Ryan's Mt Whitney

Let me preface this post by saying that it has been a goal of mine on this trip to be honest with myself and with the others in my life. As such, I am going to attempt to convey all of my feelings that are associated with this experience, good and bad, and I hope to have the confidence and courage to continue to share in the future because this journey has a way of creating and resurfacing countless experiences and emotions that I usually would keep locked inside. So here goes...


The few days before Whitney were very emotional. Out here on the trail walking 8-10 hours per day, one has quite a bit of time to think, no, an excessive amount of time to think. For me, the majority of my thoughts are divided between maybe three or four different main categories. Disregarding the other subjects of my thoughts for now, I often contemplate the many reasons why I am hiking this trail. An important motive of mine for hiking the Pacific Crest Trail is that I am hiking for my Dad. It is true that we found a cause to hike for in my father's cancer in that a goal of this trip has been to raise funds for and spread awareness of brain tumors; however, this adventure is so much more personal than that. With every step we take, milestone we surpass, and struggle we endure, we seek to remember, honor, and live for our father and carry him with us as we go.

As we hiked out of Kennedy Meadows toward the highlights and extremes of our journey, our emotions were high, yet turbulent, knowing that summiting the highest peak in the contiguous Southern 48 states on the 16th of June held so much significance for us. I don't like to admit it, but I secretly cried on several occasions during the three day hike to the base of Mt Whitney as I remembered my Dad and re-experienced the emotions that I felt during the year of his illness.

Looking back, even though I'm sure I can say that I knew it then too, I realize that my senior year of high school was a selfish point in my life. I was wrapped up in my own life, wanting to spend all of my time focusing on my extracurriculars and my friends. I was going through seemingly radical life changes as I worked toward graduation, completed an exciting and emotional season of marching band, joined new programs, made new friends, came to accept and share parts of my life that I never had with others, and applied to the college that would begin a new chapter in my life.

My dad was diagnosed with an aggressive glioblastoma in his cerebellum close to his brainstem in October of 2007. He died in June. Those were a fast eight months. Something that I have kept buried inside, with the exception of a select few close friends, is that I feel responsible for his death. You may think that I am being a bit overly melodramatic, but it is true that I feel an overwhelming guilt over his passing.

I am a firm believer that having a social support system when battling an illness greatly increases one's chance of remission, recovery, and survival. Just the mere presence of others who care can be a determining factor in the success or failure of recovery. This can be attributed to several factors; family and friends can aid in the actual recovery process by offering emotional support or even helping the patient regain the muscle strength he or she once possessed; a support system often causes doctors to unconsciously be more attentive toward and provide more sufficient care to the patient; the ill will likely experience a greater motivation to try to recover on his or her own; or the natural infrared radiation that a person emits has healing properties (e.g. vascular dilation, increased blood-oxygen levels, increased white blood count, decreased free-radicals, etc.) that increases exponentially with the more and more people that closely surround the sick person. My regret: I don't feel that I offered as much support as I could have.

As I said before, those eight months flew by so fast. He was my dad and I didn't want to believe that he could die from this cancer, would die from this cancer. I continued to live my life as I would have if he had still been healthy. I feel like I hardly ever visited him in the hospital. I seldom kept him company when he was home. I didn't do what I could have to help him improve and regain his strength. He was often limited to the couch while I was off hanging out with my friends. I was a terrible son. He hadn't raised me to be that way. He was the man that threatened to break out of the hospital to come to my Senior Night for Marching Band to walk me down the 50 yard line when the doctors said it was against their medical advice for him to leave. He made it just in the nick of time to escort me down the field. He was the man that wouldn't miss his son accept his diploma at his high school graduation. He was there for me. I wasn't there for him.

The worst part of it is, I spent so much time during those months mad at him, or not necessarily mad at him, but mad at the world for making him sick and inconveniencing my life. Inconveniencing MY life?! What the hell was I thinking? I was so naive. That tumor took away so much from him: his livelihood, much of his mobility, even some of his light. But all I could focus on was how his cancer affected me. My parents were always stuck at the hospital and never home. I would have to fend for myself. I had to go out of my way to run errands. I had to be in a house with a man who was frustrated and emotionally hurt because his body had betrayed him. His illness had really put me out. I still can't believe how much growing up I had to do.
I miss my Dad. I really miss my Dad. Because of my naivety during those eight months and the several months following his death, I sometimes struggle to remember him as he was before he got sick. I know he was a great man. Because of my selfishness, I didn't spend nearly enough time with him before he died. I can't remember having one deep or meaningful conversation with him during that time. Everything I know about how he was feeling or what he was experiencing, I heard second hand. I so wish that I had the opportunity to go back to listen, to converse, and to share with him. I wish I had the sense to realize that life is short and we all struggle for more time. I wish I knew how short those eight months would be.

From where we had left our gear at the PCT/Whitney Trail junction, it was an 8.6 mile slack pack to the top of Whitney. Explagrance and I set out with several other thru hikers to conquer the beast. The day was perfect. The greens of the trees and the grays of the granite where only made more brilliant as they sat against the backdrop of the intensely blue sky accented by flawless white clouds. It was that perfect temperature where the sun's warm light was cooled by the steady gentle breeze. Squirrels and marmots enjoyed the weather too, absorbing the sun's rays as they relaxed by the majestic glacial lakes that sat beneath the towering granite. The climb got your adrenaline pumping and your senses stimulated. It was a constant battle to try to take in every single cliff, every single boulder, every single stone. The steep grade and the switchbacks only intensified the excitement and anticipation. It was nearly the same view the whole way up the switchbacks but the panoramas only got better the higher I climbed. As I ascended higher and higher, came closer and closer to the top, the emotions and memories kept flooding in.

