EDITOR’S NOTE

One more time to live

This is a moving story about a person who has discovered the passions that drive him, and the fortitude to accept the challenges that are set before him. This is a fast-paced autobiography that is highly focused on the author's twin passions: art and wilderness. This focus allows the story of the pursuit of these passions to unfold quickly and clearly. Any details of the author's life outside of art and the wilderness are just light touches that augment the story without distracting the author (or the reader) from the drive that kept Mr. Martin going despite the physical limitations of his ailing body. The tale is all the more potent for the magnanimity the author expresses when each new challenge arises, because he doesn't let anger or sadness deflect him from the pursuit of his passion.

Mike Taylor

One More Time To Live

By Ron Martin

Have you ever had a dream where you had a task to do, or a place you wanted to go, but people or things just kept getting in your way? It can be pretty frustrating until you wake up and realize it was all a dream. But what if you can’t wake up? What if your American Dream morphs into that nightmare?

When I got married in 1986, I had thought I’d have no trouble balancing my passions for being in the mountains and for making art, With married life. Wheel throwing pottery, was something I could do at home. I had a perfect space for a studio. One year later, I was a dad, and then we had another child along with divorce in 1991. At the time, I was restoring nineteenth-century homes, building new homes, and doing finish work on luxury homes. Parenting kept me so busy I had to reduce my work hours, art and mountain adventures were impossible, except for easy hiking or skiing that I could do with my young boys. At least my restoration and contracting work helped fulfill my art craving.

My passion for the mountains never faded completely. In 1999, I got a cell phone, and this, along with both of my boys being in school, allowed me to make time to rock climb on some weekday mornings. (Yes, I have answered phone calls while climbing a pitch.) My passion for the mountains was getting some fulfillment, and it only grew from there.

Fast forward to 2006: I was still raising my two boys, running my business, keeping my second wife happy, and doing my best to fulfill my passion for mountain climbing whenever I could. Living in San Diego, I made many road trips to the Sierra Nevada Range, which meant driving for six hours, sleeping in the car for an hour or two, then climbing a 14er, and then returning to my car. I would then sleep for two hours before driving back home. If I only had a few hours free, I would hit one of the local crags. With San Diego’s mild weather, at least I could stay in climbing shape year round.

Because of my love of climbing and art, I had been planning a move to Durango for some time, to the point that I even bought a home there in anticipation. The move was delayed year after year, for one reason or another. Letting my youngest son finish high school was supposed to be the last reason for putting off the move.

John Lennon said, “Life is what happens while you are making other plans.” I had no idea how true this was until the morning of August 1, 2006. I was picking up supplies for a renovation project when I suddenly had a bizarre feeling like worms or bugs were munching some place in my head. It wasn’t very painful, but somehow I knew I was in deep trouble. I dropped what I was doing, jumped in my truck, and raced home, which was just five minutes away. I had barely made it through the door when I lost all ability to move or control my body. I fell flat on the floor. Fully conscious, I tried to open my eyes and was severely punished with pain for the effort. I laid there, truly motionless, until sometime in the afternoon, when I began to regain some ability to move a little. I still couldn’t see. When my wife and youngest son finally arrived home, they loaded me into the car and took me to the local emergency room.

For the next four days, I laid on my back with the world constantly spinning around me. I felt disoriented and nauseous all the time, and every time I attempted to get up, I immediately collapsed to the floor and vomited.

My head and neck surgeon told me that I had had an unusual kind of stroke that had destroyed some important nerve cells just outside my brain. These nerve cells were integral to balance and vision. (see Appendix) Now my brain needed to learn how to make do with what was left. He further explained that my stroke was caused by a past injury or illness. He asked if I had ever been in intensive care, had ever stopped breathing for a while, or had a temperature above 106. I told my doctor that I had no such memory. He said, “You should talk to your parents if you can. Maybe, it happened when you were very young.” (The reason my doctor asked me this question is because my stoke was cause by brain swelling at some point in my lifetime.)

***

My childhood was something that was best not remembered, full of abuse and neglect. My brother, just a year older than me, didn’t survive it emotionally. I had put all that behind me and had never even mentioned it to my wife or friends. I feared that if people actually knew the stuff that had happened to me, they wouldn’t trust me to be sane.

My mom was barely fifteen, when she married. Living in Tennessee, she only had an eighth-grade hillbilly education. She had raised five children with my dad who had a bad temper. I remember my brother and I had to take baths together to save water until we were too large to double up in the tub. Often, while we were drying off, we would look at ourselves in the mirror to compare the black and blue welts on our backs, arms, and legs. If my brother had more marks than I did, he would say, “That’s because Dad loves you more.” If I had more marks, my brother would say the same thing.

I was determined to solve the health mystery, so I called my mom and asked her the questions I was asked by the doctor. “So Mom, what happened?” My mom was quiet, I could tell she knew something but didn’t want to say. I didn’t let her off the hook regarding my doctor’s questions, and after some persuading, she finally told me what had happened to me as a child.

***

In 1960, when I was three years old, we lived in Pensacola, Florida. My mom took the three of us (she wasn’t finished having children) to a place near our home that we called, “The Bayou,” a shallow bay where the gulf water meets local drainage. (My mom, like so many people of her time and upbringing, didn't understand how toxic this water was. Full of bacteria and chemicals, including DDT.) We were enjoying a warm summer day together: my mom was playing with my older sister and brother while I was playing in the water alone. There was a pier, maybe 25’ long. I would jump feet-first off the side, sink to the bottom, spring back to the surface, swim a few strokes to the edge of the pier, and then climb back on the pier and repeat. Each time I ventured out a few feet further toward the end of the pier. Then I got the courage to jump from the end of the pier, but this time there was no bottom for me to spring from.

