Archive for the ‘MY WRITING’ Category

PRIORITIES

October 8, 2013

Vermilion Community College in northeastern Minnesota had to cut its budget 8.5%, or $750,000.  Concomitantly, there is a tuition freeze.  The latter is good for students, but further budget cuts are required, and they can come only from curtailing services, like laying off faculty members. Gee, that’s a great way to help unemployment, cutting college budgets so that fewer students can get an education that helps them get a better job, or to create jobs, through innovation.

Big government has often been the enemy, until 2005, when most of the country asked “Where’s FEMA?” and heard “Heck of a job, Brownie.”  That was the answer to gutting FEMA.  Fast forward to 2012 or 2013, where FEMA was positioned before Sandy hit and Moore was devastated.  Watch Coast Guard Alaska sometime and see how many lives are saved by government people–military personnel–who fly choppers into harm’s way to save people.  Does anybody in their right mind think we could do this privately with less cost?  Many feel each of us should take care of ourself.  That’s fine, until a family member is T-boned at an intersection with major trauma, a spouse says “I have cancer,” or a child needs something common–an appendectomy–and you don’t have insurance.

Vermilion is uniquely located in a town of 3400 at the edge of the largest roadless area in the Lower 49.  North and east of Vermilion, one travels only by canoe.  Vermilion offers courses in wilderness studies, including management, biology, and law enforcement.  Ten per cent of their students are minorities, and the student body comes from 250 different high schools.  Ask your local community college how many high schools their student body comes from.  Or whether they offer studies in Park Service Law Enforcement.

There are scholarships awarded to VCC students.  I am involved in three.  In the past seven years, the monies have doubled, from $20,000 to $45,000.  That’s a long way from $750,000.  I am trying to get the Friends of the Boundary Waters to create more scholarships than the one I initiated and mostly fund.  I want 3, 4, or 5 scholarships.  The Friends couldn’t stop the cell phone tower that is visible for 20 miles in the wilderness, and they probably can’t stop the sulfide mine, either.  But the Friends could fund several scholarships, sending a strong message to the Conservationists with Common Sense and those who think mining is the answer to joblessness that no, it is education that matters in Ely, and education is what will save the town, not mines.  My letter to the membership will be sent soon.  But even 100 scholarships would barely make a dent in the deficit.

There is a vocal group in this nation that says we should all pay our own way.  They are against government funding for education, immunizations, family planning, health care, food safety, milk pasteurization, science in all forms, weather forecasting, and early reading programs, all of which pay huge dividends.  This vocal group does not consider long term issues, like what happens should you get disabled, demented, ill, hurt, or suffer from consequences of a hurricane, tornado, flooding or drought.  To these people, government is bad, the private sector is good.  Stated differently: Republicans in government are public servants; Democrats are bureaucrats.

The congressman from Colorado, whose district was devastated by the recent flood, voted against Hurricane Sandy aid.  Many in Congress whose districts have been  beneficiaries of FEMA voted against aid to Sandy victims.  That’s real Christian.  Perhaps the churches can fix the roads in Lefthand Canyon, where I once lived, with a few collection plates.  Without federal aid, these people are SOL, because they lived in the wrong place, like Moore, Oklahoma, or Joplin, Missouri.  Should we pray more, like Governor Perry suggested?  Or do we fund the National Weather Service? I sometimes wonder what century I live in, whether I need to reset my watch back 75 years.

This vocal group is dangerous.  They will destroy the country as we know it.  They want to remove SSI and Medicare, devastating the elderly, destroy public education, and send us into default that will destroy our leadership and the world’s economy.. They want troops to go everywhere, so long as troops aren’t them or their children.  Only 7% of us are veterans.  I don’t think this group will ultimately win, but  Mr. Obama inherited a huge mess in 2009: 2 wars, the credit markets nearly frozen, and bad unemployment.  The wars had been kept off budget, so it wouldn’t look so bad. He couldn’t fix the mess in 2 years, and those with insurance were so vociferous about the Affordable Health Care Act that the American public voted in a bunch of crazies, who will do whatever it takes to bring down the government to get their own way.  They are also impolite, shouting “lie” at the State of the Union Speech, and shouting down a CIB Congressman (Combat Infantry Badge) who was against the Iraq War.

We could, of course, fund education and basic research better.  We could restore public education to the extent that the US educated its citizens to read books, write a coherent sentence, understand enough math to deal with debt and calculate interest (the Rule of 72 for doubling time of money–P/Po=exp(rt); P/Po=2, and take ln–the natural log– of both sides, so that the doubling time is 72 divided by the interest rate in per cent).  They  ought to know where, say, Azerbaijan is and why it is important (Caspian Sea, oil, proximity to Dagestan and Iran) and speak 2 or maybe 3 languages.  We could do this.  Then perhaps we wouldn’t complain about outsourcing of jobs to countries who believe education is important.

I find it annoying and hypocritical that Rand Paul’s state of Kentucky gets more in federal aid than it pays the government.  I think Kentucky should get funding for one thing:  Mammoth Cave National Park. New York State in the past two decades has paid more than a trillion dollars (that is 1E12, Rand, in case you didn’t know) than it has received.

Back to Vermilion, which could, of course, raise tuition and force students to get loans.  That would balance their budget but create students leaving with large debt.  Well, then, let’s open a sulfide mine.  Except mining jobs don’t last.  Only the tailings do.  Unemployment on the Iron Range, is the highest in the state, triple that of other parts.  Ask the people in Morenci, Arizona, how well things are going now.  Ask people who work in the mines what they want their kids to do.  Hint: it is not work in the mines.  The world has changed; the days of high school to the mines to having lots of money with ever increasing benefits are gone.  That was a past world.  The present is much leaner.  The future will be even more so.

With both age and illness stalking my life, I’m more interested in next year and the next decade, too, hoping that good science will be there when I need it, not prayers and collection plates, because I don’t believe in the first, and the second denies the reality of medical costs.  We could start with a tax rate of 39.5% for AGI over $250,000 and 50% for AGI over $2 million, because nobody in my view is worth $2 million a year.  In addition, deny them SSI, and tax 80% for bonuses of any sort.  Oh yeah, charge a buck for every $1000 trade in the stock market.  Stop policing the world, and fix the infrastructure that our “strange weather” (that really is no longer so strange) destroys every year.

Yes, raise taxes.  It’s an investment.  Fixing infrastructure will create jobs and long lasting value.  Fixing education will allow young and older people get out of the rut to go places their families never have gone before.  Health insurance will improve lives.  This has been proven in Oregon.  Hire more teachers at Vermilion and have a scholarship fund that allows deserving kids to have impacts in many areas. We need mines: we need them to be more productive of materials, safer, using less energy, with  far less impact on the environment.  Those new mines exist; we need only the right people to create them.  They will appear, if we educate them.

