Author: Bill Pike

 

Our next door neighbor, George, is 87. 

Just before Christmas, George hit a bad streak.

One afternoon, he described to me being run off a busy road by an aggressive driver. George’s car was damaged, but he had the car repaired and made no police or insurance report. All of this commotion happened too quick for him to process. I sense the events of that encounter lie in a state of confusion in his mind.

Then on the afternoon of Saturday, December 22, we were  hosting an engagement party for our youngest daughter and her fiancee. I don’t remember who, but someone at the party caught my attention and told me I was needed next door.

So, I walk over to George’s house. His old Ford station wagon is on the back of a tow truck. Our neighbor in all of his tall, lanky self sees me and starts telling me what has transpired.

It takes some doing, but we are able to get his other car out of the driveway, and the tow truck driver is able to back the wrecked wagon into the driveway.

Another neighbor, Barbara, is walking to our house for the party, and she stops to assist me in getting George settled and back into his house. A plate of food arrives from the party, we ask George for his assurance that he will eat, get some rest, and worry about sorting this all out on Sunday.

Of course, his stubborn mind doesn’t work that way, but at least we said it.

On Sunday morning, December 23, I have returned to our home  from opening up our church. The phone rings. It is George. He tells me he is having chest pains. He wants me to drive him to the hospital.

I make arrangements to do this.

Slowly, we make it out of his house and into my car.

The drive to the hospital is short. Immediately, the staff at the emergency room entrance respond to George because of the words—“chest pain.”

George has three children. I contact the daughter who we have worked with before in previous health situations. She makes arrangements to drive to Richmond.

Back in the Emergency Room, lots of questions are being asked and tests are scheduled.

Eventually, George is transferred to a room. His daughter is in route. By noon, I’m heading back home and to church.

George stays in the hospital through Christmas. I go to visit him the day after Christmas. Tomorrow, Thursday, I’m driving my 90 year old mother-in-law back home to Connecticut.

I walk into George’s hospital room. His mind is a restless whirlwind.

Apparently, the chest pain was accident related—chest hitting the steering wheel.

He wants to go home. 

The doctor wants him to do six days of rehab in a local facility. George is fighting this. A few years ago, he had a not so good experience at a rehab facility after cracking some ribs from a fall. Despite the disorganization in his mind, George hasn’t forgotten this experience.

From the soundtrack to the movie Midnight Cowboy, singer/songwriter, Harry Nilsson, had a hit record with his recording of the Fred Neil song—“Everybody’s Talking”. I feel like a line of lyric from that song characterizes George at this stage of his life:  “Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

His daughter, the doctor, the nurses, friends from the neighborhood, everyone is talking at him, trying to gently persuade him that six days of rehab would be good. But, George isn’t buying this. He only hears the echoes in his mind of the not so pleasant experience from the previous rehab stint.

Somewhere inside of me, I sense that fear can drive stubbornness. George fears six days of rehab, so he becomes more obstinate, head-strong, difficult. 

Before, I leave George, his daughter and another friendly neighbor arrive. I encourage George to be compliant. I take his hand and offer a parting prayer.

“Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

Fear continues to drive his stubbornness. 

Internally, he has made his decision. While driving my mother-in-law back to Connecticut, George takes matters in his own hands. He gets dressed and walks out of the hospital.

It is raining. A police officer spots him, stops, picks him up,  and drives him home.

Stubbornness wins. Love and its common sense fail. 

I love our neighbor, George. 

Fear fuels every ounce of his stubbornness.

And that dogged, determination to remain at home, to hold on to the last ounce of his independence is not going to be instantly tripped up by the love of his family and neighbors. 

“Everybody’s talking at me, I don’t hear a word they are saying, only the echoes of my mind.”

My hope for George is that with time, his hearing aids will allow him to truly hear. 

That will take lots of love to wear him down. 

Love grounded in patience and with a gentle energy that is just as strong as his unbending balkiness.

Psalm 56:3 states:  “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you.”

George and those of us around him need to find that trust.

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Somehow, the items we brought with us are packed up and back in the cars. 

The pleasant, cool early morning temperatures will be missed. Heat and humidity are still hanging around in Richmond awaiting our return.

Heading out to the highway the familiar town landmarks are fading out of view.

 I hope Mammoth Lakes and the whole state of California and other parched areas in the western parts of the United States receive rain or lots of winter snows. It is mighty, mighty dry out here. So dry that it feels like even a harsh, misplaced word could spark the start of a fire.

All along the drive back home, I’m reminded of the landscape. As I have stated before, no matter the direction I look there is a view that captures my attention. I hope we will have another opportunity to visit the Eastern Sierras. 

As we work our way south, the landscape continues to change. Nothing like this back home.

We stop in Lone Pine to charge up the car’s batteries. In fact, the charging station is in the back parking lot of the Lone Pine Film History Museum. Recharging doesn’t take long.

 

While waiting, I take some photos of the Trails Motel. A friend back in Richmond at one time had family ties to this place. It appears to be well maintained and holding its own.

With the charging complete, Art has us back on the road.  

Somewhere well south of Lone Pine, we can see this black plume of smoke. As we come upon this extensive plot of wind turbines, we can see that one of those wind turbines is on fire. It is burning up. There is no indication that anyone is concerned.

This ride back to Agua Dulce featured another opportunity to learn about an excursion Art took with a friend. They hitch hiked across America. Art is a lot braver than me, and that was a long, long time ago. In the craziness and uncertainty of our world today, hitch hiking appears to have lost a bit of its allure.

Gradually, we make it back to the house. Lucy has been picked up and is back ruling the roost. 

It is a lazy afternoon.

Later, we take a short ride into Agua Dulce for dinner at the Maria Bonita Mexican Restaurant. I’ve never had a bad meal at this place—good, good Mexican food creations.

After dinner, Betsy and I do a final check of our luggage prep. 

Hard to believe we’re heading home tomorrow.

California Day 13: Back To Crowley Lake by Bill Pike 8/18/18

I’ll admit it, my heart wasn’t really up for going back to fish Crowley Lake this morning. I was worried about embarrassing Art again with my imperfect fly rod skills. 

