First Solo Deer

I put a primer on the nipple of the breech plug, strapped on my camouflaged backpack and shouldered my muzzleloader. About five minutes into the trees I remembered I had forgotten a headlamp. I hesitated and almost turned back toward the truck, but thought, “Naa, I doubt I'll need it.” And with that, I continued into the forest. 

It was a beautiful fall day. Aspen leaves blazed in hues of orange, red and yellow, some of them breaking from the tree and wistfully dropping to the ground. There was not a cloud in the sky, nor a breeze to be felt. I had traveled here several miles on a bumpy dirt road and hadn't seen another soul. I felt as if I had the whole valley to myself. 

I parked off the road beneath a canopy of trees. Then I walked due east toward a gently rising hill. The terrain was a mixture of aspen and pine, with a sprinkling of small meadows and fallen trees. I walked slowly, every step with intent and always scanning for deer or elk. I only had a license to hunt the former, but I never complain to see the latter. 

To my disappointment I spotted a loose band of cattle feeding in one of the meadows. They saw me right away and immediately began to stampede to the north side. “Wonderful,” I thought sarcastically, “that's all I need are a bunch of cows to scare all the deer.” Here in the West, stray livestock is always an issue and it is possible to find sheep or cows grazing on public land. 

On a whim I changed my trajectory to the northeast. The cattle froze and went the other way. Soon I found myself again away from the livestock and in my own solitude. 

I came to the edge of rocky hill, at the bottom of which was a wallow. I sat down, slipped a camouflaged mask over my head, propped my gun on a shooting stick and waited. I will admit that this was more likely to be a place for elk than deer, but I didn't mind that. I also had a camera and would love to watch close-up a giant bull elk rolling around in the wallow. 

As I waited I noticed carvings on the aspen, one from 1930 and the other 1918. The names associated with those dates had now deteriorated with time and appeared illegible, their once fine cursive now a swollen black mark against the white trunk of the aspen. Apparently this little spring had been visited by humans for over a century, and most likely longer. 

After twenty or so minutes I became inpatient and decided to move on. After all, I was hunting deer, not elk. I found a nice game trail and followed it into a grove of aspen. I couldn't believe the beauty of the season. All around me the trees glittered in fall colors. The sun neared the horizon causing occasional rays of sunlight to pierce the forest floor. I stopped to take a few pictures. This is an issue that often makes me a poor hunter. I tend to look for landscape rather than game, searching for deer in the most picturesque place rather than where they might practically live. 

I walked through another grove of aspen and in the distance I could see the open space of a meadow. There I saw a half dozen of the black cows I had seen earlier. My first instinct was to once again switch course, but then a white object caught my attention. 

It was difficult to discern the object at first sight because between me and the meadow stood and long stand of tree trunks. I observed from a distance through the slits of open space. I pulled out my binoculars and honed in on two white objects. As I anticipated, they were the snow-white rumps of two deer, both of them at first glance appearing to be does. They fed on the grass in the meadow along with the cattle.

Although I was not in the market to shoot a mother doe, I decided it best to stealthily move forward to gain a closer vantage. Still some distance away, I softly stepped toward the animals, always moving when their heads were down and concealing my movements as best I could behind the cover of trees. I would then find a larger aspen, stop my motion and peer from behind the trunk through my binoculars to assess the situation. Then I would repeat the process. 

At last I came to a location I deemed good enough for the time being. I knelt down behind a tree and glassed toward the meadow. Although I was still about 175 yards away, I could observe the situation much better. I now saw three deer, one of them a spike and another a small two-point. 

In my mind I debated whether I wanted to shoot. The hunt was still early, but I had a lot of things going on and it would be nice to get the hunt out of the way. It would also be nice to get “something” since the last few years I got nothing. But on the other hand, I had a few days off work and if I were seeing bucks now, the odds were I would see more as time went on. 

As I debated in my mind I had my gun propped up on the shooting stick and also leaned against the aspen. I followed the deer in my scope, keeping a close eye on the two-point. There was a stand of trees between me and the meadow, which often blocked my view of the grazing deer. I was also keenly aware of the half-dozen cattle mingling among them. I did not want to shoot someones cow. 

The two-point stood in the cross-hairs with ample time to take a shot. I decided I was going to do it. With my thumb I cocked the hammer and waited for the right moment. I exhaled, then squeezed the trigger.⸺Then a whimpering pop. 

What the heck!!!???

Only the primer had fired. The startled deer heard the tiny blast and scattered to the edge of the meadow. “Well, that's that,” I thought as I figured all the animals would now scatter. But to my surprise, after looking my way, they all resumed their evening meal. 

At first I was baffled as to why only the cap had went off. But then it dawned on me⸺I had forgot to load my gun! I felt so silly, but at least no one else was here in the forest to witness my folly. 

