Saying Goodbye to My Old Soul

Saying goodbye has never been so hard as when we let you slip away in our arms that rainy, Tuesday afternoon. In the company of calming souls and reassuring words, we knelt beside you. Whispering in your ear all of the thank you's, I love you's, and I will miss you's, we could muster until your final heartbeat. Never has the most loving thing to do been so hard to do, but we knew that it was time.  

You had such a majesty about you my friend. A primal presence that made most people stop in their tracks to admire the beautiful animal that you are. The feeling of running my fingers through your golden brown fur and ink black cape, past your coarse guard hairs, and deep into your down. Still so vivid in my mind. You never shied away from staring deep into my eyes and allowing me to see deep within your soul. You were an alpha in every sense of the word. A prideful protector of your pack and loyal to those you allowed in your bubble. You were by no means a, “vanilla” dog which, in hindsight I wouldn’t have had it any other way, but let’s face it we had our challenges.

These beautiful virtues and traits were never more evident than during our last weekend together. We didn’t know it was going to be our last adventure with you, but I am so grateful it was. You had such a gasp of life about you, and never for a moment would anyone have thought that your heart was nearing its end. That heart fought an uphill battle just to stay pumping for the last four months of your life. You moved effortlessly through the dense green understory. Up and over slick boulders, loped alongside the banks of the river, and watched over us as we waded waste deep in the emerald green water with fly rods in hand. I’d like to think that you knew your time had come and that you wanted to intentionally squeeze everything you could out of your final moments of life, knowing that the next day you would have nothing left to give.

Juneau always kept a close watch over me when we went fly fishing and continued to do so days before he left us. Captured here.

Someone once said that you only live once, but I disagree. I believe that we live every second, and every minute of our lives and that in fact we only die once. I would like to think that I did my very best to give you a life in which you were given the freedom to live and explore your wild spirit in wild spaces right up to the very end. The flooding of memories that surface as I grieve gives me comfort in knowing that I succeeded in doing just this.  

Over the last ten years, you have taught me so much. What it means to love unconditionally, and be loyal to those we love. To endure the times when the odds are stacked against us and the overwhelming feeling of wanting to give up never felt so real. To accept and embrace the reality that we are not perfect, and that mistakes will be made time and time again. To apologize profusely and immediately after doing something wrong. To set ourselves and the ones we love up for success, and love them relentlessly for who they are and not what you want them to be.

In the absence of your physical presence, I must find comfort and a deep sense of gratitude in knowing that I had the privilege of being a constant presence in your story. From beginning and right up to the very end, you were by my side for the most formative moments of my own story. A monolith deeply embedded in loyalty, you were there by my side without judgment as I went through both the freeing, and the aching breakups; the feelings of utter loneliness, the beauty of finding true love, and the waves of personal growth that I went through. We were a team in every sense of the word, but this was never more true than during our three years spent searching for the missing together as a state certified K9 search and rescue team. We trained, we bonded, and we searched for those who were in need of help. Those were the days.

Thank you for being so devilishly handsome that day on the mountain four years ago when we met your mom, our girl from the mountain, and brother for the very first time. We will always know who the love at first sight was between, which I have come to endearingly accept. I mean how one could not fall deeply in love with you as you stood stoic and regal on the snowy mountain ridge that day is beyond me.

Time is not always on our side as I so selfishly wanted you to walk me down that aisle of river stones, surrounded by all the people who we let into our bubble. To have you stand with me and your mom as her and I vow to love each other whole-heartedly forever like you had taught us time and time again. Although you will not be there physically for our big day I know that your spirit will be all around us as we enter into the next chapter of our life.

Our family, our pack, forever and always. 

Grieving you is a hard thing to do. I find myself being more protective of you than ever before. Recluse and quiet, your mom and I are stumbling through the process of coming to terms with the fact that you are no longer here with us. You would think that I would be reaching out to any and all for support, but it’s quite the opposite. Instead, I have avoided telling people of the news as it feels every time I tell someone the reality of you not being here just becomes more and more real. Time will heal, but the feeling of missing you continues to overwhelm my day to day. There are always two sides of grief. One is the feeling of pain and sadness, and the other is kind yet raw reminder of just how much of you was a part of who I am. The old adage of not knowing what you have until you lose it just doesn’t apply here. I knew exactly what we had, because by nature you had this instinctual way of reminding me to be unreservedly in the present when we were together.

Juneau, you will forever be my dog, my teacher, my protector, and a reflection of who I am today. I have lost you as my shadow, but your spirit is still very much by my side. Our memories permanently etched in the boulders scattered in and alongside the rivers we fished and in the rings of trees that sway in the wilderness we loved to explore. We promise to check in on you when we make our way back to the important places we use to go. Rest easy my eternal old soul and know that I love you.   

