The Dharma Bum

Body Disposal Form

2006-05-04T11:51:00.000-04:00

It's May. People have already begun dying on Everest in the mad rush to summit this, the world's highest mountain, before the monsoon season begins. Historically, May is thee time to summit. So, as May nears its end, climbers who have wagered relationships, jobs and hard-earned cash will do anything - including die - for that last chance at getting to the top. The bodies of those who lost the battle can be found throughout the Death Zone on Everest.

It was seven years ago, but I can remember like yesterday the experience of signing our team's Body Disposal Form. At the tail end of March, we were in Kathmandu, packing up our loads of gear and free stuff, food and personal items, stuffing them into mule bags, stacking them all on top of each other in the hallway. Our hotel looked like a mix between a college frat house on Saturday morning and an overstocked storage unit that had been packed in haste.

That afternoon, while engrossed in the challenge of packing, the expedition leader walks in and tosses a sheet on my bed. "You gotta sign this before we leave for Base Camp. It's the Body Disposal Form."

Let me get this straight. A form, to be signed, that options on just what I want 'the guys' to do with my body if I should die up there...that is, if they can find me, or even get to me.

Suddenly, this little game becomes reality. On previous expeditions we'd discussed the issue of death. But, we never really allowed it to become real. Talking about death on the mountains, what it's like to see dead bodies, all that stuff, gets talked about alot more at home. Friends and acquaintences frequently request stories about seeing bodies. But, on the mountain, during the real expedition itself, there is always a respectful hush around actually talking about death. We see the dead bodies up high. And, we walk past them silently, in deep respect for them.

By signing this flimsy little sheet of paper I was admitting, understanding, signing-off, on the absolute possibility that I could actually die up there, somewhere on the cold flanks of Mother Everest.

If my body was accessible, and getting to it would not put my fellow climbers in danger of their own demise, how would I prefer my body to be handled? (Please check the box next to your choice!)

1) Be tossed into a crevasse
2) Left where it was
3) Brought to Base Camp and burned on a funeral pire
4) Repatriated to family in the US

The first sounds as bad as death itself: frozen forever far from the rays of the sun seems an awful way to spend eternity. And, in the fact of being frozen solid, the chances of my body being around for that long was a distinct possibility...maybe with the possibility of popping up at the bottom of a glacier in 10,000 years.

The second: better than the first. At least birds can come and peck at me, or I could stand as a ghostly reminder to those who pass me that they'd better be very, very careful.

The third: it was the natural choice for me. Burned in Base Camp accompaid by Buddhist monks chanting prayers at a Puja ceremony. Afterwards, the team could resort to Scotch and cases of cheap Chinese beer. Why not? Celebrate. Further, it's an easy decision, because;

The fourth: repatriation. Consider this: it costs about $15,000 to get a body home. My wife would already have been pissed at me for dying and then further insulting her by leaving her and my son with a staggering bill. It could possibly rank up there with about the worst last-act of anybody's life. "Hello, M'am, yes, your husband's body is here. It's C.O.D. You'll need to write us a check for $14,256.73. Yes, that's right $14,256.73. Where would you like me to put it?"

Already this year on Everest at least five human beings with friends and family at home have tragically lost their lives. The season is early. Deaths at this stage are typically unheard of. But, as the season heats up, and we approach early May, climbers will be clamoring to get into position for a summit bid.

Get ready, things are going to get worse. I'm sorry for any who inflict upon their families the possibility of giving their own life for a dream that carries no intrinsic value. Except that is, for the Sherpas who work and climb with the westerners in order to support their families. Climbing teams should be fully responsible to pay these families any support and financial obligations necessary to lessen the blow.

Be safe. Climb well.

Suffer The Pay-Off

2006-04-27T10:43:00.000-04:00

Finally, after more than two months of a lay-off from running the trails, I'm back at it again. Coming back gets harder every year. A lay-off for a 22 year old is one thing. But, double that, and you have sufferfest written all over it.

Above is a picture taken sometime around the New Year, when I was fairly obsessed with seeing how quickly I could power up the three snow-filled miles to the top of Black Cap. At this stage of a come-back, I'm gunning for making it without stopping to walk the steep parts. As you can see, the views are spectacular, with Mount Washington, the highest mountain in the northeast US, in the background. Clear out a tree at the bottom of that picture and you could spot my house down there. Sometimes, I'd look down and wonder if I'd remembered to shut the stove down. The obsessive-compulsive element of me complells me to look if smoke might be billowing from our rooftop.

