Unseen

While looking through my books for an idea for the Swallow Hill story circle, I pulled down 'The Soul of the Indian,' by Santee Sioux Ohiyesa, also known as Charles Eastman. I came across an interesting section on intuition and sensitivity of those who spend much of their life in nature, including this quote:

". . . but I know that our people possessed remarkable powers of concentration and abstraction. I sometimes fancy that such nearness to nature as I have described keeps the spirit sensitive to impressions not commonly felt, and in touch with the unseen powers."

He went on to describe how his grandmother had a 'second sense,' and relayed several mysterious incidents that leant credence to her abilities. One was when they were camped on a lake, and received news that her son, Eastman's uncle, had been killed several weeks before, a couple of hundred miles away. While everyone was morning and crying, grandmother told them to stop, because her son on the trail back home. Two days later he walked into camp.

This reminded me of something I read years ago in John Muir's journal, so I searched through my books and found it, and read it again today. It was an account of Muir's relationship a John Butler, who was his professor at the University of Wisconsin. In Butler's library Muir first read Emerson and Thoreau, which had a great effect on him. Butler encouraged Muir to keep notebooks of his thoughts and observations during his wanderings.

In 1860 Muir lived in Yosemite, and spent his summers alone in the high country, writing and sketching and exploring. Muir had received a letter from Butler indicating he expected to visit Yosemite Valley that summer, but the date and meeting place was not discussed.

On the morning of August 2, Muir wrote in his journal that he was sketching, when "I was suddenly, and without warning, possessed with the notion that my friend, Professor J. D. Butler, of the State University of Wisconsin, was below me in the valley"

He immediately got up and put his work away, and went down along the edge of the Dome, looking for a way to the valley below. He found a side drainage that might allow him to descend, but common sense prevailed, because he realized he would not reach the valley floor before dark.

Muir went back to his camp. The next morning, based only on his intuition, he decided to start down to try to find Butler: "Well tomorrow I shall see, for reasonable or unreasonable, I feel I must go."

Here is what Muir wrote in his journal the next day:

"August 3. --Had a wonderful day. Found Professor Butler as the compass-needle finds the pole. So last evening's telepathy, transcendental revelation, or whatever else it may be called, was true; for, strange to say, he had just entered the valley by way of the Coulterville Trail and was coming up the valley past El Capitan when his presence struck me. Had he then looked toward the North Dome with a good glass when it first came in sight, he might have seen me jump up from my work and run toward him"

Muir went on to explain that since he was a boy he was never interested in spirit rappings, ghost stories, etc., because all that seemed ". . .comparatively useless and infinitely less wonderful than Nature's open, harmonious, songful, sunny, every-day beauty."

Now I wouldn't be as arrogant as to say I am anything to compared to the likes of Eastman or Muir. I wonder, though, if there is sort of a sensitivity you get, by spending a lot of time outside among the rhythms of sky and wind and sunshine and grass and tree, watching the slow change of season, day by day. I walk so frequently in through the same cottonwood grove that the transitions through the year are like days on a calendar - the wind blowing through the branches in winter, the pond freezing so we can walk across it, the chickadees calling from the north ridge, the foxes screaming in late winter, the first green grass of Spring in March, along with the return of the goldfinch and the start of the frogs calling in April.

I did have something mysterious happen, that I still think about from time to time. Perhaps it was just coincidence.

I went backpacking in March, up at 9000 feet. My plan was to make my way up to a valley campsite, about three miles and spend the night. It started snowing right after me and Ben and Maggie (my border collies) started up the trail. We had the entire woods and mountainside to ourselves.

An hour in I had difficulty crossing a small stream. Its hard to know where to place your feet when everything is covered with snow. I didn't want to slip on an ice-covered log or rock and fall into the stream. I made it across, and started angling downhill. I was thinking this stream was the main one, and that I just had to head on down and I would find a campsite I had visited several years ago.

