Intro:

      

 “This is my story, this is my song…”; Fanny Crosby, 1873.     

       Part way through this “intro”, I realized I was basically writing another chapter. How to introduce one’s writing and thus one’s self in such few words, especially for someone as scattered as I? I wish to be brief yet inform; sustain interest. And/but, what if I’m not capable or don’t convey my thoughts properly? My fastidious nature wrestles with this; my desire is to be honest and complete. In the end, I must let my writing simply stand; if I write enough and you read enough, we’ll eventually get to it all.

      I get up to put wood on the fire; stoke the coals. It’s funny how we view or think of each other going about our days. I often think of my family and friends, and I’m sure at times they think of me. I’m also quite sure their perception of what I’m doing at any given moment is so far from reality as to be humorous; or sad. My kith and kin know of my need to write; they probably imagine me sitting comfortably at my desk, notes and references placed neatly around. A lamp positioned at just the right angle and height, with a bulb of proper wattage; a fine writing instrument in my capable and willing hand.

       In reality I sit cross-legged on the floor, a long arm’s reach from the wood stove, a thin backpacking mat the only thing between me and the cold concrete. My notes and references are indeed all about… the house, necessitating mad dashes up or down the stairs to retrieve some haphazardly placed paper, before I lose my train of thought. Light is provided by a pair of bare bulbs of different wattage, expertly positioned to provide the maximum shadow effect. My pen, or pens, are rarely within reach, necessitating mad dashes up or down the stairs...

       My father was (and still is), a country boy from Allegheny, the Appalachia of western Pennsylvania, who saw no future in the coal mines and headed west in the late ‘50’s. He and
Mom scraped together everything they had (a few dollars, one child [my older brother Roger], and a suitcase), tossed them into an old Ford, and never looked back. As he tells it, Alaska was the destination, but by the time they reached Seattle, they were out of money. Jobs were plentiful, the wages were good, but after a couple more children (my sister Sonia and I), the duties of life weighed him down and he couldn’t commit to the final leg up the west coast. We bounced around the state of Washington for a few years before landing in N. Idaho in the late ‘60’s.

       So I hail from the great Northwest of America. Burien, Washington was the place of my birth; the year, 1963. And while I don’t identify with the town due to our incessant moving, I do identify with the region; the sights, smells and sounds, all imprinted on me since youth. The ever changing seasons, tough weather, vast evergreen forests, diverse topography, and the endless supply of water, both salt and fresh; the cycle of life is so apparent here.

   

     Part of this book is about one of the things dearest to my heart: mountains. And climbing. Mountaineering. For roughly 20 years this sport, this activity, this lifestyle held my attention; if I wasn’t climbing then I was preparing to climb, training, working to finance the next foray into my life. Traveling… being outside in general came with the territory. The urge to see over the next ridge or around the next corner was instilled early in me from my Dad. I applied this to everything that drew my interest. And climbing was something that intrigued me. I had been in the mountains since a small boy; it was something that came natural. I could teach myself the rest, and I did. I became good, perhaps too good. Fortunately, I lacked the boldness to become the best.

      But if it was my best, then it was the best; that I could do. That seems obvious, but for a while it wasn’t; to me. I competed in my own way, measuring myself against the others around me. To some extent this is normal, and healthy, but after awhile I stopped, and focused instead on competing within myself. Life seems to be a series of learning moments…

      I live my life in segments; I believe we all do, to some extent. The portions are of no set lengths or depths. This gives us diversity. We also each live our own epics; as with snowflakes in a storm, every instant makes us unique and interesting, beautiful, and we all have a story to tell. My hope is that you find encouragement in my writing for your own life.

      I’m not out to glorify my current lifestyle or previous existence, although, like sunsets from another vantage, there were and are very beautiful and glorifying moments. It is simply my life and these are some of my observations. If anything gets glorified here, it’s that the Lord Jesus Christ continues to love and call me through it all, guiding me gently back to Him.

      Scott Alan Lewis

      Wallace, Idaho.

      10/22/16