I pulled a speed reloader from my possible bag and emptied two 50-grain pellets of black powder into the barrel of my inline muzzleloader. Then I flipped the reloader over and nuzzled a .50 caliber bullet inside the barrel. With the ramrod I pushed it down until it was snug with the pellets. Then I replaced the cap. 

Now I resumed my watch of the meadow. The three deer resumed eating as if I wasn't there. But from the edge of the clearing I noticed new movement. Two new deer arrived on the scene. And they were bucks! The first was a taller two-point and the second a three-point, with a possible small fourth branch. 

I was determined I would shoot one of the two, I just had to decide which one. Neither was a trophy, but they were big enough for me. The two-point appeared as if he were a bit taller and thicker than the other, but the other wasn't too shabby himself and had a third point. After brief contemplation, I chose the three-point. 

I followed him in my scope as he too grazed on the grass. My biggest obstacle was the black cow that stood directly behind him. By now the sun had set and we were entering the hour of twilight. Whatever I did, I needed to do it soon. 

When I felt the cow was removed at a safe distance, I put the cross-hairs right on the deer's vitals. This would be roughly a 175-yard shot. Once again I cocked the hammer and when the moment was right, I pulled the trigger. 

Boooom!!! 

There was no doubt this time that the gun fired correctly. From the plume of smoke I saw what may have been the three-point take off to the right while the others scattered to the left. The cows backed off also. I assessed the situation, not sure whether I had hit him or not, then reloaded my gun.
 

I stood up and slowly walked toward the scene. The closer I got the deer took off, but the cows stayed to watch. I scanned the ground for any downed animal, but saw none. Then as I approached closer, I peered to my right and saw the three-point floundering beneath the trees. He was hit hard, but appeared unable to move anything besides his head. I waited five minutes, not wanting to spook him enough to get up and run. When it appeared that he was losing the fight, I approached him closer and put a final shot through the back of his head. He was dead. 

I have shot many deer in my life, but they have always been with family or another person. I am now fifty-years old and this would be the first deer I shot and took care of completely on my own. I was all by myself. The time was now 7:30 and I knew the sun had set ten minutes ago. I knew I had a long night ahead. 

I cut the jugular and kneeled at the foot of the deer to begin the process of gutting him out. The first thought that crossed my mind was that I should have brought the headlamp. Darkness was now setting in and I attempted to set my flashlight down in a way that it would cast light onto my area of work. 

The knife slit into the deer's underbelly and I was careful to stay away from the gut sack. My left fingers stayed beneath the skin and held the innards down as my right hand sliced the skin upwards. At this moment I really wished I had another person to hold the legs open to ease the work. Instead, I had to use my left knee to spread his legs, and even that kept slipping. The flashlight kept falling out of place also, which was very frustrating. And I never could place it in such a manner that it illuminated my work in an appropriate manner. 

In the end, I had performed one of the worst gutting jobs of my life. Blood ran up to my elbows and all over my pants. I'm sure there was an organ or two that remained inside the cavity. And as for the bladder and intestines, I'm pretty sure I somehow nicked them and there's no doubt that some fecal matter ended up on the meat. But the job was done and now it was time to move to the next step. 

Using a water bottle from my pack I washed the majority of the blood from my hands and arms. Now I had to drag the deer back to the dirt road. As I figured, I was about 1,300 feet away as the crow flies. The problem was that in that distance I would have to walk through a myriad of trees and fallen logs, all in the dark while carrying a flashlight and gun. 

I devised a plan that I would set my gun and flashlight down the way about fifty yards. Then I would go back, find the deer and drag him to the light. Then I would repeat the process. This worked well the first several times and I became overly confident of my dragging-in-the-dark skills. 

On the next one, not only did I grab the deer by the antlers and drag him to the flashlight and gun, but I dragged him past that point by a couple dozen yards. 

But the problem began when I decided to carry the flashlight in my hand as I dragged the deer. This worked once, but the second time I did it, when I returned to get my gun, I couldn't find it! I searched all over the place, shining the beam into the wooded landscape, but finding nothing. So I decided to return to the deer to reorient myself. To my complete consternation, I couldn't find that either! What a mess. I couldn't find my gun or the deer and I was probably walking around in circles, getting further away from where I should have been. 

The truth is, I didn't know where I was. At this point, everything looked the same. Some patches had aspen, others had pine, and some had more fallen logs than usual. I searched the ground for any footprints or drops of blood, but could detect nothing. I did this for twenty minutes to no avail. At one time I knelt and gave an earnest prayer. The woods were a spooky place at night and the beam from the flashlight cast all sort of shadows. I also worried about mountain lions. I had never seen one, but knew they came out at night. No doubt they would be looking for an easy meal. 

Then I spotted the gun. Hallelujah! From there I reoriented myself and within a few minutes I found the deer. I gave an audible thanks to God and continued my chore of dragging the deer. 

I have to inject that this was no easy task. The body of the deer was of no small size. Happily for me the course was slightly downhill. The longer I dragged, the more the muscles in my arms, hands and back began to ache. I often had to stop, just to give them a breather. But adrenaline was a mighty factor and little did I ponder on the stressful state of my muscles. 

