Trip to Upper Peninsula, Michigan, Day 3

Chapel Falls

There is no set time on Monday, July 11 for getting up. It is so nice to just relax. Amazingly, the constant road traffic ceases during the night and all is quiet. We arise around 7 a.m. after a fairly comfortable night. Our first task is making breakfast. The plan is to have pancakes made over the tiny camp stove. We now have fuel to put in it but realize it will be a challenge to pour fuel from a 12×6 can into a ½” diameter hole without pouring most of it on the ground. Dave fashions a makeshift funnel out of tin foil. Even with our fabricated tool, we spill a good portion into the fire pit before we get the stove full. But the next challenge, in spite of the stove working for us last evening, is that it will not hold pressure. The only “oil” we have is butter so Dave tries lubricating the plunger with our “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.” But in spite of pumping and pumping, it will not maintain a seal. As a last resort, he is forced to build a fire with wood in the cooking grill to crispy burn our pancakes. They are rubbery on the outside and not quite done on the inside. It turns out to be a very meager sad breakfast.

A search of the hardware store later that morning for 3-in-1 oil for the stove plunger yields, “We haven’t been able to get that for over six months.” What is this shortage of strange and random things here lately? We resort to 10W30 car oil which I carry around in my trunk. Dave is able to light the stove one more time after returning to the campground but then it again refuses to hold any pressure. Time to hold a memorial service for this 20 + year old piece of camping equipment.

Our next item on the itinerary today is to drive to three separate falls around Munising. The Munising Falls is right in town just a short distance off H58 so our plan is to stop there first. I need to spy Washington Ave and have Dave follow it to the hospital and the parking lot should be right across from the hospital. I do catch a glimpse of Washington Ave but the sign runs parallel with the road we are on, so I assume that H58 switched over to Washington Ave there. But we drive and drive with no sign of a hospital or Munising Falls. After many miles have passed, I realize we are almost to Chapel Falls which was to be our last stop of the day. Oh well, might as well start backwards.

Chapel Falls are a 1.4-mile hike in along a wide, well kept, obviously well-traveled trail. The path slowly winds through the heavily tree populated forest. The breeze is cool on this cloudy day making for a pleasant walk. Here there are no steps to the base of the falls but a viewing area above which allows a visual through the trees. Just a little further upstream, a bridge crosses over the rocky river above the cascading water.

Yesterday, I had said that I was surprised at the lack of people at these sites. Today is a different story. The crowds have appeared and the peaceful stride through the forest alone is gone. Dave is starting to limp on the way back due to his knee, but we take it slow on this easy path.

We decide to see if we can find a picnic table for a lunch of chicken salad on sandwiches and chips before we tackle the next falls. We drive down the road to Miner’s Falls and beach thinking that certainly there will be a table somewhere near the beach. There is not a table to be found. I had seen a spot in passing where there were five huge rocks marking the boundary to a parking area. That, I decide will be our picnic banquet spot. One large rock becomes our table for the spread. Soon we are revived and ready to attempt the walk to Miner’s Falls.

The parking lot to the falls area is jammed with cars and people but we are able to secure an unmarked spot for ourselves. We set off down the slightly sloping path. Our pace is slow, and we sidestep frequently to allow others to pass. It is soon evident that a “herd” is following us. They seem to be young college students together in a group accompanied by a priest in robes. They laugh and talk, and one plays a boombox loudly. It is almost impossible to get any pictures at the falls that are devoid of humans. We rest on a bench waiting for all the students to come back up the 77 steps from the viewing platform. But they never come back. Eventually, I leave Dave on the bench and walk down the steps to the viewing platform. That’s weird, I think, the students have all vanished. There is no trail, but they have descended by sliding 50 feet further down the side of the cliff to the base of the falls. I can tell Dave is exhausted by the time we get back to the parking lot, but we decide to make the one last stop at Munising Falls anyway as it is just a short walk.

The parking lot to Munising Falls is packed and overflowing when we arrive and there also seems to be a charge to visit here. Too many people and needing to pay finalizes our decision to head back to the campground and the yurt. We never do make a trip to this fall.

