Like many who relax in the evening on the web, I hang around and post on a few message boards. While one of them is rather sensitive, and I will not copy and past my thoughts from that board, (I am not ashamed, it's just that my adversary there has declared his intention to sue me for slander if he can ever figure out who I am.) I am a regular on three message boards that mirror my interests and avocations. Two have to do with BYU sports, and one has to do with hiking and backpacking.
So I thought I would copy and paste a few of my recent posts from those boards, not so much because it demonstrates any great wisdom or insights, but because copying and pasting is a good way to put up a lot of stuff fast without duplicating the effort. To whit:
-On why Univeristy of Utah Fans hate BYU so much:
Author: buzzard Date: Sep 21, 2007 - 02:06pmCategory: Football (college)
Almost without exception, every Y-hatin', U-lovin' Utahn that I have encountered views hating BYU as a harmless, consequence-free way of sticking it to "Mormon Culture". Some are not LDS and hate BYU simply as an extension of the institution that restricts them to buying 3.2% beer. These are the ones that perpetrate the "drunken lout" stereotype, which does have some legitimacy. Some are good LDS but just like you and your stubble, want to demonstrate their individualist streak, and take great sport poking fun at us supposedly mindless sheep. And some simply graduated from the U. I find that many of these are a great deal less rabid than the other categories. They cheer for their Alma Mater, but hold no real animus towards their bretheren to the south. What resentment they do hold stems from being an also ran for over two decades, they just want to gloat in the run their team had for the last few years, kind of like we Cougars are feeling it after last year. When I lived in SoCal, a lot of the members were USC or UCLA fans, and could not understand the whole Utah/BYU war thing.
On why the PAC-10 will never invite BYU to join their conference:
Author: buzzard Date: Sep 6, 2007 - 06:04pmCategory: Football (college)
I do not think that the PAC-10 is "Anti-Mormon", but there is no doubt that the powers that be at Stanford, Cal, and yes, UCLA (stands for University of Caucasians Lost among Asians) at the very least-there may be others, but no doubt on that trio at the very least would not let BYU join the PAC10 under any circumstances for reasons that have nothing to do with athletics. Call it liberal politics, intellectual snobbery, aversion to religous institutions, call it whatever you want, but at least those schools if not others as well look down their noses at the Y.
On older, sedate fans who don't want others to stand and block their view:
Author: buzzard Date: Sep 3, 2007 - 11:54amCategory: Football (college)
Remember, those "bluehairs" are someones grandparents. And in 1980, they were not so old or feeble, and they were contributing bucks to expand the stadium. Many of them were loyal season ticket holders back before Giff or even Gary Shiede put us on the map. And in their day, they probably jumped and stood just like you. And someday you will be the "bluehair" (in my case, no hair) with the bad knees. So speak kindly to them.On the other hand, we are not at a Tabernacle Choir concert. When Harvey Unga broke loose for that first TD, I was standing and screaming with the kids-and I am not a kid anymore. Don't apologize for getting excited. I don't stand the whole game, that is what benches are made for, but it is time to retire your season passes if fans jumping up and yelling and pumping their fists irritates you.And if someone grabs you, kicks you, or pokes you with an umbrella (they aren't supposed to have them in the stadium in the first place), give them one warning, and then *you* wave the security guard over. Striking another person is the bright line that no one gets to cross in our society without consequences. But don't hit them back. Just like on the field, it is the second hit that the referee sees.
On the definition of a "Zoobie":
Re:What IS a zoobie? 2 Weeks, 1 Day ago
Gather round kiddies, it is time for a history lesson.There have always been a few students who referred to our esteemed insitiution as "BYZOO" or "The Zoo". However, the term did not come into wide usage until 1977, when a BYUSA (I think) produced a get out the student vote advertisment in the Daily Universe parodying the movie "King Kong". It showed the ape climbing the Carillion Bell tower underneath the headline "Who will be the new King of the Zoo?". That seems to have brought the term into much wider usage. BTW, "Zoobie" a humorous term, is not to be confused with "Zoob", a pejorative slur used by seething with jealousy Yewts who couldn't seem to get their ACT score over 20 no matter how many times they took it.
Of course, BYU sports is by no means my only interest. These are some posts from the backpacker.com board:
On my opinion of a certain outdoor brand:
Relax, your not missing much. TNF makes decent gear, but is the ultimate poseurs brand. When you see a yuppie striding solemnly down the trail clad head to toe in TNF, you can rest assured, here comes a wannabe. Me? Vasque boots, Mtn. HW pants, generic polyester tee, Sierra designs rain jacket, Marmot down sweater. I think I do have an old TNF daypack somewhere, but it was 50% off at an REI clearance and would never be used for a serious trip. My reputation would be at stake.
And when I was pilloried for that brave stand:
Chill out everybody! Some of you take everything posted on this board waaaaaay too seriously. BTW, if I was really worried about reputation, I wouldn't be caught dead in a generic poly tee. I think the latest de rigeur look is a zip-T from (fill in the blank). And judging from my 2005 tax return, I'm a middle-aged downwardly mobile un-professional.
This topic was not about backpacking, but about Government-run healthcare-don't know how that found it's way onto an outdoor forum:
I have an interesting take on this. I had health insurance thru an employer for 22+ years. Six weeks after being laid off and losing said insurance, I got sicker than a dog, thought it was flu. Turns out it was cancer collapsing part of my lungs. I did go to the doc on my own dime, but they could not determine the source of the problem, and I could not afford a scope to take a look at my lungs. Lived with a nagging cough for several months until I ended up in the hospital nearly dead. Five weeks in the hospital, two surgeries, four months on disability, and 250K worth of insurance later, I was fine. But if I would have had insurance a year earlier, I could have addressed the problem with about a week in the hospital, a few weeks to recuperate, and probably about a fifth of the cost. I'm not an advocate of government health care, but it does make you think.
On the cost of backpacking vs. other types of vacations:
Now hold on. I am a certified gearhead. I own three packs, three bags, seven tents, four pairs of boots, and enough assorted gear to outfit a whole scout troop. But when my wife wanted to go to Hawaii last year, we spent more in a week than I have managed to plop down in the last ten years on gear, gas, and food for all my backcountry adventures. So while backpacking as outfitted and practiced by many of us here is not free, it is only expensive when compared to sitting around doing nothing. Compared to most other forms of recreating, backpacking is dirt cheap.
(Side note: I have since donated some of the above gear to our Wards scout troop, so that stuff I would not be using could be put to good abuse by gear-short scouts.)
My trail mix recipe:
Raisins or Craisins Mixed Dried Fruit Cashews Peanuts Pine Nuts Cool Weather: Butterscotch Chips Warm Weather:M&M's
Finally, a note about the first time I solo backpacked, and how it was not that different from what I did all those times with B.J.:
Last November, snowshoe trip in southern Uinta's. But in taking my son for several years, it was as risky as a solo in that he was mentally handicapped and if I would have been incapacitated he would have been in big trouble. That's why we stayed on established trails unless another person or two was along.
Finally, two comments on the Salt Lake Tribune board that shows my feelings about Utah's scourge, the hyper-irritating, omnipresint, tool-of-satan ATV's and their ignoramus riders who feel they have a right to take them anywhere they please:
When us "hoofers" walk somewhere, we disturb only ourselves. When you ride in on an ATV, everyone for hundreds of yards in every direction knows you are coming, and the erosive evidence of your passing remains for months, years, decades. Who is being selfish? Someday the natural effects of aging will make it impossible for me to go all the places I can presently make it to, I understand and accept that. If we followed your logic, we would need a paved road to every lakeshore and mountaintop. There are plenty of places you can ride to, but you do not have the right to take your noisy smoke-belching machines to every corner of this state.
Part 2 of this tirade in response to being called a communist for my passionate loathing of All-Terrain Vehicles:
Hey! I will put up my conservative credentials against anyone around, I'm happily LDS, all the things a lot of you like to stereotype. And I hate ATV's. Loathe them. They are tools of the devil, as far as I am concerned. So save your vituperation for brainless dolts of any political or religious stripe who delight in trashing our beautiful state.
Of course, this is just a small sampling of what I have posted. But I hope it gives you a sense of my sensibilities, quirks, interests, and pet peeves.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Don't know how much I will do...