My mother’s telling of the story triggered my own memory: I recalled looking up while under water and seeing the sunlight reflected off the surface. It seemed so far away. I held my breath and fought hard to get to the surface until I could hold my breath no longer, and then, end of memory. I remembered occasionally relating that memory to my mom, but her response to my “memory” was always, “It must have been a dream.

My mom said that when she noticed I was missing, she frantically swam around the pier looking for me. When she found me, she carried me to the bank and sat there, holding me. I wasn’t breathing and she didn’t know what to do. Thinking I was lost, she hugged me tighter and noticed that it caused water to run out of my nose and mouth. That gave her the idea to lay me face down and start pushing on my back. At some point, I started breathing, and my mom took me straight home. No emergency, no hospital, no doctor visit. In fact, my mom thought that if she took me to a doctor or hospital that I, and my siblings, would be taken from her. Coming from a family with a legacy of moonshine, arson, and murder, my mom had no trust in authority, only fear. Also there were the bruises that my brother and I had—some doctors might press for answers.

I have no memory of what happen over the following weeks, but my mom remembered it very well. She said I soon became very ill with a high fever that went on for days. About five or six days after the near-drowning, my condition got worse and my mom panicked. My breathing had become very shallow and I had maxed out the temperature gauge on the mercury thermometer. My mom put all the ice from the freezer into the kitchen sink, ran some cold water and put me in. It shocked me into some deeper breathing and broke my fever. After a few weeks I was myself again. For my mom, it was a miracle ending to a nightmare she would never want to acknowledge openly or even remember.

***

Answers to questions are nice, but I couldn’t walk more than a few feet without falling because I could no longer sense gravity, and my vision was always jittery because I had lost my image stabilizer. Yes, we all have an image-stabilizing system. “Your brain, inner ears, and eyes are in continual communication when you are moving, constantly making adjustments to create the mental image of smooth movement in your mind. If some of this communication is missing, there will be disruptions in your vision. The medical term for my lack of image stabilization is “saccadic oscillations.”

My brain was working hard, trying to recalculate, rewire, and reprogram after this damage was done, but I wasn’t improving very quickly. Every day it felt like I had pulled an all-nighter. Over a year’s time, I finally regained the ability to at least walk and interact with others normally for an hour or two. I still had difficulty with image stabilization and my sense of gravity. I felt like I was living on a small boat, always at sea. My brain would get exhausted very quickly, at which point I couldn’t concentrate well enough to keep my balance.

As for my well-laid plans of living in the mountains, climbing peaks, skiing—for achieving the lifestyle I had worked almost a lifetime to enjoy? My dream was broken. I survived an abusive childhood, overcame poverty, put myself through college, built a business, saved enough to retire, and put my kids through college, only to have a childhood injury reach out of the past and knock me down. Little did I know, there were more childhood injuries coming back to get me.

With the help of my two young adult sons, a nephew, and my wife, I was able to make the move to Durango in the summer of 2008. I soon realized that small town living was much easier on my injured nerves. If I’m standing near a street and a car goes by, the vibration makes everything appear to shake. A small town means fewer cars and more visual stability. Our new home had a perfect view of the La Plata Mountains from the living room. Even if I could no longer climb, this was a much better place for me to be.

One day, while looking at the landscaping in my yard, I decided to see if I could move a few medium-sized rocks. This went well, so I did some more the next day. I noticed that carrying the rocks increased my sense of gravity. It wasn’t perfect, but it was an improvement. This gave me an idea. I loaded a medium size backpack with about 25 lbs. of rocks and ventured out for a walk. The weighted pack moved in a subtle way on my back, like a plumb line, and my brain adapted, enabling me to balance with the swaying load. I still had the image stabilizer problem, but now I could feel which way was up. I started regularly walking the trails behind my house with my pack, adding trekking poles for more stability. Life was looking up.

In addition to mountaineering, another of my dreams was to get back into doing art. Art is the reason I finished high school, unlike my brothers. I never belittled my brothers about not finishing high school—I almost quit school as well, but I got lucky.

***

We were living in Salt Lake City, Utah, when I started high school. I liked school, but between classes, diving practices, and work shifts, I soon thought the combination would kill me. Breaking several child labor laws, I was working as a dishwasher weeknights from 4 p.m. until 2 a.m. and weekends from 4 p.m. to 4 a.m. I was under age, working over forty hours a week, and getting a little less than minimum wage. My dad wasn’t working at the time, and he never applied for any of the social safety net programs offered by federal and state government. The year before high school I wasn’t working and I wasn’t getting enough to eat. I was happy with the job because I got free meals. My older brother, just one year ahead of me, quit high school about two weeks after he started, choosing instead to work full time.

After school I had practice, as I was a diver on the varsity swim team. I hadn’t been looking to participate in varsity sports, but I kind of fell into it. Sometimes in physical education, we got to swim in the indoor pool that the city shared with the high school. The swim coach saw me doing two and a half somersaults off the three-meter diving board and asked me to join the team. I agreed to join the team if my dad gave the OK, and if I could make it to work on time.

After half slumbering through the first semester, I was filled with doubt when I walked into the school on the first day of the second semester. I thought, I can’t do this anymore. I turned around and started to head home. I wanted sleep. To go to school, I had to either go without food or without sleep. I couldn’t see a scenario where I could have all three.

As I walked farther from school, something inside of me was saying, over and over, “Try, just for a week or two.” I turned around, thinking I could give it a try but something good had to happen soon or else I’d be done.

A couple of weeks into the semester, I began to really love my art class. My teacher was very inspiring, and it began to bleed into everything I did. I felt enlightened and empowered. I started taking first place in some diving meets, and all my grades improved. At work, I was now cooking instead of dish washing, which got me a small pay raise.

