Been a while…

James recently started writing again and has been pushing me to get back to it. After all, I have a lot of “spare time” on my hands. My last post was in September 2015 apparently. It is titled, “Rebirth of a Clipper“, you should check it out. We were only back in Canada a year and that was a HUGE project. I started back up with Nursing school again shortly after that post and well…I was pretty busy. So the blogging went on the back burner. I did finish Nursing school in May of 2017 and was able to work for about a year afterward before James started looking for another opportunity to move.

IMG_0677.jpegSo here we are, we’re in Utah now. I can never guess where we’ll end up next. I might as well be throwing darts at a map of the world because that would be about as accurate as any guess I might make. I recall vividly thinking I wouldn’t want to end up in Utah. “Mormon” hub and all. It seemed intimidating. After having the opportunity to visit 2 consecutive summers, the thought of moving here seemed much more exciting. Its been almost a year now in the State, though only 7 months in our first American home. I love the area we are in. It’s still developing but everything seems to be designed to encourage interaction between neighbours. Most houses have some sort of paseo that connects the front yards as well as communal firepits and parks in every corner. Then there are the people. They are friendly and talkative. This combination is the perfect recipe for fast friendships.

James has felt all these moves have been in most part a benefit for the kids and I can’t disagree. The move to the Middle East from Canada got our family back on track and helped us to focus on what is important to each of us. Moving back to Canada was an opportunity for the kids to see the family they hadn’t seen in 2 years and for Kirsten to really blossom in her art, something she just wasn’t getting overseas. Utah has been about Lilli. She has met “her people” here in the school theatre department. It has been awesome to see the success she has accomplished in this move. Jaron is trying to figure out his niche in Junior Highschool. He has some time yet before his dad gets the “itch” to find something new and then we’ll be off somewhere…wherever Jaron needs to be.

Adam’s Peak

As we wound our way along a gravel mountain road I marvelled at the rolling acres of tea plantations. Women worked the land, gathering immense cloth bundles of tea leaves they would carry from the fields on their heads. Our driver informed us that tea plantations largely employed only women as they could be paid significantly less than men. A concept I found repugnant. Yet, I reminded myself, this was not my country and who was I to judge their social order. Besides, could we really ask western nations to suffer the indignity of a more expensive tea? (Yes, yes we can).

Our driver came to a stop in the middle of the mountain road. We strained to see what blocked our way. Stray dogs seem to be as numerous as people in Sri Lanka. It was a dog that now impeded our progression. More accurately, a puppy appeared to have chosen the middle of the narrow lane as the ideal place for a nap. The driver honked and the little thing raised its head sleepily but refused to move. No honking or aggressive posturing on our part made any impression upon the pup. This was his road and at the moment his bed.

One of many Sri Lankan puppies.

I stepped out of the car in order to persuade the little thing to move along. It ignored me as easily as it had the car. In the end I was forced to pick the little fellow up and move him to the side of the road. I was hesitant. Would he bite? Was he sick or injured? Still, I lifted him out of the way so we could continue our journey.

Our destination was a hotel? No, hostel perched above a mountain ravine on the pilgrimage road to Adam’s Peak. People come from across Sri Lanka, and perhaps further, certainly we came from much further, to make the pilgrimage to this singular mountain peak. The mountain rises a canonical tower over a forested and singular landscape. At its summit, it is said by some lies the footprint of Buddha, Shiva, or Adam, depending on your faith tradition. Lisa and I thought it would be entertaining to climb the mountain and see for ourselves. I could not spend the whole of my time in Sri Lanka lounging on its beaches.

The pilgrimage begins early in the morning or late at night, depending on one’s perspective of 2am. The ascent is made by climbing a mixture of cement and stone steps. Thousands, upon thousands of steps go up, and up, and up. Upon those steps go thousands and thousands of people. Though there be so many, the climb is somehow peaceful. The sounds of frogs and other insects of the night are clearly heard among the soft footfalls of the mountain’s travellers. There is little talking out of reverence, perhaps, or more likely that in climbing the ascent requires one’s breathe for measured breathing not speaking.

The way is softly lit by electric lights and the glow from little tin roofed shops pressed together like standing dominoes on both sides of the path. The shops sell mostly teas and other light victuals. As well, they sell toys and trinkets to the families and foreigners pressing to the summit.

It took us some hours to make the climb. In the dark we joined a queue to take our turn passing through a humble concrete building overtop the famed footprint. My curiosity was peaked and my anticipation climbed as we neared the site. Then we were suddenly there and I was peering through a plate of protective glass to the rock with the famed footprint. What I saw was no footprint at all but a tacky cloth lotus flower spread out over the spot in, what I learned was, supposed protection of the sacred print. My dissatisfaction was evident I’m sure.

Nonetheless, the footprint was really only secondary to the purpose of our climb. We were informed that the sunrise from the peak was impressive and worth the climb, hence the two am departure. So, Lisa and I found a small patch of concrete so situated that there would be none of the thousands that climbed with us between us and the rising sun. There we waited.

We waited patiently with the many pilgrims to witness the birth of a new day; to watch the sun shoot forth its rays over a blue-black sky and the billowing clouds beneath us. We waited to see the shadow of the mountain curl out behind us on a land far below. We waited. Though I was disappointed in the claimed footprint of the first man I would not be disappointed in this. The sun rose, brilliant, and breathtaking. It was true, I thought, that I would not see the footprint of Adam but this certainly felt like I was witnessing the indelible fingerprints of God.

A wide angle shot from Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka.

Once the sun was fully in the sky and we were thoroughly inspired, Lisa and I ran down the mountain path, leaping from stairs like much younger versions of ourselves. We ran past the little shops, the shrines to Shiva and Buddha with their burning incense. I felt renewed and exhausted. We would pay for the journey and our speedy dissent soon after. Our calves would be as hard as the stone we climbed, for days. We didn’t mind, though, as it made those final days in Sri Lanka, lounging on the beach, that much sweeter.

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Lisa and I visited Sri Lanka in the spring of 2014.

Picnic Boat

This blog recently auto-renewed itself. Had I been thinking ahead I might have returned the blog to a free state. Now I feel as though I need to make use of my inadvertent purchase. Like a new year’s resolution I move forward with naive determination. I’ve found myself ruminating on youthful experiences lately. The following is one of those. As I nag my children to get outside, to be adventurous, to put down their devices I’m drawn to my own childhood. Those were days of the Sega and Nintendo but we couldn’t download games from the cloud. We collected enough pop-bottles to cash in at the store for the deposit money. We walked clear across town to the video store and rented games that we played for as long as the rental allowed. I am left with a sense of nostalgia and longing for the 90s. Will my children tell stories like these?

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Refugee or Pioneer

Today is Pioneer day and a holiday here in Utah. It marks the entry of the saints into the Salt Lake Valley and coincidentally the day I arrived home from my two year mission. It is an auspicious day, indeed. I’ve learned that some Utahns are near sick of the pioneer stories and one can hardly blame them. We tend to drag out the same stories year after year. It turns out there are many stories we’ve neglected as a result. If you are interested in Mormon history in the slightest I highly recommend the Pioneers in Every Land series on the Church history website.