Flowers by bathroom

Once we are relaxing back at the yurt, I decide to look up the ferry schedule from Muskegon to Milwaukee for our return trip on Sunday, July 17. Our plan is to drive to Traverse City on Saturday to visit a friend from my younger Mennonite days and then take the ferry on Sunday morning to get back to Wisconsin. I have brought along my computer for such a purpose, and we do have WiFi access here. The ferry website now offers a place to book a spot. When I booked this trip in February, the ferry wasn’t even running and therefore, I didn’t make any reservations. I thought we could just drive up at 10 a.m. on Sunday and get a birth. But now, when I click on “Reserve a Ticket,” the only choice I am offered is 11 p. m. Sunday night. That won’t work at all. I suspect that the other times are all booked but I call the phone number listed just in case.

“Do you have a vehicle,” the answering lady enquires.

“Yes.”

“We have no more room for vehicles, but you can buy a ticket.”

Well, that’s not a help if we have to leave our car behind. Dave and I are in a panic. Now what do we do? And how many hours does it take to drive around Lake Michigan. Google and MapQuest both say the shortest way home from Traverse City, MI is south around Lake Michigan through Chicago. Who wants to drive through Chicago? Not us. And even then, it is a 10-hour drive home. Going north around that end of Lake Michigan does not seem to be much different. After an hour of analyzing every angle, we decide we will have to leave early around 5 a.m. on Sunday taking the northern route with the hopes we will be home in 12 hours.

I then text my friend to make sure she is still expecting us on Saturday.

“Oh, I have to work until 8 p.m. on Saturday evening,” she says, “But you guys are welcome to hang out here if you like or visit some of Traverse City.”

Well, that is a frickin bummer! Why do we want to drive to Traverse City with the just discovered travel issue if the person we want to see isn’t going to be home anyway? I am totally frustrated and disappointed. I thought we had this planned months ago. I wonder if we could go down there on Friday.

“Do you work on Friday?” I question.

“I work Thursday thru Saturday,” is the response. “Would it work if I would meet you in Petoskey on Wednesday? We could at least get to visit for a bit.

That might actually work, I think. We will need to figure out something different for Saturday night but that solves our problem of how to get around Lake Michigan for the drive home.

After all this brain racking, it is time for supper before our sunset cruise along the Pictured Rocks National shoreline tonight. Our little cooking stove continues to be uncooperative, so we finally resort to asking again to boil a cup of water in the campground office microwave in order to rehydrate our dehydrated meal. One cup of boiling water is all we need. These Mountain House dehydrated food packets are actually working quite well in our situation, and they are even pretty tasty.

The sun has peeked out and is shining brightly by the time we park in Munising and take our spot in the growing queue for the boat ride at 8 p.m. Maybe there will be a nice sunset after all. We have brought our coats as the air contains a chill. Two busloads of Amish people soon unload and join the waiting throng. Shortly before 7:45, the boat steams toward the dock and ties up. It is a triple decker with just enough room to accommodate the passenger count of 300 tonight, the captain informs us. Dave and I choose the upper open deck in the chairs along the rail hoping to get some good pictures.

As we start across the bay, the wind blasts our faces and insists we put our jackets on. Brrr… It is going to be chilly on the water. Our journey is to take us 15 miles out into Lake Superior along the shoreline and back, a two-hour trip. We see a couple of waterfalls, Spray Falls and Bridal Falls. Much of the cliff line along the shore is covered with colored rocks from the minerals contained in the water as it runs into the lake. It makes them look like someone has reached down and painted them with a huge paintbrush. Also, evident are sandstone arches that have developed over time. At one point, as a unique treat, the captain pulls the boat up into a rock encircled bay that is just big enough to accommodate his boat. All too soon, it is time to head back. The sunset we were hoping to see is soon obscured by clouds. In the distance, the sky grows dark and angry. A few flashes of lightning streak across the sky. Just as we are about to return into the harbor bay, a bright full moon peeks out and throws its reflection for a few minutes on the calm surface of the lake. Then it is gone.