After swimming and diving season was over, I went to my art classroom after school and worked on projects until I had to go to work. I still had to work—my high school years were very dark years financially at home because my dad was often unemployed. As time passed I learned how to make the money I needed without pulling such long shifts.

My grades improved enough to make the honor roll. By my junior year I was working just part-time while going to school. My efforts didn't go unnoticed by other students and I was quickly pulled into school politics and became junior class president. My senior year I was selling the pottery I made. It was my part-time job.

I went on to college, I majored in finance, while also taking courses in ceramics. A roommate I had in college and who is still a friend, became a photographer. He often praised the quality of my composition in my "souvenir" photos I took with a very cheap camera on my mountain trips. As a child and in my early adult years, I was interested in photography but it was something, I believed at that time, was far beyond my financial means.

***

Back to my lifelong dream.

After moving to Durango, I wanted to get back into wheel-thrown pottery as I did in high school and college. I bought a throwing wheel and set up a pottery studio in my garage. I loved creating new work, but bending over the wheel was causing pain in the middle of my back.

I have experienced back pain off and on since high school. As an adult, I have occasionally mentioned my back problem to my doctor. I was given a prescription and sent on my way. As I have gotten older, the pain has been more frequent. This was one more reason I hadn’t wanted to postpone my move to Durango any longer.

After consistently experiencing pain as I resumed my pottery hobby, I scheduled another doctor visit for back pain. This time, however, noticing that some of my vertebrae were little out of place, my doctor ordered an x-ray.

“When did you break your back?” she asked, looking over the results. “Your thoracic vertebrae 8 and 9 were probably broken a long time ago. It’s a miracle you can walk.”

As soon as I left my doctor’s office, I made a call, “Mom, when did I get a broken back?”

She told me she just couldn’t relive all this over again. No more questions. My mom was getting on in years. She had lived a hard life, and her health and spirit were not doing so well, so I let it slide. I figured that I must have been very young. Maybe it happened when I was about nine years old, when I was laid up for a couple of weeks with a nasty head injury from a fall. (No doctor visit then either.) Oh well, I had already realized that I’ll never have all the answers.

I kept on walking with my rock-pack and realized another benefit. My back felt better when I wore the backpack regularly, so long as I didn’t do any bending over like I did with my pottery and didn’t spend too much time sitting. Without the “pack therapy,” I often needed drugs to reduce the pain. I felt pain wearing the pack, but it was in a range I could tolerate, and my pain was reduced for a few days after the “pack therapy.” I was able to reduce the amount and the frequency of the pain medications in this way. Pain medication is not a good long-term strategy. When the pain is really bad, with drugs, it hard to keep track of your dosage. This can be dangerous—there was a time, when living in San Diego, I was delirious with pain and unknowingly took more than I should have. I woke up on the floor with no memory of the previous day and a half.

***

Eventually, I replaced my rock-pack with a multi-day backpack and started venturing into the nearby Weminuche Wilderness, a half million acres of stunning alpine beauty. I couldn’t bag peaks like I used to and had to downsize my original ambitions, but I was defying my doctor’s prediction of possible recovery by trekking into the mountains despite my disabilities. During these treks, I became very philosophical about what I have, and what I don’t have. All things considered, I realized that I am very lucky. When one door closes, if we look, we will see new doors open. One of those new doors for me was discovering that I loved mountain photography. Although I had to give up the throwing wheel because of my back, taking photos on my hikes was now giving me the creative outlet that I craved.

On one trip, I was backpacking in the Highland Mary Trail area of Weminuche Wilderness, in the Colorado tundra. It consisted of easy rolling hills with flowering meadows above the tree line. I could see the tops the Grenadier Range Peaks, but only the tops. The Grenadiers include an amazing row of six peaks. There is a consistency in their geometry and spacing, like the tips of a picket fence. To me, this range was the equal of some of the famous peaks found in the national parks. So I climbed higher than I had ever been since my stroke. I hiked to the top of a shallow, smooth, dome peak that was 13,000 feet high. I still couldn’t see much more of the Grenadiers as there was a large ridge blocking a full view. I took a hard look at the obstructing ridge. Could I climb that ridge? I’m missing some of my senses, and the pain that I would heap on my body would be hellish. I stayed there studying the landscape until I needed to move on to get back to my tent before dark. I have a harder time balancing in the dark—in fact, I try to avoid going anywhere in the dark.

***

Back home, I couldn’t get the Grenadiers out of my mind. I searched the Internet for photos of the Grenadiers. I was shocked that there were no photos of all six peaks together, base to summit. Okay, I thought, there has to be a good reason why there is nothing to be found. I knew it would be difficult for me, but it shouldn’t be too challenging for a young adventurous mountain photographer. The ridge in the way is Peak Three, hardly a destination as it’s one of the more mundane peaks in the Weminuche Wilderness. The summit is 13,478 ft. with a flat top ridge that is four miles long, as long as the line of the six peaks of the Grenadiers. It is steep on all sides, looking much like a capsized oil tanker.

I studied my topographical maps and Google Earth, looking for the easiest way up Peak Three. For someone with my disabilities, it looked daunting. Just thinking about cart wheeling down a 1,200-foot slope took my breath away.

I’ve climbed Route 8 on Grand Teton, and nearby Baxter’s Pinnacle, also North Palisade, Mt. Sill, and Mt. Ritter in the Sierra. I have climbed many routes at Joshua Tree, Yosemite, and in Utah. That was then, this is now.

