Ode to Dog

John Galsworthy writes, "Not the least hard thing to bear, when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own life."

My beloved dog Babe, over 91 dog years old, my house mate, comforter, collaborator, protector, traveler, and accomplice died all on her own in my arms today. She'd nearly stopped eating but could still move around. Her wheeze was loud and hard.  There was no pain due to the expensive pills I gave her.  The vet said, to my shock, "We’re aiming for a soft landing."

A nature lover, Babe often scans the hills and the trees with sophisticated binocular eyes, hunting for squirrels and birds, then unabashedly flops on her back twisting this way and that on the grass, playing hokey-pokey with the sky.  When I laugh at that she fakes a yawn—embarrassed.  Now she lies so still on the patio, barely drinking the water I inch toward her.  “Aren’t you thirsty, honey?”  I place her favorite foods near her nose, a fan around her head of soft boiled egg, Gerber’s Baby liver, dog cookie, avocado, a bite of watermelon.  She resembles a chart of the five food groups on square red tile, nose pointing toward the cookie.

The night before, I hold her forehead to mine while blubbering selfish tears, “I can't do this.  I have to be responsible for myself, the oldsters, the kids.  I’m in charge of four checkbooks.  I have to be responsible for everyone and everything all by myself.  I can't do it anymore.  It's too hard.  You have to take responsibility for yourself.”  And so she did.

She didn’t come upstairs for bed rather sleeping on the living room rug.  I check on her at 3 AM, cuddling her on the floor spoon-style but she inches away.  This, from the one who barely lets me stretch on the floor before jogging.  She'll flop down hugging my side, legs in the air until I reach out and stretch her legs too.  When ready to go she'll stand, shake, then do Downward Facing Dog.  She taught me about that.  The first time I tried yoga I came home saying, “These people certainly are religious; they have this move called downward facing God” and I show her right on the kitchen floor while making a perfect upside down V with my body.  She walks under me and looks up--it's Downward Facing Dog, dummy.

Early in the morning I come downstairs and she hasn't moved.  “Oh no, no you didn't wait for me.  You’ve done it all alone.  I am so selfish to ask that of you.  That's not what I intended.”  But she knows better.  She lifts her head struggling to get up as I run to open the back door.  “Come on girl you can do it, maybe today's not the day after all.”  She slowly lumbers out to the lawn just as the sprinklers go on.  Still, she soldiers on around the corner to pee.  But on the way back she staggers and nearly falls.  She stops and stares at me, legs splayed for balance.  “Oh wait, quick let me get your bed before you lie down on that hard tile all day.  Stay”, I put my hand up.  I run to get the bed and through sheer loyalty she waits, wavering on wobbly legs.  When I run back out she crumbles down onto one haunch.  I dive for her as she collapses into my arms softly conking her head on the tile.

Then her loud wheezing stops.  Staring straight ahead she takes a full minute of pure smooth breaths.  I stroke her back, my wet cheeks buried in her furry neck, “Go in peace Babe.  Go with Greg.  I will be OK.  I’ll find you later."

I take off her collar, hold her close then let her go, reciting a favorite passage from Isaiah.  "You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”

And so they did.

Below the Rim

"It's good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters in the end." This quote by Ursula K Leguin literally smacks me on the head at 5:30 am as I dash out my hotel room door on Grand Canyon hike day.  Hanging from my doorframe are streamers, balloons, lip balm, sunscreen and the above sign of encouragement.  The sign also reads "Take away memories.  Leave behind footprints.  Enjoy every moment of your 'Hike for Discovery' today.  Happy hiking."

            Feeling encouraged, loved and fully awake now, I run down to breakfast, relieved I haven't slept through my alarm clock and double wake-up calls.  On my back I carry: 100 ounces of water, 20 ounces of sport drink, trail mix, Power Bar, lunch, ID, rain jacket, room key, money (for post hike beers on the El Tovar Hotel porch), moccasins (for the same), Chapstick, sunscreen, trail map, hiking poles, a knee brace (in case), T.P. and doggie bags (for, eh-hem, taking out what you bring in).  That's not all.  On my body I carry: sweat wicking underwear, T-shirt, flannel shirt, zip-off leg pants, wicking socks, boots, sunglasses, cap, watch, and ID boot tags (required).  In my body are a few unauthorized tabs of Aleve.  My bare-feet are bound with so many Band-Aids, moleskin patches, gel pads, toe tubes and callous cushions that I can barely see skin. The night before, I diligently lay out these thirty-some items.  No one can say I am not prepared.

