Summit Blossoms
by Ray Purcell
We were sitting in the shade of a huge granite boulder, a glacial erratic, trying to escape the relentless alpine sun while we ate lunch.� I slowly peeled back the top on my can of sardines in mustard sauce so nothing would spill on my sleeping bag pad.� The last thing I needed was to have some bear thinking that I was a big marinated fish at two in the morning on the next trip.� Courtney was cutting into a Summer Sausage when she asked, " can I try some of that?"� I replied, "You"ve never had sardines?"� "How could I have deprived you?"� "These are a traditional alpine meal, a delicacy."
I shoveled some of the sardines and sauce onto a cracker and passed it over.� She briefly scrutinized the silvery meat covered in saffron colored sauce and popped the whole thing in her mouth.� After a moment of thoughtful chewing she released her judgment, "it tastes like fish".� After that she just returned to working on the sausage.� I really expected little else in the way of a response considering we had just emerged from an alpine crucible where we had been melded, transformed and righteously exhausted by the experience.� Twenty-nine hours earlier we began our ascent of the 12,590-foot Mt. Conness, via the West Ridge.� We summited at sunset, spent nine sleepless hours benighted in the aching cold, and at first light had begun the three-mile return to our camp at Roosevelt Lake.� The ten-mile trip back to Tuolumne Meadow was still ahead of us.� But these were only the physical demands.
We figured it out, Courtney and I had institutionalized the annual "Father-and-Daughter Road Trip" about eight years ago.� Actually, I've been doing trips with my son and daughter both individually and separately since they were pocket-sized.� So, what's the difference?� It's just that Courtney is a creature of tradition.� Where my son, Sean may glory in letting life wash over him like a summers rain, arms out and face up grinning from ear to ear; it's Courtney who builds memories like a mason, arranging her days and erecting her history, stone by stone, elegantly balanced, form and function, and there is a comforting security in the shelter of it.� My motives on the other hand are simple; to spend time with these now adult children who are my friends and revel in what they are becoming, perhaps try to bring some gentle rain or carry some stones.
I've discovered that there is a progressive complexity of parenting, something like Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs.� It's an entirely optional though definitely desirable transition from providing for your kids basic needs to higher levels of relational actualization, and which I caution you is as subject to the Second Law of Thermodynamics as any other system in the universe: so you have to keep pumping energy into it.� Up until this trip I was only aware of the transition from caregiver and nurturer to friend, which I thought was a kind of parental Nirvana.�� My ultimate broader awareness was born out of the ambition to pull off an alpine trifecta, three peaks, and one summited by the three of us together and one done with Courtney and Sean separately.
The first peak, to become affectionately known as "The Death March", was the twelve-mile, 12,000-foot in a day Alta Peak climb; much of the route still buried under the last snows of winter, and done the weekend before Memorial Day.� What had initially been intended to be nothing more than a physical conditioning and lets-just-see-what-you've-got challenge/taunt, revealed the depth of the bond of commitment and friendship between Courtney and Sean.� The second peak, North Palisade via the U-Notch, was a journey for Sean and myself.� Where we didn't summit because of snow conditions and safety, the time together preparing and traveling, and making the difficult decision to turn back opened the windows and shutters on what was becoming a cluttered dark house where each of us were stumbling over each others clutter.
Despite the relational growth between Sean and I during that trip, well let me put it this way, when you know your prepared for a summit and get turned back because you're out gunned by conditions it's hard to accept turning back gracefully, and difficult for me not escape an inkling of failure, especially when the summit is the experience that you really wanted to share with your kid.� After the trip I continued to struggle a little to be content with the greater successes.� It was my wife Lisa, who has the knack for taking the metaphorical summit view, who sent me a quote by Robert Pirsig, who wrote Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance; "To live for some future goal is shallow.� It's the sides of the mountain, which sustain life, not the top.� Here's where things grow."�������
It was with that quote in mind that I tried to dial in my Zen before the trip to Mt. Conness with Courtney.� The plan was to pick the kid up (twenty-year-old kid) after her two weeks of counseling Junior and Senior High students from our church at Calvin Crest Christian Camp.� The camp is located outside of Oakhurst, at a little over 5,000-feet elevation.� Given that we?d be backpacking to Roosevelt Lake at 10,000-feet with the usual camping stuff and climbing gear too, I was relieved that she was getting acclimated.� Courtney is athletically inclined anyway and I had no doubts that after two weeks of travel about the diagonal camp and the inevitable Ultimate Frisbee and Basketball, street rules of course, that she'd be a lean rippling studette.
