A triangle view of distant effects.

       "Oh, that's pretty!" - Actually, the view was awesome, but that's what first went through my mind. And then it turned into something more.

       I was driving downstream towards Wallace from a job near Burke, Idaho. There's a big peak named Striped up on the divide southwest of Wallace that comes in and out of view a few times as you negotiate the turns down out of the canyon. It's formed at a split in the main watershed between the St. Joe and the Coeur d'Alene river drainages and is basically a big, arching fin, the steep, rugged northeast face embracing the land below.

       I've seen Striped Peak from this road many times. It's such a grand sight that I anticipate the viewpoints and always turn my attention to the mountain when driving through here. What makes this occasion stand out is that, besides a fresh dusting of snow, simultaneously upon seeing and precisely when I thought, 'Oh that's pretty', the announcer on the radio was saying how God's love is akin to a big mountain, whos' ridges wrap around the surrounding land and protect it.

       My mind spins and jumps ship; if there are no coincidences in the Christian walk, did I just witness an example of God's sovereignty and man's free will? The experiences in life and the reasoning in one's mind should eventually, like a compass finding north, settle on the true way; the one that gets us unlost. This centering of one's inner bearing is crucial; intimate. Only you know how you truly believe.

       I began to wonder what series of events had to happen for that moment in time to occur: my turning the corner and seeing the peak just as the DJ was speaking of the very thing I was beholding.

       First, the DJ's part. What led to the selection of this statement, this bit of encouragement I so desperately needed to hear that day, from that distant voice? Was it chosen from a variety of prewritten pieces, picked at random for the day, or was it spontaneous on his part, a product of his own experiences in life?

       And what about the timing? I was listening to Moody Radio, a large enough station with all the usual broadcasting demands of timing, etc. What I heard was a small blurb inserted between regular programs and major news stories; probably a filler piece if time allowed.

       And what of my part? Had I not been working up the canyon I would not normally drive this way. I had not intended to be up where I was at that moment; it was a last minute decision to catch up on some work. I had about an hour window between an early morning men's meeting and a writers group I rarely seem to make. And I don't always have the radio on in my truck (I like my own company).

        Sometimes we're given clues that God exists outside our admission.. and understanding.

What is Truth? pt 3

       When: fairly innocuous; basically an ever-morphing investigation, on man's part. Our Creator, having made all this, is aware of and not surprised by what he sees. We, on the other hand, are still in the midst of discovering; if not God Himself, then just how incredible this world is. Modern science, measuring with the latest high tech instruments, puts our physical world as we know and measure it at just shy of 14 billion years old. This is accepted knowledge on most fronts. And this man computed measuring of time is all we can know, right now. It is as accurate as much as we can understand it, with what's been revealed to us; what we've discovered, up to this moment.

       And what if time moved differently at another time, or other dimensions existed during the creation process; let's not quibble. We've yet to consider indiscernible machinations at the cellular level or nebulae millions of light-years in breadth; the vast, unlimited reaches of space.

       What's fascinating is that all this came into existence, all this stuff had to be in place so there could be life. It's the nesting material of Life. All those unknowable time units to accumulate the necessary amount of dust and water vapor and meteoric chunks and chemical and mineral compounds to support life as we know it; time as we know it.

        Current evidence puts human presence on our earth for only so many millennia. Alarmingly close to the Bible's inference. My point is that knowing the speed or lapse of time at any given moment in the process of creation is limited or bound to our present level of understanding; our current method of measuring and understanding time.

       The Bible says that "In the beginning, God created the heaven and the earth..."(Gen. 1:1). We're not exactly sure how long ago that was. Nor how long it took. For a time, everything was dark. Ever wait and watch a mother hen hatch her chicks? After laying the appropriate number of eggs, she then sits on them, rarely but occasionally getting up, hovering and worrying over them, incubating them to life. This takes time; twenty-one days, on average. For a while, nothing seems to be happening: then, finally, the design is revealed and subsequently apparent; now we get it.

        Since God is eternal and we are not, it stands to reason his thoughts and views and ways might differ from ours somewhat...

       I could see the portion of creation in Gen. 1:1 and 2 taking 13 + billion years of our understood time to coalesce, and from 1:3 through 2:2 taking a week, again, of our understood time. The facts remain: we don't know how long the creation of the basic elements took, let alone what matter and time looked like then, but when God began to refine and define those elements, the Bible states it took Him just six days. What do you believe?

