Back Bay View

Wednesday, September 4, 2019

Do you remember

... that time just we girls went to the east coast? It was only a month ago, but might have been last year, so busy we have been since then. We planned the trip mostly to see friends, partly to go on halfhearted college visits, somewhat to see our country's capital again, and a little tiny bit to see trees and green farms. And then you middle girls had to fly home independently together - all the way from one side of the country to the other, navigating three airports, feeling grown-up, and bonding as sisters during the daunting challenge, while your youngest sibling, lucky seven, and I took a different plane to the middle of the country to see her brothers and grandparents, instead of going home. The pretext for this part of the trip was to be present for the oldest brother's second ACL surgery. We hope this will be the last knee surgery for him, but I fear a lifetime of joint trouble in his future. We helped him settle into his new living arrangements off-campus for the year, met the second brother returning to South Bend from CA to go on an East Coast field trip of his own - this time with his architecture class - to tour colonial architecture, beginning at the favorite spot of his youth, Williamsburg, and ending in Philadelphia and DC, from whence we had just departed. We all had pizza for dinner, spent a lot of money on apartment cleaning and cooking supplies at Walmart, and called it a night because the youngest miss was falling apart, and she needed her rest because the next day was spent waiting and waiting at the hospital and returning for more home goods to Walmart and Home Depot, stores that I can't wait to get out of, but I can't seem to go from entrance to exit in less than an hour.

After a day of rest for my son, and a day of weeding, edging, and scouring bathrooms for me (why is it so much more appealing to tidy someone else's yard and spaces than my own?) - we traveled south a few hours to my parents for rest and recuperation, and another health-restoring trip to the homeland. For two days I got to be my father's farmhand, helping with harvesting honey and hay baling. We looked at cows and chickens, visited with cousins, and went through closets, a typical visit with my family of origin.

And then we boarded another plane to head west back to the family that originated with me and my husband, who had missed this adventure but had his own, and more to look forward to. The kids were ready for the rounds of physicals, dental appointments, shoe shopping, and notebook reorganizing and replenishing that precede the start of a new school year. So a month later, I am just now looking over the photos and reminiscing, part of the joy of travel.

Here we go!

Enjoying the succulent wall and trying to get a bit of rest on a red-eye

Horseback riding with friends

A view of Maryland

Mother Teresa at Mt St Mary's College

Visiting Villanova

Get up and walk, little girl

A quick tour of revolutionary landmarks in Philadelphia

The portrait gallery

The lines were too long to wait to enter Independence Hall, but we walked around it.

Ditto, the lines to see the Liberty Bell - but you can photograph it through the window. The last time I was in Philadelphia, in 1992?, I seem to remember you could walk right up to the bell and touch it. Now you have to wait in a long line to circle around it in a little building.

The public market at the old train station

Giant whoopie pies!

Cityscape

Ben Franklin's grave

Fun with friends

Everyone loves a church bbq

... and giant slides

The Basilica of the Immaculate Conception in DC, home of scary Jesus.

This is sweet Jesus, though, easier to love than the Aryan mosiac Jesus under the dome

Getting a good breakfast at Busboys and Poets

Visiting DC on Sunday morning meant few crowds - but nothing was open

Someday I will make it inside the Library of Congress

My travel friend

I don't remember ever visiting the lovely botanical building in the past, but it was worth the stop

With only a few hours to spend in the city, we didn't have time to visit museums, but we did pop in the Smithsonian castle and were amused by the robot

The Washington Monument was also still closed

Construction on the Jefferson Memorial

We needed a break to cool off by the WWII memorial fountain

From the Capitol to the Lincoln Memorial was a long walk on a hot, hot day

Quick stop for a photo in front of the White House. Lots of construction.

From the big city to a small town to a rural farm:

The south bend of the St. Joseph River at sunrise

I should have a photo of every kid at about this age on the big red tractor

The spiders have been busy

As are the butterflies

Surprise lilies and surprise treats

Honey harvesting

The youngest of the herd

Blackeyed Susans taking over

Back home, having a fancy tea party in preparation for the Downtown Abbey film

Monday, September 2, 2019

Summer wanes

Although the sun is shining hotter than it has all month and the fall equinox is nearly a month away, summer vacation is over. It's Labor Day, and the big kids have all been back at school more than a week, and my classes begin in a few days. I have been cramming to revise my syllabus and reading packets, a project I meant to conquer weeks earlier, in addition to signing all the papers and updating all the calendars with the new school year activities. The buzz of excitement that surrounds this time of new beginnings, reconnecting with friends, and reigniting excitement for learning and study is stimulating beyond the classroom.

