Maggy

We received a smile-inducing, bubbly Christmas letter from an old friend this month. She didn’t call it a Christmas letter. How could she when it was dated mid February. But no mistaking, it was a Christmas letter. Like the twenty-plus letters which preceded it, this one warmed our hearts and made us grateful to count Margaret as a friend. After all, who wouldn’t want to be friends with a personality who writes with Erma Bombeck’s wit and likely could have succeeded the legendary humorist given the chance.

Our paths first crossed Margaret’s back in July of 1979 at 2007 N. 49th Street, Phoenix, Arizona. As young-marrieds, apartment #1 of the small apartment complex served as our honeymoon suite. Next door in apartment #2 was an aloof man, most remembered for complaining if we more than whispered after 8pm and for religiously and meticulously washing a black Chrysler Cordoba in front of the complex every Saturday morning. In apartment 3 lived Mr. and Mrs. Dietz, the managers of the complex, who obliviously called me Dennis for months on end, and whose domestic squabbles were legendary. And in apartment 4 lived Margaret, a friendly girl who at age 30 seemed almost a generation removed.

We became acquainted with Margaret as we exchanged pleasantries while passing on the sidewalk. The relationship took a twist when she made a house call to our apartment to render first aid to our pale leaf-shedding rubber plant named George. Despite Margaret’s best efforts, George died soon after. We didn’t hold it against her. Donna and I likely killed George by drowning. As sad as George’s passing was (he was a gift to Donna), the ordeal cemented a life-long friendship with Margaret.

After 14 months of marital bliss, Donna and I were forced to move from our one room apartment on north 49th street when we threw reason to the wind, completely disregarded the terms and conditions of our lease, and took steps to violate the no-kids-allowed policy of the adult-only complex. As my pregnant wife and I left, we bid adieu to our friend Margaret. We saw her a few months later when she paid a visit to our new place on a Sunday morning and fixed us crepes for breakfast. We told ourselves that she came to see her old friends, though our bouncing baby girl was the obvious drawing card. This was the last time we saw our friend, but certainly not the last time we heard from her.

Over the next 28 years Donna and I bounced from one state to another. As we brought five kids into the world, as career moves took us from coast to coast to coast, we kept tabs on Margaret through her yearly updates. We watched from a distance as she married and raised three daughters in the Midwest. Our hearts ached when divorce shook her life. We were delighted when “Prince William” graced it.

If one assumed that this 30-year friendship was spawned by common interests they would be wrong. Even back in the day, if we passed each other on the sidewalk after grocery shopping, Margaret would likely have skimmed milk and yogurt in her bag, while we would have chocolate chip ice cream and potato chips in ours. If we ever voted for the same presidential candidate it could likely be blamed on a hanging chad or misplaced hole punch. It was a job that brought Donna and I to Portland Oregon three years ago. In contrast, Margaret’s gene pool was clearly in play last year when her daughter moved to Portland, undoubtedly lured by a “Keep Portland Weird” bumper sticker.

Thank you Maggy Michaels for sharing this crazy roller coaster of an experience called life with your ol’ East Phoenix friends. May God continue to bless you. Please dear, keep those letters coming.

Harvey

It was early afternoon on a hot August day in 1989. Sweat dripped from our brows as two friends and I trudged up the South Bass Trail in the Grand Canyon. The increased elevation brought cooler temperatures compared to those deep in the canyon, which this time of year was more reminiscent of a blast furnace than a national park. When we finally reached the rim, the typical euphoria of having accomplished the task, the satisfaction of conquering one of the seven natural wonders of the world, the pleasure of standing on the rim and looking down thousands of feet on beauty we had just experienced – all of that was missing. Our 4-day backpacking jaunt had in fact been cut short by two days. Two of us felt rather distraught over the matter, having our attempt to reach Royal Arch scuttled. The other was elated to be out of the canyon. This newbie couldn’t wait to cover the 30 miles of rutted dirt road back to civilization, away from this hell hole. He had had enough of the two kooks who had brought him to this wilderness inferno where life hangs in the balance of water in one’s backpack and green-slime bedrock pools which may lie around the next bend or may not exist at all.

