Beauty * and * Bread

Paul Williamson, Bugler Extraordinaire

Continued from Blood, Sweat, Tears and Taps.

One correction needs to be made from the information reported there. When Sara read my post, she said, “I didn’t find out Paul’s age until we were on the trail. I didn’t have the nerve to ask his age directly, so I asked him the year he was born.”

I’d misreported that she’d found out at Von’s, before we left Oakhurst. If she had, she might have taken us aside and redesigned our plan.  As it was, we didn’t know, and we proceeded.

***

Shevy was not the fan of Yosemite that I am. In fact he’d told me that he’d been to the park more often since we’d been together than in all the years before that, put together. Still, he loved the hike to Sentinel Dome as much as any he’d done. He loved the 360 degree view from the top of the dome, and he loved the “top-of-the-world” feeling it gave those who ascended it. We’d climbed it in early morning, and we’d climbed it at sunset to watch the moonrise over the Clark Range. We’d negotiated that rocky trail by the light of headlamps, and Shevy had helped to doctor a fallen hiker in the very spot where Paul took his tumble.

That we were on this particular trail together to celebrate Shevy’s life (not his passing) was entirely fitting.

That we were there with a 92-year-old adventurer-raconteur-musician and life-of-the-party type fellow was even more so.

Shevy was no musician. He couldn’t carry a tune (although he could do a passable job of whistling the theme from “Bridge of the River Kwai” while I butchered it), but all those other things Paul is, Shevy was. As I began to realize having Paul there was almost like Shevy being with us, the tears began to flow, and they continued intermittently through the morning. Too many memories. Good ones.

Sara told me that Shevy’s non-stop talking actually was a later-in-life phenomenon. When the kids were growing up, he was mostly silent, and he engendered a certain amount of fear in them.  He made up for the silence in spades as he aged. As we hiked trails all over Yosemite and the Sierra Nevada, he would talk to everyone we met along the way. Sometimes he’d engage hikers from Britain or France or Tasmania in conversations so long the listeners’ eyes would begin to glaze over. Shevy wouldn’t notice, but I would, and I’d gently try to find a way to pull him away.

Paul was much the same. He clearly loved to tell stories, and he relished the company this outing afforded him.

Once planted on the rocky seat we found for him, Paul opened his trumpet case and pulled out the well-worn instrument he loved. It dated way back and had served him well as he’d actually performed with well-known bands. Wynton Marsalis had even expressed an interest in playing it. (That’s the problem with writing from memories several weeks old. Paul regaled us with tales from his youth and his earlier adult years, but I can’t remember the details. Where was my mini-digital recorder when I needed it? Back home in my office, of course.)

Sara took out the American flag she’d brought along and draped it over the rock in front of Paul.

“My friend Betty told me Jews place stones on a grave as a mark they were there to honor the deceased,” I mentioned, as I looked about for a stone to place beside the flag. The others did the same. It was like having Betty there with me, and she’d been with me at the memorials for both my mother and father.

Stones for Remembrance

When we’d hit the trail an hour before, there weren’t that many other people on it. Now more and more folks were passing by the spot where we’d set up camp. We waited for them to pass by before Paul began to play.

As the trail cleared in both directions, Paul raised the trumpet to his lips and sounded a crystal-clear version of the melody that for centuries has signaled the closing of a life.

Taps for Shevy

Paul certainly wasn’t shy, and he wanted to give Shevy his full due. After he finished “Taps,” he played and sang “Amazing Grace,” and then went on to “Claire de Lune” in honor of his wife.

After he’d finished, some of the folks went on to summit the Dome, while Angela, Nehanda and I waited. It gave Paul the perfect opportunity to share some of his memories with us. Turns out he was an educator, too, as Shevy was. And he impacted lives, as Shevy did.

After the rest of the group returned from the Dome, John decided to scout out the road I’d remembered from previous trips. We wanted to be sure we wouldn’t have Paul walk that distance only to find out it was a road to nowhere. Although once again he’d never admit it, he’d done about as much hiking as his 92-year-old body could handle. Just getting him to where he could get into the car would be enough for him.

After no more than five or ten minutes, John came back. “The road’s right up there.”

We got the gear packed up, and I slipped a rock  into my pocket. That’s a no-no. You’re not supposed to remove even a pine cone from a national park, but I needed a permanent remembrance of the day.

As you can see from the photos, Paul wore his U S Navy hat.

U S Navy all the way

The one thing missing from this gathering, besides Shevy himself, was Shevy’s Korean vet hat. He’d bought it one day when we’d stopped at the Fresno VA hospital to see about medical benefits. He wore that hat proudly whenever he felt he’d be around people who’d appreciate his military service. It would have been fitting to place it atop the flag while “Taps” was played.