A part of me is bemoaning what I bemoan every year around this time: Where did the time go? Why didn't I use it better? The slipperiness of time has been much on my mind lately. Some friends visiting from out of town came by for dinner last week and had a photo from the last time they were here three years ago. How different the kids look, although it feels like their visit wasn't that long ago. But how reassuring that our friendship continues despite rare meetings and brief connections.

I have been thinking a lot about friendships as I see photos on Facebook of friends from college and other duty stations whose children are now going to college with my kids - after years apart, they are reconnecting. Their friendships may be tenuous, but it warms my heart to see how paths cross and recross.

In addition to revisiting friendships from the past, I am also trying to manage friendships in the present time and place. The start of the school year is the perfect time to reach out and make new friends, but I'm playing it reserved this time. Not volunteering for the welcoming committee. Not going to PTO meetings. Trying to minimize sign-ups and socials. The youngest is starting kindergarten at home through a charter school - so we get funds from the state of California to take some enrichment classes. I signed up for the email list from the Catholic home school group, but I haven't gone to any events yet. I'm hesitant to start developing new friendships when I already don't have time to cultivate the ones I have. And with my husband's new job, we'll be expected to host a few events. In fact, I should be at a work social right now, but I begged off with the excuse that I have to get ready for company - our oldest son's fiancee and a couple friends arriving for the long weekend. This busy social life is a little unique to this time and place where everyone lives close by and the church/school/military groups overlap.

What I really want to do is hunker down with some books and notepads and organize my thoughts more systematically for this class. I'm revisiting the plan again - learning on the go. I ordered a new text, American Earth from Library of America edited by Bill McKibben, but I really like some of the essays from the first book, the Norton Anthology of Nature Writing edited by John Elder and Robert Finch, better. What I really need is to design my own course reader. I want something a little more literary than American Earth but more political than the Norton Anthology.

American Earth is heavier on the environmental action and human impact essays than the Norton, but has fewer essays with strong literary value. I'm glad to assign a few of these essays. They really are convicting, and I hope they will engage students. I'm also gathering some online resources to supplement. The problem is that there is just so much good stuff out there. I wish I could find enough copies of the Lapham's Quarterly Nature issue - I just picked one up at the library book sale at the San Diego Festival of Books (sorry new writers, I just bought used books this time).

Right now my system of organization is the same as last year - to start at the beginning - talk about creation stories for the first class, along with a couple essays, one that condemns Christian teaching for ideas of 'dominion' and one that supports the contemporary Christian idea of "creation care." Then I have a packet of readings with selections from classic sources - Aristotle's Physics on causes, a quote from Augustine on the book of creation, a selection from the Georgics, a few lines from different Shakespearean plays about the woods, a chapter from Marco Polo's travels and one from Robinson Crusoe, along with some haiku - really all over the place to introduce different tropes: wilderness, pastoral, natural history, travelogue, survival narrative, etc. Then, where I think I can condense is the next three classes - one for Romantic poets, one for eighteenth/nineteenth century natural historians (Darwin, Audubon, Meriwether Lewis, Gilbert White), and one for Transcendentalists, followed by a class on Walden, which students have to write their midterm paper about. It's all good stuff, but there's SO MUCH good stuff. Then for the second half of class we move into issues based class themes: western wilderness narratives (John Muir, Mary Austin, Wallace Stegner, Norman Maclean), then Rachel Carson, Aldo Leopold, Edward Abbey and Loren Eisely, the early environmentalists. We have a class on sustainable agriculture with Wendell Berry and Michael Pollan and Barbara Kingsolver, then two classes on human impact and environmental responsibility - the students sign up for issues and pick essays from my list to present to the class in groups. Then we have a short class on Apocalypse or Paradise with Cli-fi selections. Nothing really fits the paradise trope, but I try to tie it back to the first class and our understanding of what it means to believe that people are made in the image of God and to hope for a life beyond the physical world, but at the same time to make difficult life decisions to do what we can to love and protect the physical world.