The weekend before the trip I was awash in the logistics of provisioning the coming expedition.� I typically take no joy in this process when the kids are involved.� As a parent I'm totally responsible for the safety of the trip, and I wear the burden like Jacob Marley wore his chains and with no less gravity; were that I was more like Bob Marley- hey, it's no problem man.� Though I try to fantasize about a relaxing time of spreading out equipment and packing gear while leisurely sipping coffee or a beer, the reality is more like Dante's image of hell. Instead of the body parts of the damned sticking out of the mud in the inferno it's sleeping bags, stoves, and tents, and there's old Mephistopheles in the middle of it all ready to take a bite out of me.�
Friday morning with my little truck packed to the gunnels and noticeable sagging in the rear, like my butt, I drove off to work.� The preceding week in the public healthcare system had been the perfect storm, sicker and more tragic patients with leaner and fewer resources; kind of like plowing a field with a stick.� Emotionally and spiritually depleted I fled at the end of the day.�
Fortunately there's a place that I go in my meditations to pray when the world becomes too loud like the escalating volume of competing conversations in a crowed small restaurant.� That place is on the corner of a wooden deck where the ground drops away before me, the rising Sun is perfectly warm in the crisp morning air.� From my place on the deck I overlook a pond and a carpet of pine trees that sweep up to a ridge over which the Sun is raising.� The white granite of Fresno Dome rises like a sentinel over the valley and in the foreground there is a ridge with an apple orchard next to an old ranch house.� When I go to this place in my thoughts I can almost feel a cool breeze lightly scented with the vanilla of Ponderosa Pine Bark.� Happily, I was really headed to that place to pick up my daughter.
I pulled off of Highway 41 just north of Oakhurst and onto what used to be called Sky Ranch Road, now it?s just got a number, and before long had turned off on to Calvin Crest Road.� I sped up the tightly radiused road with Credence Clearwater Revival playing Run Through The Jungle.� I rounded a turn tight enough to see my own taillights just as a church bus passed me; I didn't care.� I whipped into a parking space in the dirt lot, which raised a plum of dust.� The truck was left behind with my cell phone and wallet on the front seat with windows down- because I could or maybe had to.
I walked through the dinning hall like a pilgrim and headed for the spot on the deck.� The setting Sun was spreading a shadow across the valley of pines and glinted off the windows of the ranch house.� There was the subtle rose hue of alpin glow on Fresno Dome and I suddenly felt as though the potter had me perfectly centered on the wheel, and he had.� There were two girls sitting at my corner on the deck and as I walked over we exchanged greetings.
I introduced myself and was touched when one of the young women recognized me from a time two years previous when I had volunteered as camp nurse.� She said that I was "memorable", which was a little disconcerting so I asked why.� She explained that I was the first male nurse she'd ever meet, and then told me she thought it was hilarious how in a completely serious moment I had blurted out "stop the voices!"� I knew then that she wasn't confusing me with anyone else.
I was told that the campers should be heading up to campfire and started up the hill to find Courtney.� As I walked into the amphitheater she saw me first and as we came together got a hug that fully healed any wounds still open from the preceding week.� We walked up to where her "kids" were seated and I reached into my daypack to pull out a package of her favorite cookies.� As I reached into the pack I discovered how deep it was.� Overcome by the absurd I pretended to be pulled into the pack while letting out a blood-curdling scream.� After I fought my way out of the clutches of the demon in the bottom of the pack and had emerged with the cookies, I was meet be laughter and howls of appreciation.� No ridicule or averted eyes of adolescent embarrassment, I was astonished and reassured.�
I'm no scriptural savant, but I've always remembered the advise to come to Christ as a child; since I'm frequently being told one way or another to grow up I must be right in there.� The subsequent evening of praise to God was playful, joyous, fully vital, and authentic.� I spent the rest of the evening meeting old and new friends, freeloading on the Holy Spirit, and eating popcorn and ice cream sundaes.� Much earlier than the rest of the last-night-at-camp partiers I got tired, so I headed down the road to bandit camp in the back of my truck.
