Feeling Odd in Colorado

I was a real oddball in Colorado, let me tell you.

It happened on the Herman Gulch hiking trail.

I always try to witness for Christ on hiking trails. This is because I feel closer to God in his beautiful creation, and because people actually talk to each other on hiking trails!

It's true!

Say hello on the street, and people react as if you carry airborne Ebola.

Say hello on the trail, and people smile as I say, "How far is it to the top? This is so nice! I love your dogs!!"

So, I tried to witness on the hiking trail.

I said to two young women, "Praise God for his beautiful creation!"

They blinked at each other.

I know what they were thinking: "Oh, NO! We've connected with a God nut! He's gonna try to make us kneel and pray on the trail and the rocks will make our knees hurt! And he'll probably try to sell us special Bibles and crosses and DVDs and retirement plans at Christian resorts!"

I walked on, mildly deflated.

Another group of five young people met me at the very top of Herman Gulch trail.  (You can see a photograph of me in the blog below, taken after these kind people gave me oxygen and CPR and called a chopper to airlift me out).

I said to them, "I love these mountains! You  know, I first really believed in God when I first saw the Rocky Mountains. I thought, 'Man didn't make those mountains and man ain't movin' em.'"

Silence.

One girl, sitting on a nearby rock, looked at her friends and they looked back.

The girl was thinking, "What planet did this guy fall off of--and how can we transport him back? I hope he doesn't keep talking or I'll have to drown myself in this icy mountain lake!"

I walked away, really deflated.

Thank God for gatherings of believers!

In Breckenridge (which is a ski town somewhere at stratospheric level in the mountains) there was this little white storefront church.

It didn't look like a church.

I almost missed it.

But I noticed a sign that said, "The Bridge."

That sounds like the title for a church, I thought.

So I looked at the bulletin board. And it was!

So, that Sunday morning, I walked down from the condo my sister and her husband had rented, found a Starbucks (eureka!!) then went to church.

The group of about 25 believers had a praise team (including an electric violin!), a social time with donuts and coffee and a very young, curly-haired pastor named "Pastor Jimmy" (I never did hear his last name). They were mostly young people (everybody's young in Colorado!) in their suitably scruffy attire.

It was such a great thing to sing praises, hear "Pastor Jimmy" preach from the book of Revelation, and mingle with these believers!

It took the label "Oddball" off my chest.

I felt OK again!

Here is a photo I took inside the little church on my cell phone:

Don't ya just love it?

It's been a long time since I was actually hungry for the Word of God.

Here I was filled.

Thanks, Pastor Jimmy!

On to Colorado!

Somehow I managed to put two trips into one vacation.

Call it "creating a diverse adventure."

But, more accurately, you would call it "lack of planning."

The first trip was to the Knobstone Trail in Southern Indiana. You can read that tragic story in my last entry below. The second was to see my sister Susie in Denver, Colorado.

Susie had graciously given me airline tickets to fly to Denver to see her for six days. She understands that when I accept a trip to Colorado it includes some serious day hiking also.

A new adventure!

So, full of hope and anticipation of a better experience, I begged a ride from a good friend down to Indianapolis International Airport early Thursday morning. I was to hop on a plane at 6 am. I needed a ride because one of our cars was down and both my kids work.

Full of joy, I rode with my friend to Indy and waved him off--sure this was going to be the good part of vacation. As my friend drove away, I walked with fresh, innocent eyes to the Frontier Airlines desk and presented my e-ticket.

The woman looked at my ticket and said, "This ticket is for Friday."

I looked at my ticket.

I looked at the woman.

I looked at my ticket.

This could not be denied. Somehow, in my anticipation, in my eagerness, I had convinced myself that I was leaving Thursday.

But I wasn't leaving until Friday.

How was it possible for me to have done this?

And my friend had driven off.

And I had no car.

And I was 24 hours early for my flight! That's 24 hours!