And related to all of the ecology/environmental essays I'm reading, I am yet again feeling existential angst - both about teaching and wishing I had time to go back to school and write up my own essays, and about our living arrangements - I still am bemoaning living on a busy street with a pool. (Have I mentioned a million times yet that I don't like having a pool? It is decidedly not a green principle to own/rent a personal pool! But our pool is green with algae for the second time this summer. My husband is tired of hearing me talk about moving, but I can't find a place in the same neighborhood that fits our family and is still in our budget. I can find smaller places and plenty of expensive places. I've looked at two houses recently, but while they would fit our downsized family of six with creative organization and detachment from a lot of stuff we have, they would be a squash and a squeeze for the two or three months when we have the college kids home. And I don't want them to feel like they can't come home.) Just at the point I think I am reconciled to staying in this house until we transfer in two years, I read something or witness rude drivers or have an issue with the pool, or all three, that leaves me agitated and wanting to move, ideally far away to the mountains or the plains, but in the short term just to a smaller house on a quieter street.

Meanwhile, on the back to school piece... as soon as I started home schooling the youngest for kindergarten, I questioned if I can stay with it. She wants me to sit by her the whole time she does a project or workbook. She needs a friend for afternoon play before the kids come home from school, but we don't know other home schoolers yet, other than a boy whose mom is going to watch her one day while I'm teaching. And I would much rather be reading my books or working on course readings/notes/etc than doing math. I need a dose of motivation.

This has been a complaining post. I need to remember that my suffering is so minimal, especially compared to others. Right now three women dear to me are very sick: my aunt has lung cancer, my book club friend has breast cancer, and my long time Navy friend has leukemia. These were all three healthy, vibrant friends whose serious illnesses make no sense.

And there have been some nice stuff going on lately: a trip back to the east coast and midwest, a trip to the art museum and nature center, (and science museum - no photos, but I ran into an acquaintance from church who now has a cool job doing science experiements for kids visiting - so many international visitors!) And we have been reading lots of good picture books and looking for animals native to our town- LK was the first person to turn in her checklist of local animals.

Friday night lights.

Display of Audubon's Birds of America at the Natural History Museum

End of summer tie dye fun.

Monday, August 5, 2019

Recent reads

I haven't read as much as I would have liked this summer, but I have finished a few books of note:

First, I zoomed through four graphic novels based on recommendations from friends: El Deafo by Cece Bell was sweet and a well-told story of a deaf child without being sentimental. I wasn't as impressed with Be Prepared by Vera Brosgel about a girl's experience at summer camp. Not particularly memorable, other than the image of the mother feeling guilty about making her unhappy kids stay a couple extra weeks at camp while she starts a new job in London. I also just finished reading Runaway Ralph (and the Mrs. Piggle-wiggle books) with the five-year-old, which brought back reflections about how many books about summer camp exist - and how I have almost zero experience and my kids have zero experience of sleep-away summer camp, except with boy scouts and a couple church camps here and there. But our neighbors send their kids away for six weeks to a camp in the mountains. A different subculture?

The third and fourth books were Gene Yuen's Boxers and the companion, Saints. These books tell about the Boxer Rebellion in China from the two opposing sides. It reveals the complexity of how history is told and retold, depending on the perspective of the author. I know next to nothing about Chinese history, and my knowledge of Asian culture is minimal, mostly formed from what I have learned as an adult from reading novels, biographies, and the research and experience of visiting Japan and living in Guam. Yuen's books were a quick peek at the conflict between Chinese who wanted to maintain their traditional society and the Christian missionaries from the West at the turn of the 20th century.

My favorite recent read is Willa Cather's Shadows on the Rock. Cather never disappoints. I love her writing so much. Her voice is distinctive, but her subject matter is wide ranging. This book follows the develop of a young girl in colonial Quebec. Cecile Auclair tends house for her father and helps in his apothecary shop and makes herself beloved around town. Her mother died several years before the book opens, and the action takes place as Cecile is coming of age at the same time that her father is anticipating that they will finally return to France after more than a decade in Quebec in the late 1600s - early 1700s. They came to colonial Canada under the patronage of an aging count, who has offered the apothecary and his daughter portage back to the homeland. As the time draws near for the two to depart, Cecile becomes more reluctant to leave her adopted home.