But, like they say when you lose your balance and fall as you attempt to learn to ride a bike, you have to get off the ground and get back on the bike for another try.

So, I’m tagging along for another try at Crowley.

We make the drive, park the car, make the short walk down to the dock, and start prepping the boat. I’m reminded of the humor from the dock attendant on Thursday. I’m sure I could be a good target for some comedy with my angling skills. That thought makes me chuckle.

It doesn’t take long as the boat engine fires, and Art has us creeping out of the harbor.

We’re heading back to the same general spot that we fished on Thursday.

Other fisherman are in the area as Art positions the boat and drops the anchors.

With the rods rigged, we start to work. It is another pretty morning, and I’m just hoping I don’t repeat Thursday’s performance.

For a long period of time, we work the water, but no bumps for either of us.

Hearts of fishermen are constructed differently. They hold on longer with hope. Hope that a fish will be drawn to the bait, lure, or fly at the end of the fishing line.

I think at this point, my hope is beginning to fade. It is quiet on the water—not much action around us.

But that suddenly changes.

Art has a tug on his line. This is not just a teaser, a real tug. The rod is bent.

He can feel the weight of the fish. Excitement is rushing through his veins. The fish is making his presence known. 

And then a funny thing happens. The fish starts to work his way around the boat.  

And then a real act of heartfelt courage occurs, Art hands the rod to me.

Now the pressure is on, I can feel this fish, I have seen him break the surface, if I lose this fish, I’ll be banned from fishing in California and maybe the rest of the world.

Thankfully, Art is coaching me as I work the fish around the boat. My ears are working taking in the recommendations from Art. 

The fish is fighting. Hoping that I will make a bad move. 

Art keeps up the coaching, he is ready to land the fish with his net in hand. Gradually, the fish tires,  and I work him toward the side of the boat where Art is waiting.

Gently, he positions the net under the fish, and we have him. 

It is a beautiful brown trout.

I’m thankful that I didn’t lose this fish. Photos are snapped, and then Art gently releases the brownie back into the lake.

Art quickly reworks the line, and he puts me in his position at the back of the boat.

I cast out the line, no disaster occurs. The indicator is properly positioned on the line and from what I can tell in the water.

Within a matter of minutes, my line is bumped. The indicator sinks, and I react by hopefully setting the hook.

Sure enough, the fishing gods at Crowley are with me. I have another good sized trout on the line.

Art’s coaching begins. The fish is tugging, attempting to rid itself of this fake bait, hook, and plastic line.

Whatever move the fish makes, Art, from his experiences tells me how to counter the fish.

Again, the skills of the coach prevail. Art is positioned with the net, and he lands a rainbow trout. The trout is probably equal in size to the previous brown trout.  

I feel extremely lucky to have caught back to back really nice trout. But, what really humbled me during this excitement was the willingness of Art to give up the rod on that first fish. His big heart afforded me that experience, and I will hold on to his kind sacrifice and hospitality for a long time.

We fished a bit longer, but the trout were taking a break. Pretty soon, we pulled up the anchors and headed back to the marina.

The trout success was a hot topic when we arrived back at the condo. But that was short lived as we made arrangements to drive out to McCleod Lake for a short hike.

Once again, we are blessed with another spectacular day. Lots of people are out enjoying this nice weather and all that Mammoth has to offer in the Eastern Sierras.

As we start the hike, we can see the impact of the carbon monoxide seepage as lots of once healthy trees are now bare, weather worn, skeletons. But what really catches my eyes on this hike is how clear the lake water appears.

Also, as we work the perimeter of the lake, people are scattered along in places enjoying what nature has carved out for them in this spot. No matter the activity, people seem happy and content in this beautiful setting.

The trail taps out at little over 1.5 miles. Even at a leisurely pace and with one extended stop, it doesn’t take long for us to finish the loop.

We head back into town with the hope of having lunch at Mammoth Brewing, but it is packed and there are deep lines of hungry and thirsty people.

So we take a short walk up the street for lunch at Toomey’s.  Around since 2012, Toomey’s is a favorite of locals, and its chef/owner is known for developing and showcasing his culinary skills at of all places a Mobil gas station near the entranceway into Yosemite National Park. We grab a table outside, and place  our orders.

After lunch, it is time to explore a new nano brewery in town named Black Doubt. Tucked into a tiny storefront in a shopping center, this compact brewery offers quite a punch with a variety of styles for the beer lover.  

The remainder of the afternoon was quiet. Eventually, we ended up at the pool and another stay in the jacuzzi. 

We ordered some local pizza for dinner, and tried not to think about the packing up and the drive back to Agua Dulce on Sunday morning.

I thought about the start of this last day. I was reluctant to make the fishing trip to Crowley, but look what happened. 

Thanks to Art’s kind and unselfish heart, I now have two memorable trout stories to hang on to for as long as my old heart beats.

 But what I’m really thankful for is the love, friendship, and hospitality that Abby and Art always grace us with when we make this California trip.

Someday, I’ll be too old to make this trip, and that will be sad. But hopefully, my mind will still afford me the opportunity to daydream, and replay every step, every cast, every panoramic view, and every shared laugh.

 

On Sunday, December 30, 2018, I had the privilege of speaking at all three worship services at Trinity United Methodist Church located at 903 Forest Avenue in Richmond, Virginia. The coupon graphic was created by communications specialist, Kim Johnson.

This Coupon Has No Exclusions by Bill Pike

Before we start, please join me in prayer:  Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us here this morning. Over the course of the next few minutes, slow us down, focus us, and open our hearts. In your name we pray, Amen.

Most pastors with an ounce of common sense know that for the Sunday between Christmas and the New Year, it is a good idea to book a naive, unsuspecting speaker.

 Thus, my appearance this morning, so, let’s get started.

Well, it is over. 

The hustle and bustle are gone.

 I can relax now. 

Pretty soon the remnants of Christmas will be shoved back into our attic. Forgotten until next December arrives. 

