ADAMS CANYON HIKE (JULY 4TH)

Top of the switchbacks at mouth of canyon.

Who put the big log across the trail?

Small rock slide with a surprise.

Hurry mom I'll hold the log up so you can go under it!

Pointing at the surprise (rattlesnake!!)

Leaning trees.

Walking toward the sunset.

Waiting to watch the fireworks from the foothills above Layton.

LEWIS PEAK HIKE

Starting up the rocky switchbacks.

Skyrockets.

Along the top of the ridge.

slowly climbing to the ridges.

Follow the dusty trail.

My babe at the summit marker.

Heading back down.

At one time I wanted to paraglide off a ledge like this--now I'm too chicken.

We made it!

Looking toward Ben Lomond Peak.

Lewis Peak.

Bear Lake Half Marathon

Running around the beautiful waters of Bear Lake

 It was a bit cool standing somewhere on the east side of Bear Lake some 13 miles from Garden City, Utah. The east mountains were casting shadows out into the sky-blue waters; a slight breeze sending ripples onto the sandy shore.

All the participants of the Bear Lake half marathon were either standing around talking and anticipating the run, stretching, or waiting to use the bathroom. I looked across the lake and found Garden City, our destination for the finish line. It looked a long ways off and a bit intimidating by visual perspective. I calmed my mind by self-talk: It's only 13 miles away. You have trained for a few months. You can do it. Run your race. Run your pace. Finally, all 375 participants were called to the starting line. We had previously placed chips on top of our shoes that would activate a GPS tracking system as soon as we crossed the starting line and shut off as we went through the finish line.

I had looked forward to this run for over a year. Bear lake and the surrounding mountains are in my blood. My great, great, great grandfather was called by Brigham Young to settle in Bear Lake Valley back in the latter 1800s. My grandpa Williamson lived and worked in Paris and St. Charles, Idaho his whole life. My dad was born in Paris, Idaho and has a summer home in St. Charles. As a family we spent many weekends camping and fishing in this area.

Lean on me when you're not strong

Looking pretty good after just running 13.2 miles
Mark took 1st place in our age division

When I was single and in my early twenties my day off from work was Wednesday. In the summer as soon as the snow was gone, I would spend everyday off up St.Charles Canyon. I always had my gear packed and would leave after work on Tuesday night and drive straight for the canyon. I would find a spot to camp, catch my dinner of trout, watch night fall, and then sleep. The next day I would fish for hours. Sometimes, I would explore around, and sometimes I would take a nap but most of the day was spent in catching trout on hair-hackled wet flies. It was a carefree time. It was a time of solitude but not of loneliness.

I had followed a ten week training program to prepare for the run. I started it a couple weeks early so it was more like twelve weeks. During one of my early training runs, I felt a spasm in my left groin area. I ran through it but noticed the muscles in that area were tightening up. I ran through the dull ache. Each time I did a training run I would feel the spasms come to that same area after running about two miles, then the tightness, then the dull ache. Each time I would run through the slight discomfort. I tried stretching more before and after my training runs but nothing seemed to work. I didn't want to miss the half marathon--I'd looked forward to this for over a year. I took two weeks off and didn't run. I thought that was enough as my leg started to feel better. I did a couple of two mile "easy" runs to see how I felt. It was no good. The tightness would still come. It wasn't enough to stop me, I figured I could run through it.

Anticipation at the starting line was building. I took another look out across the lake. The turquoise water rippled with the breeze. It was a partly cloudy day. White clouds migrated across the sky casting dark shadows on the lake surface that looked like large whales just below the surface. The clouds were having their own race as they moved from northwest to southeast some in bunches and others as lone runners trying to find a finish line.

I had tapered off my running the last week of training, just like I was suppose to. I felt good. I knew I could cover the distance but in the back of my head was the nagging question of whether my injured leg would cooperate.

The race official placed some starting cones down, raised his hand and then dropped it to start the race. I started off slow so I could warm into the run. It usually takes me a mile or mile and a half to get my breathing and settle into my running rhythm and pace. So far, so good! As the runners started to disperse, I increased the volume on my Ipod. I was running to classic rock from the 70s and early 80s. It was the same music me and my friends called cruising music back in high school--Styx, Boston, Fleetwood Mac, Journey, and a few other bands would carry me to the finish line.

About three miles into the run, my left groin had a slight spasm. Four miles in and the muscle was tightening. I was now having to deal with a mental aspect that I feared. With nine miles to cover, this run, that I had looked forward to for a year, was going to go from fun to funny.