The plot is slow - the book focuses more on character and on descriptions of life in a time long since past, a world long since buried. The bitter hardships of life in a relatively new colony are compounded by the hardships of life in Canadian winters. The winters are unforgiving, and the work of survival is never ending. Yet the focus of the characters is more on their day to day life, and their ability to hold on to the remnants of civility under duress. The trappings of society and court have followed them to Quebec.

But so have the traditions of the Church. The book is full of descriptions of the life of faith that Cecile leads. She fosters a young boy, the son of the local prostitute, who has an intense devotion to the Mass and the saints - perhaps partly because the sanctuary of the Church is such a refuge from the life he leads at home. The old bishop of the town is a stern leader but devoted to his people, while the new bishop is interested in accolades, riches, and growing the size of the diocese, the church, and the apostolic palace. The conflict between old and new is somewhat turned topsy-turvy here, because the old bishop has adapted to his new surroundings, while the new bishop attempts to bring the courtly practices of France to this new and wild place.

Cather recounts the stories of saints and the founders of the convents in Canada. She tells of miracles without irony. She gives detailed descriptions of the altar of the church, which has an altar which to Cecile looks just like what the Kingdom of Heaven would look like, "strong and unassailable." A statue of St. Anne is described as "noble, worn and sad," while the statue of the Blessed Mother and Child is "loveliest of all the Virgins in Kebec, a charming figure of young motherhood, - oh, very young, and radiantly happy" The little Jesus is a 'A child in a bright and joyful mood, both arms outstretched in a gesture of welcome, as if he were giving a fete for his little friends and were in the act of receiving them"

In another scene, she describes the tradition of All Saints' Day. Young Cecile loves the holy days and the break from routine that they bring, along with the opportunity for storytelling. She and young Jacques look at the book about St. Edmond, talk about the recluse in Montreal, a once beautiful and wealthy young girl who walled herself into a cell behind the chapel of the church her wealthy father built. On All Souls' Day, Cecile's father recounts the story of old Bichet the knife grinder, who was caught stealing a copper pot in France and hanged for it. Cecil thinks France is corrupt because people are tortured like Bichet. Auclair defends the king but says of the Law "The Law is to protect property, and it thinks too much of property. A couple of brass pots, an old saddle, are reckoned worth more than a poor man's life. Christ would have forgiven Bichet, as He did the thief on the cross. We must think of him in paradise, where no law can touch him." so they have Mass said for him every year on the day he died.

"At twelve years it is impossible to sad on holy days, even on a day of sorrow; at that age, the dark things, death, bereavement, suffering, have only a dramatic value, - seem but strong and moving colours in the grey stretch of time. On such solemn days all the stories of the rock came to life for Cecile; the shades of the early martyrs and great missionaries drew close about her. All the miracles that had happened there, and the dreams that had been dreamed, came out of the fog;. . ."

It's a surprisingly detailed look at the life of faith of these early Canadians. I wonder how it is read by Cather scholars, who often seem more interested in her status as an independent woman. Many of her books contain references to the faith of her characters, and in this one, as in Death Comes for the Archbishop, faith is central.

As a contemporary reader who has been affected by the viewpoint that missionaries often made life harder for their converts, to put it lightly, I wonder if Cather struggled with this conflict between evangelism and oppression that is central to the story of imperialism today. It is my sense that she is writing about faith as a sympathetic outsider, one who perhaps wishes for the simplicity of belief. But am I trying to read too much into the author's intentions?

For instance, she describes the faith of the colonists as both mysterious but inspiring. One night, the apothecary lies awake fretting about his friend, one of the missionary priests who struggles in his work and misses the life of the mind he had in France. But Fr. Hector has made a vow to continue the hardships of missionary life and to stay in Canada rather than go back to France to be a teacher. "How can there be men in France this day who doubt the existence of God, when for the love of Him weak human beings have been able to endure so much?" Euclide Auclair regrets that Fr Hector decides to stay. He wonders "whether there had not been a good deal of misplaced heroism in the Canadian missions, - a waste of rare qualities which did nobody any good. 'Ah, well,' he sighed at last, 'perhaps that is the box of precious ointment which was acceptable to the Saviour, and I am like the disciples who thought it might have been used better in another way.'" After he comes to this conclusion, he is finally able to sleep.