I can stop being Mr. Scrooge, the Grinch, and the despiser of all things glitter.

 Now wait a second, I know what you are thinking. 

Come on, go ahead admit it, grab your gumption, and tell me your thoughts: 

 “ Bill, how can this be? You are the snarky Scrooge, the grumpy Grinch, and Mr. Anti-Glitter all of the time, not just at Christmas.”

Well, I appreciate the courage of your constructive criticism. 

Your assessment is true. 

In fact, if it wasn’t for my wife, the Commander Supreme, there would be no Christmas at our house. 

The decorating, the Christmas cards, the gift buying, present wrapping, the baking, the meal planning, holiday personality management, and all logistics for the family are thankfully under her eagle eyes.  

When I finally decide to shop for Christmas, I’m always last minute.

I head out into the chaos, but I am not fearful. I have a secret weapon, coupons. 

Snuggly tucked into my worn wallet, I’m loaded with an assortment of coupons. 

Coupons that I have neatly cut out from the newspaper. Coupons that are going to get me the best deal ever.

Inside the store, I find the gift on my list. 

I walk to the check out line. My turn arrives. 

I hand the weary cashier my purchase and the appropriate coupon. 

The cashier scans the price tag, scans the coupon, and then politely tells me, “Sir, I’m sorry, this coupon doesn’t apply. The manufacturer excludes the item you are purchasing.”

Now, inside, I’m raging. I’m close to a nuclear meltdown.

Sherwin Williams could add a new hue to their paint chart:

Christmas Coupon Failure Red

 I should have  known better. Read the fine print.

With the spirit of Scrooge, the Grinch, and Mr. Anti-Glitter, I make the purchase. 

So much for a good deal.

But speaking of good deals, I have one for you. 

Relax, there are no exclusions, no fine print. Check out the front of this morning’s bulletin:

 

 Colossians is the twelfth book of the New Testament. It was written by the apostle Paul while he was in prison. 

The letter is written to the people of Co – los  – sae, a town smaller than a postage stamp, but where Paul had sent E-pa-phras to preach there in a new church. 

Gradually, word trickles back to Paul that all is not well with the new church start. 

A group of “false teachers” who claim to have expertise of divine matters are leading this young congregation astray. Paul sends this letter as a course correction for them.

Bible scholars break the book of Colossians into two parts: “the doctrinal section and the practical exhortations.” (May, Metzger, New Oxford Annotated Bible RSV 1973)

It is the practical application of these six verses that we need to ponder. 

These are words of encouragement from Paul, but some might suggest that Paul is giving the Colossians a not so gentle warning too.

I had no idea that Paul had expertise in fashion, but he clearly suggests that we need to clothe ourselves in compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.

And a little further along, Paul makes another clothing recommendation by stating:  “Above all, clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony.”

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love.

Where are those words in my daily living? 

Where can I find them in me?

How can I apply them to those I encounter?

Why should Paul need to send me a letter reminding me that as a Christian those words should be an expected part of my daily living?

Why is it challenge for me to be compassionate and kind, while  being grounded in humility and meekness?

Where is my patience?

 Where is my love for people who are not like me, for people who I don’t understand, for people who have no reason at all to have hope?

Perhaps, in my daily living, I’m no better than that coupon full of exclusions.

If you, me, we, us are truly Christians how can compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love be buried in our fine print with an asterisk that reads:

*Oh, by the way if you are homeless, a substance abuser, a person with special needs, someone who is emotionally unstable, a refugee, someone who is traumatized, unemployed, temporarily lost, etc.—These exclusions apply: I have no compassion, no kindness, no humility, no meekness, no patience, and no love for you.

In the eight year run of the Andy Griffith Show, the producers only did one Christmas show. It was the eleventh episode in the series, and the show aired on December 19, 1960, the first year the award winning show was on television.

Bill, that was 58 years ago, how could a Hollywood script from that long ago have any relevance today?

Well, at one point early in this show, Sheriff Taylor with great determination states:  “No by dogged, there’s more than one way to pluck a buzzard.”

In this case, Sheriff Taylor was referring to Ben Weaver a local merchant who is being a buzzard behaving like a very mean spirited Scrooge on Christmas Eve.

But as is often the case in Mayberry, Ben Weaver is transformed by the townspeople who gradually wear him down with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love. 

Sometimes, I’m like Ben Weaver. 

I’m a buzzard. I need to be plucked.

I need to hear and embrace Paul’s words of encouragement. 

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love should always be a regular focus for me. Paul’s words should not be in my rear view mirror, nor should they be on the outskirts of my field of vision.

While it is important not to lose sight of those reminders, I know and you know the expectation from Paul and his boss—  as teammates we must make those words action words, not excluded or restricted words.

Back in August, I received an out of the blue nudge from God. He blindsided me, but it was a gentle blindside. 

Has God ever done that to you?

For some reason, I think God enjoys blindsiding me. I have lots of examples to prove this to you. That snowstorm on December 9 would be a case in point.

But this August nudge was to apply to fill out a term on the Henrico County School Board for the Tuckahoe District.

I did not expect to be selected.

Deep inside, I thought to myself, ok God, I think I understand your nudge—it is quite clear that you are attempting to kill me with this appointment.

Deep inside, my friends were thinking the same thing. While they were quick to congratulate me, they were also silently giving me their condolences.

So far, the learning curve for me on the School Board has been steep. Somedays my pulse is barely detectable, but I’m hanging on.

One night I was driving back from a school board meeting. I was on 64 west coming up on the 95 merge. The words on this billboard caught my eye.

It was an advertisement from the United States Marine Corps, the words were very simple:

“Battles are won within.”

Compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love are  battles fought within ourselves.

Paul knew that.

 God knows that.

 I wrestle every day with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, patience, and love.

Remember, I’m a buzzard. I need to be plucked.

“Battles are won within.”

There are other strong words found in these verses from Colossians. We can’t gloss over:  forgive, harmony, peace, hearts, teach, wisdom, and thanks.

At age 65, I still have much to learn, and there are clearly times when I need to revisit lessons that I have been taught from an early age. There was so much wisdom around me in my younger days, I wish my heart had been a better sponge absorbing that advice.

