Fruits of Our Labor

A half hour before my mother’s funeral was to start, I stood in the Relief Society room with a host of others who mourned her loss. Tears were plentiful and hearts were saddened by her departure. As I stood and bowed my head solemnly, a sister whom I had never met approached me with a friendly smile, and asked warmly, “Can I share a story with you about your mother?” 

 The story that she told took place nearly 50 years earlier, before I was born. My mother had small children. She and her family lived in a very small and remote area in Northern Arizona. Here my father forged a living in the logging industry. It was a rustic life. It would be another 20 years before power lines came to this secluded community. In their small home, if water was needed, it was hand-pumped from a well outside. The luxury of a refrigerator was only a dream. One of the few luxuries my mother enjoyed was a gasoline-powered washing machine. 

In this setting, there was not a ward or a branch of the church nearby. The nearest meetinghouse was three hours away over very rough dirt roads. Attending church on Sundays wasn’t practical. While my mother didn’t mind doing without modern conveniences, she sorely missed the blessings of church activity. With a desire to raise her children in the gospel, she sought permission from her bishop to hold primary in her home. 

There were two other LDS families in the community. Every Wednesday after school, all the LDS children in the community gathered in my mother’s living room. With the help of two other sisters, meetings were conducted, prayers were said, music was sung and gospel lessons were taught to the eager children. 

Amongst the small community, the word quickly spread of the “Mormon primary.” Soon non-member children were attending as well. To the nonmember children, my mother gave the option of memorizing the Ten Commandments, rather than the Articles of Faith. But no, they all insisted on learning the Articles of Faith, just like the Mormon kids. The gospel was taught. The Spirit was felt. 

The good sister who shared this story with me paused as she conveyed her thoughts. It was with heart-warming emotion that she said, “I didn’t join the church until I was much older, in my 30’s. But I was introduced to the gospel as a child, by your mother, in that little Mormon primary many years ago.” She then told of two of her siblings who attended primary with her and also were baptized into the church later in life. My heart swelled with gratitude for the example of a wonderful mother, and for the good sister who shared her experience with me. 

(Note: This was submitted for publication in the Ensign Magazine Dec 17, 2009. Though it is unlikely to be accepted, the experience stands as a testament to my mother's faith and diligence.)

CIA Operative?

In recent months I have come under suspicion, with accusation being made that I am in fact a CIA operative. The source of these rumors is not certain, but appear designed to either credit or discredit my character. While I neither confirm nor deny any James Bond-ish activities, I do admit to the following.

• My career has been directly or indirectly directed at the security of the United States of America.


• I acknowledge being involved with numerous programs classified secret by agencies of the United States of America.


• For the bulk of my adult life I have held a secret clearance.


• I am credited as author of a number of documents classified secret by the Department of Defense.


• I have attended and presented papers at classified conferences pertaining to the protection of the United States of America from foreign enemies and threats.

I offer the aforementioned facts to my accusers to confuse, to muddy the waters, to further question any affiliation I may or may not have with the Central Intelligence Agency.

Not a Five Star (Hawaii, Sep 2009)

I always envisioned my first trip to Hawaii being special, with a stay in a Five Star resort which offered luxury and refinement next to a sandy beach. The resort would include a world-class spa, a fitness center, leisure facilities, restaurants, and endearing locals. I never guessed that the actual experience would exceed expectations several fold. All in all, with my traveling mates Nate and Jace, we had an exquisite time at a “resort” like no other.

I had always heard that Hawaiian natives were an endearing laid-back lot. It never occurred to me that a few of them were red-neck, like the big fella that passed us on the road as we began our jaunt. His expression shouted, “You’re going to Waimanu? Are you freaking crazy?” His actual words were, “It’s ‘effing HOT!”. Indeed it was hot, which only made our arrival at the resort seven hours later even more special.

Our destination was nestled in a deep valley which opened to the Pacific on the north side of the Big Island. The pristine quarter-mile long beach was framed on either end by 1200-foot high bluffs. The view to the south, enjoyed from a make-shift lounge chair cut into a tree stump, was sensational. Several waterfalls cascaded hundreds of feet down steep mountain slopes, feeding lush tropical foliage on the valley floor. The beach laid only a few steps north of our sleeping accommodations. In the evenings we were lulled to sleep by the surf, which churned continuously. The spa included a 300-ft water fall which cascaded into a pristine pool - perfect for swimming and bathing. The fitness center included a one-mile walk along a rudimentary trail through the jungle to the falls. The scenery along the trail was phenomenal, including tropical plants and wild pigs. The local cuisine included Guava and macadamia nuts. It was cool to pick fruit directly from native trees, even if it did move through our bodies with the speed of water through a garden hose.

The welcoming nature of the locals was exemplified by the 2-inch long Hawaiian cockroaches who loved savory brown gravy even more than Jace and a little brown mouse that paid me a very personal nose-to-nose visit.

The focal point of this resort was the beach with its soft black sand. It was there that we lounged at day break and watched distant clouds over the Pacific turn magnificent colors as the sun inched its way over the horizon. We lounged in the same location in the late evening as the rising moon silhouetted the jutting thousand-foot high island cliffs to the east. In between these events the beach provided hours of activities, from body surfing and boogey boarding to make-shift arcade games in which we tossed rocks at everything from coconuts to sand crabs. When it rained we continued frolicking in the surf. There was no reason to get out. The pitter patter of rain drops on the ocean surface only enhanced the experience.

Waimanu Valley is an exquisite undeveloped piece of Hawaii that typical tourists don’t ever get to enjoy. Most that get an opportunity to gawk at its wonders lay down big bucks to do it high from a helicopter. What price is to be paid to enjoy this paradise up close and personal, this tropical utopia which surpasses Gilligan’s Island in beauty and has the same number of inhabitants that Gilligan’s place had before the Skipper’s boat floundered on its beach? The answer is an arduous 10-mile hike.

Though the hike was difficult, it was an adventure all unto itself. Climbing the steep switchbacks up mountainous trails provided exquisite views of sandy beaches and white-water surf a thousand feet below. Fording two waist-deep rivers was a welcome diversion, as was a swim in a deep waterfall-fed pool tucked away in a shadowy jungle setting. All in all, it was an exceptional trip. Sure, we expected a lot going in. We were not disappointed.