After we got Paul up and going again with John, the rest of us headed back the way we’d come to get the cars.

It was a simple, unstructured ceremony out in the Yosemite wilderness.

Perfect for the simple, unstructured, unassuming fellow it honored.

Granddaughters Nehanda and Angela

Granddaughter Tiana (Tinker)

Listening - Nehanda, Tinker, Sara, John

Since the only two “people” in my house currently are my 20-year-old cat and me, one would think the answer would be obvious. Well, maybe it is to anyone who’s ever been owned by a cat.

Grey Eagle is.

King Grey Eagle

As he’s gotten older and skinnier, his thermostat doesn’t work as well as it did when he was younger, with more meat on his bones. Consequently he craves human contact whenever he can capture it. And it’s not good enough to just sit on my lap. He has to sit “up top” where he can stick his face, complete with whiskers, in mine. Ugh. That means many of our evenings, when I choose to sit on the couch, are spent with me trying to convince King Kat that he would REALLY prefer to sit NEXT to me rather than on top of me. To top off all his other attributes, he is extremely persistent, so this exercise in frustration can go on for an hour before one of us finally gives up.

Bedtime is another wrestling match. Again he wants to perch on top of me, where he can stick his whiskers up my nose.

Grey Eagle's Physique

Believe it or not, last night (and, remember, this cat has owned me for ONE MONTH LESS THAN TWENTY YEARS) I had a flash of brilliance. Why not just throw the cat out of the bedroom and close the door? That’s what I did this morning at 1:30. Oh, G.E. had a few things to say about that, but for the most part it worked wonderfully well.

I should tell you that people’s reactions on meeting G.E. for the first time tend to be mixed. They’ll take one look and say something like,

“Oh, he’s really . . . (you can see them wrestling with themselves not to say the word “ugly”) skinny, isn’t he?”

They’ll follow that statement with, “but he has a beautiful face.” As you can see above, that’s a true statement.

G. E. is actually pretty amazing for a senior citizen of some 140 years. His appetite is excellent, his elimination is superb, his eyes are bright and clear, his hearing is obviously top notch (just try to get a can of tuna past him) and he can still jump up on the bed unassisted. He recognizes people he knows even if he hasn’t seen them for years.

Shevy and I used to have a running joke that with his good health G.E. would be going on long after we’re gone. Sadly that’s now halfway true. By the way, G.E. considered Shevy his best friend, but Shevy didn’t return the favor as a result of a lifelong allergy to cats. That meant that anytime he had the opportunity, G.E. would make a beeline for Shevy’s lap, and Shevy would suffer for it for a day or two afterward.

We shall see if my newfound resolve to sleep alone is the answer I’ve been searching for.

They don’t call me dense for nothing.

Shevy - Approaching Half Dome

The hike to the top of Half Dome is not something to be undertaken lightly. It isn’t your average day hike of 5 or 6 miles round-trip. Of course for those younger than we were, it wouldn’t have taken as long.

One June 24, 2005, Shevy had just celebrated his 75th birthday a month earlier and I’d begun my 63rd year in January. Looking back on it now, I’d say we were the oldest folks to top out on the monolith that day–or damn close to it.

At somewhere around 2 pm, we got to the subdome . . . and I stopped. Up to that point the hike had been pretty much your average trek in the woods–uphill, yes, but unremarkable in its difficulty.

The subdome changed all that. In the photo above, you can barely glimpse the rock outcropping that is the final approach to the final approach (the cables). From this distance you can’t see the set of stone steps that lead up to the saddle. There are a mess of ‘em, all between a foot to a foot-and-a-high, about two feet wide–with absolutely no handrails or protection between you and the great expanse below.

I don’t like heights. Why in tarnation I’d set it in my mind that I had to do this hike I’ll never figure out. It was my idea. Shevy would never have done it on his own–not because he couldn’t but because it simply didn’t interest him. But once at the gateway to the top, his competitive nature would not allow him–or me–to turn around. Oh, I tried.

I stopped dead in my tracks. “I can’t do this,” I protested. “There’s no way I can climb those steps.”

Gail had already told us, from the very beginning, that she had no intention of climbing to the top. She planned to wait it out right where we were now.

Shevy stared at me, hands on hips. “You’re not backing out now. No way. You got me up here. You’re going all the way.”

“I can’t.” I was ready to bawl.

“Yes, you can. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Oh, great. So when I slide, I’ll take you with me.”