"Each fresh peak ascended teaches something." — Sir Martin Convay.

Before you read:
I never anticipated my first blog post to be anything like what is below. Sharing this story forces me to lean into my discomfort and be completely vulnerable. My intent for telling this story is to help me process what happened that day on Mount Hood. For those of you who would ask if I would do this all over again I refer you to a wise woman's words.

"The Greatest lessons we can learn may come from the greatest risks we take." - Jennifer Love

The Backdrop (50 feet above sea-level)
Mount Hood is located about 50 miles east of Portland, Oregon, and is one of the most climbed glaciated peaks in North America. Reaching 11,250 feet into the Pacific Northwest sky, it's summit is the highest point in Oregon. Jenn, Brian and I set out on the morning of January 31st to climb this iconic natural wonder. Little did we know that our experience on that mountain would change our lives forever.

Good Morning Mount Hood (5,976 feet above sea-level)
It was 12:15 in the morning on Saturday when Brian, Jenn and I rolled into the Timberline Lodge parking lot. The only other cars that occupied parking spots were surrounded by backpacks, ice axes, and trekking poles that belonged to eager climbers, who were illuminated by the glow of each others headlamps. We poured out of the car and headed to the climber's check-in area where we filled out our climber's permits. Huddled in the small room Brian filled out our permit, which required us to describe what our plan was for the climb, how many people were in our group, and expected time of return. There was an excitement in the air as climbers were filling out their permits, and double-checking transponders. Once our permit was filled out we headed back to the car and did the final check of our gear. The only thing left to do before heading up the mountain was to drop a puffy jacket off with our friends Jocelyn and Chris, who were climbing as well. After some hugs and words of encouragement we parted ways and made our way towards the start of the climb. Two steps off of the road and on to the mountain, a Subaru Outback drove up and rolled down their window. A young husband and wife filled, with excitement, yelled out, "Are you climbing Mt Hood?" We said yes and they asked, "what route are you taking?" We told them we were heading up the Old Chute. They wished us a safe climb, said they would see us up there and off they went. It was strange, but all three of us really appreciated them stopping us just to wish us luck and share their excitement with us. It was a wonderful send-off, but now it was time to shift our bearing to the north and start our ascent.

And our Mount Hood adventure begins!

Palmer Glacier (6,200 - 9,300 feet above sea-level)
 The hike to Palmer Glacier from the Timberline parking lot was peaceful and filled with conversation. We broke into stride as we covered ground under the glow of the climber's moon breaking the mountain silence with the sound of our snowshoes crunching the snow. The climb up to the top of Palmer would be a familiar one, as I have hiked up a couple times with a snowboard on my back to take well earned runs back down to the car. This section of the climb is ideal for a pair of snowshoes with a heal bar to alleviate calf muscle fatigue. We flew through this section and before we knew it we were sitting on top of Palmer Glacier seeking cover from the cool breeze and munching on some snacks. Brian recommended we slow the pace down considerably, as we don't want to get up to the top too quickly and only have a view of darkness.

Triangle Moraine (9,300 - 10,412 feet above sea-level)
At this point I am really excited, because once we got above Palmer and into the Triangle Moraine I was now higher than I had ever been on Hood. We were reminded once again by Brian that we need to slow the tempo down just a bit. Jennifer remembered a wise woman once telling her to "Slow the fuck down, cruise that shit." and we did just that. The landscape of the mountain quickly changed and it reminded me of another planet peppered with amazing ice formations. It should be noted that we had yet to turn on our headlamps, because the glow of the moon had cast a glowing blue blanket over the entire mountain. Once we made it to the base of Crater Rock, you could hear chunks of ice and rock falling off the steep face of the Steel cliffs. We could also make out the glow of climber's headlamps that danced on the jagged volcanic walls above us. It was at this point that the pitch became more steep, so I elected to switch out my snowshoes for crampons. The moon fell behind the mountain and the headlamps were turned on.

The Hogsback (10,600 feet above sea-level)
The adrenaline kicked in as we crested the Hogsback ridge. Still dark, the wind picked up from the west and we quickly threw on our down jackets. This is where we shed our snowshoes and trekking poles in exchange for helmets, ice axes, and crampons. Time was of the essence here. It was important that we make our way up before too many people started their ascent. There is one element of danger I forgot to mention earlier and that is the people danger. When climbing you have to be hyper aware of where people are spatially and what their behavior is. If a person or group of people were to fall up slope of you they could take you out with them. After some additional time spent futzing with Jenn's crampons we were finally ready to hit the final 600', known as the Old Chute. I was probably no more than 50' into my traverse of the Coalman Glacier, when I felt a piece of ice, no bigger than a golf ball, nail me in my upper lip, followed by a few other small pieces catapulting by me. I yelled out to Brian that we needed to reassess. This was the first moment when I truly felt completely vulnerable and exposed to elements, in which I had no control of. He reassured me that a little ice is normal and is most likely a result of climbers breaking small chunks free up slope.

