Twenty-Four Below, With Love

The snow crunches underfoot as the spikes grip the snow and propel us forward across the lake.

Before us stretches North Nokomis Lake, roughly 470 areas of snow covered, frozen water, just one of more than a thousand lakes near St. Germain in northern Wisconsin.  On its shores sprout black spruce, tamarack and jack pine with an occasional cabin or residence sprinkled between them.  Today, they are empty and abandoned -- frigid husks crying for the warmth of a fireplace while their owners remain comfortable back home in Chicago, Madison or somewhere south of the Wisconsin border.

At its deepest, the lake is seventy-three feet deep.  I mention its depth because walking across unfamiliar, frozen water in the middle of February always makes my heart beat a little faster.  Not only are you mocking Jesus, who actual could walk on water, but one can't shake the feeling that maybe we don't belong out here.  Dismayed, I think to myself that Liz, snowshoeing a few feet behind me, would have a spectacular view as I fell through the ice, my arms flapping wildly , reaching desperately for traction before sinking beneath the icy water.  At least with all this snow she wouldn't be watching me float beneath the clear ice for one minute before running out of air and sinking to the bottom.  Today, it would be one big splash , and then nothing until spring when the authorities would scour the lake for my frozen body.  

Why am I always thinking such thoughts?

"We have nothing to worry about," I say as I stop and turn to Liz.  "It's been below zero for a week now and last night reached 15 below zero.  I'm sure the ice is a good eight to twelve inches thick."

I watched as Liz, in her Columbia jacket with matching scarf and hat, let out a cloud of steam.  Her breath quickly frosted the scarf and fogged her sunglasses.  "I hope you're right," she says, removing the glasses and putting in an inner pocket.  "My low opinion of you being right would take a big hit if we have to swim to safety.  Besides, look at these snowmobile tracks, they go all the way across the lake."

We continued on, the large flat metal planks spreading our weight so we don't sink too deeply into the snow.  "Good point.  Let's stick to the tracks already here."  

In my mind I figured a typical snow mobile would weigh about six-hundred pounds.  Add someone riding at maybe another two-hundred-twenty-five pounds and you're well over eight hundred pounds sledding across this lake.  Liz and I can't be anywhere close to that.

We've gone another ten minutes, with the hopes of getting a view around a tree-lined point when I notice yellowish-brown patches in front of us.  The snowmobile tracks continue on the other side, so I step into fresh snow leading away from the discolored snow.  As I do, I notice my poles are sinking deeper into the snow, leaving little discolored circles.  

Before we continue any further, I look toward Liz and say, "I think we may want to head back the way we came."  

"Yeah, have you noticed the different colored snow?"

I pull off my goggles and look behind us.  Our trail of footprints, which used to be white are now a darker shade of gray, bordering on brown.  "Um, yeah!  I think I see water in the snow.  Let's turn back and stay closer to shore."

And with those frosty words leaving my lips, I feel a large section of snow sink beneath my snowshoes...

A few months ago, my wife thought it would be a great idea to head north for Valentine's Day. The holiday landed on Sunday this year and if we took off Friday and Monday it would make a nice get-away.  With COVID still making restaurants questionable, a road trip sounded like a good idea. It wasn't long before we mentioned the idea to friends of ours, Doug and Peggy, who were big into snowmobiles.  With the words barely out of our mouths, they were up for it.  As regular travelers to Wisconsin's Great North, they loved the idea of a couple feet of fresh snow and miles of groomed trails.

Liz and i who are not snowmobilers, would take our Christmas gifts to each other -- snowshoes -- and find trails of our own.  

And when we weren't speeding across frozen lakes or finding our way through snow covered pine trees we'd settle down for a weekend of Mexican Train, Nines and Netflix.

So plans were made to find a place near Eagle River, WI for a long, fun-filled Valentine's weekend.

Little did we know the weekend would turn out to have some of the coldest temperatures of the year, dropping down to twenty-four degrees below zero.  Windchills were expected to be forty or fifty degrees below zero making snowshoeing, much less snowmobiling a matter of life and death.  Just our luck -- as if 2020 and the beginning of 2021 wasn't bad enough.  The continued wreckage of COVID, the questionable presidential election, the Packer's loss in the NFC championship game, and now being stuck in a cabin up north surrounded by twenty inches of snow with nowhere to go.

That is unless we could dress for it, use hand and feet warmers, and make short trips in and out of life-renewing taverns.  Sounded like a plan.

The bartender was telling us how the cash register was trying to kill her, when some guy behind us lets out a yell.  "Yes!  I won, I won!" he repeats standing next to a video display showing winnings of $250 from the video gambling game mounted to the bar's far wall.  The smell of sweat and gasoline remind me that snowmobiling is best enjoyed outside with lots of fresh clean air.  Outside, snowmobiles either thunder by or are parked haphazardly on all sides of the tavern.

Liz and I are sitting at the bar, adult beverages in hand,  in Sister's Saloon and Restaurant in St. Germain.  We've stepped in from the cold after a three mile trek through Fern Ridge Trail.  The trail was awesome, with trails leading through snow covered pines, up and down ravines, crossing snow covered bridges -- as the occasional sounds of snowmobiles buzzed nearby.  Liz said they reminded her of a swarm of bees, angry at having their hive knocked from a tree.  Fern Ridge Trail didn't share the road with snowmobiles, but they did travel through the same neck of the woods.

"As I was saying before Tom got lucky," continues Sandy, our bartender for the afternoon.  "That cash register has been trying to kill me all week!  The drawer keeps popping open as I'm walking past, hitting me in the hip and arm.  I should show you my bruises."   She gives us a wink, then adds, "One of these days I'm going to throw the whole thing in a snow pile."

"Attacking" cash registers are not the only thing worth watching in Sisters Saloon and Tavern.  Stacks of helmets are the first thing you see when walking in.  All brands are there -- Ski Doo, Arctic Cat, Polaris, and Yamaha.  My guess, is there are probably twenty-five people in the bar, almost all of them arrived by sled. 

Behind the bar are signs informing patrons of the male persuasion how much it will cost for the bartender to tell their wives they aren't there.  Another sign advertises a frog legs dinner for $15.  Liz and I immediately think of Lydia, our Chinese student who is now attending Pepperdine University in Malibu, California.  The ceiling and walls are decorated with tiny white lights, giving the place a North Pole feel.  No one would be surprised to see Santa Clause walk through the door.

Today, a lot of other people are walking through the door.  Liz and I have never seen so many snowmobilers.  We have seen more sleds than cars.  There is a constant stream of sleds on both sides of Hwy 70, some running parallel to the road, others are crossing the road at the first chance.  And when they aren't driving their sleds, they are in bars like this one warming their insides with some alcohol or hot chocolate.  

We've chosen the former as our way of warming up.  

"I still can't believe we ran into water on that lake this morning," I tell Liz, who is taking a sip of her bourbon old fashioned.  "When I felt the snow shift I saw my life pass before my eyes.  Thankfully it just settled into some water on top of the ice."

Liz's face is still red from the frigid nine below temps.  Her hair --the part not covered by a hat she refuses to take off -- is still sweaty, a sign of how hard she was working on the snowy trails.

"I never wanted to go out on that lake," she says.  "I know Peggy said it was alright, but I don't remember seeing any sign or anything that said the lake was safe.  I can't believe a snowmobile drove over it!"

"Yeah, we'll just stick to the wooded trails, over solid land."  I can hear the bartender saying there were two fishing tournaments being held near St. Germain.  Unfortunately, this year's Knocker's Bikini Relay was cancelled because of the cold...  I could see CBS' Charles Kuralt bringing his "On The Road" production to St. Germain to do a story on bikini snowmobiling.  

Think what you will of driving snowmobiles in the cold, in a bathing suit, but those women have to be tough.  Or drunk.  Or both.