I wonder about my heart a lot. 

While I exercise to keep my physical heart in shape,

 I wonder about my emotional heart.

Does my emotional heart have the capacity to forgive?

 Are harmony and peace in my heart somewhere?

 Is my heart truly thankful for my blessings?

Can my heart love people who are not like me?

Paul’s message to the Colossians was designed to make them think. He did not want them to miss opportunities to transform themselves, or the people they encountered on a daily basis.

Perhaps you noticed during Advent that we asked children to be scripture readers during our Sunday services.

Having children as readers broke a predictable part of our Sunday morning worship. Their voices made us listen more intently to the scripture readings.

Why was this?

Perhaps,  children are more capable of leading us to embrace Paul’s advice to the Colossians.

Maybe, children know more than we suspect about winning battles from within.

American singer, songwriter, Brian Wilson has fought a lot of battles from within. Wilson’s emotional stability, the expectations of his Beach Boys’ family, and challenges with substance abuse are well documented.

I might guess that many of you have not heard a Beach Boys’ song titled “Surf’s Up.” That song is a clear departure from the California lifestyle captured in the Beach Boys’ early recordings.

Just as Paul, references “perfect harmony, with gratitude in our hearts through our songs and praise,” to the Colossians, the closing tag of the song “Surf’s Up” is a swirl of harmony as well with one key line of lyric:

“I heard the word, a wonderful thing, a children’s song, have you listened as they played, their song is love, and the children know the way.” (Brian Wilson and Van Dyke Parks)

One more time—“Their song is love, and the children know the way.”

Friday afternoon, I was on Amtrak train #95. We were stopped in Ashland. After passengers had loaded and departed at this stop, the train started to slowly pull out of the town dubbed the “center of the universe.” 

I noted Christmas lights decorating the station building, and one strand of lights on a section of fencing caught my eye. The lights framed the word— Love.

Folks as we prepare to depart 2018 and board 2019, don’t be like me and toss Christmas back into your attic.

Don’t be like me, a buzzard looking to pluck the best deals in life by putting my hope in coupons that exclude and restrict.

No, if you really want to win that battle within yourself, then choose Paul’s letter to the Colossians, Chapter 3, verses 12-17.

That is best coupon for your wallet or purse. 

There are no exclusions, no expiration, and it is available for all.

None of us will have immunity from battles in 2019.

But, we can be better prepared if we ground ourselves with Paul’s wisdom, and that one key word—love.

That love was found in a manger, a long, long, long time ago.

That child has tried to teach us about love.

When it comes to love, I think my heart has been letting him down.

How about yours?

Don’t shove the love and hope of Christmas back into storage until next December.

Shove that love and hope into your heart, and use it everyday in 2019.

After all, Jesus is counting on us.

As I have stated many times, I am no Biblical scholar.

But, I do wonder about the stories in the Bible.

Maybe you do too.

One story that I wonder about quite a bit is the Christmas story.

Perhaps you recall that in the book of Luke,  God sends the angel Gabriel to have a conversation with a young lady named Mary. Mary resides in the town of Nazareth, and she is engaged to Joseph.

Gabriel really knows how to start a conversation with a young lady as he states: “Greetings, favored one! The Lord is with you.”

Mary is pretty sharp.

We are told this is what she is thinking:  “But she was much perplexed by his words and pondered what sort of greeting this might be.”

Gabriel continues to share God’s plan with Mary, and he begins with these words: “Do not be afraid, Mary.”

Clearly, these are words of great comfort. 

But, to her credit, Mary sticks around.

She lets Gabriel finish this life altering news story.

I don’t know how she did it, but Mary gives Gabriel the answer I’m sure he was hoping for:  “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”  

Mary is one trusting soul.

I’ll be honest with you, I’m not so sure my old soul really, really, really, really trusts God sometimes.

I wrestle with him. Silently, I call him out. Especially when hearts are broken. God, where were you?

Sometimes, I need God to show me that he is at work. 

I need to know that the pulse of my trust can be revived, renewed.

And sometimes, he shows me.

On August 10, 2016, baby Charlotte came into this world. Three days later she was gone.

Charlotte died from a rare birth defect— heterotaxy syndrome. The defect impacts the heart and other organs. It causes these key internal organs to be located in abnormal places in the chest and abdomen. (Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia)

On Saturday, August 20, a memorial service, a celebration of Charlotte’s life took place at Trinity United Methodist Church. In my role as director of operations at our church, I’ve attended a lot of funerals over the years, but not one like this.

Charlotte’s life was celebrated. It was clear that in her short life, Charlotte was loved by her parents, her siblings, and grandparents.

Somehow, Charlotte’s parents regrouped from this setback.

As I parent, I’m not sure my faith would have carried me forward. 

How could the tragic loss of one child possibly bring about the life of another?

But in this case, for these young parents their faith and trust in God did.

On August 23, 2018, these trusting and faithful parents welcomed into this world Nora Elsie.

Right now, I’m pretty sure God is looking down upon me. He is thinking— how about that story for reviving your pulse, Bill? 

Does that help you to believe that I still report to work? 

Has the faithful trust of this young family taught you anything?

This fall like Mary pondered her interaction with the angel, Gabriel, I have been pondering the arrival of Nora Elsie.

Nora Elsie’s story is worth pondering.

Her story is remarkable. 

It is an affirmation of this line of scripture from Luke 1:37:

“For nothing will be impossible with God.”

There are days when the world looks impossible to me.

Days when things go well beyond wrong.

And I guess on those days that’s when I need the Christmas story the most.

I need its hope.

 

Fishing was the first piece of business on the docket for Friday, August 17. Art and I were heading to the Owens River this morning.

The drive out to the Owens is pretty simple. The tricky part is picking an access point from the numerous dirt roads that will put you on the banks of the river.

Once Art found us a good stopping place, we had a nice posted notice from the state of California. 