   Trip to Upper Peninsula, Michigan, Day 2

Lake Superior from our B&B

Sunday morning, July 10, we wake up at 7:30 a.m. in our room at the bed and breakfast after a restful night. The proprietor had predicted a 40-degree temperature this morning, but we are hit with a blast of warm breeze when we step out into the garden for a morning explore before breakfast. I am guessing it is closer to seventy. The world is peaceful, and we lounge in the strategically placed lawn chairs while we gaze out at the waveless blue expanse of Lake Superior. Breakfast is to be served at 8:30 so we head back in to see what delicacies await us. The tray is embellished with fruit in yogurt, blueberry sconces, egg muffins, sausages, and a cup of cereal. We take our tray back outside to enjoy the beautiful sunny morning while we dine on the treats. After our leisurely meal, we gather our possessions together and set out on the next leg of our journey.

            Our plan is to drive south on County Road 510 along which we are searching for two waterfalls. Yellow Dog River Falls is supposed to come first followed by Big Pup Creek Falls about 2 miles further on. Following the map, we turn directly south where County AA divides from County 510 and continue driving. It shouldn’t be far from here. We look intently for the signs we are sure we should be seeing soon. But we drive and drive and there are no signs anywhere. Could we have missed them?

            “But there were no signs,” we alternately declare to each other.

            “Well, I guess we are taking a drive through the enchanted forest if nothing else.” The potholed gravel road is enclosed by trees that reach for each other above.

            We finally come to a road marked 310 but 510 seems to have disappeared. There is no 310 on the map we have but we have to go one way or the other, so we turn to the right. It soon becomes a “road less traveled” and I insist that we turn around.

            “I think 310 is a snowmobile trail marker and not a route number,” Dave declares.

            Maybe he is right. This is getting really frustrating. We go back to the main track and continue south on the dirt path we previously were following. We ask the GPS for help, but she directs us to turn several times where there are no roads in this vast no man’s land. No wonder people end up on railroad tracks and in lakes. After driving for miles, we finally come out on US 41 just west of Marquette. Apparently, finding waterfalls is supposed to be intuitive for Michigan folks. They don’t believe in marking them. We give up on the waterfall hunt and head to our next destination, the Marquette Maritime Museum.

            It is 11:30 a.m. when we park in the lot outside the museum. We have just missed the 11:30 lighthouse tour group. Oh well… We buy combined tickets for the museum and the lighthouse. Senior citizens are cheaper here.

            “What is a senior citizen,” I ask

            “65,” she replies.

            “I just signed up for Medicare….?” I hint. “Is that good enough? I’m just a couple of months short.” I am thinking she might give me the discount, but she doesn’t.

            Dave and I tour the museum, but our lighthouse tour is not until 1:30 p.m. so we go looking for a picnic spot to enjoy our lunch while we wait. Down the road by the marina, we spot some picnic tables. As we park and gather our food, an older man gloms onto the one and just stands there. As we head for the second table, a family stops and sits down to enjoy their meal. We finally secure a table 100 feet away that rests in the sun. We haul it into the shade. There we enjoy tuna salad sandwiches with chips and a trail mix while a light breeze blows off the lake. Soon, it is back to the museum for our tour. The temperature has climbed into the mid-eighties and the sun is beating down with vigor. We hike about 1/3 of a mile to Marquette Harbor Lighthouse and climb the 45 steps to the entrance. I am hot and my legs are protesting from the many steps we have climbed in the last two days. The building does provide a spectacular view of Lake Superior. We end the tour with a stroll along the catwalk to the steps that used to run to the fog house. It is high above the cliffs and only about three feet wide. Off in the distance, the Coast Guard boat plies the waves. Before we leave the site, we walk out onto the rocks and sit on one that teeters back and forth with our weight.

            We head out around 2:30 p.m. on the drive to Au Train Beach Campground where a yurt awaits us for the next three nights. We don’t understand this lack of signage in upper Michigan as we fly by our destination. Even the GPS doesn’t recognize the address. I see some Teepees out of the corner of my eye.