That said, this is one of those traditional pioneer stories with wagons, persecutions, and walking… so much walking. I won’t apologize for it. This is a story of my direct ancestors. Separated as we may be by several generations their choices still reverberate through my life. Their stories are still very much mine.

Seviah Cunningham Egber

Five generations ago my parents were refugees. They’d been refugees before and they would be again. They were driven by mobs in Missouri twice. Homes were burned, crops destroyed or stolen, and they, their friends, and families harassed and forced at the point of bayonet into Illinois and onto the banks of the muddy Mississippi. It must have been a desperate sight, this beleaguered group of settlers spread out in hovels and makeshift tents, sick with cholera and malaria. One might be tempted to call them a broken people.

Their prophet leader was imprisoned on false charges in a jail poorly named, Liberty. In a cell too low to stand up straight, covered by thin blankets at night, and weighed down by the knowledge of his people being scattered and smitten by the hand of a wicked and unforgiving people he, Joseph, pled:

Oh God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place? How long shall thy hand be stayed and thine eye, yea thy pure eye, behold from the eternal heavens the wrongs of thy people and thy servants, and thine ear be penetrated with their cries? D&C 121:1-2.

God would buoy him up and he would emerge from that prayer and those six months imprisonment to lift his people from despair. The saints, as they were called, drained the mire and built a beautiful city, Nauvoo. My parents were there toiling to build Zion, a city of peace and prosperity where even the bells of the horses, they imagined, would ring with holiness to the Lord. In spite of the well known opposition many flocked to the city of the saints for a chance to live among them and worship the Lord.

In the midst of that town the saints would erect a temple. It was an ambitious enterprise for a people so poor. Yet, they were determined to build a House of the Lord. They were not content to wait till death to live with God, rather, they would invite Him into their city and into their lives. To the saints God was not an abstract idea or an impersonal being beyond the comprehension of humanity. Their God was a personal being, an approachable Father. Like Moses at mount Sinai or Peter on the water they felt called, and so they gathered. A swamp is no place for deity, only a temple would do.

Robert Cowden Egbert Sr.

This is where we meet my many-great grandfather, Robert Egbert, working on the construction of the temple. He was 24 years old. It is here, too, at the unfinished temple that he would meet 17 year old Seviah Cunningham. We know nothing of those meetings but we can imagine; Robert labouring under the humidity of the mighty Mississippi and Seviah in a full length dress and bonnet aghast at her perspiration. Did she carry water to the men building there? Or was it not such a Hollywood scene. Was her back bent with the swinging of a hammer, her hands blistered with the friction of a horse hair rope? Certainly, that relationship began with stolen glances and smiles. Perhaps they talked during breaks and meals about their ambitions and dreams. Undoubtedly, they spoke of this temple they built and of the lives they hoped to build with it. Good lives.

They were married in early April 1846. They’d finish that temple under guard and when it was done they’d walk away from it to become, once again, refugees.

You’ll need just a bit more context to really understand this story. The saints had been driven from one place to the next for over a decade and they had repeatedly sought redress and assistance from state and federal governments. Joseph Smith himself travelled to Washington to lay the problem before President Van Buren and Congress. It all proved futile. The federal government refused to intervene citing states’ rights and in this case the state was the abuser. There would be no assistance.

Joseph the prophet and his brother Hyrum the patriarch were soon gunned down by a wicked mob. So it was that the saints, broken and poor, streamed out of their beautiful city under the leadership of Brigham Young. They were heading west into Mexico and points yet to be determined. Such a venture would require money, of which, they had precious little. They were leaving behind farms and houses, shops and schools and a granite temple to be used to shelter farm animals. Though, the saints were not wholly friendless. Assistance came in a peculiar way.

The United States had declared war with Mexico and wars require soldiers. It just so happens that soldiers get paid. Thomas L. Kane, a Mormon sympathizer and by all reports an honourable and decent man, worked with John C. Little to convince President Polk that the Mormons would be better in the United States army than fighting against it. Polk would authorize the recruitment of a Mormon Battalion to fight in his Mexican American War. The proposal was made to Brigham Young and he, undoubtedly, saw the hand of God in the offer. About five hundred men were recruited and advances were made on their pay. Brigham promised the men that as long as they remained faithful none of them would be required to fight. They would, however, complete the longest overland march in US military history, from Iowa to San Diego, over 2000 miles.

Robert was among those five hundred recruits. He left his young bride at Council Bluffs in Iowa to await his return. It must have been a heart wrenching departure. So often in her short 17 years had Seviah seen her dreams snatched from her hands. At about five years old her mother died. A year later the family joined the Church in Oxford, Ontario Canada and soon emigrated to Missouri to join the gathering saints. By the time of Robert’s necessary enlistment she’d been a refugee three times and had suffered the loss, one way or another, of all her loved ones. Seviah’s father had tried to persuade her not to follow Brigham Young into the wilderness but her faith had outgrown her familial ties. She had left her family for Robert’s and like Ruth to Naomi had made covenants, “for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.” Ruth 1:16.

Yet here at the edge of the frontier Robert had to leave her with only the hope of a distant reunion. We consider the story of Job and marvel at the faith required in the words “the Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord.” Job 1:21. Seviah, it would prove, had the strength and faith of Job. She would not wait for Robert’s return. She was going to Zion.

With the assistance of Robert’s brother, Joseph, she harnessed her oxen and prepared the wagon. She drove that team herself not as a refugee but a pioneer.

No one is all stoicism and strength. Those people don’t exist. So Seviah found herself somewhere on the prairies driving her oxen onward and losing a battle with a deep sadness. The tears that dropped from her chin and splattered on the reigns fell like silent prayers for relief. As she cried she noticed a man approaching the opposite direction and tried to hide her swollen face as he passed.

He hailed her and asked if she were not the wife of Robert Egbert. Surprised, she replied that she was. He handed her a letter from Robert which she gratefully accepted. She recognized Robert’s handwriting and cherished every word. The letter told her that he was well and would meet her at the Sweet Water River. She carefully placed the letter in her apron and drove on with renewed hope. Later that day Seviah went to read the letter again but it was nowhere to be found. It was a terrible loss but the letter was all she needed in a moment of painful weakness.

Robert and the rest of his Mormon Battalion remained faithful. by the time they reached the coast the war was over. True to Brigham’s prediction they never joined a battle. Their soldier’s pay sustained their families and supported the saint’s exodus. Released from their obligations they turned to Zion. Robert, I’m sure, was anxious to get back to his young wife and at last begin the life they had hoped for. He’d left her in Iowa, it would be a long walk. At some length he arrived at the Sweet Water River. A party of immigrants had also arrived and he thought to greet them before pressing on to Iowa where he was sure Seviah remained. Soon he saw an ox team that looked quite similar to his own. He tentatively approached the wagon and to his great joy found Seviah very pleased to see him.