As I pulled the animal over logs and around bushes and trees, I knew that I was getting near my destination. I came to a point where I could make out a faint alley-way through the trees, and in my humble judgment, I sensed that the road sat at the end of the corridor. 

Anxious to rid myself of the gun, I dropped the deer and walked to the end of this corridor, feeling that the deer would be simple enough to find when I returned. To my pleasure, after a hundred or more yards of walking, I arrived at the dirt road where I sat the muzzleloader down against a log. Then I returned for the deer. 

I thought I returned exactly as I came, but when I arrived there was no deer in sight. Here we go again, I thought. Again I walked all around, shining the beam on every tree and bush. Twice I even returned to the gun and retraced my steps. Still nothing. I arrived at a point where I was confident it had to be. There I set up two logs against a tree so I couldn't lose the spot. Then I went out searching. 

I found a splotch of blood and attempted to gauge how close I was to the two logs leaned against the trees. Of course, I couldn't find them either. I couldn't believe how disoriented everything came after dark. The deer had to be somewhere close to here, but where?

After another fifteen minutes of maddening search, I spotted the dead animal next to some bushes. And to make matters more bizarre, it was only ten yards away from where I had leaned the two logs against the tree! How did I miss that??!! 

At last I finally arrived at the road with the deer. The truck was close by and I drove it to the deer, shining the headlights onto the bedraggled three-point. With all the remaining energy I had, I hefted the weighty animal into the bed of the truck and there I cut out the tag from my license and tied it to the antlers. 

It was now ten o'clock. I had expended two and a half hours since I had shot the deer. I now had a drive home and more work to do after that. The family would be sleeping and I didn't want to wake them. I arrived home, hung it in my garage and proceeded to skin the hide. 

By the time I showered and wound down, ready to crawl into bed, it was three in the morning. You would think I would be sleepy and I definitely was. But sleep didn't come quickly. As I lied in bed, my mind kept returning to the blackened forest, either dragging or searching for that damned elusive deer! ♠ 

 

The ubiquitous Paul Hunter aspen.

Boat Ride on the Mekong

We arrived at the office for the boat, a dusty backroom of a restaurant on the quay. A man who only spoke broken English with a Khmer accent sat behind a desk and took our names. We set our luggage against the wall and waited on a chair while other passengers filed in. 

A lady with a straw hat, stringed tank top and light flowing long skirt came into the room. She traveled alone and spoke in an Australian accent. One family came from India, another from Hong Kong. Several carried red German passports. Today there would be a medley of passengers. 

At last the boat came and we carried our luggage out to the loading dock and stepped onto the vessel, handing our bags to a crewman to stow beneath the boat. We sat next to the window, behind the Germans, overlooking the river. 

At the loading dock in Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

It was monsoon season in Southeast Asia and I watched dark clouds billow in the sky. The river was brown, nothing clean about it. Occasional trash floated on the surface along with green stalks and leaves of water hyacinth. 

I watched as we departed the port. Familiar sites of the Royal Palace and Wat Ounalom passed by as we moved down-river and within fifteen minutes the skyscrapers of Phnom Penh faded behind us. 

Goodbye to Phnom Penh.

The Mekong River is the twelfth longest in the world, wending nearly 2,500 miles from the Tibetan Plateau to the South China Sea. Once it enters Vietnam it begins meandering and spreading out, creating the Mekong Delta. This area is critical to the livelihood and food security for millions of people. It is known as the breadbasket of Vietnam. Much of the area is covered by rice patties that are irrigated by delta water and fertilized by delta silt. 

I sat gazing at the distant shore while the wake of the boat spewed water up and across the window. I spotted a Buddhist temple nestled behind the trees and a larger than life reclining Buddha. 

We passed beneath the Tsubasa Bridge, a mammoth structure that spans the entire length of the river. This bridge carries traffic between Ho Chi Minh City and Phnom Penh, eliminating the need for a ferry when it was built in 2015. We were not to pass another bridge the entire trip. This was remote country. Access wasn't easy. 

Splashing water on the Mekong River.

A glimpse of village life.

Tsubasa Bridge.

A ferry carries locals across the river.

Passengers enjoy the breeze.

Further down the river we passed more Buddhist temples, small fishing villages, barges on the river, water buffalo, and men working in the fields. But everything was at a distance due to the wide span of the river. Swollen as it was, it had to be over a mile wide in many places. 

After three hours we finally came to the immigration office at Kaorm Samnor on the Cambodian side of the border. We docked the boat and walked to a small building where we handed our passports and visas to a man behind a window. Fingers were scanned and pictures taken. And just in case we needed it, a Buddhist shrine sat on the grounds. 