Chance

       I was attracted to his voice long before I recognized him; some connection to a distant past. I've heard this voice before; soothing, comforting; sure, and able. As I found him in a small knot of people, I sifted through 40 odd years of faces - and then someone referred to him as "Doctor...".

       Sure enough, it was unmistakable. Here was the very man who had made me whole again; over 4 hours of micro-surgery, cutting edge back then. An injury to my left arm had resulted in 150 or so stitches, most of which were inside; 12 tendons, an artery, and a nerve were severed.

       Emotions I wasn't aware of flickered in me as I, without hesitation, was drawn to him.

       I began slowly when it was my turn. He hesitated to recognize me, but when I mentioned 1978 and showed him the scars, well...

       He accepted my proferred arm and turned it over and back, closing and opening my hand to observe its function as a skilled wood-worker might inspect a repaired product, this one completed long ago. To watch him see his handiwork so many years since was insightful; how often, I wondered, did he ever get this chance?

Effort

        And it is here, after all this effort, that I arrive at the threshold of myself. Only with much effort the true self emerges, sometimes by increments; other times all at once, to assert himself. It matters little the activity; I suppose one could achieve this state while sewing.

        For me, climbing proved to be a full spectrum focal point. Christmas catalog like planning produced various lists, as I poured over local books and maps, finding the peaks and routes that were worthy and would test me.

       After much shopping and choosing, the next planning phase began, becoming perhaps the lengthiest, most involved portion. Everything from gear to weather was considered, often at length, then decided upon.

       Then the final packing of gear, and the inevitable triage that occurs as you simply can't bring everything. As I went, I learned how little was needed really; the greatest assets in the mountains are a strong internal drive and sound mental attitude.

       And of course the road trip. Short, long; each had extensive planning involved, usually about who's going to drive; fuel, where do we stop for food, overnight camping; keep your feet off the dash.

       Finally, the arrival at the end of the road, usually quite literally, to maybe a few hours rest; other times a 15-minute prep and go, no matter the time of day or night.

       When I reach this point little else matters; we're near the threshold spoken of earlier. My only thoughts concerned the climb and my partners and my wellbeing. I am on high alert because numerous things at this point can derail days and weeks and hours of planning; a wrong choice in gear; failing to bring the proper equipment; equipment malfunction. Injury, illness. Sometimes it's simply a feeling, on anyone's part, of something forbidding. This is kind of funny when you think about it; most of the places we went to were forbidding in some respect.

       Some form of late night or early morning approach is common, varying in degree from a 1/2 hour stroll to a 6 to 7-hour (or more) suffer-fest.

       I've considered when asked why I climb, and no, it's not for the usual reasons. Yes, climbing is usually exciting, often terrifying. Somehow, I derive a certain pleasure in the challenge; the unknown. And of course, it is there. But there exists a loftier reward.

       After extensive research, I've determined the real reason that I climb is to top-out, because it is here you find yourself at the threshold, there on the edge of that impossible precipice, with at least a couple if not several large stones just lying there, waiting to be rolled off. This is known in some circles as "trundling".

       The satisfaction of rolling a big rock into a bigger void cannot be overstated; if you've not done this it cannot be explained. Maybe if you've felled a rather large tree... that might be close. But even that's too short-lived, really; nothing touches several hundred feet of anticipation, holding your breath to hear the sharp detonation; then the booming echos; the faint smell of sulfur on the breeze.

       I say roll but it is rarely that. Tipping at best; sliding usually, scraping gritty rock over equally gritty rock, see-sawing toward the edge; you will earn your reward. And better tie off, too. It's a grand thing for sure, although one cannot do this everywhere. If there's even the remotest chance of other people in the area, I forgo this ritual, this coup de grace, and celebrate being alive some other way...


       Scott Lewis
       Wallace, Id.
     

Near the End

       What did I witness yesterday? The love of one man towards another; at a time little in this world can prepare you for. I witnessed a spirit still struggling to survive, to mean something; true concern over another.

       We agreed that driving an automobile is arguably one of life's greatest pleasures; as good as it gets, for the average guy. Here we are, cruising along at 70 mph, in relative ease if not absolute comfort. We barely move a muscle. Look how far we've come and how far we might go...

       I witnessed men convey so much through simple touch; I witnessed the respect of attention; given and received. Neither man could adequately speak his feelings, so they showed them, their eyes and hands verbalizing what they could not. Tears well in the men's eyes; they know the great mystery of friendship at an old age, when a stronger certainty of the unknown enters the equation. The true appreciation of this shows in a longer handshake, the sincere directness of and in the eyes.