The temptation was that, if I could get up Peak Three, I could get an amazing photograph of all six beautiful Grenadiers together. Another tempting aspect is that, at least in the lower forty-eight states, it’s damn hard to find anything that hasn’t already been done. This could bring real satisfaction to my passion for art and adventure. With my abilities and boundaries consistently contracting, like walls closing in, any opportunity that I might have was fading. Can my passion beat my lack of ability? I decided I had to try.

The best time to do this climb would be between late May and early June. Days are long and there would still be some snow on the peaks for contrast with the dark rock. I did the best I could to train for this climb. In April, after the snow melted, I put on my full-weighted pack and began hiking up Raider Ridge, a 650-foot ridge just out my back door, about four days a week. Some days my back was a problem, and there were days when my vertigo kept me from getting too far from my bed. The dark clouds of doubt would often visit me. The last week of May I started checking the weather forecast, looking for a one-day storm over the Grenadiers. Then, I found one anticipated for June 7, 2013.

***

Early morning of June 6, I boarded the first train that runs from Durango to Silverton. It’s a restored stream engine from the nineteenth-century mining era, and it creeps up the mountains at 13 miles per hour, though the Weminuche Wilderness, on the banks of the Animas River. Taking the train would save me a total of seven miles of hiking up and back. I got off the train at Elk Creek at about 11 a.m. I was shaking, but not from cold. The realization of what I was about to attempt with my broken body scared the shit out of me. I put on a back support belt and my forty-five-pound pack and headed up the Colorado trail.

I didn’t get far before my legs became numb and the slow onset of burning pain. I have had this problem for a while and it only affected my legs. After about two miles on the trail, I realized that it was much worse than the previous summer. I decided that, no matter how bad it gets, I wasn’t stopping. What would I be if I quit?

After three miles I came to the beaver pond. The Vestal Trail is on the other (south) side of the Elk Creek. The creek was high with snow-melt. I straddled and shimmied across a log because I couldn’t manage a walking log cross anymore. The Vestal Trail is not a maintained trail, and it looked like I was probably the first to use it that year. There was a lot of deadfall, and this, along with some snow covered areas that hide the trail, chipped away at my time. After three more miles, I was in Vestal Basin at the base of Peak Three. I had ascended 2,800 vertical feet and hiked six miles since I left the train. Climbing to Peak Three ridge top is 1,200 vertical feet of what I expected to be class 2 difficulty (simple scrambling, some use of hands) and maybe a little class 3 (scrambling, perhaps a rope might be carried). But there was a problem.

This was the south side of Peak Three, which I had never seen before. In studying for this climb, I could not find any pictures of the south side. The north side, which I had seen the previous summer, appeared to be of solid quartzite. The south side was loose, unstable rock.

The geology of the San Juan Mountains is unique in that it wasn’t formed with the rest of the Rocky Mountains. Sometimes called “The American Alps,” the range was formed by volcanoes. Much of the top rock layer is very old quartzite that was uplifted by younger volcanic rock that moved underneath it. Rarely does this kind of uplift create the tall, pointed peaks common in the Weminuche Wilderness. I’m not a geologist, but I can tell you the rock on the south side of Peak Three is not the solid quartzite I hoped for.

I wasn’t sure if there was any water on the top of Peak Three so I added ten pounds (1.25 gallons) of water to my load. My legs were numb near the skin but burned with pain inside. I was dizzy, and my heartbeat created enough vibration to distort and blur my vision. I wasn’t giving up though, so I went slow but steady up Peak Three, never stopping. I just looked for my next step, my next hand hold. Never did I turn around and look at the Grenadiers on the other side of Vestal Basin.

The first half went well, but then the terrain changed to loose and slippery slate. It looked just like the black and brown slate that was so popular in high-end kitchen floors a decade ago. The closer I got to the top, the worse the rock became. I was very near the top, and my legs were trembling with pain when I lost my footing. A quick, two-finger hold with my left hand kept me from tumbling down the mountain, but the stress of my body weight and the fifty-five-pound pack was more than my fingers could take. The two ligaments extending to the top of my hand tore near my wrist. My doctor later described it as “an extensor tenosynovitis from acute trauma.” I managed to get a foothold before the unthinkable. There wasn’t much left to finish the climb, so I manage to top out.

Reaching the top, I turned around and saw the six peaks facing me. It should have been an incredible moment for me—I finally had this amazing view of the Grenadiers. However, my body was screaming with pain. My left hand was, well, out of the game. I had no idea how I was going to get down. Darkness was coming, so I made camp. With my hand injury, it was difficult to set up an otherwise simple tent. I don’t know if anyone had ever climbed this peak before, and I saw no signs that anyone had. The only good reason to climb Peak Three would be for the view of the Grenadiers. I’m almost sure I pitched the first tent up there.

It got down to about 20°F degrees that night. I forgot to put some water in my sleeping bag with me, and I didn’t bring a stove, so my water was frozen when I woke up. Fortunately, the morning was sunny, my “ice” melted soon enough. I was in a significant amount of pain, and my hand was swollen. I started thinking about the dangerous situation I had gotten myself into and my odds of getting down alive. This led to thoughts about how my quality of life had deteriorated in the past few years. I had lived a physical life. I was a diver in high school, I was a ski instructor while going to college. Now I’m someone who can’t walk across a log. I thought, screw it, I never wanted to die in bed anyway. I took a few pictures of myself for the first time, thinking that, if needed, one could be used for my obituary. “He died doing what he loved, living the dream.”

My mind was going down the “rabbit hole”. Thinking like that often precedes death in the wilderness. Some mistakes we can only make once—there’s no “do over” if you die.