We returned to the boat, only to get out a few minutes later on the Vietnamese side of the frontier. We waited in another room for over an hour. This time we waited in a room with tables and chairs. Outside was a wooden patio overlooking the river. By now the sun was setting, casting a glow on those dark monsoonal clouds. They finally returned our passports and we filed back onto the boat. 

Reclining Buddha on the shore.

Buddhist temple with small reclining Buddha (still in Cambodia).

Dark monsoonal clouds.

On the grounds of the immigration office in Kaorm Samnor, Cambodia.

Again we sped across the darkening murky waters and I wondered what we would do if the boat were to capsize. Could we swim ashore, or would we be swept down-river? It would be a terrifying ordeal for sure. 

We came to a point where we left the Mekong River and cut through a canal to the Hau River. The canal was long and our passage lasted half an hour. We passed trees whose bases were covered in water. We passed floating houses that sat at the water's edge. What would it be like to live here? The place had the feel of the bayou. These people lived at the water's edge with no other nighttime noise except the occasional speedboat, lapping of water and croaking frogs. 

Finally in Vietnam, enjoying the sunset.

At last we arrived at the Hau River, a distributary of the Mekong. This general area was the beginning of the Mekong Delta.  Instead of tributary rivers that fed into the Mekong, there were now waterways such as the Hau (Bassac River in Cambodia) that flowed out. 

Once on the Hau River, it wasn't too much longer until we arrived at the dock in Chau Doc. I was excited to spend three nights here as it was a location not yet on the radar of most tourists in Vietnam. We unloaded our luggage, and as warned from the literature, cyclo drivers were outside waiting for us. ♠

 

Final destination, Chau Doc, Vietnam.

On a cyclo, headed to our hotel.

First Hours in Ho Chi Minh

We stepped outside our hotel and into the humidity and chaos of Ho Chi Minh City. Horns and mopeds blared all around. The amount of two-wheeled conveyances boggled the mind. Everyone, it seemed, was on a motorbike: ladies in dresses, fathers holding toddlers, buddies, singles⸺most wearing masks and helmets. The chaos on the roads spread like an ant colony, especially at intersections where no obvious rules could be observed. Ants just weaved in and out as they pleased. 

Vietnamese women sat along dilapidated sidewalks and set up shop for the day. Dogs sat with them, some wearing leashes and some roaming freely. 

We found a man selling Banh Mi from his cart. With excitement he came and translated the options for us. “This one is fish,” he said in a strange accent. He gave us a strip of fried fish from his cooler where he kept it warm. We wanted two of them. 

He took a baguette and sliced it in half lengthwise. He piled on greens and cucumbers, along with fried strips of fish, more toppings and two types of sauce. When I bit in I could taste the sweetness of the sauce alongside the burning of raw pepper. I began to sweat.⸺ I gave him 200,000 dong and he gave me change. It only came out to 30,000 dong and I think he short-changed me, but I didn't catch it until later.

Our morning stroll took us past a Chinese temple, with images and burning sticks of incense along the sidewalk. Around the corner was another house of worship, this one appearing Christian due to figures of Christ and the Virgin Mary. Built next to it was a tall pagoda, crowned with a cross. 

River near our hotel in Ho Chi Minh City.

Our journey took us on a bridge that crossed a river. From here there were many good views of Ho Chi Minh, including the pagoda of the church. The trees along the bank reflected in the water. On the far side of the bridge we crossed over a street that ran parallel to the river. We peered down over the railing and watched the mopeds buzz underneath, their four-cylinder engines revving in unison. We watched the fruit shops down below setting up for the day. Ladies in cone-shaped rice hats pushed out plastic tables and cut herbs to sell with swimming broth of pho.

The smell of asphalt and exhaust filled the air, along with an occasional whiff of anise and herbs. Everything was dingy, from sidewalks to stacked buildings that served as homes. Some of the flats that faced the noisy street had clothes hanging out to dry on the balcony. 

Morning in Saigon.

Clothes hanging out  to dry.

Setting up shop on the streets of Ho Chi Minh.

Every intersection was a new adventure. Wait, wait, wait, read . . . after that car⸺hold on, not yet. Now! We walked slow and methodically across every busy intersection, with cars and mopeds passing in front and behind, usually honking. They didn't stop or slow down. They just swerved around. 

In a park we were approached by Mr. Tung. He wore green pants and a shirt that resembled military attire. When he learned we were Americans he became very friendly. I could barely understand him because of his thick accent, but from what I gathered he admired Americans because they helped his cause. After the North Vietnamese won the war, his family fled to the Philippines. I finally learned he was offering tours. He was very nice, but I could hardly understand a word he spoke, so I decided to pass it up. 

In that same park we passed a group of ladies doing slow aerobics (maybe Tai Chi?) to music. They pointed their arms in the air and slowly spun to music like synchronized swimmers. 

One of many crazy intersections in Saigon.

On the sidewalk we passed a man carrying a long stick over his shoulder, a wooden tray of coconuts on one end and a box of tools on the other. He was very convivial and let Jordan carry the weighted stick on his shoulder. We didn't think anything of it.  Then he stopped, pulled out a butcher knife from the wooden box, and whacked off the top of a coconut and handed one to each of us with a straw.

