Waiting In The Myst

It's all a mystery...the whole damn thing. I took this picture
in 1988 on Mt. Katahdin in Maine. It was one of the best days of
my life, ascending the remote peak in the austere extremes of winter,
along with my brother and five other friends. On this particular day
a handful of us ascended a steep trail to the summit ridge that
spans Pamola Peak with Katahdin's main summit, called The Knife Edge.
If I could only have known then that it would be the way I best remember
my brother, now that nearly a year has passed since losing him.

The sun hanged sharply, low to the horizon in the north. A strong breeze
blew from the south, blasting a haze of snow particles up into our faces,
then angling over our heads into the deep blue sky. We walked literally on
the edge of a vertical horizon between clear blue sky on our right, and
sparkling shroud of myst and snow to our left.

Jeff walked up ahead of me as we neared the sharpest section of the knife
edge. He looked back at me with this confident grin on his face, the way he
often did, as if to signal our common bond and brotherhood. I couldn't let
this moment go, and snapped a shot with the instant camera stashed in my
front pocket. It captured the moment, and the meaning of that day,
perfectly.

A few minutes later, five of us stood on the two-foot wide knife edge,
looking down into the abyss in front of us. Peering south, into the blush
and nothingness of glistening snow particles, we could see our long shadows,
cast into the haze by the bright sun behind us. I suddenly became aware of a
circular rainbow around my shadow, but could not see it around the shadows
of the others. Each of us had his own individual rainbow, fading like a
ghost into the swirling myst of snow and haze. I later came to understand
this phenomena as a brochen spectre. It made us laugh like children. We
waved our arms and jumped up and down.

The rainbow revealed to me the mystery of life within each of us. I stood at
once jubilant and silent, marveling at the wonder of experience, impressed
by nothing but my own infinitesimal insignificance to the cold, indifferent
sky. The rainbow we individually witnessed signified the Grace of existence
itself, the uniqueness of our personal journey, and of the mystery that will be revealed to us at the end of our journey.

Often, when I think of my brother, I remember this day. I gaze back into the
photograph, and imagine him somewhere up in the heavens, waiting, shrouded in a similar myst of rapture and beauty. When I see him again perhaps he'll be waiting for me again, smiling, as he did when I snapped this picture. Then, he'll step beside me on the knife edge, look down with me into the abyss of glistening snow, place his hand on my shoulder, and reveal to me the wonders of the mystery.

Five Greatest Rock Songs

Today, I was thinking of posting one of the most poignant poems ever written, penned by my brother a short time before he committed suicide last February. However, a spellbindly beautiful mountain run up Black Cap this morning revealed to me all the beauty of nature: cold, clear, alone and silent. The alpenglow view of Mt. Washington, and my fresh footprints in the virgin snow, inspired me enough to change my mind. Jeff's poem should (will) be posted on a day when I'm feeling depressed, and really miss him badly. This could be sooner than later: Seasonal Affective Disorder is rampant about this time up here in New Hampshire.

So, let's rock! I perused one of my favorite blogs today: Uplifting Like An 8mm Porno (http://jesuskrispies.blogspot.com/). He posted something about the 'ten favorite albums you never bought'. Seeing that my brother and I spent countless hours debating a similar topic, and that his poem had been upstaged by my bluebird run, it seems fitting to give you my list.

Keep in mind, I always write the list in pencil. It changes frequently...sometimes after hearing a great tune during a late-night road trip.

Rules (for this list, at least. Make your own list with your own rules.): 1. Song had to be written or recorded in 60's or 70's. 2. An early 80's tune will be considered. 3. Absolutely no Freebird, Stairway To Heaven-type anthems allowed. 4. The song has to Rock...blues or mellow ballads belong on another list. 5. Since my brother is gone I have final say and complete control over all amendments to this list.

Let's get to it!

The Five Greatest Rock Songs Of All Time

1. All Along The Watchtower - Hendrix (Also best cover tune of all time.)
2. Layla - Derek and the Dominoes
3. Gimme Shelter - Stones
4. Won't Get Fooled Again - Who
5. Roundabout - Yes

Honorable mentions:
Revolution - Beatles
Like A Rolling Stone - Dylan (kudos to him for writing Watchtower)

Weigh in.

Peace out,
Dharma Bum

The Three Refuges: Coyote Eyes

<----Before The Cold: near the summit of Black Cap

New Hampshire winter approaches: 10-degrees outside this morning, at 5. It's cold enough for snow, but, a warm spell melted the early accumulation. My running trails are once again cleared of snow and relatively ice free, right to the tippety-top of the 3,000-footers. It's funny to see the unnatural white ribbons of snow on the ski slopes, as if someone has painted only the parts that skiers will use with a giant paintbrush. Giant snow guns rudely blast the white stuff throughout the night, imposing early winter upon the otherwise unassuming mountain.

