top of the Saddle.  Instantly, I could see Steve's expression change with the excitement of the view.  His smile was from ear to ear and he quickly turned around giving me approval of what he saw and was giving high fives to everyone in the group.  I wasn't for sure the excitement that Steve felt in that picture of himself on that summit of Lobuche, but that same smile was there on the Saddle and I was proud to be a part of the adventure...  The view on the Saddle was extraordinary.  It was windy and the two canyon walls were like brothers standing back to back trying to decide who had a taller stature.  Each canyon had its own personality.  The same earthen colors, but the structures were different.  We had been traveling through a canyon with a rim and tall walls.  We would soon be seeing the canyon change into one with cliffs and bluffs.  It would be the same canyon, but like brothers, different...

    

        That evening, I don't think we even had camp setup before the first beers of the evening were cracked open.  We were all hot and tired, the Green was cold and we needed to celebrate an epic day.  Ken peeled his shirt off and ran into the water like a young adolescent and dove in.  We all cackled at his display of excitement and youth.  Steve took a beer in the river with him.  That smile had never left his face from the summit of the Saddle.  He looked at me with that grin and told me he felt 16 again...  I envisioned him reminiscing of misguided younger days of his life.  No cares, no worries, only fun and adventures.  The Green acted like a fountain of youth, turning back the hands of time for all of us.  Even though our age differences spanned over 25 years, we all felt young again and the cold beer was only helping the situation.  We soon fell right into place, like old college buddies, taking brassy jabs at each, cracking lawyer jokes with Ted and telling tall tales of our younger years.  Honestly, I think the expectations of this trip by now were far exceeded and we were celebrating the moment and the new found friendships.

    Day three was the last full day on the Green.  We had 10 river miles and I hoped to find some petroglyphs in one of the side canyons.  The petroglyphs were evidence that these canyons were not always wilderness.  The canyons were once inhabited by indigenous people a thousand years ago..civilization existed here.  I quite often question if these people were possibly more "civilized" than what we are today.  No, not as technologically advanced, but did they have a fuller life?  Did they understand the true meaning of community and kindness?  These are questions I ponder on river trips...  Somehow, we missed the canyon that had these ancient relics.  It was something I wanted to see, but was not disappointed.  There was meat left on the bone for a future trip down the Green River again.  This would not be my last trip down this river...

    It would be our last night of camping.  We found another sandbar with another picturesque backdrop..something you felt like you would see in a picture or a National Geographic Magazine.  Ted kept claiming he felt like he was living in a Ansel Adam Gallery...only we were living it and not just seeing it perfectly framed on the wall in an air conditioned building.  So far, Mother Nature had been pleasant.  Our days had been warm, but the weather was beautiful.  That night, she decided to show us we were on her terms and living in her playground.  We watched a thunderstorm work its way down the canyon.  The lightning illuminated the night sky.  The breeze began to build and slowly worked itself into a wind.  The first gust of wind blew through giving us a powerful blow.  It ripped the stakes out of my tent and it started rolling towards the river.  Steve seen it go and took off running to catch it.  Ted's and I canoe flipped over in the river dumping the few contents we didn't need for the night.  Ted and I ran gathering what we could.  Ken was holding his tent down and thankfully Steve outran my tent and saved it.  Hoping our canoe and contents were now secure, I ran to help Steve save my tent and get it staked back to the sand and the Earth.  Another gust came  and this time Steve's tent was its prey.  It was caught by the bushes and as I tried to help Steve wrestle it out of the wind's grip, one of the poles broke rendering it useless.  We were no longer strangers, but a community of friends and we all chimed in offering Steve a place in our fabric shelters for the night... I didn't sleep much that night. The wind shook my tent and the rain fly flapped like a flag in the violent blows.  I could hear the river rippling and white capping from the gales.  I wondered if it was raining upriver and how long our canoes and tents would be safe on the sandbar.  This, after all, was the wilderness.. and we were on a wilderness adventure. 