            My hike team of twelve boards our bus at 6:15.  We're whisked through the gates of Grand Canyon, shuttled toYaki Point where our hike down Kaibab Trail begins at 7 with temperatures in the 50s on the rim (70s on the canyon floor) with mercifully overcast skies. Our guide is made-to-order for me--a petite 52 year-old Mother Earth nicknamed, Mo.  She wears a frayed visor anchoring her tawny braid, hiking boots, prairie skirt, faded 'Life Is Good' T-shirt with little rips on the neck seam where her daypack rests.  She gathers us for introductions and a brief geology lesson.  The canyon is half as old as the earth itself.  When the land began to rise the river did not, instead sculpting the soft rock that settled and bonded, resulting in the vast chasm that we see today.  Looking at the history of the earth as a 24-hour day beginning at midnight, it would take until 9 am to fill the bottom third of canyon rock.  By noon the land would be covered with a giant ocean which ebbs and flows.  At seven minutes before midnight the waters finally recede--birds and mammals appear.  Three minutes before midnight the Colorado carves its vast river.  In the last 43 seconds humanity appears on earth but it's not until the last one-fifth of a second, in our 24-hour clock, that Native Americans come to the Grand Canyon.  I'm feeling insignificant in the big picture, when Mo asks if we're each wearing an ID tag on our boot.  Looking at my boots I answer dutifully, "Yes, and some of us are wearing two, one on each foot . . . in case they get separated."  Amidst the laughter, Mo disappears down the trail shaking her head.  "There's one in every group.  I'll have to keep my eye on you."           

            I step off the rim through some brush, and all at once the panorama is glorious, terrifying, awe-inspiring.  You immediately drop right into it--there's no transition.  Massive peninsulas of brilliant rust, crimson, ochre jut out for miles past the next canyon over and the next, and the next. Thousand foot drop-offs slide through my peripheral vision.  I pull the bill of my cap sidewise to hide the vast chasm--to keep from getting carsick.  My busy mind quiets because I can only focus on this.  But the vistas are shocking--my gasps are not all about being out of breath.  No wonder veteran hikers call this place spiritual and return year after year.  Our team falls silent absorbing the unfathomable view.

            Steep switchbacks and steps test my downhill skills.  Hiking poles help on the 15-inch deep steps, kinda like skiing--saves the knees.  I'm beginning to think the down could be as tough as the up, until I see the ashen faces and grim nods of those passing on the ascent. Switchbacks sear in my memory as groundwork for the return.  I pay attention to drinking lots of cool water and force down some sport drink.  Hydration, they say, will make or break your hike because in heat at 7,000 feet sweat evaporates quickly.  You might not notice you're loosing fluid until you're light-headed, and I do not intend to be dizzy on this trail. 

            After a thousand-foot descent and a mile-and-a-half of precarious trail, we come to Cedar Ridge, a bluff nearly half the size of a football field. Terra firma.  Uncinching my pack, I find comfy rocks, prop up my feet, munch pretzels (see photo) and marvel at the panorama that I've not been able to appreciate on these dangling trails. There's even an environmental porta-potty.  Too soon Mo powers up and we head on.  

Another thousand feet below we come to Skeleton Point where, finally, we see the Colorado River.  It's a tiny green ribbon, yet we are more than two-thirds of the way down the canyon. Scruffy wildflowers surround our 10 am lunch and turnaround point.  We drop into a switchback cove and nestle against the cliff wall, trying to negotiate shade.  No one feels hungry but we eat for stamina: Power Bar, trail mix, sandwich, warm water-- UGH.  A mule team passes us on the horseshoe turn, perilously close to my toes. Yikes.  Mules are afraid of me.