As a skier, I won't complain. But, each mountain run might very well be my last of the season. Looking out the window this morning, the stars still shined in a blanket of deep velvety blue. A bluebird morning was dawning. A quick power cup of java later and I was out the door for the Red Tail Trail on Black Cap, which takes me up about 1,500-feet in elevation over about two or three miles to the bald top.

Starting out I wondered if I'd regret not packing extra wind-blockage in my shorts. Brrr... It was a power run right from the start, the cold being motivation enough to warm up. Rising up through the still dark woods, a stunning alpenglow lit up snow-covered Mt. Washington. It was hard not to wax poetic about the beauty of nature: stunning, harsh, spiritual in its revelation. It takes work to capture views like this. That's why I love being out, alone, on my own, only the wind and streams, my footsteps and breathing to accompany me.

Upon the summit the sun was just peeking up over the horizon, views to the Atlantic Ocean muddled only by inversion clouds far off in the distance. As I do frequently on my runs, knowing no one will see me, I bow toward each of the four directions, my last facing the rising sun in the east. Palms together, thumbs touching my nose, I recite each time The Three Refuges:

I take refuge in the Buddha
I take refuge in the Dhamma
I take refuge in the Sangha

It's hard in the stillness and silence that follows these recitations not to let my mind drift to thoughts of my brother. My soul mate, confidant, and best friend, he committed suicide less than a year ago. In these moments I feel as if on the verge of hearing him, a slight tickle forms in my chest. I can sense his presence. He'd love to be in this exact place, by my side...and I wonder if he regrets -- in that way we put living thoughts into dead people -- not having the chance to run up here with me.

I utter his name. It falls on deaf ears. Or does it?

"Dad, are you out there too?"

The cold creeps back in. Running back down I step carefully, in order to avoid patches of ice on the steep rocks. My eyes are watering, not from crying, but from the cold and wind blowing into my face. It happens all winter long. Half-way down, deep into the woods, I detect a movement about forty feet ahead of me on the trail.

A coyote: we both stop in our tracks. We have a good, long look at one another. I'm close enough to look right into his eyes. "Hello there, little one."

The coyote trots off down the same trail I'm on. I begin running again.

Etched in my mind: coyote eyes on a bluebird day.

Live well.

Remorseless Calm: Seeking The Mystery

We all have our own methods of seeking out the mysteries of who we are. For me, this was it: a lull, preying upon all my fears. In the last ten days our ship had gone fifteen miles in the wrong direction. Poor winds had been blowing from the west, not the east. Then, they stopped altogether. I’d finally come to experience what mariners have for centuries called the doldrums.

Remorseless calm is a better way to put it.


Sailing upon an ancient vessel nearly 1,500 miles of the coast of Chile, I’d received some troubling news from home on what is the bane of all modern adventures: a satellite telephone. Someone had obviously not been told never to give the number to the wife of a crew member! My wife, understandably so, was – to put it mildly – angry. I was four weeks past due on returning home. With 1,500 miles to go it looked like it could be at least another four.

As a mountaineer on this sailing expedition I was a fish out of water. I’d descended thousands of feet through blizzards, across loaded avalanche slopes, over tenuous snow bridges, through the darkness with fading headlamp batteries. But, at least on a mountain, there is some sense that fate rests in one’s own hands. Out on the featureless ocean, our salvation appeared to rest purely on the mercy of the winds, the currents, the gods.

Alone, late one night at the helm during my nightly 2-to-4 am steering shift, I stood witness, if only briefly, to the mystery, allowing me if but a momentary glimpse into who I am. 2:30 am: the crew fast asleep; the rhythmic creaking of ropes lashed tightly around wooden posts; a living green phosphorescence trailing from the rudder, a blanket of a billion stars glowing brilliantly in an endless black coffee sky.

I was a million miles from home: the feeling of aloneness and silence was at once overwhelming and exhilarating.

Then overhead, a bright object catches my eye. Moving steadily through the stars I assume it’s a satellite. A longer look: too bright. The International Space Station: upon it, two lonely Americans and one Russian. Stranded since the Columbia shuttle disaster two months before, they rely on dwindling rations, and the small consolation of a Russian evacuation capsule attached for emergency use only.

Myself stranded upon this ancient ship of reeds, I sense a kinship with the astronauts as they glide overhead, intersecting with my path at this exact point in time. Our common isolation reveals a satisfaction that we must accept whatever may come our way, good or bad. We have put our fate on the line, yes. But, we have knowingly followed the path of our own making.

Further, in the powerlessness of random circumstance shines a satisfaction that we are, ironically, in complete control.