The next day, after Courtney had fully discharged her duties a made her farewells, we headed off toward Yosemite National Park and our trailhead in Tuolumne Meadows.� Along the way the events of her previous two weeks were rewound and replayed.� Her method of retelling serves a multitude of ends for her, including reminiscence, reflection, and reconsideration.� I'm grateful that her thought process doesn't quantum leap between too many tangents, a pattern that I've found to be common among women in general and her mother in particular.� On the other hand, perhaps she's just become dually conceptual and can adapt to her father's more limited linear thinking.
After an always-pleasant drive through the park we arrived in the "meadows" and set about getting our wilderness permits and the mandatory bear-proof food containers.� I semi-patiently endured the patronizing litany of thou shalls, and thou shalt nots, from a pair of rangers whom we latter referred to as the wilder-witches.� Their mandates spanned the entire spectrum of environmentally appropriate backpacking techniques, and thankfully stopped short of consuming one's used toilet paper.� After having been dully indoctrinated, enlightened, and permitted I asked if they wanted to know where we were going.� I was rebuked with "we don't care where you're going, only where you start."� I looked at the wilder witch with my most humble and I hoped charming look and said "but I want you to care".
We left the Wilderness Office with a mitt full of papers which included a booklet of statutory law and Federal Codes, a bear incident report form, to be completed by the bear and eaten by one of us, and though I didn?t look, we hoped a permit.� The experience had left us ravenous so we left for the Tuolumne Meadows Store.� We waited in the hot sun for a parking space.�� Once parking had been secured we entered the store, crowded doesn't begin to describe the interior, though the After-Christmas-Sale at Target does.� For being a small store it has a bit of everything; we grabbed socks, juice, a microbrew, crackers, Habanero Pepper Jack Cheese, deli roast beef, and a souvenir shot glass.� After spending a large part of the afternoon in line we finally reached a very relaxed cashier.� While he was tallying our purchases I noticed a sign on the wall above his head, it had one word "BREATH", I did, it helped.
We headed back to the day use area at Lembert Dome and ate lunch.� Then began the dreaded process of ferrying the contents of my truck to a picnic table so we could pack our backpacks.� It was like Dante's Inferno all over again; I recalled the sign in the store, "BREATH".� I had tried to anticipate the stress that I would have over not forgetting anything for the trip.� I had tried to envision calm, I though positive affirmations, I was miserably failing Zen 101.� At least Courtney was tolerant and supportive; but she's just good like that, and it's a good thing too since she plans to be a Marriage and Child Therapist.� We got all the unnecessary stuff pushed into the back of the truck and were almost ready, except that in my hurry I locked the keys in the front.� Fortunately I was also distracted enough to have left window down a crack and was able to fish out the keys with my hiking pole.� Well if there is a Yin and Yang, maybe there's anti-Yin and anti-Yang.��
At last we were on the trail and the tension just poured out of me.� Finally it was all in God's hand, I had done all I could to help God along and now God would just have to manage without any more of my assistance.� We wandered along through forest and meadow and talked about topics of galactic importance, none of which I can even remember.� About six pm we came upon a high alpine meadow and found a soft sandy place to spend the night.� We shared the simple chores that are so uncomplicated on the trail.� We cooked up a stroganoff with the left over lunch beef and Habanero Pepper Jack cheese.� I think we might have used just a little too much cheese because the meal made our scalps sweat.
As the day began to fade to black we sat back and Courtney began to tell me about the crisis of faith that she had faced before having gone to camp.� She told me that she had become unsure about her faith in Christ after having taken religion class in college.� She didn't know if Christ was just another cool dude like Buddha and Mohamed or really her savior.� Courtney is fatally honorable, and she couldn't face going to church camp as a hypocrite.� On the other hand she couldn't back out on her commitment to the youth director at the last minute.� She reconciled that she wouldn't be going as a counselor, just an agnostic pair of helping hands.� Of course, as these things have a way of becoming more purposefully complicated, she arrived to find that she had been assigned a cabin of girls to counsel, and shortly there after the Youth Director became ill.
The Old Son should have known better than to have toyed with my daughter's faith before having gone to the mountain, since there are few places where the Spirit of God is more focused and clear than church camp.� Courtney seemed to discover that by intellectualizing religions it becomes possible to loose track of the nature of faith, since faith is the belief in things not seen and quantified but felt.� She shared that at the center of the target was the fundamental truth that for her Jesus Christ was her savior and that she had rededicated herself to that commitment.�� She entered the camp experience expecting to be a follower, and that she could keep her inner conflict Sub Rosa.� Instead she emerged from the refiner?s fire a convicted disciple; after hearing her witness I just cried.