The woman, now looking at me with pitying eyes, said, "We'll get you on a flight for today. But it might cost you an extra $50."

I breathed with relief. After all, this is a vacation, I thought. I have some extra cash. I'll just think of this as a vacation expense.

So the kindly Frontier woman made a phone call. She talked to the unseen person on the other end. She waited, then talked some more. She talked and talked on my behalf.

Then she looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, but to get you on a flight today will cost $295."

I sank into despair. I was too proud to call my friend back to Indianapolis--he had just pulled a trailer halfway across the nation, for crying out loud! I couldn't call my family because one of our cars was down.

What was I gonna do?

Suddenly the kindly Frontier woman handed me coupons.

"These are for 'distressed passengers,'" she said. "The hotel shuttle can pick you up at the airport."

Well, I certainly am a "distressed passenger," I thought. These prices aren't too bad. I can catch up on my sleep, read a little, then it will be time to go.

Wrong.

I slept as long as I could. I had not brought a good book, I found. I sat around. Walked around. Watched senseless cable television.

Staying at a hotel is fun when you have a purpose there. But when you're there because you're stupid and are waiting 24 hours for a flight--not so much.

I called my wife a lot!

"Hey, how ya DOIN'!" I asked my wife. "What's going ON?"

"You should call your friend at Indianapolis," my long-suffering wife said. "He'd love to see you."

So I did. Several times. No return call.

"He's busy," I moaned to my wife. "He's away somewhere. So....whatcha doin now?"

It's not like I could walk and visit some shops or a bookstore. This hotel was almost in the airport. All I could see from my window was car rental garages and airplane hangars.

Then, the final blow.

That afternoon, they kicked me out of the hotel.

Not because of my behavior. Because the room rate is from 3 pm to 3 pm, check out time.

I engaged in a few moments of hatred toward the hotel.

Then, at about 4:30, I went back to the airport. To wait 12 more hours.

In the airport. All night.

I gave myself up to despair. One of the airport guys showed me a good bench to sleep on. I  bought a really good book (because I would be reading for a really long time).

I can do this, I thought with sinking heart. I can make this work.

Unhappily, I sat down.

Then my Indianapolis friend called.

"NORM!!" I said! "It's so good to HEAR from you! HEY, how ya been DOIN'?"

You can guess the rest. My good pal Norm would not allow me to stay at the airport--he picked me up and gave me a good, soft bed for the night, then took me back in the morning.

I can't really think of a moral to this story except:

1.. Don't be stupid with your airline ticket dates.

2. Treat all your friends REALLY well, because you might need them later!

3. God loves me because he made this work out. 

4. He loves you too.

End note:

This is a photo of me at the top of Herman Gulch Trail in Colorado at 12,000 feet:

 

 

 



Braving the Knobstone Trail

Well,  my hike is over. And I wanted to reassure my tens of readers that I'm alive.

As I sit here by the computer while my wife paints a British-style subway sign for our wall, I'll try to recount the details.

My friend and I planned to go backpacking for about 26 miles on the Knobstone Trail in Southern Indiana. We had two and a half days...how hard can that be?

So, Sunday night we rushed down to the trail in two vehicles, leaving clean water at two trail heads (because of the recent drought) and a car at the beginning and end of our hike. By the time we returned to our beginning point darkness was falling. And in the darkness I managed to assemble my little nylon pup tent wrong.

So it collapsed.

Not a good beginning.

But, forever optimistic, I tried again and got it almost right. Night fell with a cool fog, the chirping of innocent crickets, and the urge to sleep.

Good luck.

The thing about sleeping on the ground is that ground is HARD! I had a foam sleeping pad that backpackers carry, but it was a thin, cheap one, not the quality, self-inflating one my partner had. So as he snored softly and peacefully in his tent, I did the kind of thing you do with hot dogs on a barbecue. You know, turn and turn and turn them so they cook nicely on all sides.