Robert apologized for not having had an opportunity to write in the nearly two years they’d been apart. This naturally confused Seviah. She had received a letter and it had told her he would meet her here at this very river. Neither could explain it but they were both grateful for such a tender mercy.

Life would not be easy. Carving a livelihood out of a desert beyond all civilization must have been daunting. However, Seviah’s father soon joined them in their new Zion. Perhaps he had been inspired by his daughter’s faith. Their story doesn’t end here. Under the direction of Brigham Young they were sent on, some years later, to settle in California only to find themselves driven from that state too. Seviah and Robert would go on to have 8 children. The sixth of which would be my great-great grandmother Sarah Catherine Egbert.

We look back on these intrepid ancestors and think pioneer not refugee. We think builder not beaten and victorious not victim. Their lives were filled with hardship and deep sorrows but it seems they had higher joys. They drunk from bitter cups without in turn becoming bitter and their children’s children have reaped the benefits of their faith.

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Bibliography

Egbert, Seviah Cunningham. (Circa 1913). Seviah Cunningham Egbert Biographical Sketch. Dictated to Carrie Despain before 1913. (Manuscript). Church History Library, Salt Lake City.

Metcalf, Brandon J. (2018). Four things to know about the journey of the Mormon Battalion: An expedition of faith and sacrifice. Church History Department, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Accessed May 23, 2018 from https://history.lds.org/article/historic-sites/journey-of-the-mormon-battalion?lang=eng

4-generations-mother

We trace our lineage to Robert and Seviah through my mother.

My Father

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Ronald G. MacDonald

Ron MacDonald Circa 1969

It seems to me that fathers are less easily forgiven than mothers. Carrying, birthing, feeding, and nurturing a child covers a multitude of sins, and rightfully so. My experience tells me there is a natural bond between a father and his biological children but that bond is much looser and requires, possibly, a greater degree of maintenance. Some of the very first memories I have of my father are of him secreted away in the basement of our home fashioning Christmas treasures for his children. I still remember the wooden castles I received from him along with the workable miniature catapult and the buckets of plastic warrior figurines.

I also remember camping trips where my dad would roll out his bedroll in the back of our station wagon while I slept in a tent, sometimes alone, but often with a sister or two. I have a memory of playing something like Trivial Pursuit around a campfire with him and my sisters (Robyn and Alison). He’d ask a question and we’d guess the answer and I wanted so badly to get those answers right. I think he sensed this in me and so for Christmas one year I received the full 15 volume set of thin Charlie Brown’s Cyclopedia. I read them all. Also on that camping trip I recall the battery died in our station wagon. We were stuck, in my child’s mind, in the middle of absolutely nowhere on a lake with no other people along a dirt road very seldom travelled. To me we were doomed. My dad, it seemed, was not much bothered and we just waited to hail, eventually, a passing pickup that could give us a jump.

My dad was brave, and smart, and kind except when he was not. Once I was fighting with a younger sibling and my dad intervened. Those interventions were always loud and scary and painful. I was getting older though, my early teens or preteens, and I left the house in a rage. I was never coming back. I wandered the neighbourhood for a time before I realized the futility of that activity and returned home determined to have it out with my dad. I was becoming a young man that could nearly look my father in the eye and naively believed this made me something of an equal. We stood toe to toe in the living room and exchanged a few heated words. I said to him “what will you do dad, hit me!” He might have but what I recall was far more powerful than that. He escorted me to his bedroom and sat me down on the edge of his bed and then lowered himself to my level. He spoke for a while. I can’t say I recall all the words he said but I do recall these words “Son, I love you.” That was enough for me and we embraced. I think that day was the day I left my childhood behind.

Some future reader may think to judge my father but I caution you. Today we tend not to strike our children and we think that enlightened. Maybe it is. My father came from a different time. He was raised by grandparents that fought in the first world war and by a mother who would not have the support of his father at at time when society was not very accepting of that. He would have the benefit of a step-father from about 6 to 16 before an untimely death. So, my father learned to work hard and to do hard things. He was and is a brave man, indeed, he was endowed with a bravery I think seldom seen today. He saw something good in the two missionaries that came to his door when he was 16 and he pursued that goodness. It took him to Idaho and Utah and away from everything he knew at a time when that separation was severe. Our modern electronics have gratefully robbed us of that type of sacrifice.

The first time I recall seeing the ocean it was in Prince Rupert, British Columbia with my dad. The summer I turned fifteen my dad loaded me into the car for a week and we drove out to Prince Rupert together. We stopped at every creek and lake we could find to do some fly fishing. We took our time there and back and we caught one lousy fish. He’d want me to be sure to say that he was the fisherman that landed it. I’m sure he was. It turns out we are terrible fishermen. I’m okay with that. We only ever saw the ocean from a distance. My father is a brave man but also wise. He hates the ocean, and heights, and anything fast. For all that, I’ve no doubt, he’d dive in, or climb high, or hold on if it were ever necessary.

A few short years later we made a similar trip. This time we drove north to Fort Nelson, British Columbia where we would spend some time visiting my sister Robyn and her growing little family. On our way home we were camped for the night and were chatting at a picnic table. This would be our last trip for some time. I’d received a mission call to Southern California. Our trip was winding down and we could both sense that this would be the end of an era. I would be gone for 2 years and accessible only by letter. I recall with clarity his words to me. “Son, you don’t have to go. You know that you can stay here and that would be okay.” It was a tender moment. There was no way, truly, that I could stay and be happy with myself. He knew that and so did I but what he communicated to me was that he loved me no matter where my choices would take me. I did not need to earn his love.

My father is not perfect but he is the perfect father for me. He taught me by example to give freely and love openly. At odds with the generation that raised him he learned to be vulnerable and has passed that vulnerability on to his children. There is no love without vulnerability. If you asked for my father’s help he would be there, to those that would borrow of him he’d freely give. To me he gave time and his ear. To his children, his grand children and his great grand children he’ll be a patriarch worthy of emulation.

I love you too, dad.

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Dad and Me. Venice Italy, November 2, 2015.

Ragnar Wasatch Back

I’d been chasing that little red blinking light for a couple kilometers. A three quarter moon was shinning brightly and the once inky black sky was giving way to infinite deep blues. My last leg of Ragnar Wasatch Back was a little mind numbing. It followed an old train track with less than a 2 percent incline. I beat back the monotony by chasing down the little red lights flashing in the distance. Each runner is required to wear a taillight.

I could see the finish line grow larger as I approached but that little red light wasn’t going to make it there before me. I turned up the speed slightly. Soon I was pulling in beside this last runner, his Ear Pods protruding from his head, his breathe in time to some silent beat. A few hundred meters away and I felt bad about passing the poor guy so close to the finish. Would his last memory of this epic race be my back flashing past him to sour his victory? “Let’s go! Don’t let me pass you right at the end!” I called.