SOLO

September 30, 2013

For well over a decade, my wife and I have taken an annual canoe trip into the Boundary Waters.  We have everything planned.  Day 1, we stay north of  Minneapolis, where we have drinks at a country bar, dinner, and ice cream afterward.  The next day, we hit the shopping center in Cloquet, get our food, and drive up to Ely.  We pack that night, and the third morning, go across the street to a coffee shop that opens early and serves good scones, too. We drive out to the jumping off point and head in to the woods for a week.

My wife wants a picture of me in that coffee shop this year.  She won’t be there with me.

I knew at some point, circumstances would prevent our going up there.  I just hoped it wouldn’t be “this year”, but “this year” always comes.  Always.  I was under orders to go.  My wife knows the clock in my head.  In 2004, on the river into LaCroix, we saw an old guy paddling and floating downstream, mostly floating.  Mind you, he was about 75, but he was in the woods.  I don’t see many 75 year-olds in the woods.  My wife said, “That’s you in 20 years.”

Nine have now passed.

In 2005, I soloed into Kawnipi Lake for one more look.  I have thought about going back to it, perhaps the most beautiful lake in the Quetico-Superior.  I’ve seen Kawnipi six times, however, I am turning 65 in 9 weeks, and seeing Kawnipi again with high mile days is no longer as important to me as it once was.  Damn, I loved those high mile days.  I can still see myself powering into a nasty headwind on the west side of Agnes, trying to make it to the Silence Lake inlet.  Oh yeah, it was raining like stink, too.

We used to go into Lake Insula, but in 2011, the Pagami Creek Fire burned the whole route in. We could have done it last year, because with decent weather, we can paddle the 7 portage route in as many hours, get to our favorite campsite, not burned, for a late lunch.  Neither of us, however, wanted to see the fire scars.  We both know fire is necessary, and that the area will heal, but we want to remember Insula the way it was, not the way it is now.

We started camping on Basswood Lake, looking for the ideal spot.  The first two years, we found good sites, but they weren’t what we wanted.  Last year, on a day trip, we found one, a little further in.  This was going to be our destination this year.

Except illness and bad crap happen.

I’m going to try to go there solo. I say try, because the intervening nine years at my age is a lot different from intervening nine years thirty years ago.  Last April, I solo hiked into the BW.  I couldn’t make it safely to Angleworm Lake because of deep snow, and the concern that I would get too fatigued or hurt.  I turned back and found a place to camp.  It wasn’t ideal, but it was nice enough.  I was in the woods, alone, and winter camped, which I had not done in 30 years.  Not only was it a good trip, it was the smartest I had camped.  Oh, I got cold at night, and I didn’t do everything right.  But the big decisions were sound–I turned around, I found a good spot, I stayed warm enough, and I ate well.

I’m going in solo again, by canoe.  It will be familiar….  I have soloed more than 20 times.  I talk to myself.  I give myself pep talks, the most important one at the jumping off point, where I tell myself not only to be careful, but to go with the flow.  “It’s just physics,” is one phrase I use, so when I drop food or trip over a root I don’t complain.  I don’t run.  I never deviate from my route that both my wife and outfitter know.  If I am late, I want people to know where I am….and where I am NOT.

I once published an article in a magazine about solo trips.  It was accepted, but the editor added a picture of a waterfall with the caption, “While solo tripping can be good, these sights can’t be shared with one you love.”  That annoyed me.  I wrote that solo trips aren’t for everyone; indeed, only a few of us seek out this solitude.  We do it because we have to.  Maybe we’re selfish, but there are times we want to see things alone and be by ourself.  In society today, that may be strange; I find it nearly sacred.

I won’t go in solo to think about the course of my life, the state of the world, or the next article I will write.  Nope, I will say that, but in the end, I will spend a few hours contemplating a campfire, trying to find that loon that is calling, walking along the shore and see what’s growing on land or in the water, follow a path from the site until it deadends, wondering why it deadends.  I will watch caterpillars, ants, mergansers, not analyzing anything.  If it is nice, I’ll lie on my back and look up at the sky.  I’ll usually watch an eagle soaring and wonder what he’s seeing.

I will return in 4 days to the same place I started.  The canoe, paddles, and PFD will be the same.  The person, however, will be different.  Oh, he will look the same, other than being cut up in a few places, a little stiffer, blisters on his hands, sunburn where he should have been more careful.  But the real difference lies deeper.  He’s been out in the woods and saw whatever it was he needed to see.   He won’t be able to explain it, but those who seek out wilderness and make it part of their life understand.  So will his wife, who will see him and immediately know he went where he needed to.

FISHIN’ STORY

September 29, 2013

I never forgot that summer day at Crow Lake, nearly six decades ago, when I landed my first smallie, 13 inches and a pound.  Over the years, I’d catch perch, sunnies, rock bass, pike, largemouth and other smallies (smallmouth bass), always happy, but of course never quite recapturing the thrill that I had with the first one.  I can still see the rock under water where I caught him, the tug on the rod,  bending almost in two.  One has to understand this thrill to fully understand what’s coming next.  I’m writing about fishin’, no “g”, because every fisherman knows that.  You go fishin’.  I guess a few folks from the Cities go fishing, but the rest of us go fishin’.  We use leeches and crawlers, the latter being nightcrawlers, or earthworms that come out at night, after we water the lawn during the day.  These are “live bait,” which a segment of the fishin’ population considers the only way to fish.  It’s a bit religious, although we’ll use lures like Raps, spinners, jitterbugs, and spoons, ‘cause some places don’t allow live bait, because of contamination concerns.

Oh, we don’t use the metric system, either.  My bass was not 33 cm long and 0.45 kg.  Give me a break.  My heavens, nobody here would know what the hell you were talking about if you said that.  I’m vegetarian now, but I eat fish, because I’m willing to catch, kill, clean and cook them.  While I don’t fish any more, there will always be a soft spot in my heart for fishin’.

I hadn’t planned on soloing into the Boundary Waters this September, because my wife and I usually go together.  Illness entered our house this year, however, and while she was doing well, canoeing was out of the question. Stuff happens.  She told me to go.  I felt a bit guilty, but I get over it quickly.  I think she’s glad to have me gone for a while.  I come back better for the trip.

Sunset, Basswood Lake, top of Pipestone and Jackfish Bays.

Red Maple leaf.