As I mentioned, the book does not focus on any one conflict, but instead Cather paints little vignettes of the life of the colonists. As Cecile realizes when she returns home from an unhappy visit to a farm family, she makes "a climate within a climate .. . [from] the special happiness of each day as it passed; one made life."

Cather brings to life these characters by opening a curtain on their daily lives, as well as brief glimpses into their hearts. For instance, as autumn approaches, the ships that arrived in late summer with news and goods from the homeland prepare to return. Auclair plans to go with them, taking his daughter and all his livelihood. He busily and hopefully packs his crates of medicines, while Cecile admires the coming of fall:
"The glorious transmutation of autumn had come on: all the vast Canadian shores were clothed with a splendour never seen in France; to which all the pageants of all the kings were as a taper to the sun. Even the ragged cliff-side behind her kitchen door was beautiful; the wild cherry and sumach and the blackberry vines had turned crimson, and the birch and poplar saplings were yellow. Up by Blinker's cave there was a mountain ash, loaded with orange berries. ... So many kinds of gold, all gleaming in the soft, hyacinth-coloured haze of autumn ... Most beautiful of all was the tarnished gold of the elms, with a little brown in it, a little bronze, a little blue, even a blue like amethyst, which made them melt into the azure haze with a kind of happiness, a harmony of mood that filled the air with content. The spirit of peace, that acceptance of fate..."

Likewise, a certain peace from having faith in the eternal life of the soul descends on the old Count, the patron of the Auclairs, as he suffers an illness that will prevent him from ever returning to France. He is ready to die, as Cather recounts because he has faith in eternity: "He would die here, in this room, and his spirit would go before God to be judged. He believed this, because he had been taught it in childhood, and because he knew there was something in himself and in other men that this world did not explain. Even the Indians had to make a story to account for something in their lives that did not come out of their appetites: conceptions of courage, duty, honour. The Indians had these, in their own fashion. These ideas came from some unknown source, and they were not the least part of life. "

The death of the old count is a big blow to the apothecary. Auclair realizes his time is over when the count dies. Cecile wants him to live on in her time. As Auclair returned from the count's deathbed (after undergoing the trauma of removing his old friend's heart so that it could be shipped back to France and buried in the church of his childhood), he thinks "not without reason, he told himself bitterly as he looked up at those stars, had the Latin poets, insisted that 'Thrice and four times blessed were those to whom it befell to die in the land of their fathers.'"

Cecile does not know how to comfort her father in his deep mourning for his friend, his dreams, and his own youth and visions of life. Fortunately, their friend the fur trapper Pierre Charron, a real man of the woods, a prototype of the future Canadian, comes to visit her father, who is sunk in depression. They finally eat and drink good wine. Pierre says "Let us cheer our hearts a little while we can. Good wine was put into the grapes by our Lord, for friends to enjoy together" - at last they can sleep. Cecile falls asleep thinking of Pierre who has an "authority and power which came from the knowledge of the country and its people; from knowledge, and from a kind of passion. his daring and his pride seemed to her even more splendid than Count Frontenac's."

Cecile and Pierre are the Canadians of the next generation. They don't feel the longing of exile experienced by their fathers - a sense I get from my own daughters who love California as their home, while I sense I will never feel at rest here, other than out in the mountains. Cather's book might be critiqued for the way it moves from theme to theme, or from character to character, without really delving deeply into the souls of any of them, but I loved these brief glimpses, the peek into the daily actions that make up lives and the moments of beauty and friendship that sustain them.

At any rate, I was transported by the book, and Cather remains one of my all-time favorite writers.

Thursday, August 1, 2019

More Mountains

John Muir is trending right now - and has been for a few years. You can get t-shirts, mugs, stickers, hats, etc., that say "John Muir is my homeboy" or various iterations of quotes from his writings such as "The mountains are calling and I must go" or "Into the forest I go to lose my mind and find my soul" or "Of all the paths you take, make sure some of them are dirt." As the secular patron saint of the Sierras and of outdoors people everywhere, he is invoked frequently in discussions about national parks and conservation, and his name appears on trails, mountain passes, and entire chunks of wilderness. The increase in the number of people spending time outdoors hiking, camping, and instagramming means more people are learning about John Muir and joining his fan club.