I turned and turned and turned on my foam pad. When I found comfort, I drifted off. Until the pressure on my hip bone and shoulder got bad. Then I woke up and turned over. Often. All through the night.

I think I got about two and a half hours of actual sleep. But in the morning, I felt energized after a delicious instant oatmeal breakfast cooked on my new MSR Pocket Rocket Stove. I felt ready to hike. The deep woods was calling us! Adventure!

It felt so good to be walking in the deep woods. Nothing but trees in every direction, and not even the sound of traffic. The birds were singing, the daylight brightly shining.

There was one problem.

My backpack.

How could I have possibly checked every single item in this pack for weight, and still come up with this kind of load?

My completed pack weighed about 30-35 pounds, but after the first ten hills it felt like 900 pounds dragging me toward the earth. Does moisture in the air collect in backpacks and make them heavier?

And my partner...he was a man of steel! He just walked and walked and walked at this amazing rate of speed, never seeming to actually have to breathe. His backpack didn't bother him! I think he could have carried a mule without noticing.

I began to wonder if I'd made a bit of a mistake.

After about five hours of hiking we hit our first major snag. At the Rutherford section of the trail, we crossed this dirt road and were met with a sign that said this part of the Knobstone Trail was being logged and we weren't allowed in and don't even try it because if you do you'll be met by a conservation officer who will order you to leave in a harsh, critical tone of voice.

My buddy and I looked at each other. We had no car. Someone probably traveled this road about every two weeks. Or three.

"We have to try it," we agreed. "We don't have a car."

So we tried it, climbing this huge hill (I think the hills were gaining altitude--possibly a seismic thrust from deep within the earth).

The former trail was a wreck. Bulldozer treads had removed every trace of the trail, chain saws had slaughtered trees--including the trees with white blazes that showed we were actually on the trail and not in Alabama. The ground itself was rutted and filled with roots that turned your ankle every third step. After fruitlessly looking for blazes for most of an hour, we surrendered and labored back to the road.

And stood there.

Suddenly, we heard a motor. And saw an older guy on a four-wheeler putting down the road toward us. He had all the time in the world. He didn't have to walk 26 miles in less than three days. With a cursed 900 pound pack.

Seeing him approach, I longed to offer him my wages for the next ten years if he would just sell me that four wheeler. My partner would be okay, right?

But grasping at my last shreds of inner strength, I refrained.

Then the guy offered us hope!

"There's a detour about 300 yards down the trail," he said. "It's the Knobstone Trail--they changed it because of the logging. There's a mailbox right across the road from it."

We found the detour, rejoicing.

But the joy was short-lived.

Through this was an actual detour for the Knobstone Trail, it was so little traveled that it was hard to detect any path. And the white blazes were few. Another enterprising soul--may he be blessed forever--made up for most of that by thing pink and black ribbons to trees.

This should have solved our problems, but there weren't enough white blazes or ribbons. Many times we would travel only about 20 steps before we had to stop, scan all the trees, backtrack a few steps,  and suddenly see a ribbon. Then do it again. And again.

Not only that, but the makers of this alternate trail apparently hadn't had time to construct switchbacks. A switchback, for those who don't know, is a zigzag trail that allows you to climb a hill at several 25 degree angles instead of one 95 degree almost-vertical angle. So I climbed.

With a cursed, life-sucking 900 pound pack.

Finally we broke back onto the original, much clearer trail. And hiked up more hills. And more. And more. 

And came to Highway 56.

We'd traveled an whole 7 miles. All day.

I told my friend, "I can't do much more of this."

Which left us with a problem. Again, no car. And we were at a section of highway that was so low we couldn't even pick up a cellphone signal. There was a white pickup by the side of the highway, but nobody was in it, so I guessed it was broken down.

Now, sometimes backpackers find themselves in a pickle like this, and what they do is flag down a car and catch a ride. I forget what the term for this is. Perhaps "will to survive" might be it.

