Michelin Man

An abundance of colors waved me forward as fluttering yellowish-gold and reddish-orange leaves ensconced the trail.  Stubborn patches of lush green randomly appeared to offer a drenching overload of visual stimulation to an already breathtakingly beautiful high country dirt bike ride.  The flow of the single track carpeted with dew-speckled aspen leaves had pegged my fun meter deeply into the addiction range.  My thirst for adventure was steadily being quenched with every roll of the throttle and twist and turn in the trail.  The crisp fall air interlaced with lingering summer and hints of winter assaulted my senses and forced giggles to erupt spontaneously behind my face shield.  I was having fun.  I was having a lot of fun, right up until I misjudged a hard cut and narrow turn and plowed my left foot into a tree. The pain raced up my leg and immediately overwhelmed me.  My fun factor plummeted to zero.  Initial thoughts cried broken foot, but a few stretches and flexes subdued my worst fears.  Yet, the nerves in my big toe screamed for some attention.  “Maybe just a fractured toe”, I finally surmised.  Riding behind, my son stopped to check on me, but there wasn’t much he could do.  I grimaced as I examined our plight.  We were a long ways from home in the bottom of a deep canyon and my “shifter” foot was begging to be propped up and iced up.  My son asked, “What now?”

I swallowed a couple of Advil and cringed.  “We ride.”

The ride out was tough.  I couldn’t shift very well.  I was hurting.  I couldn’t focus, and I had lost my nerve.  The switchbacks didn’t go well as I proceeded to lay my bike over three more times on the climb out of the canyon.  Finally, after several maddening attempts, I made it to the top.  I was exasperated, pain-challenged, tired, and dirty.  I protested and groaned my complaints loudly.  My son offered some sympathy, and then he casually reminded me of a very important point.  “At least you didn’t let your falls outnumber your get-back-ups.”

This is a picture of a “segmented” or “jointed” saguaro cactus affectionately called “Michelin Man”.  I’m not sure anybody really knows what causes the jointed “Tinkertoy” appearance.  I have heard “experts” say that environmental factors like hard freezes cause cell mutations that force the saguaro arms to stop growing and then start again.  No matter the reason though, it is a fascinating occurrence in nature that doesn’t show up very often.  In fact, the unique character of the “segmented” saguaro keeps it high on the seek-and-find list for many Sonoran desert hikers.  

When I first went looking for “Michelin Man”, I expected my first reaction to be “interesting”.  However, upon experiencing “Michelin Man” first hand, I found myself staring in wide-eyed fascination.  It was much more than interesting.  Personally, I felt like applauding “Michelin Man” and exclaiming “well done” to the Carnegiea gigantea because the mighty cactus exemplified epic persistence.  Whether it was internal or external causes that hindered growth, it was obvious that the cactus simply refused to quit.  Despite factors that pressured it to stop growing, it struggled through the resistance time and time again.  And through it all, it developed a character worthy of visitation that far exceeds most ordinary saguaros.  “Michelin Man” has a character that attracts hikers from all over the world simply because it never gave up.  There is much that can be learned from the persistent desert dweller, “Michelin Man”.

It doesn’t really matter what we do or what we try to achieve.  It doesn’t matter if it’s physical or spiritual.  There will always be outside forces that are going raise their ugly heads and make us want to quit.  There will be naysayers.  There will be critics.  There will be obstacles.  There will be resistance.  Some of it may even be self-inflicted.  Maybe we failed horribly somewhere along the way, and we lost our nerve.  Maybe we experienced pain along the trail.  Maybe we are trapped in a quagmire of self-pity and shame.  Maybe we just lost focus and fell down.  Who cares!  Get back up!  Keep trying!  Keep growing!

“But as for you, be strong and do not give up, for your work will be rewarded.””

‭‭2 Chronicles‬ ‭15:7‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Will it be fun making the climb?  Will it be fun pushing through the pain?  Will it be fun trying to grow again?  Maybe.  Maybe not.  People have widely different ideas of fun and most of it depends on each individual’s perspective.  One person’s mountain is another’s motivation.  No matter the enjoyment factor, however, the resistance we meet and feel on our way to the goal will develop some outstanding character as long as we don’t give up!

Although not intentional, James A. Michener described the “Michelin Man” cactus very well when he penned, “Character consists of what you do on the third and fourth tries.”  Notice, in his statement, that character is dependent on multiple tries.  Most of the time, one-and-done will not produce that “special character”. 