He seemed to come to, to shake out of his dull cadence. He put on a burst of speed and I pushed harder. We seemed to drop through successive gears as we pressed our acceleration. The crowd at the finish line loved it as we barreled through shoulder-to-shoulder breathing hard and having fun. This was a near repeat of a scene from Ragnar Zion. In fact, it ended the same way. Where was my team? There was no one there to pass on the baton to. Could this really be happening again?

I called our team number. I called the name of my next runner. Nothing. Just as before the crowd thought this was just as enjoyable as whipping my opponent across the finish line. Their absence was my own fault. It was cold and my body was miserable at the start line so I estimated I’d be rather slow. A near flat 7.9 kilometers in my current shape and attitude might take me 50-55 minutes. I had no plans to run hard.  I crossed the line in a little more than 41 minutes. Still slow but much faster than I imagined I’d be. In the end we burned up at least 5 minutes before the team realized I was there already.

Ragnar Wasatch Back is a different beast than Ragnar Zion. Our team of 12 was split across two vans. Where the trail run had us all start and end in the same spot Wasatch Back is a point-to-point race. Race teams elaborately decorate their support vehicles but no amount of bling would mask the odor of a can of ripe runners. I barely knew any of these folks before we started. They all know me a little more than they’d probably like to now.

Ragnar didn’t disappoint. The atmosphere was party like. The trail was stunning and the test was formidable. The many legs of the course made it possible to customize the run to the skill level of each runner. Our less seasoned runners could take the 2-5 mile legs or the down hill portions and those with a little more grit the 6-9 mile legs and torturous uphill.  One 7-mile hill was so grueling the race provided a special medal for the runner from each team who tackled it. In our case this was the team captain and he dominated that hill. I was impressed. Next year that thing is mine.

We had a fellow on our team who stepped in last minute for us. He took the place of two runners. His first leg was more than a half-marathon and he’d end the event having covered more than 26 miles. I hammered out an easy 15 miles and my legs are still very annoyed with me a few days later.

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Our team t-shirt logo

I was also added to this team at the last minute. I didn’t tell the team I’d be making this post so I won’t list the names of the team members here but I’ll say that it was a fun group of writers, editors, historians, students and this lone librarian, so, a bunch of nerds. Our team name is a play on an obscure quote of Joseph Smith’s though less obscure since the publication of Richard L. Bushman’s acclaimed biography of Joseph by that title, Rough Stone Rolling. We were the Rough Stones Running. Sufficiently nerdy, I’d say.

I thought I’d be able to say which race I preferred (Zion or Wasatch, road or trail). Turns out, I enjoyed both of them on their own merits. If I take my kids in the future it will probably be to the Zion trail run. I think it’s much less dangerous. Though, I’d be up for another Wasatch Back anytime.

Things that could be improved on:

  • Better finish line management. So often the finish lines were crowded with spectators and it was hard to tell exactly where to stop or transition
  • Something besides water at aid stations. You pay a good deal for these races. I feel like there could be more food and freebies along the way
  • Food trucks at the busier transitions. That epic hill run could have used a handful of food trucks – so many people
  • Double the number of portable toilets at those busy transitions too

Things that I really liked about the race:

  • Being packed into a van was actually good fun – road trip!
  • People really got into it and the sportsmanship was inspiring
  • Some great scenery on the trails
  • The high-school gyms that allowed for sleeping and showering. Those were awesome. Sleeping on a mat in a gym isn’t really great but it did look like a makeshift morgue dealing with a pandemic – which was kind of cool (only because it wasn’t actually a make shift morgue)
  • They’ve got great medals
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Left: medal for running both Utah Ragnar events. Centre: medal for running two Ragnar events in 2018. Right: medal for running Ragnar Wasatch Back.

My Mother

Charlotte MacDonald – Circa 1969

My mother, at about 4′ 10″, is a small woman. She is also the strongest person I’ve ever met. I don’t use that saying as a rhetorical device or a platitude. At least, in terms of character, I’ve never met a stronger person. As a child it seemed to me that my mother was always dealing with one health problem or another. She managed her diabetes, had her gall bladder removed and battled problems with her thyroid. In addition to all of that she had 9 children. I was the sixth. Of my younger siblings I can only recall the birth of the youngest. In spite of her health issues and her many children I have never considered my mother to be sick or sickly. I do recall her taking naps off and on through the day but without fail when she was needed she was there.

My mother was the one to hold back the hair of a sick child and stay with them throughout the night. My mother would wait up for her children to arrive home late at night. More often than not we arrived home after curfew and we might get a reminder of that but it was always tempered. Those reminders were generally accompanied by a sandwich or some other food at an hour meant for sleeping. Her children were not acting badly they were just hungry or tired. I never once felt unloved by my mother. This includes the time she sucker punched me in the head. As a teenager, I was trying to kill a younger sibling for one reason or another and my mother put herself between the two of us. I’m not a big guy but compared to my little mother I was large enough. I could have easily brushed her aside and she knew it. That fist shocked me into a remembrance of who I am. That fist, believe it or not, was delivered with love. I believed it then as I do now.

If strength is observed in our actions and attitudes then patience is a clear indication of a depth of strength. My mother is masterful in this realm. I am certain that every one of my siblings could share many stories of the patience exhibited by our mother. In fact, I hope that they do. It deserves to be legendary. I’ll provide a single example. My mother came to pick me up once and deliver me to work. She was running a little late and so I was agitated that I would be late for work. I was a new driver but she vacated the driver’s seat for me. I was in a hurry. I was driving too fast and she reminded me to slow down and take it easy. I did not. In my rush I was changing lanes and while shoulder checking did not notice the cars ahead of me come to a stop where they generally would not. I remember my mother shouting my name in warning as I hit the breaks too late. I drove the car into the back end of the one stopped in front of me.

Except in that warning call my mother never raised her voice. We traded insurance information with those involved and I helped the person ahead of me clear their car from the road. They had been pushed into the rear of the person ahead of them. Their car was useless. Ours, however, was still road worthy enough to drive away. As I look back on this it strikes me that I climbed back into the driver’s seat and drove the rest of the way to work. I don’t recall a single word of reproach from my mother. There may have been some but they were delivered in such a way that I don’t recall them. Instead, I remember a mother who trusted me to learn from my mistakes even when those mistakes were fresh. I’d been upset with my mother for being late. Even after the accident and the time it took to deal with that I arrived at work on time for my shift. I’d been callous with her, judgemental and impatient. In the face of all of that she had been the opposite. I’m sure there have been times my mother lost patience but they were and are rare.

My mother is a faithful woman. She is believing and a practitioner of the art of Christianity. If ever there was a disciple of Christ it would be my mother. As a child the things I recall most about my mother is her willingness to help those in need. Even when, as a teenager, I thought our needs were greater than others my mother served. Sometimes I think people have taken advantage of her kindness but I’m not sure she would ever see it that way – or if she did she served them anyway, and that is all the more impressive. When my mother passes away, and I hope that is not yet for a long long time, she will enter heaven having worn out her body in service to others. I know that there have been times in my life where things could have ended in disaster for me had it not been for the prayers of my mother.