Springtime has melted winter away. I've unscrewed the sheet-metal screws from the bottom of my running shoes. It's just me, my rubber 'souls' and...two full grown puppies, Bud and Bodhi. Running was once a thing of solitude. I would sometimes encounter a coyote, moose, deer...and who knows what else awaited me? But, now the little boys tromp along beside me, nervous that I might take a turn without them knowing. Last fall, as little puppies, they took off like a shot after a lone deer grazing on the grass on more than one occasion. That really bothers me, and I can only hope they don't get into a scrap with something.

I prefer running alone, deep in the woods and mountain trails, my breath and stealth footsteps the only sound I make. However, as I sit here now those little energy bugs lay in the kitchen bored silly. So, I've begun to bring them with me, now that the snow is gone. When I lace up my running shoes in the pre-dawn morning they're at the ready. There was a time when they lagged behind. But, it seems they've gotten into shape far quicker than me. Now, they turn to watch as I hammer my way up the trail. They never stray far, a bit nervous they'd be left alone with the mean, mean monsters that live in the woods.

After two weeks of getting back at it, I've made significant progress. The challenge is to power right up Black Cap, sit atop it to enjoy the view, and back down before the kids wake up. Then, I'll take on Mt. Kearsarge, a bigger mountain off to the right of the picture above.

But, ooohhh, the struggle to regain my shape. Make a mental note not to take two full months off from running. Motivated by a hilly road race in Jackson this June, I have alot to work for, namely my ego. I don't like to race unless I can compete for finishing in the top ten. I'd like to say that First is all I could live with. But, top ten is about the level I stand in the ranks of running.

Either way, I suffer the pay-off. This is my muse.

A Funny Time To Remember

2006-03-22T10:19:00.000-05:00

I was musing to a friend recently about almost being killed in an avalanche on The Moose's Tooth in Alaska some years back. It was such a powerful experience.

My Moose’s Tooth trip was in 2001. It was a fantastic trip, absolutely wonderful, except for that avalanche. I was in Alaska filming aerials for a documentary with a world reknowned photograper and cartographer. After a couple weeks we finally woke up to the perfect bluebird day to fly over McKinley's summit. I was free to join another climber for three short days for an attempt on The Moose's Tooth, pictured above.

This muse began when I'd expressed to my friend that it had been nearly seven years since I'd spoken with a climbing partner of ours from Everest in '99. After some incredible life-altering experiences that we'd spent together, we'd never once spoken on the telephone or even kept in touch. It's like we were two travelers who crossed paths for a short time, then went our separate ways.

But, something happened during that avalanche. The route I was attempting was called Ham & Eggs, a steep, 3,000 foot ice and rock climb that led up to a knife edge ridge. It’s a moderate to difficult route, mostly vertical, with objective hazards such as falling rocks and ice. It had been a goal of mine to give this route a shot for many years.

My climbing partner and I left at 5 am and were about 600 feet up above the glacier floor, just near the top of a very steep snow slope, of about 75 degrees. My partner was about to put in a piton and belay me up for the first vertical rock pitch. I was 150 feet below, on the other end of the rope, standing at a snow picket that we'd used for a sliding belay.

Just then a slab avalanche sounded off with its tell-tale crack and thud. Seconds later a rushing blanket of snow poured on top of me, smashing into my face as I looked straight up, sending me flying backwards, head downhill, with my face toward the slope. I was immediately buried, a snow plug began choking me, blackness further confused my bearings.

In the less-than ten seconds during the 600-foot drop to the bottom of the route, something remarkable happened. There was a confusing array of thoughts about dying, how my body would remain forever, buried deep under a slab of icy snow. It seemed rather pathetic that I wouldn't see my two boys again, lost beneath this obscure mountain. At the same time, I felt a sense of complete calm wash over me. Time was slowing down in order that I might make critical life-saving choices.

Attempting to create a pocket of air from which to breath, gagging on the snow plugging my throat, I suddently remembered a story that my not-forgotten climbing partner from Everest had told me. We were sitting early one morning at Base Camp, during morning coffee in the dining tent. He vividly described watching a friend descend an icefall near Base Camp on K2 back in the 1980's. An avalanche engulfed him and killed him. The other climbers watched, horrified, as their friend slid down in the avalanche. They knew exactly where he was, because his backpack was sticking just out of the snow the entire time. However, his body was completely buried, just under the snow. He says that all the guy had to do was a push-up, to get his face up above the snow, and he might’ve had a chance to live.

