Acute Mountain Stupidity (Part 1 of 5)

After several years of furiously collecting national parks under our family belt, along with hiking a swath of trails from Colorado to California to Washington, I felt the urge to go off by myself and do something a bit bigger than Brianne’s little legs would allow. I wasn’t getting any younger, and our tour of the western wonderlands had me itching for a bigger personal challenge.

One of our marathon trips in 2005 included the parks of the Sierra Nevada mountain range in California – Yosemite, Kings Canyon and Sequoia. Yosemite in particular just blew me away with its splendor and beauty. The enormous, cathedral-like granite formations in this range, along with the many gorgeous waterfalls, had made a deep impression on me. I had discovered during that trip that the highest peak in America, outside of Alaska, was located in Sequoia National Park, and was actually surprisingly accessible.

Mt. Whitney, at 14,508 feet above sea level, is located along the crest of the eastern Sierra, where the range’s tallest mountains seem to congregate. There are twelve “fourteeners” in California, and ten of them are placed in a relatively compact area of the Sierra’s eastern side. Of these ten, Mt. Whitney is one of the two most accessible from US 395 that runs north/south through the Owens Valley. The Whitney Portal Road rises from US 395 at the tiny town of Lone Pine, to the Whitney Portal, which is the trailhead location for the mountain. From an elevation of 8,365 feet, the Mt. Whitney Main Trail begins an 11-mile journey to the summit of what was for years America’s tallest peak, pre-Alaska. That means a 22-mile round trip. The vertical gain works out to about 6,300 feet, once incidental numbers are included. That’s a lot of up.

I should take a moment here and put these numbers in perspective for non-hikers. Covering 22 miles in a day or two is a lot for most people, but is quite doable for anyone reasonably fit. Hoofing out 22 miles on flat or rolling terrain isn’t that big a deal. The vertical gain in a mountain hike, not to put too fine a point on it, is what kicks your ass. You stress different muscle groups than just walking the flatlands, and they quickly rebel unless they’ve been accustomed to coping with it. Your legs, knees and hips take a serious pounding, especially on the descent which is an under-appreciated part of a big mountain climb.

Add in additional factors like having weight on your back and, most importantly, the declining amount of oxygen pressure in the air as you ascend, and life can get pretty damn miserable if you’re not prepared. The air at the summit of Mt. Whitney has only about 65% of the oxygen content as at sea level. That’s a lot. Most humans begin experiencing serious problems at 80%, which is why acclimation is so critical to any successful ascent of a mountain over 10,000 feet elevation.

So, after a ton of research I decided I would take on the Mt. Whitney challenge. My homework also revealed that this peak was very likely the most sought-after summit in America. So much so that the National Forest Service (in whose territory the largest section of the trail resides) severely limits traffic on the mountain during the high-volume summer months. People come from all over the world to attempt Mt. Whitney and, if left unrestrained, the hordes would soon overwhelm and seriously damage the fragile alpine environment. Therefore the NFS (Inyo County) has a lottery in place for securing a permit to put your boots on the Whitney trail. They issue a maximum of 100 dayhike permits per day, and 60 overnight permits per day. This is a broad explanation and there are several variations and exceptions to this process, but you get the idea. In February of each year you can submit your application(s) for dates to the Inyo NFS lottery, and by April you’ll know if any of your dates hit.

I had decided in 2006 that I was serious about trying Whitney, so I submitted a lottery application in February of 2007. And got skunked. I tried again in 2008 with the same results. This was harder than I had expected. I tried again in 2009 and, lo and behold, I received a permit in the mail for my requested date of August 19^th. At the time I was thrilled, after playing this lottery game for almost three years. Like so much else in life, though, you live and learn. As future blogs will show, the eastern Sierra in general and Mt. Whitney in particular, would eventually become my family’s second home, and I would soon figure out how to completely bypass this entire lottery process with nearly 100% confidence that I could obtain a permit for the mountain. My future familiarity with the Whitney lottery institution would also reveal that a closed stairwell and a gas-powered leaf blower were integral to the selection process. Extremely high-tech!