***

I’ve been very aware of the risks on my trips into the mountains, and Weminuche Wilderness is no exception. The year before, in July 2012, I had hiked to Mountain View Crest in Weminuche. There was a smooth dome-top meadow at 13,000 feet. Storm clouds were gathering. I was wearing my rain gear (coat, pants, and a cover for my pack), and I was standing there in awe of the view. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw lightning hit a lower part of the dome I was standing on, about three quarters of a mile away. I went back to enjoying the view. About fifteen seconds later, I saw another strike about half the distance between me and the previous strike. Quickly I removed my pack, laid it down, and ran (as best as I could) about twenty-five yards northeast to the only possible protection on that half dome, which was a small ledge about six feet over the cliff. I had just got my butt on a rock when lightning struck about thirty yards west of me. It was so loud, it felt like I got hit on the head.

The echo of thunder reached out to all the peaks in my 180-degree view. I sat there as a downpour began. I watched the lightning and rain cross over Chicago Basin and drench the 14ers on the other side. I camped on Mountain View Crest that night. The next morning, as I was packing up, I heard the hum of a distant helicopter. It was below me heading north, straight toward me, climbing hard to clear the 13,000 foot knoll I was on. It passed directly over my head. It was easy to tell it was on a rescue or recovery mission.

Later, at home, I got the news. While I was sitting on the cliff edge, in the rain, watching the 14er’s get drenched (Windom Peak included), an experienced climber, near the top of Windom Peak fell 230 feet to his death. It was Martin Pigeon, from Acton Vale, Canada, working for a goal of twenty 14ers in twenty-one days. Descending from the summit, Martin Pigeon was being chased by the storm that I sat through, when he slipped and fell.

In a similar circumstance, I remember being chased off Mt. Sill, a 14er in the Sierra Nevada’s, by a storm. I slipped and “taco’d” my ankle (that’s a very bad sprain). I dragged, hopped, and crawled to get my foot to a stream in the snow. The icy cold water relieved the swelling and numbed my ankle. I wrapped it tight with athletic tape and finished the eight or so miles to my vehicle.

Three weeks later, with my ankle still taped, I climbed six pitches to the top of Tahquitz Rock, near Idyllwild, California. Then a few weeks later, I was off to the Teton Range to climb. I stayed as long as I could, dreading the return to the city. I made the sixteen-hour drive to San Diego, stopping only to get gas. Such is the craving for the mountains for some of us.

I can’t speak for any other lost souls, but it seems that when we live in places that require us to travel and to juggle a schedule, we will increase the risks we’re willing to take to pursue our passion for mountaineering. We are constantly running a deficit of our needed fulfillment, so we are not as likely to be deterred by storms or our physical weariness. The location of our job or school is not really our home, it is in the wilds. For some of us, myself included, the passion for the exploration of wild places exceeds our desire for money and mating.

This passion is why I had to leave to the city. As you can see in this account of my experience on Peak Three, being a local explorer still has its risks. I needed to think more positively about how to get off the mountain. But first, I wanted my photo of the Grenadiers.

***

On Peak Three, the wind was picking up. It was time to plant my camera and tripod in a good location. I did my best to get as many settings selected on my camera as possible before taking any photographs because I only had full usage of my right for the shoot, since I had wrapped my injured left hand with an Ace bandage. The storm came in like an ocean wave, crashing into the backside of the Grenadiers. The wind was so strong I had to press down on my camera and tripod with my left forearm to keep it and me from blowing over. I then took a series of overlapping frames that I would later stitch together to create a panorama of the six peaks.

It started to snow just as I finished taking the last photo, so I packed up my photo gear and headed back to my tent, where I slept until the storm passed. The sun came out soon enough and melted the new snow, thank God. There’s no way I would have ever made it down off that mountain on wet rock.

I spent the remainder of the day looking for a better way down. I knew that picking a different route for descent is usually a bad idea because your memory of the ascent can’t be of any help guiding you back down, but I really didn’t think I could get down the way I came up with my injured hand. The southeast side of the ridge is steeper, but the rock isn’t the loose and slippery slate. There are two bands of cliffs maybe a hundred feet tall each. There were no good options with my injury and lack of ability. I didn’t sleep well my last night up there, though I did remember to put a container of water in my sleeping bag. My hand was hurting, so I popped open my little medicine bag and took my nightly meds and something for my hand.

I ate as much food as I could in the morning, thinking that I might not eat again until night, assuming I pulled this off. At about 8 a.m., I put on my pack and headed southeast to cross the summit, a steep section of rock. Using one hand and my two feet, I checked for loose rock with each move. It turns out that it was the highest elevation I had ever been with a full multi-day pack in my life. Seven years earlier, I was told I would be doing very well to walk smoothly on a surface like a sidewalk. On the other side of the summit, the ridge was a crumbly knife-edge that I managed to traverse for about thirty yards. Then the rock quality became too poor for a traverse. I would now have to descend the cliff bands.

Looking for something solid, I found a place that was straight down, about a 5.0 to 5.2 climbing grade, but I would have to use my left hand, at least my thumb and two good fingers. Just flexing my hand was painful, so I knew this was going to be rough. I started down, and after about five feet I put my right hand in a horizontal crack on the top of a block of rock the size of a refrigerator. I weighted it and I felt the rock move. I had never experienced a rock that size moving on me, and I was back on the top of the cliff band in an instant.

Searching for a new place to descend, I made my way further across the ridge and came to a four- or five-foot gap. There was a lot of small, loose scree on the block I was standing on and on the block I needed to jump to. Without my image stabilizer, I tried to just picture in my mind what I needed to do. Then, ignoring my shaky vision, I jumped. I made it, of course, pack and all, or I wouldn’t be telling this story. I found better down climbing, but strangely, I don’t remember some of that hundred-foot cliff. I know I used my left hand, but I don’t remember any pain. Perhaps, it’s because I was so focused. I think I got to an unimaginable place in my head, beyond any sense of pain. I must say, though, that I never felt more alive than when I knew I could die any second. Every move was precise, my eyes never blinking. My next memory is standing on the top of the second cliff band. I didn’t go in a straight descent this time; instead, I found a route that a little bit easier.