Hood to Coast - 2009

The insanity of this endeavor didn’t hit home until 2am Saturday morning in a field near Natal, Oregon. I lay exhausted on the ground in a sleeping bag. A light misty rain fell. The area was abuzz with chatter and activity. Vans came and went. Headlights incessantly swept the ground. Any hope of sleep was in vain. Suddenly a flashlight beam blasted my eyes and a female voice barked orders. “Sleeping is not allowed here! Get up! ” The sleeping bag Gestapo had found me. I was forced to crawl back into a stuffy van with five smelly teammates. An hour later we were hurriedly driving to the next exchange, our head lights illuminating the reflective vests of an endless stream of headlamp-bobbing runners. We hoped in vain to be on time to take the baton from a teammate currently on the course.

My involvement in this madness began five days prior. Paul Mendonza asked at church if there were any runners interested in participating in his law-firm-sponsored “Hood to Coast” relay team. David Haupt was quick to rat me out. “Darrel Fuller is a runner.” A brief conversation ensued. A day later I was officially on the team.

* * * * * *

Years ago I was a respectable runner. I once smoked a 10k at a 6:30-pace. Now the memories are bigger than current capabilities. My fear is that I will embarrass myself on a Hood to Coast team which has real runners. I check out the roster online. There is hope. Of twelve team members, only seven list faster 10K times than my own. But when I meet teammates for dinner the night prior, my confidence wanes.

We meet at Pazzo Ristorante, a swank establishment in downtown Portland where the menu needs interpretation and prices are not listed. The “Patently Diabolical” relay team, sponsored by the law firm of Blakely Sokoloff Taylor and Zafman, eats in a private room. Most team members are lawyers. In this group the stereotypical lawyer stain is tempered by the fact that they are patent attorneys.

We mingle and dine. Most team members know each other, but a few of us are outsiders. About half came from out of state for this event. The only one older than me is Ed, a 70 year old with a wry sense of humor. Not knowing, I would have guessed his age to be a dozen years younger. Tom has lived all over the world. My jaw drops when he mentions he has 78 marathons to his credit. Kim is only 19 and like me, a last-minute fill-in. She has been imported from California where she runs on the Cal-State San Bernardino cross country team. Ian is another college student. In high school he was captain of his high school cross country team. I’m taken back when he reveals he has run little since and has only trained for two weeks. David and Greg are a pair of wiry-framed identical twins. Even at age 46 they are hard to tell apart. Their brother Bob is our team captain. Ashley and another David flew in from Denver. James is local and has been with the firm about five years. Paul is my link with the team. I take solace in knowing that he has never run a distance farther than 10k.

Twelve hours after dinner, against the backdrop of 11,289-ft Mount Hood, the event kicks off at Timberline ski lodge. With a thousand teams participating, start times are staggered. Myself and five teammates in Van 1 are present. Our race begins at 7:45am. It is a festive atmosphere as the master of ceremonies whips the crowd into a frenzy and leads a countdown to zero. We cheer our teammate James through the start gate with 30 others. The race is on. The finish line lies 197 miles west on the Oregon coast. Duration is estimated to be thirty hours, 30 minutes.

The rest of us pile in the van. As we drive 5.64 miles down the mountain to the first exchange, we pass our teammate on the left shoulder of the road. “Run faster,” Greg shouts facetiously as we pass. At the first transfer station we park and wait.

I’m scheduled to run the second leg. I slip out of my sandals and sweats, pin my bib on my shorts, and adjust my shoe laces. The course map indicates Leg 2 is rated “H” for hard. It is 5.64 miles long with a 1500-ft elevation drop. I have a nervous knot in my stomach. Thirty minutes later a race volunteer shouts “542” as our team mate approaches the transfer. I stand ready. When James passes the baton, which in reality is a plastic wrist strap, I am off like a shot.

Route 26 is a busy thoroughfare. While a scattered-stream of Hood-to-Coasters run on the right shoulder, everything from 18 wheelers to minivans roar past on our left. The scenery coming off the mountain is beautiful. Though the air is cool, the morning sun is too warm on my back. My old-man 9-minute pace is not enough to pass anyone. As I finish this leg and pass off to Paul, I am drained. I am greeted by team mates who hand me a cold bottle of Gatorade, pat me on the back, and ask how I feel. Once more we pile in the van and drive to the next transfer. This cycle of collecting one team mate and sending off another repeats over and over.

Hood to Coast proudly proclaims itself to be the “Mother of all relays.” With 1,000 teams and 12,000 runners, sheer numbers promote a party atmosphere. Transfer stations are like a perpetual festive gala with smiles, and friendly banter. Vans are decorated with team names and catchy phrases. Some we see over and over again at various stops – The “Pretty in Pink” team is all female. The “Amazing Disgrace” team may have a religious affiliation, or not. The King of Rock and Roll’s picture is prominently displayed by the “Elvis Has Left the Van” team. The King’s lyrics, which have been altered for race themes, are also scrawled on every available surface. The rear door of another van is left open while driving as 120-decibel music blasts to all within a quarter-mile range. At each exchange station, members of Patently Diabolical scope out members of the opposite sex in behalf of soon-to-be-single Greg.

After running a leg, a runner cools down, intakes fluids and begins to eat. With another leg only 9 hours away, a couple of thousand calories is a must. The van is stocked with three ice chests, muffins, cookies, and fruit. The challenge is to replenish one’s reserves. Greg pushes fluids on his teammates and unabashedly asks, “Is everyone peeing a lot? Darrel, when was the last time you peed?”

At the end of Leg 6, we have descended the rural mountain setting to a parking lot of a Fred Meyer store in Sandy. We meet the other half of Patently Diabolical in Van 2. It is one o’clock in the afternoon. It is hot. Those of us who ran earlier are glad we didn’t have to face the afternoon heat. Having passed the baton, our van has five hours free before having to go again. We are more fortunate than most. We drive to accommodations in Portland and enjoy the comfort of a shower, good food, and an afternoon nap.

It is 6:30pm when I take the baton for a 5.49-mile leg east of Portland. It is rated “M” for moderate. It seems anything but moderate. It is mostly flat, but the early evening heat zaps my strength. It is only dusk, but official rules require a reflective vest. Near the Sauvie Island turn off I seek relief by trying to remove my shirt. It ends up in a tangled mess with my vest, hanging in disarray around my shoulders. I look so ridiculous that any school yard bully would laugh me to scorn. I’m too miserable to care. Though I manage to maintain my projected pace, the transfer station seems to take hours to reach. When I do, the thought of one more leg, even if it is 9 hours away, is almost more than I can bear. When asked how I did, I reply simply, “I sucked.”

We continue from one exchange to another, collecting one teammate and sending off a replacement. Around 10pm we complete the cycle and pass the baton to Van 2. We have 5 hours free. While James fills the van with gas, Ed and I stroll into a supermarket for ice cream bars and chips. Chips induce me to grab a can of dip. Back in the van, my bean dip induces groans from teammates.