“I bet that is the place,” I announce.

We swing around for the hundredth time this trip.

The check-in lady at the campground greets me with some good news, “The yurt you reserved has been wired since you signed up and now has electricity. It is also $20 more per night now so you got a good deal.”

That solves our problem for the first 3 nights of our vacation on how to run Dave’s CPAP machine on two batteries. Each one only lasts about 2 ½ nights and needs 8 hours of charging before using again.

The yurt is fairly new and very clean. However, we soon discover that there are no cooking facilities in it like the one we used in northern MN. I really was counting on some. So now we have two choices: cook the old-fashioned way over a campfire or dig out the small gas cookstove somewhere in the bottom of our camping gear bag that I brought along. It hasn’t been used in ten years or more, I am guessing. And we brought along no fuel for it. After much effort, Dave gets it started and is able to heat the water to reconstitute our supper. Then it is off to Munising to look for camping fuel. We finish out the day with a stroll along the Lake Superior beach and a campfire outside our yurt. The raindrops that threatened the evening fad away and the evening slips into night without drenching us.

Our yurt

Upper Peninsula, Michigan 2022, Day 1

Sandstone Falls

Today, we embark on our trip through the upper peninsula of Michigan. We left home yesterday on Dave’s 67th birthday, July 8, and spent the first night in a hotel in Ladysmith, Wisconsin. Neither of us slept well so we decide to crawl out of bed at 6 a.m. and get moving. Our goal for today is to reach Big Bay, Michigan between 4 and 6 p.m. “eastern time.” My brain is struggling to calculate that. Is that Eastern Standard Time? Or Eastern Daylight Savings Time? And how does that correlate to our Central Time? I have determined that it should take us about 2 ½ hours to drive to Bessemer, MI where I am hoping to deviate off toward the Black River Recreational Area which sports several waterfalls on the Black River’s course to Lake Superior.

            We have gassed the car and are cruising north on County Rd 513 by 9:30 a.m. That should give us 2 ½ hours, according to my calculations, to drive fifteen miles, stop and see a few waterfalls and drive back to US 2 by noon. Sandstone Falls is our first stop, and it is only a ½ mile hike in. Within just a few hundred yards, we come upon a staircase that descends the side of the cliff to the river. Apparently, our ½ mile hike is straight down the steps. Dave and I look at each other. Do we really want to do this? Finally, resolve takes over and we begin the downward trek. The view at the bottom is spectacular. The water cascades between two chiseled out outcroppings as it flows toward the lake. The spray creates a mist that rises around us. After enjoying the beauty for a bit, we begin our climb back up the hundreds of steps out of the gorge. Time for a rest as we drive south to our next stop.

Steps to Sandstone Falls

            Just a few more miles further down the road, we pull into the parking area for the dual falls, Gorge Falls and Potawatomi Falls. Gorge Falls is also “only” a ¼ mile walk but if we thought this would be easier, the steps descending out of view informs us differently. Again, we question, should we do this? But this time, there are fewer steps as we descend all the way to the valley. The river runs between a narrow gorge of volcanic rock at this point. Looking down at the magnificent chasm with the water thundering into it and over the falls is a glorious sight. After spending a few minutes there, we follow the well-worn trail upstream through the woods along and above the river to the Potawatomi Falls. Potawatomi Falls drops over two domes of sloping volcanic rock making it a unique fall. We can only see this waterfall from above from a viewing platform. By now, it is slightly after 11 a.m. and since we have a considerable distance to go with a stated hard stop deadline or we lose our reservation, we continue south back to US 2.

Gorge Falls

            We had turned north on 511 just west of Bessemer and were overjoyed that we had missed the US 2 detour coming up. As we come back into town on 513 further east, we are hoping that we have bypassed the detour. It is soon evident that this is not the case. We run smack into the road closed sign. We turn right onto the only road that seems to run parallel with US 2 but soon realize it is a one-way street going west, the wrong way. Every street we turn on ends up meeting the road closed sign for US 2. Arrrrh! How frustrating!! How are we supposed to get around the closed road? We soon realize that the detour going east is on the other side of US 2 and the detour going west is on our side. Who thought up this scenario? After wasting ten to fifteen minutes of precious time, we finally find a street that takes us east beyond the construction zone and allows us to re-enter the state highway. From there we turn onto MI 28 to Marquette. Maybe, we will have smooth sailing now.