I’ve soloed into the Boundary Waters on the good side of twenty times.  I usually go with the plan that I will think a lot about my life, family, place in the world, all the heady stuff people believe is important.  Usually, though, I end up fascinated with what most would call trivialities.  I round the corner of an island, and an immature Bald Eagle takes off in front of me. Or I’m lazing under a few jack pines on a cliff and see a dozen mergies diving in unison. Or, if I’m lucky, I see a Pileated Woodpecker fly back and forth across the bay out front, a real treat.  The world’s problems, my own, tend to wait.  A red tree leaf on the trail  is highly significant,  as is morning mist on the lake, an incredible sunset  or a rising last quarter Moon, with a loon calling, when I take my midnight break.

I process what I see and hear slowly, so it might take hours or days to discover what is truly meaningful.  Readers of my post “Dreams”, should know that I left that men’s room without the slightest thought of writing about what had just transpired.  By the time I got home, 12 hours later, the story wrote itself.

My first night out, I was on a campsite my wife and I had discovered last year.  We were camped in the motor zone on Basswood and found this one out of the zone.  We should have moved, but we didn’t.  There are many lovely tent sites, quiet bays, and lots of room.  She couldn’t see it this year; I decided if my 64 year old arms could do it, I’d go in 14 miles for a couple of nights.  I got there in 4 hours, which I thought decent.  And so the first night, I sat on a fallen Norway and started to write about the day.

What surprised me was that my thoughts were not of the eagle perched by Newton Falls, nor the Aster

Aster plant, end of portage from Newton to Pipestone Bay.

Aster plant, end of portage from Newton to Pipestone Bay.

and Hawkweed blooms

Orange hawkweed.  This is worth kneeling down to smell.

Orange hawkweed. This is worth kneeling down to smell.

by Pipestone Bay, near the end of the portage.  It wasn’t even the site itself, which was better than I remembered.

Nope, it was a fishin’ story I heard that morning, back in Ely.  Yep, fishin’.

I heard the fishin’ story because I went to a bakery the morning of my departure into the woods.  My wife asked me to go to that bakery, because we always had gone there together before heading out.  We got coffee and a scone, one of her fondest memories of the trip.  We remember these things every year with hopes next year will be the same.  Except at some point, next year won’t work out.  Always.  It is the way of the world.  Not working out happened to be 2013, a bummer.  But I still went to the bakery, got my coffee and scone from the same woman, who was helped by a man I hadn’t seen before.  I don’t know their relationship, and it doesn’t particularly matter.  I was there for scones and coffee; I was about to get a lot, lot more than I paid for, and fishin’ stories ought to be told in the present tense.

A second customer comes in, and the man who is helping the woman starts talking about a fishin’ trip he guided the prior week.  OK, now I understand the relationship.  They have a bakery, and he works as a guide.  Oh yeah, he works holding ducts, too.  That came up in the conversation:  “It’s about 30 hours of work, and while I know nothing about ducts, I can hold them.”  This is Ely, where they measure jobs by hours they will last, not salary, bonuses, or bennies, which are non-existent.  But that’s for another time.  I’m telling a fishin’ story now.

The man is guiding out on a lake that I know well, but will remain unnamed, because guides do not tell ordinary people where good fishing is, and as a listener, it is completely unethical for me to mention the name.  Guides do a lot of “water time” to find the honey holes that help them live.  When you put in a lot of “water time,” you don’t give it away.  The guide talks about a day trip that he and his charges took. Wow.  I’ve done that day trip, and it’s a haul.  I’m starting to listen closely, for while I’ve been in 300 lakes up here, camped out as many nights, this guy knows fishin’ and this country a lot better than I.  If you haven’t figured that out, I’ve just paid him a hell of a compliment.

I’m still sitting at the window looking out on Sheridan Street but turn around when the guide says, “I caught the biggest walleye in my life last week–32 1/2 inches.”  I look at him as he continues, “took a picture and let her go.  She was old, had a big head, and I could see the unusual coloration on her.”  Big walleyes are breeders, and they should all be thrown back after a quick picture. If a good guide sees you keeping one of these for dinner, he will quietly direct the fishin’ elsewhere to make sure you don’t catch anything more. I heard that from an expert. Good sportsmen practice catch and release. Good sportsmen, however, often don’t do what this guide does next.

“She comes belly up about 100 yards away.  I went over, because the gulls were circling.  She was alive, so I worked her gills for a few minutes, made sure they were going, and let her go.  She dived deep and was gone.”  Working the gills means move the fish back and forth, so the dissolved oxygen can fix to the hemoglobin on the gills.

My story that first night was right before my eyes. I wanted to write something profound, and here it was: I spread my hands about 32 1/2 inches apart and dreamt of having that on my line.  Wow.  Best fishin’ story I’ve heard in a long time.  Nothing trivial about this.  Not when you know fishin’.

That guy is a real sportsman, too, and it’s a helluva fishin’ story.  I respect him.  He gets it.  He knows how to take people fishin’.  I like the bakery.  I left a decent tip when I got my order; I decided I would stop in and grab another one of those scones when I came back before the long drive to the Cities.  I doubt I will hear another fishin’ story, because maybe the guy is holding ducts.  Still, maybe it will be my lucky day.  I will leave a lot bigger tip for the woman, not just for the scone but for the fishin’ story.  I bet she knows a lot of fishin’ stories.  My wife doesn’t believe half of mine.  Bet she believes his.  He’s a guide.  He knows fishin’.

Well, I’m in the woods for a few days, cover some miles, see some sunsets, eagles, fall colors, and spend 30 minutes watching an ant move a pine needle.  Yes, trivial stuff.  Unless one is an ant.  Did you ever watch an ant carry something 10 times longer than he is?  I was fascinated.  Anyway, I finally came out of the woods 3 hours before a big boomer pounded the land.  Temperature dropped like a stone, but I had a September trip where I never wore my rain clothes and slept without a hat on.  That’s a great trip.

It got better.

I had breakfast at the Moose (The Chocolate Moose) at the corner of Sheridan and Central in Ely, and I’m ready to leave town, when I go by the bakery for the blueberry scone and coffee.  The scone is to die for.  I’m normally pretty shy, but four days alone in the woods makes me talkative, so I just ask the woman how big the walleye was, ‘cause I like to have my facts right.  She immediately asks the man to come out.  It really is my lucky day–dry trip, blueberry scone, and I’m going to talk to the man himself, a guy who knows fishin’.

He is a guide.  Name is Don Beans, and he runs  Jasper Creek Guide Service in Ely.  He’s on Facebook.  I got the brochure.  I started with a real dumb question:  “Where did you catch it?”  Completely nonplussed, Don answered, “Not saying.”  I was embarrassed as hell with my faux pas, forgetting that no guide ever divulges his secrets, but hey, I haven’t been fishin’ for a while.  I replied saying the lake began with one of two letters, and named the letters.  The first one was correct.  I told him I was familiar with that lake, having spent time with the Forest Service.  He must have thought I was for real, so we both talked about a secret lake that we both knew well.  I ain’t telling you the name of the lake.  No way.  You want to know, take a trip with Don.