She is a religious woman but she never once pushed that religion on me. I remember when I turned eight years old and was baptized she told me that her work was done. She jokingly said that I was now responsible for all my choices and she could rest. It was a joke but it has stuck with me and in someways it wasn’t far from the truth. Her children are a stubborn strong willed bunch that have made their fair share of mistakes. To maintain the type of patience she exhibits one would need to adopt an attitude that would allow you to turn things over to the Lord.

I recall with fondness seeing my mother often reading her scriptures faithfully at the kitchen table. She would write out versus on sheets of lined paper and post them to the refrigerator door. She rarely said much about them but in my frequent trips to the fridge I was fed physically and spiritually. She wrestled me out of bed each morning as a teenager and drove me across town to our little chapel where I attended early morning seminary. The car heater never seemed to work in the winter but we went anyway. I never once felt compelled to go but I also never felt it was a burden for my mother to take me. God will not force anyone to heaven and my mother is a godly woman.

As she ages others might complain that she can be a little didactic in her conversations. My daughters don’t much appreciate her encouragement to conform to her understanding of modesty. I think a little of that is borne out of a sense of guilt that she should have spoken up more often with her own children. Mom, your actions have always spoken more clearly than your words and the fruits of your life’s work will continue to blossom and grow for many generations. You are loved and will be hailed by your posterity as a chosen and valiant daughter of God.

I can think of no greater testimony of the virtue of my mother than the lives of her children, especially her daughters. Without fail she has produced eight incredible mothers. My sisters’ children are all well loved and wonderfully raised. They are all good and wonderful people. I see a little of my mother in each of them. In many ways I had nine mothers. The Lord knows I needed them all just to become a remotely worthy man.

Thank you mom, for all of us.

Ragnar Trail

I caught the Frontrunner train out of Salt Lake to Provo after work on Thursday. A borrowed backpack with its sleeping mat strapped to the side and a sleeping bag hanging from my arm painted a strange juxtaposition to my white shirt, tie and polished dress shoes. On the way out my colleague commented I looked like a business hobo. It’s a good look for me I think.

A couple hours later the son-in-law of an old friend, Harri, from Dubai picked me up at the train station. Aside from Harri I’d never met anyone else on our 8 man Ragnar team. I’d spend the night at this stranger’s place before making the 5 hour drive to Zion National Park and the relay trail running race I was easily talked into.

Turns out I’d be the most experienced runner on the team but a good bunch of guys nonetheless. One of the team had come down sick so we were short a body to make a full team. The race officials were chill about it. We simply added a “shadow runner” which would take us out of the competition but we were never really in it from the start. Our only competitors were ourselves.

That missing member moved me up in the relay. Instead of an early evening run I’d start on the red loop at about 3pm and the worst of the heat of the day. Let me back up a moment and explain how this race works. There are 3 loops of progressive difficulty (green, yellow, red) all starting and returning to the same point. Your team only ever has one person out running at a time. Based on your current runner’s loop and ability you can estimate the time of return and the next runner’s start. When a runner reaches about 400 meters from the finish they cross a RFID mat which relays their imminent return to TV monitors in the start line tents. There teammates wait anxiously for the appearance of their team name so they can enter the start gates, and put on a colored arm bracelet indicating the loop they’d run. The teammate coming in removes a race belt with the RFID bib number and passes it on to their teammate before heading out on the trail.

Each runner runs each loop. My team’s skill level meant that I’d have about 6 hours between runs. My first run landed on the red route, the longest and most grueling. It would have been a challenging but enjoyable run had I not been out in the heat. That heat was powerfully oppressive. The trails were a mix of single and 4 wheeler tracks with a few sections of dirt roads.

The first mile floated away easily but then the terrain rose sharply through the pine where the dusty track exposed the veins of those trees and the rocky bones of the mountain beneath it. Runners of every sort tackled the trail. Women and men of every body type some pushing hard up the long hills and others nearly crawling up it, sweat matting their hair, and their breath deeply labored. Brave to be out here, I thought.

The trail would climb nearly 750 meters and most of that within the first third of the loop (about 4 kilometers). The hill forced me into a walk many times. It finally spit me out onto a long ridge with impressive views of beautiful semi-arid desert valleys. Signs encouraged runners to stop for selfies but I couldn’t be bothered. The valley was impressive, inspiring even, but that picture could never do justice to the living sight of it. I’d take mental images and file them away with the thousands of others only glimpsed by intrepid adventures. Besides, it was hot and I wasn’t hanging around in the sun any longer than I needed to.

The remainder of the loop was a roller coaster trail down the mountain and passing through, at the valley bottom, the tents of the thousands of Ragnar runners camped out for the weekend. My adopted team cheered me on as I ran past.

I pushed hard through the last 1000 meters of the 12k loop. I passed my race bib to Jake, Harri’s son-in-law, and then collapsed into a chair in the shade of the race tent. Volunteers filled my water bottles and brought me a cold wet cloth for my neck. I lingered there in that chair working to bring my body temperature under control. I was hovering on the edge of heat exhaustion, I could feel the edges of it like an old familiar friend. Much like you know the approach of your father or other loved one by the sound of their foot falls or the pattern of their breathing before they come into view, heat exhaustion and her sister heat stroke were approaching quickly. I hid in the shade and covered myself with cold water. I was grateful that the loop had not been any longer. I don’t think I could have out run them had it been. I completed that 12 kilometers in about 81 minutes. Not a great time but given the terrain and the heat I was happy with it.

I now had about 6 hours before I’d run again. There were 425 teams (4-8 people per team) out running. That many people meant the event had a carnival like feel. The race fee included a dinner which I gladly devoured with my team. I was grateful for the showers in the park and doubly grateful that I managed to walk straight into one of these showers without standing in a line. I caught it at the right time – there seemed to be a perpetual line there for the remainder of the event.

I managed an hour’s rest in the tent before making my way back to the start line to head out on the yellow loop. It would be a little after 10 before I’d start. With a borrowed head lamp I cautiously moved into the night. The cool air was heavenly. This yellow loop followed a trail along the inside of the red loop which made the route shorter (about 7 kilometers) but it also meant the first third of this trail would make a staggering climb up to the ridge of a great hill. The steepness was greater than even the red loop but the cool air was invigorating and I bounded to the top.

At the top, along the ridge, the trail snakes through desert scrub. I asked another runner aloud, “who put this beach here?” The trail was soft sand and it swallowed your shoes and stole your strength. Up and down along the ridge I went. Cresting a hill I dared for a moment to remove my eyes from my feet. The trail dropped before me along the ridge and then snaked its way up and up over the next hill. Evenly spaced along the route moved headlights strapped to struggling runners. It reminded me of a late night pilgrimage to the top of Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka. What were these pilgrims seeking?