Stepping off of the Hogsback to begin climb up Coalman Glacier

Coalman Glacier to The Top of Oregon  (10,500 to 11,250 feet above sea-level)
The Coalman Glacier is the highest glacier on Hood, which is located within the crater rim. At the bottom, fumaroles belch out sulfur laced steam.
Starting up Coalman towards the Old Chute it became very apparent that the the risk meter just cranked up a couple notches. Environmental dangers such as ice fall, rock fall, and increased pitch angle, now started to register in my head. About 10 minutes after the first ice chunk hit me, I experienced, what felt like a baseball bat swinging into my left quad muscle. "Mother Fucker!" I yelled.  A chunk of ice about the size of a melon smacked me at what felt like terminal velocity. I quickly put my head down and got as small as I could so that my helmet would take the brunt of any other ice chunks falling. The old saying is if you look up, then you're going down. The ice fall decreased substantially and I was able to finally get into a groove for the final push to the top of Hood. We were even greeted by another familiar face, our friend Christolf, who had already summited and was on his way back down. We shared some kind words, he took some amazing photos of us and we parted ways.

Christof Teusher captures our ascent up Coalman Glacier.

Christof Teusher captures the importance of the "three points of contact rule" as we climb towards the summit.

At the top of Coalman Glacier with Mount Jefferson and the Three Sisters glowing on the horizon.

The bruise on my quad after a chunk of falling ice hit it.

Summit (11,250 feet above sea-level)
The summit was incredible! A 360 degree view of the entire Cascade range. Adams, St. Helens, Rainier, Jefferson, Three Sisters and Broken Top were all present for the summit celebration. About twenty minutes after our summit, our friends Jocelyn and Chris came through the Pearly Gates, which is another route and celebrated with obligatory summit photos. After a few more photos of each other and a Trail Butter pouch, we began our decent.

Summit Smiles

It's always nice to bump into your friends 11,250' above sea-level!

From left to right: Mount St. Helens, Mount Rainier and Mount Adams

Mount Hood Summit ridge line.

It was icy up on the summit.

The Decent (11,250 to 10,500 feet above sea-level) 
The Coalman Glacier was steep and icy, so we had to back climb (climb down like you are climbing down a ladder) the entire way down. This was murder on the calves. At this point the main push of climbers were all around us and I quickly became very aware of everyone around me. I had a very unsettling feeling about this and something inside told me I had to pick up the pace and get off that glacier as quick as possible. I was a hazard, they were a hazard, and the mountain was a hazard. I wanted off!  Chris and Jocelyn were now with us as we descended.  Chris and I picked up the pace and made it down to the Hogsback where waited for the rest of the crew. They were moving slow and it looked like Jenn and Jocelyn were having crampon issues. This was making me nervous, but Brian was right there with them assisting, so I knew they were in good hands. Also on the Hogsback was a group of Portland Mount Rescue (PMR) volunteers acting as a ready team and doing some training.

The start of our decent of the Old Chute.

Brian taking a moment to assess.

Looking up at the Old Chute from Coalman Glacier. Sometimes the most dangerous hazards on the mountain are other climbers.

Looking down at Castle Rock and the Hogsback ridge to the left. This photo was taken directly in line with the fall line.

...and then the tone of the mountain shifted with a yell..."Oh my god!"