Then I told him about back in ’92 when Steve Cochran and  I were out working, when we spent an evening jiggin’ for walleyes on Pipestone Bay, where I had just been.  Cochran, a Forest Service worker, guided on his days off.  Don is a guide who probably does bakery and duct work on his days off.  Probably does any other work he can, too.  Bet he’s good at it.  Doesn’t ask dumb questions, the way I do.

“Lot of water time to find that hole,” Don said, when I told him about the school of walleyes we were jigging into.  I had never caught a walleye before and pulled in 8 that night.  Threw them all back.  I told Don that I was impressed with his throwing the fish back and then going out to rescue it from the gulls.  I liked his response:

“What else could I do?”

Not “it was the right thing to do,” which implies that one has a choice, but the implication was clear: the right thing is one’s only action.  This is a good guide. Come to think of it, this is a good person, too.  I’m writing a 2100 word fishin’ story, and Don Beans has summarized the jist of it in 5 words.  He’d probably be a good editor, too.  His next 5 words were even better.

“Want to see a picture?”  he asked.  That was like asking me if I wanted a lifetime supply of blueberry scones.  Oh man, did I strike gold today.  First the scone, then the story in depth, and now a picture.

I saw Don with the fish.  I don’t have to spread my arms 32 1/2 inches.  I’ve seen what it looks like.  That walleye is a treasure in American waters, thanks to Don.  She won’t be around much longer, but she has done her job in nature.  Wow, what a fishin’ story.

And the whole thing is true.  Makes me want to take up fishin’ again.

If I do, I know who will guide me,  where that secret lake is, and what I’m having for breakfast that first morning.  I may ask dumb questions, but I ain’t stupid.

TICK, TOCK

September 10, 2013

Tick, tock, TICK, TOCK.  In the past year, my internal clock has been ticking louder.  It’s telling me get out in the woods more, do the things I want to do, see the things I want to see, now, soon, this year, maybe next, but not put them off.  The sound is reminding me again there are no guarantees in either longevity or health.

I’ve always had a clock, but I didn’t hear it much for many years, when I had my neurology training.  I saw sudden catastrophic neurological conditions, many times in people who had just retired.  I started to hear the clock again.  Two young colleagues died in accidents within a few weeks of each other back in ’92, and the sound became louder.  An inner voice told me, “There’s a cost to taking a leave of absence to work for the Forest Service in the canoe country, Mike, but there is a cost to waiting. Go now.”  I didn’t wait until was 65, which I will soon be. I went early and never regretted it.

The same time, I made “The List,” years before “bucket lists” and “1000 places to see before you die,” many of which I neither need nor want to see.  The List is for me.  Others don’t need or want one.  That’s fine. I do.

In my 30s, life was busy, too busy.  I practiced medicine, chronically fatigued, interrupted, sued, and hurried until I finally got out at 43.  I had other jobs, went back to school, got a degree, couldn’t make a living at it, and started volunteering, to give my life more meaning.  I tutored math for 9 years, taught a man to read, led birding tours in the neighborhood, and removed buffelgrass.  I published articles.

One day, I happened to see The List, which had languished in a drawer.  The first item was “See the Sandhill Crane Migration in Nebraska.” I had put that one off for a decade. In 2004, I  told my wife and father that I was going, and they were welcome to accompany me, but Nebraska weather in March was unpredictable.  We all went and had a good time; I was transformed.  I am now a volunteer tour guide at Rowe Sanctuary and for 6 years have showed others the migration.  It is one of the top 4 sights I’ve had in nature (total solar eclipse, seeing a wolf in the wild, and Katmai bears are the other three.)

I chased a few eclipses in some unusual places, and indeed, seeing the next total solar eclipse became a permanent member of The List.  In 2005, I added a new item:  see all the national parks.  In December, I drove 550 miles to Guadalupe Mountains NP and climbed Guadalupe Peak the same day.  I was told it would be too windy up there and too dark before I got down.  I went anyway.  For 15 minutes, I was alone and atop Texas.  It was dead calm.  I got down just as it got dark.  Great hike. Eight years later, I have eight parks left to see.  The 19 trips I’ve taken, my odyssey, has been one of the best things I have ever done, carrying me into 13 states and 23 new national parks.

In the winter of 2007, the ticking became really loud, as it does when I fail to get outdoors enough, so I looked at The List and read: “See the Arrigetch Peaks”.  Oh yeah.  That one. These mountains, some of the most unusual in the world, are in the Brooks Range of northern Alaska.  I was 58; I wasn’t going to be backpacking forever.  I have a neck I have to take care of, and anything else could suddenly fail.  I wasn’t expecting problems, but I heard the clock:  GO!!  I  went the next summer.  The hike was the toughest 20 miles I have ever done, but I saw the Arrigetch.  It is one of the top items on my “Outdoor Resume,” which I keep for myself, although others may certainly look at it.  I am not competing with anybody, only fulfilling my dreams.

After that,  I planned my trips on a regular basis.  Hiking the entire Appalachian Trail is on The List, but I don’t plan to do it; there is too much else, and the AT requires too much time.  I’ve walked the southern 528 miles and hiked 20 miles in a day (another list item) 9 times, once 3 days in a row.  Damn, that was fun.  Maybe I should reconsider.

High above the Dalton Highway, just south of Atigun Pass.

Dall Sheep, Aichilik River headwaters, ANWR, Alaska.

TICK TOCK. I wanted to see the eastern “Gates”, Gates of the Arctic NP.  My guide and I bushwhacked in from the Dalton. I carried 75 pounds up a monster hill with a 20% grade, went over Oolah Pass two days later

Oolah Pass and Lake

Oolah Pass and Lake

in a cold, pouring rain, up other steep hills, in rivers,over moraines, through incredible valleys, to Summit Lake.  We got picked up by float plane.  Hiking is better, but to fly over this country is incredible.  We flew between Frigid Crags and Boreal Mountain, the “Gates” of the Arctic”, named by Bob Marshall.

Summit Lake, Gates of the Arctic NP, on the continental divide (1200 m)

Summit Lake, Gates of the Arctic NP, on the continental divide (1200 m)

I now think that perhaps this hike was harder than the Arrigetch.  I thought it would be my last backpacking trip, but my guide told me about doing ANWR again. I remembered the wildlife on the  in 2009, got that faraway look in my eyes that said I needed to go back, know I won’t be happy unless I do, and that is on for 2014.