The rest of this course went nearly completely down. A single track of soft sand wound down the mountain to the finish line. I don’t have the best depth perception so was being uncharacteristically cautious. Then I looked at my watch. I’d been running for 31 minutes and I had about 3 kilometers to go. Harri had completed this loop earlier in the day in about 48 minutes and I suddenly intended to beat that time. I abandoned much of my caution and lengthened my stride.

I was smiling. This was immense fun and I seemed filled with boundless energy. I poured it all out. I was feeling that elusive runner’s high and I relished it. Soon I was crossing that 400 meter marker and I really poured it on. The finish line was before me and so was a young lady who hearing the fall of my approaching footsteps quickened her pace. A challenge, I smiled and egged her on. “Let’s go” I said. “Dig deep!” She did. In the last 50 meters I was just behind her and the crowd was erupting with our enthusiastic finish. I could not help it. I bellowed behind her, “come on!” She answered by driving forward and we entered the finish line to the cheers of an amused crowd. She gave me a quick thanks as we looked for our running mates.

Where was Jake? He wasn’t there to claim the race bib and I waited impatiently. It wasn’t uncommon for runners to miss their handoff. I waited for ten minutes and then left the race bib at the announcer’s table with a handful of others and began to head back to camp to see if I needed to wrestle him out of bed. I met him about half way there coming up to the start line. They’d been watching for me to pass the camp before he’d head up. I guess I was traveling rather fast as they hadn’t seen me run by. Eventually he figured he’d missed me and started to head to the line.

I was still experiencing a terrific runner’s high. I felt like I could run it all over again. Instead I cracked a bottle of coke, found a chair and rode out the remainder of my high before washing my feet and crawling into a warm sleeping bag. I’d rolled in with a time of about 46 minutes. I’d won… though Harri wouldn’t know it, I knew it, and that was enough.

I rolled out of bed at 5am and headed to the start line. The others would take a little longer than we’d hoped. I hung out at one of the campfires near the start line chatting with other runners until about 7:30am. The air was chilly but I stripped down to a single layer as Harri came into the start tent. I traded my bag for the race bib. I was ready to crush this final race. It was about 5.5 kilometers and I’d heard it was relatively tame but for some tricky switch backs in the last mile. The trail was largely soft sand that stole your power like water to a sponge. I did what I could to regulate my breathing and to enjoy the feeling of power flowing through my body.

It was a quick run, though it still took a little more than 27 minutes. Jake took the race bib and headed out on our team’s final run. A good weekend that could only be made better with the presence of my family… and maybe if I’d brought a towel.

I’d recommend a Ragnar trail run. It’s a party like atmosphere coupled with a shared adventure. I expect I’ll be back next year and am already hoping Jaron will be ready to join the team.

Here I am. Pick Me!

I suppose now that I am dragging my family off on another adventure I should begin again to keep a blog. Utah is not as exotic as the Middle East but it is proving to be something of a culture shock nonetheless. I’ve been down here since late March and without Lisa or the kids since April 2. Being a part so long is much harder than I even imagined. I hope to never repeat it.

So much has happened over this last month that I could share. I don’t have the energy or inclination to put it all here but I think the following experience is worth a mention.

I went to my new ward in South Jordan today. There were 450 people in attendance. The chapel and the entire gym were filled. They had two Sunday School classes. When I asked which one I should attend I was told just pick one and if it is full go to the other. I managed to get a seat just barely.

It was 5th Sunday so all the adults met together for the 3rd hour in the chapel. There were so many people we had to use the overflow. They announced that our stake was responsible next week for cleaning the temple (Oquirrh Mountain Temple). I thought I’d like to volunteer. They started passing around a clipboard to sign up. I was only a few rows away from it and I watched it slowly make its way back to me. It seemed there would be no way any volunteer spaces would be left. I was actually a bit anxious about it. The clipboard did make it to me and there was one space left for the week (9:45pm to midnight on Thursday). I breathed a sigh of relief and signed my name.

I could hardly believe that as I signed my name I had a little pang of guilt. There were several hundred more people that would not get this clipboard and the chance to serve… ridiculous, I know. Yet, it made me think of home and how needed we all are. Here in Utah there are so many saints that it seems I’ll need to elbow others out of the way for the opportunity to serve. Leaving Prince George I joked with others how I was looking forward to a low-key calling. Now that I am here it is a little sad to think how easy it would be to just drift into the background; to bury my light under a bushel, so to say.

I imagine they’ll soon split this ward into two and things won’t be quite so crowded. I realize this isn’t the experience everywhere in Utah. I miss my ward family in Prince George today. I’ve got a home under contract here and it has a spare room. I sure hope to see some of you in the future.

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Oquirrh Mountain Temple (South Jordan, Utah)

An unplanned adventure

From the porch of the cabin at Indianpoint Lake

I should have known something was wrong when I couldn’t bring myself to eat anything. I skipped breakfast and I knew that was a mistake. Adventures like these require fuel for the body, a steady supply, and I was starting out on the wrong foot. Brenton pulled up to my place a little after 7am and we loaded up our sleds for the 3 hour ride to the Bowron Lake Chain. The sleds contained everything we’d need for the 5-6 day round trip of this chain of lakes and rivers nestled in the Cariboo mountains. When we made this trip 2 years ago we had a third man, Greg, and our sleds averaged about 80 pounds a piece. This year it would just be the two of us and our sleds both came in at about 70 pounds. We wondered aloud what we might have forgotten. Nothing really, experience tends to lighten the burden of any adventure.

It was a little after 10am when we pulled into Bear River Mercantile. We stopped and chatted with the always friendly proprietor, Sandy. Last time we staged our adventure from here. We spent the night in one of their rustic cabins before heading out on the chain early the next morning. This time we’d go straight at it. We knew this would bring us into the distant, 24 kilometres distance to be exact, Moxley Creek trapper’s cabin a little after dark but we know the terrain well enough that the dark is easily cured by headlamps. Besides, the moon would be a waning full and reflecting off the untouched white canvas lakes. The dark wouldn’t be a problem.

We parked the truck at Bear River Mercantile having dropped our gear a few hundred meters up the road where the provincial park begins and the snowplows end. Giddy with excitement for the adventure ahead we pulled on our snow shoes and clipped into our sleds. 120 kilometres of lakes, rivers, and trails lay ahead of us filled with the familiar and the unknown. Sunsets that fill a man with awe, starry skies that roll out across the heavens as if a painter brushed them into existence, pounding waterfalls that throw clouds of freezing mist hundreds of feet into the air, and misty mornings filled with stillness awaited us. All we needed to do was walk into it.

We begin with a 2.4 kilometre portage trail with a gradual climb that ends with a slight drop into Kibee lake. The trees, heavy with snow, groan under the pressure of their loads and create a tunnel of sorts beneath their bows. Brenton easily outpaced me. “I should not have skipped breakfast” I thought. Yet, the thought of food made me a little queasy. As we pulled up to Kibee lake I forced myself to eat a little cheese. No matter how I felt I would need the fuel to push through the next 22 kilometres.

Portage trail – can you make out Brenton in the distance?