As I slid down the slope beneath the Moose's Tooth, I was amazed at how heavy the snow felt, how fast I seemed to be moving, the choking sensation, the darkness. This story about that guy dying on K2 came clearly into my head. It felt like I was a mile under the snow, as if people were standing on top of me to hold me down. But, the story...the one that my friend had told me: maybe, just maybe, I too was just under the snow, my backpack sticking up above it.

I knew that the avalanche was coming to a stop. I had a second or two before the snow would freeze as hard as concrete, as happens after avalanches. Then, with all my might, I did a push up, thrusting my arms downward. Wouldn’t you know it? My head popped up, just above the snow! Pain shot through my nearly broken arm, the rest of my body still lodged under the hard-packed avalanche debris. But, my head and chest were safe. I sucked in gulps of clean, cold air. I was alive. Soon after, we retreated to the tent for some blackberry brandy. The Moose's Tooth would have to wait for another day.

One of these days, I;ll get back in touch with that long-lost friend of mine from Everest, to thank him for his avalanche story. The loss of his friend on K2 just may have saved my life.

brainstorm

2006-02-15T09:20:00.000-05:00

write as fast as you can and say what you will it just keeps filling your mind. there are no voids unfortunately and that's what vipassana meditation tries to do, to empty your mind, to find a natural state wherein we can hear just who we are. most people don't want to hear just who we are because it's too painful, too full of unwelcome misgivings and difficulties and pain. but, life brings good things in plain wrappings, bad things happen to us and good things develop. you never know what is in store for you but if you look at life as an opportunity to do something meaningful with what could be just one shot at life, then don't waste a minute.

my dogs are sweet, they look to me for everything. my two boys are four and eight and i yelled at them last night because they were screwing around while i was on the phone. for some reason it just set me off and they both cried. but about thirty minutes later we were cranking the stereo and i was filming them dance around the living room to Led Zeppelin. funny that i would hit shift to capitalize the name of the band but not the word "i" well it goes to show you that maybe somehow i've managed to step outside of the power of ego.

well ego or not i put on this shirt today over a red sox manny ramirez t-shrt and it has a faint odor of a shirt that was worn once and then left to hang in the closet for a long time, then when you wear it the faint odor is right under your nose. no one would even smell, i even asked my wife to see if she knew what i was talking about. well, just took the thing off and tossed it over a chair. so i'm sporting red and the number 24 with a pair of jeans.

get a goddamn life and make something of it. i keep thinking the people that i loved most in life that are gone now would give me the lottery numbers in a dream but they never seem to come. so, i'm thinking that one of my big lessons in this lifetime is to be self reliant, not to get an easy ride off winning the lottery...and besides i can never remember to buy a ticket anyway, and when i do it's quick pick! so, if i just let go of the ties i have to trying to make it through each month then maybe things will come easier.

that said, i got an email from a client today who says the video is possibly on hold or put on the shelf. can you believe it? that would make three videos in the last quarter that went away...three videos that could've been my income for about six months and they are gone gone gone.

holy shit time to start sending vibes to my dad and brother up there in heaven to see if they can impart their infinite wisdom of the netherworld to pop into my head the winning megabucks numbers for tonight...even if i have to share the couple million, a hundred 'grr' would do the trick.

well, that's my brainstorm for now. better get to the work that hasn't been shelved yet.

when you log into blogger and see the 'blogs updated at...' section it's impossible to see this one pop up there...people must have to update every minute to get a listing. tell you what though i just saw a blog listed as 'undress britney' and that opened my eyes. dharma bum what? fuck that dude undress britney trumps your sorry assed excuse for a blog. i'll have to do a search to see if that blog has any content worth seeing.

oh last thing, i couldn't sit with having that incredibly descriptive post about my brother's last day be sitting up there on top. so, thus this post. my wife says not to think too hard about the last moments of his last day. it's not who he was.

he was so much more, so very much more than that last impulsive act.

Suicide Is Painful - Happy Fucking Valentine's Day

2006-02-14T14:38:00.000-05:00

I once lived.

Then I was sure I'd never feel happiness again.

Now, I'm beginning to live again.

Daily I've struggled about that last day of yours, my soul mate brother. You woke up for the very last time just this very morning, one year ago. You poured a cup of coffee. The mug was in your kitchen sink.

Somehow, you couldn't see through to the trail of sadness and despair that would pour down the bathtub drain along with your blood. You were righthanded, but used your left to work with a knife. You kicked lefty. Shot a hockey puck lefty. You drew your illustrations righty. The utility knife they found between your knees on Saint Valentine's Day was in your left hand.