As I dropped my burdensome backpack to the ground and felt the instant relief to my back and shoulders, I became aware of two other hikers preparing to head into the canyon. A where-are-you-going, where-have-you-been conversation ensued. When one of them mentioned a shorter route to Royal Arch off of Point Huitzel, my mind was suddenly off the ill-fated hike we had just completed and onto the next adventure. When I pressed for details about this other route, he simply said, “Harvey writes about it.”

He didn’t bother with a last name. The other hiker was a complete stranger. We had never met and weren’t likely to again. Yet the name “Harvey” rolled off his tongue as if he were referring to a mutual friend or one of my brothers. He knew that I knew who Harvey was.

It seems a bit pompous when Grand Canyon Explorer John Wesley Powell, the first to float the Colorado River through the canyon, commands three names instead of one. In contrast, the man who “walked over more of the Grand Canyon than any other alive or dead”, is simply known as Harvey. To any serious hiker who has experienced the backcountry of the Grand Canyon, Harvey is a mentor, a friend and a teacher. Never mind that he died a very old man in 2002. His presence and influence lives on.

Through his “Grand Canyon Treks” books, Harvey clued me and countless others into the wonders of such places as Royal Arch, Elves Chasm, Deer Creek, and Thunder River. If his books are Holy Scripture for the Canyon enthusiast, they are written in the language of Isaiah. They sort of make sense, but the real message is only gleaned by the most devout follower. Harvey didn’t give details on how to reach a destination as much as he pointed in the right direction. While nearly every hiker with Grand Canyon fever holds Harvey in near reverence, nearly all have near cursed him when drinking water ran short and with sun-parched lips they struggled to find a route using Harvey’s cryptic words.

Recently I got a book for Christmas, “Grand Obsession, Harvey Butchart and the Exploration of Grand Canyon”. When I finished reading it today, it caused me to pause and reflect. I already knew a little about Harvey the hiker. Now I knew Harvey the man.

Harvey’s fever-like obsession with the Grand Canyon was an extreme full-blown case for sure. In comparison, mine was mild. If Harvey is the Michael Jordan of Grand Canyon hiking, I’m a division II college player at best. When I add up all the days I’ve spent below the rim, they total a few months. Harvey’s add up to years. I’ve hiked hundreds of miles. Harvey hiked thousands. Fortunately the canyon never claimed the life of one of my hiking buddies like it did Harvey, but it scared me senseless when it threatened to. I can relate to Harvey’s frustration with hiking partners that could not keep up. While Harvey is in a different league, I feel a kinship through similar experiences, from a hungry and horrid cold night below the rim in shirt sleeves, to drinking green “pollywog soup”.

Who would have thought that this revered man, a quiet math professor, had the flaws that he did. Until reading his biography, I couldn't imagine Harvey being a litter bug or starting a brush fire by illegally burning toilet paper. The account of him hanging upside down from a failed rope ascent was comical. Though I’m envious of Grand Canyon places and sights that Harvey experienced that I never will, there is one experience that I’m happy to do without. Harvey’s obsession cost him years of marital happiness when his wife played “second fiddle” to Grand Canyon. I’m grateful my own canyon fever was never that severe.

I offer thanks to Harvey the hiker who was responsible for showing me so much of the Grand Canyon. I thank authors Elias Butler and Tom Myers for introducing me to Harvey the man. And, a big thank you goes out to all who have shared my Grand Canyon hiking experience over the years, including:

Monte Baldwin

Don Davis 

Nate Fuller 

Nick Fuller 

Lynette Baldwin 

Ryan Baldwin 

Jerry Nelson 

Brad Brown 

Leon Fuller 

Dan Fuller 

Jerry Fuller 

Loran Dennis Fuller 

Jeanette Martin 

Rick Charon 

David Fuller 

Jennifer Wraught 

Rob Brusman 

Carol Brusman 

Rusty Spencer 

Jack Grimm 

Bill Grimm 

Brad Edwards 

Steve Dahmer 

Bill Townsend.

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