       What if we couldn't speak to each other? How would we adequately communicate feelings of sorrow and joy, let alone deeper, more intimate details?

       Animals do this all the time, and we do as well. We posture and show much feeling and intent with our visage, and the use of our eyes. Do you smile with your eyes?

       I witnessed the importance of a cookie wrapped in a napkin from a pocket in Virgil's jacket; given and taken with the gravity it deserved.
       "Home baked." he proudly states. (This simple phrase can take him at least 15-30 seconds to articulate.)
       Hans takes the offered pastry, silently praising it. (This simple gesture can take him at least 15-30 seconds to accomplish.)

       The two men held hands for a long while after that.

       I realized at one point that I was sitting in the presence of at least a combined 85-90 (probably over a hundred), years of skiing knowledge, legend, and history. Both men started skiing back in the day, Han's name and face becoming iconic in the northwest, Virgil a long time stoic figure wearing the white cross; he was one of my mentors when I first donned the Ski Patrol jacket. Others taught me the standard medical and avalanche stuff, but he showed me civility, amongst other things; how to be a gentleman in a rough world.

       I witnessed a man needing to get out; to go and see. The ride home was quiet after we left Hans. I suggest a burger and a beer as we near Wallace, and he readily agrees. I don't think I'm supposed to, but why not? We hit the Pub and have the time of our lives...

       Virgil was, without a doubt, a happier, more spry man when I brought him home later in the afternoon, satisfied with having accomplished something that day. Ready to sit and be content, a hard thing to do, it seems, near the end.
     

Lessons

       What was I doing in Japan? Gaining insight; something new and different to do. With no definitive course plotted, I wandered, wondering how it all looked from another('s) perspective. (Did you know the Asian brain actually functions differently than a European brain?) I've not always been fascinated as much as simply intrigued by the Asian people; the obvious ancestral differences, their stoic resolve, etc.

       They're hard workers to be sure, but those you can find on any continent. They're this and that, but again, one can and does see this in most any people group. Just what makes them unique in the realm of humanity? Perhaps an observation gained during one of my sojourns will give some insight.

       The opportunity to work in Japan came to me one spring day as I was finishing a winter season of Ski Patrolling. A friend, Mike Murray, had been offered the chance and had declined; my name came up and I eventually found myself on a Trans-Pacific flight, prepared for three months of building log homes. A year later I went back, and it was during this second trip that the observation I'm thinking of occurred.

       Takeo Ogi-san was almost 20 years my elder, a polite, energetic, driven man with a nervous sense of humor. He took three days off a year; one day he spent with his wife, another was spent with two sons; I never did learn what he did with the third. His English was marginal, encompassing mostly building and design; my Nihongo was even more marginal. He lived on a small plot of land in an old log home near a town called Edogawa, by lake Biwa or Biwa-ko (depending on which map you reference), north of Osaka. I stayed in a building out back which was small though comfortable and bordered a field of rice paddies.

       Our daily schedule, which we never deviated from, went something like this: a rare breakfast and be on-site by 8 a.m.; work until midday, then a break which might include lunch if I complained enough. Generally, we'd be home by 5 or 6 p.m. although 8 was not unusual. I would grab a quick shower, a cold beer and meet Ogi-san in the main house for a communal evening meal.

       By the time I got in the house, Ogi-san would be well into a bottle of something, and not always saki; Scotch and Bourbon were also favored. In America he would be called an alcoholic; not so in Japan. Alcohol there is viewed as a medicine of sorts, something to take the edge off a hard day. And boy, did he take the edge off. Said it helped him sleep. He would also have a big cauldron of steaming vegetables of some sort going, besides the standard rice, and usually some type of mystery meat; I never cared to know. We would eat like kings and laugh like paupers well into the night, conversing on a broad range of subjects over pen and paper. More than once I had to help him to the steep ship ladder that led up to his sleeping quarters, waiting anxiously at the bottom until he cleared the top.