“Just do it Get started”

Somehow I did it, and it didn’t take as long as I thought it would. Soon enough–20 minutes or so–and we were standing on the saddle, at the foot of the cables. Our friend Dana was there, having just come down from the top. This was his third or fourth trip up Half Dome, so he was an old hand at it. His nephew and grandson were right behind him.

The advantage to our having taken so long to get to this point in the trail would become obvious soon. But for now it was time to make our way up the last 400 feet to the top. The dreaded cables. The expanse of metal cables for handholds and two-by-fours spaced every three feet or so for foot braces. Once again I tried to back out. Once again I was foiled in the attempt.

It really didn’t take all that long to get up to the top, and it wasn’t nearly as difficult as I’d imagined it to be. I did it in fine style, as did Shevy.

When we stepped off the last rung of the cables, we were met all around by high fives and hugs from other hikers, all of them strangers until this moment. We all recognized what an accomplishment we’d achieved. Although thousands of people climb Half Dome each season, there are millions more visitors to the park who never get closer than the valley floor to this iconic symbol of Yosemite.

Judi standing in a snow patch on Half Dome

Until you’re up there, you don’t realize how large the top really is. It’s thirteen (13) acres in area, and even in late June there were still patches of snow. Shevy, of course, had to explore much of its expanse, while I stayed well away from the edge. That didn’t mean, however, that I missed the superb views from every angle.

On Top - El Capitan inf the Background

Because it was late in the day and we’d completed only half the hike so far, we didn’t stay on top too long–no more than 20 to 30 minutes. And you can imagine what was on my mind, can’t you? Yup. The trip down. I’d promised myself that I would go down the cables facing the rock, so I wouldn’t look out at the giant vistas before us–and freak myself out royally.

Not only did I go down facing outward, all the while gaping at the scenery before me, but I did so with an amazing confidence. The young man just ahead of me had no such luck. He was scared. Really scared. Shevy had to hold me back.

“Give him some room, for Pete’s sake. Can’t you see he’s panicked?”

For his part, Shevy decided to give me a thrill. He ducked under the cable and started to descend, one-handed, on the outside.

“Get back here!” I shrieked. “Don’t be such a fool.”

With every group of hikers there are those who decide to get away from the crowds and go down (or up) on the outside. Some say it’s actually less risky because the granite on the outside hasn’t been worn as smooth from the thousands of hikers who’ve trod the inside path each year. Reluctantly Shevy slipped back to the inside and got behind me. Because it was so late in the day, the number of hikers on the cables had greatly reduced from earlier, so we didn’t have the huge cluster of climbers that have caused the Park Service to start issuing Half Dome hiking permits for weekends and holidays this year.

When we came down the subdome steps, we were two of only four or five people still left. We got down to the bottom where Gail awaited, once again to hugs and high fives.

It’s funny what will trigger memories and where those memories will take you.

On Sunday night, after a very long day of hiking, socializing and eating, I sat down on the couch, computer on lap, and decided to catch up with some of my blogging friends.

Penny is a relatively new blogger, and I confess that I haven’t been as diligent as I should in keeping up with her. She and I share a love of dogs and have been promising ourselves for months that we are going to take our canine companions–Katie for her, Foxy for me–on a nice walk. If it ever quits raining/snowing around here, it just might happen.

Anyhow, I was reading through Penny’s blog and came across her entry about The Visitor.

Suddenly my mind and my heart raced back to when I was living at Shevy’s. He had to be the best friend the avian community of Cascadel Woods ever had. He spent hundreds of dollars each year laying in provisions for the Blue Jays, Towhees, Oregon Juncos, Flickers, Finches, Sparrows . . . and squirrels. He bought seed and thistle and suet and religiously prepared sugar water for the several hummingbird feeders that hung from the deck. He knew that if you begin to feed birds, you can’t quit–especially in winter. Whatever little guys continue to inhabit our area come to depend on the largesse of those who put out food.

Every morning we’d sit at the dining room table, have coffee and watch the parade of critters who’d come to feed. The hummers were the cheekiest of the lot. If a feeder was empty or frozen, the head hummer would tap on the window to get Shevy’s attention. He always listened, too. He filled those feeders almost daily. He bought food by the 50-pound sack monthly in the winter, more often in the summer. He loved the birds, and they returned the favor.

Shevy and I hadn’t spoken for a couple of months or so at the time of his passing. I still don’t quite understand it, but when he was alive–and I knew he was alive–I felt no need to communicate. But I had a good feeling about his Being There. There was never a doubt in my mind that if I had needed help of any kind, he would have put aside his hard feelings and been there for me.

Now my heart breaks every time I pass his house, see lights on and know that he’s not there, will never be there again. Oh, his SOUL is there and always will be, but I’ll never see him out mowing the 15-acres while carefully avoiding the Five-Spots that dot the meadow every spring.