The Owens had tested positive for the invasive species, the New Zealand Mud snail. Fortunately, the posting date had expired, but anglers were given careful instructions about how to clean waders and other fishing gear to slow the spread of the New Zealand Mud snail. One option was to freeze your waders for six to eight hours. I’m sure many wives were startled when they opened their freezers to take out dinner only to find frozen waders.

As Art prepared the fly rods, I took in the scenery. The first time we fished the Owens, we had a guide with us from a local company. Doug, the guide, had the patience of Job with me. He refreshed me on very basic casting techniques and advised as I practiced. 

But for me, the most amazing skill that Doug possessed was reading the water. He could tell be where to cast, and after several casts to that spot, a trout would usually hit. I’m sure the ability to read the water came from working with his fellow guides, but also from all of the experiences of working with challenging anglers like me.

I am so thankful for the teachers who taught me how to read. That important life skill allows me to read the newspaper or become lost in a book. However, I think I overlook how we are exposed to other types of reading in our daily lives.

With the rods ready, we start walking toward the Owens. Art is looking for spots were casting is easy from the banks without too many obstacles along the river’s edge. Often, I am much more skilled at catching the limb of a shrub than a trout.

The first spot, we had good access, and the focus here was to get the line out into the current, and let the current take the fly downstream. This also meant figuring out good points for casting so the fly could slip through areas shadowed from the sun. Sometime still sleepy trout gather in these out of sunlight pockets.

For a pretty good period of time, we fished this section, but we had no luck.

Moving to the next spot wasn’t difficult. I always look down as some of the land around the Owens is used for cattle grazing and the last thing I want to do is slip on a fresh cow pie.

Art sets me up in an ideal spot. We step off the bank on to a point of sand where the water runs through at a good pace and depth. I can cast a short distance upstream to my right, and my fly will float by me into a deeper pool. 

Art decides to work further down stream from me. But, before he leaves, I cast out. My fly is taken by the current and scuttles downstream. As I’m reeling the line back in, I feel a slight tug. It disappears, then appears again. I reel some more, and I see my hook grazed the side of a small trout. I pick him up off the rocky bottom and return him to his freedom.

Sadly, that was the only action for the time we spent on the Owens. Still, it is one of my favorite places to fish. I feel like I’m nestled in my on little world for a while. It is quiet. The water barely makes a sound as it carries my fly downstream. The real world seems far, far away.

We walked back to the car. Slid off the waders and our boots, and drove back to the condo. Abby and Betsy were taking it easy, a recovery day from the Sherwin Lake hike.

Later in the afternoon, we took a walk into town for chips and margaritas at Gomez’s. We also checked out some of the shops before catching the trolley back to the condo.

On Monday, December 3, Joe Andrews, Bill Burch, and Joe Toler arrived at our church around 9:00 a.m. For almost three years, this group of volunteers with an occasional sprinkle of others have been showing up to do chores for the church.

Bill Burch is the leader. Two Mondays per month, minus the summer, these talented, dedicated gentlemen come to their church, and work on a list of assignments that we need completed. Over the years, they have had some challenging chores. They have never backed away from anything. But on December 3, I think I pushed them.

This list for Monday read as follows:  Sanctuary lights, Welcome Center lights, and Chrismon tree.

To gain access to all of the lights, we were going to use an extension ladder and an antique electric lift. 

Although made of aluminum, the extension ladder is commercial grade. It is heavy, cumbersome to carry, and challenging to stage.

The old lift runs off a battery charge. It is like a tank in terms of construction. Minus the wood platform in the crow’s nest, the lift is all heavy duty metal framing. Moving it around sometimes requires two people. With a bit of coaxing, the lift can be fit on to an elevator, but it reminds me of trying to lead a stubborn horse into a singular stall.

First, we staged the ladder in the chancel area of the Sanctuary. Bill, Joe Toler, and I gathered up the ladder from the outside cooling tower. We walked it through the parking lot, across sidewalks, and up sets of steps. 

Once in the Sanctuary, we made one interesting turn so we could walk it down the main aisle up to the Chancel. At that point, the brains of Mr. Toler and Mr. Burch took over for figuring out how the ladder would be staged. Really what they were focused on was how we would position and raise the ladder without killing ourselves and damaging the church.

The real key was this simple measure—we slowed down. No step, no maneuver, no tilt, no lifting was done without each of us being in sync, and we moved liked turtles. Because of this, we reached a reasonable access point without a challenge.

With the ladder safely positioned, I climbed up to take a look at the light tube needs. Immediately, I saw a number of non-burning tubes.  My stock was limited as these tubes are old and difficult to find from electrical supply houses.

From that first look, we devised a way to use our new tubes to eliminate the visible dark spots. Joe and Bill traded off handing me tubes on the ladder. We fixed one area, and then we had to re-position the ladder. Once again, we moved like turtles, but we transitioned to the next spot without damage or a casualty.

While working at this next spot, Bill Burch and Joe Andrews peeled off to start bringing the lift to the Sanctuary. In a couple of spots where we needed to be, the lift was our only option.

I know it took some coaxing, but soon they returned with the lift. We worked to position the lift, and Joe Andrews took the ride up to assess. In both spots, we were able to make lighting improvements without harm to the building or us.

In the Welcome Center, a smaller extension ladder was used. On one wall is a large stained glass piece that was once in place as a window.  Now this former window is mounted on a wall with masterful wood trim work framing it, and the beautiful stained glass is back lit. 

Somewhere behind the stained glass, lighting had failed. The stained glass was not fully illuminated.

Bill Burch figured out how to open the two access panels on both sides. Once he removed those, Bill saw four tube lights. Two had failed. 

I took one of the failed tubes and drove to our neighborhood hardware store looking for a replacement. Of course, they had similar tubes, but not the exact size. Then I drove to the closest electrical supply company. Struck out there too. Turns out this was a unique tube that could only be special ordered.

While I was away, the two Joes assembled the Chrismon tree in the Sanctuary.  According to the United Methodist Church website here is a brief history of the origin of the Chrismon:

Ornaments made from Christian symbols (or Chrismons, a contraction for ‘Christ monograms’) were first developed by Frances Spencer and the women of the Ascension Lutheran Church in Danville, Virginia. Many churches display a Chrismon tree during the Advent and Christmas season decorated with handmade ornaments.