TICK TOCK.  Mike, you saw Alaska, but you need to see those parks.  This year, I took three week-long road trips.  I love planning these.  They were tough, but I did what I set out to do in each one.  The first one took me to Mammoth Cave, KY; I spent time with the Friends of the Boundary Waters in Minneapolis, went to Ely, winter camped solo, gave three scholarships at Vermilion Community College and came home.  The clock’s ticking was quieter.  I got into the woods.  Alone.  In snow.  And did fine.  It was one of the smartest hikes I had ever done, probably because I knew I had little margin for error.

My footprints in Kobuk Valley NP Sand Dunes (greater)

Noatak River, near the western edge of Gates of the Arctic National Park. Looking east.

Three months later, I saw four Alaska national parks.  I spent three nights after 1 a.m. in the Anchorage airport to do so, but I flew into Kobuk Valley National Park,  drove 7 hours to Wrangell-St. Elias and back, flew to Katmai and later to Lake Clark.  Great trip, but I missed hiking with a pack. Go back to ANWR one more time, Mike, go while you can.  If you’re lucky, you can raft the Killik, Nigu, Hulahula or Kongakut Rivers some day, to add to your paddling the Alatna and the Noatak.  Maybe do all of them.  Tick Tock.

A month later, I flew to Rochester, New York, my home town, to see it one more time.  The next day I was in Cleveland, seeing Cuyahoga Valley National Park.  With a bad case of the GIs that night, and beginning a nasty cold, I drove from there to Algonquin Park, Ontario, for Camp Pathfinder’s 100th anniversary, where I learned to canoe, and did a day loop trip in Algonquin.  Being underway in a red canoe

Red canvas canoe that Pathfinder uses.

Red canvas canoe that Pathfinder uses.

that dented my knees  from kneeling on the ribs and planking was part of the thrill.  Pathfinder bowmen didn’t sit in the bow seat.  I even carried the red canoe a mile.  I texted that feat to my wife, and she simply replied, “Why?”  It mattered.

Day trippers at Little Island Lake, Algonquin Provincial Park, Ontario. I camped at this site 50 years earlier. I am in the blue in the back.

I didn’t know if I could get the 90 pounder on my head, but wisdom is more important than strength, and the canoe went right up. Then, of course, I had to carry it the whole way.  It’s not a man thing; it’s a Pathfinder thing.  I wore red there; to wear red and carry again was deeply satisfying. After Pathfinder, I drove to Ottawa to see a good friend.  He took me over the Chilkoot twice, introduced me to the big waters of the Far North, the Yukon and Nahanni Rivers, and we’ve been in the Quetico.  Lot of water under our keel.  He’s got me interested in seeing Western Australia, and he is nearly 70.  Tick tock.

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

I’m trying to learn two languages, too.  Tick, tock.  Will you ever be functionally fluent in German and Spanish, Mike?  Tick tock.  Are you getting out enough?  Tick tock.  Do you notice how easy it is to get stiff and sore?  Tick tock.  Do you remember your miserable illness in 2009, when you almost were housebound for 4 months?  Tick tock.  Are you teaching enough?  Tick tock.  Are you loving your wife enough?  Tick tock.  Are you caring for your animals?  Tick tock.  Do you look at the maps on the wall and wonder how you are ever going to see all that country before you die?  Tick tock.  Does it matter, if you can just get to the places you love again?  Tick tock.  Are you able to say every day, “If I drop dead now, I will have lived, loved, done good, and been worthy of calling myself a human being?”

Tick tock.

ELDERS

September 1, 2013

“We have a Michael Smith booked tonight, but he’s from Washington.  We don’t have a reservation for you.”

It was 11 p.m. in Anchorage, and I had been looking forward to a quick shower and getting to bed, after the flight down from Kotzebue through Nome.  I had a seat mate who kept jabbing me, her husband fell asleep (lucky him) and she didn’t want to leave the row at deplaning.  I got behind two women who were slow going up stairs, and each took one side, together blocking the stairwell.  It had been a long day.

The women were elderly, and I said nothing.  At my hotel, I was stunned at the news, and all other rooms were booked in the city. The night manager had no suggestions.  I looked outside for a place to sleep, but I camp in the woods or tundra, not cities.  I finally thought of one place where people sleep without being arrested–the airport.  I took the shuttle back to the airport, and the young woman driver was a bit sharp with me.  When she spoke, I was slow to respond, because I was tired, trying to solve problems, not create a scene.  Her loud: “Hellooo?” didn’t help.

It was a long, short night.  I heard: “It’s one thirty,” “two thirty,” and “four thirty” on the loudspeaker.  I got up at 5 to the sound behind me of people shuffling in line to check in at a counter.  Embarrassed, I collected my gear and went to the men’s room to clean up.  Fortunately, I slept in my clothes; unfortunately, I really needed a shower.  I called the hotel to send the shuttle, and the same young woman came to pick me up.

“Do you have a room?” she asked.

“Nope.”

“Then why did you call the shuttle?” Her tone was angry.

“Because I felt like it.”  I replied, a little annoyed.  She knew that I had been at the hotel and might have a reason to go back.  I was thrice her age; I didn’t know if this was power over somebody, gender, race, my age, or she was just having a bad day.  I was wise enough to stay silent.  As a 64 year-old guy who just got 1 hour of sleep on the floor in the Anchorage airport, with a 7 hour drive ahead of me, I tried to be polite.  Treating elderly people with respect mattered when I was a kid, and I resent it when young people treat me with disrespect.

I am more than elderly.  I consider myself an elder, and the women at the airport who went up the stairs slowly I considered elders, too, which is why I didn’t yell at them to move faster.  Elders have lived long, have wisdom, listen a lot, and are willing to change their beliefs in the face of new evidence.  I qualify on all counts.  Some call it “being young,” which is fine.

When I got to the hotel, I was given a room, then asked to pay for it–full freight–until check out time 5 hours later.  I almost signed the sheet, not because I would pay for it, but it was going to be billed to the other Michael Smith, the guy from Washington.  But that wouldn’t have been honest. Elders must be honest, too.

The manager of the hotel was present and let me use of the room and shower for free.  I used two towels, leaving the room otherwise untouched. Subsequently, I spent two more nights there, in a nice room with a big discount.  That is why that woman is a manager.  She problem solves and knows that a customer who gets treated well after a bad outcome is likely to choose that place to stay the next time.  Indeed, I shall.

She was an elder, too.

I think the Native Alaskans were on to something.  Not only did the they clearly adapt their lives to the seasons, far better than we do, and existed a lot longer than we; their belief system respected elders.

I grew up told to respect elderly people, not all of whom were elders, but many were.  I was to listen and be polite.  Many elders taught me; I would have learned more if I hadn’t been a know it all kid, although I wasn’t a total loss.