After descending the cliffs, it was steep talus. I thought it would be much easier, but with each move, the slope began to slide. I had never encountered that on talus before, only with scree. I fell backward over and over again from rockslides, which would give way both above me and below. Whenever I fell backward, I would quickly roll to the side so that any rocks coming from above wouldn’t hit me. My pack protected my head and spine, but twice, the slides got large, and a few very large rocks—one almost the size of a washing machine—went crashing, loud as thunder, to the bottom. I remember thinking that I’d never get off this mountain, 'that I’d be buried alive. On and on it went, and then, to my amazement, I found myself standing up on flat sod. The last slide had literally spit me out at the bottom of the slope with enough force that it pushed me—with my full pack—back onto my feet.

I had this feeling of euphoria that I had never experienced before. It was indescribable. There were so many places, coming down, that could have been my demise. But now it was over. My left hand looked like a big lobster claw. I had cuts and scratches all over my hands and arms, but I was a happy camper. I put some snow in a plastic bag and held it on my left hand as I started down Vestal Basin.

***

Pulling off the descent of Peak Three gave me a shot of adrenaline that I didn’t want to waste. I started down the basin, moving as fast as I could. Once you exit Vestal Basin, there is nowhere to camp or even sit, until you get to the beaver pond next to the Colorado Trail. My legs were really hurting, but I never stopped. I could only use one trekking pole. I didn’t get far out of Vestal Basin when I took a fall down an embankment on my left side. I couldn’t use my hand to catch my fall, and I cut the left side of my face. With no other options, however, I just kept moving. Detouring around the deadfall, this time I knew my way with no time wasted searching for the trail. Around 3 p.m., I made it to Elk Creek, which was just a hundred yards shy of my goal (a camping area next to the beaver pond). I was beat and the nerves in my legs were about to explode. I stripped down and laid in a shallow place in the creek. It put most of the fire out in my legs, but it was still very hard to make them move. Eventually I got myself moving again, knowing that I had a little ways to go before I reached the campsite for the night.

As I stepped out of the trees at the edge of the beaver pond, a large mother moose and her day-old calf were standing just ten yards from me in the pond. I thought, well, I made it this far and now I’m going to be killed by a moose.

Miraculously, mama moose gave me a pass. She just slowly turned and walked the other direction with her very wobbly calf doing its best. After moving about seventy-five feet, the calf was too tired to stand. I have a photo I took right after the calf went down. The moose just stood next to the calf, watching my every move. This encounter should have been equal to surprising a

mama grizzly bear. Strange but true: more moose get hit with bear spray than bears. Maybe I looked half dead and, therefore, posed no threat to the moose and her calf. God knows, I don’t.

At last I reached the campsite. There was no one else around. I couldn’t set up my tent alone, so I didn’t even try. I laid out my ground tarp, then pulled some layers out of my pack to put on when it got cold. I ate a little food and took my meds. Then, using my pack for a pillow, I called it a day.

Next morning, I awoke at sunrise. I had about eight hours to cover three miles on an easy trail with no deadfall. My legs were numb yet painful, and it was hard to get them to function properly. I was confident though—this would be a cakewalk compared to the day before. I made a sling to keep my left hand as high as my heart, then headed out. Going slow, I soon saw three young men, the first people I had seen since leaving the train. They were going to climb Vestal Peak. They took a good look at me. I looked like hell for sure, but I was doing okay mentally, and they could tell. They asked where I was coming from, and then they inquired about the condition of the Vestal Trail. I told them about the deadfall. They weren’t too happy about that, but surely they managed better than I did.

I got to the place where I had departed the train two days earlier with about thirty minutes to spare. I sat in the cool, quiet shade on the bank of the Animas River, anxious for the train to arrive. I did my best to clean up in the river. Finally the silence was broken by the train’s whistle echoing through the canyon. I stood up and watched as the train came into view around the bend. To have the train stop, you stand on the track, bend at the waist a little with your arms down, and swing your arms so they form an X. I continued swinging as the train got closer and louder. Smoke billowed from the stack and clouds of steam blasted out the sides. When the engineer saw me, he blew the whistle twice to warn passengers that he was about to stop, then he hit the brakes. I stepped off the track. The steel wheels screeched against the metal tracks, which really rattled my head and vision. Finally, the iron behemoth lurched to a stop beside me. For a normal person, this would have been a grand spectacle. For me, it was almost overwhelming. The conductor offered a friendly greeting and relieved me of my pack. As I stepped on board, it finally hit me that I was safe now. I had made it. My brain let down the firewall that had blocked most of my emotion since I hurt my hand on the ascent of Peak Three. I saw an empty, two-seat bench right in front of me, dropped into it, and closed my eyes. I had a lot of pent-up emotion and did my best to let it out slowly. I looked and felt like I had been hit by the train and dreaded the thought of anyone wanting to talk or ask questions.

After about fifteen minutes, my mind relaxed some and I realized how thirsty I was. I stood up and, using the seat backs to steady myself, made my way to the “Snack Car.” The lady behind the counter served me a cold local brew. It was heavenly and gone too fast. The lady stood there, watching me as I drank. She didn’t ask about my injuries but just said, “You look like you needed that.” I thanked her and made my way back to my seat. I was very anxious to get home. It seemed like forever before we rolled into Durango.

My nephew was at the Durango Station to pick me up. We didn’t talk much. It was obvious that I was incapable of engaging in much conversion. After the three-minute ride home, I showered and went to bed, unable to speak much for two days. My nervous system was really distressed. My brain and what nerves still functioned needed time to do some reprogramming. It was six days before I could get myself to one of my doctors.