            The sun comes out in full before we begin our ascent.  Our team guidebook describes the Kaibab Trail as steep with no water and little shade, and the elevation gain is 2,000 feet, which will make the hike feel like 8-10 miles of intense uphill hiking.  At 11:30 we reach Cedar Ridge again.  I notice a thermometer--99 degrees in the shade.  We pass an older couple low on water; the woman appears pale and disoriented.  Mo gives them extra water and electrolyte snacks, saying the ranger is coming up behind us.  Even so, Mo kneels next to her and speaks reassuringly. She doesn't mention that the helicopter airlift costs $30,000.00.  One teammate falls apart in tears and wants to stay behind to help, but Mo gently refuses her.  "You'll see others needing help on this trail but it's not possible to help everyone--that's the rangers' job. They'll probably rescue 20 people in the canyon today.  My job is to get you back safely."  We do pass others in need, and Mo hands out her seemingly endless supply of water. All I can do is look down, put one boot in front of the other, like Sisyphus in Hades doomed never to reach the summit.

Again we're encouraged to speak up if our team is hiking too quickly.  My heart pounds loud and fast but I remain stubbornly silent, surprisingly grumpy, as I swig more hot water, chew more trail mix.  My lips will never touch trail mix again.  Since my electrolyte sport drink is hard to reach, I decide to mix it with my hydration system water--the one with the tube going directly into my mouth.  Big mistake. This blue sport drink is called Propel but they might as well name it Projectile because at 100 degrees, the stuff is pretty hard to keep down.  I remind myself that a real adventure is doing something in which you are not altogether comfortable.  How about not comfortable at all?

We come upon an overhanging ledge with shade and gratefully crawl in, scraping our packs on the crumbling rock ceiling.  Row upon row of massive cliffs throw out weird shadows that look like ruffled black petticoats peaking out under a swirling red skirt.  Whoa, I quickly cover my hallucinating eyes.  While we cool off, Mo asks if we'd like to name the people we want to honor on our hike. George, one of our lymphoma honorees, tells of his courageous friend currently in treatment.  Others weep openly naming their honorees. The emotional impact catches us unaware.  With a lump in my throat, I name my mother, my lymphoma survivor honoree Betty Bonner, and I read the list of my donors' honorees. Mo suggests there may be other people we want to honor on this hike, not necessarily LLS survivors.  My eyes fill, "I have another name," my voice wobbles and I change my mind, "but I can't say it."  I gulp back a sob: "I can't afford to lose the salt." 

As we head up the trail I say his name to myself.  I teeter light-headed, tingly, goose-bumpy, struggling to quell my emotional tidal wave.  Did you know that even if you're able to hold back tears in your eyes, they'll just come out your nose anyway?

On the final dozen switchbacks, I begin to sense the euphoria of the achievement.  Mo stops us one last time, and I press my flushed cheek against a cool rock face as she speaks.  "I always pause just before I leave the canyon, just below the rim, to look back and appreciate this majestic beauty.  In twenty minutes you'll be up there with the buses, the exhaust, the tourists and the noise.  Take a minute to thank the canyon or God or nature for what today's given you.  Take one good breath and thank yourself." 

Heat exhausted, dehydrated, overextended and fulfilled, we started with a laugh--ended with a tear, and a Grand time was had by all.  Thank you donors.  Happy trails.

Flight School Reunion

All the friends from Flight School tried to get Jimmy to go see the Wall.  He didn't want to go.  For years he declined.  He'd get close to it, get up there, he'd go by it, but he couldn't walk in there.  On Memorial Day 1978 during a private ten-year flight school reunion, Scott read a passage about the Wall from Mya Lin, the architect.  "Only when you can feel the pain, can you accept the death and begin to heal." 