Despite the absolutely cold temperatures over the Valentine's Day weekend --  minus 20 degrees on Friday, minus 13 degrees on Saturday, minus 22 degrees on Sunday and minus 32 degrees on Monday -- none of them set a record.  I've done a little research on record cold temperatures for Wisconsin and found a few staggering numbers.  Near Rest Lake, not far from where we were, a temperature of minus 51 degrees was recorded on February 25, 1928.  But the all-time coldest temperature for the entire state of Wisconsin was recorded in Superior on March 12, 1948 when it hit 62 degrees below zero. 

Makes me wonder why we were concerned about a measly 32 degrees below zero.

Actually, you don't need record temps to cause damage to your skin or much worse, your life.  Frostbite is a condition in which your skin and tissues freeze.  It usually occurs on your fingers, toes, nose and ears and can lead to permanent blood vessel and tissue damage.

Luckily for most of us, the chances of reaching that point are rare, and frostnip provides an early warning signal before it gets that far.  Symptoms include red, tingling or numb skin.  At that point, it's best to get inside or to keep yourself warm.

Hypothermia takes place when your body loses heat at a rate faster than it can produce it, and your body temperature drops extremely low.  It can cause your heart, nervous system and other organs to enter a state of shock and ultimately lead to death.  Symptoms include shivering, slurred speech, slow breathing, lack of coordination and confusion.  

Silly me, I thought those were signs of getting old.  Hello, sleepy Joe.

I open the door to the Toyota and slide inside, glad to see the overhead dome light still works.  I insert the key and turn over the ignition hoping for the best.  With a groan and screech, the engine starts, shaking the car to its core.  Every component is cold -- no not cold, more like frozen.  The seat, the dials and the wheel barely move in protest to my intrusion.  Thankfully, there is little frost on the windows, so no need to go out and scrap it off.

The temperature gauge in the dash reads 24 degrees below zero.  It feels much worse.  I'm freezing, so I put the car into gear and back out of the driveway, heading toward the rising sun, which is nothing more than a strip of orange and yellow.  This morning, I wouldn't blame it if it decided it was too cold and went back down.

The car crawls -- I'm not kidding, I could probably walk faster than the car -- past a large pole barn, one of many on the cranberry farm.  A car is parked in front of one, its engine running.  From inside comes the sound of equipment being moved.  No one is outside -- if they are, they are not moving.

We've spent the weekend on this farm, called Lake Nokomis Cranberry, Inc.  Our cozy retreat is located above the gift shop and winery, although I'm not sure there was much activity due to the cold temperatures.

Despite my foot on the accelerator, the car maintains it's slow march toward the ribbon of light rising above the horizon.  I thought driving the car would keep me warm, but I'm miserable because of the cold and it will be at least five minutes or more before the car warms up enough to stop my shaking.  Eventually, the car rolls to a stop just short of a sign that reads "No Vehicles Past This Point."  Because of  today's frigid conditions, it's not advisable for any warm blood human to go beyond this point.

Despite that thought, I stop the car and step outside to photograph this morning's beautiful sunrise.  The snow literally pops as I walk to the edge of the road and fumble with the camera, realizing I have to remove the camera lens cover.  Quickly, I remove my glove and tuck it under my arm while I remove the cover and put it into my coat pocket.  Already, my hand is burning, so I focus on the expanding light coming from behind some trees and shoot.  

Despite the conditions, the camera takes the photos I want.  I shoot a few more and walk back to the car and jump in, slamming the door.  "God Almighty, it's cold!"  My breath painfully floats around the interior before giving up and settling on the car seats and floor.  

Time to get back to the house, I think.  Back to the warmth of the kitchen, where Doug and Peggy will be looking for a cup of coffee.  Back to shelter where the wind doesn't cut your face with a blast of its icy touch.

As I back the car into its overnight "stall" (a bumpy patch of snow), I put the car into park and sit feeling the leather seats warming beneath my butt.  Strangely I don't leave the car,  instead I look around, putting to memory my surroundings.  It's hard to believe it's over.  My mind wanders to the events of the last four days and I smile, enjoying the images of snowshoeing around Shannon Lake, or our first night playing Mexican train with Doug and Peggy, or stopping for lunch in Wausau, or having our valentine dinner at Whitetail Inn with its roaring fireplace, or the memory of our waitress who found the courage to call me Gestapo Guy because I had crossed my arms while eating at the table.  Or best of all, the memory of Liz's touch as we kissed each other and said "good night."

Despite the wicked cold, this weekend has been a blast.  Good friends and hearty outdoor exercise had kept our blood flowing and belly laughs coming.  As I turned off the car, my final thought is not whether this weekend was a good idea, but when we would be coming back for more.

Hopefully when the temps are above zero.

A Christmas Gift

"One more thing."

 My sister left the kitchen, with its small dry sink punctuated with photos of nieces, nephews, brothers, sisters and mom  -- all of us looking much younger than we were today.  Throughout the house, there were reminders of a happier, less complicated time -- a retrospection on how quickly life passes.   I made a mental note to get my sister a copy of a family photo taken a few years ago when all of us were together for Mom's funeral.

Linda returned with something in her hand.  It was a faded white envelope with the words "Dad's Writings" written in cursive handwriting.

"I've been going through a lot of mom's stuff upstairs and I came across these writings from Dad," she  said, handing the envelope to me.  "I think you would get more out of these than I would, so why don't you take them?"

Mom had passed away in September of 2018 after more than a year in a nursing home.  Dad had died in September 2001, the same month and year the twin towers had fallen in New York City.  My sister had lived with both parents in our childhood house, taking care of them and providing immeasurable assistance that allowed both to stay home for much longer than any of us expected.  My brother and younger sister had agreed that Linda would get the house after mom passed -- a no brainer after all she had sacrificed and done through the years.

Not much had changed in the house over the last two years; it still smelled and looked the same but with her retirement (which still involved working at the greenhouse), Linda was gradually going through the bedrooms, closets and the attic to get rid of dad and mom's stuff.  

Maybe "getting rid of" aren't the correct words to use.  Anyone who has lost their parents knows you never get rid of things that belonged to them.  You may take items to Goodwill or sell them on eBay, but some small part of them remains in your DNA.  I still remember the vintage smell of mom's fur coat that was kept upstairs in the closet when not being worn.  It had the slightest hint of cigarette smoke, maybe whiskey from a party, and a lipstick sweetness that would always accompany her good night kisses.

Regardless, my sister faced an overwhelming and emotional task considering how many memories still lived in the house after more than sixty years.  Of those memories -- and one that was always on the periphery of my knowledge -- was Dad's writings, which explained why Linda was handing me the envelope.

Most of my memories of dad involved fishing and hunting, or perhaps working downstairs in his small workshop.  Despite its limitations, there was no limit to Dad's ability to build a new lamp or coffee table, or even a bed that got me through my college years in Madison.  Looking at the kitchen and its many wooden components, I was reminded of how he built most of this house I used to call home.  

He was a simple man, who liked to stay close to home, content to have a good family and enjoy the beauty of the Mississippi River and surrounding bluffs.  Dad was quiet, prone to minimal conversation, unless you got into trouble.  Then he would lower the boom and put you in your place.  At least that's what my brother said, since I can honestly say I never got into trouble.

I say he was quiet, but I don't honestly know if that was true.  The fifties and sixties were a different time, when adults spent time with adults and kids played with other kids outside.  So our interactions were minimal by design, I suppose.  As a father figure, he checked off all the boxes -- stern, religious and loving, but there was certainly more to him than I knew.

Something that did not fit into the dad box was his time spent in the Pacific as a radio operator on board a battleship escort fighting the Japanese.  I remember his World War 2 gray model ships that were proudly displayed above our living room picture window.  He must have spent hours building them, but I don't remember any of it, so they must have been built before I was born.  All I know is that they didn't float very well in the bathtub.  To me, a young boy with a vivid imagination, these highly detailed ships -- with their narrow hulls, gun turrets, navigation bridge and anti-ship missile launcher -- represented real intrigue, something from another place and time.  One far removed from Dad's time spent fishing and woodworking.