For months afterward, I just kept everything to myself. I stitched the Grenadier panorama together with photography software and was happy with the results. I did another Internet search to see if there were any other photos like mine out there but found nothing. A year passed, and I finally decided to put my photo online. I uploaded it to Flickr, but didn’t share the story of what I went through to get it. I wanted people to appreciate it aesthetically first

As a member of the Durango Arts Center, I get emails notifying me of opportunities to show my work. In September 2014, I got an email regarding a contest sponsored by the Colorado Artist Guild. A few winners would be selected to have their artwork displayed in Senator Michael Bennet’s office in Washington, DC. I thought the odds of winning were very low, with hundreds or maybe even thousands of entries, but to enter, all you had to do was email an image of your artwork, with a title, to the Colorado Artist Guild. So I did. The only description on the photograph was the title, “Grenadier Range.”

It was so quick and easy to submit that I soon forgot all about it. About five weeks later, I got an email from the Colorado Artist Guild with the subject line, “Good News from Senator Bennet’s office.” It was just before the November 2014 elections, and I thought it was strange to receive an election email because Senator Bennet wasn’t up for re-election until 2016. I was clueless until I started reading. The email informed me that I was a winner and that my photograph would be displayed in the Senator’s office in the nation’s capital for two years, at which time it would be returned to me. Prepaid shipping instructions were included, so I packed a framed print of “Grenadier Range” with a one-page letter to the Senator briefly describing the ordeal I went through to get this photograph and shipped it off to Washington, D.C.

At the same time, I was just starting a one-person show that included “Grenadier Range” in a beautiful bank lobby in Durango. I told the person running the show what I went through to get the photograph, and this led to a feature story in the Durango Herald.

During the interview for the story, I decided not to mention any of my disabilities. I wasn’t sure people would believe me. Of course, I do have medical records as proof, but even so, I needed time to think about that one. Once disclosed, I would have to live with it, and I didn’t want my health problems to define me.

***

In December 2014, I started seeing a neurologist about the burning sensation in my legs and arms. Reaching a diagnosis is incredibly slow, given that it can take several appointments for the neurologist to gain enough insight to make a diagnosis, and that, appointments can be spaced months apart. In March 2015, my neurologist had a medical emergency of her own the morning of my appointment and wasn’t able to see me for a few more months. I was in a bad way, unable to drive or ride the distance to see the next closest neurologist. A blood test indicated that I have a serious problem absorbing certain vitamins, such as D and B (as in B12). I was already eating a totally “organic” diet, mostly fruit and vegetables. I started taking large quantities of high-quality supplements four times a day. I was taking supplements before, but nothing like this. My arms and legs got noticeably better. Studying on my own, I had learned that the smallest misalignment of bones in the thoracic vertebra can disrupt nerve communication necessary to digest and absorb nutrients properly. My broken back hadn’t healed exactly straight, and this could be why I needed extremely high doses of vitamins and minerals.

***

The summer of 2015 was incredible because all the supplements I was taking made a difference in my ability to get around the wilderness. It wasn’t perfect, but it was much better than recent summers. The weather also worked with me, making it possible to be in the mountains from May until mid-September. I went to some new places, like Noname Basin and Cave Basin. I also climbed the four 14ers above Chicago Basin (on two different trips, over three days). And, if you can believe it, I camped for two nights up on Peak Three.

Mountain Goats and Grenadier

I got an amazing photo of mountain goats on Peak Three, with the rising sun slashed on Vestal Peak. A real one-of-a-kind photo that got the attention of the people at Open Shutter Gallery. They scheduled me for a show for two months the next summer, in mid-2016. I experienced a degree of happiness that I hadn’t felt in about ten years.

***

I continued to take good care of myself through the winter, but something bad happened in spite of my perfect health regimen.

Around the last day of January 2016, I had another stroke. It is exactly the same type of stroke as my first one, but this time it happened in my sleep. I lost a large portion of my left optic nerve. I immediately lost the lower half of my vision in the left eye, and by the end of the following week, all the vision in my left eye had faded away. My neurologist is sure that it was my brain stem that was damaged long ago. This was a particularly challenging setback; I really needed my vision for balance due to my low sense of gravity, and losing the use of one eye compromised my ability to realize my passion for visual art.

A week after my stroke, I got a call from my younger sister. My mom, who suffers from Parkinson’s disease, had completely lost her connection to reality or her surroundings. Any remaining secrets of my early life are now lost. I’m grateful that my vision loss didn’t occur before my mom lost touch with reality. She will never have to know about any more of my health troubles due to my near-death experience as a child. As it was, after learning about the cause of my first stroke, my mom often called me, crying and asking for forgiveness. Of course, I always told her it was OK: “Mom you did your best, and you saved my life.”

** - A late entry footnote- With my mom's passing on October 27, 2016, I no longer have to keep a secret that I was sworn to keep as long as she was alive. You may think my mom was overly paranoid about authority. The fact that at age 16 (1951) while living in Tennessee, my mom was raped by a policeman, may help one understand my mom's flawed reasoning. The policeman continually laughed at my mom while doing his deed. **

Losing an eye from a stroke is often the prelude to a massive stroke, a killer, and it usually happens within a few months. With that hanging over my head, I put all my effort into creating my scheduled show at Open Shutter. Leading up to the show, I never said anything to the gallery owner Margy Dudley. I didn’t want her to worry. Bob and Arista at Open Shutter knew about my blind eye, but nothing about the threat of a massive stroke.