Fall #1 
Several feet up slope from me on the Hogsback, I heard a climber yell, "Oh my God!" I quickly turned to our group up the hill, thinking that one of them had fallen, but my attention quickly turned towards two climbers roped in to each other cascading uncontrollably down the face of Coalman Glacier and heading right for one of the fumaroles. As they slid closer and closer to the fumarole there was no doubt that their fall line was right over the steaming vent. Then within feet of the fumarole they hit a lip and launched over the fumarole landing approximately 20 feet down hill with body crushing force, eventually coming to a stop. Immediately PMR launched into action and the rescue began.
 After PMR secured the scene, they started asking climbers close by for warm clothing to keep the victims warm. A human ice shield was formed up slope of the scene by other climbers to protect the victims and the people tending to them. Jenn, Brian, Jocelyn, and Chris were a part of this effort and took some pretty hard hits from falling ice. They were using backpacks to take the brunt of the force. A dislocated thumb and deep bruising of the shin were just a couple of the sacrifices they made on the line.
Having just gone through the NOLS Wilderness First Aid Training and having been a state certified search and rescue volunteer, I was confident in my ability to focus my attention on comforting and monitoring the victims. Both Michelle and Brian, husband and wife, had leg injuries. Brian had a broken femur and Michelle had two broken ankles. They were in a lot of pain, but were stable. My main concern was making sure that they were eating and drinking periodically, but more importantly keep their spirits up. I had an almost full pouch of Trail Butter, which was perfect because they could eat it laying down, not choke on it and be taking in calories. I was also giving them GU to make sure they were getting electrolytes. At any given point there was at least one person with each of them.  I focused on comforting and staying by Michelle's side.
 They would both often ask, "when are we getting off the mountain?" We all wished we could just magically rush them off that mountain, but the reality is when you are injured in the wilderness, things just take a lot longer. I would tell Michelle that this is just a moment in time, its just a moment in time and eventually it would all be over. The concern and love that they showed for one another during such a traumatic time is something I will never forget. Constantly asking me how the other was doing and if they were eating and drinking. Every time one of them had some food and water I would tell the other, which would result in subtle smile and a sigh of relief. Jenn at one point took over on comforting Brian and turned to me and said, "Jeff, we met these two in the parking lot. They were the couple in the Subaru who stopped us right before we started our climb." I couldn't believe it, but it was them. There was one moment that I will hold close to me and never forget. It was when I had asked Michelle if there was anything I could do for her. She responded in a soft voice, "I could really use a hug", and with that simple request we hugged.

Sequence of events. Climbers fell approx. 600 ft.

Ice line protecting the fallen climbers. Chris, Jocelyn, Jenn, and Brian a few people down on the ice line. I am knelt down by Michelle wearing a blue jacket.

Fall #2
 Everyone had a job. People on the ice line keeping the scene safe, PMR were handling logistics, people were monitoring Michelle and Brian. It was a well oiled machine. People fell into a rhythm of solidarity. But then someone screamed ARREST ARREST ARREST!!! I looked up from what I was doing and saw a second climber falling on the same fall line as the two before him. He was on his stomach digging his ice axe into the ice trying to self-arrest, but all he could do was hold on as he fell 15 feet down into the fumarole that Brian and Michelle had launched over no more than 30 minutes prior. Everyone just froze where they stood in disbelief. I remember saying very calmly and quietly, "he's dead".
Immediately PMR volunteers ran towards the fumarole yelling for someone to grab a picket and rope, so I grabbed the closest rope and picket and followed closely behind.  When I got to the fumarole, which was only about 100 feet from the other two fallen climbers, I was elated to hear that he was okay and that he was just stuck. I couldn't believe it! I quickly hammered in a picket for a makeshift belay system and let PMR take over. My role now was to be on ice watch for the guys who were in the fumarole trying to get the fallen climber out. From my vantage point I had a good line of sight for spotting ice chunks. I would yell, "ICE!", and point to where it was coming from. It was at that time when I saw just how intense it was on the ice line down below. They were getting hit from all angles. After about 45 minutes they were able to get the lodged climber out of the fumarole. He escaped with cuts and bruises, but was able to hike down to a location where a snow cat could take him the rest of the way. Lucky man!

Rescuing second fallen climber from fumarole. I am on the far left in blue jacket assisting with anchor setup.

Brian and Michelle being transported down to the helicopter for air evacuation. (Photo Credit: Kevin Watt)

Stepping Away (10,500 feet above sea-level and dropping)
A huge part of me didn't want to leave Brian and Michelle's side until they were loaded into the Apache helicopter, but when AMR wilderness paramedics had arrived I was no longer needed. Jenn said we should start our decent as we still had a 2.5 hour trip back down to the car and the golden rule in a rescue situation of any kind is your safety always comes first. You don't want to become part of the problem. We stood on the Hogsback and looked down at the scene. It was surreal. Did that really happen?

At the top of Palmer Glacier my adrenaline wore off and my body was emotionally and physically spent. I was running on fumes. I had been so worried about the fallen climbers and tending to their needs that I forgot to make sure I was eating and drinking. It was now 4pm(ish) on Saturday and I hadn't slept for approximately 30 hours. I looked and felt like the walking dead coming off of Hood. We arrived back at the Timberline parking lot in the same spot where we had a fleeting encounter with a husband and wife, who went out of their way to wish us a good climb. Little did we know that when our paths crossed again it would be life changing for all of us.

My thoughts and prayers go out to Brian, Michelle, and the third climber. I wish you all a speedy recovery and hope the mountains will call your name once more.

National Guard Apache helicopter flying towards a Portland area hospital with Brian and Michelle on board. Mount Jefferson, Three Sisters and Broken Top on the horizon in a sea of clouds. (Photo Credit: Justin Colquhoun)

ABC World News Piece (Video)