Lindsay's Mt Whitney

Mama,

I decided to write this blog post as a letter to you for a few reasons. Firstly, there is no one I have been more excited to share my Whitney experience with than you. I also know that if I pretend that you are the only one reading this, I can be all the more open about the WIDE array of emotions I have felt on this journey and you will understand completely. Above all, though, most of these sentiments are long overdue. Thank you for waiting patiently over the past 25 years for me to recognize and appreciate everything that you and Dad did and didn't get to do to raise me into the woman I am growing into.

As I sit down to write, I am met with a sinking dread. I should have written this two weeks ago. I feel panicky and the perfectionist in me loathes the procrastinator who has dimmed my memory.
I close my eyes and try to do a little breathing exercise. I am immediately overcome with jealousy. All I hear is Ryan slamming away at the keyboard. I have been practicing yoga and breathe work for 6 years now and the kid can climb a mountain with no problem, while I am keeled over, huffing and puffing, consistently behind him by at least 20 minutes. And he always exudes that same zen-like peace of mind that Dad had, but you and I have to work so hard for. The little crap is perfect.

I come back to my breathe and I remember the similar feeling of anxiety I experienced the morning of our Whitney summit. Funny enough, it had nothing at all to do with my fear of climbing up 14,505 feet. After a restless sleep, Ry and I woke up and had to hike 5 miles, or roughly 2 hours, to reach the base of Mt. Whitney. I sobbed for an hour of the way down. At first, all my guilt washed over me. Did I tell Dad everything I wanted to before he died? Did I thank him for everything he taught me? Why did I wait until he was sick to express my gratitude and love? Why didn't I quit one of my jobs, take a break from school, and see my friends less in order to spend more time with him? I wondered if you could forgive me for being such a selfish daughter when I hardly entered our house for three months after he died, too busy trying to party away my reality. Why couldn't I have been a better sister and daughter?

I have really been trying to let go of my guilt out here. As much as it hurts, I can not go back in time. At the end of the day, my regrets and self-loathing serve no purpose other than to cloud my memories. It prevents me from keeping him alive the only way I know how--through the smiles that grace my face. So, for the first time in 5 years, I allowed my Papa to completely flood me. Obviously, I have laughed and cried over shared stories and you know better than anyone how much it drives me crazy when people avoid bringing him up, like if his name is not uttered than he never d-i-e-d. More like he never existed. But it's usually one or two memories at a time. I remembered everything, Mom, and in no particular order. I could see his eyes crinkle as he laughed and feel his strong hands as he pushed me higher and higher on the swing-set at Treeborne. I went back to the times he helped me with math homework into the wee hours of the night, when he taught me how to kick-drop a boy to his knees in our living room, working with him at Consortium in my new boots and monogrammed shirt, when he terrified me before Justin came to pick me up for my first car date, our last Christmas together when you set it up to look like the beach vacation he had wanted so badly, when he told me I looked like a "fucking freak" and didn't talk to me for three days after I got my nose pierced, you two dancing in the kitchen, seeing him in the stands (or coaching) from the outfield at every one of my softball games, when he made me cry at BW3's, prom...the memories kept washing over me.

And I panicked again. I was terrified I wouldn't be able to remember all of those special moments and my initial reaction was to write every single one down. Although admittedly not before I got my pen and notebook out, I realized quickly how absolutely ridiculous that train of thought was. If there's one thing I'd like to take from Mount Whitney, it's that I can revisit any memory, no matter how seemingly small, whenever I please. I just have to be open and receptive.

This mess of tears and snot came before I even got to the base of the fricken mountain! I hadn't even got to the hard part yet! I did not want to know how I was going to react when we went to spread his ashes.We started the summit around noon, with hikers you know--Chosen One and Dirtbag. For some reason, I really liked that. A fourth of the way up, Dirtbag told me I need to stop breathing through my nose and work on "pressure breathing" when I'm hiking uphill. Here we are back to the breathe again. His demonstration brought me back to my panic attack at the hospital when I was surrounded on all sides being coached on how to breathe. I'm still at a loss as to why I have such a hard time with something that should be innate. He then proceeded to offer me a drag of his cigarette. In that moment, I couldn't decide if I was in awe or if I hated him. Anyway, Ryan was waiting for me at the Whitney Portal, about half way up our summit, to eat lunch together. He had beat me by about half an hour. Here, Dirtbag yogied two sandwiches, oatmeal, and two cliff bars from day-hikers. In that moment, I was positive I hated him. I wanted that sandwich and Luna bar. My hunger has been astronomical since entering the Sierras.When we were done eating, Ryan insisted on hiking behind me so we could summit together. I was so proud of his unwavering patience and support. Ryan truly is the best of both you and Dad and I am continually impressed by the man he has become. I bet you never thought I'd say that after all the times you walked in on me wailing on him.

When we reached the top around 4:45pm, I was surprised to find only five other hikers, all of which were our fellow thru-hikers. Butters told us how honored he was to share the day with us. Paul told us how, as a father, he knew our dad would be overcome with pride. Dirtbag, Chosen, Snickers, and Soup Nazi let us know that they were all there for whatever type of support we needed. And then they began their long climb down, leaving the entire mountain and her magnificent view to us and us alone. I will forever be grateful to those guys for giving us that moment of solitude.

Ryan and I met half way to lock our circle of ashes around the rock cairn we had made to honor the man who balanced father and friend so well. Before dad got sick my friends told me that if something ever went wrong in my "charmed" life, I would not be prepared to cope. What they failed to realize was that I inherited your strength and dad's fight. When Ryan and I were huddling close for warmth and consolation, I was reminded again of how truly blessed I am. I am surrounded by an overwhelming amount of love and support and spending twenty years with a dad that has earned the title in every way was a privilege. Nothing has ever filled me with more pride than being able to tell people that the great Michael Shepard is my daddy. Not even summitting the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States.

I am always amazed by your strength, Mom. Thank you for being strong enough to carry all four us through those way-too-long and all-too-short 8 months dad was sick. And thank you for being strong enough to make us all get back on the horse after he left us. I know how much this undertaking meant to you, how much it symbolized. I hope, if you don't already, that one day you find it in yourself to recognize all the wonderful things you are because of Dad, but also without him. I love you and want you to know how very present you were on top of Mount Whitney.

Five-ever and always,

Lindsaybins