I respected my parents, and my mother, a feminist before the word existed, and against segregation long before most of the country was, told me to treat all people with respect.  Making my parents proud of me was important. I didn’t always succeed. but I did when they began to die, and I had to become a parent to them.  They were not only my parents, but elders, people who taught me, people who deserved respect.  I had to help them exit this world with dignity, which I did, the second best thing I ever did in my life (marrying my wife was the best).

Yes, the Native Alaskans got it right.  The picture below was taken in the Headquarters for Kobuk Valley National Park.  The building is in Kotzebue; the Park 100  air miles east, barely reachable by water, not at all by land or roads, so I went by air.  It is noted for its sand dunes, which came from wind funneling between two glaciers millions of years ago, picking up silt and depositing it. I saw it, my 45th Park, and was thrilled to walk on the dunes.

But what I did not anticipate was far more important: to understand better what an elder is and the responsibility they have to pass their wisdom to the next generation. I needed to see Kobuk Valley, the Visitor’s Center, have a hotel reservation cancelled, and sleep on an airport floor for all this to happen.

Kobuk Valley Visitor’s Center; Kotzebue, Alaska

HITTING ROUGH PATCHES, AND FINDING SMOOTH WATER LATER….

August 27, 2013

“Hey, Rick, good to see you!”

I was at the reunion celebrating 100 years of Camp Pathfinder’s existence, where I learned to canoe trip in the ‘60s, and saw a familiar name tag near me.  I found the face vaguely familiar, as much as a face one hasn’t seen for 46 years can be familiar.

Rick (not his real name) turned and said hi, without nearly the surprise I had.  I told him the college I was fairly certain he had gone to (correct), and reminded him that I stayed at his house on a trip from the camp back to Rochester, New York, to accompany the campers back to the camp in central Ontario the next day.  I even got his street right, remarkable, considering I had not visited Rochester in 45 years.  I then asked what he was doing.

“Teaching math.  And I have authored five textbooks.  Good to see you again after the last reunion.  What do you think of the place?”

I had never been to a reunion.  We had not seen each other in 46 years.  I have taught math, and I certainly can subtract 1967 from 2013.  I haven’t authored much of anything, other than a few articles in several different fields, like neurology, Navy medicine, wilderness.  I certainly haven’t authored any textbooks.

I replied: “The things that changed needed to, and the things that didn’t need to change are the same.”  Rick liked that line, saying that was exactly what he was going to talk about at the “Council Meeting” the next day, where we would all be.  He then saw somebody else and left me, without another word.

I had known Rick really, really well at Pathfinder.  I had worked with him in the camp office, when I wasn’t out canoe tripping, which half the time I was.  I was–in a word–bummed.  I saw him several more times at the reunion, always with a lot of people near him, for he was a prominent person in the camp and a major “player” at the reunion.  I made it a point, however, not to initiate any further conversations.

I’m shy; while at times I can force myself to talk to strangers, if they reply the way Rick did, I shut down.  To an extrovert, that is no big deal; to me, I have put myself on the line and failed badly. I wish I could easily change this behavior, but it has been exceedingly difficult to do so.  I tried to tell myself that probably Rick had a lot of other things on his mind, but I was bummed.  I had no desire then to look for another name tag with a familiar name. Maybe I would the next day. Frankly, I was ready then to leave the reunion.

Instead, later that evening I sat outside the kitchen, away from the many gatherings, next to a couple, enjoying the coolness and the beauty of sunset over Source Lake, which I had not seen for nearly half a century.

“Venus is setting,” I commented, half to the couple, half to the sky.  It is how I start conversations.  If I can teach or get into my comfort zone, I open up.

The woman was interested in my comment, found Venus, and her husband looked, too.  They were from Brooklyn, where seeing stars or planets is often impossible.  Above Venus, I showed them Arcturus; overhead, the Summer Triangle, in the south, Antares.

“Let’s go down on the kitchen dock,” I suggested.  It was a clear, pleasant night.

With the wider view afforded by the dock, I showed them Cygnus the Swan, the Northern Cross, with bright Deneb at one end and dimmer Albireo at the other. With a telescope, I told them Albireo is one of the most beautiful double stars in the sky.

I pointed out the Big Dipper, showing them how it could be used as a clock, running counterclockwise around Polaris every day.  Using the Big Dipper, one can tell time at night, which fascinated them. I showed them Polaris, using my outstretched fists to show our latitude of 45 degrees.  In two minutes, they just had learned how to tell the time and latitude without anything more than their eyes and hands.  That’s heady stuff.

We turned to the south to view Scorpius, the head, Antares, and the tail.  The whole constellation appeared before us, barely clearing the quiet boreal forest across the now lovely, dead calm lake.  I told them how my wife and I once saw Orion rise over a calm lake late one night, perfectly reflected in the water.

It was late, and while the parties were occurring all over the island, I was tired.  As we walked back to where we had been sitting, I mentioned that they could always see the Moon from Brooklyn, and if they started following the Moon’s cycle, they would learn a lot.  The Moon is essential in both the Jewish and Islamic calendars.  If they used the bright stars like Vega, Altair and Deneb like Broadway, Madison Avenue, and Wall Street, they could learn to find their way to the lesser known areas in the sky.  It isn’t difficult, and I suspect perhaps this couple will.  I wrote an astronomy column for a newspaper for two decades without any formal astronomy background.  It takes rocket science to go to the stars, but not to learn them.

I have neither written a textbook, let alone five, nor changed thousands of schoolchildren.  I was not speaking to three hundred people at a reunion; I was only showing the sky to two young adults from Brooklyn.

But that night I like to think I changed a couple of lives. If I didn’t, I certainly changed the course my evening had been taking.  I didn’t whistle when I went to bed, but I felt a lot better about myself.  The reunion would turn out fine, Rick had just been a small rock in the water that my canoe hit.  I was again back on calm water, paddling ahead strongly.

Wilderness and a clear night sky are a wonderful tonic for the blues.

Day trip in Algonquin Park, on Little Island Lake. I camped on this very spot 50 years ago. I am back right.

Back from a paddle around the island….and of course a little more. These red canoes are hand made, still wood and canvas, and weigh about 41 kg (90 lb). On the day trip, I carried it 1400 meters without stopping. To still be able to do that was one of the high points of the trip. My shoulders hurt for several days after.  Notice the red neckerchief. That is the sign of a head man.  I earned that, and I was not the only one at the reunion who wore one.

Loon and chick, Source Lake, Algonquin Park.

COMING HOME AT LAST

August 27, 2013

When the plane touched down in Rochester, New York, where I spent my childhood, I expected I would view the city with considerable interest, since I had not been back for 45 years.  I didn’t expect that my immediate view would be blurred, because I was immediately teary-eyed.  That surprised me, for while I certainly cry, I usually have some warning.  I deplaned, telling both the flight attendant and the pilot that this was my first time here in 45 years.  They smiled.  I walked through the airport, far, far different from the last time I had been here, arriving at the rental car counter.  As I was getting checked in, I told the young man it was my first visit here since 1968.