I miss him.

I have been blessed with my share of awesome hiking partners, too many to name, in fact, but a few merit special mention.

Shevy - Little Lakes Valley

First and foremost would have to be Shevy. Virtually all the significant hikes I’ve done have been with him. Half Dome (story to continue soon), Mt Dana, Little Lakes Valley, Cathedral Lakes, Gaylor Lakes, Elizabeth Lake and many more.  At 75, when we started, he was amazingly strong and agile, and he slowed down only a little over the next three-plus years.

When we attempted White Mountain, the third-highest peak in California, he was bummed when I called it quits at the beginning of the switchbacks leading to the peak. He still had energy left and knew he could make the summit. I wasn’t totally pooped but at that point we’d done only half the hike–and the hardest was yet to come. I had to be able to get back to the trailhead. We debated on his going on, but ultimately he chose to stick with me. Shevy always swore he was going to go back to White and complete the job I’d made him leave unfinished. Unfortunately that never happened before his untimely death on February 7.

Gail in a Field of Poppies at Hite Cove

Another favorite partner is my friend Gail. She and I met on a Sierra Club hike several years ago–B.S. (before Shevy). We seem to hike at the same pace, unless I’m taking photos, in which case I’m definitely at the tail of the pack. She and I have also done some very significant hikes. When we decided to accompany a Sierra Club hike to the top of Yosemite Falls, we egged each other on and finally made the bridge that spans the creek just before the falls cascade down to Yosemite Valley. If we hadn’t been together, I know I wouldn’t have made it. It was the partnership of suffering that kept me going.

We’ve done the wildflower extravaganza of Hites Cove several times. Although our ability to hike together over the past year has been severely curtailed by my weird work schedule and her involvement with Mariposa County Search and Rescue, I’m hoping that will change soon.

On Sunday I discovered a new hiking partner, one I’ll probably have trouble keeping up with in the very near future. He’s younger than my usual group of hiking companions, but he’s enthusiastic and wants to go-go-go.

I got to share my first hike of 2010 with him on Sunday as we trekked out to Yosemite’s Mirror Lake area.  I see great things in our future because he’s so concerned for the wellbeing of his hiking partners.

Who is he? He’s William Wallace Swan VI, and he’s the Junior Director of ECCO. So he’s my boss, of sorts.

William Wallace Swan VI

He’s also three and exceedingly polite. On our way back, he stopped before a set of rocky steps, took my hand and said, “Here, Miss Judi, I’ll help you down these steps. You have to be careful.”

Did I say he was three? He’s three going on forty-three. He’s also a total charmer.

Half Dome

This is the first in a series of posts honoring my hiking and life partner for nearly four years, Shevy Schindler. Shevy passed away suddenly on February 7, 2010.

In the end I’m not sure who conquered what.

Half Dome, that iconic symbol of Yosemite National  Park, still stands, so it obviously survived our assault.

Date:  June 24, 2005

Start time:  7:30 a.m.

Starting Point:  Glacier Point

Finish time:  11:30 p.m.

Hiking distance:  20 miles, give or take. Click on the link to see a map and get an idea of the various routes available. We took the one labeled Panorama Trail.

Elevation gain:  4,800 ft from Yosemite Valley; not quite that much from Glacier Point

Cast of Characters:  Shevy, Gail, me—and peripherally, my friend Dana, his grandson and his nephew

Route:  From Glacier Point down the Panorama Trail to the top of Nevada Falls, thence through Little Yosemite Valley and up the Half Dome trail to the sub-dome and up the 400 feet of cables to the 13-acre top of the Dome.

That’s right. Sixteen glorious hours of hiking splendor. And I’d do it all over again, if I could, minus that last 400-foot climb up the Half Dome cables. If you want to know why I’d avoid the cables, just examine the reasons the National Park Service has instituted the requirement for weekend permits to climb the cables during the 2010 season.

Shevy had hiked for years. At the time he was 75 years old, very fit and capable, but never in his life had he dreamed of climbing Half Dome. I’m the one who put that harebrained idea in his head. I was 62 and had only been hiking for a year. As I discovered that I could hike, I began reading about all the trails that Yosemite had to offer. Naturally the trail to Half Dome took center stage.

Just a month earlier Shevy and I had hiked the trail from Yosemite Valley to the top of Nevada Falls into Little Yosemite Valley and back—8 miles or so—and that constituted nearly half of the trail we’d be attempting this date. We’d done fine on that.