Six pilots and their wives took the pilgrimage to the Vietnam Memorial and Jimmy gave in. Scott's home, tucked into the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, provided a reunion respite, but the group took the trip to D.C. on the first day, Memorial Day, so there'd be nothing left to dread.  Each pilot had a list of the names he wanted to find.  Each found their own faces mirrored in their buddies' names, knowing it might have been the other way around.  They laid mementos at the base of the powerful slab: a flight school Green Hat with aviator wings, a worn class photograph and roster, a green T-shirt picturing a silhouette of helicopters in formation that read '1968 US Army Aviation Ten-Year Reunion.'  Everyone in the group wore the identical T-shirt and the pilots, no longer fresh-faced in their faded Green Hats, fingered the names of their friends on the black granite.  Jimmy wore a three-piece business suit in all respect and admiration.  He found all five men that died in his helicopter.  No one held back tears.

The last evening of their reunion, the group lazed on Scott's porch leafing through old photo albums, watching the sunset.  I brought out a copy of Life magazine dated June 27, 1969.  Life published not only the names of the American soldiers who died during the week that included Memorial Day, but the pictures of all two hundred and forty-two men who arrived home in bodybags.  Eleven pages of young American eyes, looking as earnest and hopeful as in a high-school yearbook.  The faces said it all, but I read the brief article aloud,  "...when the nation continues week after week to be numbered by a three-digit statistic which is translated to direct anguish in hundreds of homes all over the country, we must pause to look into the faces."

Scott gazed out over the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains and spoke softly from memory, "And since they were not the ones dead, the American people turned back to their affairs."

The Epic Storm

Dear Son,

Sorry I didn't get this written when I was in Montana but I was very busy skiing, skiing, skiing. When you called on day six saying , "Why haven't you called me about this epic storm", I hadn't realized it was epic, but we did have ten to twelve inches in one day. I had to wear my facemask, goggles and hat every day except the first and last. I had to ski seven days straight until four o'clock closing because it was too good. It just never stopped snowing. In one whiteout in a bowl above the treeline, I thought I was skiing downhill but I had turned and was skiing uphill. Once I thought I was skiing but I had stopped dead in my tracks. I felt really seasick for a while after that.

A hooded figure huddled on the chairlift next to me, turned his masked face and shouted through the blizzard, "So when's it going to start really dumping?" I wanted to laugh out loud but it would've fogged up my goggles for good. You gotta be careful when the skiing is perfect.

My friends couldn't believe the snow conditions. Now they call Big Sky the best ski resort in the whole country. We found some new tree runs. On Andesite Mountain we found the Blue Room run, which we heard about from a guy who works at Beaverhead Condos. Off Silver Knife you veer right through some gates with a black diamond and a double one drawn in by the locals, to keep you out. It's a perfect tree run and be sure to bring beers to our new best friends partying in the smokey Blue Room, a three sided room made up entirely of old skis.

But be sure you do not veer further right to check out War Dance because if you do, you can't change your mind. And you will want to--immediately. The reason it's so skinny of a chute is because of those avalanche fences alongside, stacked-up down the hill, a hundred yards of hill. And the reason for the avalanche fences (I see them on the map, now) is because it is too steep and too skinny to hold snow or skiers like me. Fun, it was not, but I did not kick-turn, side-slip or fall. It took forever, however. The only good thing about it, somehow I wasn't scared. No whining. We never saw another fool trying to ski it.

I wimped out, or I should say, took a burning-thigh breather on Elk Park--a lot of times and Sunlight is my knee-deep fresh powder favorite, unless you're on the chair at 9 a.m. sharp and get first tracks on Stump Farm. Never gonna happen.

The bumps below Thunder Wolf chair were calling me as usual. My friends started from the top--I only had the knees for the bottom half. One friend had to cut-out halfway--I'd warned her. The other had the knees for all of it at once. Impressive.

The last two days after the friends left I skied alone. I'd been longingly watching the brave skiers on the Peak. I decided to be brave before my 60th birthday and got in line for the Lone Peak Tram to the top. A big cloud blew in. I got out of line. The sun peeked out, OK OK just do it. The sign at the top said, USE YOUR LIFE-SAVING SLIDING TECHNIQUE IN LIBERTY BOWL. I felt nauseaous but it was probably from the 11,166 foot altitude. Standing at the top of Liberty Bowl for far too long, I buckled down, zipped up, pulled on goggles, blasted "We are the Champions" on my ipod and dropped in. It wasn't pretty but it was good and I didn't fall. Falling was not an option because I wasn't exactly sure what that life-saving sliding technique actually was.