You stopped by the office, received a FedEx package, left an incoming FAX on the machine, full of papers finalizing the sale of your land in Montana. Your land that looked lazily over to the Yellowstone River where you fly-fished so many times.

You didn't bump into Mitch or Meg. Things must have felt so quiet. Too quiet. Maybe bumping into someone would've changed things. You didn't return emails. Sometime late in the morning or early afternoon, you came home. Then, before you went for a run, you folded your faded jeans neatly in half, lengthwise, and placed them carefully on the bed. The belt was still on them.

Your apartment was immaculate, as things always were for you. A perfectionist: neat and particular about styles, the way you arranged things. You hated messy cars, messy kitchens, messy hair. Oh, if only you had had kids...

That evening, you pulled some boneless-skinless chicken breasts from the 'fridge, a head of broccoli, then started cutting them up for a stir-fry. You'd just finished a glass of wine. I wonder if it brought you any satisfaction.

Your stereo had three CD's in it: "Ballads" by the John Coltrane Quartet; "Monkey Jungle" by Duke Ellington; and Thelonious Monk with John Coltrane. The cops and the bio-hazard clean-up crew never told us if the stereo was on when they found you. Kris says she wishes she could've cleaned the tub. That's the way she could love you, clean you up and take care of you. We could've held you like a baby. Let you cry all night.

Maybe the image of the sharp knife cutting through the flesh of the chicken was too powerful. So, you left everything right there on the kitchen counter, lit a bunch of candles and placed them around the bathroom, and on the edge of the tub. Then, you stepped into the tub and sat, facing the drain. Did you sit and think it over for a few minutes? No one can ever really know those precious moments before you took your last breath.

I once had a mental image of how someone cuts themselves with the intention of dying. After I heard the police report on your death I threw that image away. Your's was no cry for help, no little slit on the wrists. You went for the pulsing vein on the inside of your elbow, the genetic characteristic we both shared. Low body fat, veins on the arms. Remember way back, lifting weights at the gym and seeing the veins pop out? I can almost picture you driving down the road not long before this happened, feeling the veins on your arm and thinking "If I do it, that's the place to cut."

That's what you did.

You cut. Over and over as hard as you could. To the bone.

The day you died you took me along with you.

As if out of your very own mouth I can hear it now:

"Happy Fucking Valentine's Day".

I've broken down every interaction, read your every email, every credit card bill, poured through your apartment, now all packed up neatly in boxes at our house. Sometimes when I need to feel you I open up a note you sent me, or an email, or look up at the photo of you and me before we climbed Carrigain that winter.

It drove Mom nuts, but, you didn't have to leave a note: because I know. Soul mates know...

Something has to give if you live a lifetime stuffing anger inside. Somewhere, sometime, somehow a boiling pot of water under pressure will blow. You couldn't be angry at Adrienne after she cheated on you. You couldn't be mad at Dad for what happened when he was still drinking (33 years ago). Mom made us feel like anger was poison. That robbed us all of our ability to deal anger, process our emotions.

Then, Dad died only three months before you decided to go. Losing him was like untying a shoelace. Things sort of fell apart, lost their meaning. No glue. Mom began to lean on you because you were alone, too. I'm sure that's what happened.

I miss my best friend.

You were beautiful. Everything about you: the way you drew, your laughter, you made a room light up, girls swooned for you, whatever was yours was mine, you guided me, inspired me, challenged me...pissed me off a few times.

You helped define me. Now, losing you forces me to redefine myself all on my own.

In some sick and metaphysical way, I thank you for this absolutely painful and dramatic, ugly challenge that you've left in my lap.

I won't let you down.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

FOR MY BROTHER:

Can you hear me?
Are you out there somewhere?
Can you lay a flower on the snow
And let me know you hear?

Are you out there
Somewhere in the wind?

In the dark of night
When I lay awake
I wonder if you're there
Looking over me

I can hear you say my name
Like it was yesterday
Then I feel the fear
Wash over my soul

Fear is dark and cold
You can't pull the covers up far enough
Laying awake before the dawn
No one to answer your call

I see you in the light
I know you're out there
I feel you every day
And hope you'll look over us

When I do see you again someday
Have a six-pack ready
Let's take a drive down to Old Saybrook
Pick up some cigarettes on the way
I'll walk in the house naked
And tell Adrienne that it's time for bed

Don't worry
I've heard you calling
I do know you're out there:
I heard the owl hooting at us near the porch this summer

High and Wild

2006-02-01T10:03:00.000-05:00

This high and wild stuff is what attracted me to northern New England in the first place. It was 1987 or so, I was a distracted television reporter hating all the egomaniacal ramifications of climbing the small-city journalist ladder, when my brother took me ice climbing near North Conway, New Hampshire. I was hooked from the moment my crampons hit the ice. It was a moment of epiphany that would catalyze a change in my career path, how I spent my spare time, and ultimately, where I lived.