I didn't know it at the time, but this stream was a tributary. When I started following it down I inadvertently was heading back towards my truck. This is embarrassing to admit, and I have kept it hidden all these years. But a good story requires honesty. All I can say is that I wasn't being careful. If I had pulled out the compass I had with me this likely would not have happened. Snow covering a landscape changes how it looks.

I guess I could add that that is something that never happened to me before.

When I realized things didn't seem right, and I finally got my bearings, it was almost dark. I climbed a hill and went over on the slope just above my truck, and decided to salvage my trip by having a good night out. I had a nice long day hiking, even if it was in a circle.

It was awful cold, with the temperature in the twenties and the wind blowing. I cooked a quick dinner and fed the dogs and we retired to the tent right at dark.

I slept real well til the middle of the night. Then I awoke shivering with a fever. I dug into my backpack to put on every piece of clothing I had with me - two sets of long underwear, my rain gear, everything. Still I was cold, because of the fever. I had a miserable rest of the night.

In the morning the temperature was in the teens, and the wind was still blowing. I didn't make breakfast. I was weak with the fever. It took all my energy to pick up the tent and load my backpack. That short hike to my truck was the most difficult trail I have ever walked.

When I got there I shoved the backpack on to the bed of my pickup, and reached into a pouch for my keys. I couldn't feel them, because my fingers were numb from the cold. I got my flashlight out and found them by sight.

I got in the truck and started it up and waited for the heater to kick in. I was so weak all I could do was lean my head against the window, for a long time. When I finally did start driving out I was wondering what might have happened if I had three miles to come out, instead of just a few hundred yards. That was not the first time in my life I felt like I was being watched over.

There is no substitute for good common sense, an even wit, and physical and mental toughness. But on the day that for whatever reason I was lacking in those skills, it is comforting to think that something beyond my understanding turned my trail back towards camp.

It's not a big stretch for me believe that angels could accompany weary hikers on those trails, as close as that country is to what my hope of heavenly beauty would be like.

There is so much we do not know. Just sit in a forest alone and listen, or climb a a ridge and look down across a wilderness valley.

(this turned out nice; add some good pics here)

My daughter called

My youngest daughter called and asked if we could drive to the ocean next summer. "I havent been on a real vacation in years," She said.

I told her that I can't afford it, that things are different when you keep a house on one income. "I just don't have much extra," I told her.

"But its been forever since I've seen the ocean," she said.

"Here is my answer," "Life is tough." "I don't go anywhere either, except backpacking and walking and riding my bicycle, and I am happy."

She asked if I would come up and visit her Sunday, on her day off. I told her I am in the middle of painting still, and I want to get it done before she and her sister come down at Christmas. "Just one more week," I said, "then I will either be finished or put it off for a while."

On this bus home I started thinking how my daughter must miss her Mom this Christmas, who has moved out of state. Although they sometimes had a rocky relationship, the girls love their mother, and might feel somewhat abandoned with her not around. Its never easy for kids to have their parents split up, even when adults. Whatever family life they had is gone forever. For us it was taking walks, going to plays or concerts downtown or vacations, which were usually my idea. I particularly liked it when they would ride their horses in the foothills and I would walk on the trail beside or in front of them. Just a little over five years ago we all visited Washington DC and the Smithsonian museums, the National Zoo, Vietnam Memorial, the Lincoln Monument in a rainstorm, and Arlington on a beautiful sunny afternoon.

Not long after that, when the girls moved with their Mom to a new house, they had a disagreement and my youngest daughter said she wanted to go home. She and her Mom showed up at my house at midnight, and both stayed, feeling secure in the house we had lived in since the girls were little. A solution like this was not possible when a tension developed for Mom’s affections between my daughter and Mom’s new boyfriend. This was a battle my daughter knew she was not going to win, and her behavior problems got worse and worse. It finally came to a head when she was not allowed to stay at her Mom’s house any more. I will never forget her sitting on the porch, locked out of the house, with her clothes piled around her.