“Welcome home,” he said.

I lost it.  No, it wasn’t just teary-eyed, I started crying, the kind of crying where you simply cannot talk and your face is soaked.  It didn’t last long, but the emotion caught me totally by surprise.  As I write this, I am teary.

I lived in Rochester from shortly after my birth in Berkeley, California, until 1963, when I left, to finish my last three years of high school in Wilmington, Delaware.  Other than working a summer at Eastman Kodak in 1968, where I hardly ever explored, I had not set foot in the city, or even New York, for that matter.  I finished high school in Wilmington, and I had a lot more friends there, but when I returned to Wilmington 42 years later, I did not have those emotions.  I was curious, but I did not cry.

Driving out of town, for that evening, I wanted to see our summer place on the Finger Lakes, I saw names I had not thought about for years–5 and 20 (a well known road my pediatrician told my mother I should play on, which would solve some of her problems), Rush, Henrietta, Conesus, Canandaigua, Lima, Livonia, and Honeoye, the last the lake where we had our cottage.  I was about 6 miles from Honeoye before anything looked familiar.  Even West Lake Road was different.  The numbering system had changed, and only the fact that I went past the cemetery on my right told me I was on the right road.  “California Ranch,” a peninsula, was now “Ranch Road.”  I went by “Poplar Road”, which I remembered immediately as being the last road before the one to our cottage.

Had you asked me any time in the last 40 years where Poplar Road was, I would not have been able to answer.  But I knew it immediately when I saw it.

The cottage was basically the same, but the trees, the new cottages, the whole area was different.  The owner was kind enough to let me in, and I was standing in a room where my feet had trod when I was a young boy, not an old man.

That evening, on the dinner menu, “Texas hot dogs” were advertised.  I hadn’t heard the term in decades.  Rochester is home to red and white hot dogs.  I can still hear the waiters at “Don and Bob’s”, which now exists at Sea Breeze: “Two texas, three white!”  When we left Rochester, that was the end of white hot dogs and Genesee Beer.

The next several days, I visited Cleveland to see my 49th national park, and drove around Lake Ontario to a camp reunion and to visit a good friend in Ottawa. This was a true “Remembrance Trip.” I returned to Rochester from the east, drove down Elmwood Avenue, and again saw street names I hadn’t thought of in decades.  I arrived at 12 Corners, immediately recognized it and the three schools I had attended through the 9th grade.  I was speechless, but I was done with the tears.  I saw the schools, turned down the street I lived on, and saw the house where I grew up.  It looked good.  So did the window from my room.  I looked at the sidewalk and the driveway, where a half century earlier, even almost two-thirds of a century earlier, my feet walked.  It was good.  I needed to see my house.  I was through with the tears now.

I drove to the hotel near the airport, on Chili, which I immediately knew was pronounced CHI lie, not CHILL e, where I was flying out the next day.  I told the counter clerks that it was my first time back in 45 years.  They smiled.  I tried to say that it was the first time I had seen my house and my school in a half century, but I couldn’t speak.

I started to cry.  I absolutely could not get a word out for five minutes.  They smiled and nodded.  I was astounded at my emotions.  For years, I always considered a home town is where somebody currently lives.  That is, after all, literally your home town.

But I had been wrong the whole time.  I have a hometown.  It was so obvious that it perhaps never occurred to me.  It was, and always will be, Rochester, New York.  Had I listened to my heart and eyes, I never would have doubted it.  The brain is smart, but the heart and eyes know things the brain can’t understand.  The mind of the child takes in things that the adult brain simply can’t comprehend.  My heart and eyes knew I was home.

I took the trip, because I wanted to see where I grew up one more time.  I did that.

I just didn’t know that after all these years, I was finally going home, and how important this would be.  I went to school in Rochester for many years.  I learned a great deal in Rochester.  But this beautiful city had one more lesson to teach me, 45 years later.

 

CUYAHOGA VALLEY NATIONAL PARK

August 21, 2013

Cuyahoga Valley National Park is just south of Cleveland and close to three interstates.  Despite the proximity to noise and people, the place is quiet, and there are many miles of trails.  I chose the Towpath Trail out of Boston, walking it for about 5 miles and back.  There is a lot of bicycle use, and the trail is popular with runners, too.  There is a river, several large ponds, some marsh, and old locks along the trail.  An old paper mill is there as well.

For those wishing to do a one way hike, shuttle service exists for some of the trails.

There is a small store run by volunteers in Boston; I did not go to other parts, deciding to eat and then walk where I was.  There are many interconnecting trails, and for mountain and even road bikers, this would be a delightful place to be.  For runners, walkers and picnickers, this is a lovely place.

River view and Highway 8 bridge

Typical trail view

IMG_3619 IMG_3618

Footbridge that was removed, sent to Elmira in 1992, restored, sent back, and rebuilt!

FIGHTING BATTLES SILENTLY

August 18, 2013

I was insulted by a friend recently, although he will never know.

I’ve never had a lot of friends; in the past 15 years, I’ve had even fewer.  When I rode the bike, I had several, but after I quit riding, I lost contact with them, for the only connection we had was the bike.

The friend to whom I refer once practiced medicine next door to my office.  He often brought his dogs to the office, and I took an afternoon break from seeing patients to go over and pet them for 10 minutes.  It was relaxing.  He retired just before I went back to graduate school, moving to another part of the country.  He sent Christmas e-cards and generic letters, telling his friends what he was doing.  We weren’t close, but I did consider him a friend.  Until yesterday.

He sent an e-mail to me, probably to everybody in his address book, about how the Senate almost voted to give to the UN the right to take away the right to own a gun.  I haven’t followed this debate closely, but I know enough to know that treaties require 2/3s approval, which this vote wasn’t even close.  If it is not a treaty, it won’t pass the House.  In any case, I fail to see how anybody who is thinking clearly thinks it is physically possible to confiscate three hundred million firearms in this country.

We can’t even pass a law strengthening background checks of who should have a firearm, despite overwhelming (85% of firearm owners in favor is overwhelming) support by the public.  Newtown has been and will be forgotten until December.  I knew it would be.

I have never touched a handgun and don’t plan to.  I shot skeet once, in 1976.  I have no use for firearms.  I also know that in my lifetime, we will never control their use.  Firearm control is like the Middle East peace process:  it comes up from time to time, somebody thinks something good will happen, and nothing ever does.

The e-mail annoyed me.  I started to write the sender, saying that politically hot issues should not be e-mailed to those whose political beliefs you do not know.  It is a good way to destroy a friendship, which he just had.  It was short and to the point.