            But navigating route 28 becomes our most difficult challenge yet. We are using a GPS (the modern device), Google Maps, and an old-fashioned map and none of them agree as to which direction we should go. GPS lady keeps trying to make us turn left onto obscure and unpaved roads while Google Maps tells me to follow MI 28 to just before Marquette. Unhelpfully, the paper map does not contain any of the roads GPS keeps spouting out. I do not trust the GPS so we keep ignoring it and just keep driving. Finally, about ten miles from Marquette, GPS gives me an instruction that matches Google. Hurrah!!

Potawatomi Falls

            The matching instructions do finally place us at 3 Lighthouse Road, the address for the Big Bay Lighthouse Bed & Breakfast where we will be staying for the night. It sits high above Lake Superior on a cliff and still watches over ship traffic on the great lake lest they be dashed against the rocks. The building belongs to a private individual, but the light is rented out to the Coast Guard. The gardens are filled with blooming flowers and shrubs. In the quiet of the lawn overlooking Lake Superior, the birds twitter and a chipmunk scurries around. Later, we will climb the winding steps to the top of the tower and look out over God’s creation from its open-air balcony. We finish off the day with a good meal at the Thunder Bay Inn in Big Bay, MI.

Has Critical Thinking Given Way to Rigid Protocols in the Medical World?

N95 Mask

During a busy week at the hospital where I work, it is announced that we need to be fit-tested for N95 masks. It has been two years since the start of the Covid 19 pandemic and this particular yearly task dictated by the Occupational Safety and Health Act (OSHA) of 1996 for medical institutions, has been allowed to be extended to two years. We have been wearing regular surgical masks throughout this whole time continuously and also wearing N95s during high-risk aerosol generating procedures and other contacts in the operating room. Covid numbers have now dropped significantly, and Employee Health has the time to concentrate on making sure all employees have the proper fitting N95s to wear.

There are to be several days during work time when we can sign up to be fit-tested at the hospital building. There is only one day available that I actually work. I find this requirement somewhat useless but decide I might as well sign up and get it over with. I try to follow the rules most of the time. One of my co-workers gives me the phone number to make this appointment. I dial the number.

“Do you have a time available on Tuesday for me to be fit-tested for the N95?” I ask.

“Yes,” says the Employee Health nurse, “We have a 12:30 slot that day. But wait… There is a note here that you need to have a medical evaluation before fit-testing.”

“No,” I say, “I don’t. I was fit-tested when I started working here almost two years ago and nothing has changed. I have been wearing an N95 for this whole time.”

“Well, let me check on this and I will get back to you,” she responds.

I don’t understand this. It makes no sense to me, but I let it go for the time being and go on with my day. My cell phone rings late in the afternoon while I am waking my last patient of the day from their surgical procedure. I let it go to voicemail. Once I am done, I call the nurse back.

“Yes, you need to be medically evaluated before you can be fit-tested. I don’t feel comfortable having you wear a mask until you are medically cleared.”

“What…..??? I don’t understand. I answered that questionnaire 18 months ago and no one seemed concerned at the time. Now they want to hold me to some standard from something I answered months ago. “What seems to be the problem?” I am totally frustrated.

“You marked some things on your pre-evaluation sheet that red-flagged you. You marked that you have had broken ribs, an arrythmia, and a stroke. You also marked that you have anxiety when wearing a mask. You should never have been fit-tested a year and a half ago before being seen by a doctor. I don’t know how you got through.”