I hate to be a trend follower, but I have to admit I am one of them. Although I had a vague familiarity with John Muir and imagined him as a sort of western Thoreau when I was younger, it has only been recently that I have actually read more of his work. His writing can be really flowery and effusive, so I haven't actually finished an entire book of his, but I have set about reading more essays and excerpts and biographical information, especially for my class.

This weekend I went to pick up my brother and two nieces when they finished hiking the John Muir Trail, which runs 200+ miles through the Sierras from Yosemite to Mt. Whitney. Seeing Muir's name everywhere made me reflect on the power of writing to effect political change. Muir didn't have the wealth or connections that most lobbyists and special interest groups today have behind their campaigns. He just had his paper, pen and his passion for trees and mountains, and some incredible stories. And his timing was good: a naturalist happened to be president at a key moment. Muir's understanding of the need for federal protection of wild spaces providentially coincided with Teddy Roosevelt's presidency. Perhaps land conservation was the zeitgeist of the moment then, and lots of people were talking about it, but it was Muir's words and actions that captured people's imagination and resulted in wilderness memorials in his name.

At any rate, much gratitude is owed to these far-sited individuals for preserving these lands and making them accessible to the people, although accessible is a relative word here. Much of the JMT is not accessible to your average person. You have to get one of the limited permits for the few months that the trail is not completely covered in snow, and have the will and the fitness and the leisure time to access the trail, which my brother and his girls had. I happily agreed to be his shuttle at the beginning and the end in exchange for the excuse to spend some time in the mountains myself.

As with all best-laid plans, the original plan shifted a bit. I had wanted to meet my brother a few days from the end and finish the hike with him and the girls, but the closest access to the trail's end is Kearsarge Pass, which is still almost 50 miles from the end and has almost 12000 ft of elevation gain. In other words, it is still a 3-4 day journey, and I didn't have that much time. So my second oldest and I settled on a 2 day hike up to the pass and over and around some lakes (about 20 miles), followed by a short hike up Mt Whitney on Monday morning to meet my brother and the girls at the end of their three week trek, like I did when I picked my son and his friends when they finished the JMT two years ago. I texted this to my brother, even though I wasn't sure he would have any spots of service, packed up quickly (had to borrow a bear canister, extra hiking poles, and water purifying tabs from my friend), and set off. I had a permit for one night of wilderness camping from the online reservation system and planned to get a second night from the walk-up counter at the ranger station, which didn't happen. Technically, we were included on my brother's permit to be on the JMT because he applied for a permit for 5, since I hiked a bit at the beginning and because we had talked about meeting up with him.

I was a little worried about not having the second night's permit, but as it turned out it didn't matter. When we were about 2/3rds of the way to the top of the pass, here came my brother and his two girls! Surprise! They had realized they weren't going to be able to make it down Mt. Whitney by Monday because they were running out of food, time, and toilet paper. Rain had slowed them down, and they had to make the decision to exit the trail at Kearsarge, resupply and try to get in touch with me. Surprisingly, my brother had checked his phone service access at the pass's apex, as others had said sometimes people get service on the passes. So he saw my message and knew we would be there, providentially.

After the joy of the serendipitous meeting, we came up with a new plan. They wanted to continue into town and sleep in a hotel and resupply, but my younger niece still wanted to try to climb Mt Whitney, at 14, 500 ft the highest mountain in the continental US, and a big draw for JMT hikers. It's a bucket list mountain for many people. I still wanted to camp and hike. So I passed on the keys to the car, and my son and I continued up to a glacial lake, where we spent the night peacefully under the stars, lulled to sleep by a waterfall, exhausted by the morning's long drive and the afternoon's hike - which wasn't long, only 4 miles, but was all up. We stopped often to take photos of the views and of the profuse wildflowers. In the morning, I finished the hike to the pass (5 miles up to 11700ft), where I had a beautiful view of the meadow and lakes below, although the hike itself was more arduous than I anticipated because of the elevation gain and altitude. Now I need to plan the return trip to actually descend and hike around them. I ate a snack while admiring the view, chatted a moment with another hiker (camaraderie on the trail another feature drawing people out), and then turned around to careen down the mountain in time to meet the rest of the family group at the trailhead at the appointed time.