But after some lame attempts at hitchhiking, at which nobody even appeared to consider stopping, we gave it up.

Suddenly I turned my head at just the right second and noticed a young man with a shotgun walking out of the trees to the pickup.

"HEY!" I yelled without even thinking. "Can you HELP US?"

And he did!

You may consider that this hunter, returning to his truck at just the right time, was a coincidence.

But I know he came because God loves me.

We climbed into the truck and he gave us an eight-mile lift to the Leota Trailhead.

Now before you say it, I know I didn't walk those eight miles.

My partner could have, munching on sassafras roots for sustenance. Carrying a mule.

But I will remind you that hitching a ride is a well-known, accepted, absolutely common backpacker practice, and also that we no longer had time to hike the remainder of the trail.

We pitched camp near the trail head that night.

With me turning like a hot dog.

And my partner softly snoring.

Finally the morning! Facing another countless series of hills with my cursed, life-sucking 900 pound pack.

Suddenly, another idea! My partner had told me about how people on the Appalachian Trail had done some "slack packing" --that is, leaving your pack behind, walking without it, and picking it up later.

Weren't we right here at a trail head? To finish the hike this very day?

So I announced that I was going to stuff energy bars in my pocket, carry a water bottle and "slack pack" that day.

I felt SO good!

I removed all my valuables from the pack--cellphone, car keys, Garmin hand-held GPS. Irish whistle and wallet. Then I stowed the life-sucking, cursed 900 pound abomination behind a tree.

Freedom!

I was no longer gravitationally challenged! I felt light as air.

And in this manner I managed to keep up with my partner's unbelievable pace (he was still carrying his pack) for the final five miles.

VICTORY!!

I am such an outdoorsman!

I felt that way too, until we drove back to the Leota trail head and found my pack gone. With the new MSR  Pocket Rocket stove I'd purchased for the trip. And my new Kelty sleeping bag.

Maybe next year I'll camp out in my back yard.

A Manly Endeavor

This past Monday I was standing in the grocery store aisle.

And standing.

And standing.

I was there to pick out food for a backpacking trip with a friend through 22 or 28 miles (we haven't decided yet) of the Knobstone Trail.

The Knobstone Trail is a 56 mile trail that winds up and down the hills of Southern Indiana. The southern 11 miles are closed off right now because summer storms blew so many trees across the trail. But that doesn't matter because 22 (or 28) miles of walking and camping in this savage wilderness, carrying every piece of gear on our laboring, straining backs, is enough for now.

In case you don't yet appreciate the incredible difficulty of this trek, here are some photos of the Knobstone Trail:

 

 

Okay, maybe the hills aren't that high (these are Alpine photos) but they can seem that high when you're climbing them!

And because of the incredible effort and personal risk in doing so, I had to have the best food to fuel my courageous endeavor.

So I stood in the grocery store...and thought.

And studied packages of rice, noodle mixes and instant soup. Cooking time. Weight (measured in my hand). And directions.

It's a good thing nobody was with me. I would have driven them utterly insane.

Also, there are socks. I have to study socks. Because when you're hiking, socks are important.

Everybody says so.

I have been looking a lot at socks.

Did you know that you can spend $20 for a pair of 100% merino wool hiking socks?

One single pair.

Just to keep your feet warm and blister-free in your hiking boots.

And sweaty. When I wear wool socks, they make my feet sweat.

This hike is going to last three days. I may just stick with a few pairs of cotton socks.

Then there's packing the backpack. Separating 64 bucks worth of food, a little from each package, into plastic zip bags for the trip. Coffee pouches. Powdered "french vanilla" creamer (no cream on the hot trail)! Tortillas. Peanut butter containers. Ramen noodles (the hiker's friend)!

And putting every piece of gear--lightweight stove, fuel, water bottles, mini tent, sleeping bag, wet-weather clothing, adventure journal, a really good pen, food, Irish whistle--in exactly the right place so the pack is balanced. And the gear findable.