Of course he is expecting money, I thought. I pulled out my wallet, expecting to pay perhaps 10,000 dong each. When I asked him how much, he replied with 150,000 dong! There was no way two coconuts were worth 150K in Vietnamese dong. Reluctantly I gave it to him, but was determined not to be hustled again. 

Jordan carrying a load for the "coconut man."

Around the block we came to the Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica of Saigon. I highly anticipated this visit. I had seen many cathedrals in Europe, as well as South America. This would be my first in Asia. This architectural marvel dated back to the French colonial period. 

To our disappointment the building and grounds were covered in scaffolding and fencing. It was closed to the public. Even the two iconic bell towers were obscured. We watched from across the street as workers labored on the roof. 

Workers on the roof of Notre-Dame Basilica Cathedral of Saigon.

Not far away we came to an interesting sign on a lamppost. Depicted on the sign were four people, including a construction worker and college graduate. In the background on one side was a farm, and on the other, skyscrapers. But what caught my attention the most was the banner in the center. It looked like an old Soviet-style red flag with a hammer and sickle in the corner. I found this curious because I knew this wasn't the flag of Vietnam (a red flag with golden star), but I also knew that Vietnam was one of five communist countries in the world (the others being China, Cuba, Laos and North Korea). 

The hammer and sickle has become a standard symbol around the world for communism as a whole. The hammer represents the workers and the sickle the peasants, and put together they are unified. Jordan translated the words of the sign on his phone: “Vietnam journals: unity, creativity, building the country for a more sustained development.” I don't know if you would consider this “communist propaganda,” but that's certainly what came to mind. 

Just a few more blocks and we arrived at our destination. Several tanks, a Chinook helicopter, and a Huey sat in front. We paid 40,000 dong and entered the War Remnants Museum. ♠

 

A propaganda sign on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City?

 

Les Misérables

High above the stage on the front row of a balcony seat, inside a plush Broadway theater in New York City, a young boy of seventeen sat mesmerized at what he saw. He could not understand many of the lyrics, nor did he catch much of the storyline. But he knew without a doubt that the voices he had heard that night were the best he had heard in his entire life. He even noted the orchestra sitting down below the stage, and of particular humor, he took note of the musician whose job it was to strum his stringed instrument—one strum—then wait, wait, wait, wait—then strum again. 

The young boy turned into a young man and flew across the ocean to serve his church and to serve his God. During his free time he would listen to soft and conducive music such as Tchaikovsky, Mozart, as well as many of the hymns from his church. But he noticed that some of his companions would listen to this same musical that he had once witnessed in New York City. He enjoyed this. He would listen also and now would sit down and be attentive to the lyrics and read from the songbook that came with the album. He learned the characters: Jean Valjean, Javert, Fantine, Cosette, Gavroche . . . he remembered that last one especially. On Broadway, Gavroche had the body of a ten-year-old, yet the voice of Pavarotti. The young man was determined that when he returned home, he would buy the music for himself. 

And that's just what happened. He obtained the music on two C.D.'s and listened to them on his own, and then once he got married, he listened to them with his wife, and then when kids were in the picture, he would listen to it when they were around. 

Not only did he enjoy the music, but the story also. The tale is of the plight of a man who was condemned to prison for nineteen years, who was released from captivity with bitterness in his heart, but who eventually eviscerated the rancor when a benevolent bishop performed a selfless act of charity. That man, Jean Valjean, lived the rest of his life in the service of others, even until his death many years later. 

The young man, now growing older and not so young anymore, thought it not enough to only listen to the music. He bought the novel and read it—all 1,463 pages of it! Within those leaves he learned in much greater depth the greatness of this Jean Valjean. He also learned of other charitable people whom he had never met. One such person was Sister Simplace, a nun, who helped protect Jean Valjean when authorities were unjustly pursuing him. He was also inspired by the Christ-like actions of this man who promised a dying woman that he would care for her child. Jean Valjean does this faithfully until the child, Cosette, marries and is able to move forward on her own. 

The growing man that we have been discussing was anxious to show the musical to his wife. The production was coming to a nearby town and to be performed in an outdoor theater among red rocks and amid the cool night air. They not only saw it once, but twice, and each time were mesmerized by the beautiful voices and inspiring storyline. 

Years passed and the kids grew, and one of them, a girl named Brittany, became highly interested in plays, musicals, acting and anything of that sort. Her dad let her listen to his C.D. of Les Misérables and described to her the plot and the kindness of many people in the story. He did this with anticipation because he knew that for the first time ever, the production was coming to their home town. So yes, he bought two tickets: one for him and the other for his thirteen-year-old daughter. 