    

    I woke the next morning with a fine layer of sand and grit on everything.  The wind had blown sand under the rain fly and through the screen coating my sleeping bag and clothes.  The winds had finally subsided and it was a beautiful morning.  We slowly packed our gear and loaded the canoes.  Only a few more miles left and we would be at our take out point and back the civilized world.  Ted and I were a little quieter today.  I think we just wanted to relish in the little time we had left.  The canyon was still mesmerizing...never giving us a break in her gorgeous curves.  At one point, Ted turned and looked at me..."This was the best outdoor experience in my life.."  It was a sincere, firm and a quiet statement.  I knew he meant every word.  I smiled...without a doubt, it was epic and would be a trip I would remember for the rest of my life.   I am just glad I could be a part of it..

    To be honest, I think I could have kept paddling past our take out point that day.  It's not often you get to be part of something great... an adventure that you wish you could turn into a lifestyle.  I missed my family.. my wife and girls.  I wondered how life had been with them since my last contact five days before, but I think if I could have hit the pause button on life, I would have kept paddling to the Colorado River and then on from there.  There were more canyons and more desert to explore...

 

Bros, Souls, Family Adventures and Splitting Wedges

    "When it pours lemons, you just have to make lemonade!" my ever famous quote that I am yelling at my buddy Jeff in the rain as we are riding the soulful red peanut butter muddy roads of Stillwater, Oklahoma.  We are in the Mid South 100 and the rain started the night before completely saturating the area's country gravel roads.  The tires of the other bike riders in front of us are picking up the red clay and splattering it behind them for 15 yards covering Jeff and I from head to toe in the sticky mud.  The race had just started.  We had a 100 miles to ride that day and boy was it going to be an adventure!  We were going to cuss, it was going to break our souls, and we will probably sign up again the next year.

    I can remember another adventure, it was just my oldest brother Trevor and I and we were backpacking the Comanche Peak Wilderness in Northern Colorado.  We had just climbed up over a mountain pass with elevations of over 11,000 feet and a trail that climbed to the sky without a single switch back to give you relief.  We were on day two of a 20+ mile loop. For more than an hour, we couldn't see the top of the mountain nor the bottom.  You felt like you were climbing from the depths of Hell to the Heavens above.   The trail was more than strenuous.  We would stop, take our packs off, the sweat beading off our faces and stare at each other both wondering if the other one was going to break.  We would grab a few swigs of water and pant in the thin mountain air only to throw our packs back on and climb some more.  We finally summited the pass.  The views were extraordinary and we could see for miles with snow covered peaks all around us.  Our final destination was Brown Lake but unbeknownst to us this region was a "high use" area in the Wilderness with designated camp sites.  As we hiked by each site with tents sent up and other backpackers that had hiked in just a few miles from the opposite direction that we had came, we began to realize there may not be room for us.  With each occupied campsite, I could slowly see a splitting wedge being hammered into my brother Trevor's soul.  He began to describe the trail with four letter words, muttering to himself...  When we finally reached the last designated campsite on Brown Lake with tents setup and smiling, lazy backpackers that had an easy walk in from the trailhead, the wedge was hit with the last hammering blow breaking my brother's soul completely in half.  He was done and so was I.  We had hiked from the depths of Hell to the Heavens above and we were owed a campsite.  At this point, my brother began describing the trail, the weather, the Wilderness, the other backpackers with very elaborate and descriptive four letter words.  There was no stopping him.  He renamed every plant, every rock, every person, the wind, the weather in a fashion that could make a sailor blush.  I got out the map and laid it out...  Our best bet was to hike to Comanche Lake.  "How frickin far is that?!" Trevor demanded...his soul in pieces at this point from the long day on the trail.  "A little over two miles" I replied.  The ear burning descriptive rants continued...