All right, all right. I know that keeping a journal is something that we are reminded of regulary from the pulpit. I know that leaving your history for your ancestors is important. I just have never been very good at it. Every few years, I actually fire off a letter to someone, there was that one article published, and in the age of the internet, newsgroup posts I made in 2001 can be googled. But perhaps, just perhaps, having a single spot where my ravings can come together will be useful.
I have written a few essays over the years, and I thougth a first step would be to bring them together here, which is why the first several posts will be largely several months to over a decade old. At some point, I may even get around to posting original, current stuff.
I have written a few essays over the years, and I thougth a first step would be to bring them together here, which is why the first several posts will be largely several months to over a decade old. At some point, I may even get around to posting original, current stuff.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Trip report from 1997
I posted this trip report on our old family webpage. Believe it or not, it is still out there. You can find it at http://pages.prodigy.net/buzzards . I thougth with the demise of prodigy a few years back, those pages would be orphaned, but even though you can no longer find it through Google, if you know the URL, the state of our family in the late 1990's is still on display. Anyway, here is the old essay:
Dad and BJ's Excellent Adventure
Or, a trip report-Yellowstone Drainage, Uinta Mountains, Utah August 18-26, 1997
Note: Because my hiking companion and handsome son Brian is also a 16-year old non-verbal autistic, this trip report may be a little different than most. While the essence of backpacking is the same for all of us, certain aspects of the experience are different when hiking with a companion who has limited cognitive abilities. This account reflects our experience, and as such, may seem a tad weird to those who have not had similar experiences. The intent is not to be crude or offend, but to accuratly depict a week in the high country with Brian. By way of background, the Uinta Mountains are located in the northeast corner of Utah. They are true alpine mountains, ranging to over 13,000 feet altitude. Our entire hike was spent between 10,400 and 12,000 feet.elevation.
DAY ONE: Left my mother in law's at 6:30 am. Arrived at the Center Park trailhead 35 miles north of Duschene, Utah at 8:45 am. The last stretch of road up Hells Canyon was supposed to be very rough, almost 4WD reccomended, but had been recently graded and was no problem at all. The first few miles of trail were through a combination of second-growth open forest and open park-like shortgrass meadows which we shared with several bovine companions. Easy walking, though. All that changed just beyond the wilderness boundary. The trail turned rocky and moderately uphill, and which gave Brian all kinds of problems. Not so much the uphill, but the bouldery scrambling slowed his progress to a crawl. After a 400-foot climb, we topped out above timberline to spectacular views both across the canyon, and north to our eventual goal. When we started dropping down into Swasey Hole, the slow progess returned as the trail cut right across a boulder field. As we worked our way across Swasey, it became evident that we might not make our first day goal of Spider Lake. Another slow rocky taverse around the ridge into Garfield Basin confirmed it. We camped beside a small stream just inside the basin, having taken 10+ hours to cover 91/2 trail miles. Brian was obviously tired, and might have been suffering from the altitude-hard to tell with a kid who doesnt talk.DAY TWO: After seeing the difficulties that Brain had had the previous day, I abandoned our previous plans of a distance hike up to the head of the Yellowstone Drainage, then over the Porcupine Pass into Upper Lake Fork to see one of the most remote spots in the Uintas. I guess we are remote enough here, and crowding was not a problem-all week, there were a total of four groups in the entire Garfield Basin, and we were the only ones not on horseback. Having decided that, we ate a big breakfast, and moseyed up the trail about 21/2 miles to the largest lake in the Basin-Five Points Lake. Upon arriving, we discovered it was, in fact, partially a resevoir, complete with earthen dam and concrete spillway-and a dozen miles from any road(!). But it was also a very nice place to set up a base camp to explore the Basin, with plenty of campsites up in the trees to the south and west of the lake. I chose a spot well back from the lake, where I thought the mosquitos would be less. (wrong). We spent the rest of the day setting up camp, walking along the lakeshore-one of Brians favorite activities-and I tried my hand at fishing (no luck).DAY THREE: Up early, I packed a daypack with lunch, camera, fishing gear, and of course, our raincoats, as well as map and compass. After breakfast, we headed along our original route towards upper Garfield Basin. As soon as we left Five Point Lake, we broke out into incredible above-timberline alpine country. No bare rocks here, all was green and open, with generous displays of wildflowers-mostly small, such as Asters, Bluebells, and Buttercups, with an occasional red lupine. Creeks flowed from every direction from the high peaks around us as we worked our way around Superior Lake. As we neared Tungsten Lake, I spotted an unnatural-looking rock sitting on the top of the moraine. It just did not match the grey and rust of the other boulders. Upon close inspection, the "rock" turned out to be a fluffy baby blue bath towel, left to dry by the lake. If someone had been taking a swim, I do not envy them, as the lake appeared to be filled directly from snowmelt, and at over 11,000 feet, would be more likely to induce hypothermia than refreshment. From Tunsgsten, we headed up the trail to North Star. Freed of his pack, Brian seemed much more lively, and certainly covered more ground. He would run ahead on the trail, then stop and wait for me while flapping his arms. At North Star, with not so much as a bush in sight, I was surprised-and irritated-to find a well-used fire ring. Where they got the wood I'll never know. Saw some big Cuttthroat Trout swimming within a few feet of the shore, but in what was becoming a trend, couldn't get a nibble. From North Star, we left the trail, looping generally back towards camp cross country, just enjoying the scenery and fishing the small pothole lakes-you guessed it, not a bite. We did detour up to a low spot on the main ridge, and I stared straight down 1,500 feet into the Lake Fork Basin. What a sight! Open alpine meadows, crisscrossed with winding ribbons of streams. Lambert Lake, our original destination, looked like a small blue puddle tucked at the very head of the basin. Big bare rust-red mountains, and not a sign of man to be seen. I have got to get in there someday, though I do not know how or when. This trip was probably my best shot, since upper Lake Fork is a long approach from any direction, and I do not come to Utah every year by a long shot. That is the problem with backpacking. So many trips, only one life. I hope God allows backpacking in heaven, its the only way I'll get to all the places I want to go. The view from that gap in the divide *almost* made up for it, however. As we picked our way down the mountain, the weeks first thunderstorm caught us out in the open. Brian actually seemed to enjoy the rain and hail. I was pretty nervous about the lightning until we got down to treeline. Saw lots of Deer and marmots, a ptarmitigan (sp.?), several quail, and evidence (read:droppings) of mountain goats. It stormed on and off all evening and most of the night. I did manage to solve on this trip one of the more troublesome problems that I have had over the years on extended trips with Brian. Without going into the gritty details, lets just say that the solution involved a travel pack of daiper wipes and glycerin suppositories. Just thought I'd throw that in there. :-) DAY FOUR: Rained most of the morning, so we ate a cold breakfast in our tent. Brian takes to being tent-bound very well. While I read or look at maps, he just curls up in his sleeping bag and wraps a coat around his head. It seems to make him feel secure or something, but he can happily maintain this position for hours, occaisionally napping, but usually just breathing deep and letting off a random bellow from time to time. When the rain let up around 10:30, we just headed out again, this time staying within a mile or two of Five Point, since the weather was threatening. Just rambled and gazed and tried to match wildflowers to the Audobon book. Ate lunch around one, then headed back, just beating another big thunder-bumper back to camp. The rain cleared off about five, so I tried to fish again(you would think I'd learn), while Brian just wandered around camp up the hill from me. Suddenly I realized I couldn't hear him anymore. Jogged up the slope to camp-no Brian! The thought of Brian lost was completely frightening, as dark was only a few hours away. Just as I was starting to really worry, I noticed the tent flap was pulled back where Brian had dived in and sacked out. Whew! Brian slept the rest of the evening, not even stirring when I pulled his boots off and stuffed his feet in his sleeping bag about nine. Around midnight, he did wake up for a few minutes, so I had him stand in the tent doorway and well, "go" into the night and the rain. Good thing, since he had a full bladder and would certainly have had an accident by morning. I can't believe I'm going to post this stuff on the 'net, but I wanted to give a flavor of what it is like to be Brians companion in the mountains for a week, and keeping track of his bladder and bowel is certainly part of it.DAY FIVE: Roused Brian at 8:00 for breakfast, which he ate and promptly went back to sleep. Very un-Brian. He is usually up with the sun. If he was exausted, you would think it would have happened after the first two days when he had been under pack, not after the easy ramble of yesterday. My guess is that he had a bug or something, but once again, he