I had started out with a long sleeve shirt covered by a sleeveless running vest. I had run from the east shadowy side of the lake to the west sunny side. I was warm and needed to get rid of the long sleeves. I removed the vest while still running then tried to remove the shirt. It's not easy to run when you have a vest in one hand and a shirt pulled up over your face. I ended up dropping the vest and having to turn back to pick it up. I finally got the shirt off and put the vest back on. I could feel the coolness of the morning air on my arms. Much better.

I glanced at a sign that said eight miles to go. There was an aid station table set up every two miles. I decided to take a drink of Gatorade and walk as I drank a couple of sips. Two sips and I was back in stride. The left groin was very tight and the dull aching had turned to a pain. The pain was increasing and I wondered if I was doing damage. I played a mental game at this point. With a little over seven miles to go I ripped the headphones out of my ears and put them in my vest pocket. The music was actually frustrating me. I knew that it wasn't taking my mind off of the pain. I knew my focus mentally had to be the pain. I know that sounds contrary  but it is how I was going to deal with my situation.

I considered for just a split second quiting. I really didn't want to do damage to my groin or hip. I started to repeat in my head a quote from General Patton: "You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do...the body is never tired if the mind is not tired." With every set  of strides I would repeat Patton's quote.

With six miles to go I walked a few steps as I drank some water. I thought to myself, This is not the run I wanted. Why did this have to happen? Why couldn't I have a healthy run? With these questions going through my brain, I decided I was going to finish this race. I remembered watching the Ironman races on television. There are always men and women who are spent, who are injured , who are mentally drained crossing the finish line--some staggering in complete exhaustion. I was not running that strenuous of a race. I could make it.

I placed my left hand down on my hip area and started to squeeze. For a moment it seemed to relieve a little of the pain. It was an awkward way to run and I soon tired of it. There was nothing I could do but just slow down, take smaller steps, and tough it out.

With four miles to go, I was being passed by a lot of runners. Some of them would give an encouraging remark as they passed, others passed in silence. I could hear some of them coming up behind me with loud breathing. I noticed that I was not struggling to breathe at all. I still had stamina and wind. The only thing that had slowed me down was the pain.

I looked ahead and saw the three mile sign. I was down to a 5K race. I had run a couple of 5K races over the last couple of years. I could do a 5K I told myself. With about a mile to go I noticed a lady sitting on a fence watching the race. As I approached she said, "Keep going, you're almost finished!" I replied back, "Oh, I've been finished!"

I turned the last corner and headed for the finish line. The cheers from the crowd helped kick in a little adrenaline. When I saw the finish line, tears started to well. Then they began to pour. I took my sunglasses and hat off and raised my arms skyward. I made it! After I crossed the line, I put my sunglasses back on to hide the tears. I took some deep breaths and composed myself. Soon my bro-in law (who also ran this race and took first place for our age division), my sister and my wife came to congratulate me.

This is not the run I wanted, but it is the run I was given. I've had a week to think about it. To be honest, it has caused a slight depression in me. I sometimes place a lot of importance on things that may seem trivial or unimportant to others. This run meant a lot to me--not that I wanted to necessarily win it, but  I wanted to enjoy it. I have been running on and off for the last seven years now. I've learned to enjoy it. The life lesson I come away with from this run is this: life is not always everything we plan it to be. There will be difficult times. The most important thing is that we still move forward on whatever terms we are given. There are many finish lines in life and I need to be proud of having a participants' medal hung around my neck. You only get the participants' medal for crossing the finish line. I'm not even sure that crossing the line is all that important "all" the time. Maybe more important is that you show up and give it your best. I know people who are struggling with life threatening illness, addictions of all kinds, depressions, inferiority complexes, and other serious conditions. To pull up a little lame in a run has to be put in its proper place and viewed with the proper perspective.

I'm not sure what is wrong with my hip and groin area. I plan to lay off the running for a month. I've studied up on exercises and stretches to rehabilitate. I will be working on healing and strengthening. If I get the clearance to run again, I will be on the starting line of the Bear Lake Half Marathon next year.

"OVERNIGHTER!"

I just woke up from taking a nap after spending the night with the Boy Scouts on an "overnighter."
The word overnighter has a survival tone to it--and if I analyze the adventure, I'd say it fits. I left straight from work at around 5:30 PM and drove to the camp location about 30 minutes away in the Wasatch Mountains. We camped on some private cabin property, which was nice. The fire was already going when I arrived. The Scouts already exploring their new environment.