I moved to North Conway in '91, then moved away a couple years later to take a job editing for a small television program. In the short time living here I met my wife, and also consolidated my plans to meld adventure and exploration into my career path as a documentary producer. I also practiced long and hard at being adequate on steep ice and rock.

Twelve years later, married with two boys, my wife and I made the decision to move back up here in '04. It's a good place to raise kids. Gym class for my boys is skiing at Attitash every Thursday. They shut the school down and every kid skis, like it or not. That is a cool way to grow up.

My regret is that kids, a career, a mortgage and so on, keep me from my appointed rounds on the ice. It's been awhile, to say the least. But, every day I drive by pinnacles of ice hanging from the cliffs and can sense the thrill of air under my feet.

Last Friday I asked a couple of friends to join me up in Lake Willoughby, Vermont for some climbing and filming. We chose the New England Ice Grade 5+ route called Promenade. Hanging icicles, rock moves, vertical ice and a mossy finish over wet slab are some of the features we expected to encounter. It was a spectacular day.

All I know from the experience is that I need to get out more. Follow your dreams, live where you want to live, investigate your inner workings...and CLIMB!

Waiting In The Myst

2005-12-30T08:03:00.000-05:00

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

2005-12-28T12:42:00.000-05:00

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

2005-12-08T10:07:00.000-05:00

<----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

2005-12-05T10:32:00.000-05:00

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.

Would You Trust Me?

2005-11-21T13:04:00.000-05:00

You know you're putting your faith in the energies of the planet when you put your newborn in the hands of this little guy! "Trust me, I'm Batman."

That seems to be the theme of life these days, putting our faith into the planet. You might call it God. Whatever. It's the same thing when you get right down to it. We left behind the world's greatest neighborhood, good jobs, fair warnings from more than a few, and a beautiful house that nearly doubled in value in just over five years, just to come live in the White Mountains, to spend our days where our hearts are.

Things didn't go too well right from the beginning. Dad died. Jeff died. Little Batman hated things up here, missing all his friends and North Street. Money was tight. It seemed liked we'd made the biggest fuck-up of our lives and that we were living it out in slow motion, watching the skyscraper fall over frame by painstaking frame.

But, things seem to be working out, slowly coming into focus. I have some irons in the fire, potential television programming deals that may just work out. My wife has a job lined up for her in a private practice for when she graduates...in May of 2007! The boys are loving life up here, learning to climb and swim, hiking, skiing, living closer to nature and the outdoors. Everything seems good. Even the tough stuff.

Raking up the last of the leaves in our back yard this weekend K and I talked about how things are coming 'round for us. We'd put our trust in the planet, knowing that if we moved to this place where our hearts' song was that it'd all be alright. Resting my elbow on the top of the rake I looked out at the mountain right behind our back yard, made more visible now that the leaves have fallen.

Having put so much at risk - at least that's how some people look at it - we marvel that people can live their whole lives always dreaming, wishing they could be, do or live in someplace other than where they are.

Well, it begs the Big Question of life: Would you trust me?

Go ahead, take the jump! There's a pile of pillows at the bottom of the stairs!

Job Offer, a Time to Contemplate

2005-11-18T15:01:00.000-05:00

I love running early in the morning. There's no better time to think, investigate the sufferfest meter, have a look around at nature's wonder. On this morning snow squalls coloured the sky, back lit by the alpenglow orange of pre-dawn sun. The frosted mountains on the skyline were partially obscured by low clouds and the squalls themselves. It's one of my favorite mountain scenes. It makes me feel like I'm at altitude, climbing some peak in Pakistan or Nepal. It's a feeling I understand well, because I've been there and lived it.

The absence of a snow cover on the mountain still allows for running to the top. So, I'm good for a few more training runs before snowpack demands I trade my mountain runs for skinning to the top and skiing back down. It's colllld today, though. And, I couldn't find my running gloves. So in the dark I fumbled around my sock drawer and grabbed a pair of socks...a reminder of the old days when Jeff and I never bothered to buy gloves for running.