By now my entire family thinks I'm crazy. Oh, they don't say so, but they're all wondering why I'm arranging all this gear so I can do a three-day sufferfest through the hills of Indiana.

But, like all true mountaineers say, "If you have to ask why, you wouldn't understand."
[insert manly posturing here]

They'll see...when my buddy and I get out on the trail, with nothing visible but nature and a faint path before you, it's all worthwhile. We won't be hungry, thirsty, cold or extremely wet--because we packed carefully.

We can pack this way for heaven.

Because heaven is as real as the chair you're sitting on. And we who believe in Jesus will be with him there--forever.

Jesus said we could pack stuff to take along. Good deeds. Money to feed the starving poor. Visits to patients in hospitals. Help to widows and orphans. Jail visits. Time praying for others--and with others. Souls won to Christ. All kinds of good stuff.

Jesus said each deed we pack for heaven will be rewarded by him forever.

Are you packing for heaven?

"His master [Jesus] replied, 'Well done, good and faithful servant! You have been faithful with a few things; I will put you in charge of many things. Come and share your master's happiness!'" 
(Matthew 25:21, see also Mt. 25:40)

The Curse of the Cursed TV

I went to visit a woman in the hospital recently.

It would have been a very good visit, except she had the television on.

The cursed TV seems to attract my eyes like a magnet. I look away, only to find myself staring again a moment later. It's like magic, a kind of bondage. I try to break free and actually talk to the person I'm talking to, and I fail. (Women seem to do much better at this than men; they multitask better. I refuse to believe that means they're smarter--though it's possible)!

So, here I was at the hospital, talking to this dear woman I consider practically a sister, and repeatedly found myself staring at these guys in a shark cage while big sharks tried to eat them.

OK, I'll admit that was pretty heady stuff, but that wasn't why I was there!

What is it about television, anyway?

I look back in time, and see a group of men scratching themselves by the fire, and one of them begs the other, "Tell us a story!"

That's how it started. We all love to hear a story.

And now, thousands of years later, we men sit around a TV scratching ourselves, and say, "Tell us a story!"

Which would be okay, except for two things: How bad television is now, and how much time we waste.

We know all about the bad. I remember when comedies were actually funny ("I Love Lucy," "Andy Griffith," "The Jackie Gleason Show") and drama was intelligent and didn't depend on gun play, disgusting autopsies and explosions to keep you interested.

Now we have reality show players who "form alliances," betray each other and engage in drama as if they really don't know only one person is going to win.

But really, I'm actually glad television is so bad now (though I still gripe, don't get me wrong).

Television's lameness makes me less inclined to watch and more free to do other things. Except on those nights when I'm really exhausted (that's about every third night).

Sometimes I can even walk away from a television set! Though that took years of therapy.

I like this because I have wasted hundreds and hundreds of hours in front of a TV.

And I think one day Jesus might ask me why. And I won't have much of an answer.

Perhaps we should all spend less time watching people's pretend lives on television and live our real lives ourselves. Perhaps we should cheer less for sports teams who don't even know us and play ball with people who do. Perhaps we should use more of that TV time to read the Word, get to know Jesus together, talk with each other and laugh.

Maybe I should try that.

Since "Amazing Race" is between seasons anyway.

"So whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of the Lord Jesus Christ" (I Cor. 10:31).

In Which my Ankle Resigns Without Notice

I love to hike.

I loved the idea ever since I discovered the famous novel, "The Lord of the Rings". After reading about Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee journeying across Middle Earth--well, it's something I have to do!

(And the movie--how I long for New Zealand!)

So I naturally dream of backpacking (that's where you carry all your gear on your back and venture far from roads). Something about being far from traffic, the conversation of neighbors in the "primitive camping" area, and children screaming hysterically because they can't eat the marshmallows first, attracts me.