The next day we headed off over the toe of a large east-west ridge toward Young Lakes.�� These are a series of three lakes tucked up against a ridge that is reminiscent of Echo and Cathedral Peaks.� After crossing the outlet of the lower lake we found a here-and-gone trail that contours north and then east toward the meadow below Roosevelt Lake.� We crossed a creek that cuts through a surprisingly lush meadow considering how dry and brown everything else was becoming because of a dry winter.� We had lunch in the shade of some pines before setting out to cross a talus slope before the last ridge that separated us from more flat terrain.
The meadow below Roosevelt Lake is broad and sweeping, it's thick mat of peat, sedge, and heather is braided by a number of circuitous streams.� From here it's a delightful walk over the soft spongy mat that's occasionally tilled up by Pocket Gofers and other rodents.� I wondered out loud how long it took for a bog like this to get as thick as it had, understandably Courtney didn't have an answer.� Never one to miss a teachable moment, I decided to entertain, astound, and distract her from her now achy back, with a dissertation on glacial topography and meadow natural history.� I feel it's the responsibility of a Renaissance man like myself to share at moments like this; once again Courtney was tolerant.�
We crossed the Terminal Moraine and descended to the south end of the lake.� All we wanted to do was swim, but first I wanted to find a campsite that the wilder-witches would approve of.� I wasn't sure but I didn't want to take the chance that either of them wasn't at this very moment gazing into the bottom of an enchanted bear canister and might fly off on magical Leki Trekking Poles to chastise us or worse change me into a Meadow Vole for an inappropriate camp.� After getting squared away we took our sleeping pads down to a sandy beach.� I went out on a rock and jumped into water so cold that I though my body would fling its self-right back out.� It took a supreme act of will and control not to scream when I surfaced, and then nonchalantly swim to shore, since I wanted to sucker Courtney into jumping in too.� I should have known better since Courtney is an interesting balance of boldness and caution, there's no way she'd jump into anything.
We lay out in the high altitude Sun and a breeze chilled our damp skin until it dried.� We had the lake to ourselves except for a party of through hikers and three fishermen.� Two of the fishermen were relatively young, but the third was an older gentleman who wore gray trousers belted well above his waist.� His shirt was buttoned to the top of the collar and seemed to call for a bow tie, and his long sleeves were fully down and buttoned at the cuffs.� Above his neatly groomed white mustache, wire framed bifocals rested on a nose shaded by a straw Panama hat.� The elder man was just too distinctive not to chat with so I introduced us.� After introducing himself he told us that he had hiked up from Young Lakes with his son-in-law and his grandson.� He talked with us about their poor catch but great time fishing; we in turn told him that we planned to climb Mt. Conness.� He was quick to point out that it sounded interesting but that at 70 it was probably beyond his abilities.� I only hope I can drag my saggy old butt into the mountains when I'm 70 let alone climb.
We were ready for dinner early and settled down to cook.� I got the scalloped potatoes cooking while Courtney cut the Summer Sausage.� While I sipped an aperitif of powdered apple cider the dried potatoes simmered and I took out my binoculars to glass the West Ridge of Mt. Conness.� There are actually several ribs that make up the west face of the mountain, but the classic route begins at the base of a buttress just to the left of an expansive southwest face.� The summit is about 2000 feet above the lake.� After dinner I got our climbing gear laid out for the next day while Courtney topped off the water bags.� We got into our sleeping bags early to stay warm in advance of the evening that cools quickly at 10,000 feet.�
We were up at six the next morning and moved about briskly in the cold morning air.� After a Clif Bar and some water we shouldered our daypacks with our 8.2-mm double ropes tucked under the top flap.� We trundled up the scree and talus slopes to the base of the buttress at the beginning of the climb.� I worked on another Clif Bar while I pulled on my harness and racked up the nuts and cams needed to protect the climb.� Courtney brought her own supply of Luna Bars which she say's are made for women, and ate those as she laid out the ropes.� She told me that bars made for women are better because they have more chocolate, after tasting one I won't argue and plan to switch.