On this 5-hour layoff there will be none of the comforts that we enjoyed during the first. In the wee hours of the morning we sit in the van at Exchange 23 on Hwy 47. On the course map it is labeled “Natal Grange”. It is not clear what Natal Grange is, but it is clear that it is in the middle of nowhere. It is 30 miles from cell phone reception. The van’s no-headrest bench seats are not conducive to rest. I venture outside with my sleeping bag and stretch out on the ground. I am forced back into the van all too soon by an obstinate volunteer. We expect to take the baton from Van 2 at this exchange around 3am. Too late we realize that we should be at Exchange 24. We drive into the night hoping to be on time. We aren’t. The mistake costs us 12 minutes.

I’m to take the baton for the last time at Exchange 25. It is 3:40am. On any other night of the year, this obscure location on Highway 47 would be consumed by darkness. Tonight an army of volunteers and runners bring the activity level of Time Square. I stand on the shoulder of the road, opposite the designated exchange area. The familiar pre-race jitters hang in my gut. I wait for my team’s number to be called, indicating that my teammate is nearing. Suddenly I hear my name called in alarm. “DARREL?” Either our number was not called or in my tiredness I missed it. James is here. I hurriedly cross the van-clogged road, take the baton and jog into the night. My running shoes beat a steady rhythm on the asphalt.

I’m encouraged by two things. First, air temps are nice and cool. There is a fine misty drizzle in the air. Second, this is my last leg. I don’t have to save anything for later. My legs feel fine. The blue LED luminescence of my headlamp brings the endless ribbon of white line on the road to life. If I raise my head a little, the vest of a runner a hundred yards ahead glistens in the dark. The distance between he and I grows shorter. He is struggling. By Mile 2 he’s eating my dust. This 5.8-mile leg has rolling hills with little overall elevation change. By Mile 3 endorphins kick in. I feel good. When an occasional runner passes to my right, we exchange brief greetings of encouragement. With two miles to go, I’m almost sad that this experience is nearing the end. When I finally pass the baton to Paul, I pull to a halt and suck in deep breaths of cool morning air. I feel elated. I did it! I’m finished. A teammate hands me a cold water bottle.

The rest of the adventure is anticlimactic. After Van 1 finishes its legs and we wait for Van 2 to finish theirs, we enjoy a hearty breakfast in Astoria at Pig’n Pancakes. While we eat we watch the parking lot through the window. Other runners move rather gingerly as they exit their vans and enter the restaurant. A few hours later in Seaside the entire team is united. The finish-line gala is a veritable city on the beach with thousands of participants milling about. Cameras flash as we run in unison across the finish line behind our last leg runner Bob. The team did well. We clocked 197 miles in 28:43, more than an hour ahead of expectations. As we wait in line for medals and pictures, the two vans exchange stories. The most notable is Ashley’s gut-wrenching, barf-inducing midnight excursion up a steep gravel road on Leg 20.

Late Saturday afternoon we are back in Portland where I bid adieu to the team. They’ve been great mates. I offer sincere thanks to all for sharing with me the massive insanity known as “Hood to Coast”.

***********

Special thanks to teamates:

James Howard
Paul Mendonsa
Ed Taylor
Greg Caldwell
Ian Farmer
David Halvorson
Ashley Essick
Tom Hassing
David Caldwell
Bob Caldwell
Kimberly Bernardy

Mount Adams (August 14,2009)

Mount Adams stands majestically against the skyline of the state of Washington. The fact that it has not erupted in several thousand years makes it no less the mammoth volcano that it is. It is a member of the Cascade Volcanic Arc. It’s more famous siblings include Mount Rainier to the north and Mount St. Helens to the east. Mount Adams is located in a remote wilderness 31 miles east of St. Helens. On a clear day it juts 1.5 vertical miles above the Cascade Crest.

In the days leading up to the ascent of this 12,267-foot volcano, I experience serious anxiety. I don’t know if I’m physically up to the challenge. I pulled a hamstring a few weeks previous and then reinjured it two weeks later. The injury has halted my preparatory workouts.

I feel intimidated in a pre-hike meeting two days before departure. Can I keep up with this group? It includes six energetic teenage boys and their adult leaders. In preparation they did a 20-mile hike only three weeks earlier. They seem to be ready. But even more intimidating to me is the Ironman. Mark Barnard is my dentist, but he is better known for his completion of ten ironman triathlons. Yes, he’s an old man like me, but anyone capable of swimming 2.4 miles, biking 120 miles, and then running 26.2 miles is sure to embarrass me with my sort-of-in-shape body.

The group leader is young men’s president, Brian Masse. He asks everyone to bring their hiking boots to the meeting so he can get them fitted for crampons the next day. He is taken back when he finds I don’t own a pair of hiking boots. He doesn’t realize I’ve been bantering for 30 years with hiking buddies who think I’m loony for simply wearing running shoes on treks as rugged of the Grand Canyon and as long as 60-milers in the Sierras. I hate boots. I refuse to wear boots. When I learn that crampons can’t be worn on “tennis shoes” my anxiety ratchets up a notch.

Our adventure begins about 8:30 on Friday morning. It is a 2-hour drive to the mountain. During our drive to the trail head, Mount Adams looms closer and closer. This bald-headed glacier-strapped peak towers above the lush green forest below. We arrive at the trail head at the base of the mountain about 12:30pm. We pile out of our cars and unload our gear. While we sit and enjoy lunch, Bishop Freeman comments on the array of new state-of-the art backpacks. He comments to another adult, “Hey, remember those old-style packs we used to wear.” He doesn’t notice that my pack probably pre-dates the ones that he’s laughing about.

Before we leave, Brother Massey offers me a spare one-man tent to take on the trip. When I feel the weight of the tent in my hand, I cringe. It’s only 2.5 pounds, but it’s more than I want to carry up the mountain. I thank him, but hand it back. There is only a 30% chance of rain tonight. I’ll take my chances sleeping under the stars.

After lunch and last-chance stops at the outhouse, everyone dons their pack. The boys are full of energy and take off at a brisk pace. I decide to give my hamstring a good test. I hang with the lead boys for the first 1.3 miles. Fortunately hamstrings are not used much for climbing. My legs feel fine.

I tuck in behind the Ironman and strike up a conversation. For the next few miles he entertains me with tales about training and competing in the many triathlons that he has completed. Surprisingly, he looks scrawny and nonathletic. I marvel at the endurance and determination that it takes to do what he does.