Later in life, as he struggled with various illnesses and the loss of his job, he started writing about his time as a young boy growing up in rural West Salem.  Much of it was preserved on a tape recorder, mixed in with the melancholy sounds of mourning doves and loons.  His story telling eventually found its way onto a typewriter, either transposed from his tape recordings or simply put to paper based on memories and photos.  By that time, I was away at college, then off to Michigan to start my career and eventually get married.

A few stories would be found here or there -- in correspondence with my aunt or uncovered by a cousin who was interested in our family's history -- but at best they were incomplete, poorly written and heavily edited to the point they represented mere thoughts, more so than stories to be read and enjoyed.

Which is why the discovery of the letters my sister handed to me that day would strike such a significant chord.  Like a musician searching for notes to a new song, I had found a connection to a time and place I don't remember in any of my discussions with dad or my uncles. A connection to exotic locations, dangerous ocean crossings and new friendships forged in combat.

As I opened the envelope and started reading, I pictured myself -- like anyone reading a good book -- riding alongside my father as he left the safety of his parent's home to discover a dangerous world that was being torn apart by a war that would change mankind forever.

 *         *          *          *           *

"It was December 7th, 1941, the day Japan struck at Pearl Harbor.  The Carlson boys were hunting as usual, in the swamps for pheasant and rabbits.  We got the news from mother and dad, when we got home that evening.  

I worked at Northern Engraving at night inspecting 20 mm shells from 11 pm till 7 am in the morning.  I disliked this type of work and became more restless by the day.  I stayed in La Crosse and had a girl friend named Ruth.  We spent the summer together, hiking the bluffs, swimming at the beach and having a good time.  I knew she had a boyfriend in Washington D.C.  As the days went by, I became very unhappy and seeing a number of sailors around La Crosse, in their nice looking uniforms, I decided it was time for me to enlist in the Navy.

"Enlist I did and the day I went to Milwaukee for my physical I received my draft notice from the Army.  I passed my physical and with a number of other enlistees, was put on a train and shipped off to the U.S. Naval Training Station at Farragut, Idaho.

"It was the middle of November and the trip  across the western prairie and mountains was a cold one since I did not have a winter coat along.  The trip was a slow one, and after reaching the highest elevation, I developed an ear ache that was to bother me all the way to Farragut.  Crossing the trestle bridges over the gorges was exciting. 

"We were assigned to barracks and issued warm clothing, which we badly needed because of the cold.  Next day was a haircut and we were given a tour of the mess halls and galley.  We were assigned to squads and spent a lot of time marching on the drill fields.  Standing guard duty was a frequent headache as it was always cold.  And I was homesick.  It would have been impossible to describe the beauty of the mountains with evergreens and all the snow. 

"We spent time on Lake Pend Orielle, the deepest fresh water lake in the U.S..  We soon discovered what it was like to row a boat on a windy cold lake.  The lake is deep enough to float the largest battleship.  After six weeks of boot camp training, we learned how to shoot and how to jump off a sinking ship.  Finally, the day of liberty arrived and we went by bus to Spokane, Washington."

After more time out west, Dad was shipped off to Texas.  He continued:

"I attended classes in radio theory, operations of transmitters, receivers and learning the International Morse Code, Typing and being able to copy code was difficult, and at one point I was called into the captain's office, and advised that if I was not able to do better, I would be shipped off to sea immediately and would be a seaman swabbing down the decks, and painting the ship..  So I buckled down and for 16 weeks I worked like hell, even going to night school.  I finished in the upper 2/3 of my class.  After graduation, my classmates and I had liberty in Brian, College Station and Houston, Texas.

"We were next assigned to Naval Service Training in Miami where it was very hot every day with temperatures reaching over 100 degrees.  A lot of Russian sailors were in Miami, for training and we all marched to classes and chow at noon.  It was interesting to watch the Russians march and play soccer.

"We left Miami and went to Norfolk, VA where we actually got onboard sub chasers looking for German submarines.  

We were informed that our ship was being built at Bay City, Michigan, and that the hull would be towed down the Mississippi River to New Orleans where the super structure would be added and the ship made ready for sea.  So we boarded another train for another dirty ride across the South for New Orleans.  As a crew, we were anxious to get to sea.  After several weeks, our ship was finally ready, and we headed to Bermuda on our trail run.  I enjoyed watching the phosphorous wake of the ship every night, and picking up flying fish that landed on the deck at night.  The name of our ship was DS U.S.S. Bull  693, a destroyer escort.

"We rendezvoused with two other destroyer escorts and set course for Aruba, Curacao and two Dutch islands off the coast of Venezuela.  The next day we picked up a convoy of oil tankers and headed up the east coast of the United States, where we picked up another convoy of cargo ships.  We were bound for Londonderry, Northern Ireland with 60 to 80 ships in tow.  We had a lot of ocean to cover in protecting them from German submarines.  We made six trips to Ireland, one to Belfast and five to Londonderry.

"The DS U.S.S. Bull had one encounter with a German submarine off the cost of Norfolk, England.  We did our best to bring her to the surface, with depth charges, but after three hours of action we were called off.  On our last trip from Ireland, coming back with our convoy of empty cargo vessels, we ran into a bad storm in the North Atlantic.  DS U.S.S. Bull became so coated with ice that seamen with axes had to cut away some of it from the topside.  The last trip from Ireland came on the day the Allies landed on the beaches of Normandy.  Everyone was happy.

"Back in the states we were informed our squadron would be headed to the Pacific Theatre of Operations.  Our ship was converted to a high speed destroyer transport."

After one year of service, Dad was given a leave of absence and spent the first few days in New York City where he enjoyed a few nights in New York City night clubs, including the famous Chesterfield Club.   He then returned home for a while.  After a week, he returned to his ship.  He writes:

"Our ship was ready to go after I returned to New York  from my leave back home.  We got our orders to proceed to the Pacific via the Panama Canal.  I found it interesting going through the canal.  We were tied two abreast and this is the way we traveled through the canal.  At Panama City, we had one night of liberty, spent in several night clubs drinking and watching shows with Panamanian girls dancing.  The next morning I purchased a large stalk of bananas, maybe four feet long, from a fruit hawker, that I hung in the radio shack.  As soon as they were ripe the radio crew had bananas to eat.

"We made a stop in Honolulu, Hawaii where we picked up a new communications officer, who remained with us to the end of the war.  We had  one day of liberty in Honolulu where we went through shops and stores.  We spent time at Waikiki Beach and got to see some of the damage done by the Japs in their attack on Pearl Harbor.

"We continued our move into the Pacific by stopping at Eniwetok Atoll to pick up a team of underwater demolition men, with their gear and supplies.  Next stop was Papua New Guinea Manus Island where we picked up communications gear, radio equipment, spare parts, etc.  At the time, the Sea Bees were still working building nice blacktop roads in these tropical islands.

"We then reversed course and headed for the Ulithi Atoll where we made ready for the invasion of Luzon, northern most island in the Philippines.  Ships of every description and purpose were anchored here.  As far as the eyes could see there were ships from large aircraft carriers, battleships, destroyers, supply ships and picket and screen vessels to protect the convoy from hostile aircraft and submarines.  In the invasion force every ship had its designated place in the task force.

"As we neared the Philippines and entered those waters, we began to get radar confirmation with unfriendly aircraft.  We also had a combat air patrol our for 100 miles or so that could be called upon to shot down those unfriendlies.  We entered San Bernardino Straits towards evening of the first day and immediately were pounced upon by Kamikazes.  It crash dived onto the baby flat top carrier, Ommaney Bay.  Three carriers were badly hit in that exchange.  Despite all efforts to save the Ommaney Bay, we had to go in and sink the ship ourselves.

"After winding our way through the islands during the night and part of the next day, we encountered a host of dive bombers and torpedo planes, 59 nukes from Manila.  All of these were shot down by our gunner and combat air patrols.  I got to see most of this action from topside. 