The evening came, and wouldn't you know it, they sat on the front row of the balcony. When the lights dimmed the daughter exclaimed, “Dad, there's an orchestra down there!” Then the curtains were drawn and for the rest of the night a father and his daughter were taken back to a time in France when there were good people and bad people, and those who struggled, and those who fell in love. They wept together when Fantine died with Jean Valjean at her bedside. They later cried again, this time for joy, when Jean Valjean died and Fantine was there on the other side of the veil, waiting to take his hand. The father hugged his daughter and was happy that he was able to share this pleasure with one of his own. 

“How did you like it?” the father asked his daughter after the musical was over. 

“It was even better than I thought it would be,” the daughter replied. 

And on this note, the two of them walked side by side on the sidewalk, the father wrapping Brittany up with his right arm, and pulling her tight against his side. 

Less than two months later, shortly after her fourteenth birthday, Brittany started to get sick. She had so little energy that she could barely get out of bed. When she went to the doctor, she was so weak that her mother had to carry her in her arms. This was a terrifying time. The mother and father watched helplessly as their daughter lay unconscious in a hospital bed. 

On that cold December night Brittany and her mother were flown in an airplane to a larger city with a better hospital. Her father drove up with all of Brittany's siblings—one brother and three sisters. They were young and found it difficult to comprehend what was happening. 

At the hospital the doctors and nurses did all they could to keep Brittany alive, but in the end, there was nothing more they could do. The following morning, the mother, father, brother and sisters knelt at Brittany's bedside and touched her one last time. They sobbed and cried and couldn't believe this was happening. The father remembers putting his ear on Brittany's chest and feeling her heart pump one last time. And then it was gone. 

With weighted sorrow, Brittany's family planned a burial the following week. The hearse drove from the church to the cemetery where her casket was carried to the plot where her body would be interred. They sang a hymn and her father said a prayer over the grave. When it was over, everyone left and they were expected to live their lives as normal. 

Just two weeks after putting her body in the ground, a new movie came to their town that told the story that we have been following. For months the mother and father had waited for this movie, but now they were saddened because they had planned to watch it with their daughter. 

When the big night came they sat side by side in a cold theater and watched the characters come alive on the big screen. By now, the father knew the story by heart. Jean Valjean and Javert and all the rest bellowed in theatrical song, their voices reminding him much of voices he heard when he was a boy and watched it on Broadway in New York City. 

The middle-aged couple watched painfully as Fantine lay in her bed about to die. Their weeping turned to sobbing. The imagery was too raw. Every emotion felt as if Brittany was dying again.  It felt like a knife to the chest, slowly twisting inside the wound.

They continued to watch the story unfold, as Cosette grew into a beautiful young woman and fell in love with Marius. They felt sad when they watched this because they knew all too well that Brittany would never get married.

And then came the final scene of the movie where Jean Valjean sat dying, and Cosette and Marius found him and said their last goodbyes. And then, as he gave up the ghost, Fantine took his hand from the other side of the veil and led him to a brighter world where there was music and celebration and everyone was very much alive.

And as the father watched this final scene, a thought entered his mind.

He envisioned Brittany dying on her bed, but then he also envisioned family and friends on the other side of the veil being summoned to take her hand. He envisioned Grandma Lacy, Grandma and Grandpa Shumway, and Oma and Grandpa Francom. In his mind's eye he could also see Papa and Uncle Jim.

And then the father envisioned one last scene.

It was a day in the future, a day when he would turn old and die like Jean Valjean. Brittany would be there to take his hand! And when her mother should pass to the other side, Brittany would be there also. The two would embrace and stay in each others arms, mother and daughter, a long-awaited reunion. They would all be together again! ♥ 

 

Drawing by Jenelle Lacy.

 

Brutal, but Beautiful: Climbing Mount Sneffels (Peak #8)

Lower Blue Lake is one of the most picturesque places I have ever been. Sitting at 11,000 feet, it is surrounded by stunning snow-capped mountains, colorful alpine plants, and even a tall cascade that tumbles from the upper shelf of the mountain into the far side of the lake. The lake mesmerizes the eye with its turquoise water. We couldn't help but to look at the lake in disbelief, as if it didn't really exist. Undoubtedly, it was a surreal world we had just entered. 

Lower Blue Lake.

Another angle of Lower Blue Lake.

Waterfall cascading toward the lake.

Tomorrow we would attempt to summit Mount Sneffels, a Colorado fourteener that has eluded us in the past. Two years ago we had this trip all planned out, then, within a week of our departure, Dave unexpectedly got called to a high ecclesiastical position that compelled him to stay home. Suddenly, all our plans were squashed. 

Now we were at it again, this time with two of Dave's sons and wife, Laurie. We set up camp on the northwest shore, with a beautiful view of Lower Blue Lake. That night the wind roared voraciously. One of our tents had the pegs yanked from the ground. None of us slept well. 

Lower Blue Lake is one of the most beautiful lakes I've ever seen.

At 11,000 feet, the lake is not only beautiful, but also cold.

One of many waterfalls along the trail.

