Reflections on the Mountain

What I’ll remember most about climbing North Africa’s highest mountain is feeling, more than I had in months, like part of a team. Mountains were not meant to be climbed alone. As I traded the stuffy environment of the compound where I live and work for fresh, cool, mountain air, I remembered that sharing life means more than a common unlocked apartment or common weekly meetings. We need to bear each other’s burdens.

So did a mule—need to bear our burdens, that is. We began our two-day ascent at 5,670 feet (1,728 meters). Shortly into our seven-hour voyage to the refuge at 10,428 feet (3,178 meters) on our first day of climbing, we realized that we could either hire a mule or be the mule. We chose wisely. By the end of the day, I hardly needed my GPS watch to tell me we had almost climbed a vertical mile.

We stayed the night at the refuge midway up the mountain and intended to begin the trek to the summit around 8am. What we failed to account for was that everyone else planned to get up at 4:30am. We stayed two nights at the refuge, and on both mornings everyone promptly sprang out of bed just as the first daylight struck the horizon. While we apparently missed the mountain-climbing memo about rising early, we nevertheless hit the trail at a little after 5am.

Regrettably, we did not hit the same trail that others apparently hit. We got off to a good start but somehow meandered off the regularly-trodden path. We had no guide, little light and no one directly in front of us to follow. Following us, however, was a straggler whom Mary, Abdul Muhib, and I invited into our company as we scrambled up the mountain. Our new travel companion had injured herself previously while climbing a different mountain, so her boyfriend joined the 4:30am crowd without her. Hiking straight up the mountain, we shouted down to her, “We’re guessing!” about the path, but she caught up with us anyway.

The thin air must have affected our judgment. Within an hour or two of climbing on rocks and gravel, we faced an unsettling question: How will we get down from here? My understanding of precisely what happened next is similar to the air as we continued to climb: thin. I looked across a small valley and found Abdul Muhib sitting on a boulder down the mountain and across the valley from us. He found a goat trail leading to the traditional path and had taken the trail over and down to it. He summoned us from across the valley. I continued to climb briefly, but soon realized that in order to get to the top of the mountain (which was yet hours away), I was going to have to slide, as safely as possible, from where I had climbed, down to the goat trail. That morning, I relocated parts of a mountain without even mustard-sized faith. Amazingly, after re-landscaping several swaths of the mountain, my jeans had no rips or tears—lots of dirt, but nothing that laundry was unable to handle.

After Mary, Victoria (our straggling friend) and I slid down from where we had climbed and met Abdul Muhib on the path, we climbed a little farther. At 9am or so, we were roughly halfway to the summit. Victoria decided to wait where she was for her boyfriend to return from the top, and Mary stayed with her. Victoria took a picture of the three of us, and then Abdul Muhib and I proceeded toward the summit, located at 13,713 feet (4,180 meters).




We met the 4:30am crew returning down the mountain on our way up. We found Victoria’s boyfriend and told him that she was doing well. He told us we had about two hours of climbing to reach the summit. We climbed slowly, which was both wise and necessary. The 350 miles I had run already in 2006 rarely seemed to be of any use to me. Training in godliness, however, has value for all things. It has been said that there are no atheists in foxholes. I don’t know about foxholes, but I certainly spent extra time talking with God on the scree-laden mountain. Between 12:30pm and 1pm, we finally experienced the view from the top.

Coming down the mountain was a much faster experience for Abdul Muhib and me, but a long, worrisome affair for Mary. She had read something that day by Oswald Chambers on suffering and had begun preparing herself to return home without her two friends. At the refuge, she asked various people what would happen if her friends did not return, and they basically shrugged her off. There were no vehicles in the area and limited cell phone reception. I arrived at the refuge around 4:30pm and was a bit surprised when Mary hugged me for about a minute. She was about to head up the mountain with a search party!











The next couple of days were relatively relaxing. On our return to town from the refuge, we spent one night in a village. From there, the paths were basically level and firm beneath our feet. The two-hour taxi ride back to the major city only took an hour. Alas, that story is for a different day.

The Color BDRH

Chartreuse is a viscous color that
feels like warm scrambled eggs, massaging my esophagus from the tip of my palette to the pit of my gut;
looks like a droplet of dew on the windshield of my solar-powered big wheel;
sounds like a bullfrog, sneaking up on a vacant lily pad;
tastes like a mélange of morning breath, orange juice and tooth paste;
smells like the first whiff of fresh air in a stagnant, musty room.

Father’s Day Non Sequiturs

This morning I attended a church that I formerly attended regularly. This morning was Father’s Day. This morning included two unusual church experiences.