So, it’s April of 2009 and I’ve got an August date with the highest mountain in the Lower 48 (49 actually, since the only summits higher are in Alaska, but traditions die hard). Time to begin preparing, planning, training! Oh yeah – one small thing. I should probably tell my wife that I’m about to embark on this solo adventure . . .

I explained my plans to Barb and got one of the most uncomfortable stares she’s ever delivered to me. It could have flash-frozen a sizable lake. “So . . .,” she began, “you’re going off all by yourself, at almost 52, to climb a mountain somewhere across the country, not knowing a soul out there, and with no help if you get in trouble?”

“Yep!”, I replied beaming! “How cool, huh?”

“Hmmmm. I don’t know about ‘cool’. Do people ever get hurt or die on this mountain?”

“Of course not!”, I said defensively. Silence. “Well . . . not that many, anyway. Besides, you know I’m careful – I’ll stay out of trouble.”

Famous last words, as it turned out. One of my favorite quotes regarding mountaineering (and folks, there are a ton of them besides Mallory’s famous “Because it’s there” quip) goes like this: your limit is the thing you did right before the one that killed you. Why do I suspect a hardcore cynic came up with that one?

After a little more back and forth, Barb eased up on me. After all, this wouldn’t be my first solo hiking trip on the other side of the country – I had spent a week hiking and scrambling in Death Valley the year before, all by my wittle self, and returned whole and unharmed. This would just be another similar trip, only going a bit higher. Okay, a lot higher.

The permit I had received was for a dayhike. After waffling back and forth between this option and an overnight permit during the application process, I had selected it because I simply didn’t want to drag a ton of overnight gear across the country. Or up a big-ass mountain, to be honest. Tent, sleeping bag, pad, stove, bear canister, water filter, extra clothing,  food – that shit adds up! I had calculated that, with the necessary essentials for a dayhike to 14,500 feet, I could get away with a pack of about 17 pounds as opposed to my best guesstimate of a 38-pound overnight load with my current inventory of mostly non-ultra-light gear.

Again, if you don’t hike, trust me on this: there is very little in this world (at least from a non-catastrophic standpoint) more miserable than hauling heavy weight up a mountain in thinning air. The possible exception is hauling that same damn load down a mountain on fatigued legs and barking knees. Dante somehow missed this singular horror in his vision of Hell’s nine levels, but it belongs.

So, going light and fast (both relative terms) was going to be my MO for Whitney. The downside of this whole dayhike thingy was that it would make for a long day. A very long day. I would need to start at the trailhead no later than 3:30 a.m. (more on this “Mountaineer’s start” logic later), and all my research had indicated that the average Whitney dayhike was 10 hours up and 6 down. Despite my public school education, I managed to cipher this out to about 16 hours. Yep, definitely a very long day.

I had walked 20-plus miles in a day before, so check. The most vertical gain I had managed in a day was about 4,500 feet, but that was due to there being all there was to be had on that hike, not cuz my legs gave out. So a check with an asterisk. Gotta work on that. The most critical factor was going to be my ability to handle the 14,500-foot altitude. Fortunately, I had been above 14,000 feet several times in the past few years, and above 12,000 feet many more times. Never a twinge of AMS. This is the area I felt most confident about regarding this hike’s challenges. Big, bold check!

About AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness): this single factor is what defeats most people who fail to summit Mt. Whitney, or any other mountain over 12,000 feet elevation. Reverting back to Dante’s Hells, let me add that AMS should have its own special level reserved. Anyone who has had the misfortune to experience this evil manifestation of your entire body short-circuiting all at once knows what I’m talking about. The simple fact is that AMS symptoms are the result of reduced oxygen to the brain. It usually starts out with a headache, but that can quickly become migraine-intense. The headache is often accompanied by violent nausea. Additional symptoms can include lethargy, blurred vision, vertigo, trembling, and confusion. A mild “altitude headache” is not uncommon above 10,000 feet, but once it intensifies and is accompanied by a second symptom from the list above, the assumption has to be AMS. The only relief from AMS is immediate descent to a lower elevation where there is more oxygen in the air. Failure to descend promptly can result in symptoms worsening to cerebral edema (fluid on the brain) or pulmonary edema (fluid in the lungs). Either can kill you astonishingly quickly.