       Sitting at dinner one evening, something caught my eye on the muted T.V. in a corner. An older Asian craftsman was standing among rows of mature, cultivated trees (Japanese Maple), of which the bottom 10-12 feet had been de-limbed, and were wrapped in what I eventually discovered to be rice paper. The man had tears in his eyes as he emotionally conveyed what I could not understand. As I asked Ogi-san for an explanation, the man began to unwrap one of the trees, revealing the inner Cambrian layer. Ogi-san explained that, earlier in its life, as the tree grew, it had been pruned and selected for its straightness. When it reached a certain age (tall enough to make a fairly uniform 10-12 foot post), it was carefully stripped of its bark; a braided, three-cord line was then laid around the trunk in a rising spiral, each spiral about a foot or so apart. The afore-mentioned rice paper was then applied, grafted in place of the original bark. And then, depending on the growth rate of the tree and the desired thickness of the final product, several years, often decades would need to pass. Eventually, when the tree was harvested, and the embedded cord removed, a beautifully braided impression was left deep in the wood. What makes this so remarkable is that this gentleman's grandfather had done this many years ago, when the tree was very young, knowing he himself would never see the end product; his selfless labor is why the man had tears in his eyes. This level of foresight is rarely, if ever, found in America; we have much to learn.

   
   

My Private Idaho

                                                         
                                         


        The dry, wool socks feel good after barefooting the mountain stream. Just deep and wide enough to deter most two-leggers, the water crossing gives the area I'm headed into a certain remoteness; it's one of the more unsullied places I've found here in N. Idaho.

       I will not disclose the location of this area, but I will describe it. The only access road cuts and winds through a long, dog-legged canyon, with high ridges on both sides. Narrow, heavily wooded sub ridges and dark defiles pour into the main drainage; most of the terrain is very steep. Hiking from the road to the main ridgeline can be demanding.

       But once the steep bottom portion of the climb is accomplished (approx. 1/4- 1/3  way up), one begins finding little nooks and perches; flat spots amongst difficult terrain, sure to invite a stop, a rest; a look around.

       One finds evidence of this happening in the spoor, sign, scat, and beds of creatures of all sizes. I am continually impressed by the variety of wildlife here.

       Higher still the ground begins to ease back, and larger benches and wooded bowls present; our forests this time of year are magnificent. Larch trees create pockets of fire sparsely coupled with mountain ash and birch or aspen; the ubiquitous vine maple. The high country opens up at times, revealing rocky outcrops and huckleberry amphitheaters.

       One also finds the source of water here; little swelling springs and gurgling brooks fed from underground shelves and pools. It's very clean and pure in taste.

       The highest ridges are usually exposed rock with the saddles typically a cluster of stunted jack pine, many permanently bowed and twisted from winter snowpack. One finds a quite different environment up here than down below, especially if you're exposed to the almost constant wind out of the W/SW. From around Portland and up the Columbia and out over the Palouse comes our weather, mostly.

       Almost constant wind. At times nature takes a breath and there's a calm. Some of my most peaceful, quiet days have been spent high in the mountain arena with the world at your feet, and not a breath in the sky. Solitary moments only achieved after much toil.

       Other times nature deals a sharp blow; what's the opposite of serenity? The weather can become so fierce as to be frightening. Weather and temperatures can change quickly, and one needs to be prepared for this at all times of the year. Sharp temperature gradients are harbingers for electric storms; at times, one can be hard put to find a safe place, hopefully out of the wind. Any weather is almost always accompanied by moisture. After an hour or so of hiking, I decide to stop for a rest.




       The sun crests the divide, it's rays penetrating the dark forest I'm sitting in at right angles, creating a wonderful array of avenues, halls, and shafts of light. Birds and wildlife become more active when you are still for a time, and I am entertained by their antics. My mind drifts, my body calmed by the sudden warmth of the sun.

       The other day my friend Dave Renner told me "thanks"; because of me he now thinks about things like water and air trapped in plastic water bottles and other airtight containers. Precious resources in high demand now removed from a finite supply already taxed. I cannot help noting things such as these.

       I feel our current assessment of "climate change" is a bit off base; far too shallow actually. And thus our proposals to change or fix things will be misplaced and prove to be less than effective.

       However one believes we got here, ever since mankind has existed on the earth we have taken and used and plundered and hunted and chopped things down. We move stones, turn over the earth, burn mass amounts of timber; all the while generating and disposing of copious amounts of human waste.

       We still do the same thing; it's unavoidable. And since we are part of nature, what we do, good or bad, right or wrong, is natural. It's how and how much we impact that matters. We have a collective quality of life due to strong people in the past following their own examples and convictions. The why is not the debate; the action is merely observed. We may or may not change the series of events unfolding before us, but we can adapt.