I had to admit with a nod of agreement and a little bit of fatherly pride, my son was correct.  It didn’t matter how many times I fell.  It mattered more that my falls didn’t exceed my “get-back-ups”.  In life, physically and spiritually, the only real failure, and the one we must avoid at all costs, is to not get back up.

“No amount of falls will really undo us if we keep on picking ourselves up each time. We shall of course be very muddy and tattered children by the time we reach home.........The only fatal thing is to lose one’s temper and give it up.”

– C.S. Lewis, in a letter to Mary Neylan, January 20, 1942

Hesperus

Ever since I was a little boy Hesperus Peak, stoically posed amid the La Plata Mountains of Colorado, has enthralled me.  No matter where I’ve been, Hesperus Peak has always been the first to welcome me back to the area.  Like a giant sentinel standing firm at it’s post, it reliably announces from afar that I’m almost home.  At 13,237 feet, it stands out as the tallest and most obvious of the La Plata Mountains which sweep South from the rest of the mighty San Juan Mountains.  There is contention whether Lavender Peak is taller, but there is little debate over which mountain dominates the landscape of Southwestern Colorado.  Even the Navajo have long held Hesperus as one of their Sacred Mountains.  It is the Northernmost Mountain overlooking their homeland as well.

Hesperus Mountain is not a fourteener; nor is it a centennial thirteener.  As a result, it remains off the radar.  It doesn’t demand technical gear therefore it doesn’t impress climbers and experienced hikers can usually find something much more elegant.  So why climb it?

Part of the allure is the physical challenge.    The Southern approach will test your endurance with about 4000 ft vertical and seven miles one way.  Part of the allure is the navigational challenge.  There is no established trail so route finding skills are a necessity.  Part of the allure is the solitude.  Very few people climb it because it has no claim to fame so it is very likely the serenity of silence will ring.  But, for me personally, the real reason for climbing any mountain is always captured somewhere on the way up.  I believe a mountain is only truly conquered when a person reaches the summit a better human being than when they started.

As I was navigating the long climb up the Western ridge, my son was following my trail.  I never told him to follow my path up the steep slopes, but he did anyways.  He trusted me to choose and lead the best route.  If I had chosen a longer path, he would have followed.  If I had chosen a dangerous path, he probably still would have followed.

French novelist René Daumal once penned in Mount Analogue, “Be ready to answer to your fellow men for the trail you leave behind you.”

In essence, no matter where we go in life, we will leave a trace of our passage.  Even when we don’t intend to, there will be evidence of what trail we took through life.

High above tree line, I suddenly realized that I would be held accountable for the trail I left for my son to follow on the mountain and in life.

Somewhere near 12,500 feet, It became clear that I had better do my best to take the right path and leave a trail with no regrets.

At 13,000 feet, my son and I both felt we had a better understanding of ourselves and each other.

At 13,237 feet, my son and I truly conquered Hesperus Mountain!

The Horrors of War

The scene below was full of wild, remote, and untamed beauty.  Snow blanketed tree-lined ridges wiggled their way up to conspicuous towering summits before falling away again into deep foreboding canyons.  Over and over the scene repeated itself as multiple mountain ranges slid underneath the wings.  A young man watched the rugged terrain slip by with nervous apprehension as he was flown deeper into the vast wilderness.  He knew very well the harshness and unforgiving nature of the mountainous winter lying hidden just beneath the surface of the fresh blanket of snow.  He knew that deep snow brought about many dangers and high elevations brought sub-freezing temperatures and complete isolation.  Self-reliance and adaptability were paramount to survival.  He swallowed hard to rewet his parched throat.  He didn’t look forward to what was coming.  It was a mission he had been trained for, but was never really mentally prepared to undertake.  It was a mission not to be taken lightly.  He could possibly save lives or possibly lose his for nothing.  There was no way to know until he was already committed.  He could feel his muscles tightening as his anxiety pricked his nerves.  Fear of the unknown loosely coiled around him and began to constrict.  He glanced at his partner for a confident affirmation.  He got none.  Even in the cold drafty aircraft cabin, his partner was sweating bullets.  Despite their mutual uneasiness, they were getting close to their destination.  Time was short.  The young man swallowed hard again as his breathing dramatically increased.  Like a freight train bearing down on him, the reality of the upcoming mission steamed unflinchingly closer.