can't tell me anything, and he seemed to feel better after his sixteen hour snore. We pulled out of Five Point about 11:30, just heading back a couple of miles to an unnamed lake about a half-mile off of the trail. Arrived just in time to take shelter under the pines from a tremendous hailstorm. It accumulated about a half-inch on the ground in twenty minutes. Brian seemed a bit confused but not worried. Remember, he likes to have a coat on. His hands were getting wet and cold, so I stuck a couple of mitts on them, which he seemed to appreciate. In fact, he was upset when I took them off a few hours later despite a warm sun. We found one of those perfect camps by this lake-a flat waist level rock for a kitchen, tons of down wood for a fire, sheltered flat tent site,-the works! Around 6:00, the clouds cleared out to beautiful dinner/fishing/sunset weather. I fixed up a batch of brownies for desert. Brownies always taste great, but five days from the road, there is nothing to compare! (Except the treat on day seven, maybe. But thats a paragraph or two away.) One last try at fishing, where I was officially skunked for the week. After the fire, Brian and I sat in the tent door and watched the stars come out. He may not have understood as I pointed out the three whole constellations that I knew-both dippers and Orion-but he sat placidly and looked at the night sky for the better part of an hour. It was another one of those semi-magical moments where he seems more in my world than in the Autistic universe he usually inhabits. The night was the coldest of the week, so I made sure he had on a jacket, as he tends to creep out of his sleeping bag in the night. I snuggled deep into mine, and slept like a rock. DAY SIX: Time to start heading back towards civilization. (Sigh) Spent the day retracing the same rocky trails that gave us so much trouble the first day. No pressure to get to a particular goal, so I let Brian set his own pace. He obliged, averaging just under a mile an hour. The boulder field that was so hard going down was even more fun going up. I understand that these trails would pose little problem for a young, fit backpacker, but for Brian, the rocky inclines are a major obstacle. We did find a fine campsite to spend the night. Right at timberline, with a snowmelt stream for water and a panoramic view down into the canyon of the Yellowstone River for a picture window. It had only been used a few times judging from the state of the camp. After a sunny day, a shower shows up just as I am fixing dinner, so we down our biscuits in the rain and head for the tent for the rest of the evening. It rains until just past midnight.DAY SEVEN: Today is Sunday, and as such will be our day of rest. After a relaxed pancake breakfast, I spend the morning reading scriptures, contemplating my place in Gods universe, and enjoying being with my son. Brian seems to really like our cathederal of pines, he just wanders around the grove, bellowing happily from time to time. The morning is cloudy, but grows fair as the day passes-the opposite of a typical Uinta pattern. Fixed a treat for lunch-Chocolate Chip cookies! The aroma drives the natives wild. Two magpies start hanging around, just waiting for me to turn my back, while a squadron of kamikazee chipmunks sends scouts dashing right at my kitchen rock. The only solution seems to be to eat all the cookies as swiftly as possible, so Brian and I dedicate ourselves to this ardous task, which we presently complete. Temptation elimintated, the local color blends back into the rocks, so I decide to wander up to the top of the bald ridge above our camp. Great view from the top both up into the basin and down to the meadows where our Jeep awaits in the morning. In fact, I think I can just see the trailhead and our car at the far end of the binoculars resolution. Any fantasies that we are the first to trod up here, however, are dispelled by the appearance of a tattered orange flag at the high spot in the ridge (Surveyors?), and a windbreak/small campsite constructed in a spot of krumholz pine. Oh well, it was a nice delusion while it lasted. Dinner and the evening turn wistful as I talk to Brian, telling his how much I enjoy doing this with him. He comes over and gives my dirty hair a big sniff, then giggles. Good old BJ.DAY EIGHT: A clear night, so I take the rainfly off of the tent so I can just pack it up in the morning without airing it out. A fast breakfast of cold cereal, and we are headed out by 8:00. Within a half-mile, we are clear of the rocky terrain and back into the meadows and open forest. Without the weight of the weeks worth of food, Brian makes much better time, but his dad keeps stopping for "rests", not wanting this sojurn in the wilderness to end. But shortly after ten, a flash of green metal thru the trees tells us that we are back to the trailhead and our Jeep. There are two large, horsemounted parties of bowhunters preparing to head in, and we pass a couple more on the drive down the canyon. This week will be a bit more crowded than last with the beginning of hunting season. After a week of navigating by map and compass, we actually get lost for a little while among the farm roads above Duschene! But shortly after noon, I am parked in front of a gas station, calling my wife and daughter to let them know we are safe, and grabbing a couple of sodas before the two hour drive back to Orem and my family. The soda tastes good, but I can't help but compare it unfavorably to ice-cold snowmelt. Like every trip, it was a wonderful, magical time. With enough time in the mountains with Brian, I can handle just about anything civilization cares to dish out.Lorin Johnaka "Buzzard"
Dad and BJ's Excellent Adventure
Or, a trip report-Yellowstone Drainage, Uinta Mountains, Utah August 18-26, 1997
Note: Because my hiking companion and handsome son Brian is also a 16-year old non-verbal autistic, this trip report may be a little different than most. While the essence of backpacking is the same for all of us, certain aspects of the experience are different when hiking with a companion who has limited cognitive abilities. This account reflects our experience, and as such, may seem a tad weird to those who have not had similar experiences. The intent is not to be crude or offend, but to accuratly depict a week in the high country with Brian. By way of background, the Uinta Mountains are located in the northeast corner of Utah. They are true alpine mountains, ranging to over 13,000 feet altitude. Our entire hike was spent between 10,400 and 12,000 feet.elevation.
DAY ONE: Left my mother in law's at 6:30 am. Arrived at the Center Park trailhead 35 miles north of Duschene, Utah at 8:45 am. The last stretch of road up Hells Canyon was supposed to be very rough, almost 4WD reccomended, but had been recently graded and was no problem at all. The first few miles of trail were through a combination of second-growth open forest and open park-like shortgrass meadows which we shared with several bovine companions. Easy walking, though. All that changed just beyond the wilderness boundary. The trail turned rocky and moderately uphill, and which gave Brian all kinds of problems. Not so much the uphill, but the bouldery scrambling slowed his progress to a crawl. After a 400-foot climb, we topped out above timberline to spectacular views both across the canyon, and north to our eventual goal. When we started dropping down into Swasey Hole, the slow progess returned as the trail cut right across a boulder field. As we worked our way across Swasey, it became evident that we might not make our first day goal of Spider Lake. Another slow rocky taverse around the ridge into Garfield Basin confirmed it. We camped beside a small stream just inside the basin, having taken 10+ hours to cover 91/2 trail miles. Brian was obviously tired, and might have been suffering from the altitude-hard to tell with a kid who doesnt talk.DAY TWO: After seeing the difficulties that Brain had had the previous day, I abandoned our previous plans of a distance hike up to the head of the Yellowstone Drainage, then over the Porcupine Pass into Upper Lake Fork to see one of the most remote spots in the Uintas. I guess we are remote enough here, and crowding was not a problem-all week, there were a total of four groups in the entire Garfield Basin, and we were the only ones not on horseback. Having decided that, we ate a big breakfast, and moseyed up the trail about 21/2 miles to the largest lake in the Basin-Five Points Lake. Upon arriving, we discovered it was, in fact, partially a resevoir, complete with earthen dam and concrete spillway-and a dozen miles from any road(!). But it was also a very nice place to set up a base camp to explore the Basin, with plenty of campsites up in the trees to the south and west of the lake. I chose a spot well back from the lake, where I thought the mosquitos would be less. (wrong). We spent the rest of the day setting up camp, walking along the lakeshore-one of Brians favorite activities-and I tried my hand at fishing (no luck).DAY THREE: Up early, I packed a daypack with lunch, camera, fishing gear, and of course, our raincoats, as well as map and compass. After breakfast, we headed along our original route towards upper Garfield Basin. As soon as we left Five Point Lake, we broke out into incredible above-timberline alpine country. No bare rocks here, all was green and open, with generous displays of wildflowers-mostly small, such as Asters, Bluebells, and Buttercups, with an occasional red lupine. Creeks flowed from every direction from the high peaks around us as we worked our way around Superior Lake. As we neared Tungsten Lake, I spotted an unnatural-looking rock sitting on the top of the moraine. It just did not match the grey and rust of the other boulders. Upon close inspection, the "rock" turned out to be a fluffy baby blue bath towel, left to dry by the lake. If someone had been taking a swim, I do not envy them, as the lake appeared to be filled directly from snowmelt, and at over 11,000 feet, would be more likely to induce hypothermia than refreshment. From Tunsgsten, we headed up the trail to North Star. Freed of his pack, Brian seemed much more lively, and certainly covered more ground. He would run ahead