Things got better for my daughter when she came to live with me. My life was simple enough that I was able to devote most of my attention to her, at a time when she really needed someone. It wasnt' easy, but we did fine together. We often would go down to the rec center on weekends and I would swim while she worked out. Then we would shoot baskets together. She introduced me to riding bicycles, a passion that remains with me now. I will never forget the spring rides we had, for many miles, downtown and along the river to her favorite mall, or to the zoo. She became slim and attractive from all the exercise, as she is now. My daughter worked hard to catch up with her schoolwork, and managed to graduate high school on time with her class. A Dad has never felt so proud as I did when I saw her walk up in her blue cap and gown to get her diploma.

I know that a parent's job is to lead their child towards independence. But that doesnt preclude spending time with them, talking to them, providing them some stability just by being interested in their lives.

When I get off at my stop I am going to call Amy, and tell her I can put off my painting this Sunday. I will come up and we can go to lunch and see a movie if she wants. Maybe we can take a walk with her dogs that she is so good to. I want to see the small Christmas tree she said she put up.

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Children are the living messages we send to a time we will not see.

John W Whitehead
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My heart is happy, my mind is free
I had a father who talked with me

Hilda Bigelow

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It is admirable for a man to take his son fishing, but there is a special place in heaven for the father who takes his daughter shopping.

John Sinor

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The smile of your child," he'd said, "is worth a hundred times your desire to be free, to see Peru, Colorado or Burma."

. . . . . . Sue Ellen Campbell, from "Bringing the Mountain Home"




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Never Forget

My cooking site was on a hill across the lake from camp, so that any wildlife attracted by the lingering scents wouldnt jump on our tent while we were sleeping. It also had a great view, that I enjoyed while sitting with my Ben and Maggie, my border collies, and eating our dinner.

After finishing my rice and tomato soup, feeding the dogs, and then topping that off with hot chocolate and white macademia cookies, I put all our food and my suntan lotion and bug spray in several scentproof bags, one in the other. I then hoisted them twenty feet up between two trees. Me and Ben and Maggie wandered down thehill and behind the lake, where red and lavender paintbrush, blue aster and pink mertensia stood in awesome beauty. I walked slowly, admiring each natural arrangement of wildflowers, set together just right as if from an unknown hand.

We ended up over at our tent, set in one of the last groves of spruce before timberline. I made sure everything was in its place for sleeping - my journal and books up above my head, my sleeping bag spread out to the base of the tent. Us three were tired and ready for bed, but there was still some light left in the sky.

I put my headlamp in my coat pocket, and started hiking up the ridge above our camp. Ben and Maggie went up ahead, climbing on rocks to look around, gazing back down at me to make sure I didnt get lost.

Before they reached the ridgeline I called the dogs back. I wanted to reach the summit together, so we all could get a look into the opposite valley for wildlife. I leaned down and held the Ben and Maggie's collars as we stepped up the last few feet.

At the top I scanned the grey landscape for a sign of movement, but didnt see anything. What lie beyond was so huge and far across that I could have missed something. My eyesight is not as good as when I was younger. I watched the dogs as they looked in earnest, using their alertness and power of vision to find things I could not.

I have been wondering lately how I will be remembered. If I could choose such a thing, it would be an image of me then, standing upon that alpine ridge, alone, with my two beloved dogs by my side, the last light of day showing in the sky behind us, in a place where wolves and grizzly come out from the cover of trees at night.

But that's not something a person can settle themselves. All I can do is hope that I will not forget, when I get to old to go up there, when my dogs face the same thing a few years from now.

Will we ever be so strong, our hearts so filled with wildness and beauty and mystery, as they were on that evening, looking down up miles of Montana wilderness, now nearly covered in darkness?

Howling on a Saturday Night

On Saturday night I was getting my truck out of the garage, just as a fire truck went by on 38th street. I immediately let out an 'aaaaoooooooooo', and called Ben. He came into the dog door and answered with his own 'aaaaoooooooeeeeeoooooooooooo,' which was much better than mine, since he is a real canine and I am just a canine wannabe.