I started to lead up the first pitch of the climb, which had only a few 5.6 moves.� I was happy to have brought the double ropes since the first few pitches tended to wander, and latter, as the route laid over more diagonally there was less rope drag.� I used John Moynier and Claude Fiddler's book Climbing California's High Sierra to whet my appetite for the climb and for the general information.� I was astonished when I received my copy of Rock and Ice in the mail two weeks before our trip and found a Supertopo of the West Ridge route.� However, it became clear as we climbed that the good folks at Supertopo must have been smoking marmot dung when they drew their route map; it was highly vague and misleading.� There is a very real possibility that the Supertopo guide could sucker people onto the climb who are not prepared for the commitment of alpine climbing, since it gives the impression that the route may be climbed faster the average mortal may be able to do.�
Courtney wasn't comfortable doing any of the leads, which I was anticipating and didn't expect, so the turn around time at the belays was longer than for a party swinging leads.� Though as we climbed she became more efficient cleaning and racking gear, and getting through the routine of reflaking the rope at the belays.� As I lead I found lots of loose rock ranging in size from pebbles to full on planet killers.� We were three or four pitches up when I was startled to hear a sizeable chunk cut loose and then Courtney yelling "ROCK!"� She hollered up to me that she was okay and after my heart started beating again, I watched as the boulder she had freed sailed out like an asteroid tumbling fully clear of the base of the climb.
About midway up the route we reached about two pitches of class four and easily scrambled up these.� From there we stepped onto the most mind blowing knife-edge ridge.� The route continued along the edge with dizzying exposure and spy satellite like views of Roosevelt Lake.� Midway up the ridge it became clear to me that our earlier leisure at the belays was catching up to us and that we'd be doing well to top out on the summit by Sundown.� The only way to go was up so we resigned ourselves to keep up the best safe pace we could.� On the ridge we encountered several large blocks that we had to navigate around, and one dogtooth that had to be down climbed.� The down climb was quite airy and cause for clear focus, especially since there were some large loose blocks.
As we regained fourth class climbing again at the top of the knife edge we thought we heard voices, which I decided was either really bad for us if we were hearing things, or bad for them if they were very far behind us.� After two pitches of fast fourth class, we hit a brief section of class three before which we had packed the ropes, and then it was a class two dash to the summit.� We dropped our packs and scooted up the hump off the summit and I searched in clearly dimming light for the ammo box with the summit register.� I wrote, "I can do all things through Jesus" with a shaking hand.� It seemed an appropriate thing to be mindful of since the Sun was at the horizon and I didn't feel comfortable taking my daughter over the reasonably wide but very exposed trial off the summit, especially in the flat light of our headlamps.
I discussed the options with Courtney and did my best to let her know how uncomfortable a bivouac would be; she was as always supportive and trusting.� Before the start of the climb we had prayed together for safety, and a climb that would deepen our relationship and trust in God and each other; you gotta be careful of what you pray for.� We got off of the summit knob and quickly layered up in hats, pile coats and parkas before the temperature fell like Courtney?s rock.� We emptied out the packs and pulled them over our feet.� Once settled we took stock of our water and where we weren?t exactly tropical we had enough for the night.� We were literally fat for food with a canned cheese and Summer Sausage, crackers and lots of dried fruit.� Since we had motored up the climb fueled by Clif Shots we still hadn't eaten the stuff we hauled along for what I thought would be a summit lunch.� The feasting commenced as the sun fully disappeared through the thick forest fire smoke that blanketed the horizon.�
We laid out the ropes as insulation and I blew up my water bladder as a pillow and settled back.� I was the first to hear the voices again and soon saw two Tikka headlamps pull over the edge of the summit.� I turned on mine and hollered a direction.� The broad Westside of the summit falls dramatically away thousands of feet on the Eastside, were either of them to fall they probably wouldn't bounce on the way down.� We greeted each other and they appeared a little wobbly, which was understandable since they had long since run out of water.� I asked if they planned to go down, and they said they had decided they needed to go back to Young Lake since they were totally unprepared to bivy.� They had to make a tough decision since either choice was clearly risky.
It was nine when the guys left, by ten the moon had set and the sky had become inky black.� The Milky Way was a creamy stripe spreading across the sky and we started to see shooting stars streak across the north sky.� We were in absolute awe of the beauty of the night but the cold was starting to soak in along with the exhaustion from the day; seven hours until dawn.� We lay down and immediately felt the ground start to soak the heat from us.� I spooned next to Courtney to slow the heat loss from both of us but before long we were shivering.� It was a blessedly calm night but merest breath of breeze felt like an icy blast.� Somewhere between midnight and one am I started to shiver hard and realized that I had burned up my calories from dinner.� After eating some dried cherries and a Clif Shot the shivering started to calm.