The other two adult leaders were getting out the evening meal: hot dogs, chips, cookies, and punch. I slid a hot dog on a roasting stick and watched the skin bubble and brown. I placed it in a bun, threw on some mustard, and savored the flavor. I ate two dogs and a handful of chips and chased it down with bottled water. Later, the Scouts roasted some marshmallows and placed them in between a couple of chocolate covered cookies for a treat. I stuffed a cold marshmallow in my mouth, bit off a piece of cookie, leaned back in my camp chair and glanced up at the darkening sky with the thought that dessert was served.

The fire was warm. I could feel the heat as it glanced off my face and toasted my clothes. We talked about the weather and how cold we figured it would get. We decided it would be in the high 30s by morning. Dark clouds were bunching up against a bright moon casting an erie back-glow to the surrounding trees. The Scouts had gathered around, eaten their quick dinner, and waiting for a few spooky stories. I started with a couple of old classics I like to tell. In my day, they were the kind of stories that kept us young Scouts in our tents at night. I've discovered that they are not as scary to today's Scouts. I guess with the things they see in the media, and on electronic games, a story about an old wide-brimmed hat wearing sheepherder's ghost still wandering the very hills where we were camped in, and seen just last week, isn't all that frightening to them. I had to resort to secretly tossing a few large rocks out into the trees to get a few of the Scouts wondering what lurked in the darkness and getting their adrenaline and imaginations stirred.

You can learn a lot from just sitting around a campfire at night and just listening. I learned a little more about the young men as they told their own stories and interacted with each other.

We were going to break camp early as some of the Scouts needed to be back to get to ball games and other activities. All of us were in bed by 11:00 PM.  After laying in my tent listening to the noises of the forest and trying to figure out what the repeated sound of footsteps approaching my tent and then stopping could be, I finally fell asleep. I don't think I was a sleep long when I hear a loud distressed yell of a man. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but as my heart pumped I heard the yell again: "Help!" I sat up and waited for the yell again. "Help!" The voice was now closer. I grabbed my pants and prepared to put them on. The voice was down near the paved road and I heard it yell again. This time it yelled a name, "Adam!" This person was definitely in some distress. Just as I was trying to get my legs into my pants, I heard a car pull up, stop for a second, and then drive off. The yelling stopped. I lay there assuming that the person in distress had found his ride to safety. Still, I lay there and tried to figure out what could possibly been the person's problem.

As I thought about the different situations a person could be caught in, the sky flashed with lightning and a roar of thunder bounced off the canyon. Then a slight drizzle started to tap the rain-fly on my tent. Another bright flash and boom was heard and the rain began to fall more seriously. It was an isolated shower and lasted about fifteen minutes. Slowly, I began to fall asleep--then the wind started up. First, it shook the rain off the tent and splashed it on the groundcloth periodically. Each time I closed my eyes and wished for sleep, the wind would rush through the trees, shake the tent, and startle me awake. I layed there thinking about a wide-brimmed hat wearing sheepherder ghost who kept walking up to my tent.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have for a couple of hours. The next thing I heard was the birds chirping. I figured it was about 5:00 AM. I rolled over, realized the air in the headrest of my air mattress had leaked out and tried to squeeze one more hour of sleep out of a very sleepless night. Too many birds chirping. It was no use, I layed there waiting to hear the noise of the others raising from what I assumed was a peaceful nights rest for them.

When I climbed out of the sack, and emerged from my tent, a fire was going and two Scouts and one adult Leader were warming themselves. Soon others joined us. I asked if they had heard the guy yelling and everyone did. We talked about what his problem might have been. Someone suggested he was drunk or high on drugs. That seemed like a possible scenario.

We then ate some breakfast and started to break camp. A very light snow began to fall. By 8:00 AM we were on the road to civilization. We had survived the "overnighter!"

Stories

I've been going over to the river on my lunch hour. I walk the path and stop in places to stare at the water. When the water is clear, I look for trout. The area I've been going to is in the middle of Ogden. It's a place the city has spent time and money revitalizing. It looks to be cleaner. It looks to be a place of contemplation. Just last week there was a group of students ( middle school age) who were sitting on the rocks near the river. All of them had notebooks and pens. Some were in close groups while others had spread out to find their own spot. I heard the teacher explaining to them that they could write whatever came to them--whatever they were feeling. I didn't find it all that surprising that they were at a river to do a writing assignment. Rivers can say a lot, but sometimes, they just listen.