on the trail, then stop and wait for me while flapping his arms. At North Star, with not so much as a bush in sight, I was surprised-and irritated-to find a well-used fire ring. Where they got the wood I'll never know. Saw some big Cuttthroat Trout swimming within a few feet of the shore, but in what was becoming a trend, couldn't get a nibble. From North Star, we left the trail, looping generally back towards camp cross country, just enjoying the scenery and fishing the small pothole lakes-you guessed it, not a bite. We did detour up to a low spot on the main ridge, and I stared straight down 1,500 feet into the Lake Fork Basin. What a sight! Open alpine meadows, crisscrossed with winding ribbons of streams. Lambert Lake, our original destination, looked like a small blue puddle tucked at the very head of the basin. Big bare rust-red mountains, and not a sign of man to be seen. I have got to get in there someday, though I do not know how or when. This trip was probably my best shot, since upper Lake Fork is a long approach from any direction, and I do not come to Utah every year by a long shot. That is the problem with backpacking. So many trips, only one life. I hope God allows backpacking in heaven, its the only way I'll get to all the places I want to go. The view from that gap in the divide *almost* made up for it, however. As we picked our way down the mountain, the weeks first thunderstorm caught us out in the open. Brian actually seemed to enjoy the rain and hail. I was pretty nervous about the lightning until we got down to treeline. Saw lots of Deer and marmots, a ptarmitigan (sp.?), several quail, and evidence (read:droppings) of mountain goats. It stormed on and off all evening and most of the night. I did manage to solve on this trip one of the more troublesome problems that I have had over the years on extended trips with Brian. Without going into the gritty details, lets just say that the solution involved a travel pack of daiper wipes and glycerin suppositories. Just thought I'd throw that in there. :-) DAY FOUR: Rained most of the morning, so we ate a cold breakfast in our tent. Brian takes to being tent-bound very well. While I read or look at maps, he just curls up in his sleeping bag and wraps a coat around his head. It seems to make him feel secure or something, but he can happily maintain this position for hours, occaisionally napping, but usually just breathing deep and letting off a random bellow from time to time. When the rain let up around 10:30, we just headed out again, this time staying within a mile or two of Five Point, since the weather was threatening. Just rambled and gazed and tried to match wildflowers to the Audobon book. Ate lunch around one, then headed back, just beating another big thunder-bumper back to camp. The rain cleared off about five, so I tried to fish again(you would think I'd learn), while Brian just wandered around camp up the hill from me. Suddenly I realized I couldn't hear him anymore. Jogged up the slope to camp-no Brian! The thought of Brian lost was completely frightening, as dark was only a few hours away. Just as I was starting to really worry, I noticed the tent flap was pulled back where Brian had dived in and sacked out. Whew! Brian slept the rest of the evening, not even stirring when I pulled his boots off and stuffed his feet in his sleeping bag about nine. Around midnight, he did wake up for a few minutes, so I had him stand in the tent doorway and well, "go" into the night and the rain. Good thing, since he had a full bladder and would certainly have had an accident by morning. I can't believe I'm going to post this stuff on the 'net, but I wanted to give a flavor of what it is like to be Brians companion in the mountains for a week, and keeping track of his bladder and bowel is certainly part of it.DAY FIVE: Roused Brian at 8:00 for breakfast, which he ate and promptly went back to sleep. Very un-Brian. He is usually up with the sun. If he was exausted, you would think it would have happened after the first two days when he had been under pack, not after the easy ramble of yesterday. My guess is that he had a bug or something, but once again, he can't tell me anything, and he seemed to feel better after his sixteen hour snore. We pulled out of Five Point about 11:30, just heading back a couple of miles to an unnamed lake about a half-mile off of the trail. Arrived just in time to take shelter under the pines from a tremendous hailstorm. It accumulated about a half-inch on the ground in twenty minutes. Brian seemed a bit confused but not worried. Remember, he likes to have a coat on. His hands were getting wet and cold, so I stuck a couple of mitts on them, which he seemed to appreciate. In fact, he was upset when I took them off a few hours later despite a warm sun. We found one of those perfect camps by this lake-a flat waist level rock for a kitchen, tons of down wood for a fire, sheltered flat tent site,-the works! Around 6:00, the clouds cleared out to beautiful dinner/fishing/sunset weather. I fixed up a batch of brownies for desert. Brownies always taste great, but five days from the road, there is nothing to compare! (Except the treat on day seven, maybe. But thats a paragraph or two away.) One last try at fishing, where I was officially skunked for the week. After the fire, Brian and I sat in the tent door and watched the stars come out. He may not have understood as I pointed out the three whole constellations that I knew-both dippers and Orion-but he sat placidly and looked at the night sky for the better part of an hour. It was another one of those semi-magical moments where he seems more in my world than in the Autistic universe he usually inhabits. The night was the coldest of the week, so I made sure he had on a jacket, as he tends to creep out of his sleeping bag in the night. I snuggled deep into mine, and slept like a rock. DAY SIX: Time to start heading back towards civilization. (Sigh) Spent the day retracing the same rocky trails that gave us so much trouble the first day. No pressure to get to a particular goal, so I let Brian set his own pace. He obliged, averaging just under a mile an hour. The boulder field that was so hard going down was even more fun going up. I understand that these trails would pose little problem for a young, fit backpacker, but for Brian, the rocky inclines are a major obstacle. We did find a fine campsite to spend the night. Right at timberline, with a snowmelt stream for water and a panoramic view down into the canyon of the Yellowstone River for a picture window. It had only been used a few times judging from the state of the camp. After a sunny day, a shower shows up just as I am fixing dinner, so we down our biscuits in the rain and head for the tent for the rest of the evening. It rains until just past midnight.DAY SEVEN: Today is Sunday, and as such will be our day of rest. After a relaxed pancake breakfast, I spend the morning reading scriptures, contemplating my place in Gods universe, and enjoying being with my son. Brian seems to really like our cathederal of pines, he just wanders around the grove, bellowing happily from time to time. The morning is cloudy, but grows fair as the day passes-the opposite of a typical Uinta pattern. Fixed a treat for lunch-Chocolate Chip cookies! The aroma drives the natives wild. Two magpies start hanging around, just waiting for me to turn my back, while a squadron of kamikazee chipmunks sends scouts dashing right at my kitchen rock. The only solution seems to be to eat all the cookies as swiftly as possible, so Brian and I dedicate ourselves to this ardous task, which we presently complete. Temptation elimintated, the local color blends back into the rocks, so I decide to wander up to the top of the bald ridge above our camp. Great view from the top both up into the basin and down to the meadows where our Jeep awaits in the morning. In fact, I think I can just see the trailhead and our car at the far end of the binoculars resolution. Any fantasies that we are the first to trod up here, however, are dispelled by the appearance of a tattered orange flag at the high spot in the ridge (Surveyors?), and a windbreak/small campsite constructed in a spot of krumholz pine. Oh well, it was a nice delusion while it lasted. Dinner and the evening turn wistful as I talk to Brian, telling his how much I enjoy doing this with him. He comes over and gives my dirty hair a big sniff, then giggles. Good old BJ.DAY EIGHT: A clear night, so I take the rainfly off of the tent so I can just pack it up in the morning without airing it out. A fast breakfast of cold cereal, and we are headed out by 8:00. Within a half-mile, we are clear of the rocky terrain and back into the meadows and open forest. Without the weight of the weeks worth of food, Brian makes much better time, but his dad keeps stopping for "rests", not wanting this sojurn in the wilderness to end. But shortly after ten, a flash of green metal thru the trees tells us that we are back to the trailhead and our Jeep. There are two large, horsemounted parties of bowhunters preparing to head in, and we pass a couple more on the drive down the canyon. This week will be a bit more crowded than last with the beginning of hunting season. After a week of navigating by map and compass, we actually get lost for a little while among the farm roads above Duschene! But shortly after noon, I am parked in front of a gas station, calling my wife and daughter to let them know we are safe, and grabbing a couple of sodas before the two hour drive back to Orem and my family. The soda tastes good, but I can't help but compare it unfavorably to ice-cold snowmelt. Like every trip, it was a wonderful, magical time. With enough time in the mountains with Brian, I can handle just about anything civilization cares to dish out.Lorin Johnaka "Buzzard"
Feb.-March 2005 (Written 2005)
Personal recollections of February-March 2005
I was released from LDS hospital on January 25th. Keith and Gloria gave me a ride home. It felt wonderful to be out of the hospital environment, where my whole world was first my room, then later the floor of the hospital my room was on. I did not however, enjoy being tethered to an oxygen bottle. It made me feel like a decrepit old fogy.