"We arrived in Lingayen Gulf the next morning, and since there was not much in the way of underwater obstructions, our UDT (underwater demo team) got off rather easy on this first of our three invasions.

"We had to escort several damaged ships back to safety.  This was not much fun escorting wounded ships in hostile waters.  On our way back we received a radio message to run in and pick up a wounded American pilot off the shores of Siquijor, Philippines who was being guarded and cared for by a nurse accompanying a guerrilla force of Philippinoes.  We arrived safely back at Ulithi with our lame duck. 

"It was during our time in Ulithi that we took on supplies and had to go into dry dock to have the barnacles scrapped from the undersides of the hull.  It was the job of the deck hands and some of the gunners to do the job, and all haste had to be  made so as to clear the dry dock.   There were several floating dry docks and they were all busy making repairs.   It was quite the experience in dry dock.

"It was during this interval that I got shanghaied into being a courier and taking a secret message to an island atoll in the Ulithi group of islands.   By taking smaller boats, I arrived at my destination on the afternoon of the first day.  I got rid of my secret message and had to wait for another boat to take me back.  I got back to my ship when it was dark and missed supper and had to sleep on the mess hall floor.  It was a grueling trip... "

*          *          *          *          *

And with the turn of the page, my journey with Dad ended.  

Disheartened, I searched through the few remaining pages for more, but I only found memories of  his childhood and family.  I felt cheated, unfairly, as though there was more to his story but someone had torn the pages out, leaving me to finish his harrowing journey and to imagine the joy he must have felt at the end, when Japan and Germany surrendered to the Allied forces.

I rubbed my eyes, feeling slightly disoriented.  Dad's narrative had left me empathetic to Dad's life on his ship, surrounded by sailors far from home and the people they loved.  The life and death struggles faced by them made our current reaction to covid seem trivial.  And the sacrifices made by so many of these  young boys made a mockery of any perceived anxiety being felt by today's students seeking "safe" places.

The abrupt ending of the story had left me with many questions.   Why did he join the Navy?  Of the six brothers, I can only find pictures of three -- Dad, Clarence and Maynard -- in uniform.  There are references to Dad's other brothers serving, but in what branch and what war?  I always had the impression that Dad had stayed close to home, but his time in the Navy had seen him travel throughout the United States, Ireland, the Philippines, South America, the Caribbean and Hawaii.  Did he ever travel to those places after the war?  And how did he celebrate the end of the war?  With a kiss?  Or at a night club dancing with women eager to spend the evening with a sharp dressed sailor?  

There was an intimacy with dad's writings I never felt from watching Hollywood's version of Private Ryan or The Great Escape or any of the other war movies from that time.  Dad's service in the navy was anything but heroic, although being the target of Kamikaze planes seems pretty heroic to me.  I felt like he did his job -- one he patriotically signed up for -- to the best of his ability, and with the understanding that it was the right thing to do.  How many of us could do the same?

This latest discovery had me wishing I could have talked to him about the shooting of President Kennedy, the turbulent sixties and what he thought of the Bee Gees and disco dancing, but as I said earlier they were different times.  As a result, the image I have in my mind of Dad will have to do.  A quiet, dedicated husband and father, who bore the burden of war with his brothers and friends, and by himself late at night when he lay awake staring into the darkness that would come for him one day. 

Nothing I get this Christmas will match the gift I have received this year, one that took more than 60 years to arrive.

  

A Time For Gratitude

 Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.  

I'm one of "those" people who fight against celebrating Christmas before Thanksgiving, much less Halloween.  I herald the movement that delays the inevitable rush to colored lights, artificial decorations and frenzied on-line shopping.  

As a holiday, Thanksgiving stands apart from the others.  The Fourth of July, Memorial Day, Labor Day, President's Day and New Year's Day holidays pay homage to our past by recognizing people and events that have shaped our nation.

But only Thanksgiving celebrates gratitude.  

Some may say it acknowledges our past by recognizing the day the pilgrims celebrated their first harvest in the New World in October 1621.  But I couldn't name a pilgrim if my life depended on it.  Instead it is a time to stop and remember to say thank you to life.  We pause to remember the gifts we have received -- good health and fortune, of course.  But also the everyday things that make our lives worth living.  

For the first time in my life, celebrating such a simple things as living takes extra effort.  During the pandemic, it has been difficult to see people we love and with whom we enjoy spending time.  Our newspapers are full of people who put off their wedding, vacations and even funerals.  And yet, in the words of Dennis Prager, I truly believe we are on this earth to not just live life, but to live life fully.  That means being with family and friends.  For birthdays, anniversaries, vacations and especially holidays.  We take precautions, but in our core we are determined to laugh, cry and explore Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa.  This fall, we traveled to Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks.  I give thanks to God for the people we met on our journeys and am humbled by the majesty and beauty of our national parks.

This year, our family has three additional events to celebrate.

One, we will celebrate the date of the first Thanksgiving --November 26 -- following George Washington's declaration in 1789 making it an official holiday.  As he put it, "I do recommend and assign Thursday the 26th day of November next to be devoted by the People of the States to the service of that great and glorious Being, who is the beneficent Author of all the good that was, that is, or that will be."

It is also the 400th anniversary of the landing on Plymouth Rock and perhaps the beginning of those who helped build this country, who wanted it to be a "shining city on a hill."

Last, but not least, it is my birthday.  As a child, I looked forward to birthday parties and presents.  What kid doesn't remember the excitement of sitting around a small table with ten of their best friends wearing party hats and playing "pin the tail on the donkey?"  During high school and college, it was an opportunity to legally pound a few beers, miss school or once, even attend a Genesis concert.   Eventually, I lost the thrill of opening presents and wise enough to appreciate my birthday without a hangover.  The focus of it being my birthday shifted to spending time with Liz, Sean and Matt.  Eventually, it faded to a phone call from the boys and dinner with my wife.  Don't misunderstand.  I'm not disappointed.  These days I prefer low-key recognitions to large celebrations. 

But through all 62 years of celebrating, I was always grateful for the people who we part of my birthday.  Even more important was the time between birthdays -- spent playing kick the can and ghost in the graveyard.  Spent cheering on the Badger football team in Camp Randal. Spent in the hospital awaiting the births of Matt and Sean and eventually their graduation from college.  Or spent traveling around the world with close friends.  I am grateful for every day I wake up and for the people I call my friends. 

Which brings me back to Thanksgiving.  

For most of my life, Thanksgiving meant sitting around the table with mom and dad.  I have many memories of Thanksgiving with them, but two are first in line.  Always waiting for dad to return home after a day of deer hunting (either the car would pull up to the house with a deer on top of the car -- or not.  And mom's mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce.  She would strain the cranberries to remove the skins of the berry, making it more like a thick jello.  Sound horrible, I know, but I loved it.  

Thank you mom and dad for giving me those memories and so many more through the years.

At times, I hear myself saying how grateful I am they are no longer on this earth to suffer through this pandemic.  Both parents spent way too long in nursing homes, and our inability to see them due to COVID restrictions would have meant their demise as surely as the illnesses crippling their lives.  An unusual thing to be grateful for, but one I truly believe.

Finally, I give thanks to God, who spoke to us so clearly in the early days of Thanksgiving.  The Pilgrims travelled to this continent to escape religious persecution and celebrated the first Thanksgiving by thanking him.  They believed religious freedom and liberty were worth dying for.  Their covenant with God and man in 1620 would eventually shape America's Constitution and entire government.   The seeds of our liberty -- and the idea of self-government and rule -- come directly from God and the pilgrim's relationship with him.

So be grateful on this Thanksgiving.  Whatever it may be, it is worth remembering today with your family, and friends.  Love them and keep them close.  And say a prayer for those who are suffering or alone, so they can join us next year when we celebrate the 401st year of "giving thanks."

