LIVING ON THE RAZOR'S EDGE?

Is it possible







to narrow the Now down to such a small point in space and time






that it becomes irrelevant?

I was reminded today about when I first moved to Oregon 13 years ago, thinking I had only a few months to live, going through several major illnesses, getting down to 125 pounds at one point. And then the Oregon winter -- and the constant overcast skies and the mist and rain. I would walk alone in the streets at night. You know, when there's few people out, and the street lamps shine across the wet pavement, and you can hear the silence of the eternal bearing down. It is those times that I feel most alive, without the distractions and echoes of everyday life.
I remember during one of those walks coming across a haiku to the Japanese-Americans who were wrongly interned during WWII. Seventy Years ago. A minuscule amount in the vastness of time. There is always comfort, reasons to be grateful, always hope, even in the rain.

This past weekend, went on the South Sister Climb with my Doc, her husband, Mark, and Marti, the RN from the clinic. It was a long 12 hour day -- but the weather perfect, and the views spectacular, and the friendship and camaraderie meaningful.






Like last year, Diana not quite sure she could do this, but when it comes down to it -- "just make it that that rock up about a 100 yards up there", and take a rest, and "let's go just up the bend there..."




and before you know it --
you're at the summit.
It's great getting to know Diana better, and Mark (an oncologist), displays passion that makes you realize that most doctors are really involved with their patients care, and Marti, her ever giving presence -- waiting at the lower mountain for 8 hours when she decided she couldn't make the climb this year -- cheerful as ever.
I guess when I think about it I still find it kinda strange that I climb with my HIV Doc -- maybe it's symbolic in some way, or maybe it's more of the way the world should be...

I was accepted on another North Sister Climb for this weekend, but have decided I would have to give it up, since I'm leaving on a 6am flight next Monday for Mexico City and the International AIDS conference. Maybe I'll climb a pyramid while I'm there.

And I'm on top of a mountain again...

After the hike on Table Mountain, I began to doubt my ability to keep on climbing. I had been wanting to re-climb one of my favorite mountains since last summer, and had long ago put it on the schedule for the past weekend. Robin had decided not to go earlier in the week, and then the day before, Robby had backed out, but I knew my spirit needed me to go, so on Saturday morning I headed up to Mt. Adams.
It was nice just being with myself. I think this was my fifth climb of the mountain, and it seemed like I was with an old friend, I knew what to expect and could more simply live the experience. Sounds simple -- but I've had to teach myself to do that. One response to knowing something is to want to rush it -- to get to the destination. I've climbed and hiked too many mountains and trails that way.
For this trip, I felt that I could be the mountain as myself. Although there were over 200 other climbers, I was in my own space, able to climb at my own pace. A handful of people passed me by, but that was ok -- as I rose up the ridge line to the glacier ahead.

Usually the trip up the first glacier to a camping spot at the lunch counter at 9000 feet is a long tedious slog, but I again paced myself, enjoyed the moment, and easily found a good camping site at the first place I looked. It was 4:30, and I was surprised to find I had made it up in about 4 hours -- time was timeless.

There were many hours to relax, cook dinner, get water, and enjoy a beautiful sunset behind Mount St. Helens -- the rays reflecting over to Mt. Hood. I also noticed a puff of smoke rising up from a few miles from the trail head, and wondered if it could be a campfire. Odd, the mountain was pretty dry to be lighting such a large campfire.

I slept much of the night outside my sleeping bag, getting up several times to look out, awed and inspired by the heavens surrounding me -- especially enveloping after the moon had gone down. This is why I came. The untold trillions of stars and galaxies. So incomprehensibly vast. The Milky Way stretching from horizon to horizon. I guess there are some people who feel so alone when they experience this, but I feel comforted in this vastness. Everything is where it needs to be, and I am part of that vast whole.

And each time I awoke, covered by stars, I would look to the south west and the sky lit up by the lights of Portland, and I would also look down into the valley, and see the embers of a fire beginning to grow. I realized that the smoke I had seen earlier was a small forest fire beginning to grow into a life of it's own.

In the early light of 5:30 am, I headed up the mountain. Again, my pace seemed so slow, but consistent, and I was never out of breath or tired. I didn't bother to stop until a few hundred feet below Pikers Peak to eat breakfast, making it up to the False summit by 9am. After a brief break to take off my crampons, I was at the true summit by 10. The last few feet are amazing. All of a sudden, Mount Rainier is just, bam!, right there in front of you. It was so clear you could see Mt. Baker off to the right of Rainier. And to the south, Mt. Hood, Jefferson, and the Three Sisters. Below, in the valley, the smoke was beginning to rise.

I headed down after a short visit on the top, and was able to do my first 400 foot glissade from the summit, and then from Piker's Peak, an amazing half mile glissade. What had taken me over 4 hours to climb, took about an hour to descend.

I could see the fire growing below me. Occasionally whole trees would go up in flames, and the smoke began to take on a yellow reddish glow. I quickly packed my tent and gear, and headed down the glacier. (I almost took a wrong turn. The glacier can take you down into 3 different gully's -- point to remember -- it's the middle one.)

Although I would have liked to have taken a slower pace, and stopped at least once, I decided it was more prudent to head down without resting -- without being frantic about it. As I got into the forest, the smoke began to take up larger part of the horizon, and the sounds of planes and helicopters began to echo across the mountain. I finally ran into a Ranger who recommended camping on the snow covered hillside for another night, but said it was still safe to go down to the parking area. Since my water, wallet, etc. were down below, I opted to head on with the hope of being able to get out. At times it seemed like I was hiking straight into the smoke and flames. Twice, I got misted by a helicopter carrying a giant bucket of water. Once again, I got held up by a ranger, until an all clear was given.

Once down at the parking lot, the ranger there said the fire could be jumping across the only road out, and we may not be able to leave for awhile. He also recommended repacking any gear for the possibility of having to head back up the mountain in case the wind direction changed. Fortunately, about a half hour later, they felt that a window of opportunity was there to allow a group of cars down the rough mountain road. Dirt and dust flew as was sped down the mountain. I only slowed down when the rutted road began to shake the struts and shocks and my vehicle.

On the way out of Trout Lake, I pulled over at the local school to join the locals in watching the devastation the fire was creating in the forest surrounding the mountain. This time -- from a safe distance.

Hiking in the Gorge again this weekend, again hitting against my limitations. Gosh.
It was a tough hike, up to the top of Table Mountain across from Bonneville Dam. The worst part was coming down. It was one of the steepest decent I've ever down on any hike. Robin spent part of the decent on her butt, it was that unstable. But hey, Spectacular Views!

Coming down, I started to get the scarlet rash on my lower legs again. I went online yesterday and what I thought was due to chaffing is something that some doctors in Australia decided to call, Golfer's Vasculitis (I guess because mostly older men get if from walking in the heat playing 18 holes). Why not a more macho name, Climber's Vasculitis, Apparently, it it's only an annoyance, so that's the good news, the bad is there's no clear treatment or preventative measures to take. Ouch!
The worst thing was after getting down (and hunting down our teenager hiker who decided to go it alone for a second time during the day), I developed chills like I had hiking in Ecuador, and getting home, developing a 101 degree fever for several hours. (Robby stuck around and took care of me.) It seems like my metabolism has become so screwed up after dealing with 20+ years of HIV. What can I do about that? Always thinking of solutions.
Suppose to climb Mt. Adams this coming weekend......