After a restless night, the first streak of dawn peered over the eastern ridge. The wind hadn't relented as we each ate a bite for breakfast. It was cold enough that I wore my coat and gloves, with a beanie over my ears. Laurie stayed behind while the four men began their ascent along the trail. 

Our plan was to ascend the Southwest Ridge, a more technical route that included some class-3 climbing and a section near the top with significant exposure. I will admit that with the strong wind, I was now becoming hesitant to hike the ridge. I've been on mountain summits in the past that have had gusts strong enough to blow a grown man over the edge. 

Majestic view of Upper Blue Lake and Middle Blue Lake.

The uphill pitch was relentless and soon we were well above Lower Blue Lake. The next mile of trail continued to climb and took us past Middle Blue Lake and Upper Blue Lake. By now we were above the treeline, which created a beautiful setting, but also allowed the wind to speed through unobstructed. 

Beyond Upper Blue Lake the trail follows a series of sixteen switchbacks, gaining 1,200 feet to Blue Lake Pass. This section is long and tedious, involving sections with very loose small rock. Here I was worried about losing my footing, as it would have been an ugly downward slide. 

Hiking along the switchbacks.

We made it to Blue Lake Pass, a major crossroads on our hike this day. It is here where the hiker catches his first glimpse of Yankee Boy Basin, which is where the majority of the hikers who ascend Mount Sneffels begin their journey. With a good four-wheel drive you can access a road that will bring you within a couple miles of the peak. 

But it was also here where I knew we would have to make a decision: Do we hike up the Southwest Ridge to the summit, or do we take the standard route, which involves dropping a few hundred feet before climbing a very difficult talus-filled slope? The wind was the major factor as I turned the situation over in my mind. I didn't want to climb all the way up, within 200 feet of the summit, and find that the wind was blowing at hurricane force on the steep exposed section. Maybe I'm just a chicken, but I made the executive decision to take the standard route. 

At Blue Lakes Pass, looking at the Southwest Ridge.

Long view of the Southwest Ridge.

After our decent on the east side of Blue Lake Pass, we came to a wooden sign that pointed north. We had only .8 miles to Mount Sneffels. Making it difficult, however, was the fact that we would be climbing 1,500 feet with little or no trail, over slopes of talus and scree. Anxious to reach our destination, we let the journey begin. 

It didn't take long before the steep ascent began to wear on our endurance. Every stride was a conscious effort to step on a stable rock. That didn't always happen. Often the scree would wobble or come sliding down, adding to the difficulty. Even with stable footing, our stamina was tested. I felt I had an advantage since I had already climbed several peaks over the course of the summer. 

As usual, I would set my eye on a rock ahead, then attempt to keep moving until I reached that goal. Then I would take a short breather. This tactic usually worked. I noticed as I advanced higher up the slope that Dave was struggling and lagged further behind. For someone his age he is far more active than most, but age takes its toll. 

Our hike took us up this steep slope to the gap between the two craggy peaks.

Looking down from the steep climb up.

At 13,560 feet is Lavender Col, which is a saddle between Mount Sneffels to the north and other unnamed craggy peaks to the south. Here we waited for Dave. Devin had arrived just before me and Derek was down closer to Dave. The two of us removed our packs and rested against the rocks. 

From this point forward we were to head up a chute or gully, which would be even steeper than what we had already climbed. From where we rested, the rocks appeared much bigger, but stable. I worried about Dave being able to tackle this steeper section. 

At Lavender Col, looking up at the gully.

Finally Dave and Derek arrived. Immediately Dave took off his pack, laid flat on his back and closed his eyes. He didn't look good. “I don't think I can make it,” he said. “I am really light-headed.” We gave him words of encouragement, but knew that for now it was best to let him rest. At least the skies were blue and there was no threat of storms anywhere. 

Although this was the “standard route,” it was by no means a walk in the park. Even as we rested, we encountered some, who upon seeing the next phase in this already arduous hike, decided to turn around. All of us were exhausted. It was hard to tell if Dave's issues resulted from exhaustion, dehydration or altitude sickness. 

“You go on without me,” Dave said. “I'll wait for you down here.” We knew that in his right mind he didn't want that. We traveled over seven hours solely to hike this peak! This would be his very first fourteener and we didn't want to leave him behind. 

“You rest as long as you need to,” I said. “We're not going without you.” So we waited. 

This gave me time to scan to landscape. It was rugged as hell. Craggy pinnacles arose from the far side of the col and the slope to the other side was so precipitous that I didn't care to look down. As far as the eye could see were more mountains, all appearing just as jagged as the one upon which we now sat. 

At last Dave showed a little encouragement. I gave him a couple ibuprofen for his throbbing headache. After a little more rest he stated, “I think I can do it if I take it slowly. But let me rest a little longer. You guys can get going.” 

With that, Devin and I started moving again. If I remember correctly, Derek stayed down with his dad.