Thanks to the Joes,  the sometime cantankerous tree was now ready to be decorated on Wednesday afternoon.

Gradually, we worked to return the ladders and lift to their storage areas. Noon had arrived quickly. Time for our crew to head home.

I often lose perspective on the things that take place behind the scenes for the good of the cause. The pace of life today is so fast, I wonder if our congregation knows all the details it takes to put the pieces of the Advent season together.

I learned so much from Joe, Bill, and Joe today. I hope some of their wisdom rubs off on me.

Little things like flipping a light tube to stop it from flickering. Slowing down my steps to safely position a ladder, and the value of teamwork.

Somehow, there is even teamwork in the Christmas story. 

Mary and Joseph managed to find trust in each other and God. They were a team.

While the detail appears to have been small, someone provided a bit of shelter for Mary, Joseph, and their new son. This person was on the team.

After shaking off being significantly startled  by an angel in the dark of night way out in an isolated pasture, those shepherds became a part of the team.

Although I have been an imperfect teammate, in my 65 years of living, the Christmas story has always been a part of my life.

Why is that?

Well, there are lots of potential answers.

But, I think all through my life, I’ve been surrounded by quiet angels like Joe, Bill, and Joe. 

These angels were always working behind the scenes to mold, shape, and nudge me no matter how resistant I might have been.

Maybe this Christmas, you can take a few minutes to reflect on the angels in your life who molded, shaped, and nudged you. 

Ladders, lifts, and lights aren’t managed without them.

Thursday, August 16, started with oatmeal. 

Art made a pot of Coach’s Oats. This brand of oats came from a California based family who in 1992 used a breakfast gathering with friends as a starting point for creating their oatmeal. On this cool Mammoth Lakes morning, the warm oatmeal and all of the extras we added really hit the spot.

As usual, Art had us organized with all of the items we would need for this trout fishing expedition. 

My first fishing memories with Art go back to Mashnee on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Our in-laws used to make an annual trip there. Abby and Betsy’s father always towed his boat, and weather permitting, just before the sun rose each morning, we were out on the boat in Buzzard’s Bay fishing for bluefish.

That was many years ago, and Art’s love of pursuing fish has grown. He has experienced fishing from Cuba to Christmas Island, and many domestic points in between. At some point in all of this fishing, Art mastered using a fly rod. Today, no matter salt or freshwater, the fly rod is his trusted friend.

The ride down to Crowley Lake was uneventful. According to Wikipedia, Crowley Lake was created in 1941. This reservoir is fed by the Owens River and features the Long Valley Dam. Crowley is known for the quality of the trout that anglers pursue whenever they have the opportunity.

Art has become a regular here. He knows the attendant at the gatehouse, a number of the fishing guides, and this morning a key person, the dock attendant. Once we had the boat loaded, Art maneuvered us over to the fueling dock. This attendant could have been a stand up comedian. His experiences managing this section of the complex had given him many opportunities to interact with fishermen. His subtle one-liners made us chuckle.

Loaded with fuel, we were now ready to leave the marina. We quietly cruised through the “no wake” zone. Art had a location in mind. It didn’t take long for our speed to increase as we clipped along toward that spot.

Crowley’s shoreline is like reading a book. Every portion is a different chapter. No matter where my eyes scan, I could quickly fill the disc on my camera with photographs.

Flat grazing land meets the water’s edge with narrow ribbons of sandy beaches with the Sierras cast as a backdrop. At some points, the shoreline pushes up out of the water forming craggy rock formations, and occasionally these cliffs are sprinkled with the green of singular trees who somehow caught a toe hold and sprung to life.  Along less craggy areas, some banks reveal the hues of their creation seasoned by the whims of the California climate. 

Gulls, American white pelicans, and a quirky water bird, the Western Grebe are easy to spot. The Western Grebe when startled out of the water seems to like racing the boats of the fishermen as they rush to their favorite fishing spots.

With the boat properly positioned to Art’s liking, he takes the time to rig up the fly rods. Art knows that I’m exceptionally rusty when it comes to re-introducing me to the details of fly rod casting. But, Art is also a  patient teacher. He gives me a crash course, complete with demonstrations, and then turns me loose in the bow of the boat.

Pretty soon, Art is getting some gentle bumps, and those bumps quickly become a trout on the line. Art lets the trout have its play time. Using barbless hooks, trout caught at Crowley are catch and release. With experience on his side, Art grabs the net and gently lands the trout. The sunlight highlights the colorful skin markings of both brown or rainbow trout. l

For a long span of time, Art is consistently catching fish, and I’m being shut out. My line indicator is dead in the water, not even a bump. So, I need to create some excitement for myself, and there is no better way than to land my hook in the anchor rope. If I can’t catch fish, I can catch an anchor. Art helps me work through this little mishap.

Another span of time passes, and I continue to elude trout. I keep working on my cast, and of course I manage to get my line tangled. For a long, long time, I work to get this line back to normal. By now, I’m certain fishermen in boats close by are feeling bad for Art. They must be thinking, Art Babcock is a saint. Clearly, he has the patience of Job to have that guy in the boat with him today. He has been a complete disaster.

My luck doesn’t change, but in a long lull, Art receives a text from Abby. She and Betsy are driving down to Crowley for a boat ride. So, after a few more casts with no luck, we pull up the anchors and head back to the marina.

Once we have picked up our passengers, Art takes us on a ride that allows us to appreciate the coves and expanse of the lake.

When the tour is over, we regroup at the marina. We agree to meet back at the condo and make plans to drive over to June Lake for a brewery stop and lunch.

California Day 11 June Lake

It didn’t take long for us to ready ourselves for the drive over to June Lake. Nestled off of 395, June Lake is pretty little town grounded in a beautiful lake that quickly catches your attention.