We continued this until the fire truck moved down the street a ways, which is when I noticed the two neighbor dogs across the street and one house down had joined in on our howl chorus. So me and Ben and the neighbor dogs were howling in the start of a Saturday night.

Its good that I am old and eccentric enough that I don't worry much about what my neighbors think of me. At least I don't howl when I get home early Sunday morning, when most of them are asleep.

Once me and Ben and Maggie listened to Coyotes yipping and carrying on from inside our tent in the backcountry. A few days later I heard the exact same sound - It was Ben mimicing them while standing on the picnic table on the deck.

Then there was the time I watched a grey wolf approach a herd of Buffalo in Yellowstone, early in the morning. She raised her head and howled, which was a signal to the rest of the pack to come up to her. They all did, and the pack wandered around the Bison, testing them, trying to get them to run. The Bison would have none of it. Several of the largest ones grouped together and charged at the wolves. The wolves then decided they had something better to do, and moved out into a grassy meadow, lied down, and went to sleep.

And you have to love my daughter's young border collie, Drift. He is one of the very few that appreciates the musicality of my harmonica playing. Check out these videos of him accompanying me, last time we went backpacking, here, and here. (Be patient while the files download; they are large (especially the second file)).

Its been a good year, howling at the moon in my own way, with all my high mountain adventures and then wild Saturday nights dancing. I am of the same mind as my canine buddies, life could not be better, and sometimes you just have to let the world know that you are here and plenty alive.

A Woman's Tears

I placed my books and reading glasses into my backpack, after eating lunch and reading in a booth by the window. As I was swinging the pack over my shoulders, I glanced over at a pretty young blonde woman a few seats over, sitting across from a lady friend.

In that moment I happened to notice lines of tears stream down from her eyes. She kept on talking, not wiping them away. The Colorado December sun from the window illuminated the tears and her tender face.

I turned away, not wanting to intrude on her privacy. Still, as I left the Restaurant I wondered what caused her sadness.

The risk in loving deeply is the loss you sometimes have to live through. Isnt that the way of life, for all of us, sooner or later?

I wondered the last time I had witnessed anything so beautiful.

Riding the Bus Below Zero

My toes hurt like hell. After getting off the 38 at Wadsworth I had to wait a half an hour for the 76 to come to take me south to work. I had some hot chocolate in a thermos, which helped, but didn't do much for my aching toes. It was minus 10 this morning.

When this happens in the backcountry I make a fire and take off my boots and warm my bare feet next to the flames. That sounds awful good. This weather would be dangerous though, up there alone.

But the bus finally came and I am inside writing, and slowly warming up. The community of bus riders are all bundled up today - its so cold that few are shedding their coats and caps inside the bus.

A bubbly lady got on who had a childlike voice and must have a lot of caffeine running in her veins. I hear her in the back talking incessantly and laughing, which is pretty annoying for us who sit here quiet and enjoy some moments of me time on the way to work.

I listen to music or read or both, and from November through February watch the sunrise out the left side of the bus. Yesterday was especially good. Pink clouds extended all the way over the foothills.

I have been riding the buses on this route for over twenty years. The routine is the granite rhythm in my life - Monday through Thursday take the bus and work long ten hour days. On Friday lead a nature program or go backpacking, or work on the house and yard, and look forward to the weekend dances I go to when I stay in town.

I enjoy being among humble working people - real folk, trying to make ends meet, saving a few dollars riding the bus. Many like me also are aware of the fact that they are reducing their footprint on the earth - by not driving alone to work. It is not small thing. Individual action is what changes the world.

When I was crossing the street a huge black Hummer blocked my path, extending into the crosswalk. The driver couldn't back up because of the cars behind him and looked out his frosted window sheepishly. He didn't even have a hat on. As I passed I figured he must me one of those 'outdoor' types who can't ride anywhere with out heated seats warming their rear. Appearances can be deceiving - Sometimes the character of people is a far sight lower than their income.