    I am always looking at the next trip, the next adventure...  Trying to conjure a way to make something that could be so simple into an all day or multiple day affair.  I want something that feeds my soul and makes me hurt.  I want to sweat and feel like I ran a marathon when it is all done.  This is all fine when I talk my buddy Jeff into joining me or my brother Trevor into it.  At the end of the day or the end of the trip, I can give them a fist bump and a smile.."That was awesome man!".  They smile back, we joke and laugh at how miserable it was at times.  How the mud or the trail was seriously going to be the end of us.  We then get in our vehicles and go our separate ways and on to our separate lives..  It's different when you talk your family into it though.  At the end of the day, there is no separate vehicles and separate lives.  At the end of the trip, you have to hope that the adventure didn't become the wedge that split your family and not just someone's soul.  At the end of the trip you just hope your marriage survives and your kids still love you.  Planning a family adventure is different... at the end of the trip, you still have to live with these people.

    It was our first backpacking trip as a family.  Liz had taken a 13 year break since Addison was born.  We had done a few trips together, in our younger years as empty nesters.  It seemed to work well for us, maybe because we were still "honeymooners" in awe of each other and possibly still trying to make a positive impression on the other.  I usually went on at least a yearly trip after Addison was born with my brother Trevor and possibly my brother in laws.  Those trips kept me seasoned, gave me a true perspective and realistic expectations of the work involved in carrying several days worth of gear and food to the top of a mountain...  Over the years, Liz had become our Alpha.  I think it is the country bred deep into her ranching genes.  She isn't afraid to speak her mind..definitely isn't afraid of telling someone where they can put it and when you are married to her, well you definitely get the "non sugar coated" version of everything.  I knew she was nervous.  I was only expecting her to carry a heavy pack up endless switchbacks of relentless elevation gains to get to our destination only to be fed to swarms of mosquitoes for days on end and somehow believe it is to fill your soul with utter happiness..a simple expectation of all wives in America.  I had fretted, sweated and meticulously packed everyone's backpack.  I was bearing the heaviest load which would hopefully save on everyone else not just physically, but mentally too.  My biggest contemplation was where to put the second and largest bear canister.  I couldn't get it to fit in my backpack, so I put it in Liz's, reassuring her it wasn't heavy.  That bear canister...became our splitting wedge.

    "What the hell is in that bear canister?" Liz demanded after the first set of switchbacks and not even a mile on the trail.  "Food" I replied trying hard to not be rhetorical and answer the question as sincerely and truthfully as possible.  Her sunglasses were on but I could still read her eyes.  When you have been married to someone for over 15 years, you just know the "looks".  You know their smiles, when they are faking and when they are sincere.  You see certain expressions and your survival instincts kick in helping guide you through the situation.  With Liz, it is her eyes and her eyebrows.  I know the look well.  It is the look of pure demonic possession and it is only remedied by coffee in the morning.  This was past morning coffee and now, we were just going to have to get through this.  "Let me carry the canister." I said with as fake of a sincere smile I could muster.  "You touch my pack and I will hurt you!" Liz replied...her country pride not allowing her to show her fatigue.  When a ranch girl says "hurt", well a hurting is what they are going to do.  On we trudged.  The girls could feel the tension of the splitting wedge and knew that silence was their only hope.

    A few more wooded miles passed.  The climb was relentless and only four and a half miles I kept saying.  I could see the patience starting to fade in Liz.  She was beginning to swat at the flies irrationally.  It was about lunch time and the flies were hungry too biting through the thin clothes and any naked flesh exposed to the environment.  I knew the anger and anxiety was starting to build in her and burn at her chest.  Looking back, the bear canister and food was too much for her.  The pack was weighing on her lower back and the altitude was beginning to build in her stomach.  I should have known better, but Liz and I were trying to carry the extra weight for the girls.  The goal was the lake at the end of the trail and then we have four blissful days to enjoy our solitude.