I had plenty to think about. Just yesterday I was offered a job with a video production facility in southern New Hampshire. This run was a good time to think it over. While I know damn well I'd never take the job, I respectfully accepted a few days to mull it over. The best thing about the job offer is that I'd get put on a health plan. It's been a year since my plan ran out. (Yah, yah, I've heard the no-health-plan commentary...) The downside of the job, and the decisive factor, is that the pay wouldn't come close to what I need. He offered me $50,000. Plus, we'd have to move the farm to southern New Hampshire. I couldn't imagine pulling the kids twice in two years like that.

Between wondering if all those checks we sent out the other day are going to bounce and me keeping focused on how bright the future looks, I decided I really would try to imagine working for this company. It's tempting, I have to admit. Things are very tight right now...day to day at times. It's been a lean year, with the suicide of my brother incapacitating me for a couple months. But, I've got some irons in the fire. Plus, my qualifications are so high that I could run that place. I've worked for myself for years and that's worked well. I've also made in excess of his asking price for the last ten years. A cut in pay? It would be a big step down. I'd never last there. I'd feel cheated if I stooped down like that.

Just before I left the meeting, the owner said to me to understand that he doesn't want me to accept the job and then leave in a year. He intimated that I'd need to keep all those Everest-like aspirations in check...three months to climb a slag heap wouldn't work for him. Understandably so. It wouldn't be fair to him, to me, to my family, nobody. I know in my heart that even if he offered me $80,000 (what it'd take for me to contemplate it) I'd be giving up all that I'd sacrificed for over the last decade. It's not gonna happen, my friend. Thing is, he's a great guy. Very talented. I totally respect what he's built there and ten years ago would've killed to work in an outfit like that. I just don't picture myself a part of his plan at this stage in my life.

Hitting the summit during my run felt wonderful. But, as usual, I didn't become enlightened. As climbers, we kid ourselves into thinking that reaching the summit of K2 or Everest will bring us total enlightenment, nirvana. Only, we get there and instead look off to the next mountain and wonder if enlightenment can be found on that summit, over there.

I studied a plume blowing off the summit of Mt. Washington, a dozen miles to the north. A mini Everest right here near my home. The ski lifts beside me were silent, not a lick of snow on the landing ramps. I had this mountain to myself. In a few weeks, though, the mountain will be covered by snow, lifts already operating for early morning trail checks by ski patrol.

When that happens, the mountain won't be completely mine again until spring, when I'll be back to kick its ass and take another run at enlightenment.

I Could Bite You

2005-11-16T11:28:00.000-05:00

Bud and Bodhi
They COULD bite, but wouldn't!

Life is nuts sometimes. Thing is, the person you're supposed to be most connected to on this planet isn't always available. Things get busy. Life = 2 boys, 3 dogs, 1 big house, 1 vacation rental apartment, self employment, master's program, internship, swimming and climbing lessons for the kids. I don't need to go on. And, I'm not complaining, either. I love it all, the whole crazy nuthouse.

In the process of making our way from the beginning of the day to the end of the day my wife and I barely have time, or the inclination, to connect. That's why last night was so fine. That's why I feel no regret for this hangover.

Last night my wife and I celebrated her birthday. We stayed up way too late and drank way too much. The boys were in bed at about 8, after watching back-to-back Simpsons. (I know, I know, not a good show for kids. Whatever!) We put a few CD's in the stereo, starting with Ballads by John Coultrane, then onto some other jazz CD's. We don't do jazz often enough. It was just perfect, a nice and mellow way to start things out. Great conversation. Quiet house. Good vibes. Puppies rumbling at our feet.

A few hours later we'd drained a six pack, a Foster's Lager oil can, a stray Sam Adams Ale, polished a bottle of red and had poured Scotch into the shot glasses we bought at Luray Caverns this summer. We also learned firsthand just how loud that stereo actually goes. The Stones Let It Bleed. Neil Young Tonight's The Night. Yah! CD's were everywhere, as we basically DJ'd the evening's selections. My wife is one hell of a dancer. She was very polite not to laugh too loud when I started to show my moves. White man's overbite, as Billy Crystal calls it, fists pulled up to the chest, little bounces back and forth.

The night ended far too soon. We're happy to pay for it today. We shared great conversation, had some laughs, shed some tears, listened to fine, fine music, celebrated the birth of my soul mate. Together. Connected.

Childhood

2005-11-13T12:18:00.000-05:00

How did we get here? It all starts with a childlike curiosity of things in the world. How those elements respond back to us may have much to do with how we grow up, and ultimately whom we become. If only the world would respond to us when we offered it our pure sincerity....like a child who looks to his mother for love and expects that he'll get a hug.

Mount Everest Haiku

2005-11-09T18:38:00.000-05:00

Clouded ambition
No mercy to those who love her
Ahh, Chomolungma!