At the 7,000 ft level we take a break. We’re still in the trees, but near the timber line. Many of the boys want to camp here so they can enjoy a camp fire. Above the timberline there is no wood. Besides, fires are not allowed any higher. The debate rages. A campfire would be nice, but it is only 2:30 in the afternoon. If we stop now, what do we do for the next 6 hours until nightfall? If we push on, there will be much less hiking and climbing to do tomorrow. Amidst grumbling of half the boys, we continue.

The Ironman leads the way. I stick to his heals. Sixteen year old Devin Masse, who proves throughout the trip to have an edge on the other boys, stays with us. The three of us put distance between us and the pack. It is late afternoon when we reach a relatively flat expanse known as “Lunch Counter”. It is sprinkled with tents of other hikers. We find an area to ourselves several hundred yards from any others. This will allow the boys to be boys without disturbing our neighbors. The three of us early arrivers begin to set up camp. Others stagger into camp for the next half hour.

Lunch Counter is an interesting place. The immediate landscape is cluttered with volcanic debris. There is no hint of vegetation. The mountain peak towers above us 3,000 feet. Glaciers cling to it’s steep slopes and contrast with the black volcanic rock like massive white spots on a black milk cow. At 9,400-foot altitude, we are literally camping above the clouds. The sky above us is mostly blue. The valley below is filled with a continuous blanket of grey ever-churning clouds. Thirty miles to the west, Mount Saint Helens pokes its head through the clouds. Seventy miles to the south, the craggy rock dome of Mount Hood protrudes.

I roll my pad and sleeping bag out on the ground. The rest of the group busy themselves setting up their tents. It’s a difficult task in the 20-mile-per-hour winds. The consensus amongst the group is that I’m nuts. “You’re going to freeze Brother Fuller.” Two take pity and offer to let me squeeze in their tents. One of them is Brother Masse, who’s tent is pitched only three feet from my sleeping bag. I politely decline. Later I’m grateful for the decision, when at three-minute intervals, flatulence rumbles from Masse’s tent with such intensity that Bishop Freeman can hear it clearly from his campsite 50 yards to the west.

It’s dinner time. The flame of my backpacking stove struggles against the frigid wind. When the water in my small mess-kit pot is slow to boil, I lose patience and dump macaroni noodles in prematurely. The water never does boil. The noodles finally soften, but lie in the bottom of the pot in a starchy blob. The addition of cheese mix makes it edible, but only because I’m extremely hungry, tired, and cold. The frigid wind cools my dinner so fast that the last bites are slimy cold. My whole body is chilled. The small thermometer on my backpack reads 40F. I crawl in my sleeping bag but can’t seem to get warm. “Are you alright Brother Fuller?” I offer assurance that I am. But then my legs begin to cramp. I’m forced to get out of my sleeping bag to walk off the cramps. The Ironman gives me a couple of salt tablets and assures me they will help. They do.

The sun sets over the horizon, which from our vantage point is a sea of fluffy white clouds. I’m fearful of freezing all night. I put on my ski bibs and down jacket. I debate for a moment, but the fear of cold feet prompts me to leave my shoes on too. I crawl inside my mummy bag and cinch the hood around my head. I’m warm for now. I fall asleep as the last rays of daylight drain from the sky. I wake up three hours later, not because I’m cold, but because the incessant wind is rattling the tarp I’m using for a ground cloth. The rocky ground is hard even with a pad between me and it. The midnight sky is spectacular, with the Milky Way galaxy spread grandly almost from horizon to horizon. I’ve only once seen a more spectacular sky and that was in the Sierras at nearly11,000 feet. The view is slowly shuttered by my eyelids as I fall back asleep. At day break I wake toasty warm but can feel the frigid morning air on my face. The thermometer now reads below freezing. I’m doubtful that it is really that cold. After all, how accurate can a $5 thermometer be? But the temperature is verified by ice chunks in my water bottles.

The boys are slow to rise. I’m antsy to get moving. I empty my backpack of all nonessentials, leaving mostly food and drink. While Brother Masse tries to convene the boys for a pre-hike devotional. I leave camp by myself. It’s 6:30am. Unlike the rest of the group, I don’t have crampons. The 30-minute head start may even things up.

I survey the mountain for the best route up. There appear to be no trails. I follow another group of hikers that begin their ascent at the base of a glacier. They slowly move up the slope with their crampons penetrating the icy shell of the glacier at every step. I choose a route 100 yards to the left, where a narrow rock outcropping ascends the mountain between two glaciers. The rocks are irregular-shaped volcanic debris, about shoebox size. Step by step, from one lava chunk to another, I move up the mountain. After half a mile the rocky strip I’m on gives way to another glacier. I’m forced to traverse a narrow strip of ice. Lucky, there are a few rocks protruding from the freeze which give my soft-soled shoes traction. Safely across the ice, I begin anew on a new strip of rock.

As the sun peaks over the horizon, it glimmers off the glacier to my right. I notice a tiny stream of sunshine-induced melt begin its descent downhill. When the last rays of today’s sun flee and the nightly freeze follows, the glacier will do its best to reclaim what it has lost. The rising of tomorrow’s sun will begin the thaw/freeze cycle anew. The quiet clatter of a golf-ball-size rock on the ice draws my attention. Perhaps the morning thaw dislodged it from the ice somewhere above. It rolls past me at a sluggish speed but picks up as it goes. After a hundred yards its speed is lethal as it is bouncing repeatedly 10 feet off the ice. It grows too small to see before it reaches its final destination hundreds of feet below. As I make my way further up the mountain, my quads scream in pain. To force a pace, I take 20 steps then stop to catch my breath, another 20 steps and stop. Beneath my ski bibs, my burning legs are sweaty. At the same time the exposed skin of my bare arms stings from the cold. I breathe heavy. The thin-air altitude is truly butt kicking.

Forward progress is measured by viewing the empty expanse below. Our campsite, with tents still standing, lies at least a thousand feet below. As I climb, the large volcanic chunks which offered decent footing earlier give way to base-ball-size and smaller rocks that want nothing more than to roll down the mountain. I grow frustrated as I take three steps forward and slide two steps back. I find myself sliding down slope on my butt in a mini-rock slide. I’m reduced to climbing like a stinkbug, my butt in the air and my hands grappling for traction in the loose rocks. It’s extremely tiring. The lava rocks are sharp and abrasive on my finger tips. I take out my ice ax and use it as a make shift cane.