I've been reading David Duncan's book, "My Story as Told by Water." Here is an interesting quote:

"At the age of twenty-five or so, I consciously chose a life of rivers, words, and contemplation over, among other things, any real possibility of a large income, instead making it my habit to walk in water as often as I could. I used to call such walks "fishing trips." For diplomatic purposes among those sacred of pagans--or, worse, mystics--I still do. But I've spent thousands of days now, in the waders I call my "portable sweat lodge," simply strolling, or standing in, running water. I possess no deed to any creek or river I traipse--because I need no deed. I bring almost nothing, in the way of food or memento, home afterword--because the rivers are home. I possess no friend or family member, not even the closest, with whom I've spent more time than I have with rivers. And I daresay that--in their hard-to-describe way--rivers have befriended me in return. They're very serious and cool in their friendships, incapable of sentimentality or preferred treatment, and would always as soon  drown as coddle you. Yet if you touch a river's skin with  the least tip of your finger, it visibly reconfigures what it was doing in instantaneous response. Is there a better name than friend for something this ceaselessly vigilant, this ready to respond to your most nuanced touch?"

Like I mentioned earlier, I didn't find it surprising that students were at the river learning to write. I did wonder, however, about the teacher. I saw her walking from each small group and to each individual repeatedly giving her instructions, "You can write whatever comes to you--whatever you are feeling." It occurred to me that this river was the teachers friend. Somehow, in the past, it had talked to her and she to it. Maybe she had placed the tip of her finger on its skin and watched the instantaneous response as the river reconfigured. Maybe that simple touch had reconfigured the teacher. It had to have affected her. She was changed and wanted to share that change with her students. Maybe the teacher could sense that our world teaches that success is measured in what we have (large incomes and material possessions), and that we are bombarded with electronic media to the point of losing our ability to really communicate, that in someway, by taking these students to the river, she could add to some one's list of friendships. Even if only a few of the students came away reconfigured and with a new friend, then this teacher has done her job.

Some Place

My favorite trout is the Bonneville cutthroat. It has always been my favorite. It was my favorite long before I even knew that the little native trout, in the little creek (which seemed like a big creek when I was three), was a Bonneville.

What I've come to discover with age, is, I'm not that different from my beloved trout. The particular strain of Bonneville lives in a large natural lake of turquoise. It can grow large and in its large size likes to eat a couple of forage fishes--whitefish and cisco. When mature, the Bonneville will migrate to their birth place, the small creeks that feed the lake of turquoise. They will enter the creeks and swim to suitable "places" for spawning quite similar to Atlantic and Pacific Salmon. The stress of this endeavor will weaken some fish to the point of death, but for the most part, after spawning, the trout will migrate back to the lake. The fry will stay in the creek and as they get larger, some will migrate to the lake also. Some will remain in the stream and become stream residents. The fish that live in the lake take on a silver and blue color and are called blue-nosed trout by some. The stream trout are typically more colorful with green, red, and orange hues. Biologist say the color difference is due to diet and maybe to the availability of light or the difference of light in the different environments--natures way of providing camouflage.

I can remember back only so far--sometime in the range of age three. I remember standing on the banks of a creek in Southeast Idaho and looking into the creek's water. I remember its clearness, the color of the rocks, and the sound it made. The color orange stands out in my mind. I remember the reflected light glaring. I remember squinting.

I don't remember falling in. I don't remember fighting the current, or even being wet. I don't remember being cold. I don't remember floating face down. I don't remember being pulled out by my grandfather.

As I think back, and try to remember, I get the feeling that I didn't fall in by accident. Maybe I jumped in. Maybe I slowly walked in. Maybe I died in that creek and that I'm living in some alternate world. Sometimes, I hear the sounds of the river in my left ear. The constant sound of moving water. Sometimes, I get a spinning sensation in my head--a lightheadedness like I'm twisting and turning with the force of water. When this happens, I lay down and I close my eyes, I see the glare. With eyes closed, I float, I spin, I'm not here, I'm some place.

For the past 30 plus years, I have felt the need to see that same creek water, to look at it, to see orange, to hear it gurgle, to hear it churn, to blend the noise in my left ear with its voice, to realize that it is my voice-- my own voice calling my name. I go every year.

SPRING FEVER

On my way to work today,
I saw a bald eagle.
Its six-foot wings strenuously flapping as its body
barley skimmed above the barren branches
of winter cottonwoods.

It followed the river corridor,
the water, trees, and brush,
a buffer to encroaching civilization.
I accelerated to the bridge
hoping to get a better view,
but lost the image in a backdrop
of snow-capped mountains
and dark exposed rock.

I wanted to follow the eagle down river;
find a place to perch, watch, and listen,
feel the sun warm the down in my jacket.
Instead, I drove down thirty-first street
catching green traffic lights;
promptness bred into my blood
by a father bent on being dependable.
Secretly, I know that he too
would rather follow the eagle.