    We finally made it to the crest of the climb.  It was four miles of continuous climbing and the last half mile looked to be an easy coast into the campsite.  Liz had her pack off and she was on the side of the trail taking deep breaths.  I knew the altitude was getting the best of her.  I hurried up and pushed through the next half mile or so with my pack, dropped it on the side of the trail and hurriedly walked back to Liz and the girls.  I grabbed Liz's pack and heaved it on my back and gave her the head nudge of "let's go, we are almost there".  Her pride no longer had feelings.  It was tired and now the altitude was making her stomach gurgle.  We made it the last little bit into camp as a group.  I instantly went to work setting up Liz's camp chair and "politely" asked her to sit down.  She was broken by this point having no fight left in her.  She sat and I silently went to work setting up camp.  The girls left to go explore the lake knowing that was their sanctuary for the time being.  I watched Liz, quietly, out of the corner of my eye as I worked on the tent, careful to not ask how she was.  Within a few minutes, she slowly got up, softly walked into the woods as to not get my attention and heaved everything she had in her stomach out.  Altitude sickness.  It's nothing new to her, she has worked through it before...and she didn't need me asking her and reminding her of her weak stomach.  We never spoke about it the rest of the trip.  Country pride....

    We were able to get some fishing in that evening before heading to bed.  Alani is my fisherman.  She can patiently sit on a rock watching the fly, slowly turning my reel into a birds nest as she lackadaisically cranks on the arm winding the line back in.  I quite often wonder what my purpose is in this life, but at that moment and that time, I knew I was supposed to be there, sorting out the mess she made and enjoying the mountain lake views right next to her.

     I would like to tell you that the rest of the weekend was perfect, in some senses it was, but we were still in the wild and still exposed to the elements.  We had a hike of some sort planned for each day.  A way to wander from camp and explore the wilderness that we decided to immerse ourselves in.  There were plenty of waterfalls to see, lakes to try to hike too, but most of all just enjoying our time as a family.  It's different when you are truly alone.  You wake when it is light, go to bed when it is dark and eat when you are hungry.  We were no longer a slave to time, dictating our day and lives.  We were only commanded by the elements... When it rained, we seeked shelter, when it was cold, we seeked warmth. Simplistic, sometimes the way I believe life was truly supposed to be.

    It was finally day 4 and our trip was done.  The girls had been planning their celebratory meal once we hiked off the mountain and back to civilization.  They had dreamed of fresh fruit and waffles with plenty of whip cream and syrup to drizzle over the top for a couple of days.  It was a fair trade, four days in the mountains eating handfuls of trail mix, granola and dehydrated meals cooked with a pot of boiling water.  Thankfully most of the food had been ate.  The splitting wedge of our first day was lighter.  I slipped it into Liz's backpack with a grin.  I smiled at her and asked, "Are you ready for the five day backpacking trip next month?!"  "Give me a week and we will talk about it." She replied with a smile.  We were happy, ours souls had been filled and we were ready for waffles and whip cream at the nearest Egg and I.  

"A man on foot, on horseback or on a bicycle will see more, feel more, enjoy more in one mile than the motorized tourists can in a hundred miles"

-Edward Abbey

    

    

    

Finding Her Grit

    I can still remember the day Addison found her grit.  We weren't even in mile two of a four day backpacking trip in the Colorado Wilderness... Addison was on the side of the trail puking.  Now, I don't remember if I was holding her hair back or standing next to my brother watching her like a deer in the headlights, shocked and wondering what I had gotten us into.  I knelt next to her and told her she had altitude sickness and that was it, we couldn't go on.  I could tell right away this was a disappointment to Addison.  I could see the tears begin to build as she fought to hold them back.  We had already made sacrifices for this trip.  We had slept in the back of the van the night before at the trailhead so we could get an early start hiking the next morning.  We had spent weeks getting a nine year old outfitted for a 10 mile hike into the backcountry only to setup a basecamp and hike even more.  Now that the day was here, altitude sickness had snuck up on her like it does for many "flatlanders" possibly ending our trip..  As she began to cry, Addison looked at me with a stern face and said "No, I can do it Dad!"  I began to explain to her that it was alright, when hiking in the backcountry, a person needed to know their limitations and this was one of them.  With every step we took up the mountain, it was that much farther away from the trailhead, that much farther from our transportation and ultimately, that much farther from any type of emergency facilities.  At this point, I could see the fire starting to burn in her eyes.  The fire of grit and ambition.  The fire that drives people to run marathons, carry people out of burning buildings, the fire that makes people do miraculous things...  She was nine and the fire was burning bright.  "We drove all the way out here Dad, I can make it!" Addison told me with as much confidence and sincerity a nine year old could have.  I stood up, looked at my brother Trevor, I think his eyes were as big as mine.  He knew very well the risks we were taking by walking farther into the Wilderness.  People have had to get flown out by rescue helicopters due to altitude sickness, which almost always leads into other problems..  I knew this was a fire that needed to be kindled, it was delicate and if we fed it right, Addison could find her grit and realize, she could do miraculous things in life...