Not to jump too far ahead in this story, but illustrative of the seriousness of AMS: while I was on an acclimation hike a few days before my first Whitney attempt, I ran across a group of SoCal backpackers near Cottonwood Pass, at about 12,000 feet elevation. One of the group, a sixteen year-old boy was clearly not feeling well. As I spoke with the group, all teen males, I realized they didn’t have any first aid supplies with them. They were backpacking on a lark and were not experienced in the mountains, nor were they very knowledgeable about AMS. I explained the symptoms and seriousness, and gave the boy a couple of Advil for his headache. Before we parted I left them with a few more tablets of Advil and Tylenol, and advised that the ill boy be watched closely for worsening of symptoms, and to get him down fast if that occurred. Two days later I heard (and read) that this poor kid had indeed worsened and unfortunately died of cerebral edema before SAR (Search and Rescue) could get him down to a hospital. That event will haunt me for the rest of my life. I know there was nothing more I could have done at the time, especially with a group of we’re-invulnerable teen boys, but it didn’t have to happen.

Although I had never experienced the hell of AMS, I had seen it up close and personal a couple of years before, and it really scared me. We had flown out to Colorado for a Rocky Mountain adventure, and during a visit to the summit of Pikes Peak (14,115 ft) Barb became suddenly and violently ill. One minute she was fine – 20 minutes later she had a headache so intense she was crying. Barb regularly deals with migraines, so this told me she was suffering beyond anything a migraine had ever thrown at her. She was nauseous as well. I may have set some kind of speed record getting her back down to Colorado Springs, where she spent the rest of the evening in very worrisome shape in our hotel room. By the next morning she had recovered reasonably well, but the impression that her AMS symptoms had left on me was vivid. She was literally incapacitated for 14 hours. Even getting out of bed for a bathroom visit seemed like a marathon for her.

In a nutshell, AMS is nothing to screw around with. But that was OK – I seemed to be invulnerable to it. I was one of the lucky few who just naturally, physiologically, adapted to high elevations without a hiccup. Yay me!

So, I had overcome what I thought at the time was the biggest hurdle to climbing Whitney: I had a permit! Making travel arrangements and training were next. This was early April, and I had a mid-August date, so I was left with 4 solid months to train. I knew from experience that I could get in mountain shape with 8-10 weeks of dedicated work, so I felt I had a comfortable margin. I immediately set out to hit Kennesaw Mountain twice a week until it was time to depart.

Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park is a 20-minute drive from our home, and affords one of only two opportunities in metro Atlanta to hike some reasonably serious gain. The other is Stone Mountain, on the other side of the city and an hour away in the absolute best traffic circumstances, so I’m really fortunate to have Kennesaw in my figurative back yard. The next best option is a two- or three-hour drive north of Atlanta to the Blue Ridge Mountains, which can eat up most of a day.

Kennesaw is actually two mountains and a very rocky hill, with one of the park trails doing a pretty good imitation of a roller coaster over all three. The trail starts at the NPS Visitor Center, going up and over Kennesaw Mountain, up and over Little Kennesaw Mountain, then down Pigeon Hill to Burnt Hickory Road. An out-and-back (OAB) gets you six miles and 2000 vertical feet of cumulative gain. There are also a series of interconnected trails that meander around the mountains, so plenty of opportunity to put in miles and gain if you plan it properly. The ever-present problem at Kennesaw for someone training for a much bigger peak (and there are quite a number of Atlantans that do, based on my experience here over the years), is that there is no real sustained gain opportunity. It’s all a series of ups and downs, with a 700-foot gain being the biggest challenge before you’re headed back downhill again. Your legs never experience the kind of stress that they feel on a mountain like Mt. Whitney, which is over 6,000 feet of sustained, unrelenting uphill (with a couple of exceptions, but the general idea sticks). That, however, can be said for just about anywhere east of the Rocky Mountains, so you simply do the best you can.