I decided to venture over to the new chairlift, Dakota. Everyone I'd asked said it was great but "tricky to get to", or "dicey" or "you have to know what you're doing." I had no idea exactly what all that meant but, hey, I skied War Dance this week, you know. One guy said, "Oh you'll be fine--just don't ski below the green dots." Green dots? So I slipped through the gates glancing at the sign, DO NOT ATTEMPT TO SKI HERE ALONE. Too late. But there were big green dots on top of posts showing the way. I entered some trees and another few skiers came along who were Dakota novices as well. We threaded our way, snowplowing through the trees in single file, along a not-very-steep path for a long time (more green dots) and eventually came out under a beautiful new chairlift. The runs were wide tree runs, and so plentiful I didn't even have time to ski them all.

And, of course, I skied the requisite Challenger. Work work work. My leg muscles were disappointed we were still skiing, but for my final run I wanted to try an easier way down Challenger that I'd heard about. I ask Ski Patrol directions at the top. "Stay high and traverse left above the tree line, just follow the boundary line down. There's one spot where you drop through the trees that's a little tricky, but you'll find it. We're running the sweep in about ten minutes anyway, so if you cliff-out, we'll find ya."

Good grief!

Thank you for spoiling me with your condo. Having a wonderful time--wish you were here.

I love you,

Mom

Nothing As It Seems

As if I don’t have enough of my own, I’m working on a new TV series called Trauma with fifteen Drag Queens.  There’s nothing like a bunch of Drag Queens to take your mind off your own trauma.  They are drama central.  As well as sweet, funny, self-effacing girls, they prefer to be called while in drag.  It takes a while to sort it out.

The first morning they hang out together at a far table.  I can’t guess how the soft plump redhead in pink taffeta, matching heels, ruby red lips and polish, knows the Queens so well.  She smoothes her old-fashioned pageboy hairdo into place, leans in and whispers something.  They throw their heads back and roar laughing.  Tattoos peek from gown straps, the nape of a neck, an inner thigh-high cut dress.  Make-up shadows cleavage artfully into place, bodies are hairless, eyelashes lay triple thick.  The gowns are dazzling.

In a quiet corner a small handsome cop thwacks a nightstick against his palm.  A curly soul patch moves under his lower lip as he speaks into a cell phone, negotiating real-estate deals in a female voice.  A muscular 6 foot 5 cop wears a CHP jacket, matching leather short-shorts and thick leather high-heeled boots.  When he bumps into me over coffee at Craft Services, he catches me lifting me high into the air--way up off my feet--and apologizes profusely.  “Oh my god, did I spike you?  I am so sorry.  Are you OK?”  One fuzzy red bearded and mustachioed girl in a brilliant lime green patent leather suit laments her lack of Queen acceptance.  “It’s because of the facial hair” she tells me in baritone.  “It’s hard to be on the cutting edge.”  She looks me in the eye sadly, honestly and I nod.

My all time heartthrob is a blond bombshell nurse that you cannot take your eyes off.  She wears a white eye-patch with the Red Cross insignia, thigh-high white boots, silk stockings and a lab coat so short you hold your breath every time she leans over.  She sits down for lunch and strips down to her black birdseed filled bra and manly tighty whiteys.  Without the wig she is a drop dead gorgeous man.

I learn how to play a fast and loose game of cards called Speed.  “No pun intended” Stuart giggles in high pitch.  I am in on discussions about laser hair removal, boob jobs, botox, implants, bootie padding.  I know all about day jobs, transvestite bars, cross dressing, certain unnamed well-known men that gift diamond jewelry.  I know about meeting Debbie Reynolds.  “Open the windows, I’m flashing” someone pleads, fanning herself under a hot wig, tight gown, heavy dripping make-up.  Like me, they take off their pointy-toed high heels whenever possible, their oversize feet puffy and red.