But it's not only that. It's the silence of the woods. The wind sighing through 100 trees at the same time. And the ever-so-slightly scary feeling of being miles from any road or access to an ambulance.

I love it.

A preacher friend and I are planning a 24 mile hike along the Knobstone Trail in Southern Indiana.

And because I'll hiking with all my gear, far from a road, I want to be in the best physical shape possible. That means I have been working out--hard. Because the more agony now, the less agony on the trail, if you know what I mean.

So last week I was working out feverishly. My heart was pumping like a car engine when you floor it. My lungs were screaming, "Kill us! Just kill us now!" It was all good, proper and right.

Then the tendons in my right ankle resigned. That's right. They just quit. No notice. No severance pay. No referrals to better tendons that can replace them.

[Insert howl of raging frustration]

Because without those tendons in great shape, I can't carry gear on my back. I can't even walk, really, except to and from a sissy automobile.

Panicking, in great internal distress, I rushed to the doctor.

"My ankle will be all right before the hike, won't it?" I pleaded. "After all, I have three weeks [this in a hopeful, whiny tone]."

My doctor said, "Rest your ankle for two weeks. Keep it elevated, take ibuprofin and put it on ice."

Uh, doctor--that's not a promise that my ankle will be all right in three weeks...

And not only that, the now-mandatory rest to heal my ankle almost guarantees I will be in hyper-pathetic shape by the time the hike occurs.

(Remember the children's story about the little locomotive that puffs, "I think I can I think I can..." all the way up the hill? Now multiply that by each of the 10,000 hills on the Knobstone Trail).

I'll be wishing I was dead! Longing for death. Dreaming of it!

I can just hear myself, lying in a heap by the side of the trail--hungry wolves lurking, telling my hiking partner, "Leave me! Just leave me here! Save yourself!"

So this, I guess, is a good time to remember that God is in control. That he can heal, and it's time to trust him. So that's what I'm going to do. I know that I can make this hike with his help.

Pray for me!

Loudmouth Preacher Blows Off

This morning I drove into a church parking lot for pastor's prayer.

Each Tuesday morning many of the pastors in our town meet and pray for each other, the salvation of multitudes in our area (still waiting for that one) and the salvation of our nation (definitely not seeing that yet--but we aren't giving up)!

And as I drove into the parking lot, I maneuvered my car exactly equidistant from each of the white lines in my parking space.

That's pretty funny.

Here I am, driving the only car in the entire lot (except the host pastor's) and I have to make sure I'm exactly lined up between the white lines. I mean--I could have parked it sideways or across four parking spaces and who would have cared? At most there would have been 9 more cars and we had the whole parking lot.

Ever avoid the "handicapped" space in an empty parking lot? I have.

Funny how we try so hard to be good.

Funny how little we make it.

I was at my favorite hangout in North Manchester, Zooks, and a preacher friend called me. We've been close for years and meet about every two weeks for Chinese food (love the stuff).


Luckily I was alone.

As I talked to this friend I drifted into a "preacher rant" and started complaining about people--until the moment God "opened my eyes."  (If you are a Bible reader, you'll find moments when God hides things from somebody, then-- "He opened their eyes...").

This was one of those moments.

God let me hear myself, in the middle of Zooks, complaining about people. Worse yet, I'd spent the weekend with my parents, whose hearing isn't so good, so I was TALKING MUCH LOUDER AS I COMPLAINED ABOUT PEOPLE IN THE MIDDLE OF A RESTAURANT!!

I can just see the headlines: "Loudmouth Preacher Blows Off About People in Public; Congregation Shakes Heads in Disappointment."

I'm glad nobody was around to write that one!

I tried to "fix" it, of course--backpedaling with compliments, but it was far, far too late.

I try so hard to be good, and then I blow it.

Aren't you glad Jesus didn't just come for "good" people, but for people like me--and you?

Jesus said, "I have come to call not those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners" (Matthew 9:13 NLT).

Whew! Thanks, Jesus!