I had found the perfect position to stay reasonably, relatively warm, but I probably looked like a Peruvian mummy sitting on end.� My knees were bent and legs drawn tightly up against my chest, I tucked my head down with the inner part of my knees pressing against my temples.� As I breathed the warm exhaled air became trapped and warmed the area between my chest and legs, and air that I inhaled wasn?t so cold.� This could have continued just fine except that I have no butt, and even on soft sand after just a little while it felt like my butt bones were boring out through the skin.
We both realized that mental focus was crucial and went to different places in our minds, I went to my spot on the deck at Calvin Crest.� Where ever Courtney went she fell asleep there.� I listened to her breath.� It was like when she was a baby and I was a baby parent.� Lisa and I would both watch her sleep, marvel, worry, and listen to her breath; I was marveling and worrying again.� A stirring of breeze passed over us, and she stirred.� In a sleepy, exhausted, yet encouragingly frustrated voice she said, "it's so cold".� I asked her a few questions to make sure her gray matter was still thawed and then let her go back to sleep; then it occurred to me, who's going to check me.
I was rocking to keep the blood going into either butt cheek when Courtney stirred again, so I asked her to tell me the time.� She responded, "Four-forty-five".� My mind returned from the suspended animation of the night and I felt warmer.� "It'll be dawn in about forty-five minutes".� We spent that time discussing our descent.� I told her that since I hadn"t slept that I wasn't totally confident in my judgment, and that I needed her to keep an eye on me.
The changes from dawn through sunrise were agonizing slow and I started to recall that this was the most suspenseful part of the old vampire movies, only film is money and those sunrises weren't this suspenseful.� It really did seem to warm as the sky lightened.� I thought it was odd that the darkness didn't recede from east to west.� The lights just seemed to come up the way they do in the theater.� I started to move and was surprised that there wasn't as much rigor mortis as I had expected; I was expecting to need Courtney to pry me out of my seated tuck, possibly with block and tackle.
We gathered up our gear, packed up, and ate some food.� The old surveyor's trail was around the south side of the summit knob from where we had endured the night.� I felt woozy and the otherwise easy trail over the exposed ridge looked like a tightrope in a hurricane.� I recalled the guys from the previous night and that they had passed over this same ridge dehydrated, cold, and with the minimal light from their headlamps.� As I slowly eased my way over the ridge I thought to look for bodies but as I peeked over the edge I got nauseous, the bergschrund of Conness Glacier thousands of feet below felt like it was pulling at my parka.�
We reached the gravely and blessedly flat plateau at the end of the ridge as the full force of the morning sun hit us.� We turned to look back at the summit of Conness and were dazzled by the brilliant orange.� Our curiosity drew us to the Geodetic Survey Monuments that were oddly situated inside of what seemed to be overly extravagant stone surrounds.� After our silent investigation we headed off down the broad dry valley toward the wet meadow at the south end.� As I walked I felt like I was weaving and wobbling less, but still felt like crap.
The wet meadow was an oasis where a stream seemed to emerge from the porous gravel valley above.� We found a spot where we could fill our water bags.� The small stream splashed musically and the sunlight sparkled on the rocks.� Surrounded by moss and sedge the spot looked like a miniature waterfall in a Japanese Garden.� I started to drink and then lay down on a flat slab of white granite.� The exhaustion of the night reemerged in the warming sun and I felt myself merge into the rock.� I must have started to doze off since I was aware of bizarre pre-sleep thoughts, like what if this is an altar stone and I'm a sacrifice to the morning.
Courtney's voice snapped me back, she was animated and speaking rapidly in the way she doe's when she's got a plan.� Her whole habitus exuded confidence; she had an air of control and conviction.� She explained where we needed to go to get back to Roosevelt Lake, and where the other options would take us. We would follow the creek from this meadow down the gully to the right and she reassured me that the trail was safe.� She told me that she must have gone down about a third of the trail and could see the big meadow to the south of our camp.� I lifted my too heavy head, squinted at her and said "ok".� That was it, we had summited the mountain, and through faith, discipline and focus endured the night.� But it was on the descent that we had achieved the apex of parent-child relationships, my daughter became my partner.� Things may not grow on summits according to Robert Pirsig's metaphor, but on occasion they do bloom there.
August, 2002
Isaiah 57:13
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