My first night home, I tried to lie down in my bed, next to Julie, but immediately started coughing and bringing up copious amounts of mucous. After about 15 minutes of this, Julie told me that as much as she wanted to lie next to me, she had to go to work in the morning, and could not sleep with my hacking nonstop, so I debouched to the adjacent bedroom, where I coughed and gagged half the night.
The next day, with Julie at work and Chantal at school, I was determined to begin my rehabilitation. But a short walk around the block, pushing that oxygen bottle, left me exhausted. I did not realize how much my capabilities had atrophied. In a month, I had gone from a reasonably strong specimen to someone who was winded climbing a flight of stairs.
I had anticipated a short recovery, with a re-entry to the hospital for surgery within about two weeks. But a visit with Dr. Pearl a little over a week later kyboshed those plans. I was still bringing up a lot of mucous, especially at night, and he informed me that surgery would be postponed until the flow all but stopped, which would tell him that my lungs were healed enough to tolerate the surgery. What a downer. I just wanted to get healthy, get back to work, and get on with my life. Now I found out that I would be spending at least the month of February sitting at home.
I did resolve to get stronger. Within a week, I was able to do a half-mile on the treadmill at the gym. The first time I went I dragged that old oxygen bottle along on its cart, but felt so self-conscious that I went home and figured how to put it in a backpack, so even though I had the tube sticking in my nose, at least the bottle proper was hidden from view. I told myself that from a distance I would look like a hiker in training.
About the middle of February, my Oxygen saturation improved to the point that I could ditch the bottle during the day, though I still had to be hooked up at night. Most importantly, my mucous flow was slowing and my strength was slowly returning. At the end of the month, I was cleared for surgery. It was hard to believe that I was looking forward to getting sliced and diced, but I knew that getting the tumors out was critical. As Dr. Collins told me during our pre-op visit, there was a one to two percent chance of death from the surgery. Then seeing my shocked looked, he told me that the chance of eventual death from cancer if I did not have the procedure was one hundred percent. Touché.
I had no memory of entering the hospital the first time, though I remember thinking that they would give me some tests, give me some pills that would make me feel better, and send me on my way. It didn’t quite turn out that way of course. But as I prepared to enter the hospital for the second time, I felt good, had a clear understanding of what was ahead of me, and was confident in the skills of my doctors. I honestly thought that it would be a fairly simple procedure. Shows you how much I don’t know about medicine.
I checked into the hospital the afternoon before my surgery about 1:00. By 5:00 I had done all the paperwork, been X-rayed, had enough blood drawn to satisfy a vampire, and was settled in my room, watching TV and eating dinner. Kind of like a very spartan hotel, though a bit pricier than your nearby Comfort Inn. Knowing that after midnight, I would have no food for 12-24 hours, I indulged in a late night snack of a sandwich and a dish of ice cream before hitting the light around 11.
At 5:00 the next morning, the light came on and I was confronted by a guy with a shaver. But this was no assault; my entire right side had to be shaved clean. Actually, his instructions were to shave my left side, but I grabbed a felt tip from him, wrote “don’t cut here” on my left flank, and “cut this side” on my right. He double checked with the nursing staff, who confirmed that his initial instructions were erroneous. As hairy as I am, it was an odd sight to see half my chest shaved clean, while the other side stayed gorilla-like.
Shortly after he left, my family came to visit until at about 8:00, a nurse came to put me on a gurney for the trip to the operating room. She gave me a pill to get me started on my long spiral down into anesthesia. I was told it would make me forget everything, that I would not even remember this conversation. Ha! I still remember, as well as recalling my ride through the elevators and halls of LDS, though I was now starting to get fairly, well, relaxed. The last thing I remember was being wheeled into the operating suite and thinking that it was a mess. There were machines and instruments everywhere, pushed back against the walls of the room.
The next thing I knew I was waking up in surgical ICU, and noticing that the clock on the wall said 4:00. I was informed that what was supposed to be a fairly straightforward procedure lasting under three hours had turned out to be a bit more complicated than planned and had taken over six hours. When the bill arrived from the hospital, I had been billed for 415 minutes in the surgical suite, or almost seven hours from entry to exit. (I wonder if they punched a time clock or had an orderly there with a stopwatch)? Shortly afterward, Dr. Collins came by to see me. He explained that instead of two collapsed but intact lung lobes that they had expected to remove, he found unidentifiable tissue plastered against my chest wall. The extra time it had taken in surgery was caused by the necessity of scraping it off, bit by bit. He also told me it was rotting and stunk to high heavens. I surmise that is what caused my pneumonia in January, since having dead, rotten tissue inside your innards is not exactly sanitary. He had sent the tissue to Pathology to be tested for cancer, but told me he did not see any obvious tumors. Apparently I was a unique enough case that they gathered up a couple of residents to scrub up and come on in and take a look at my blood and guts. I hope you are not reading this before dinner.
That evening, the nurses tried to get me sitting up in a nearby chair. However, my blood pressure dropped through the floor and I started feeling decidedly woozy. They hustled me back into bed, where I slept the night away.
Late the next morning, I had stabilized to the point that I was transferred out of ICU into a standard room. Based on my January stay, I thought that meant that I would be able to get out of bed and walk around. However, this time I had so many tubes sticking in and out of me that leaving my bed was out of the question. Bummer. I was draining lovely pink fluid through a pair of chest tubes protruding from my lower torso, had an epidural pain killer needle in my back, several IV’s in my arm and neck, and probably a few tubes I don’t remember. The right side of my torso was also taped together and bandaged. I was also more than a little hungry, since almost 36 hours had passed since I last ate. At least they didn’t stick a #*&^!!! feeding tube up my nose. I was actually given real food to eat for lunch, which lifted my spirits considerably.
When my family came to visit me, I noted a difference between their January visits and their March ones. In January, everyone was genuinely worried about my prognosis. Okay, I admit I had given them more than enough to fret about. In March, they wanted to know how I was doing, but the worry was gone. It was nice to visit with Julie, who in January often could not emotionally handle visits of more than 10 minutes or so, but who came and sat with me for hours in March. My parents also were much more relaxed this round.
The only thing was, I was hurting a lot more. In January I was weak, struggling at times for breath, and unable to walk more than a few dozen yards without assistance. But I was essentially pain free, except for a pulled muscle or two caused by coughing. After my surgery, once the pain meds wore off, I was not in agony but was definitely uncomfortable. Any time I coughed, the pain from my incision was excruciating. When I wasn’t coughing, it was more of a dull ache, but not something I was enjoying.
A day or so after the surgery, I was taken to physical therapy, which was a treadmill and a short set of stairs. Most of the Thoracic surgery patients had been in for open heart operations and could only manage a very slow pace on the treadmill. I was constantly pushing to go faster than the program called for. Once the nurses on duty could see that I was not winded by the more careful pace, they did bend the protocol a bit. It felt good to be moving and exercising, even though I was tethered to several instruments still hanging from my “Christmas tree”.
One by one, these IV’s, monitors, etc…were removed, until the last two days in the hospital I could finally get up and walk freely around the room and hospital. Even though my side still was an obvious patch job, I was off the epidural and on oral pain medication. Unless I coughed, I felt pretty good. The pathology report had come back with no living cancerous tissue in the gunk they had scraped out of me. Apparently, other than the tumor that Dr. Pearl lasered out in January, in collapsing my lungs over a year ago, the cancer had cut off its own blood supply and engineered it’s own demise, though I will need to have bronchoscope every six months for the next five years and annually thereafter in perpetuity ensure no return of the cancer.