On the glacier to my right is a group of four crampon-fitted hikers who started up about the same time I did. Initially it seemed they would soundly beat me. Throughout my climb, I’ve gauged my progress against theirs. They are all at least 20 years younger than I and much better equipped. But after climbing 1500 feet they are no higher than I am. When I stop for a minute to catch my breath, I catch one of them looking at me. “Are the rocks better?” he calls. “I don’t think so,” I offer. Apparently, my actions speak louder than words. He and his buddies leave the glacier and began traipsing across the rocks. Their crampons offer better traction in the small aggregate than my shoes. Our unspoken race to the top is over. I can’t keep up.

What appears to be the top of the mountain is close. But I have read about a “false summit” and know I am looking at it. When I finally crest it, the real summit looms across a half-mile-wide snow-covered saddle, about 500 feet higher. The ugly smell of sulfur reminds me that I’m on a volcano. My shoes crunch at every step as I follow the footprints of others through re-frozen snow. Going down into the saddle offers a reprieve from climbing. On the other side of the saddle a well-marked trail emerges from the snow and begins one last steep ascent to the summit. It is well marked and snow-free. Good footing is a welcome change but does little to quiet my screaming quadriceps.

When I finally hit the top I am greeted by a snow-encrusted old abandoned cabin and the first four climbers of the day that reached the top before me. I drop my pack in exhaustion and suck in thin cold air. I did it! I conquered Mount Adams.. At 12,287 feet, it seems I am standing on top of the world. The sky is reasonably clear. The sun’s rays offer little warmth compared to the howling arctic-like winds. Through hazy skies north, Mount Rainer beckons. To the west is Mount St. Helens. Hood is visible to the south, with Mount Jefferson a little farther south.

I sign the guest registry before plopping on the ground and savoring the view. The A&W root beer which I carried up to celebrate this moment sits untouched in my backpack. Its syrupy sweetness is unappealing. After three hours of sweating, I crave salty food. As I scavenge through my backpack I notice an unopened bag of trail mix which has ballooned in size from the change in altitude. I finally settle on a tube of Pringle potato chips.

Ten minutes after my arrival, guys from our group begin to trickle in. Devin Masse is first. When the Ironman arrives five minutes later he expresses his surprise at my performance by calling me a “steely eyed mountain goat”. More exhausted boys follow, each absolutely exhilarated for having accomplished the feat. The two adult leaders that started the morning with the boys are nowhere to be found.

The wind is so cold it is hard to sit for long and enjoy the view. The Ironman grows cold and is first to head down the mountain. I leave five minutes later and quickly catch up. We hike together for awhile. We encounter Bishop Freeman as he starts across the saddle. He is feeling nauseous and has no appetite, but is determined to reach the summit. Brian Masse is not far behind him and looks even worse. We offer words of encouragement as we pass. A little further we pass Dallas Stahle and Justin _____ who are on a march to catch the rest of the group. They arrived and started hiking a half day later than we did. Shortly they will join the group for the remainder of the hike.

As I make my way down the mountain I encounter another hiker on her way up. The exchange is typical of more to come. The attractive young lady in her 20’s eyes my shoes and asks, “You went all the way to the top in Nikes?” I nod. “Kewl,” she exclaims. As I walk away she calls after me, “You should have your own commercial.” I chuckle at the thought. It is true that if 50 people reach the summit on this day, I would bet money that I’m the only one to do it without crampons. If a thousand were to reach it, I’d likely be the only one to do it in tennis shoes.

The Ironman and I make the three mile hike back to base camp in great time, in part because we slide down glaciers for nearly a mile on our butts. We opt to leave the six boys and four other adults to finish the hike on their own. We load our packs and head down the mountain. Ironman is undoubtedly in vastly better shape than me, but I have an advantage. Having hiked hundreds of miles on rocky trails in the Grand Canyon, I am very sure footed. I’m able to pick my way through the rocks clean and efficiently. I set a natural pace that feels good. Anything slower feels uncomfortable. Ironman lags behind until I can’t see him anymore. I arrive back at the parking lot at 4pm. For twenty minutes I sit in my truck and reflect on the just-completed 12-mile jaunt. I did OK. For that I’m grateful. Finally the iron man arrives. We toss our packs in the back of my truck and hit the road. With luck we will be home for dinner.

* * * * * * * *

Special to thanks to all who let me be part of their Mount Adams experience:

Devon Masse
Peter Deuce
Jacob Meyers
Jordan Haupt
Devyn Turner
Austin Freeman
Evan Long
Brian Masse
Kendell Freeman
Mark Barnard
Dallas Stahle

Jason Merril

I never knew Jason L. Merril. I was unaware when he chose to serve his country and enlisted in the army in 2002. I was unaware when he was assigned to the 1st Battalion, 26th Infantry Regiment, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, 1st Infantry Division, or when he made the rank of sergeant, or when he was deployed to Iraq. Only today did I learn of the ultimate sacrifice made by Sergeant Merrill September 3, 2006 while in the line of duty. Not until today did I learn of his mother’s sorrow and her anguish of losing a beloved son. Today my heart was made heavy when I contemplated the pain experienced by a dear friend whom I’ve had little contact with since high school, the first girl I ever kissed. I give thanks to Jason, for his willingness to serve, for the sacrifice he made, and to his mother Sue, whose sacrifice surely rivaled that of her son.

Running….

It was more than 26 years ago that one small the-spirit-is-willing-but-the-flesh-is-weak victory affected my entire life. I was a young father and husband at the time. Donna and I had been married four years. Our first child Jennifer wasn only three. Our second, Nate, was less than a year. I had plenty of other things to focus on besides exercise, but I felt a little soft and wanted to be fit. When I started a new job at Goodyear Aerospace, it felt like a good time for change. With two little ones, a good night’s sleep was rare. So it was no small decision when I decided to take up running. One evening before bed I set my alarm for 5:00am.

When the alarm sounded the next morning, I was tempted to shut it off and go back to sleep. With the same anguish a dying man in the desert might exhibit declining a cold glass of water, I forced my eyes open and crawled out of bed. I slipped on a pair of shorts and running shoes. The morning was cold and dark. I was groggy as my shoes pounded the asphalt streets of our west Phoenix suburb for a mile. I longed to be back in my soft bed. I was out of shape. . It was anything but exhilarating. Never the less, I did it. I didn’t know at the time that first mile would be one of thousands I would pound out in the coming decades. I didn’t know I was starting a life-long habit.

There were two men I knew from church who were serious runners. During my first year of running, I ran with each of them occasionally. I had never met a nicer guy than Joe Brown. He was a tall lanky individual in his 30’s. He made a living painting cars. At the time I had a fascination with automotive painting. When we ran together I picked Joe’s brain for tricks of the trade. Joe’s neighbor was Steve Christiansen. He was a doctor by profession and a recent convert to the church. Both of these friends had previously run marathons. I wanted to run one too.