I set out training at Kennesaw, quickly realizing how far out of shape I had fallen since returning from Death Valley, and began to get my legs and lungs in reasonably decent condition. I religiously trekked twice a week. I bought new gear and gave everything a thorough breaking-in. I did my due diligence, reading three different books on the subject of hiking Mt. Whitney, and plotted out every landmark, mile, water source and terrain feature along the 11-mile route (those who know me won’t be the least bit surprised at this – “There’s Hicks in OCD mode again”). I scoured the internet for information, finally stumbling across the Whitney Portal Store message board, which ultimately initiated a sea change in both my and my family’s life.

Message boards: these are common in the mountaineering community out west. They serve as an easily accessible central location to exchange beta (current conditions) about a given peak, and can prove invaluable for someone planning to climb or hike a route for the first time. Each board has its regular contributors who are the source of great beta and offer a wealth of experience to “noobs” (newbies) contemplating that first ascent. The Whitney Portal Store message board (WPS from now on) is owned and operated by a gent named Doug Thompson, who is also the author of one of the Mt. Whitney books I had obtained from Amazon. Doug is a living legend in the Whitney area, having owned and operated the actual Whitney Portal Store since 1987, and very likely has more Whitney summits under his belt than any living mountaineer. I’ll spend more time detailing this amazing man in future posts, and the impact he’s had on my family, but for now I’ll just introduce him.

Anyway, having a bright-bulb moment, I promptly joined the WPS board and began asking questions on-line about my first attempt at the mountain. Some of these boards can be very insular and cliquish, and I was afraid a noob from the other side of the country would get short shrift. I was very pleased, though, at the number and quality of the responses I received to my questions. I got really good advice that caused me to change some of my plans and training regimen, and the more I posted, the more I learned about some of these folks. I quickly built on-line relationships with several WPS members. I know that sounds creepy but mountaineering message boards are not your typical message board, and the vast majority of people that populate them are simply outstanding human beings. Sure there are a few jerks who troll the boards, but these losers are pretty easy to spot. The biggest difference is that many of these folks know and hike/climb with each other locally, having done so for years, and provide an inviting and comfortable environment for others who are serious about learning.

My joining the WPS message board to ask a few questions about this mountain was the first step in a series of events that progressively led to a wealth of treasured friendships for both myself and my family. This one simple choice truly changed the course of our lives in so many ways, and would introduce us to a group of quality people in the California mountaineering community that we would come to think of as our “Sierra Family”, complete with plenty of  “aunts” and “uncles” for Bri. It continues to grow to this day and I often wonder how things would be different for us if I had not made this seemingly innocuous decision in 2009. I think we would be the poorer for it.

I spent the summer of that year training hard and learning as much as I could absorb about Mt. Whitney and the Sierra. Barb, though still chilly to the idea of my gallivanting off across the country to take on this challenge solo, was reasonably supportive and actually joined me for a few training hikes. Bri didn’t really comprehend what I was embarking on, but definitely picked up on Barb’s concern. I had to assure her several times that this was really no big deal, and that Dad would be just fine. Before I knew it, August had rolled around and it was time to gear up and head west. I was as prepared as I thought I could be, and I was eager to get on with it. As I boarded my flight for Las Vegas, I was envisioning my triumphant return to Atlanta and the story I would be able to tell about conquering the highest peak in the L49.

I wound up with a story, alright. The old adage, “be careful what you wish for” is sooooo appropriate . . . 

Part 2 coming soon.

Chasing Wonders

My entry into the world of blogging needs to be prefaced with an explanation of what motivated me to consider such an atypical move. My job doesn't involve the necessity of a blog, nor do my interests/hobbies. I'm not a member of any club or society which revolves around blogging. So why, exactly, would I open a Blogger account and begin this undoubtedly pain-in-the-ass venture?