After a week and a day, I headed home to continue my recovery. My parents came and stayed with me for several days, but I turned out to not be as helpless as everyone imagined, though now sporting a nice ugly “I wonder what happened to him” scar. In fact, just the day after I came home from the hospital, I went on a four mile walk with my dad, though we did take about two hours to complete it. Five weeks after leaving LDS hospital, I was snowshoeing up Big Cottonwood canyon, catching the end of the winter that I had mainly glimpsed from my hospital and bedroom windows. As I write this, I have gained back about ten of the thirty pounds that I lost in January, (boo/hiss), but feel great and am in better shape than I have been in years. Nothing like almost buying the farm to give you an incentive to get to the gym/pool/mountains and move your kiester.
I do not know what else to add except that I am grateful for the love and support of my family, both immediate and extended, as well as to my Heavenly Father for the restoration of my health and vitality. Hopefully, I won’t have another episode like this for another 46 years or so.
Lorin (July 2005)
I was released from LDS hospital on January 25th. Keith and Gloria gave me a ride home. It felt wonderful to be out of the hospital environment, where my whole world was first my room, then later the floor of the hospital my room was on. I did not however, enjoy being tethered to an oxygen bottle. It made me feel like a decrepit old fogy.
My first night home, I tried to lie down in my bed, next to Julie, but immediately started coughing and bringing up copious amounts of mucous. After about 15 minutes of this, Julie told me that as much as she wanted to lie next to me, she had to go to work in the morning, and could not sleep with my hacking nonstop, so I debouched to the adjacent bedroom, where I coughed and gagged half the night.
The next day, with Julie at work and Chantal at school, I was determined to begin my rehabilitation. But a short walk around the block, pushing that oxygen bottle, left me exhausted. I did not realize how much my capabilities had atrophied. In a month, I had gone from a reasonably strong specimen to someone who was winded climbing a flight of stairs.
I had anticipated a short recovery, with a re-entry to the hospital for surgery within about two weeks. But a visit with Dr. Pearl a little over a week later kyboshed those plans. I was still bringing up a lot of mucous, especially at night, and he informed me that surgery would be postponed until the flow all but stopped, which would tell him that my lungs were healed enough to tolerate the surgery. What a downer. I just wanted to get healthy, get back to work, and get on with my life. Now I found out that I would be spending at least the month of February sitting at home.
I did resolve to get stronger. Within a week, I was able to do a half-mile on the treadmill at the gym. The first time I went I dragged that old oxygen bottle along on its cart, but felt so self-conscious that I went home and figured how to put it in a backpack, so even though I had the tube sticking in my nose, at least the bottle proper was hidden from view. I told myself that from a distance I would look like a hiker in training.
About the middle of February, my Oxygen saturation improved to the point that I could ditch the bottle during the day, though I still had to be hooked up at night. Most importantly, my mucous flow was slowing and my strength was slowly returning. At the end of the month, I was cleared for surgery. It was hard to believe that I was looking forward to getting sliced and diced, but I knew that getting the tumors out was critical. As Dr. Collins told me during our pre-op visit, there was a one to two percent chance of death from the surgery. Then seeing my shocked looked, he told me that the chance of eventual death from cancer if I did not have the procedure was one hundred percent. Touché.
I had no memory of entering the hospital the first time, though I remember thinking that they would give me some tests, give me some pills that would make me feel better, and send me on my way. It didn’t quite turn out that way of course. But as I prepared to enter the hospital for the second time, I felt good, had a clear understanding of what was ahead of me, and was confident in the skills of my doctors. I honestly thought that it would be a fairly simple procedure. Shows you how much I don’t know about medicine.
I checked into the hospital the afternoon before my surgery about 1:00. By 5:00 I had done all the paperwork, been X-rayed, had enough blood drawn to satisfy a vampire, and was settled in my room, watching TV and eating dinner. Kind of like a very spartan hotel, though a bit pricier than your nearby Comfort Inn. Knowing that after midnight, I would have no food for 12-24 hours, I indulged in a late night snack of a sandwich and a dish of ice cream before hitting the light around 11.
At 5:00 the next morning, the light came on and I was confronted by a guy with a shaver. But this was no assault; my entire right side had to be shaved clean. Actually, his instructions were to shave my left side, but I grabbed a felt tip from him, wrote “don’t cut here” on my left flank, and “cut this side” on my right. He double checked with the nursing staff, who confirmed that his initial instructions were erroneous. As hairy as I am, it was an odd sight to see half my chest shaved clean, while the other side stayed gorilla-like.
Shortly after he left, my family came to visit until at about 8:00, a nurse came to put me on a gurney for the trip to the operating room. She gave me a pill to get me started on my long spiral down into anesthesia. I was told it would make me forget everything, that I would not even remember this conversation. Ha! I still remember, as well as recalling my ride through the elevators and halls of LDS, though I was now starting to get fairly, well, relaxed. The last thing I remember was being wheeled into the operating suite and thinking that it was a mess. There were machines and instruments everywhere, pushed back against the walls of the room.
The next thing I knew I was waking up in surgical ICU, and noticing that the clock on the wall said 4:00. I was informed that what was supposed to be a fairly straightforward procedure lasting under three hours had turned out to be a bit more complicated than planned and had taken over six hours. When the bill arrived from the hospital, I had been billed for 415 minutes in the surgical suite, or almost seven hours from entry to exit. (I wonder if they punched a time clock or had an orderly there with a stopwatch)? Shortly afterward, Dr. Collins came by to see me. He explained that instead of two collapsed but intact lung lobes that they had expected to remove, he found unidentifiable tissue plastered against my chest wall. The extra time it had taken in surgery was caused by the necessity of scraping it off, bit by bit. He also told me it was rotting and stunk to high heavens. I surmise that is what caused my pneumonia in January, since having dead, rotten tissue inside your innards is not exactly sanitary. He had sent the tissue to Pathology to be tested for cancer, but told me he did not see any obvious tumors. Apparently I was a unique enough case that they gathered up a couple of residents to scrub up and come on in and take a look at my blood and guts. I hope you are not reading this before dinner.
That evening, the nurses tried to get me sitting up in a nearby chair. However, my blood pressure dropped through the floor and I started feeling decidedly woozy. They hustled me back into bed, where I slept the night away.
Late the next morning, I had stabilized to the point that I was transferred out of ICU into a standard room. Based on my January stay, I thought that meant that I would be able to get out of bed and walk around. However, this time I had so many tubes sticking in and out of me that leaving my bed was out of the question. Bummer. I was draining lovely pink fluid through a pair of chest tubes protruding from my lower torso, had an epidural pain killer needle in my back, several IV’s in my arm and neck, and probably a few tubes I don’t remember. The right side of my torso was also taped together and bandaged. I was also more than a little hungry, since almost 36 hours had passed since I last ate. At least they didn’t stick a #*&^!!! feeding tube up my nose. I was actually given real food to eat for lunch, which lifted my spirits considerably.
When my family came to visit me, I noted a difference between their January visits and their March ones. In January, everyone was genuinely worried about my prognosis. Okay, I admit I had given them more than enough to fret about. In March, they wanted to know how I was doing, but the worry was gone. It was nice to visit with Julie, who in January often could not emotionally handle visits of more than 10 minutes or so, but who came and sat with me for hours in March. My parents also were much more relaxed this round.
The only thing was, I was hurting a lot more. In January I was weak, struggling at times for breath, and unable to walk more than a few dozen yards without assistance. But I was essentially pain free, except for a pulled muscle or two caused by coughing. After my surgery, once the pain meds wore off, I was not in agony but was definitely uncomfortable. Any time I coughed, the pain from my incision was excruciating. When I wasn’t coughing, it was more of a dull ache, but not something I was enjoying.
A day or so after the surgery, I was taken to physical therapy, which was a treadmill and a short set of stairs. Most of the Thoracic surgery patients had been in for open heart operations and could only manage a very slow pace on the treadmill. I was constantly pushing to go faster than the program called for. Once the nurses on duty could see that I was not winded by the more careful pace, they did bend the protocol a bit. It felt good to be moving and exercising, even though I was tethered to several instruments still hanging from my “Christmas tree”.