Kibee lake is also 2.4 kilometres long and begins with a few hundred meters of reedy wet land. In the spring and summer this area is a good place to spot a moose as you snake your way through the reeds in a canoe. That is, if you arrive early enough. The stream of campers making their way onto the chain tends to push them away from this place. Today it is just us though and a heavy blanket of snow that brings a pronounced calmness with it. Kicking off our snowshoes and sliding into skis is a welcome change. The snow is thick but someone has been out this far on the chain before us and a faint track has already been laid out, slightly easing the burden of blazing a fresh trail.

We stopped in at the trappers cabin at campsite number 1 on the north shore of Kibee lake. The dozen or so times I’ve been through here and I had no idea there was a cabin there. I thought I had memorized the park maps but clearly I’d overlooked the cabin marker on this lake every time. How could I pass by this place so many times and never notice this little gem? It is less than 5 kilometres from the trail head and would be a perfect winter get away with the kids or my wife. For some reason they tend to bulk when I suggest winter retreats with 10-12 kilometres of hiking or up mountains.

The 2 kilometre portage from Kibee to Indianpoint was another winter wonderland. This trail begins with a long climb away from Kibee and then a quick drop to Indianpoint Lake. Again I felt a little lethargic and was unable to keep pace with Brenton. I forced down some almonds. I was in a fuel deficit and I knew I was not eating enough to climb out of it but I figured I could have a heavy meal that night and a good night’s rest.

Indianpoint Lake was excellent skiing. A couple years back the lake was a solid sheet of ice with a thin layer of snow on top. Those conditions meant a very speedy crossing. This year there was several feet of snow and we were breaking trail. Still good skiing conditions but requiring substantially more effort with our sleds in tow. This lake is 6.8 kilometres long with a trapper’s cabin sitting on a knoll over looking the lake on the north shore at about kilometre 6. Brenton stopped in at the cabin to find it was well stocked with firewood. if you’ve been keeping track we’ve come about 12-13 kilometres but our goal lay at twice that distance.

We decided to push on from Indianpoint. Like the beginning of Kibee the end of Indianpoint is a reedy marsh land and the sanctuary of waterfowl and ungulates. These are my favourite places in canoes. On skis or snowshoes they tend to be choked with willows and other brush that seem to wilfully reach out to snare your feet or hook up your sled. Nonetheless we made a quick passage through the area and the start of the Indianpoint portage trail over to Isaac Lake. This portage is a quick mile but still as stunning as the others. As much as I love to slip on the skis after each stint in the snowshoes I am equally as happy to slip on the snowshoes after a few hours of skiing. Change really is as good as a rest.

About this time I began to notice that my heart rate was tracking a little higher than usual. I was also completely out of water. At the start of this portage the water is generally accessible. There must be a small spring here feeding the lake and keeping the ice at bay. the area is muddy and the ice thin but I could get close enough to the edge to reach out and scoop up enough fresh water I could treat with iodine tablets. At least that was the plan. I wedged my feet into the snow pack at the edge and reached out only to have both feet kick forward and onto the thin crust of ice at the water edge. Both feet easily punched through the ice and drove down into thick cold mud. I threw myself backward but it was too late the water rushed up over my boots and seeped in at the seams. The suction of the mud held me fast as I struggled to inch my way free. Curse words in this lovely spot reverberate like immorality in the walls of a church. The trees don’t get angry but there is a sense of offence floating in the air.

I managed to get my water but I paid a heavy price. Brenton suggested a possible retreat to Indianpoint’s cabin but I knew once we got moving my feet would warm the water around them and all would be well.

Issac Lake is formidable at the best of times. Its north western arm is about 6 kilometres long when it makes a sharp southern bend and runs an additional 32 kilometres. Moxley Creek and its accompanying trappers’ cabin is on the eastern shore of that southern arm about 9 kilometres from the end of the portage trail connecting Isaac and Indianpoint. By the time I hit Isaac Lake I was feeling the edges of a runner’s wall ahead. This is nothing new to me. I understand how to scale these types of walls. It wasn’t surprising either given how I had fuelled throughout the day. Though, there was an added element I was not used to, a heart rate that seemed unusually high. I’d been taking short video clips all along the route and as I review them now I can spot my decline but am also impressed with the clear joy I am experiencing right up to the end.

3 kilometers onto Isaac Lake the sun was rapidly sinking and casting an intense glow over everything. I record a video here trying to capture what I am seeing but the camera is unable to do it justice. This is a sunset without the typical reds and purples that compel the most amateur photographers to stop and snap a thousand photos. Anyplace else this would be an unremarkable sunset but here. Here, I was skiing through a celestial hue incapable of being captured by a photo or a thousand words.

My skis passed through an area of slush on the lake that instantly froze to their waxed bottoms. That ice gathered snow and soon I was walking my skis across the lake all glide gone. I pounded and shook and stomped to break them free but to no avail. Finally I stopped and pulled the skis free of my feet. I broke the ice away and applied some glide wax. Soon all would be right again. I carried on for another kilometre or so when again my skis became unusable as they passed through slush. The ice built up on my sled too and suddenly it felt as though it weighed two hundred pounds. I was hitting that wall I could feel the edges of earlier and hitting it hard. I sat down on my sled and pulled off my skis. There was no sense in cleaning them again the conditions were no longer ideal for the skis. The water in my boots was beginning to freeze and with it my feet.

I decided it was time for a change of footwear. Large chunks of ice had formed around my pant legs where I’d soaked them in the lake and the velcro straps holding on my boots were frozen solid. With bare hands I worked the material to rid it of ice and extricate my feet. I could not get the straps all the way open but, I thought, maybe just enough. Ski boots zip up. Those zippers were frozen solid too. I used the tip of my ski pole back and forth across the zipper until I could zip them about half way down. I was locked in these boots. With some serious effort I pried my feet free.

I am sure I chuckled a little to myself. Dry socks and warm boots. Heaven. Brenton had noticed my plight and was back tracking to give me some aid. I was feeling that wall again but there were just 4 kilometres to go. I didn’t bother with snowshoes, the track Brenton was creating was stable enough to make them unnecessary, I thought. I clipped back into my sled and soldiered on. My heart rate shot way up and my sled was an anchor at my waist. It’s just a wall, a wall I’d overcome countless times before. It’s just a wall. That wall broke but unlike anything I’d experienced in this type of situation before. The wall did not move aside to hidden stores of energy and clarity of thought it broke like a damn and expelled everything I had in a torrent of unmitigated disaster. The point of Issac Lake where the western arm turns sharply south was a kilometre off. I could see it in gloomy shadow at the outer edge of Wolverine Bay nestled beneath the snowy peak of Wolverine Mountain. In the bay, 3 kilometres on, was a shelter and an unoccupied ranger’s cabin and 4 kilometres away Moxley Creek Cabin but I had nothing left.