The pilot pulled the power back, and the young man felt the aircraft slow it’s airspeed.  With a wave the pilot indicated they had reached the destination.  The pilot casually banked the aircraft into a 360 degree turn.  The young man peered through the cabin door window and caught a glimpse of the target below.  He grimaced.  They had indeed arrived.  The young man yanked open the cabin door and was met by a blast of swirling arctic air that immediately made his eyes tear up.  He slipped his goggles over his leather helmet and squatted in the doorway.  He waited for the pilot to position the aircraft upwind of a nearby clearing and give the signal.

Quietly, the young man ran through a checklist in his head while he waited.  It helped to keep his attention diverted from the bone-chilling cold.  His heart was firing like a machine gun in his chest.  He was, quite literally, about to jump into a hell that was frozen over.  He silently hoped it was worth it.

The aircraft’s tail wiggled back and forth, and then the pilot gave a thumbs up.  With a cringe, the young man inhaled deeply, and then he launched himself into the frigid airstream.  Like getting slapped with multiple porcupine tails, the needling wind pierced his bare skin.  He felt the initial surge of acceleration as he tumbled away from the aircraft.  A quick glimpse of his partner exiting the aircraft provided little comfort as gravity flexed it’s muscle against his body and displayed utter supremacy.  With very little altitude, free fall time was short.  The young man pulled hard on his parachute handle, and then prayed.  Agonizingly slow, the canopy fabric deployed above him.  With a reassuring tug, the parachute blossomed above forcing a sigh of relief to purr across his lips.  Thirty seconds later he was buried up to his waist in snow.  Immersed in a suffocating cocoon of powdery white, even the sound of the distant aircraft’s engine was muffled and barely audible.

He wiggled out of his parachute harness and wormed his way to the top of the snow.  He unstrapped his snowshoes and made ready for his mission.  With a 360 turn, he surveyed his surroundings.  He had landed in the middle of the large alpine clearing as planned.  His partner had landed closer to the tree-lined northern edge.  With a confirmation of bearings and a final equipment check, the young man put his head down and started trekking Northwest towards the unknown.  Uncertainty hung like a dismal fog over the evergreen forest ahead.  He was sure he would find death within the shadows.  The snow and trees could not conceal the smell.  It wasn’t the smell of decay.  It was the smell of dread and fear mixed with blood.  He had smelled it before in Korea.  As a field medic during the war he had seen some horrible things.  Men lying in pools of their own blood trying to fish intestines back into their bodies.  Dazed soldiers with missing limbs wandering around the battlefield.  It was nightmarish.  It was the horrors of war.  He was sure he would never be able to shake it.  He was sure he would never forget it.  Even here now, the horror of war lingered in the air.  He could sense it.  Yet despite his trepidation, the hope for life motivated his snow-labored steps forward.  “If only there is one, it is worth it,” he whispered.  “Let there be at least one.”

Foreign and unnatural for the setting, the object sticking out of the snow confirmed their arrival.  The young man and his partner stopped for a moment to survey the site.  The fresh snow was undisturbed.  There were no footprints.  There was no sign of life.  The place was eerily quiet and almost spooky.  Nearby mature pine trees with tops chopped off offered clues to the violence that had occurred earlier.  The young man looked towards the large object sticking out of the snow.  It was the target he had seen from above.  It was a main landing gear with torn and shredded rubber.  On a steep hillside, the upside down landing gear had been uncovered by the vicious swirling mountain winds.  The young man edged his snowshoes into the hillside to start the climb.  Two steps up, he immediately stopped.  The snow under his snowshoes was turning red.  He instantly knew what it was.  Blood.

His partner grabbed his shoulder and pointed at something black in the snow.  It was the sole of a boot.  The young man reached for it and pulled on it.  With very little effort the entire boot came out with a human foot and severed leg still attached.  The young man swallowed hard to force the bile rising in his throat back down.  The urge to purge his stomach was strong.  He immediately dropped the leg and backed away.  Something under the snow tripped him, and he fell and slid.  In his sliding trackway, a twisted mangled hand emerged out of the snow.  He struggled to get up but fell again.  This time he was greeted by a lifeless face lurking just under the surface of the snow.  The young man turned his head and erupted into a violent bout of vomiting.  His partner turned away and pulled out a radio.  With a click of a button he remorsefully reported, “No survivors!”