Today, we are making a stop at June Lake Brewing, and we will have lunch from a convenient food truck—Ohanas 395. The food truck sits in a space directly across from the brewery. It is only a few giant steps to the brewery, and here is the best part—order your lunch, walk over to the brewery grab a beer, and the staff from Ohanas 395 will bring your lunch to you.

June Lake Brewing is the real deal, it is an energetic, funky little brewery with inside and outside space. The names of their beers captures it all for example—Sasquatchito XPA. We found a table outside, and within a few minutes our food arrived. I woofed down every delicious bite a combination of pork, chicken, rice, and maybe the best macaroni salad I’ve ever eaten.

While we were eating, four fighters from Pennsylvania found a table and soon their lunch arrived too. Their presence only served as a reminder about the predominately dry, parched land that is all around us, and that firefighters from across the USA come to help in battling wildfires.  

Sherwin Lakes Trail

After lunch and a bit of quiet time in Mammoth Lakes, we decided to drive over to the entrance to the Sherwin Lakes Trail and to take this hike.

Hats, water, and sunscreen were a part of our prep. I’ve read different reports about the length of this hike from 3.0 to 4.3, but I can confirm that the trail is a really good workout. 

Art led the way, and he was kind to us. He found good stopping points along the trail. True to every trail I have ever been on out here, the views and the scenery from broad vistas to a small wildflower, my eyes have never been disappointed.

We keep pushing along. Occasionally, we get a good glimpse of a helicopter dragging a bucket of supplies to firefighters embedded in remote access areas. With their rotor blades slapping the air, the quietness of the landscape is briefly interrupted.

The higher we go, the better the views are as we look back over the ground we have covered. We are making good progress, and at some point we discover a teaser. A small lake comes into view nestled off the trail. This is a disappointment for our legs and feet, but Art keeps leading us forward.

Like a kid on a road trip, I’m silently wondering inside when are we going to get there? 

Finally,  a subtle change in the landscape begins to take shape, and out in front of us is this lake basin, and instantly my mind is glad we made this hike. The lake and all of its trimmings are really pretty. My eyes are intrigued no matter where they scan.

The lake water is clear and cool. The shoreline is a combination of sand and rocky crags. The Mammoth Lakes trail system guide notes there are still remnants from an August 2008 fire, and I see the graying frames of trees that are still standing from that intense encounter. But true, to its unwritten promise, Mother Nature is slowly restoring the scarred land.

After a good rest taking in the beauty, we started making the way back down the trail. I always enjoy the hike up as I think my footing is more stable. But, mentally, I dread the walk down as I am more sensitive to a misguided step that could lead to a slide and a fall. So, I take a  turtle’s pace as gravity pulls me down the mountain. Art and Abby are out ahead of Betsy and me, but we eventually make our way back to the parking lot.

I’ve never been disappointed with any walk or hike in Mammoth Lakes. The hike this afternoon was perfect for working off that June Lake lunch.

Pretty soon we were back at the condo. Again, we quickly regrouped and walked over to the pool where a couple of hot tubs were also located.

I can only speak for myself, but I don’t think a hot tub ever felt better.

 My old body enjoyed the frothy soak. 

This was our third trip to Mammoth Lakes, but the first time I had brought my running shoes along with me.

I had resolved on Tuesday evening that I would go for a run on Wednesday morning. It seemed reasonable to follow the same path out to Sherwin’s Vista. 

The sun had been up for several minutes as I finally made my way out of the condo. Very pleasant, cool morning air awaited me. This was a sharp contrast to the warm, humid air I normally find on August mornings when I go for a run in Richmond.

For several months, somewhere in the area of my left hamstring, a muscle had not been happy with me. There was a fairly consistent tweak of pain. This nuisance prevented me from enjoying an early morning run. Not sure why, but gradually over the last couple of weeks the muscle had started to feel a tad better.

I can tell you I broke no speed limits on this run. Any creature could have run circles around me, but that’s ok. Often, runs for me are about taking in the scenery, and at Mammoth Lakes I wasn’t disappointed. 

The morning light slowly cast a broad brush stroke on its waking canvas. I made my way out to the end point, looped back around, and started taking in the sights again.

Not many people were stirring yet, the solitude was good for my always wandering mind. As my old body returned me to my stopping point, I decided to hustle into the condo and grab my camera. Abby had alerted me how the sunlight playfully panned across treetops and the creek bed with the Sierras as a backdrop. 

She was right, as I took several photos of the morning light into the backdrop Abby had described.

Back in the condo, their was a quietness, but gradually Betsy and Abby greeted the morning, and chatter started about plans for the day.

First goal was to revisit Horseshoe Lake, and we did. There was still some dampness along the trail from Tuesday’s midmorning rain storm. The rain in this section had momentarily interrupted the parched, dusty landscape. 

All along the trail we found picture taking moments. In one clearing was a singular standing stone fire place. It appeared like a small fortress with no indication that time nor intense Sierra weather conditions could intrude upon its mortar and stone construction.

A bit further along, Betsy’s keen eyes caught in the cover of the tree shade a perfectly tanned deer who was intently studying our every move.

But, it was the depleted shoreline of the lake that caught our attention as well. This lack of water revealed the normally hidden slope of the land now bleached into hues of tan, gray, and chalk.

From Horseshoe Lake, we made our way to the Twin Falls overlook, and eventually drove over to Twin Lakes. We did quite a bit of exploring around the picturesque Twin Lakes before deciding to have lunch at the Tamarack Lodge.

After lunch, we drove back the condo for some quiet time.

Eventually, we made our way to The Troutfitter where I purchased my out of state residence fishing license. Next, we headed to Vons a California based chain of grocery stores. Currently, the only grocery store in town, this place was hopping even on a Wednesday afternoon.

Outside the entrance at Vons was a wooden framed easel that displayed the latest wildfire updates from all of the agencies working to control and contain these fires. 

The updates contained a narrative explaining location and scope of the work, maps pinpointing the fire, and a few photographs. One photograph caught our attention as it showed burros loaded with supplies to be carried into remote locations for the firefighters.

Back at the condo, Art had arrived. He brought with him some grilled tri-tip from Agua Dulce. We caught Art up on our activities, and Art and I made plans for an early Thursday morning trout fishing excursion at Crowley Lake.