Then I let the letter sit and deleted it 6 hours later. I have learned to wait before hitting “send”.  I pick and choose my battles.  I will go to the mat on some issues, like the climate, but a wise man doesn’t fight every battle.  I thought perhaps the sender might becoming demented.  He is old, and his recent Christmas cards have become extremely religious compared to prior years.  I haven’t seen him since 1998 and don’t know his current situation. I won’t change his mind and will only annoy or hurt him.  Why do that?

This isn’t the first friend I’ve lost over political issues.  One crossed a line that I considered important, and I decided not to contact her further.  I’m not going to change her mind, and silence is the best option, for it has many meanings.  Silence can hurt, but unlike hateful words, silence can be reversed.

A third individual, from Russia, whom I help learn English, explained Islam to me.  At first, I learned several facts I found interesting.  But later, she told me that I was of course going to go to hell.  I was more than a bit miffed and thought about stating to her my lack of belief in hell, except here on Earth. I could have asked what happens when two people, both believing their religion is “the proper way,” collide. It comprises a good deal of the world’s problems.

I remained silent a few days. She finally wrote me to see if I were upset. Yes, I was very upset, but I replied only that I was ready to teach her English. My silence had been my answer.  Maybe she understood what it meant; I doubt it.  Remaining silent in the face of hurtful comments, or comments that make one livid, is difficult.  I’m getting better at it.

I don’t ask people to read what I write here.  People log on, read my words and decide whether they want to read anything else I write. They choose.  I write, because it is how I discuss difficult or interesting issues. I hope my words will make people think about the world in a different way, I also hope my pictures will show people parts of the world that they are likely never to see.  Perhaps if people see how beautiful this world is, they will be happier and will work to protect it.

What I have learned, which took far too long, is that sometimes it is better to let others have the last word, especially a spouse.  For many, having the last word matters.

My silence makes it impossible for others to know what I think. That’s powerful.  For me, having the last action matters.

Even when it is silence.

MR. STERNER

August 14, 2013

Mr. Sterner might have been a reason I became a doctor.

Walt Sterner lived with his wife Sadie all year at Honeoye Lake, next to our summer cottage in the Finger Lakes.  He was old in 1956, when we bought the cottage, and Sadie was wheelchair-bound from arthritis.  Mr. Sterner loved her.

Mr. Sterner was an elder.  No, he didn’t have a college degree; I doubt he graduated from high school, but he was an elder.  He could fix anything, building and assembling most of the things at his house.  He had a metal track about 50 yards long that he could use to transfer his boat from the boathouse to the lake.  He later built a second ramp for Sadie to easily get in and out of the cottage.  Mr. Sterner had his priorities.  I think Sadie noted that, too.

Mr. Sterner liked dogs, especially ours.  He had a gruff voice, but when Vixie, our dog, was hungry, she didn’t hang around our place, she went next door.  She got something, and Mr. Sterner got to pet her.  I can still hear him one night saying, “Pretty slim pickins’, Vicki.”

Mr. Sterner didn’t suffer fools gladly.  He never showed off his weapons, although I know he had a few somewhere.  One day he walked over to our place with his shuffling gait, blue work overalls, smoking his pipe, and started complaining about the kids down the way making too much noise the prior Saturday night.

“They do that again, and I’m gonna get my goddam thirty thirty.”

Nowadays, you could get arrested for saying that sort of stuff.  Mr. Sterner had no plans to kill anybody.  He was just venting, although I bet if somebody broke in, the muzzle of his “thirty thirty” would have been venting smoke.

My mother baked a cherry pie one week and took it over to the pair.  Mr. Sterner looked at the pie, cut a piece, and said, “Where’d you get the cherries, Ruth?”  For decades, that line was never forgotten at my house, used when something new was made by my mother.  I haven’t seen my brothers in years, but if I quoted that line to them, they would immediately know what I was talking about.

One autumn weekend, my father took me on a trip up into the Bristol Hills near the cottage.  We went to a slaughterhouse, where Mr. Sterner worked.  To most kids, this would have been pretty gross.  I was fascinated by what I saw, when I looked at the carcasses.  I don’t remember much of who said what, but Mr. Sterner and my father gave me a good instruction in anatomy that day.  I was absolutely entranced, and it is probably no coincidence that a quarter a century later, I was teaching neuroanatomy to medical students.

There was nothing false about the man.  What you saw was what you got.  He was an elder, and I always called him Mr. Sterner, as I still do.  I suspect I could have called him Walt.  It wasn’t right, however, and it never once dawned on me to do it.  A half century later, I still can’t call the chairman of neurology, who trained me, by his first name, even though I’m 64, he’s 87, and I’ve known him for 36 years.  I doubt he would care, but it just wouldn’t be right.  That’s one way you know somebody is an elder–at least in my generation.

During what was my father’s final illness, at one point he needed a Chest X-Ray.  The technician kept referring to my father as “Buddy.”  I was infuriated but remained silent.  My father, Dr. Paul E. Smith, at the time nearly 92 and mentally sound, wrote two science books that sold more than a million copies each in the 1950s, when a million was a lot, and were the mainstay for science education in many schools. A lot of people would learn a lot if they read those books even today.  Dad worked his way up the educational ladder, from science teacher to principal, assistant superintendent, and superintendent of schools in 3 cities, finishing as an Assistant Dean at a College of Education.  He traveled the world.  He could fix cars and taught me how to change plugs and points.  He raised 3 sons, spent the War in Brazil educating pilots who flew to Dakar, and learned Portuguese. When he was 78, we did a canoe trip together.  Dad still knew the Latin name for a White Pine (pinus strobus).  I was impressed.  He was an elder.  He should have been called Mr. Smith, Dr. Smith, or Sir.

Not “buddy.”

When you are in the presence of an elder, be it a gruff farmer from rural New York State with minimal formal education, or a chairman of neurology at a major university, you call them Mr. or Dr.  Nowadays, many of the young call everybody by their first names.  That’s not only impolite, it is failure to recognize one may be in the presence of an elder.

Elders have seen and done a lot, but they also know what mistakes they’ve made.  In short, they have a great deal to offer to those who will only listen.  If an older person is listening carefully to you and asking questions, you may be talking to an elder.  Be sure to open your ears and close your mouth, too.  Be patient, because many elders think a lot before they speak.  They’ve learned that thinking before speaking is often valuable.  When an elder begins to speak, you will know you are in the presence of somebody special.

I’ve been fortunate over the years to have seen and done many things.  What I don’t know is whether I will become an elder in my society.  I can’t imagine a better way to grow old than to be an elder.

Title Page

This page is as informative today as it was then.