One by one, these IV’s, monitors, etc…were removed, until the last two days in the hospital I could finally get up and walk freely around the room and hospital. Even though my side still was an obvious patch job, I was off the epidural and on oral pain medication. Unless I coughed, I felt pretty good. The pathology report had come back with no living cancerous tissue in the gunk they had scraped out of me. Apparently, other than the tumor that Dr. Pearl lasered out in January, in collapsing my lungs over a year ago, the cancer had cut off its own blood supply and engineered it’s own demise, though I will need to have bronchoscope every six months for the next five years and annually thereafter in perpetuity ensure no return of the cancer.
After a week and a day, I headed home to continue my recovery. My parents came and stayed with me for several days, but I turned out to not be as helpless as everyone imagined, though now sporting a nice ugly “I wonder what happened to him” scar. In fact, just the day after I came home from the hospital, I went on a four mile walk with my dad, though we did take about two hours to complete it. Five weeks after leaving LDS hospital, I was snowshoeing up Big Cottonwood canyon, catching the end of the winter that I had mainly glimpsed from my hospital and bedroom windows. As I write this, I have gained back about ten of the thirty pounds that I lost in January, (boo/hiss), but feel great and am in better shape than I have been in years. Nothing like almost buying the farm to give you an incentive to get to the gym/pool/mountains and move your kiester.
I do not know what else to add except that I am grateful for the love and support of my family, both immediate and extended, as well as to my Heavenly Father for the restoration of my health and vitality. Hopefully, I won’t have another episode like this for another 46 years or so.
Lorin (July 2005)
Christmas 2003
If you asked me what I received and what I gave for Christmas presents more than a year ago, I would have a hard time remembering. There might be a keepsake or something unique-the navy blue wool throw in the family room with “BYU” embroidered on it, for example. But to try to remember which shirt, which tie, even which grownup toy was a Christmas present and which was a simple purchase or gift on another occasion, and you are likely to get a lot of head scratching on my part. But if you look in our downstairs closet, there are two gifts from Christmas 2003 which I will always remember, as well as a third gift both given and received that same year you will not find in a closet, but which remains a memorable gift as well.
December 2003 was a time of transition for my family. A career of twenty-two years had come to a close in October; I was looking for work, but no prospects in sight. Immediate starvation was not a concern, we had some reserves, and while Christmas was not going to be extra generous, there was some money for a few things, especially for the kids. Our daughter had given us a teenager’s typewritten list, nearly a page, prioritized from “I will die if I don’t get this” to “If you have enough money, I want this too”. I honestly cannot remember a single item from this list, though I am certain a fair amount of loot was claimed.
Our son, Brian, gave us no list. Brian did not make lists, or ask for toys or clothes or video games. Brian marched to his own drummer, whose rhythm only he could hear. A couch pillow to sniff, a stick to tap his chin with, a burger to eat/demolish was all that Brian required in the way of worldly goods. Christmas presents for Brian were practical, as a purchase of a toy would be a waste of time and money. And so our two presents for Brian reflected his needs: A new backpack to take to his day program to be filled with lunch and a change of clothing in case he had an accident, and a new pair of hiking boots to replace the old pair which had been worn into oblivion-Brian would not wear low cut shoes, only boots, so we just changed his footwear out every couple of years for something close to identical.
My parents had invited us to spend Christmas week with them at their time share in Arizona. This would be the first Christmas week in over two decades spent away from the cacophony of retail sales. Christmas for me had meant long hours, chaotic scrambles, and one-day sales four days a week. I joked that I enjoyed the Christmas rush, but that I could only stand this much fun once a year.
Trying to find employment in the retail field in December is an exercise in futility. I was not worried that a week away from the job hunt would do any damage, so we accepted the invitation and drove off to a condo complex somewhere north of Phoenix. I could say that the entire week was a magical memory, but that would not be totally true. We enjoyed my parents company, Brian, my father, and I climbed a small cactus-studded mountain out back of town, and all of us but Julie, who was sick, drove to Mesa to see the Christmas lights on the grounds of the Mesa temple. We had a toothpick dinner Christmas Eve, (an old John family tradition), opened presents Christmas morning, and spent time visiting with each other. But both Julie and I spent much of the week sick, and Brian, well, Brian was just being Brian, but with six of us in a small condo, his behaviors and “tricks” conspired to get on everyone’s nerves. When my mother would shoo him out of the kitchen, he would merely loop around to the other entrance and make a run at whatever food he was after from the rear. I did my best to keep him out of trouble, but not feeling good myself, this meant a lot of time spent up in his room watching TV with a dresser across the door to prevent an escape.
The day after Christmas, we headed home. It had been an unusual and enjoyable Christmas, though nothing too spectacular. Chantal enjoyed reading her new books- I don’t remember which ones, but we always got her books- Julie slept most of the way home, and Brian made noises and looked out the window at the passing desert, his new backpack and boots tucked away in the luggage.
In preparation for his going back to his day program the next Monday, Julie laid out some new clothes for him the night before and tucked socks into his new boots. She transferred his spare clothes from his old tattered pack to his new one and wrote his name on it in marker so it would not get lost. His lunch was in the fridge, all ready to be slipped into the pack on the way out the door.
But Brian did not make it to school that day. He awoke, as usual, in the pre-dawn hours, tried to rustle some food, and drank several glasses of water, but then laid down on the couch of his own accord about 6:30. Faced with an unexpected bonus of a little sleep, I slipped off to my own room for an hour.
At 7:30 I awoke. Brian’s bus would be here about 8:00, and he still needed some breakfast and to get dressed. I found him on the floor, spread-eagled next to the Christmas tree, and immediately realized that he had had a seizure.
That was not a big problem; he had seizures from time to time, slept them off, and seemed none the worse for wear. He did seem rather unresponsive as I shepherded him into his bed, but I knew the drill. He would sleep like a log for a few hours, then awake and be his usual self.
When the bus driver came by, we told him Brian would not be going today, but would need picked up tomorrow. The new clothes, boots and backpack were tucked away, their inaugural use delayed for 24 hours.
A few hours later, while checking on Brian, I saw him exhale and then-nothing. 911 was called, Paramedics arrived, a mad dash to the hospital was followed by 30 agonizing, prayerful minutes while they worked on our son in the ER, and then he was gone. We were allowed a few minutes with him, but I was soon called away to answer a few questions, and when I returned, he was cold and I could sense that all that was left was his mortal body. The son who both drove me nuts with his behaviors and melted my heart with his affection and innocence was no longer on this earth.
Though numb, we made some preliminary arrangements, and then picked up Chantal from her volunteer position at the library. She had no idea of the events of the past few hours, so the shock was as bad for her as it had been for us.
When we telephoned my parents a short time later, I relayed the news to my mother. She cried out in dismay, then through her tears thanked me for the gift having Brian spend what turned out to be nearly his last days with her and my father. It was a gift I had not intended to give, but one that both my parents and I will remember long after whatever purchased gifts were exchanged are consumed, disposed of, and forgotten.
We eventually gave away most of Brian’s worldly possessions. His clothes, for the most part, went to the local thrift shop. He didn’t have toys; I gave most of his camping gear to the local scout troop after we moved to Utah, where I have had the pleasure of seeing young men toting his pack and climbing into his sleeping bag. They have no sense of the places that gear has gone or the adventures it has seen, but I do. However, a few of his things just hurt to much to give away- a favorite jacket, his Sunday clothes, and still sitting on the top shelf of the downstairs closet, a brand new blue daypack with “Brian John” and our California phone number neatly written on the back, right next to a pair of unused LL Bean Light Hikers, boys size 6, dark brown, waiting for feet that will never fill them, Christmas gifts that I will remember giving when the trinkets and dress shirts and sundry other gifts are worn out and faded from memory, along with the gift of one last visit with loved ones who were as unaware at the time of the receipt of this gift as I was of it’s giving.
December 2003 was a time of transition for my family. A career of twenty-two years had come to a close in October; I was looking for work, but no prospects in sight. Immediate starvation was not a concern, we had some reserves, and while Christmas was not going to be extra generous, there was some money for a few things, especially for the kids. Our daughter had given us a teenager’s typewritten list, nearly a page, prioritized from “I will die if I don’t get this” to “If you have enough money, I want this too”. I honestly cannot remember a single item from this list, though I am certain a fair amount of loot was claimed.