Steve admonished me to have a thousand mile “base” before doing a full marathon. I was undeterred. I set my sights on the Fiesta Bowl Marathon only a few months away. There were a number of mile stones as I trained. My first ten-miler was done solo, early in the morning of Saturday August 27, 1983. The run left me feeling tired but absolutely elated. Perhaps that was the first time I had experienced a “runner’s high”. The next month I ran a 46:29 10K in Prescott with my ol’ buddy Don Davis. I placed 81st out of a field of several hundred runners. A month later I ran another 10K in Scottsdale, cutting my time to 45:33 and placing 67th out of several hundred runners. The next month brought the Fiesta Fowl Marathon, which took place on December 3, 1983.

Don’s sister-in-law Kay Davis had been running for years. When she heard I was going to do a marathon, she decided to do it with me. The two of us, along with several thousand other runners, gathered before dawn in the desert near Cave Creek, Arizona. Temperatures were brisk when the gun sounded. There were so many people it was difficult to run at all. It took us a minute or two to cross the start line. Kay and I matched each other stride for stride, talking as we went. At mile 1, a race volunteer called out our pace – a very slow 10:05 minutes per mile. At mile 5 we had sped up to an 8:05 pace. At mile 7, we passed Donna and Don who stood on the sidelines of the course and cheered us on. By mile 10, the endorphins had kicked in. I was experiencing a runner’s high like no other. When a volunteer called out a blistering (for us) 7:55 pace, Kay knew we were going too fast. She slowed down. I felt like I could run all day. I forged ahead on my own. At mile 12 I started to tire. Kay passed me. I didn’t see her again until the finish line. At mile 20, I was still on a reasonably good pace. At mile 22 I “hit the wall.” My glycogen levels were depleted. My head was spinning. I couldn’t even propel myself in a straight line. For the last 4 miles of the race I alternated between running and walking. I crossed the finish line just under 4 hours, a full 25 minutes after my running mate Kay. Donna, Don, and Kay were at the finish line to greet me. I was exhausted and dazed. I never felt worse, and yet genuinely satisfied at accomplishing the feat.

In the next couple of years my running continued. I ran a life-time-best 40:18 10k (6:30 pace) in Cave Creek. I also did another marathon, this time the “Whiskey Row Marathon” in Prescott, Arizona. The course was an absolute butt-kicker, starting at 5300 feet elevation, rising to 7,000, down to 6,000, back up to 7,000, etc. Though I was in the shape of my life, my time did not reflect it because of the difficulty.

Years passed. Four or five days a week I rose early and pounded out a few miles. Three more kids were born into our family. I’m not sure my kids even knew that I was a runner. I generally did it before they were out of bed. Early morning runs were exhilarating. They left me feeling refreshed. As I recovered at the end of a run, I sat for a few minutes and read the morning paper. This daily ritual was a good way to start each day.

I ran regularly through out my 30’s and into my 40’s. In a 20-year span, I took only three significant breaks from running, each mandated by a broken bone and a cast.

In 2000, at age 44, I logged nearly a thousand miles. I ran the Florence Griffith Joyner Memorial Half marathon in Laguna Hills California. My running took a serious nose dive after that. The years and thousands of miles logged had taken their toll on my knees. My doctor, after looking at x-rays, simply said they were arthritic and there was nothing to be done. I was disappointed. My doctor had done more than tell me to stop doing something I enjoyed. He told me to change my way of life. I pretty much hung up my running shoes, but not completely. In 2003 at age 47, I logged a paltry 131 miles for the entire year. Moving from sunny Southern California to poor winter weather in New Hampshire and then Oregon also had an adverse effect on my running habits. From 2004 through 2008, at ages 48 through 52, I typically ran from Spring to Fall only, logging a paltry 200 to 300 miles per year. It wasn’t much, but I was still running.

This year at age 53, as Winter turned into Spring, I again laced up my running shoes and hit the streets of Newberg, Oregon. Surprisingly, for the first time in years, my knees felt pretty good. They felt so good, I started toying with the idea of another 10k. On this day, July 4th, it happened.

I rose early and drove an hour south to the small town of Stayton, OR where the Stayton Road Runners Club presented the annual “Old-Time 4th of July 10-K Run and 3K Walk/Run”. After registering I stood near the start/finish line and talked to a few other runners. When the morning sun began to warm the morning air, we all wished the race had begun an hour earlier. At nine o’clock the mayor of Stayton fired the starter’s pistol. I trotted across the line with about 300 other runners. In the first mile I scoped out a couple of guys who were slightly younger than I, but seemed to be keeping the pace I wanted. One was a little over weight. The other had a slight gimp to his stride. Surely I could stay with these two for the entire race. On a hill during the third mile they both pulled away. I never saw them again. During this third mile we were greeted by the smoking-fast leaders who were returning from the out-and-back course. The sun was hot. At mile four I took cold water at the aid station and poured it over my head. My goal at this point was to simply finish the race without walking. The last two miles felt like three. I finally crossed the finish line to a smattering of polite applause. I didn’t know anyone in the crowd. I was by myself. My time was a lackluster 56:32, more than 16 minutes slower than my yesteryear pace. I had to chuckle when I turned in my number at the scorer’s table and found I had placed third in the 50 to 54 age group. There were only 8 contestants in the group. I hung around 45 minutes for the awards ceremony and collected my ribbon. I enjoyed a quart of ice-cold Gatorade on the drive back home.

That decision I made 26 years ago to get up at 5am and run was actually a decision to take care of my body, to be fit. I’ve never strayed too far from that goal. My life has been enriched because of it. A year ago I hiked to the top of Mount St. Helens with a bunch of teenage boys. They were impressed when this old man beat all but a few of them to the top. I was grateful for good health and a fit body so I could enjoy such experiences.

A Change in Leadership (Flashback to Yesteryear)

Having found the post on exmormon.org, it was no surprise to read, “My mission was a testimony destroying event.” That simple statement was sad in any context, but the fact that I probably knew the individual who wrote it, or at least had known him thirty two years ago increased the impact. Whoever he was, our service in the Virginia Roanoke Mission overlapped by seven months. It was his comments about our two mission presidents that I found most interesting.

“For the first 3 months, we had a reasonable man as mission president, McPhie. He was one of those rare leaders in the church who truly cared how his missionaries were and did what he could to lift them up when they were down.”

Indeed President Joseph McPhie was a wonderful man. His was kind. He was loving. His motives were as pure and Christ-like as any I've known. It was interesting that even this apostate could find no fault with President Mcphie. No wonder the man was later called as president to three other missions.