After a good night of sleep and an oatmeal breakfast, we gradually pushed ourselves out of the condo. We had some exploring to do, plus we needed to continue our altitude acclimation.

It is a short drive from the condo up into Mammoth Mountain. In winter, this area is known for skiing, snowboarding, and cross-country skiing. Over the years, the Mammoth Mountain folks have done a nice job shifting the summer use of this terrain for assorted skill levels related to mountain biking.

On this Tuesday morning, the parking lots for Mammoth Mountain were packed. It took a while to find a parking spot.

 As we walked toward the visitor’s center to purchase our lift tickets, I was amazed at the license plates. Not everyone was from California. A lot of those vehicles were outfitted with bike racks and mountings for other recreational gear.

The grounds were a flurry of activity. All sorts of play stops designed  for children to burn energy.

We purchased our Senior Scenic Ride tickets, and worked our way through a short maze to the entry point for the gondola ride. The friendly and helpful staff were able to even get me loaded properly on the gondola.

Mammoth Mountain tops out a 11,053 feet. Without question, the gradual ride up the mountain provides many scenic views. 

As we are pulled up, we can see the construction site for a new zip line attraction. That zip line promises to barrel brave souls down the mountain side at speeds upward of 60 mph. I will not be one of those brave souls who tries out that zip line someday.

At the top, we find our way off the gondola, and start exploring a bit. The terrain up here is very sparse. Our footsteps plant down on rock, crushed stone. No matter where I look, I have the desire to take a million pictures. I note the well worn trail where mountain bikers have passed by us during our exploration.

A nice visitor’s center, complete with a restaurant is a part of this mountain top experience. The visitor’s center provides information about a number of topics related to this mountain. 

It is interesting on this mid-morning excursion that puffy cumulus clouds are present and building. In fact, when we reach the base of the mountain, we overhear an employee talking about a reported  lightning strike not far from us.

With Mammoth Mountain behind us, we start the walk back to the car. Horseshoe Lake is our next stop. No matter where I scan my vision the landscape continues to capture my approval. This terrain is such a contrast to our Blue Ridge Mountains back in Virginia. 

The ride over to Horseshoe Lake is short.  I guess in some ways, Horseshoe Lake has become one of the poster children for what  unseen carbon dioxide gas (CO2) can do to a lake basin and the forest of trees surrounding it. 

In the 1980s, scientist began to research why this landscape was drastically changing. Eventually, they concluded that CO2 was seeping through the complicated layers of substructure. 

A key piece of this research came from sampling tree roots and soil from dying trees—they contained significant levels of CO2.  The researchers at the United States Geological Survey have an excellent Fact Sheet (#172-96) about this discovery.

A little dubious about whether to start our hike because of the cloud cover. The hues of the gray sky had become darker, but we decided to head out.

We were not very far out on the trail when the first drops of rain started to fall. In our minds, we thought this was a light, short lived shower—we were wrong.

The rain started to come down harder. Luckily, a few yards ahead of us was an abandoned restroom building. We scampered for the front side that had a roof line. That pitched out roof gave us a bit of cover.

This was not a torrential rain, but its flow was enough to soak and chill a person. About the time Abby thought out loud, “I hope it doesn’t start to hail,” it started to hail. White frozen pellets started pinging down. We noted that the air temperature had also dropped.

As we continued to wait out this stubborn rain shower, we saw a couple of soaked lady hikers trying to make their way back to the parking lot. We called to them to join us under the roof line, and they did.

These two friends one from California and the other from Louisiana didn’t linger with us long. The chill of the rain and the drop in temperature had taken them by surprise. They waited for a perceived let up in the rain and started out for their car again.

We continued to hang around. Occasionally, pellets of hail would mix in with the rain. And at one point, thunder rumbled behind one of the distant ridges. That rumble broke the quietness from the falling rain.

Somehow, we determined that the rain had let up, so we decided to hustle out toward the parking lot. About the time we left our cover, some more hail pellets christened our departure.

Although we were wet, we made it to the car, and Abby started the drive back into town. I’m sure all things dry at Horseshoe Lake appreciate that steady shower of rain. Even a drop of rain would be embraced in this thirsty wilderness.

We were heading to the Mammoth Brewing Company for a midday beer. It was interesting to note that the further we inched toward town the gray, coolness of the rain was quickly replaced with sunshine and warmer air.

At a prime corner location on Lake Mary Road, Mammoth Brewing Company has carved out a nice niche with their quality beers, food, and hospitality. They are a local and region favorite. Unique among craft brewers, they also serve wine.

After quenching our thirst, we head back to the condo. 

Later in the afternoon, our plan is to take part of the town loop out to Sherwin’s Vista.

To take the hike out to Sherwin’s Vista, we don’t have to drive. We can pickup the planned asphalt trail just a few steps away from the condo.

It’s not long before we have entered the main part of the trail that includes a tunnel under Old Mammoth Road. At times parallel to the trail, a crystal clear brook babbles from time to time. There are plenty of cutouts where access is easy for fishing. 

This afternoon, we encounter some cross country runners who travel to Mammoth Lakes to train because of the altitude. Clearly, doughnuts and twinkies are not a part of the training menu for these lean runners.

The sky in places has some clouds building, but I don’t think we’re in for a second rain shower. Since our arrival, we have noticed a fairly steady trek of helicopters hugging the side of the mountains. We learn these choppers are ferrying supplies into firefighters in remote locations.

For me, the beauty of the Sherwin’s Vista trail is its openness. I can see for miles in any direction. Plus, even in the dryness of this parched landscape, some plants display very pretty blooms. 

Gradually, we make it to the end, and we circle around and start the walk back again. As we get closer to town, we make a quick stop at the recently renovated Mammoth Creek Park to checkout the children’s playground. This playground is a National Demonstration Site “for meeting best practices in design and program offerings.”

We’ve had a good day from Mammoth Mountain to Sherwin’s Vista. At some point tomorrow, Art arrives, and fishing for trout will become a focus.