Although this next phase through the gully was a bit steeper, I enjoyed it much more. The boulders were big and everything was solid. Nothing shifted under our feet. I stayed close to the right-side wall and slowly made my way up. 

Looking down the gully.

I glanced down toward the bottom and saw that Dave was on his feet and trekking upward. This made me happy. I wasn't exactly sure what to do in this situation, whether to wait or go on. I continued to the very top of the gulley and there Devin and I waited while we assessed our next move. 

At this point was the infamous “V-notch” in the rock. It was necessary to climb up through this notch (a class-3 move) to gain the summit. I had studied this move on YouTube and felt confident I could do it. But what I didn't realize was that there was a significant drop-off on the left side. If for some reason your hands slipped from the rock, you'd have a pretty nasty fall that probably wouldn't kill you, but would certainly break bones. 

This "V" notch near the hiker's head is a little more difficult than it appears.

Dave was making progress slowly, but surely. I worried that he would be so tired that it would be difficult to climb through the notch. 

When Derek made it to the top, Devin and I decided it would be best to climb through the notch so we could help the others up. The climb wasn't too bad. All the grips were secure and as long as you knew where to put your hands and feet, and didn't look down, you were fine. 

I will admit that after I climbed through the notch and learned that we still had another steep climb to go, I was a little discouraged. There was another lady that climbed through the notch just before us and when she saw the final climb, she opted to turn around. I didn't understand why she would get so close to the top just to turn around. 

Finally Dave made it. He had no problem climbing through the notch. I knew he could do it. He is an animal and in his prime was a far better athlete than I ever was. 

Now the four of us were together again. From this point it required a little route-finding and climbing up rocks. My goal was to stay away from the ledge as the exposure was significant. 

At last we made it to the top of Mount Sneffels, elevation 14,158 feet! 

The view from the top was magnificent! We could see all the Blue Lakes, as well as a lake in Yankee Boy Basin. Further down the basin we could see the buildings of Camp Bird Mine. On the other side of the ridge we could see the upper slopes of ski runs in Telluride. 

Beautiful view from the summit, looking toward the Blue Lakes.

Yankee Boy Basin.

I am always amazed at how many mountains you can see in Colorado. Standing atop Sneffels the land was covered with mountains as far as the eye could see in almost every direction. Up close we could see the thirteeners of Dallas and Gilpin Peaks. Further out I spotted the Wilson group, which includes the fourteeners of Wilson Peak, Mount Wilson and El Diente. To the west of them is the cluster of Dolores Peak, Dunn Peak and Middle Peak. Even further west, and with some isolation, rose the Lone Cone, the first peak I ever climbed in Colorado. To the east was Uncompahgre Peak, the only other peak in the area to rise higher than Sneffels. And if you looked close enough, the spectacular Wetterhorn Peak stood directly in front, the two nearly blending together. 

We spent a mere ten minutes on the summit. We had it all to ourselves with the exception of a lone hiker who climbed the Southwest Ridge. He agreed to take our picture. I was happy that it included the four of us. 

We had reached our goal, but the day was far from over. We still had a long journey back to the truck. Of this I will only give brief details. 

Peaks seen from the summit of Mount Sneffels.

Uncompahgre is the highest peak in the San Juan's.

Mount Sneffels, elevation 14,158 feet.

We left the peak at 2:04. As is usually the case, the walk down a steep mountain hill is nearly as painful. Derek struggled the most on this section because of the lack of traction on his tennis shoes. Once we made it to the pass we sent Devin ahead so he could arrive at camp and inform Laurie not to worry about us (we were much later than our anticipated time). 

The Blue Lakes were just as beautiful on the way down. Now the sun had traveled to the west side, creating new lighting and casting long shadows. The wind still picked up from time to time. 

Upper Blue Lake on the way down.

Looking back at Upper Blue Lake.

It was 5:35 when we arrived at camp. We had an hour and a half to pick up camp before the sun set. By 7 pm we were once again on the trail, now with heavy packs on our shoulders. The mileage to the truck was 3.3 miles, all downhill. Our plan was to hustle. 

Back at camp.

The sun was now making its way to the other side of the world. The alpenglow radiated on the mountainside. A long waterfall tumbled down the canyon. And as if we hadn't seen enough beauty already, a half-moon slowly rose above the snow-dusted peaks. This was truly paradise! 

It was dark by the time we made it to the truck. Our flashlights came in very handy. Devin and I made it first and waited for half an hour. Dallas Creek rushed in the distance. The silhouette of pine trees against a backdrop of stars made for a perfect night. The brisk air had a feel of fall to it. We sat and waited, and for a while, the basin belonged to us. ♠

Half moon rising over the mountain.

Mount Sneffels
 

Miles from truck (one way): 6.9 miles
 

Elevation gain: 4,808 feet
 

Final elevation: 14,158 feet

 

View of Mount Sneffels on the drive in.

Five happy souls, ready to tackle the mountain. (Picture taken before the hike.)