Dharma Bum Lost - Role Model and Father

2005-11-07T13:38:00.000-05:00

My dad died a year ago this Wednesday, on November 9th, 2004. I think it would have been easier to mourn his loss if I'd had some time with it. But three months after his death my brother committed suicide. It made the loss of my father pale in comparison to the sense of despair and confusion of having lost my best friend and soul mate. But, today I'm not writing about my brother. That'll come soon...and often.

About a week before my dad's death my six-year-old son and I drove up to Maine to visit him. I didn't really believe it would be the last time I'd ever see Dad. But, that "damn cold" seemed to have gotten the best of him. Time was running out. Lung cancer is a son-of-a-bitch. This self-realized 73-year-old man had indulged in the illiteracy of youth for too many years, drinking, smoking, carousing, neglecting not only his body, but that which came with career, marriage and fatherhood.

It hurts just to say those words. Look at him now and it seems unbelievable. The person who had beaten down so many obstacles, this one human being who'd become as close to an angel as any, was nearing his end on this earth. The recovered alcoholic, absentee father of my childhood had become a pillar of morality, strength and inspiration to me and so many others. In the thirty-plus years of his sobriety he'd spent the majority of it counseling and helping those battling with alcoholism and addictions, rebuilding a torn marriage with my mother and developing a meaningful relationship with his three children.

He was laying in bed, wearing, as usual, the longsleeved, white mock turtleneck with the logo from my Everest expedition on it. I swear it was the only thing he wore in the last year of his life. And bet you a nickel he died in it. On the sleeve was the Buddhist "Om" symbol, the symbol of peace. On the back, the logo featured a rocky peak with a single eye over the summit, a symbol of knowledge.

My son and I walk upstairs to see him, his six-foot-two frame more fragile than the last time I saw him. He reaches out, smiling.

"It's okay, Will, you can get up on the bed with him." My boy shows wisdom beyond his years (and mine), and he crawls beside my dad, cuddling beside him, giving him a long, loving embrace.

"How ya feeling, Dad?"

"Ugh. Awful. But, we'll beat this thing...." Classic Dad: no need to worry us with talk of death or anything!

Then, between breaths and some coughs, my dad proceeds to tell Will about me, about life, about the man that Will will one day become. Before my eyes I witness the passing of knowledge from one generation to the next. Will strokes my dad's hair, staring into his eyes, laughing from time to time, nudging so close to him that he ends up on top of him.

Less than a week later, my dad died in his bed. My mom and sister had just walked downstairs for a short break. He snuck out when they weren't looking.

He leaves me behind with only one regret: that my two boys won't grow up with their Grampie around. So, I'll try to mark this anniversary in some meaningful way. I can do this as a testament to him, by keeping the memory of his example bright, to pass along the spirit of a gentle soul who became a guide to so many, to be sure that in his passing the light of hope and goodness is every bit as strong.

Thanks Dad. I feel you here now. Look over my boys and guide them.

And, be sure to tell Jeff I say hi.

Your boy.

The Snow Is Gone

2005-11-04T12:50:00.000-05:00

One week ago the snow up high made running Black Mountain damn near impossible. If not for the tracks of a coyote it would've been tough to keep on the trail. Obscured by a foot of snow, trees weighted down by the thick snow bending to the ground, I could imagine someone unprepared dying up there.

Today, Will and I ran up Black Cap, but under much more forgiveable conditions. The snow was melted away. Leaveless trees opened the vista to surrounding peaks. The warm, calm temperatures betrayed the gray looks-like-snow sky. We talked the whole way up, giving fair warning to any animals that might be browsing in the woods or fields. Fresh moose pellets signaled the presence of wildlife...but the incessant talk of humans triggers an understandable run mechanism.

That's why my solo runs are so gratifying...gliding stealthily through the woods and trails keeps open the possibility of sneaking up on an animal. I almost ran into the rear of a bull moose a couple months back. He was grazing on some shrubs, I cruised out around a corner from the woods, and BOOM! We both froze for a second, surprised. Believe it or not, he ran first! I considered turning around, afraid I might encounter him on the way down. But, I'd only completed half my run. Besides, the chances of him actually running me down goring me were too slim to lose a workout.

Well, the plumber should be at my house in a few minutes. Every sink, faucet, tub, toilet in the joint needs a tweak or a fix. Getting a plumber around here is almost impossible. Better not let this one get away. I tell my wife if things get financially desperate I could always become a plumber. Kids, take note: there is a shortage of plumbers. To hell with plastics!