I remembered calling my mom on just another day in October to see what the nightly plan was. She told me that I was on my own that night. No big deal. I was highly capable of fending for myself. A night alone wasn't anything out of the ordinary. The strange part came when I asked her what was keeping her and dad from being home. She refused to tell me. At first I thought she was just messing around by not telling me where she was or what she was doing but she held strong even after much persistent questioning. This really confused me because she never really kept anything so mundane as where she was from me. Eventually, I let it go. The following day, she came home, walked me over to the living room couch, and told me to sit. I knew something was up. When she told me about the tumor, I don't think I understood the gravity of the situation at first; but then, I never really was the type to jump to the worst possible scenario. I have always been the kind of person to carefully consider the details of the situation and seek positive solutions. As she told me what she knew and the possible treatment options, I don't think the concern had completely settled in. It wasn't until I called my best friend - who happened to be on vacation in Mexico out of comfort's reach - during a pit stop on the way to the hospital that I finally broke down and cried.

I remembered going in to the hospital with my mom and Lindsay the night before his operation. We sat with him in his bed, talking and laughing. He was so brave on the outside. I can only imagine the kind of fear and concern he felt on the inside, not necessarily for himself, but for his wife and for his children.

I remembered the morning of his surgery, watching the nurses shave his head to prep him for the leads. I remember having to avoid saying goodbyes and only saying, "we'll see you after the procedure." I remember having to be strong and choke down the tears so as to not upset him as he was wheeled down the hall. I remembered having to wait for what seemed like an eternity until the doctor came in to tell us they were having technological difficulties and had to delay the surgery. I remember having to wait even longer until we were able to see him in the ICU. I remember watching him get better, then worse, better, then worse.

I remembered the day that the doctors told us to call any family and friends to come say their goodbyes while he was still coherent. I remembered making that phone call to our neighbor, his honorary daughter, Lauren, and being unable to get the words out, choking on my own tears.

I remembered sitting in the white hospital hallway as the long line of friends and family shuffled in to see him one last time. He was loved by so many.

I remembered the worst night of my life, the last night of his. The hours were getting late and everyone was falling asleep. I sat in a chair next to his bed, silently vowing to stay awake all night so he wouldn't have to be alone. With the lights turned out and everyone curled up in hospital chairs, I continued to watch the only thing visible in the room. I stared at the hospital monitor, watching every inhale, every exhale. Every so often, there would be a pause in his breath and fear would overtake my body. But I choked back any sound of emotion, trying to be sure not to wake him or any of the others. Twice, the nurse came in to check his vitals, both times commenting, "still awake?" The next time the lights went out, I fell asleep. I didn't make it through the whole night. I had left him alone. My mom woke me the next morning. The nurse had told her it was time. My dad was asleep, his breathing getting more and more shallow. We held his hands and told him we love him. None of us could hold back our tears.

I waited for Lindsay to catch up to me at the Whitney Portal trail junction about 2/3 of the way to the top. I wanted to make sure we summited together. After the Portal, the terrain became rockier and the cliffs more dramatic. We had to climb over rock piles and make our way through a honeycombed snow field. The top was in sight. As we crossed the threshold and stood higher than anyone in the Southern 48, we found love and support waiting for us from the other thru-hikers we had started this climb with. We were told what an honor it was to be with us on this day. We were told how proud our father would be that we had made this ascent for him on this day, that we had even set out on this mad journey. Those guys were amazing that day.

After the excitement over the summit died down, the guys left us alone on the peak so that we could have time to ourselves. The generosity of the trail community continues to amaze me. I don't know how we could ever repay them.

Lindsay and I took some time to gather our thoughts and execute our intentions, but the weather was turning and the temperature dropping. We collected stones and climbed down to a flat ledge that overlooked the incredible mountains and glacial lakes below. The view was truly magical. We used the stones to construct a simple rock cairn in our Dad's memory. He was good with his hands, always able to fix or build anything. As if the world knew the importance of this day, my phone picked up a single bar of reception. It was all we needed.

We had planned to spread our father's ashes at the top of Mt Whitney with our mom. We had thought that Whitney would be the most symbolic place to honor him. We knew that those ashes were no longer him. For us, the act would be purely metaphorical. This hike is not something that would generally be in our mom's comfort zone; it would require her to take a leave of absence from work, she would have to leave the comforts of home, and, most of all, she would constantly have to face her greatest fear: heights. For us and our mom, hiking the PCT and climbing Mt Whitney are meant to show that we are continuing to live our lives. We remain a strong family. We take risks. We embark on the adventures that we used to only dream of. This journey is meant to show that we live for our Dad and carry him in our hearts. This hike is something that could have come from his dreams. Unfortunately, our mom was forced to get off trail before she was able to summit Whitney. That single bar of reception let her share in this incredible and emotional experience.

We were able to facetime and call our mom. She could see the awe-inspiring view. We could tell her how much we love and miss her. We could tell her how much we wish she was with us for this ascent. She was with us. We hope she knows.

We sat around the rock cairn on that ledge for quite some time. We remembered. We thanked. We honored. We opened the small vials of ashes and spread them in a circle around the cairn. It was up on that mountain that I remembered that he will always be with me. Even if I have trouble picturing a memory of him, I take comfort knowing that I carry him in my heart. I carry 50% of him in my genes. I carry him in the lessons he taught me and in the way I was raised. Whether or not he looks down on us from a better place or his energy has dissipated into the world to become something new, I know that his influence on me, in life and in death, has shaped and continues to shape me into the man I am today.

Thank you, Dad. If ever I begin to get the crazy idea to quit this trail before I finish, I will remember the phrase you once said, "You a'int seen the fight in this dog!"

Love,
Ryan