Signs of the Times

As the election season draws to a close, I have been wondering about some of the signs people have in their yards.

The usual suspects are BIDEN/HARRIS and TRUMP/PENCE and an assortment of state and national seats for State Legislature and Congress. Not surprisingly, there is a big difference between rural voters and urban voters, with Trump signs dominating farms and small towns outside Milwaukee, Madison and La Crosse (I haven't been to Green Bay, Eau Claire or the Fox Valley lately, so I can't speak for those communities, but I'm assuming I'd find much the same).  

One thing you have to say about Trump signs, they are BIG.  You could say -- yuge!

As part of a Trump boat parade on the Mississippi River earlier this year, Liz and I flew a TRUMP flag on Muddy Waters.  I have since moved the flag to our backyard arbor where it flies proudly for our neighbors to see.

I take my walk every morning through southside neighborhoods, meaning I'll pass more BIDEN signs than TRUMP.  What's interesting are some of the other signs that populate those yards supporting BIDEN.  You'll find the ubiquitous "Black Lives Matter", "I Believe" and "Hate Has No Home Here" signs (do you honestly think they don't hate Trump?).  And we all know they don't care about all black lives, just those breaking the law. 

It seems to me that Democrats have taken to telling the rest of us how to live our lives, in addition to letting us know who they support.  It's almost like they think they are so much better than the rest of us freedom-loving, religious deplorables.   So in the interest of saving the planet, women's reproductive rights, gays or whatever, they want us to know the way to their utopia.  Their nirvana.  While some of them may be highly educated, I know they are certainly not smarter.

Yesterday morning I came across a sign that raised the bar on yard signs.  It read "Unity Over Division - Biden/Harris."  It got me thinking about Biden's message during the Democrat's virtual convention this fall.  In his acceptance speech he said "I will draw on the best of us, not the worst.  I will be an ally of the light, not of the darkness."  He also said, "United we can, and will, overcome this season of darkness in America."

While those words make for a good speech, let's get real.  Take a moment to remember how Democrats have been uniting us over the past decade.

Remember how we couldn't criticize President Obama without being accused of being a racist?  Rush Limbaugh and millions who didn't vote for him were viewed as part of the resistance for not going along with Obama's vision of fundamentally changing America. Hoping he failed was viewed as "toxic" and any disagreement was labeled "hate speech."  

Democrats have been pushing to defund the police since President Obama's first term, but it took the Minneapolis riots this summer for it to become mainstream.  It's hard to understand how allowing 100 nights of rioting, with destruction of private property and minority businesses can bring people together.  Unless it's for a call for more protection against violence.

Joe Biden and Kamala Harris have called for the Green Deal to replace oil and natural gas.  I don't understand how paying $5 a gallon or more brings anyone closer together.  Unless riding the bus together qualifies as closer.  Disagreement over global warming even has scientists at each others throats, which is strange indeed for something called "settled science."  Didn't one of those yard signs say SCIENCE IS REAL?

From the first day of Trump's presidency, Democrats have been spying on his administration and planning his removal from office.  The American people have been subjected to four years of congressional hearings, false accusations of Russian interference and finally impeachment.  All in the interest of overturning an election that failed to elect a horrible candidate,  Hillary.

Education is usually a very unifying thing.  I remember wanting the best for our two boys and thought it was very important to support our schools.  I was not alone.  And yet, today education has been identified as one of the core reasons why so many young people hate our country and support socialism.  President Trump, during his Fourth of July speech at Mount Rushmore said, "Against every law of society and nature our children are taught in school to hate their own country.  And to believe that the men and women who built it were not heroes, but villains.  History has reversed our unalienable rights with slavery, oppression, racism and white supremacy."  On the issue of education, we can all agree, something has gone wrong.

Social media -- primarily Facebook and Twitter -- has done more to divide people than most wars being fought.  Tech giants like Google and Amazon are censoring content, controlling where we shop and manipulating how we search for information.  With the control Silicon Valley exerts, you would think we could finally agree on something -- was the latest Star Wars trilogy better or worse than the first trilogy? 

Pervasive censorship of thought and opinion has divided this country, and we should be deeply concerned about it.  If we live in a supposedly free society, then we shouldn't have cancel culture ruining comedy, limits on who can speak on campuses or Big Tech blocking important news stories like Joe and Hunter Biden's sell out to China and Ukraine.

Democrat Senators and Representatives are supporting violence against conservative judges and calling for a stacked Supreme Court.  The Botox queen, Nancy Pelosi, refuses to accept a targeted GOP stimulus package in the interest of eating expensive ice cream from her $10,000 freezer.  At least we are all united in our like of Haggen Daz coffee ice cream.  

Forcing people away from their employer provided insurance and onto the the government tit for health insurance will surely unite people.  Please don't look behind the curtain and question the destruction of the world's premier healthcare system leading to millions of jobs lost when hospitals and clinics close.

But hey, if a yard sign says Biden/Harris will unite, not divide who am I to argue?

thanks to Independent.co.uk

The laughability of thinking Biden/Harris would bring us together does raise a good question.  As we go into the 2021 election -- and more importantly after the election -- what do the people of America have in common?  Can we agree on anything?  

We can't even agree on whether riots are bad.  People for some destructive reason are calling them peaceful demonstrations.  Tearing down statues are acceptable when the left does it, and those protesting the removal of those statues are labeled white supremacists.  

We have never been more divided on taxes, education, health care and race relations.  Politics has found its way into movies, television, music and theatre.  It used to be that I could boycott Barbara Streisand, but now it's hard to watch or listen to almost anything.  It has found a way into our culture to the extent that we are fighting all the time.  Half of us are going to be happy, the other half mad as hell.

When it comes to politics, the Democrats don't accept defeat.  Too many are poor losers who change the rules to make winning easier next time. Don't believe me?  

Look what happened when Trump won the first time.  Protests in the streets, and threats of violence.  The left chanted "Not my President!" encouraging young people, anarchists and Marxist organizations like Black Lives matter to attack restaurants, department stores and innocent minorities trying to defend their livelihoods.  If he wins again, more of the same is guaranteed, only amped up to higher levels.  

Our Founding Fathers so deeply feared the tyranny of the majority that they rejected the idea of a direct vote for President and created the Electoral College, where big and small states were given an equal voice.  Thankfully, it has prevented large states like California and New York from determining who wins elections.  Democrats, who are not happy winning the popular votes, but losing the election are aiming to do away with the Electoral College and replace it with something called the National Popular Vote.

Making it hard to find common ground is a lack of institutions we can all believe in.  Think about how sports used to unite cities and states around a common goal.  To win the Super Bowl, World Series or NBA championship.  Support for your home team in a common goal can make our differences disappear.  Not that long ago we all shared pride in our country when we won an Olympic gold medal.  

For a hundred years or more, institutions like the Boy Scouts or Girl Scouts found common ground that united parents and children of different income levels, race and nationality.  It was great spending a week at summer camp, where our sons and daughters learned about taking care of our environment, helping those in need and loving our country.

But what has happened?  Politics (always from the left) has ruined these great institutions.  The right defends tradition (church, holidays and our history) and wants them to remain.  The left is constantly looking to remove them.  How are we to agree on anything if we can agree on making America great again?  

Professional sports' attendance and viewership are at all time lows.  The Boy Scouts are being sued in retaliation for supposed sexual abuse, but they became a target because of their emphasis on religion, patriotism and encouraging masculine character.  They will be lucky to survive.

So it's tough to find a way back from the edge.  

I'm just barely old enough to remember John F Kennedy as president.  When he said "ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country" everyone understood that it was a call for the public to do what is right for the greater good.  

I wonder -- if the Democrats won't listen to Republicans, will they listen to one of their own?  And do Americans love America more than they hate Trump?

Following Tuesday's election, we will all know.

Finding the Best of America

"National Parks are the best idea we ever had.  Absolutely American.  Absolutely Democratic.  They reflect us at our best rather than at our worse."