I learned how to print and frame while putting the show together. I remember boxing up twenty-five framed photos and many matted prints, each one with the story of how I got the photos attached to the back mounting board. I had it all boxed up and ready to go two weeks before the installation date. I remember thinking that, if I died from a stroke any time after I had the show boxed up, the show would still happen. Indeed, it did, and the “critics” were happy. I became good friends with Margy, Bob, and Arista.

Meanwhile, I had been thinking that my health was getting very hard to hide, and maybe it would be best if I were more open about what was happening with me to avoid being asked too many questions. At this point, I stay at home when I can’t pull off looking normal. If I am in town and I feel symptoms starting, I hurry home before my symptoms get too bad. I do everything possible to maximize my health. My goal is to finish life before it finishes me. I’ve known since the day I moved to Durango that, over time, more and more parts of my body would not function properly. How will my life evolve?

I gave a one-hour presentation on June 7, 2016, at Open Shutter. I shared a lot of information about my damaged brain stem and how it most likely happened. Losing an eye is something they could all understand.

***

It is now autumn, nine months since I lost sight in my left eye. The latest prognosis is that maybe the massive stroke isn’t so imminent. I have been told, however, that I will soon be blind in my right eye as well. How do I prepare for something like that? It’s like that bad dream all over again. I need to prepare, sell my house, downsize, get rid of everything that isn’t a basic necessity. I need to organize all my financial assets and documents so that my sons know all of the necessary details. It’s difficult—there is so much left to do. I want to finish my art. I want to spend time with friends and family.

I feel like I'm running in place. I need to hurry and do the responsible thing. I feel the doctors are right on this one. I feel the pain behind my right eye.

***

I hope I can continue to venture into the wilderness. The summer “monsoon” storms are amazing. The warm air from the desert, south of Durango, gets pushed ever higher by the gradual rise of the plateau. Then it passes by Durango, the gateway to the high San Juan Mountains. That warm air clashes with the cool alpine air. Massive clouds appear almost instantly, pumping upward, like the blast of a volcanic eruption. Strong winds one minute, then sudden stillness the next. A powerful display of lightning while thunder echoes almost without end.

**A 180 degree view from Mountain View Crest**

My favorite place to watch it happen is above the tree line at a place called Mountain View Crest (elevation: 12,998 feet). Looking south, I can see Durango and beyond, even past Florida Mesa. Looking north from Mountain View Crest, the ground in front of me drops steeply down 1,200 feet to Ruby Lake, and then down another 700 feet to Emerald Lake, and still further down, Chicago Basin. Beyond the basin, just four miles away, I have a perfect view of the Needle Mountains stretching east to west. There are four 14ers included in that view. I can see mountain goats, foxes, deer, elk, big horn sheep, and even moose. Like an enormous secret place hiding in plain sight, it is rare to see other people there, even though it’s a view worthy of national park status. There are really no words to describe the feeling of being in a truly wild place, our wilderness. I don’t feel much like a visitor there—it feels like home. Even so, I’ve always believed I would rather lose my ability to go there, than see it change. My hope is that it remains a protected wilderness forever. It is better that there are no roads, no cars, no hotels or restaurants.

I hope that God will watch over me because I don’t plan on quitting my backpack trips into the wilderness. I can’t imagine a life without passion. Though my wings keep getting clipped shorter and shorter, I’m still flying.

"Climb the mountains, and get their good tidings.

Natures peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees.

The winds will blow their own freshness into you,

and the storms the energy, while cares will drop away from you

like the leaves of autumn."

John Muir

Appendix

What I lost in this first minor stroke was something that most of us know little or nothing about. "The vestibular apparatus".

This is our balance system that consist of the Vestibular "Cranial" Nerve that works in tandem with our eye movements. Our vision, our sense of movement and the direction of that movement, is our vestibular and vision all working together, in real time, so that we can visualize and be cognitive of our surroundings and our movements.. Also our awareness of body position, speed, direction, rotation and timing all come together, so that we can be rooted or grounded in our sense of being in any physical environment. Without a vestibular nerve we cannot see while our body is in motion. It is all a blur.

We have two vestibular nerves that connect our inner ears with our brain stem. What is unfortunate, is in many cases such as mine; one vestibular nerve is working while the other is dead except for a some portion. This creates mayhem, like if a wing suddenly falls of an airplane. You are forever falling and tumbling into a bottomless hole. It is like being on a nightmarish carnival ride that you can never get off. It keeps you in a state of nauseous exhaustion.

This may seem impossible and that is understandable. Most people believe as Aristotl,e who was the first to declare that we only have five senses. Sight, sound, taste, touch and smell. As Doctor Norman Doidge put it,

"We have senses we don't know we have--- until we lose them; balance is one that normally works so well, so seamlessly, that it is not listed among the five. The balance system gives us our sense of orientation in space.

An unspoken and yet profound aspect of our well being is based on having a normally functioning sense of balance. A healthy sense of being and a stable body image are related to the vestibular sense.

When we talk of "feeling settled" or "unsettled," or "balanced," "rooted" or "unrootless," "grounded" or ungrounded," we are speaking the vestibular language. Not surprisingly, people with [this] disorder often fall to pieces psychologically, and many have committed suicide." ***

All our body reflexes that are done unconsciously, the balance and counter-weight of a simple head turn or a reach with our hand, is lost when our vestibular system is damaged or disrupted. Honestly, I would rather have lost all my hearing, than to loss my balance system. The only sense that may be equal to, or greater than the balance system, is sight.

My life is forever divided; the life before I lost my balance system and the life after. The event was so life changing, I lost a great marriage, though I am still good friend with my ex-wife.

***"The brain that changes itself" by Norman Doidge, MD page 2 and 3. (A book given to me by my ex-wife, that I read in 2017)