The answer is for posterity. For my daughter, Brianne. At the freshly-minted age of sixteen, she's firmly in that population of teens who see their parents as disconnected sources of potential anxiety and embarrassment among their peer group (what the hell is SnapChat?!). Wallet-fishing and transportation-providing are really the only things parents are good for at this age. Which is nothing new. Been happening since time immemorial. Parents don't have a lot of depth in most teens' perception, but as time passes we do begin to appreciate that maybe our parents weren't so shallow as we thought, and might have actually caught a clue every now and again.

This blog is an attempt on my part to hopefully flesh out Brianne's perspective of her mom and dad in the years ahead, as well as to detail events that occurred when she was younger. She was telling me the other day that when she has a family of her own she plans to travel a lot, specifically to many of the places we've taken her as a child. She's determined to do this since she simply doesn't remember much about those grand trips to all the national parks in the American west. As I thought about this, I decided to get some of these stories down in detail for her. Initially, I had planned to just begin writing in Word format, then the thought of a blog occurred to me. I have several friends who blog, and it seemed like a great vehicle to accomplish this goal.

So now I'm a blogger! I decided "Aging in Overdrive" was an apt name for my blog since I seem to have come to many things later in life than most people. Married at 35, a parent for the first time at 42, a hobby more suitable for someone half my age than my current 58 years. It just seemed appropriate. Many folks begin winding down the frenetic pace of their life by my age, but I'm probably busier than I've ever been. The upside is that it damn sure keeps me young! I'll try to be honest and illustrate both the good and the bad in these ruminations, but we'll start with a little of both. The subject of this first blog is The Family Vacation . . .

That's typically where you lose a lot of people. Who wants to read about, or sit through interminable photos/video of, someone else's vacation? Just shoot me now and be done with it! This little blog entry is not about a week at the beach, however, and who got burned, where we ate, what tours we took, etc. We don't screw around with vacations, and only twice in the past thirteen years have we even approached a beach (way over-rated, thank you very much). Our Family Vacations (oh yes, they deserve capitalization) are turbo-charged adventures that take place at break-neck speed at or near a national park somewhere in the West. As you will soon appreciate, turbo-charged may be an understatement. It began like this:

When Brianne was three, my wife Barb and I flew her out to Las Vegas for a week of desert fun. I know it sounds creepy, taking a three year-old to Sin City to play, but Vegas really only served as our lodging base to venture out to several nearby national parks. We certainly strolled the Strip and hit all the touristy spots that were at least semi-appropriate for a young child, but neither Barb nor I get off on gambling so those attractions quickly wore thin. The first couple of days we stayed close to Vegas, visiting Lake Mead, the Hoover Dam, and Red Rocks, but on the third day we lit out in our rental car for Arizona and a night in Flagstaff before visiting the south rim of the Grand Canyon the next day.

This middle part of our Vegas Vacation introduced us to a pattern that would quickly become a staple of our family trips: driving long distances in a rental car between national parks, after flying in to the closest major airport. Rinse and repeat, over and over and over. Thankfully, we live in Atlanta, home of the world's largest, busiest airport, so at least we never had to add layovers to our list of itinerary headaches. You can pretty much fly direct anywhere in the world from the ATL.

Our first view of the Grand Canyon absolutely stunned Barb and I. Like many at their first sight of this otherworldly landscape, we were speechless and awestruck. I had never seen anything on so grand a scale! It seemed to go on forever, with colors and texture I had never imagined existed in nature. Flabbergasted, I finally looked down at my three year-old daughter, who was casually tossing rocks over the edge of our observation area. She looked up at me and said, "Look at the big hole in the ground, daddy!" And then turned her attention back to rock-tossing.

Now, did I expect her to appreciate this majestic sight like Barb and I did? Of course not. But I did anticipate a little more kiddo-awesomeness than a ten second hole-in-the-ground observation. I tried to get her attention back on the immensity of the canyon, and the colors and depth, but it was pointless. Rock-tossing and the sudden need for a snack took precedence in her mind. She was about as impressed as Chevy Chase in that classic scene from the movie "Vacation."