Later-hosen. Have a great day.

First Cup

2005-11-03T12:50:00.000-05:00

For this soul there's nothing so grounding as that first cup of java in the morning. Coffee takes the edge off, floats me just off-center from the gritty reality of a day-to-day existence. And, let me make this clear: I'm talking Coffee, not that Dunkin' Donuts watered down joke of an excuse for coffee. I mean The Real Bean, dark, ground to a powder, lovingly filtered, cup by heavenly cup with boiling hot water. I'd sooner go without for a day than to take a trip to Dumpin' Do-not. If you ever see me at one, please, shoot me.

It's not that I'm trying to deny my existence with this worship of The Cup. I appreciate the events and characters that color my life: the hardships, the losses, the successes, the challenges, my wife and children. But, a very strong cup of black coffee offers an escape from this ADD mind. And, as my cousin once pointed out, at least I know my limit: when I'm throwing up all over my date's lap I know it's time to stop!

Coffee is ritual. I've shared so many good times and conversations over a cup of coffee. Some mornings, especially those where I'm missing my brother (he committed suicide nearly a year ago, was my best friend and soul mate), I pull out one of his favorite mugs, filter the coffee directly into it, and am instantly transported to a time where he's pouring a cup for me in his kitchen. Ahh, the aroma! Jeff and I go sit in the living room, philosophize, talk about anything, have a few laughs. When he gets up to pour another cup he doesn't need to ask. He knows I'd like another please.

Some of my more memorable cups have been prepared in times of hardship: Stormbound at 26,000 feet on Everest back in '99 I was sure that I'd run out of coffee. Our tent was a total mess. It was all we could do to get outside for nature's call without being blown over. We'd endured nearly three days of 80+ mph winds, two of us inside, almost out of food and picking through the tea for something, anything appealing to consume. One last look through the zip-lock bag and there it is, the telltale tiny blue square, signaling the last of the Maxwell House mini-filter coffees. (Hey, it's Everest. Cut me some slack!) Now THAT was a cup a' joe!

I'm not suggesting that coffee is the path to happiness. Even so, it's quite possible that it is: so much satisfaction in such a little container! We each have our ways to get through the day. Before my brother committed suicide I might've found fault with someone who smoked too much, had some destructive addiction or another. But, if something helps you get through the day, it can be a positive in your life. That philosophy is sound, so long as you're looking deep inside for answers, not escaping just for escaping's sake. We're all on a path. Some of us just need a little help now and then.

I'm two cups down so far this morning. The way I look at things, my Thermos is half full.

And, maybe somewhere near the bottom, is nirvana...

The Dharma Bum Blogs - November 1, 2005

2005-11-01T16:34:00.000-05:00

I used to keep a journal. Meditate three hours a day. Climb on my days off.

I'm the same guy. Just older and more in debt.

On a mountain run the other day Will said something like "the more things we have the less time we have to enjoy our lives" or something like that. He's right. We work so damn hard just to have things, more things, better things, newer things. Maybe we should just sell the house and buy a small cottage on a plot of land and simplify.

Between sucking air from the exertion of our once-a-week mountain runs we usually philosophize about life, careers, keeping up with mortgages, kids, cars, grocery bills, adventures, marriage. That's the beauty of a mountain run: get a killer workout, take in the beauty of the wilderness, clear the mind, get focused, enjoy a good sufferfest, push through barriers....a miniature day wrapped into an hour of physical exertion.

6:30 in the morning: as we make our way higher the thick snow from last night bends the small trees right over the trail. Down low there's not a trace of snow. But, above about 3,000 feet in elevation it's full-on winter. We follow the footprints of a coyote, winding and wandering upward, sometimes under low-hanging branches, so low we have to crouch to get through. Somewhere up near the top of the mountain the coyote tracks cut off the path, lost within the deafening silence of winter.

This is Day One of The Dharma Bum Blogs:

The internet is a wasteland, where people come together to share their lives in obscurity. I can waste countless hours on espn.com, everestnews.com, Google, whatever. But, having found the Blog, I see that maybe this is my chance to get a journal started again...where I can record my thoughts, get ready for that book I'll write some day.

At The Dharma Bum Blogs people of the same feather are welcome to gather, to find company in this insane world. My entries will run the gamut. I'll share my thoughts and experiences about climbing, sufferfests, suicide, trail running, raising kids, marriage, expeditions, spirituality, getting along in the world, not in that order. And, unless it's a really bad day, the overall feel is optimistic...

Thanks for visiting. Check in from time to time.

The Dharma Bum