The poster’s toxic assessment of President McPhie’s replacement was not so kind. "A tyrant named Moscon took over. He had the inspiration of a fencepost, the social skills of Sadam Hussien, and he did not care for the feelings or health or safety of the missionaries under him.” Later in the post he referred to President Moscon as an “arrogant slob” and added, “He belittled me constantly because I dared question his stupid policies.”

As I read, I paused and reflected. The words were an exaggeration for sure. But I would be the first to agree they had some basis in truth. Reading of this now ex-mormon’s trouble with President Moscon sent me back in time 32 years when my own life was troubled by the man.

Early summer of 1977 was one of the choicest times of my life. Serving in Hampton Virginia, my companion was Elder James Everton. We were both seasoned veterans of the mission field. Our experience might be summed up in one word. Love! We loved our area. We loved the member families in our area. We loved those we taught. We loved our mission president. We loved the missionaries we presided over in our zone. We were “lost in the work”, which was clearly evident on days when we left our apartment early, got home late, and on occassion even forgot to check our mailbox for mail. Life was good. In mid-July Elder Everton was one month shy of going home. He didn’t want to go. He inquired of a 6-month extension. We were both hopeful, but he was denied. In one month I would see him off at the bus station as he began his journey home….., or so we thought.

Our beloved President McPhie left for home in mid-July. One week later on a Friday, July 22, Elder Everton and I jumped in our baby-blue 4-speed Ford pinto and drove three hours to Charlottesville for a zone leader seminar. It was the first time we met our new president. For the next six hours the mission leadership, consisting of more than a dozen zone leaders and the president’s assistants, sat in conference with our new mission president. It was a sobering experience.

President Frank Moscon ripped us from square one. He chided us for our dress and grooming, for our unpolished shoes and the way we wore our ties. I was singled out early when he pointed and said, “…his belt doesn’t conform to missionary standards.” Perhaps it was a misperception, but it seemed I was singled out throughout the entire meeting. That evening with pen in hand, I recorded in my journal, “Through the whole darn meeting he stood there talking and staring at me. There were about twenty elders there and why he chose me to stare at I don’t know.”

President Moscon’s displeasure at us missionaries bothered me some, but when he berated previously-implemented mission programs, programs conceived and nurtured by President McPhie, I began to seethe. When the new president showed outright disrespect for the man that we loved, the man we would follow off a cliff, when he showed disrespect for the man we would have taken a bullet for, my blood began to boil.

When President Moscon called for a sustaining vote on a new program, all hands went up – all hands except mine. I didn’t realize at the moment what an impact that split-second decision would have on the rest of my mission. President Moscon took note and proclaimed the voting to be "unanimous except one”. Suddenly I found myself to be in a very awkward situation. At the end of the day, as we had a testimony meeting, I stood and bore mine. I admitted to being the lone hold out during the sustaining. I tried to explain my actions and at the same time offer support for my new mission president. Finally the meeting ended.

Walking to our cars in the parking lot, my companion and I talked to the president’s assistants. They too were caught off guard by our new president. Their comments were guarded. They were very careful not to openly criticize a church leader, but clearly they were shocked by the “difference” between the new and the old.

The next day I wrote a letter to President Moscon. I hoped to clear the air, offer my support to him, and try to explain my taking exception to the disrespect he had shown President McPhie. My letter didn’t clear the air at all. It made things worse.

When President Moscon received it two days later, he called. If he was familiar with Christ’s admonition in Matthew, “If thy brother shall offend thee, go and tell him his fault between he and thee alone,” he didn’t heed it. Elder Everton answered the phone. The president didn't want to talke to me. He wanted to talk about me. For fifteen minutes I sat in the room and listened to one side of the conversation. Elder Everton spoke uncomfortably. Occasionally he would say something like, “No President….., he’s a good elder.” When Everton finally hung up the phone, he turned to me and sighed, “That was President Moscon.” I countered, “I know.” There wasn’t much else to say. It stung that my mission president had issue with me, and yet was unwilling to talk to me man to man. What was I to do?

Ten days later a transfer came in the mail. I said goodbye to the missionary utopia I had experienced in Hampton, VA. Gone was the companion and the area I was so fond of. Gone was my title as “zone leader.” I spent the remaining four months of my mission feeling a bit like an outcast in Virginia Beach.

I saw President Moscon several times in the ensuing months at various conferences. My interviews with him were OK, but definitely a little awkward. I finished my two years. I went home.

Two years later I attended the missionary homecoming of my cousin Jim Rice. In an unlikely twist, he had served in the same mission that I had. He spoke glowingly of his mission president, Frank Moscon, and how his inspired leadership had resulted in record baptisms for the mission.

My experience with President Moscon was not nearly as favorable as my cousin’s. But then it wasn’t as bad as the ex-Mormon who proclaimed Moscon to have the “the social skills of Sadam Hussien” Unlike the ex-Mormon, I escaped with my testimony intact. For that I was grateful.

New/Old Friend

With a simple click of the mouse, the photo flashed before my eyes. As I took in the sight, a host of memories burst to the surface. Though they had never been forgotten, they had been buried under a 30-year inventory. Suddenly they were back in high definition. Not just the actions and events, but the very feelings of a poignant three-month span of my life. For several minutes I stared and reminisced.

In the pictures I had viewed before this one, I hadn’t quite recognized her. I questioned whether it was her or someone else. They were family pictures. Maybe the person in the pictures was a relative. Of course I knew she didn’t have a sister, but it could have been someone else – maybe a sister-in-law. After all, I had never seen the square glasses and the waist-long hair. Then I clicked on this picture. There was no mistaking. It was her.

How old was the picture? She didn’t look much older than the 19 year old I once knew so well. She wore a long formal evening gown which reached the floor. The warm smile had not changed. There was the trademark twinkle in her eye. Her hair was fixed like I remembered, about the same length and color. Either the picture was many years old, or mother time had been very kind to this woman.

When she graced my life, I was a young 21 year old, fresh off a 2-year mission. She came along at a trying time in my life. A too-close encounter with a guard rail on a motorcycle left me with a broken femur and recovering from surgery. For two months I hobbled around on crutches, unable to work. I was unable to do much of anything. It was under these circumstances that we met. When we got to know each other, she teased that she took pity and befriended me. It may have been true initially, but as our relationship matured, pity was not a factor. We were crazy about each other.

It started with a simple first date. It was followed by another, and another. Just like that, we were seeing each other every day. When I wasn’t with her, I was wishing that I was. When we attended church together, I could feel eyes in the congregation following us. She was an attractive girl, a trophy. I was proud to have her at my side.