I’d also exhaustively researched the various trails that lead to HD, what to take and how to prepare (contrary to many of the people you meet on the trail—some in flip-flops, carrying a 16 oz. bottle of water and nothing else. Duh.) After examining all our options, we decided we’d rather take the longer trail from Glacier Point since it was downhill for quite a bit of the distance–and uphill on the way back when the sun would be setting.

We’d left home at 5:30 a.m. for the one-and-a-half hour drive to the trailhead. We met Gail at the usual place, Christ Church parking lot, and continued on to reconnoiter with the rest of the crew at the Panorama trailhead.

We arrived at 7:00 a.m. and found Dana and his party waiting for us. We were ready to set off, as soon as Gail got her gear organized and reorganized.

Gail and I had met a few months before on a Sierra Club hike and had become fast friends. We seemed to have quite a bit in common plus we hiked at about the same place–slower than Shevy’s.

Shevy and I met a couple of months later, and he could hike both Gail and me under the bus. That would continue to the end of his life.

To be continued . . .

Half Dome from Glacier Point - How do you get to the top of THAT?

Shevy almost to Morgan Pass - Little Lakes Valley

Wow, this is a post I never expected to write.

I thought Shevy Schindler would go on and on forever, just like the Energizer Bunny. He seemed completely unstoppable. His family looked forward to celebrating his 80th birthday on May 19, 2010. He figured he’d be climbing a mountain or on a cruise or even driving the Alaska Highway once again as part of that monumental milestone.

Although at 79 he was quite capable of doing all of those things, that wasn’t to be.

Shevy passed away on February 7, 2010.

Shevy lived by himself in the middle of a gorgeous meadow he’d cleared 20-some years ago up in Cascadel Woods. Snow country. Never one to ask for help, he was surely out clearing yet another pile of the white stuff from his driveway. We don’t know that for sure, but his son, Jim, suspects he took a fall.

In any case he lived long enough for his children from both sides of the continent to gather at his bedside to say goodbye.

He lived a good life, a great life.

He raised five children, all of whom are educated and successful in their careers.

He was grandfather to 11 and great-grandfather to 7 . (I think I’ve got the great-grandchild count right.)

He built the house he lived in with his own hands. It was a gorgeous mountain cabin with tongue-and-grove knotty pine throughout, a pine floor milled from lumber harvested from the property, windows framed with sugar pine, a full-size hot tub in the master bath and a complete bake center in the kitchen. The house was as unique as Shevy, and it suited him perfectly. He and his wife Jean had moved there after he’d retired from teaching at a relatively early age. They lived in their motor home as the house rose around them.

He and Jean took full advantage of his early retirement. They traveled to Europe, they cruised, they camped in their motor home, they drove to Alaska.

When Jean passed away suddenly, Shevy was devastated. He credited his precious Dachshund, Ginger, with saving his life. She gave him a reason to live, and he treasured her. He was devastated once again when Ginger left him this past August.

Shevy and I were together for close to four years, and they were a marvelous time for both of us. In the end, I was

Typical expression when I'd try to take his photo - at Mt Rainier

perhaps too independent and he too traditional for it to last. He couldn’t quite figure out what to do with a woman who thrived on work and didn’t want to quit. Nonetheless we had some great adventures together. Over the next few weeks I’ll share some of those with you in separate posts.

In any case it’s obvious that Shevy never slowed down. At the age of 79, when most men are enjoying a seat in their rocking chair by the fire, he was out chopping trees, burning brush and mowing his 15 acres of wooded meadow. He still hiked with the Sierra Hiking Seniors from time to time, and he had given some thought to relocating to Oregon or Washington, a region he loved. He would never have wanted to be sedentary, and he never was.

Even for those closest to him, Shevy could be irascible, opinionated, hard-headed. At the same time, if he was your friend, he was really your friend. If you needed him, he was there 120 per cent. He did so much for me, and it was never with any thought of reward. He enjoyed doing for others, and that was enough. He was generous to a fault.

McGurk Meadow - YNP - In a field of Larkspur

For me he was probably the best hiking partner I could hope for. He might not have wanted to do a particular hike, but he never denied me the opportunity to explore any trail I came up with–and he enjoyed each one to the max. Before he met me, he’d never considered climbing to the top of Half Dome, hiking the trail to the top of White Mountain, and he’d never heard of Rock Creek Lakes, but he did them all, far better than me.  And he was 13 years older. Rock on, Shevy!

Shevy was Jewish to the core, although he wasn’t religious. In his later years, he’d begun to learn a bit more about his heritage and had gotten to know some of the people in the Mountain Jewish Community.

That was another of his hallmarks. Shevy never stopped learning and never lost interest in the world around him.

L’chaim, Shevy. L’chaim to a life well-lived.

May his memory be blessed.