During that trip we also visited Zion and Death Valley, national parks with completely different types of eye-popping coolness, but we got the same response from Bri. "Is it time for a snack yet? I'm hot. Can I have a juice box?"

I took this as a personal challenge. This kid was by-God gonna be blown away by nature's majesty, somehow, somewhere, or it was going to kill me. I didn't know where it would be or how long it would take, but Bri was going to finally lay her baby blues on a natural wonder and utter those words of  fascination I was looking for! It's probably important to point out here something any long-term parent already knows but which I, as a relatively inexperienced dad at age 45, hadn't completely twigged to yet - kids can be stubborn.

This was September of 2003. Over the next five years we spent an incredible amount of time, energy (and money) chasing the great (and lesser) parks of the American West. At least once a year, often twice, we would hop on a plane at Hartsfield-Jackson and land in some western destination. Grabbing a rental car and some supplies from the closest Wal-Mart, we would then light out for Destination Number One, with an itinerary that would make most marathoners catatonic.

We would drive hundreds of miles to a park, spend as much time as possible enjoying it before grabbing a short night at some motel. We'd be up at 5:00 a.m. and do it all over again the next day. It was insane (but thrilling). We rarely had a moment to take a breath. On one trip in particular, we drove over 2000 miles, visited seven national parks and slept in 5 different motels - all in the space of eight days. And, of course, we had coast-to-coast flights sandwiching these particular adventures.

Over those succeeding five years we managed to visit several dozen national parks and monuments between the Rockies and the Pacific. We visited every state from the Rockies westward (except Idaho - we'll get there eventually). We marveled at the incredible diversity of landscapes in the West: gargantuan, snow-capped mountain ranges; high and low desert wastelands; prairie grasslands; desolate, unforgiving badlands; mesmerizing seascapes; lush rain forests; impossible monoliths; cavernous subterranean caves; delicate sandstone arches; awe-inspiring volcanoes; a multitude of maze-like canyons; river valleys beyond description; majestic waterfalls; hoodoos, spires, towers, mesas, uplifts, faults, cliff dwellings, alpine lakes - the list could go on and on. We squeezed a lifetime of Mother Nature's eye candy into a few short but very intense years. We made friends (from a distance) with bear, buffalo, deer, mountain goats, rams, sheep, condors, wild burros, elk, marmots, coyotes, bulls, eagles, ravens, moose, and the occasional jackalope. It was breathtaking, exhilarating, and thoroughly exhausting. Trust me, you haven't lived till you've driven all the way across North Dakota, and then back across South Dakota, swinging into Montana and Wyoming just for the hell of it.

And what did our darling, bright-eyed little girl get out of all this frenzied travel? Mostly an ability to patiently sit in her car seat for hours, keeping herself quietly entertained while Mom and Dad oohed and aahed their way across America. She had fun, don't get me wrong, and always looked forward to these Family Vacation Marathons. But it was the simple things that appealed to her. The travel, the people, the food, the gift shops (helluva story there to tell some day), the motels, the uninterrupted time with Dad that she rarely got at home. And, of course, the ever-present rocks to toss. No shortage of rocks out west. Our girl has a thing for throwing rocks, so boys beware . . .

But . . . I never got that response I was looking for from her, regardless of the awesomeness of the landscape. In September of 2007 we were in Washington hiking the Freemont Trail in Mt. Rainier National Park. We turned a corner and there in all of it's immense majesty was the entire bulk of Rainier, right in our face and as up-close and personal as you could ask for. It was a rare cloudless day in the PNW and the sun was scintillating off of the 400-foot-thick glaciers capping the massive volcano. Barb and I were stopped cold, and just stared in awe at this scene before us. Bri waited patiently till we finally de-raptured, then we moved on up the trail. I remember thinking at this point that the girl was seven now, almost eight, and still didn't appreciate such a momentous natural wonder as Rainier, especially in full sunlight on an extremely rare beautiful day (it is often hidden in clouds and mist). It was a bit depressing, but I was sadly reaching the Acceptance stage of this process - the child just didn't Get It, and maybe never would.