Our son, Brian, gave us no list. Brian did not make lists, or ask for toys or clothes or video games. Brian marched to his own drummer, whose rhythm only he could hear. A couch pillow to sniff, a stick to tap his chin with, a burger to eat/demolish was all that Brian required in the way of worldly goods. Christmas presents for Brian were practical, as a purchase of a toy would be a waste of time and money. And so our two presents for Brian reflected his needs: A new backpack to take to his day program to be filled with lunch and a change of clothing in case he had an accident, and a new pair of hiking boots to replace the old pair which had been worn into oblivion-Brian would not wear low cut shoes, only boots, so we just changed his footwear out every couple of years for something close to identical.
My parents had invited us to spend Christmas week with them at their time share in Arizona. This would be the first Christmas week in over two decades spent away from the cacophony of retail sales. Christmas for me had meant long hours, chaotic scrambles, and one-day sales four days a week. I joked that I enjoyed the Christmas rush, but that I could only stand this much fun once a year.
Trying to find employment in the retail field in December is an exercise in futility. I was not worried that a week away from the job hunt would do any damage, so we accepted the invitation and drove off to a condo complex somewhere north of Phoenix. I could say that the entire week was a magical memory, but that would not be totally true. We enjoyed my parents company, Brian, my father, and I climbed a small cactus-studded mountain out back of town, and all of us but Julie, who was sick, drove to Mesa to see the Christmas lights on the grounds of the Mesa temple. We had a toothpick dinner Christmas Eve, (an old John family tradition), opened presents Christmas morning, and spent time visiting with each other. But both Julie and I spent much of the week sick, and Brian, well, Brian was just being Brian, but with six of us in a small condo, his behaviors and “tricks” conspired to get on everyone’s nerves. When my mother would shoo him out of the kitchen, he would merely loop around to the other entrance and make a run at whatever food he was after from the rear. I did my best to keep him out of trouble, but not feeling good myself, this meant a lot of time spent up in his room watching TV with a dresser across the door to prevent an escape.
The day after Christmas, we headed home. It had been an unusual and enjoyable Christmas, though nothing too spectacular. Chantal enjoyed reading her new books- I don’t remember which ones, but we always got her books- Julie slept most of the way home, and Brian made noises and looked out the window at the passing desert, his new backpack and boots tucked away in the luggage.
In preparation for his going back to his day program the next Monday, Julie laid out some new clothes for him the night before and tucked socks into his new boots. She transferred his spare clothes from his old tattered pack to his new one and wrote his name on it in marker so it would not get lost. His lunch was in the fridge, all ready to be slipped into the pack on the way out the door.
But Brian did not make it to school that day. He awoke, as usual, in the pre-dawn hours, tried to rustle some food, and drank several glasses of water, but then laid down on the couch of his own accord about 6:30. Faced with an unexpected bonus of a little sleep, I slipped off to my own room for an hour.
At 7:30 I awoke. Brian’s bus would be here about 8:00, and he still needed some breakfast and to get dressed. I found him on the floor, spread-eagled next to the Christmas tree, and immediately realized that he had had a seizure.
That was not a big problem; he had seizures from time to time, slept them off, and seemed none the worse for wear. He did seem rather unresponsive as I shepherded him into his bed, but I knew the drill. He would sleep like a log for a few hours, then awake and be his usual self.
When the bus driver came by, we told him Brian would not be going today, but would need picked up tomorrow. The new clothes, boots and backpack were tucked away, their inaugural use delayed for 24 hours.
A few hours later, while checking on Brian, I saw him exhale and then-nothing. 911 was called, Paramedics arrived, a mad dash to the hospital was followed by 30 agonizing, prayerful minutes while they worked on our son in the ER, and then he was gone. We were allowed a few minutes with him, but I was soon called away to answer a few questions, and when I returned, he was cold and I could sense that all that was left was his mortal body. The son who both drove me nuts with his behaviors and melted my heart with his affection and innocence was no longer on this earth.
Though numb, we made some preliminary arrangements, and then picked up Chantal from her volunteer position at the library. She had no idea of the events of the past few hours, so the shock was as bad for her as it had been for us.
When we telephoned my parents a short time later, I relayed the news to my mother. She cried out in dismay, then through her tears thanked me for the gift having Brian spend what turned out to be nearly his last days with her and my father. It was a gift I had not intended to give, but one that both my parents and I will remember long after whatever purchased gifts were exchanged are consumed, disposed of, and forgotten.
We eventually gave away most of Brian’s worldly possessions. His clothes, for the most part, went to the local thrift shop. He didn’t have toys; I gave most of his camping gear to the local scout troop after we moved to Utah, where I have had the pleasure of seeing young men toting his pack and climbing into his sleeping bag. They have no sense of the places that gear has gone or the adventures it has seen, but I do. However, a few of his things just hurt to much to give away- a favorite jacket, his Sunday clothes, and still sitting on the top shelf of the downstairs closet, a brand new blue daypack with “Brian John” and our California phone number neatly written on the back, right next to a pair of unused LL Bean Light Hikers, boys size 6, dark brown, waiting for feet that will never fill them, Christmas gifts that I will remember giving when the trinkets and dress shirts and sundry other gifts are worn out and faded from memory, along with the gift of one last visit with loved ones who were as unaware at the time of the receipt of this gift as I was of it’s giving.
The second lake in
I went on a hike Saturday. If you know me, you know that I like-love-to get out in the mountains. One of the great things about the Wasatch is that you live at the feet of real honest-to-goodness-snow-on-top mountains. Anyway, 40 minutes from my front door, I was heading up the trail towards Silver Lake up American Fork Canyon. The trailhead was at Silver Flats lake, which was almost drained and well, ugly. ATV's all around (ever noticed how skinny folks on ATV's are as rare as obese hikers?), but a nice trail headed up into the aspen. I passed several groups of scouts coming back from Silver Lake, they were happy because they had had a nice campout and most had caught fish.
Silver Lake was set in a spectacular bowl, but it is also a resivour, and this being mid-september, it was also largely drained. There were several folks fishing, and some just enjoying the scenery. A few fire rings and well-used campsites lined the shore. It was not ugly, but it was not pristine.
But that day I had not come to see Silver Lake. After a brief rest, I shot a bearing and headed up the slope. No trail, but I could pick my way through the aspens and granite. Each time I crested what I thought was the ridgetop, there was another slope, another top. But finally, after an hour of fairly strenous climbing for a chubby old guy, I caught a glimpse of shiny water. This was Silver Glance lake-the second lake in. No campsites, no irrigation-driven drawdown, only a faint use trail to indicate that I was not the first one ever to see it. And I was alone. And what a treasure of a little lake it was, tucked beneath the granite of the mountain, ringed by grass and pines and rock. I enjoyed the lake and the solitude while I ate my lunch, then headed back down to the crowds at the first lake in. I did see some moose in the beaver ponds below the lake. It was a nice day.
Like most people, my life has been one of making the effort to get to the first lake(at least I'm not sitting on my behind at the trailhead, eating an oversized lunch on my ATV and irritated that I cannot go up hiking trail on it). It's on those rare occaisions that I make the effort to get to the second lake that the real reward has come. And I am not talking just about hiking.
Silver Lake was set in a spectacular bowl, but it is also a resivour, and this being mid-september, it was also largely drained. There were several folks fishing, and some just enjoying the scenery. A few fire rings and well-used campsites lined the shore. It was not ugly, but it was not pristine.
But that day I had not come to see Silver Lake. After a brief rest, I shot a bearing and headed up the slope. No trail, but I could pick my way through the aspens and granite. Each time I crested what I thought was the ridgetop, there was another slope, another top. But finally, after an hour of fairly strenous climbing for a chubby old guy, I caught a glimpse of shiny water. This was Silver Glance lake-the second lake in. No campsites, no irrigation-driven drawdown, only a faint use trail to indicate that I was not the first one ever to see it. And I was alone. And what a treasure of a little lake it was, tucked beneath the granite of the mountain, ringed by grass and pines and rock. I enjoyed the lake and the solitude while I ate my lunch, then headed back down to the crowds at the first lake in. I did see some moose in the beaver ponds below the lake. It was a nice day.
Like most people, my life has been one of making the effort to get to the first lake(at least I'm not sitting on my behind at the trailhead, eating an oversized lunch on my ATV and irritated that I cannot go up hiking trail on it). It's on those rare occaisions that I make the effort to get to the second lake that the real reward has come. And I am not talking just about hiking.
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