The first involved baked goods. Baked goods during a church service do not bother me. Given my druthers, food would be a more regular part of worship gatherings. What made these baked goods a bit difficult to swallow – initially, at least – was their design: human index fingers. These digit-shaped pastries, complete with triangle-shaped icing for fingernails, signaled “One Way” – a symbolic gesture handed down from the Jesus People, circa the 1960s. Children were invited to pick up a finger to give their fathers. Soon all men (fathers or not) were invited to come up front and select a finger. I found it a touching way to honor men.

The second involved a poster. It depicted a man cuddling a toddler and might have been adorable, had the man in the picture been wearing a shirt. As it were, the only visible clothing was around the tot’s head. I live in a country where many men and women cover their heads, in addition to being otherwise fully clothed. Whenever a quantity of skin is revealed, it tends to be a distraction. In any other context it might not have generated a second thought. The poster was meant, I think, to underscore the importance of fathers in the lives of their children.

My dad once said: “I come from Alabama with a banjo on my knee, and I’m going to Louisiana for a banjo-ectomy.”

Happy Father’s Day!

A Word about Corporate Sponsorship

It’s too bad that Kool-Aid didn’t cash in on World Cup fever. I bet their “man of the match” award would be in good taste.

According to “fun facts” on the Kool-Aid website, more people per capita purchase Kool-Aid in St. Louis than anywhere else in the world. You heard it here first, folks:

World Cup, St. Louis and “Kool-Aid Man”…a winning combination.

If anyone gives a beverage-based award for blogging, my favorite Kool-Aid flavor is blue. Sadly, I got tired of hearing “Oh yeah!” on the Kool-Aid website and gave up without finding a link to blue Kool-Aid.

Ways to Add Zing to Next Year’s Commencement

For brevity’s sake, go with either ‘Pomp’ or ‘Circumstance’.

After “Play ball!” is sung in the National Anthem, start selling hot dogs.

At lull in the program, all distinguished guests on platform rise to perform Riverdance.

During long-winded speeches, show random audience members’ cell phone displays on big screen.

Valedictorian gives entire valedictory speech in voice of Elmer Fudd.

Speakers who give life lessons from comic books instantly become invisible.

Seat toupee-wearers near fans.

Put scratch-and-sniff stickers on diplomas.

Trigger sprinkler system. Inform crowd that graduation is rained out till next year.

Showstoppers

What is it with me, the law and powdered hair?

Over the weekend, I made a faculty cameo appearance as “The Judge” in our high school’s production of Oliver! I drew the most comments for looking thirty years beyond my actual age, thanks largely to profuse amounts of Johnson’s Baby Powder in my hair.

I received many kudos for my curmudgeonly, crotchety portrayal of this character. In my mind, it was sort of a curtain call…not my most memorable performance, and certainly not my crustiest.

Nearly four years ago, I attended a costume party. On a whim of my friend Steve, I went as Moses: The Lawgiver.

We spared no expense on my costume. I Elmer’s Glued a cotton ball beard to my face and dumped the better part of a bottle of baby powder in my hair. Then I scrawled some makeshift commandments on the back of a Papa John’s pizza box. My personal favorite was Commandment Five: “Got Milk?”

When we arrived at the party, I made my grand entrance, announcing, “I AM MOSES…THE LAWGIVER!” At the exact moment the word “lawgiver” exited my mouth, the cotton ball beard, anchored by wet glue, fell straight to the ground.

After a moment of silence, the party continued.

We secured some electrical tape to hold my beard in place for the remainder of the evening. Then we went straight for the glorious food.

Comment dit-on “juice me” en français?

So today was Couscous Friday: School lunch was couscous. Today’s grains of couscous were unusually fine – fine, in the sense that sandpaper can be coarse or fine. As a result, the couscous had a certain “Grape Nuts” quality to it, absorbing all of the liquid with which it came into contact.

Others at my table went back to the lunch line and asked for more juice. I followed their lead, but tried to be cute. Instead of simply asking for more juice, I mixed American slang with broken pseudo-French. I asked, “Comment on dit ‘juice me’ en français?”

The French itself was incorrect. More got lost in translation. My intention was to ask how a person would say “juice me” in French. Instead, my lunch line friend thought I was asking how to request “just meat”. In the midst of my futile attempts to recover and explain that my couscous was thirsty and needed a drink, the lunch line attendant was busy heaping additional morsels of chicken upon my mound of couscous.

If you want more meat in a French-speaking country, the words “juste la viande” may be of value to you.

On future occasions, I think I’ll steer clear of asking anyone to “juice me”.