-- unknown author

 

A glance to my right reveals a sudden drop of more than 400 feet. Not that I'd have a clean fall before my broken body hit the rocky shores of Jenny Lake.  Jagged rocks and trees would rip skin, break bones and crush whatever internal organs remained.  An image of bloody bodies hanging in trees from the movie Predator came to mind.

One thing is certain -- whether hanging from a tree or flattened to the height of a frisbee -- my body would be a vivid deterrent to potential climbers who thought the one mile hike to Hidden Falls and Inspiration Point was accurately rated as "easy/"

"I can't do this!" 

The terrified cry from my wife brings my focus back to where it is needed.  Helping Liz overcome her fear of heights and to traverse the final fifty yards to Inspiration Point.  For some unexplained reason, the corp of engineers, who excavated this trail, chose to leave jagged rocks, some jutting to the left or right, some angled forward or back.  Making matters worse, they did it at one of the narrowest parts of the trail.  With no solid footing you would think a railing or rope would help assure safe passage to the top.  But no, you were on your own.

Liz is looking down at her feet, one hand firmly pressed against the rocky wall.  "I don't like this at all."

"You can do this Liz."   I hoped my own fear wasn't evident in my voice, so I grasp her hand tighter.  It is sweaty and shaking.  With more exuberance than intended, I say, "You're a frickin' nurse!  You save lives, so this is something I know you can do."

I realize -- taking another few steps forward -- saving lives is easier when it's not your own.  And like all advice, it's much easier to give than to receive.

We continue up toward Inspiration Point.

*          *          *

The plane rocked as the landing gear was lowered upon arrival to Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

The China virus had forced us to change our vacation plans, when we realized that travel to Europe was out of the question.  For the past twenty years, we had planned trips every five years with our good friends, Mark and LuAnn Jordan to celebrate our anniversaries.  Married a few months apart in 1987, we had stayed close despite the many changes that take place as one gets older.  Unlike a lot of people you meet through high school and college, we developed a lasting friendship that stuck. 

LuAnn and Liz were roommates at Viterbo College in La Crosse when they both were nursing undergrads. They had grown up in nearby towns in southern Wisconsin and northern Illinois, but didn't become friends until Viterbo.  In fact, it was Lu Ann who left Liz alone on her birthday in a Third Street bar called Dels, the night we met.  So in some weird way, I have LuAnn to thank for meeting my wife more than thirty-five years ago.

But I digress...

Today, we are on vacation in Yellowstone and Grand Teton National Parks because the virus had changed our planned vacation to Europe.  In anticipation of restricted travel, we decided to spend two weeks in Boston, driving up the coast of Maine and into Canada.  Our final stop would be on the small Canadian province of Prince Edward Island.  LuAnn, like millions of readers, was a fan of Lucy Maud Montgomery's book Anne of Green Gables which was set on the island. 

But again, our plans were changed when cities like Boston closed businesses and cancelled events due to COVID.  On top of that, Canada and the United States closed their northern border, which meant not getting to Prince Edward Island, which was a deal breaker.

So in a last minute Hail Mary, we decided to spend our two weeks of vacation in Yellowstone and Grand Teton national parks.  Despite the virus, we could travel within the states, and unless a major forest fire swept through one of the parks, we would be good.  As it turned out, large fires in California and Colorado did develop, but other than some hazy skies, we did not encounter any serious danger.

Flying in by plane gave me the first view of the Grand Tetons, a forty mile mountain range south of Yellowstone National Park.  It is rumored - humorously -- that early French voyageurs named the range les trois tétons (the three nipples) after the breast-like shapes of its peaks.  Much less so are the local Shoshone Indians who  once called the whole range Teewinot meaning "many pinnacles.  Whatever the source for its name, the stunning landscape of rock thrusting its way to an elevation over 13,000 feet from the ground was as impressive as any mountain range I'd seen.

 

In the ten days after touching down in Jackson Hole, we explored two of the most exciting American national parks -- Yellowstone and Grand Teton -- full of natural beauty, rugged wilderness and abundant wildlife.  It was my first full-strength exposure to any national park.  There are almost 60 national parks in the United States, some of which Liz and I had nibbled at around the edges.  Parks like Olympic National Park before we needed to catch the ferry back to Seattle, the Everglades by pontoon boat in Florida, the Badlands while traveling through South Dakota and the Smokey Mountains at night during a rainstorm.

But I had never really immersed myself like we did Yellowstone or the Grand Tetons.  You needs days, not hours to enjoy everything these parks offer.  And even that is not enough.  We met people who had been to Yellowstone year after year, and yet they still came back to enjoy more.  They line the roads to watch wildlife (usually in Lamar and Hayden Valley), arriving early morning with a thermos of coffee, a lawn chair and expensive cameras or monoculars mounted to tripods.  Their goal is to watch wildlife from miles away (a couple told us they watched a young bison get brought down by a pack of wolves -- you would have thought they had seen a movie star or rock musician by how excited they were).

Like all vacations, the first day can be stressful, not knowing how to get somewhere or how long it will take to get to your destination.  Eventually things get better and you become familiar with your surroundings, almost to the degree that they become a little bit like home.

As an example, for Yellowstone, I think of rising early, before sunrise, and driving on a dark, curving road on our way to Lamar Valley -- or Canyon Village, or Tower Roosevelt, it doesn't matter.  But today we are on our way to the eastern quarter of Yellowstone, and the Chevy Suburban's headlights are illuminating tall pines as we cross a bridge traversing the river cutting through Madison Valley.  Having driven this road a number of times since arriving in the park, I know (despite the darkness) Mount Haynes and National Park Mountain are to my right.  In another hour, the sun will illuminate the tops of these mountains and the valley below where a herd of elk shelter near the river's banks.  Later, traffic will be backed up because people are stopping to look at the elk and bison.

Two days ago, we heard a bull elk bugle -- a low frequency growl that progresses to a high pitched scream -- in the nearby woods while another bull elk charged across the river to chase a herd of female cows, reminding them who's in charge.  

Yellowstone is unique in its combination of geysers, paint pots, wide open valleys and awesome waterfalls.  Regularly, we would be waiting in traffic behind people stopped to watch bear, bison, elk, wolves and foxes.  And at the end of the day, when we had had enough sulfur from visits to Mammoth Hot Springs and Old Faithful or our feet hurt from walks to Fairy Waterfalls and the Great Prismatic Spring, we would pull over and find a place to eat our chicken sandwiches and chips.  Those sandwiches were some of the best sandwiches I've ever had --  perhaps it was the growl in my stomach or maybe it was the peaceful, easy feeling I got from watching the nearby bison as I ate those sandwiches sitting on a log as the sun, a big orange ball of fire, set behind the mountain range.  

 

The naturalist John Muir once said -- "Everyone needs beauty as well as bread, places to pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul."  Yellowstone, and its 3,468 square miles (incredibly, that's larger than Delaware or Rhode Island) certainly qualifies as one such place.

On the day we left Yellowstone and traveled down John D Rockefeller Jr. Memorial Highway, it started to rain.  It was as if God was washing the slate clean, giving room for new memories awaiting us in Grand Teton National Park.

I remember thinking as we entered the Teton Range that is seemed like fall had finally arrived.  Somehow, the last five days in Yellowstone felt like summer.  The crowds were higher than expected and much of the landscape reminded me of mid July weather.  It's silly, but we went from the dull gray of West Thumb Geyser Basin with its early morning steam to cottonwood and aspen trees transforming into explosions of gold and orange along the Snake River.  And the tall, green pines found in Yellowstone's Absarroka Mountain Range had been replaced with golden brown big leaf sagebrush blanketing the willow flats near Jackson Lake.

As we were to discover, fall is an awesome time to visit these parks.  Not only for the colors but for the temperatures.  Most mornings were in the low 30's (hey, not too cold for shorts) before topping out in the mid-seventies -- ideal temps for climbing mountains or hiking through the foothills full of glacial remnants, including lakes and rivers formed a million years ago.

A major part of the Tetons is Jackson Hole, located near their southern end.  Jackson Hole is known for its elk antlers, the COWBOY BAR, the National Elk Refuge,  a lot of pricey shops, (did I mention antlers?), downhill skiing and most importantly the celebrities who have a home nearby.  Harrison Ford, Brad Pitt, Tiger Woods and Matthew Mc McConaughey are just a few of the movie stars we never saw.  I don't know what we would have done if we saw one.  Probably nothing since they all live at the end of a very long private drive.

Thankfully, the best thing about the Tetons is not the celebrities that call it home.  It's the hiking.  If I died and came back as some inanimate object, I'd like to come back as a backpack on someone's shoulders as they climb Mount Moran, Mount Owen, or one of the three Tetons.  We spent two days hiking around Leigh Lake and the more popular, Jenny Lake.  It was above Jenny Lake that Liz encountered her inner demons and overcame them by climbing all the way to Cascade Canyon.  Not much remains of the glaciers that formed this mountain range and valley, but the views of the jagged profiles of Teewinot, Owen and Grand Teton mountains -- towering above us at over 13,700 feet -- are just spectacular.  

On our last day, I drove Mark and Luann to the airport for an early departure. It was still dark when I dropped them off and headed toward John Rockefeller Jr Memorial Highway.  Instead of heading back to Jackson, where Liz was probably still sleeping, I turned left and headed toward Moose Junction and Schwabacher Road.  Finding a turnoff, I parked the car and looked West to where the Tetons were hidden in the pre-dusk darkness.  

The sun wasn't going to rise for another 45 minutes, so I turned the radio to a classic rock station and thought about the last two weeks.

It had been a whirlwind vacation and like a lot of things, it's hard to put everything into perspective.  That would take weeks, if not months to appreciate.   Getting close and personal to a moose near Snake River and our condo has to be a memory that will stay with us for many years.  As was watching a bison cross our path near Old Faithful.  We were so close that we could hear its deep breathing as air escaped from its big lungs and nostrils.  Just keep walking, don't look at it and hope for the best.  Not the best defense but everyone needs a little bit of luck now and then.

Yellowstone -- with its unique geothermal features and collection of curiosities -- when paired with the beauty of the Tetons, is unparalleled.  Being able to hike, bike and photograph some of it the past two weeks will stay with me no matter how many national parks I visit in the future.

As it got closer to seven o'clock, additional cars pulled in -- many loaded with coffee, tripods and cameras.    Soon the sun is brushing the clouds and mountain tops in reds, oranges and purples, exposing the jagged peaks for which the mountain range is famous.  Back home in La Crosse, we enjoy our beautiful bluffs that are such a big part of the Mississippi River and drift less area.  Few things are as enjoyable as boating down the river with the Minnesota bluffs nearby.  But they will be hard pressed to match the magnificence unfolding this morning as the sun rises on another fall day in September of 2020.

 *          *           *          

"I can't do this!"  Liz repeats.  She is looking down at her feet, one hand firmly pressed against the rocky wall.  "I don't like this at all."

"Follow me Liz," I say.  "Hang onto my hand.  And take it one step at a time.  We're almost there."  I didn't know if that is true but it is necessary that we move forward not back.  Climbers are nice enough to wait for a slightly wider spot before passing us and continuing to the top.  To be honest, I'm not paying much attention to anyone else but Liz who is squeezing my hand to a pulp.

I think back to how we got here -- the climb to Inspiration Point began well enough when we got off the boat and hiked through conifer pines to our first stop, Hidden Falls.  The ranger at the dock said it was half a mile from the trailhead to the falls, then another half mile to Inspiration Point.  Leaving the falls, we encountered a series of rugged switchbacks up a granite knoll that plateaued at the first of two flat areas.  While the climb was steep at places, it was manageable because rock steps had been built in some of the tougher spots and there was plenty of room to pass other climbers.  The views of the "Cathedral Group" towering above us -- Mount Owen, Grand Teton and Tweewinot -- kept getting better and better. 

The final path to Inspiration Point is before us.  The rugged and narrow cut, cleared by Civilian Conservation Corps workers in the 1930s, had given Mark and Luann little difficulty, but stops Liz in her tracks.

"Oh, that's not something I can do!" I remember her saying.

Thankfully, Liz talked to a man coming down, who convinces her that she can do it.  Just like Liz, he is terrified of heights, and didn't think he could do it.  His wife joked that he had had the same terrified look in his eyes, but despite his fears, he had tried it.  And it worked, because he had made it there and back, and was standing before her now as proof.  (I may go to my grave wondering why Liz took the word of a complete stranger, but not her husband of 35 years.)   Regardless, with his vote of confidence, Liz takes her first step with me by her side.

What must have seemed like a lifetime later, I say, "I see the top, Liz.  It's only a few more steps."  

She raises her eyes to see if I am only saying that to make her feel better.  "You don't know how this feels," she says daggers flying out of her eyes.

Not true I think.  I've encountered a fear of heights myself when standing on an edge and looking up.  For me, looking up is the trigger. Always up.  Whether my balance is affected by my bouts of vertigo or something else, it's a terrifying feeling.  The sweat, anxiety, fear and shaking can be uncontrollable.  And there's nothing you can do -- 

"We made it!" I say, looking at Liz, giving her a hug.  Surprisingly, she is crying, whether from fear or relief I'm not sure.  But I could not be prouder of her overcoming a huge obstacle.

"Happy Anniversary!"  I say smiling from ear to ear, giving her another big hug.  Today is our thirty-fifth anniversary (glad it wasn't our last) and it's likely to be one that isn't forgotten anytime soon.  "Come over here and look.  Tell me this climb wasn't worth it."

From this lofty perch we can see Jenny Lake stretching out, with Jackson Hole and the Gros Ventre Range to our east.  The lake is mostly smooth, with what looks like a giant zipper marking the water where the shuttle has cut across.  

It seems like every major lookout is called "inspiration point."  There was one last week looking out over the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone.  I know there are ones in Yosemite and Bryce Canyon National Parks, as well.

I step down to a flat area looking out over blue skies.  I imagine the massive glacier melt that must have flowed out of the canyons above us, helping form the moraines that dammed and formed Jenny Lake.  The entire Teton range including all the lakes and glacial deposits are truly an inspiration to those of us lucky enough to visit.  These mountains have inspired photographers and artists, biking enthusiasts and hikers to push their boundaries, as we have on this vacation.  

It is a reminder to never become settled in our ways.  To always look to the horizon and hope for something better.  To find the best in America and in our lives.  I can't think of a better place to do that than in our national parks.

Letter to a Friend

I grab the remote control and turn the television off.

The silence is deafening -- the shouting between Democrat and Republican talking heads has been silenced with the push of a button.  If only real life could be so easy.  Everywhere I look I find name calling, lies and vitriol.  I'm old enough to remember "Crossfire" on CNN where viewers could hear a discussion on current events and decide for themselves who won and who lost.  Today we are all losers.

For the most part, the house is quiet.  Liz has gone to bed and Bailey is no longer with us, so I am by myself to digest the news of the day.  COVID remains a challenge to young and old.  Despite  recommendations to hold in-school classes by a majority of pedestrians, the La Crosse School District has just announced classes will start online.  A growing number of states are mandating a state-wide mask order hoping to slow the spread of the virus.  I remain skeptical of further restrictions being placed on our liberties.

Democrat-run cities burn as riots have continued for more than 60 days.  City leaders refuse to intervene, turning their backs on exploding bombs, fire crackers filled with nails, gasoline and Molotov cocktails.  Calling these mobs peaceful protesters is an insult to every soldier who has died fighting for freedom of speech.

If I didn't know better, I'd say I'm living in northern Ireland where this type of behavior is common.

I get off the couch and head for the kitchen, my refuge from today's madness and stupidity.  I stand quietly, thinking of all the hours spent around this kitchen table -- family meals, card games and homework, to name a few.  Tonight, it will serve another purpose.  One that has been stirring in my chest, wanting a way out.  My restlessness has risen to the degree that I cannot go to sleep until I finish.

With a sigh, I retrieve my laptop from the countertop, pull out a chair and sit.  My eyes wander to the kitchen window which shows the darkness outside.  Metaphorically, it is a darkness that wants inside this house, where I eat, read and sleep.  I fear it will dismantle my resoluteness and purpose, and drag me down into despair and hopelessness. That is what the darkness wants -- it is what all Democrats, socialists, communists and Marxists want -- and it has been going on for decades.  It is relentless and it is calling America's name.

In denial of its siren song, I open the laptop and begin typing.




Dear Lydia,

You may be wondering what is happening to this country, so far from your home in China.  I cannot believe this is what you were expecting when you decided to come here for school. 

I remember driving with you and Liz to Santa Barbara, with the convertible top down.  We had just left Malibu with the sun shining (as it always does in southern California) and music was coming from the car radio.  The Pacific Ocean was on our left, with surfers and beachcombers scattered along its shore.  It was such a perfect moment, that you raised your arms to catch the wind and you declared in a loud voice "I love America!"

I wonder if you still do.

You may be wondering why I'm writing this letter.  You're not a citizen of the USA, and in some very serious ways, our countries are at odds - both politically and economically.  So it's very possible you have little interest in what happens here.  You have no skin in the game, as we like to say here.

But in my heart I don't believe that.  And since you're like a daughter to us, Liz and I worry about you.

La Crosse Friends of International Students always instructed us to not talk politics, and for the most part we didn't.  We have talked about our conservative leanings and how we vote for low taxes, limited government and how we like President Trump.  One time, you remarked how you enjoyed being able to talk politics.  I don't know if that was because you were afraid to say anything back home in China, or if it was a part of learning more about America.

As I said that day, America is much more than just a country.  It is more than a patriotic group of people who lived together and who risked their lives to form a nation.  It is a great example of capitalism, democracy and freedom.  It is the land of the free, the home of the brave, a source of hope and a defender of justice.  It is a symbol for the rest of the world.  A destination for millions of people who come here looking for a better life.  People like you.

It has been said that America is an exceptional nation, but not because of what it has achieved or accomplished.  As our founding fathers said, our country is exceptional because it is dedicated to the principles of human liberty, grounded on the truths that everyone is created equal and endowed with equal rights.

As someone from another country, and in particular because you are from China where liberty and freedom of thought can get you killed, I wonder what you meant that day when you said "I love America!" 

Was it the beauty of southern California, with its wonderful sunsets and fresh seafood?  Was it Pepperdine University, nestled in the rugged beauty of Malibu Canyon?  Was it the shopping and expensive restaurants (of course!)?  Or maybe it was nothing more than being away from home, on your own without the watchful eye of mom and dad. 

Or were you simply expressing the joy that everyone has when they are able to say and do what you want without fear of retribution?  Someday you will have to tell me.

I know it was only four months ago that we took that ride to Santa Barbara, but it feels much longer.  The virus has struck, forcing the entire country to shut down for weeks, before re-opening just I time for summer.  But that didn't last long.  Lately, we've been told to stop going to restaurants and bars.  Many beaches are closed, and schools are limited to on-line courses.  Any large gathering of people has been cancelled, including most sporting events and concerts.

Making matters worse, our state's government is threatening fines and jail time to anyone not following their dictatorial edicts.

I'm embarrassed that you are seeing America like this.  

I'm embarrassed that you have to listen to social media and late night comedy tell you how bad America has become.

I am embarrassed at how our media make fun of President Trump.

 I'm embarrassed by the videos of people throwing coffee, spraying mace and telling children that they hope "their grandparents die."

I am embarrassed that protesters can gather, but peaceful church goers cannot.

I'm embarrassed that you have to see riots and violence in the streets.  Historic statues are being pulled down and defaced. 

I am embarrassed and most importantly, I am sorry.

Does our reaction to COVID remind you of China, I wonder.  In passing, you have mentioned how the communist media always controls the story.  Always the same number of deaths, for example, no matter the accident.  Social media is monitored and controlled.  Be careful what you say, someone is listening...

For the first time in my life, I am looking at our media the same way you view your state-run media.  Which is not good.  Facebook, Google, Twitter and others are censoring what we can read, watch and even find online --  we are being told what to think with little balance or truth to what is being said.  Tweets and postings are being removed in the interest of "accuracy" or because they do not meet CDC's definition of "public health." 

That's a dangerous road to travel, as you can attest to with your own experience.  It's certainly a threat to what America means.

As if the virus was not enough, the left has doubled down with their attacks on "systemic racism" in the police departments, resulting in riots and violent attacks on buildings and officers trying to maintain peace.

I can't begin to explain to you race relations and the struggle America has endured because of slavery.  I doubt you are being told the truth about slavery, race relations and what it means to say black lives matter.  That is a lengthy conversation for another time.

But as history is rewritten and statues are torn down, you will be hard pressed to find references to the truth -- the Democrat Party's connections to the Ku Klux Klan, opposition to the Civil Rights Act and the unintended consequences of Affirmative Action and the war on poverty.  Today, as a white man born in 1958, I am being told I am responsible for the failures of black men and women in America.

Lydia, it is my sincere wish that you do not fall prey to these lies.  The future of this country depends on young people like you to know the truth about what is happening to this country and why.  One political party is responsible.

.Democrats support the destruction of cities (as you can see in Seattle and Portland).
.The council members, mayors and governors in charge of the managerial tyranny are all Democrats.
.Joe Biden is incapable of debate because he cannot engage in coherent conversation.
.Democrats have ruined professional sports by endorsing Black Lives Matter.
.The Democrat Party is burning bibles and shutting down churches.
.Democrats have dumbed down the American educational system
.Democrats want to abolish history books and re-write them in their own words.

You might ask why are they doing this?  Hopefully I've given you some ideas.  If you truly meant what you said when we were in California, then you are the hope I need.  That this world needs if America is going to provide hope for the rest of the world.  I know that sounds elitist, but it's not.  If America falls, the world falls.

As a kid, I used to find hope in Superman, the man of steel, who you may have heard of from one of his many movies.  In addition to being faster than a speeding bullet and able to jump over tall buildings, Superman embodied the spirit of America.   For people your age, today's version of Superman is Captain America from the Avengers.  

Both are proud of America. And believe they can defeat evil anywhere in the world.  For Captain America it was the Nazis.  Superman's fight for justice gave hope to the everyday man -- weak, poor or rich.  Man or woman, it didn't matter.  They all looked into the sky and with a smile said, "Look it's Superman!"  


In fact, their popularity is a hopeful sign that, in spite of the hatred coursing through our country right now by politicians, academia and the media, a core part of the human spirit will always be drawn to, and be able to learn from, stories that inspire us to become better versions of ourselves.

These are times that require us to dig deeper to find inspiration.  Your choice to come to America has inspired me to write this letter.  Your words that day, "I love America!" have stirred something in my chest that needed to be put down on paper.  Had someone else said it, I probably wouldn't have noticed.  But it came from you, someone who grew up in a very different world, at risk if you did not perform or obey the rules.   But you did say it, and I wanted you to understand why it's important for more people to say it. 

I hope you can get the word out -- that when things look their darkest there is always hope.

In the words of Lee Greenwood --

"From the lakes of Minnesota, to the hills of Tennessee...
Across the plains of Texas, from the sea to shining sea,
From Detroit down to Houston and New York to LA
There's pride in every American heart... and it's time to stand and say...

I'm proud to be an American… where at least I know I'm free
And I won't forget the men who died.. who gave that right to me.
And I'd gladly stand up, next to you... and defend her still today.
"cause there ain't no doubt I love this land...

God bless the USA!"