On week days she attended cosmetology school. On occasion I met her during her lunch hour. On such occasions we were more likely to have ice cream rather than lunch. I had no job. I was broke. We went on drives in my ‘57 Thunderbird. Riding my motorcycle with her arms wrapped tightly around me from behind was like a dream. We spent evenings together. When evenings grew late and it was time to part, it was all I could do to pull myself away from her.

This was a new experience for me. I had never had a girlfriend. The few kisses I previously shared with other girls were nothing compared to what she offered. Kissing her was like a 4th of July extravaganza, like a trip to Mars and back at the speed of light, like nothing I had ever experienced with my eyes closed.

Mouse in hand, I perused the remainder of her Facebook profile. There were additional pictures. I visually got acquainted with her husband and sons. A smile creased my face. She seemed happy. Her husband was a good man. I was grateful that she was in good hands.

Eleanor

The first time I met Eleanor, my family had recently moved to Keene, New Hampshire. My son Jace and I were making the 6-mile drive from our home to downtown Keene. We were southbound on Route 10 when I saw the hitchhiker at the side of the road. My impulse to help a soul in need quickly shadowed my hesitancy of picking up a stranger with my nine year old son in the car.

Eleanor was just a whisper of a woman with the build of a broomstick. It was hard to gauge her age, but I guessed she was in her sixties. Her attire was old, even shabby. The scarf about her neck and the hat on her head may have been more fitting of a Dr Seuss book than the country side of New Hampshire. Eleanor was very gracious and offered much thanks for the lift. When she spoke, she instinctively and without fail, placed her hand over her mouth. She was self conscious. I guessed she had no teeth. This was the first of many rides my family would give Eleanor over the next three years.

A few weeks later when I gave this same hitchhiker a ride home, I learned what my wife Donna already knew. Eleanor was a neighbor. She lived about a quarter mile down the street from us. I dropped her off at the intersection of Red Oak Dr. and Sullivan Center Road. As always, she thanked me heartily for the ride. I watched as she got out of the car and crossed Sullivan Center road. In a blink she disappeared into the thick foliage. It was the first time I realized there was a house back there, hardly visible from the road. Little detail was evident through the thick trees, but the faint outline was cottage-like, something out of a Hansel and Gretel story book.

There was no driveway to this house in the woods. It was months later that I realized the onetime driveway had in fact been reclaimed by the forest. The give away was a 1950’s vintage Rambler sedan. It sat imprisoned in the forest by mature trees which had sprouted decades earlier. The car apparently belonged to her deceased mother, for Eleanor did not drive. She often hitchhiked from her home into town and back. On the return trips her arms were full with shopping bags. Over the years, my wife and I gave Eleanor numerous rides to and from town. We got acquainted. Our kids got to know her. We had her in our home. My boys and I sometimes helped her stack firewood. Our family befriended this eccentric old lady.

Contrary to her bag-lady homeless appearance, Eleanor was well spoken, seemingly well educated, and well versed in current affairs. She had never married. She had no children. She had two brothers who lived out of state. She didn’t seem close to either. Her life seemed a very lonely one, though it seemed it was by choice. She was a bit of a recluse and seemed to venture out only when necessary. To my knowledge, she never had visitors.

Her appearance and comments indicated that Eleanor had very few funds. Perhaps her only income was a meager Social Security check. We helped her as much as she would allow, but she was fiercely independent. When dropping her off, any offers to help carry bags to her door was resolutely declined. She was not comfortable with anyone seeing her home. Any offers of food were declined. Her diet, presumably driven by health consciousness, was very different than most.

One of Eleanor’s eccentricities became evident on a Saturday afternoon as we helped her stack firewood. She didn’t want Jace and his friends in her yard. She was afraid that they might break branches. The thick trees in her yard were sacred to her. They were a barrier between her and the outside world. They deadened the sound of traffic and kept “fumes” out.

Eleanor was familiar with our faith. In earlier years she had talked with Mormon missionaries. She had once been acquainted with Wes Clark’s family. She had a Book of Mormon which she had read some.
After three years in Keene, we moved across the country. When we left, we wondered what would become of Eleanor. She was an old woman with needs, eeking out a meager existence. We were concerned for her well being. Along with our other dear friends and neighbors, we bid Eleanor adieu as we left for a new life in Oregon. We gave her name to the full time missionaries. They subsequently visited her and rendered service.

It was the better part of two years later that Donna and I had opportunity to return to Keene. During that visit, on March 15th, 2009, we took the opportunity to visit several old neighbors. Our last stop was one we did not plan but felt impressed by the Spirit to make. We parked across the road from Eleanor’s and walked into the woods, through packed snow, and past the old Rambler. As we approached her house, the clutter on the front steps made it clear that that entrance had not been used in years. The entrance on the left side of the house was similar. “Eleanor,” I called, hoping she could hear my voice. “Eleanor.”

The home was in disrepair. The dust on the first story windows was almost thick enough to hide the clutter piled high inside. We followed the trodden path through the snow to a back basement door. I knocked. There was no response. The air was cold. Our feet were frigid in the snow. We were about to leave when we heard a rustle inside. A moment later, Eleanor poked her head out. Her look was one of suspicion.

“Eleanor, it’s the Fullers. Remember us?”

Her bewilderment changed to wonderment and joy. For the next hour we stood in the winter air outside her home, shuffled our feet to stay warm, and mostly listened to Eleanor. If ever her loneliness had whispered on previous occasions, it spoke loud and clear this day. She was an old woman in need who had not friends or family to turn to.

Donna and I were saddened to find her remarks bordering on paranoia. She suspected a neighbor of having designs on her property. She suspected intruders to have been in her yard snooping. Though one account was hard to follow, she told of an unpleasant exchange with Department of Transportation crews when they trimmed trees on the frontage of her property. Keene police had been called. A day in court followed. She did not have the means for legal representation. The whole episode sounded a bit bizarre but obviously had basis in truth. As she spoke, she apologized several times for “dumping on us”. We didn’t mind. Unloading her pent up frustrations, loneliness, and fears seemed to be soothing balm to her troubled soul.

Eleanor was not eager for us to leave. She asked us to remember her in our prayers. We said we would. “Can we pray before we leave?” I asked. The three of us huddled with arms around each other and bowed our heads. I pleaded with heaven that our dear friend’s needs would be met.

Donna and I left for Oregon the next day. We were most grateful for the Lord’s tender mercies, that he had granted Donna and I the chance to see old friends. As we traveled, we thought of Eleanor, and prayed that the Lord would send someone to help with her needs.