One crosser in a strapless red satin gown that I covet, helps me write a press-release and comes up with the one word I have been searching for all day.  An angel with fluffy feather wings, matching bikini bottoms and hairy pierced nipples reads the Chronicle.  They have names like Dan and Larry but wear rhinestone drop earrings and pink sequined tube tops, confounding any sense of order.  There are no identifiable genders--no identities.

The A.D. walks into Actors’ Holding and shouts, “Listen up people.  May I have all the Drag Queens on set.  And you guys know who you are.”  “Not necessarily” quips the redhead hair smoother, in falsetto.  The dominatrix sneers “Yessssir” and cracks her little whip.  The gorgeous nurse pulls on her wig then lab coat and dashes off.  Long luminous hair lifts from her shoulders giving each leap a slow motion feminine gait.

Over in hair and make-up we have sequins glued, stars painted, lips pouted, hair spiked and we are fully heavily eyelashed.  The devil in the chair next to me has horns glued to his head while they strap on red leather stump wings.  When I ask the twelve foot guy on stilts how can he possibly sit, he says “Like this” and dives for the make-up table, catching his weight with long strong arms, then gracefully slides into a chair.

Connected at the hip, the get-a-room straight couple spends the entire day entwined.  Surely new lovers, they can’t keep their hands off each other: slow dancing, massaging, neck kissing, tickling, swaddling, cuddling, enveloping.  She wears a shimmery purple flapper dress and a matching headband.  He: Army boots, fishnet stockings, a low-cut green sequined gown baring a full chest of black hair.

On set we tape a barroom costume contest.  One very, so very white man wears the brightest blue suit ever made.  The towering Egyptian King lurches and sways in a heavy sharp edged copper and gold crown.  An East Indian woman wears a Chinese wedding dress.  A black man has war paint and a feather headdress.  Mimes speak.  The Playboy Bunny is actually a female—maybe.  One Queen who’s glued one hundred rose florets onto her fuchsia gown, blows kisses with large exaggerated lips, bats triple false eyelashes, turns and shakes her padded booty.  We cheer.

Lights twinkle and twirl, a silver faceted disco ball spins and The Great Oz spews smoke from his perch on high.  While not recording dialogue there’s throbbing disco music, bullhorns, high pitched screams, mayhem.  We sweat off sequins and cough up manufactured smoke.  While recording dialogue we silently toast with fake champagne in plastic pumpkin cups, mime MOS raucous laughter and dance to the frenzied beat of no sound whatsoever, just the soft rhythmic tapping of obedient dancing feet.

Our director is French, members of the crew are not the most outrageous ones, producers are uncharacteristically reticent.  Behind sunglasses, a plain dark mask and conservative gray suit with tie, a Fed leers?  Stunt people wear costumes and costumed people perform stunts.  There are real Firefighters, EMTs and Police; there are actor Firefighters, EMTs and Police.  We have breakaway chairs and bottles hurled from the balcony, fist fights, party crashers, electrical explosions, mass panic, a stampede, trampling and blocked exit doors.  Wings entangle bunny ears, pointy masks snag gauzy veils.  Everything flies through the air: wands, whips, batons, pink handbags, stilettos, parasols, tutus.  The floor is littered with feathers, fringe, sequins, rhinestones, and we work under the silent barrage of raining confetti.

The tall beauty in the red strapless dress is harshly criticized by the A.D.  She has unconsciously taken a sip from her fake champagne while filming a scene.  The director sighs and shouts, “CUT.  Back to one.  First positions quickly please.”  There is no simulated drinking of alcohol on Network TV.  You may hold, toast, and pour simulated alcohol if you are over 26, but you may never touch it to your lips on camera.  Mortified the actress turns, stoops her lovely soft white shoulders toward me and braves a winning smile, but I can see through it.  Although I only come up to her waist, I put my art around her.  She leans down and whispers “Thank you my dear”.

In this enchanting wonderland of mistaken identity, where nothing is as it seems, we are after all mostly just the same.