I was sweating profusely and my heart rate was uncontrollable. The world swam around me as I unclipped from my sled and stumbled forward. Brenton had turned around for me again. I was on my knees, broken and sick. “Brenton, I am dizzy” I said. “I think I am sick.” To his immeasurable credit Brenton did not hesitate. He did not try to bolster me with useless words. He did not prod me to get up, to shake it off, to just try harder. He saw my need and changed into his snowshoes. He clipped my sled to his and we reasoned we must press on to shelter. 140 pounds was the combined weight of our two sleds and Brenton pulled both. Surely there was ice built up beneath those sleds exacerbating the challenge but he pulled on and I followed shakily in their wake. We continued like that for a kilometre to that point of land connecting the western and souther arms of the Isaac where we stopped to counsel together, though I could not have been in my right mind.

Brenton ventured out around the point untethered from the sleds to assess the conditions on that long southern arm. The fog was rolling in and the wind was biting. It was clear that this would be as far as I could go. I have vague memories of helping to erect the tent. I pulled off my wet and sweaty clothes and climbed into dry replacements and my sleeping bag. I was floating in and out of consciousness. Brenton wrapped my sleeping bag in light tarps to help retain whatever heat I could generate. I could here the roar of the Whisper Light stove. Brenton handed me chicken soup and I drank it. Next came a mug of Neo Citron taken from my essentials bag. Then he handed me my water bottle full of heated water. I slipped it into my sleeping bag and felt the warmth spread through me. I lost consciousness, swallowed by peaceful oblivion.

The next day Brenton and I made the 3 kilometres to Moxley Creek’s cabin. Brenton broke trail the whole way. A few times along the route I contemplated abandoning my sled but I persevered. 3 kilometres. The little wood stoves in these cabins are perfect. Brenton got a fire going and headed out to find more wood. I took in as much fluid as I dared and fell asleep. I slept off and on the rest of the day. Brenton kept busy gathering wood and pondering his poor life choices. He is a good man. He made the most of being cooped up with an invalid while our plans of making our way around the chain drifted away. We should have been at Moxley Cabin the night before. That day we should have been pushing through a gruelling 28-29 kilometres of Isaac Lake and then down the Isaac River with a final hurdle over the mountain to McCleary lake and the trappers cabin on its shore.

McCleary Lake, pinned in by the Isaac River and Isaac Falls to its north and towering snow capped mountains to its south in whose shadow it pours its contents into the sweeping Cariboo River is my favourite place on the chain. It doesn’t get more remote than little McCleary lake. I wouldn’t sit on the porch of that cabin and watch the moon as it burst over the mountains. The next day, weary though we’d be, we would beat our way down the Cariboo River hugging as close as we could to the toe of the northern mountains. It would be gruelling pulling the sleds over and under logs and passing through stretches of deep snow. There would be frightening moments where our snowshoes would break through some weak part in the marsh land and we’d have to scramble to avoid soaking feet. There would be moments of anxiety as we raced against the setting sun to break away from the river and out onto Lanezi Lake. In the dark we’d likely trudge down Lanezi to the shelter at Turner Creek transfixed by a night sky completely free of the light pollution of our homes.

The end of the Cariboo River and the start of Lanezi Lake (2016)

Turner Creek’s enclosed shelter can be difficult to heat but we’d make do. The trek across Lanezi would blend into Sandy Lake where we’d hug the short side of its kidney bean shape. From Sandy the Cariboo River picks up again and we’d follow it to the ranger’s cabin on its small tributary, Babcock Creek. Babcock marks the end of the southern arm of the Circuit where we’d take the last remaining portage trails through to Babcock Lake and then small Skoi Lake to emerge on the shallow and sandy Spectacle Lake. It would be evening there on our 4th day and the sun would now be falling in front of us. Perhaps like our last trip there’d be an inch of water over the icy lake creating a mirror effect so startling that you’d swear you were skiing across a brilliant pink and purple sunset.

The division between Spectacle Lake and Swan Lake is amorphous. There is a long sandbar stretching out into a bay. There you’ll find a little cabin at a place called Pat’s Point. That sandbar would be invisible under the ice and snow but in summer it is a favourite place to swim. With one group of young men we played a game of tackle soccer there. The water of the lake barely covered the ten foot wide sandy surface beneath our feet stretching a couple hundred meters into the bay. From a distance it might appear as if we played the game on top of the lake.

Pat’s Point would be our last stop before heading the final 18 kilometres across Swan Lake to the meandering Bowron River and on to Bowron Lake. These places have a softer beauty than the hard mountainous lines of the Chain’s eastern arm. We’d drink in the cool air and haul our sleds through the marshy Bowron water ways glad to be done with the journey but happy with the experience, weary in body but invigorated in mind. Each time I complete the circuit I look forward to these final kilometres. There is a deep sense of gratitude and peace that I can’t quite explain.

These were my thoughts as we left Moxley Cabin the next day back in the direction we’d just come. The distances and the stress of our planned adventure was too risky in my condition. What if Brenton fell ill? What if I could not physically handle the hardships or my sickness grew worse? We headed back toward the cabin at Indianpoint 12 kilometres away. I started strong that day but 12 kilometres was about all I could handle. No sooner was the fire lit and I changed into dry clothes did I lie down on the plywood shelf with my head on a drysack of winter gear and fell asleep.

When we arrived, the snow was falling thick and heavy and a bitter wind gave the air a bite. The scene was idyllic from the comfort of a small warm cabin. The temperature rose and the snow turned to rain. That night it rained hard. Rain on a tin roof is supposed to be soothing but the drumming was relentless. The rain turned the snow in the tall spruce surrounding the cabin into large ice balls which fell from the trees like ordinance from a bomber, bang! bang! they went against the roof. Best to stay inside. A little after midnight the rain seemed to stop and I could sleep. At 4:30am we were up to prepare for an early departure. I opened the cabin door to find that the rain had turned to snow and the temperature in just 4 hours had dropped to 10 below. The wind chill made it feel much cooler.

The wind and snow completely obliterated our previous path. We set out from the cabin a little after 6am in the dark. I followed Brenton, my headlamp illuminating just a few feet in front of me. The snow, driven by the wind, obscured our vision and froze to our faces. The darkness pressed in on us like a shroud mourning the loss of our adventure. We pushed on. Over dressed for the strenuous work we stopped to shed a layer or two in spite of the wind. I put down the head lamp to pull off my fleece and the glow of a near full moon pressed through a thinning overcast. The shoreline began to take shape.

We skied the 6 kilometres across Indianpoint in great conditions. We pressed through some slush but arrived largely unscathed at the portage trail. We’d complete the remainder of the journey on snowshoes. Kibee Lake was a ruin of slush that turned to large balls of ice under our feet and weighed us down severely but we were in good spirits. The sun was shining and the snow reflecting the light of a beautiful winter day.

Looking at a map of the Bowron Chain you might be inclined to believe there was an intelligence behind its making. Did God smile when he carved it out of the mountains? I like to think so. In spite of my evident mortality it sure felt like God was smiling when we drove away from the Bowron that day. It wasn’t the adventure we’d planned but what adventure goes to plan?

A few related stories from my adventure on the Bowron Chain: