Under the Knife, Part 3

It was Wednesday, the day of my surgery. I woke up hungry.  All that eating the day before must have expanded my stomach.  I hadn't had anything to eat since midnight.  But I was going to cook my sister- in-law some beignets.

I had made the batter the night before.  As my stomach growled, the doughnuts crackled in the hot grease.  They came out nicely browned and enlarged like puffer fish.  I was grateful to Jona and her family for hosting me.  I always enjoy feeding people.  I try to put my love and care into the food with my hands and hope that my guests feel it when they bite and chew and swallow.  As they smiled and laughed eating the doughnuts, my hunger dissipated.

My niece, Lindsay, enjoying a beignet

Jona drove me to the hospital.  I had to be there by 7 am, even though my surgery wasn't scheduled until 9:45 am.  She dropped me off and headed back to Vancouver for work.  As I walked into the lobby, I suddenly felt completely alone.

The friendly OHSU staff told me to wait in the lobby to be admitted.  I broke out the ipad and distracted myself on Facebook in front of the fireplace.  The flames comforted me as I'm sure they had done for many others.  And as I looked at Facebook, I read my friends posting their well wishes for me for my upcoming surgery, giving me more courage as the minutes ticked onward

After being admitted, I left for the surgical wing.  They led me to a bay with a bed and a curtain and a nice view of the hills.  I changed into my gown and waited while they took my vitals.  They gave me a little baggie for my valuables and I put my wallet and wedding ring there for safekeeping.  I clung to my cellphone and ipad.  They were my lifelines to my family and friends, my support system.  Jessica called me.  The voice of Celia, Ferguson, and her were a balm.  I checked Facebook obsessively, right until they wheeled me away.  The love of my friends and family expressed online was a true comfort.  Amazingly, the cold, dead internet had brought me the loving support I needed right when I needed it, from all parts of the world.

before they wheeled me off to surgery

I had tremendous care from the moment I set foot in the hospital.  The warmth and professionalism of the OHSU staff made the whole experience seamless and as comforting as possible.  I enjoyed getting to know the staff personally, and talked with my pre-op nurse, Bryan (now Facebook friend) about rearing kids and chickens, skiing, and outdoor adventures.  His willingness to connect with me on a personal level made those pre-surgical moments a little less anxious.

Bryan, my pre-op nurse

In the operating ward, I met a series of friendly and professional specialists, including a Belgian anesthetist who explained the beauty of Belgian beer and a nurse in a camo surgical cap who showed me his trophy mule deer and elk on his smart phone.  An earnest young intern questioned me about my refusal of the nerve block.  After some spirited debate, we agreed that I would have a temporary nerve block in my arm, which they would inject into me with a needle.  It would work through the surgery and then about 12 hours after the operation.  I was fascinated as they showed me my veins and nerves on the ultrasound screen.  When the needle entered screen, having punctured my skin and moving towards the nerve, I had to stop watching.

Again, the friendliness of the staff helped keep my fears at bay.  But as they wheeled me into the naked fluorescent light of the operating room, I was suddenly aware of how alone I was.  They moved me to the operating table and I felt the cold steel against my flesh.  Then they started strapping me down to the table so I wouldn't move during the procedure.  Finally they brought the mask down to my face.  I asked them if I would be out soon.  When they said yes, I started praying frantically. Before I knew it I was unconscious.

I woke up in the post-op bay with a raging hunger and an intense fogginess in my brain.  My arm hurt some, but it was mostly numb from the nerve block.  I was able to call my wife, mom, and sister pretty soon, and let them know that it all went ok.  I remember fumbling for the arnica pills my sister had recommended.  When I asked the nurse to give me five pills, the nurse anesthetist said I only needed one. She was a homeopath.

Soon I was moved to a holding room for short-term patients.  There I had another crew of friendly nurses.  Russell was my CNA and took great care of me.  We talked about youth mentoring and he related his experience working with troubled youth in the wilderness of Wyoming.  He recommended that our Bigs play tennis with their Littles. He found tennis with youth to be very therapeutic.  I tried to recruit him as a Big Brother.

Russell, the CNA who helped me after surgery

The main nurse in charge of my unit was Charmaine.  She responded with friendliness to each time I barked out requests to her at her nurses' station.  I couldn't figure out how to reach the nurse call button so I resorted to asking for what I needed across the room.  We talked a lot about skiing.  She was learning to ski as an adult to spend time with her boyfriend who liked to ski.  We talked about adult learning styles and how hard it is to learn to ski when you are an adult. Both Charmaine and Russell were kind to let me photograph them with my ipad.

Charmaine, the nurse in charge of the
short-term recovery room

I passed the time posting on Facebook and eating what I could before I was to be picked up later that evening.  I got up and walked to the bathroom a few times and got a little less wobbly each time.  The meals were fabulous, full of locally produced food (Portlandia!).  I ordered lunch and then dinner.  The hamburger for lunch was a bit scratchy on the way down.  The breathing tube had left  some dry soreness after they removed it.  But I ate with gusto anyway.  For dinner, I had fresh salmon and a very nice Northwest salad.  It was the best hospital food I've ever had.

fresh salmon, cheese plate, Northwest salad

At around 6, Jona arrived to take me back to her home.  I was pretty solid on my feet by that time and gingerly got into the minivan for the trip home.  I spent the next three days convalescing in their loving home (including a few trips to Portland to do phyiscal therapy, see friends, and eat!) and flew back to Juneau on Saturday.

Since being home, I'm grown stronger each day and have been diligently done my physical therapy exercises.  I got back to work the following Monday and can obviously type.  The only exercise I can get is walking while my arm is in a sling for the next six weeks.  After that, I will need to do strengthening exercises for six more weeks, to retrain my muscles.  Six months after the surgery, I will be able to do a push up.

click here to see a picture of my surgical wound

I know it will be a long road to recovery, but I know my friends and family will support me along the way.  It has been a blessing to receive the gift of food from friends each night since I returned home to Juneau.  As I am the family cook, feeding the family would have been a challenge these last few days.  I am grateful for all the care I received from the excellent staff at OHSU.  It was definitely the right choice to travel to Portland to get the best care I could.  The only thing I would have done differently was to make sure there was someone I loved holding my hand at the last minute.  I will never again be put to sleep without someone I love nearby.  It is simply too scary to go to sleep alone, not knowing if you will ever wake up.

Under the Knife, Part 2

Becca told me that Rosie lit up when she heard her dad's name read as my inspiration over the intercom.  The crowd was waiting for me to arrive at the bottom of the Slush Cup run and the announcers were filling time.  When I signed up for the event, I had to answer a list of questions, including naming something I love (Juneau) and something I really don't like at all (Dallas, TX).  One of the questions asked what my inspiration was.  Instinctively I wrote John Caouette.  While I hadn't thought of John when I decided to run the Slush Cup, John has been an enduring influence on me ever since his passing in 2010.

John Caouette
Jan 17, 1964 - October 12, 2010

John died in a freak running accident, leaping over a guard rail on a running trail he once knew in his home town of Minneapolis, MN.  Construction had altered the trail and John thought that the other side of the rail was grass and not the 20 foot drop to pavement it really was.  Ever since John died, I have been inspired by his zest for life and his wide and sundried passions.  Instead of shrinking from life and its inherent risks, since John died, I have sought out new experiences, and tried to learn from whatever they have to teach me.

I really didn't think the Slush Cup was that risky.  I had seen it several times and it looked like a lot of fun.  I've snow skied since childhood, and grew up waterskiing in southern Louisiana.

As I waited my turn on the top of lower Hilary, I started to wonder how best to cross the pond.  Not many people were making it.  For some reason, I thought the ones that went cautiously down the hill were foolish. Surely I needed to get as much speed as possible before hitting the jump.  That was the only way I was going to make it across.

So I swooshed down the mountain, no ski poles in hand (prohibited since they might puncture the pond's plastic lining), holding my wide-brimmed hat in place as it tried to sail off of my helmet.  By the time I reached the bottom, the scene was a blur, and as I left the jump, I prayed for the best.  Unfortunately, I leaned back too far on my skis, and my cartwheeling left hand caught the water's edge and my arm ripped straight back.

It's been five weeks since the accident now and I have an eight inch scar up my upper arm and eleven weeks of arduous physical therapy in front of me.  But I don't regret entering the Slush Cup.  Sure, I wish I hadn't hurt myself.  But I still would have wanted to experience the event.

I am fortunate that I have good health insurance, thanks to my wife's employment at the State of Alaska.  And I am thankful to have the skills to be a discerning consumer of medicine, willing to read research articles to come to my own informed conclusion of the necessity of a medical intervention.  And I have a slew of Alaska Air miles, thanks to my current and past jobs that have flown me all over.  And to top it off, I am lucky to have family and friends in the Portland area, making it a great destination for some necessary medical tourism.

I had my doctor appointment on Tuesday.  So I flew into Portland on Monday evening and spent the night with my sister-in-law's family in Battle Ground, WA. On the drive north out of Portland, I took it as an auspicious sign when a meteorite streaked across the crepuscular sky.  It was so bright it left a trail like a firework, even though it was still twilight out. That night I reported the fireball on this cool fireball reporting website.

It was comforting to see my wife's sister, Jona, her husband, Jeff and my two nieces, Lynday and Nicole.  I also got to meet Jeff's mom, Fern, who was now living with them.  When I married Jessica, she warned me that her family would become mine once we wed.  It felt like coming home to family to be with the Tompkins.  Their home in the woods would be a welcome place to heal over the coming days.

breakfast at Imperial

The next day, I had an early start. I was to meet my mentor, Tom Keller, at a research committee meeting of Oregon Mentors in downtown Portland. I had a full day planned, with breakfast, lunch, and dinner mapped out, sandwiched between my doctors appointments.  Over an invigorating discussion of youth mentoring research, Tom and I had a tasty breakfast at Imperial.  I had coddled eggs in a spicy tomato sauce with fry bread, and some beignets and honey for a starter.

After breakfast, of course I had to pay homage to Powell's Books.  And there was time to visit one of my Portland faves, Cacao, for world-class drinking chocolate.  A shot of the spicy dark chocolate gave me a nice buzz to carry me to my first doctor's visit of the day.

at the top of the OHSU tramway

I drove my rental car to OHSU, with assistance from Jona's handy GPS unit.  It took me to the top of the hill, where the OHSU hospitals overlook Portland and the waterfront.  I learned my pre-op appointment was at the bottom of the hill, and got to take a ride on the aerial tram down to my visit.  Ferguson would have loved to be there with me.

I checked into my visit, had my vitals taken by a nurse and waited for the nurse practitioner.  This was my pre-operation meeting, to clear me for surgery the following day if my doctor called for surgery later that afternoon.  Before she arrived, I had to click through several screens on a computer to learn about a nerve block pump, which they would imbed in my shoulder to reduce the pain following surgery.  The screen said I had to have someone accompany me to the bathroom while I had the pump on.  I was going to be staying alone while my inlaws worked.  So there would be no nerve block for me.

The nurse practitioner came in and discussed the possibility of surgery in a very professional and direct manner.  I really liked her bedside manner and had been quite impressed so far with all of my interactions with OHSU staff.  She started talking about the process after surgery and how long I would have to wait before changing my bandage.  I'm not sure what triggered it, but I was suddenly overcome by a mountain of sadness.  I burst into sobs and couldn't control myself.  All the stress that had been mounting over the last few weeks came out in one big gusher.  I was scared and stressed out.  And I didn't know how I was going to help take care of my family when I got home.  All of that came out on this poor woman.  I felt terrible for unleashing her in this seemingly businesslike appointment.  She told me it happens all the time (maybe she just said that to comfort me).

Then, when she broke out the Hibiclens antibacterial cleanser and told me I had to shower with it twice before the surgery, I broke down again. All the memories surrounding Celia and Ferguson's childbirth flooded me associated with the acrid smell of Hibiclens.  I remembered standing guard at the doorway, armed with a bottle of it to douse anyone who had any thought of touching my newborn daughter.  The nurse comforted me again and I gathered myself together to make a discrete exit.

looking up one of the Hawthorne Bridge's
draw towers

The rest of the day went uphill from there.  I took a lovely stroll down the Willamette Riverfront, and crossed the familiar Hawthorne Bridge on my way to lunch with my dear college friend, Maureen.  Walking down the waterfront made me appreciate how wonderful a job of city planning Portland has done over the years.  As a symbol of Portland, its bridges grace the Willamette, but the riverfront preservation tells a great story of careful urban planning.  When we lived in Portland in 2010, I loved crossing the Hawthorne Bridge on my bike ride to school each day.  I would arrive at the bridge with sometimes scores of other bikers funneled together at this one crossing point and I felt like I was in China.

Lunch with Maureen was a refuge.  We caught up on our families, our careers, and our personal lives over handmade ramen noodles at Boke Bowl.  She had a chronic shoulder injury from years before and we commiserated about the shortcomings of our injured bodies.  Maureen and I had attended Rice University together in the early 90s.  We had stayed in touch over the years and got to live in the same city in Portland for a few months during 2010.  I always feel like my authentic self talking to Mo, the way you only feel when you are with someone who has known you for so long.

Maureen

ramen with carmelized fennel,
pork belly and fried chicken

Next up was my visit with Dr. Mirarchi at an OHSU clinic in Beaverton.  When he came in the room, I immediately felt relief. Here was a doctor that exuded confidence.  It only took him a minute or two to read my MRI, touch my underarm gently, and diagnose me with a partial tear of my pectoral tendon.  Obviously, I was with a pro.  He told me he only did 3-4 of these surgeries a year, but a half dozen shoulder surgeries a week, and the trickiest part was getting into the shoulder itself.  He also said that a partial tear was easier to fix, since my pectoral muscle hadn't sloshed back into my sternum, unfettered. And if I didn't get it fixed, it was only a matter of time before the tendon snapped completely.  I was only hanging by a thread.  Clearly, I had made the right decision to come to Portland for the procedure.

Dr. Adam Mirarchi

Relieved and hopeful about the surgery, I left for my last stop of the day, dinner with a Juneau friend at Le Pigeon.  It's one of Portland's best and a place I had fondly remembered from my earlier time in Portland.  The head chef recently won a James Beard award for best chef in the Pacific Northwest. You can sit around the bar and watch the chefs cook your meal.  And these guys are totally relaxed and will talk to you about the food and their technique while you eat.   We had the seven course tasting menu.  It was one of my top five meals of all time.  The highlight was probably the first dish, an appetizer of trout lox, trout roe, creme fraiche, and Oregon strawberries.  Six courses later, I left the restaurant buzzed, even though I hadn't taken a sip of wine (no alcohol allowed within 24 hours of the surgery).

the chefs at work at Le Pigeon

amazing appetizer

On the way back to the Tompkins, I stopped for some supplies to make beignets the next day.  Jona had requested them and it was likely my last chance to cook with two somewhat functional arms for a long time.  As I mixed up the batter for the next morning, I reflected on the day.  It had been a roller coaster, with many more ups than downs.  Yes, I was still scared for the surgery tomorrow.  But I had lived life that day, filled with some of my favorite people, and my favorite pastime, eating.  I felt John would have been proud.

Under the Knife, Part 1

I remember the mask closing down over my face.  I asked, "How much longer?"  I needed to know when I would go unconscious.  I wanted to be present during those last few moments.  I wanted to remember to pray to God during those last few seconds.  Please let me wake up from this. Please let everything be all right.

before the Slush Cup with my friend Cheryl,
who encouraged me to enter

I had traveled to Portland, Oregon, by myself to get reconstructive surgery on my shoulder.  A month ago, I had been injured in a skiing accident. Snow skiing, you ask?  Water skiing?  No, well, both.  I had entered a Slush Cup competition at my local ski hill.  On the last day of the ski season, I was going to celebrate the end with a triumphant ski across a pond of freezing water on snow skis.  In a dress and a wig.  With pearls and a fancy hat (they say the peals really made the ensemble).

Last year, too many skiers had made it across the pond on their modern fat skis.  So this year, the staff at Eaglecrest Ski Area put a three foot jump in front of the pond.  I didn't know how to play it.  And how does one practices for such an event?  So I got maximum speed, thinking I needed all I could get to make it across the pond.   But my speed was too much, and my gravity shifted back in the air, my hands cartwheeling to bring my body forward.  I didn't exactly "stick" the landing, and heard (like you hear something downstairs by the vibrations in the walls) a ripping sound in my shoulder.  My hand had caught the top of the pond and the tensile strength of the water made my hand stationary while my chest and the rest of my body sailed forward.

my Slush Cup run in slow motion

Clearly something was wrong.  I had no strength in my left shoulder.  I couldn't lift myself out of the pool and the lifeguards had to hoist me from my underarms to pull me out.  The ski area manager asked if I wanted a ride down to the First Aid station on his snowmachine and I whispered, "Please."  Down in First Aid ,the pain came in waves.  A cold compress on my shoulder combined with my recent plunge in 32 degree water gave me hypothermia.  I couldn't get warm.  And as the pain crescendoed, I felt like I was going to vomit and pass out.  With some warm blankets and time, the cold went away and the pain came under control.  It was clear I needed to go to the emergency room, though.  I might have a broken or dislocated shoulder.

The xrays came back negative so I made an appointment to see a local orthopedic doctor. He checked me out and scheduled me for an MRI to see what was wrong.  I got a sling for my shoulder, came back for an MRI the next day, and then spent the weekend in Seattle at a research conference.  Over the next few days, the pain subsided even more and I got some of my upper arm strength back.  I was feeling good, and increasingly sure that I had torn my rotator cuff slightly and that it would heal without needing surgery.

my shoulder in an MRI image

I was scheduled to go back to the doctor on Tuesday and review my MRI results.  On Monday, I was driving with the kids to Costco when the phone rang.  It was the doctor.  He had bad news for me.  I had torn my pectoral muscle and I needed to have surgery.  He could get me in on Wednesday if I wanted to get it done soon.

I was crushed.  Surgery.  Just when I was feeling strong I was knocked back down. Surgery meant a long recovery, with rehab, physical therapy, and a restrictions from physical activity.  It was Spring, though.  And I had plans.  Hiking, biking, swimming, maybe even an odd ride in the kayak.  I like to stay active, especially in the summer.  Plus I wouldn't be much use around the house, creating more stressors on the home front.

Demoralized, I got home and figured I might as well do a little research.  It seemed there were different types of pectoral tears and maybe I could get a second opinion.  I was supposed to go to Nova Scotia in a week  - maybe I could see a specialist there and find a non-surgical alternative.  But the next day came and I went in to the doctor to review the MRI results.  He showed me where my pectoral tendon had detached from my humerus.  Tendon is slow to heal, he said, and if I wanted to return to normal function, I needed surgery.

I was slowly starting to resign myself to the necessity of surgical reconstruction.  When I posted my diagnosis on Facebook, my college friend Zeke (now a successful spine orthopedist) told me I needed surgery.  I asked him for a recommendation of a good surgeon.  He came back with a person in Seattle, who unfortunately wasn't on the insurance company's preferred provider list.  But I had found another doc on list of doctors who had done the procedure and come well recommended (www.pectear.com).  Turns out Zeke knew the fellow and said he was great.  Thankfully, after a few phone calls, I was able to get an appointment with Dr. Mirarchi at Oregon Health and Sciences University on May 14 in Portland.

To be continued.

Close to the Edge

In Alaska, death lies closer than in other places.  The longer you live here, the more likely you are to know someone who perished in a fishing accident, a lost plane, or fell through the ice.  Partly it’s the risk of working and recreating in the wilderness.  Partly it’s that specialized medical care is a jet ride away.  But it’s also that our social circles are more tightly woven into those of others up here.  In our small towns and even the larger ones, death’s latest visit will eventually ripple it’s way through the community’s webbing into your family or friendships.

Lately, death has moved much too close to my neighborhood, taking my friend John three years ago and my wife’s friend Ali over a year ago.  And death left behind four young children, two without a father and two without a mother.   It’s hard not to see John’s son and not think about what Ferguson’s world would be like without me.  But rather than hide from the wilderness and sink into the soft confines of my couch, my reaction to death’s proximity has been to try to experience as much of this life I can with the days that I have left, not knowing which one will be my last.

And so I’ve expanded my list of hobbies in the last few years, which now includes backyard chicken farming, ocean swimming, deer hunting, skate skiing, backcountry skiing, downhill skiing, salmon fishing, hiking, and unicycling.  My wife now says I have too many.  How could I ever have too many?   My goal is to master none, but inquire into each activity and learn the lessons it has to teach.

So as I approached my 40^th birthday, my thoughts of mortality took even greater shape in my head.  But again, instead of shrinking back to a simple black birthday cake or a predictable mid-life crisis, I decided I need to embrace the last days of my 40^th year with some vigorous outdoor adventure. The spring before John died we had discussed a strenuous hike back in the mountains behind Juneau, to watch the sun rise above Canada.  But our plans remained just talk and I have continued to regret never actualizing our plans.

Ever since coming to Juneau 17 years ago, I’ve been fascinated by the Juneau Icefield.  It’s a continental icesheet that stretches 20? miles behind Juneau to Canada and lurches 50 miles up to Skagway.  You can see a few signs of the icefield in the glaciers that flow off of it towards the road system, the Lemon, Mendenhall, Eagle and Herbert.  But it remains a mystery to most Juneauites, silently crouching behind our landmark peaks.   Every once in a while you’ll get lucky and glimpse the icefield during a takeoff or landing from Juneau International, but mostly it’s unknown, untraveled, unblemished by the tracks of man. 

Death Valley, Juneau Icefield

I remember learning about the icefield during my first summer and wanting to go see it.  I blithely asked a Forest Service ranger if I could hike up to it on the West Glacier Trail and he laughed at me like the inexperienced Louisiana boy that I was.  He said I would need some crampons and an ice axe but yes I could go that way, but the better way was up Blackerby Ridge and beyond. In the last 17 years I’ve hiked up Blackerby Ridge, but I never had the follow-through to hike all the way back in.

So my close friend Jason and I made a plan to go to the icefield before I turned 40.  Jason is an experienced skier and mountain climber who had traversed the icefield before and climbed many glacier strewn peaks.  We would helicopter in on a Thursday and hike out on Sunday. The plan was to make a base camp for three nights and do some backcountry skiing on nearby slopes.  Our friend Mike recommended a spot near Amherst and Spencer Peaks.  So that’s where we planned to go.  We’d camp out there, make a few runs, and then ski out the Nugget Glacier and Nugget Creek valley, walking out the East Glacier Trail.

Amherst Peak on the Juneau Icefield

The week before we left both of us were busy with work.  We talked a few times on the phone to plan for the trip.  But we didn’t really have time to talk details.  We never talked about the potential risks of our trip or how we might prepare for them.  Early in the week, Jason heard a long term weather forecast that indicated our recent dry spell was coming to an end and that we could expect wetter than normal weather during  this usually dry time of the year.

During the week, Jason asked if we could invite a young co-worker to go with us.  I asked if it was safer with three and Jason said it really didn’t make much of a difference.  I was looking forward to some bonding time with Jason and didn’t really want a stranger in the group so I said we should keep it to just the two of us.

On Thursday, the weather was squally with passing rainshowers coming through town.  We were supposed to leave at four pm on the helicopter.  Around two pm the helicopter company called to cancel the trip due to weather.  That night Jason and I discussed whether we should go the next day instead.  I looked at my family calendar and realized that this was the only weekend I could go this year.  Jason was hesitant with the weather forecast for rain over the weekend, but he agreed to go since this was my only chance.  Looking back, I should have noted the hesitancy in his voice and asked what the weather forecast meant.  I didn’t realize that the rain down at sea level would mean snow on the icefield and thus increase the avalanche danger for our exit journey.

I woke up the next morning and was excited to see the blue skies.  Jason and I touched base on the phone and agreed that we would meet at Coastal Helicopters to catch the chopper at nine am.   We had thought it would cost $500 but when Jason paid it turned out to be only $350.  We boarded the chopper with our pilot Justin and another pilot in training (likely the reason for the discount).  As we flew up the valleys leading to the icefield the weather got increasingly cloudy.  We circled the area we had hoped to camp in and got somewhat confused by where the pilot was telling us we were.  We agreed to land in a spot north of Spencer Peak, a ways from where we had planned to camp, but closer to our exit route.  We landed near an outcropping of rock in an area above Suicide Falls, which leads to the Mendenhall Glacier.  Nearby we could see Death Valley, which was a large expanse of glacier that we would have to cross to reach our exit route on Nugget Glacier.

The chopper flew off and we donned our backpacks.  Mine clocked in at over 60 pounds.  I had never skied with that heavy of a pack before.  We skied towards Death Valley in search of a campsite.  I suggested camping on a ridge with a view looking down into the valley.  I should have seen the streaks of windswept snow and realized we were choosing a windy spot.  But we took off our packs and skis there and got the tent set up.  Then it was time for a quick run up the nearest hillside.  As we climbed with our skins on, we headed for a rocky outcropping we could see from below.  We lost sight of it for a while behind a snowy ridge.  By the time we reached it, it had started to snow.  Close to the rock now, we could see that it was really a tall rocky notch cut into the slope of the mountain we were on.  Looking down into it and seeing the snow blowing dizzily below made me realize just how exposed our position now was at around 5,000 feet.  We got near the top of this mountain and decided to ski down instead of exploring the ridge that continued eastward.  Soon both of us were experiencing vertigo in the near blowing snow and fog.  By the time we reached our tent, we were in a total whiteout with the snow coming down and wind blowing.  Then we realized the poor choice of campsite we had made.  But instead of doing all the work to move our campsite, we chose to create a higher snow wall around our tent to keep the winddrift from blowing under our tent and melting into water.

After building the walls we had lunch and it seemed like time for a nap.   But there’s only so long you can stay inside a two person tent.  So we got out with the idea of skiing around camp to get ourselves moving a little.  We donned our backcountry skis like Nordic skis and skied out as far as we could while still seeing the tent.  We went out along the ridge that then dropped down into Death Valley.  And when we could barely make out the tent behind us in the blowing snow, we turned back and traveled back to the tent.  We continued this until it seemed like time for dinner.  After dinner, we turned in for some tent reading and bedtime.

Unfortunately neither of us got much sleep that night.  Jason started talking about the increased avalanche danger due to all the snow we were getting.  It seemed like we had already gotten six inches that day.  And it just kept snowing, and blowing, and snowing hard, all through the night.  It probably didn’t help my frame of mind to read the Snows of Kilimanjaro before retiring for the night, where a man spends his last moments alive in Africa after coming down with gangrene.  All I could think about was how scared I was of dying in an avalanche and how much I wanted to return to my wife and children.

We agreed that we would ski out Saturday instead of Sunday because the forecast was for more rain at sea level on Sunday, which meant snow up where we were.  With each additional snowfall, the avalanche danger just kept getting worse.  So on Saturday morning, we left the tent at 4:30 am, had a cold breakfast of bagels, cream cheese and nutella, with cold steeped tea.  We broke camp and were off by 5:30.  We had to dig the sides of our tent out from under the snow.  It looked like it had snowed a foot and a half since we set up camp the day before.

Our plan was to ski down the slope off the ridge we were on into Death Valley and then ski across Death Valley, and up and over into the Nugget Glacier valley.  We hoisted our packs and set off across the ridge to explore a route down.  Then we noticed the large cornices that were right below our campsite and down the ridge further towards Spencer Peak.  In the middle, it looked like a gentle slope down with no cornices.  Before choosing a path down, Jason set off ahead to do a little exploring of the terrain.  Suddenly, when he was about 15 yards in front of me, Jason disappeared.  I was stunned.  Had he just fallen over and lost his balance with the large packs we were carrying? No, my worst fears were true.  After yelling at him and asking if he was okay, he said no, he had fallen into a crevasse and I had to come help him.

I didn’t know what to do.  So I yelled at him to ask what to do and where I could walk.  I took off my skis, dropped my backpack and started making my way towards him.  I was unsure of where the crevasse started and worried about falling through the snow myself.  So I crawled on my hands and knees over to him, below the crevasse.  He said I had to dig him out.  I crawled back to my pack and got the snow shovel.  Under his direction, I started to shovel down the lower lip of the crevasse, which was accumulated snow.  As I looked over the edge of the crevasse to Jason my stomach sank.  He was perched on a ledge about 15 feet down the crevasse.  But below him it just went on and on, probably 50 feet down into the darkness.  I was so scared.  And I felt weak.  I started shoveling and didn’t know if I could dig fast enough.  That surge of adrenaline that was supposed to give me strength and clarity never came.  I felt lost and thirsty and I doubted my abilities.  Somehow Jason managed to get both of his skis off and his pack from down in the hole.  As he lifted his skis to me and then his heavy pack, I concentrated with all my mental efforts on getting a good grip.  I knew that if I somehow lost my hold on the pack, it’s fall would topple Jason back into the crevasse to his certain death.

I managed to get the lip of the crevasse down about five feet and then Jason instructed me to bring him my ice axe.  I went back to my pack and realized it and my skis were in exactly the wrong place – directly in line with Jason along the fault line of the crevasse.  Again I army crawled back to him with the ice axe and he was able to use my ice axe and his to climb up out of the crack.  When he reached the top all I could say was “Oh thank God!” 

During the rescue I had quickly realized that if I didn’t get Jason out of the crevasse, that I would surely perish with him.  He had the GPS and the skills of how to navigate off the icefield to safety.  I had the VHF radio, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t reach the Coast Guard from there.  Clearly I was in way over my head.  Jason calm and collected though.  Had our places been switched, I’m pretty sure I would have been crying like a baby down in that crack.

We quickly decided the safest alternative was to rope up and walk down the slope to the valley floor.  We didn’t know what other bergschrunds we would encounter on the way down.  After a few hundred yards, the slope became gentle and we donned our skis, staying roped up, and skied down and across Death Valley.

Luckily the skies were clearing that day. I finally got some glimpses of what I had wanted to experience - the wide expanse of a continental ice field  undulating off towards distant nunataks and rocky ridges.  The clouds drifted in and out that day but we were able to get some glimpses of this magical white land that I hope to never forget.

Across the valley, we consulted our map and GPS and found the slope that we needed to climb to reach the ridge that then led into Nugget Glacier.  It looked like it was 500 or so feet up to the top of the ridge judging from the topo maps.  But it otherwise looked really close to us.  In that big of a landscape, distances are decieving and it looked like it should only take us 30 minutes or so to skin up the slope. 

As we ascended it became clear to me that this was much more exercise than I had expected.  I had never skinned up with such a large pack.  I was sweating profusely and realized that I was totally out of energy.  I was a bit queasy from the morning’s experience so I hadn’t eaten an energy bar before starting up the slope.  Halfway up I begged Jason to let me take a break.  He rightly encouraged me to keep going.  The snow was starting to come away from our skis in small slabs, and then we started to see some bigger ones.  We were clearly getting into some risky avalanche terrain.  Finally we found a slope not too steep where I could stop and scarf part of a Snickers bar.  Soon we were off again.  During the rest of the climb, I seriously didn’t know if I could make it to the top.  My calves were starting to burn and I thought I might tear a muscle.  Clearly I wasn’t in as good of shape as I thought I was before the trip.  Jason though kept encouraging me on and the rope tethering me to him tugged with increasing urgency.   Jason climbed steadily with purpose, outpacing me even though he was skinning with only one ski pole – his other had fallen into the crevasse.

Finally we made it to the top of the ridge. I threw down my pack with relief.  Then we started discussing our options.  We had planned to ski down the slope into Nugget Glacier and then out the snow filled valley to the East Glacier Trail. Looking at the map and the terrain below showed it was quite a bit steeper than it had looked from the helicopter.  But we didn’t seem to have much choice.  My cell phone wasn’t getting reception.  We could ski back down the slope we had just come up and head over closer to Lemon Creek, but then we would have to risk the avalanche danger again and expend all that energy to make it back up a similar slope.  We couldn’t stay that much longer than Sunday anyway, because we only had one fuel bottle to cook with and melt snow.  And the longer we stayed, the avalanche danger would just likely get worse with the weather forecast.  So it seemed that our only option was to bootpack it down the slope roped up, hoping to avoid crevasses and somehow not trigger an avalanche.  But as Jason explored the area while I rested, I realized the slope we had to go down was probably twice as steep as the one we had just come up, likely with wetter snow, all of which pointed to extreme avalanche risk.

At the top of Nugget Glacier

I was boxed in.  Despair crept into my heart.  Suddenly, a flash raced across my exhausted brain – I had my VHF radio!  This time I had taped the power knob so it wouldn’t turn on inside my pack and it still had plenty of juice.  When I turned it my hope grew after receiving the weather forecast.  It could receive, but would the VHF be strong enough to transmit a signal to the Coast Guard?  I switched it to channel 16 and tentatively asked for Coast Guard Station Juneau.  Miraculously they responded.  My voice was shaky in reply.  Could they call Coastal Helicopters and have them come pick us up?  After a few brief exchanges of GPS coordinates and location description they went off the line to call Coastal.  When they came back on and told us a helicopter would be coming, I cried tears of joy and thankfulness to these servicewomen and men.  I still need to bake them something to express my gratitude.

But as we waited for the chopper our window of clear weather seemed to be deteriorating. Would the helicopter be able to reach us before the weather turned again?  All we could do was wait.  And I went off to relieve myself.  As we heard the sound of the chopper approach, we busily got our gear ready. I couldn’t stop smiling.  I was not going to die on this icy wasteland, far from my wife and children.  I would live to my 40^th birthday.  And maybe just maybe I would live up to the promises I made to myself and my God when I was bargaining for my life to be spared.  I hope so.

Reflections on Visiting Acadie

It was supposed to be a trip for my mom.  I was going to be in Halifax for a meeting of Big Brothers Big Sisters of Canada. She had always wanted to visit Nova Scotia and see where the Acadians, her ancestors, once lived.  I never thought this trip would be for me, too.

Map of the settlement at Beaubassin

It hit me fully at the natural history museum in Halifax. We went there on a tip from the visitors center off the highway near Beaubassin.  Beaubassin was our first stop and the last site inhabited by the Arceneauxs (my mom’s family) before they were deported.  We had driven straight to Amherst from Halifax where I had picked my parents up.  On our first day of touring, we went to Beaubassin and saw the lands left with no buildings, no graveyard, nothing.  The only remnants of the Arceneauxs’ life were some archeological pits dug into the hillside and the land they had reclaimed from the marshes with levees.  When we asked, the staff at the visitor center told us the findings from the digs were on display in Halifax.

Acadian implements unearthed

Staring at those artifacts encased in glass, I had a taste of what the Tlingit, the descendants of slaves, and what American Jews must feel.  Seeing the possessions of my ancestors away from where they were once fashioned with sweat and care made me feel disconnected, angry, and like something had been stolen from me.

I don’t know why the Acadians were forced to leave the land they had settled.  And I don’t know why they didn’t fight for the land or why some of them hid out and stayed while my ancestors boarded the boats that would eventually land them in South Louisiana.  But I suspect their forced relocation had something to do with the rich lands they had reclaimed from the sea, and the bounty that they had enjoyed.

At Grand Pre I saw the museum and the church and the cross memorializing the Acadians, as told by Longfellow.  It seemed so pretty and quaint.  Then we drove among the plowed fields and saw the levees built by the hand of Acadians.  And there were large farm buildings, still reaping from the rich land, making someone else prosper, someone who benefited from the English army’s forced relocation of my people.

Levee built by the Acadians at Grand Pre

I know cruelty lives in all nations, all tribes.  We are all capable of unspeakable acts.  When the Acadians came to Nova Scotia in 1605, they took lands that had been home to the Mi’kmaq people for 13,000 years.  The interpretive signs said the Acadians and Mi’kmaq got along well and even dwelled in the same settlements together.  This is a nice thought, but I also know there must have been pain and loss felt by the Mi’kmaq as the lands they used for hunting and gathering where suddenly filled with fixed housing and farms, and as marshes once filled with rush of the tidal bore became silent wheat fields.  And I know that later, in Louisiana, my ancestors came into the lands of the Attakapas people, and even later benefited from those lands through the blood and sweat of the slaves that they owned.  

My mom looking out over the lands at Beaubassin

No people are innocent.  We are all marked by the sins of our fathers.  But that doesn’t make my anger or sense of loss, or my confusion go away. This is what it feels like to be dispossessed.  Let me be grateful for this new knowledge, and hopeful that it will help me look at the world through the eyes of others.