    As we trudged up the mountain, I thought about those Dads that lead their families into danger, lacking common sense to know and understand when to stop.  At that moment, I was that Dad.  I took Addison's pack off her back and carried it like a purse while carrying my own.  In the other hand, I held a water bottle and made her drink a little every time we took a short break to ward off dehydration which is always the dirty little minion that follows altitude sickness around.  I could tell she was struggling, more than likely suffering from a headache, which is one of the many wicked symptoms of altitude sickness.  We had started early and we had all day to make the 10 mile hike into the lake that was to be our destination.  Trevor and I had been whispering on the trail, discussing a back up plan of camping at the next creek we came to.  The creek would provide us with the water we would need, the basic necessity of all life. 

    When we reached the creek, we all sat down, took our packs off and filled our water bottles with the cold mountain water.  Addison was suffering, but I could still see the fire in her eyes.  "How about we camp here for the night Addison?" I asked with a smile.  Trevor followed with support, commenting on how the creek would make a great spot and stopping point for the day.  We still had a few days in the mountains, we could finish the last 5 miles tomorrow.  Addison knew we were short changing her and reassured us that she could make it to the lake which was our planned destination for the day.

    

    From this point forward, I don't remember the exact details of the rest of the day.  I remember it to be grueling as I carried my pack, Addison's pack like a purse and a water bottle in the free hand.  To be honest, I was ready to quit, I hadn't trained to be a Sherpa and at this point, that is what I was.  The last half mile, the trail goes almost straight up, leading to the glacier carved hole that now holds the water of the lake.  Addison barely made it, her body completely worn out from the day.  No sooner than I got the tent setup and the sleeping bags rolled out and Addison crawled in for the day.  She had fed her fire every ounce of fuel she had left in her body.  She had found her grit and I couldn't have been prouder.

    The next few days were magical.  We explored and talked about all the fruits and labors of Nature and the mountains.  The marmots had deemed Trevor extra salty on this trip as they chewed on his shoes, hiking poles straps and clothes seeking the minerals that his body had sweated out on the hike in.  Addison was enthralled by them and laughed as Trevor chased them off, fearing they would chew a hole in yet another one of his possessions.  We day hiked and explored the region, fishing different lakes, exploring mountain ridges and hiking to nearby waterfalls.  We seen sheep and deer and watched the birds scavenge or campsite looking for scraps of food we may have dropped.  The fire she had fueled had now paid off and I think like me, she was loving every minute of it.

This particular lake was very fruitful.

Addison and Uncle Trevor Fishing

    The morning of the 4th day came and we had to hike the 10 miles out back to the trailhead and back to civilization.  For the most part, it was all downhill.  The descent of the trip was here and I think we were all disappointed to leave.  There is no questioning, I had not planned very well for a nine year old.  Not only had we struggled up the mountain and endured too many miles the first day, but I had not packed several of the necessities a delicate young girl would need.  Addison's ears were blistered and peeling from the high altitude sun.  Her lips were dry, cracked and bleeding from the arid and windy elements of the mountains.  Her hair was greasy and tangled from not washing it and no brush to comb through it.  Addison said she wanted a buffet to eat at on our way home.  She was hungry, her fire had been fueled and I wasn't going to tell her no.  When we stopped to eat, I told Trevor it was going to be a miracle if we got out of there without child social services being called.  She looked like hell warmed over, but she had found her grit in life...and that is what will some day make her extraordinary.

To my family...you are the inspiration in my life.