The reason this concerned me so was that I very much wanted Bri to develop an appreciation and love for the outdoors. I grew up a city kid and had minimal exposure to these types of natural wonders until I was really in my mid-thirties. They've since become a source of inspiration and challenge for me, as well as a refuge of peace and contentment. I am absolutely happiest when I'm high in a mountain range, feeling tired but proud at having gotten there under my own power. Sitting beside a gorgeous alpine lake that few ever see, drinking in the surrounding kaleidoscope of pinnacles, peaks, towers and spires - nothing settles my soul like these moments. I wanted Bri to have that "other world" she could escape to when necessary, and that she felt comfortably safe going there. We had raised her camping and hiking from almost the time she could walk, and she loved every adventure we took into the wilderness, but I wanted her to feel a magnetic awe at nature deep down in her soul. A sense of wonderment that would never fade away, and would always be tugging at her to return. A "Happy Place", as my wife terms her feeling about sitting beside the Lone Pine Creek waterfall at the Mt. Whitney Portal.

Unfortunately, it just wasn't happening for Bri. She always had fun but never seemed to have that WOW moment about where she was.

A couple of days later we had made a long, arduous drive from Seattle, around Puget Sound, to Olympic National Park on the opposite peninsula. We had just finished hiking an abbreviated section of the Hurricane Ridge trail and were mostly cooling our heels and just hanging out. This is the time when Bri was happiest in a hike - just a great opportunity for her to chatter non-stop about whatever stray thoughts were bubbling up in her young mind. Directly across from us was the Olympic Range, a jumbled mass of some of the most jagged, Alp-like peaks in the lower 48, all snow-capped and looking incredibly scary. Although they were miles away, it seemed you could almost reach out and touch them.

Bri kind of ran down on whatever subject she was pontificating on, and wandered away to explore. Barb and I were talking about what a major pain in the ass the return trip would be to Seattle, and discussing the option of taking a car ferry across Puget Sound, when I noticed Bri just standing quietly, looking at the Olympics. We, of course, were fascinated by them, but Bri had seen and experienced countless eye-popping wonders over the past five years and none of them seemed to register with her. We certainly didn't expect the Olympics to attract her attention, especially after she had kicked Rainier to the curb a couple of days prior. I really wasn't thinking much of it when I saw her fish her little camera out of her fanny pack. She had had the camera for a couple of trips, and used it almost exclusively to take pictures of mom, dad, bugs, birds, rocks, cars, people, meals, and quite often the TV in our motel rooms. This time, however, instead of pointing that camera downward in micro mode for some damn caterpillar pic, she began taking shots of the Olympics. Slowly. Steadily. Deliberately.

It hit me like the proverbial ton of bricks: finally, finally, she was Getting It! I urgently jabbed Barb in the ribs and whispered, "Look, look! She Gets It! She Gets It!" We looked at each other dumbfounded, then I realized this was one of those Big Moments in our child's life (at least to us), and I needed to get a photo. I frantically searched for our camera, not remembering whose pack it was in, but finally found it and began to take shots of Bri taking shots of the Olympic Mountains. I damn near cried, it was so rewarding. After so much effort, time, miles and $$$ on our part, our child's soul was finally being touched by nature. Not a video game, or a TV show, or a toy, or some friggin' fast-food joint - but the majestic, enriching power of nature. I'll always remember Bri's birth, her first steps, the first time she said "Daddy" - these are all cemented permanently in my memory in surround-sound HD (my first impulse was to say Stereoscopic Technicolor, but that would date me). This moment, to me, was one of those unforgettable life events on the same scale.

After a few moments she wandered back to us, flashing that smile that always melted my heart. "Those are some really pretty mountains, Daddy", she said enthusiastically.

Yes, baby girl. Yes they are!