From there we drove to the Mt Whitney trailhead to hike the 11 miles up and 11 miles down over a day and a half - as it was almost noon when we started. We were a little apprehensive about our permit because it was a JMT permit which allows hikers to ascend from the west side and exit on the east, whereas we were going to start and finish on the east side. The first 2 miles of trail are open to anyone without a permit, and when we reached Lone Pine Lake at this two miles spot without meeting any rangers, we thought we were good to continue.

And continue we did. The Whitney trail is a long climb up. The difficulty of the trail is relieved by mountain vistas, groves of sequoias, waterfall crossings and hundreds of wildflowers and birds. We saw a grouse family and a couple deer, lots of chipmunks and squirrels. At mile four, we stopped at the Outpost campground for a rest and snack by a lake. Then we planned to continue up to mile six to the Trail camp to spend the night before arising before dawn to ascend the last five miles to the peak for sunrise, followed by 11 miles downhill back to the car. We figured it would take 12-15 hours to do this, so we were going to start at 4. By this time, my son was lagging, having done nothing to prepare for this hike. I, too, was feeling exhausted, having already hiked 7 miles to the pass and down that morning, and not having done a lot of hiking with a pack beforehand either. My brother and the girls started off, while I waited for my son. Once he was ready to go again, we agreed to hike at our own pace and meet at the camp.

Those last two miles were hard. I am a pretty fit person, but I was huffing and puffing. The air was thinner, as we were at about 11000+ feet. My thighs were crying. The light was shifting as the sun started going down. The trail got smaller and changed from sandy gravel to granite. A couple of times I was unsure where to go as the trail crossed over boulders. Then when I thought I was within half a mile or so from the camp, I ran into a couple who told me it was still 1 mile or 2 away. I wanted to cry. I doubted my ability to do another one, let alone FIVE, miles up the next morning. Here I realized how much of mountain hiking is mental. On the trail you see all types of people, old and young. I wonder about the older folks, but as I dragged myself along those last few yards, I realized mountain climbers need more stamina and determination than fitness.

Finally, I could see the lake nestled among mountain ridges where the trail camp was located. With relief, I begin to hike to the crest of the final ridge, but over the top came my brother and the two girls. When they reached the camp, two rangers had met them and turned them back because their permit was to exit this trail. They told the rangers the story about running out of time and food on the JMT, but the rangers were unsympathetic. My younger niece burst into tears at this news. My brother said he wanted to punch the guy. He asked if he came in from the other side if he could stay, since it was the exit side, but the rangers weren't budging, except to say that we could camp at the outpost camp if we felt unsafe finishing the hike down in the dark. Once we turned around our permit was legal, so we did decide to stay at the outpost camp, since it would have been 9 or 10 pm before we reached the trailhead, and then we would have a five hour drive back to San Diego.

In my heart, I was a little relieved, although to have come so far and get turned back was hugely disappointing. The reality of a 15-16 mile hike the next day was not appealing, really, although I know if we had done it, the result would be exhilarating. And I'm pretty sure we could have done it, even if we had to stop and rest a lot, even though I was anxious about the snow and effort. As we hiked down the next morning, I wondered if I really want to come back to ascend the mountain someday. At one switchback, I would think, next year I'm putting in for a permit. At another switchback, I would think, "Why, why, why endure the pain?" I would definitely return to Kearsarge pass and do that trip again, if I can find the time. And reviewing these photos brings back the scent of pine and sage, the expansive views that expand your heart, the wonder of all the wildflowers, and not the memories of pain - a little like labor and birth. The memories are of the joy. Hiking is addictive, and as my running days are limited, I can see doing more camping and backpacking, even with our youngest who loves camping at this point in her life.

The devotion to John Muir's words about being drawn to the forests and mountains may be cliche, but it's completely understandable because the setting arouses the same feelings in most people, I imagine. The mountains are calling. The forests do heal the soul.