It is not really possible to explain the overwhelming sadness that accompanies a visit to Pat Hollow in the Bear River Mountains of Idaho.  Well off the beaten path, amidst wildflowers, limber pine trees, mountain streams, squirrels, bears, and moose, the crash site of a C-46 military transport plane carrying thirty seven soldiers returning home from Korea is guarded by a lone granite monument as well as by the trees that were impacted by the aircraft so long ago.  After over 65 years, much of the gruesome details have been lost to time and that is probably for the best.  It was a heart wrenching accident that killed 37 young soldiers and the flight crew which included two pilots and one stewardess.  In total, 40 young lives were lost on that fateful January 6, 1953 flight.  All of the soldiers were returning home, most of them having served on the front lines in Korea.  The young men were anxious to get back to family and loved ones they had been separated from for so long.  All of the soldiers were thankful they had survived the war and were excited to be starting new chapters in their lives.  Having dodged flying bullets, shrapnel, mortar fire, and grenades overseas, none of them expected the horrors of war to intercept them violently in the snowy mountains of Idaho - so close to home.

Flight 1-6-6A departed Seattle, Washington enroute to Fort Jackson, South Carolina extremely heavy and overloaded.  The first stop for the journey home was scheduled as Cheyenne, Wyoming, but it never arrived.  Severe turbulence and ice were identified in the accident report as probable causes for the crash.  The C-46 was noted to be on a Northwesterly flight path before impact which implies that the pilots were trying to return to Milad, Idaho.  There is really no way to know exactly what happened, but chances are the C-46 Commando encountered extreme icing conditions and with the combination of it’s already heavy weight, ice accumulation, and turbulence, it could not hold altitude.

For aviators, ice is nothing but an evil.  It collects and builds on critical surfaces and components.  In some conditions, it can accumulate very quickly - too quickly.  Engines can choke on it while propellers lose efficiency.  It destroys lift, adds weight, decreases thrust, and increases drag.  And the longer the airframe is exposed to it, the worse it gets.  It is the bane of aviation and requires immediate action.  It is not acceptable to wait and do nothing.

Near the granite monument, there is an Eagle Scout project that has been erected.  It provides more detailed information about the crash, and inspired the writing of this article and it’s title - the horrors of war.

After some time looking at the Eagle Scout project and the granite monument, my family and I worked our way up the hillside where the C-46 impacted the ground.  We spent a half hour looking for shards of wreckage.  There is very little left to find, but, surprisingly, my wife found a piece of aluminum from the C-46 aircraft.  While I continued my own slow search along the wild flower carpeted and rock infested hillside, I started thinking about the horrors of war.  Just the statement alone conjures up many unwelcome thoughts.  Not only do battle unpleasantries come to mind, but war crimes and crimes against humanity charge into the forefront.  Atrocities like the Holocaust, the Bataan Death March, and the Rape of Belgium slide out of their holes and, truly, make our skins crawl.  How could Man be so evil?  Sadly, there have been so many horrors in mankind’s history that, if nothing else, they have solidly demonstrated the fall and depravity of Man.  Will it stop?  Probably not, but it depends on what is in the heart of Man.  Will Man turn his heart back to God?

In the Book of Jeremiah it is written that “The heart is deceitful above all things and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” (Jeremiah‬ ‭17:9‬ ‭NIV‬‬)

That scripture doesn’t bode well for those wanting world peace.  Can’t we all just get along?  No, because evil lurks in the shadowy hearts of some, and it doesn’t care about laws, human rights, or human life.  It is very likely that evil will rise again and good men and women will be called upon to battle it.  Much like flying into icing conditions, action must be taken or everyone on board the flight loses.  It is simply inexcusable to do nothing.  The parliamentarian Edmund Burke has often been attributed with the statement;  “All that is necessary for evil to triumph in the world is for enough good men to do nothing."  How apropos!

All forty names of those lost on Flight 1-6-6A are etched in the granite monument.  Below the monument is a perimeter of stones that encircle bits and pieces of wreckage that people have found over the years.  To add to the collection is just another way to honor and remember those that answered the call to stand against evil and bravely defend our freedoms. 

My wife took a picture of the fragment of metal that she had found and then let it drop with a “clink” into the collection at the base of the monument.  It was a fitting end to our visit.

It is a terrible thing - the horrors of war, but an even worse thing, in my opinion, is the inaction of good men and women to stand against evil.  Over time, the horrors of war have a tendency to scar over and fade from memory, but remembering those who have fought and died battling evil should never fade.  They faced the horrors of war so that we didn’t have to.  That honor should last forever!