This is totally ridiculous and now I am angry. My broken ribs were 10 years ago. The arrythmia has existed since I was a teenager with no one being concerned about it. The stroke several years ago was a mild one from which I am totally recovered. I have gone through the Covid 19 pandemic wearing my N95 without a problem. I have done my job diligently. I have never called in sick or even remotely been ill in the last 2 years. I have not contacted covid either but now suddenly I am too ill to wear an N95 without a doctor’s permission. The sheet I filled out 1 ½ years ago should be being replaced by the current one that I have ready for the appointment that will now not occur. What is even more ludicrous is that the medical establishment has been telling the public that they should all wear N95 masks now to protect themselves, but I apparently need a doctor’s approval to do so.

“Apparently, I need to stop being so honest and just check the boxes as you want them checked,” I grumble. “How about you write down that I refuse to be medically evaluated,” I shoot back at her.

“Then you can’t wear an N95 mask,” she follows the script set for her, “you will have to wear a C-papper (a large over the head hood). And I will have to notify your supervisor.”

I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. If the anxiety of mine is one of employee health’s concerns, then how is the astronaut suit going to help? Does she realize how irrational she sounds? I am not opposed to being fit-tested or wearing the mask. I am opposed to sharing my medical history with a physician who has no reason to even question me based on responses from time long gone by. I have proved I can successfully wear an N95 mask and that I am not going to die from doing so. The rest of this process is so unnecessary. I should be able to sign off that I am medically capable of successfully wearing the mask at this point. It is not my fault that they didn’t follow through on their proper procedures in 2020.

So this is what the medical field has come to? It is guided by protocols and algorithms from which one is to follow without question. No one is allowed to think anymore. No one is to analyze a situation or to think critically. The public especially the sickest people are told by the CDC that they should be wearing N95s at all times for protection from this virus, but the medical profession is still following a standard set forth by OSHA 25 years ago. And no one dare change how those who are responding to the pandemic on the front lines are treated or advised. If wearing an N95 is so potentially dangerous to one’s health, why are we asking millions of people to wear them and why haven’t millions of people keeled over from doing so? Have we all lost our ability to be rational? But then maybe I should just go back into my “I don’t care hole” before I lose my frickin mind.

Double masking with eye shield early in pandemic

              My Journey Into Genetic Testing

DNA Helix made in school by Kaitlyn

“We invite you to participate in the Tapestry study, whose goal is to understand how patient care may be impacted when results from DNA sequencing are in the medical record,” states the message that appears with my downloading e-mail. “The Tapestry study is a screening test. It looks at 11 genes associated with BRCA-related hereditary breast and ovarian cancer, Lynch syndrome and familial hypercholesterolemia. It is not a diagnostic test, nor does it look at all of the genes associated with hereditary ovarian cancer,” continues the dialogue.

            Hmmmm…. My attention has been captured. Should I consider a genetic study or is this a really bad idea? I did have ovarian cancer when I was 38 years old. But that was 25 years ago, and nothing has happened since. I am pretty sure I don’t have any genetic mutations for cancer. I have no family history of breast or ovarian cancer. But still . . . I do have a daughter who has become concerned here lately as to her risk of ovarian cancer. If all this testing were to come back negative, it would provide her with peace of mind.

            Three days later on October 23, 2020, I respond to the e-mail and join Mayo Clinic’s Health Tapestry Genomic Sequencing in Clinical Practice study. I am sent a kit into which I am to collect a specific amount of sputum. I spit into the collection container and mail it off to the lab in the pre-addressed box. Then I wait. The information given me was that the test results would take up to twelve weeks to be reported. That was simple.

            Several months go by and I do receive the fun results for the ancestry and genetic traits part of the study. I am 95% of European ancestry with 5% of Middle Eastern and African heritage. Mixed in there is a 0.8% Ashkenazi Jewish. I find out later this is important as 2% of those of Ashkenazi Jewish descent have a BRCA mutation. The results say I am not lactose intolerant (knew that). I have not adapted to be able to avoid malaria (Oh really!). I do not have the adaptation to be able to thrive in lower-oxygen environments at high altitudes (guess I’ll stay on the plains). I do have a genotype associated with the ability to adapt in cold climates (Brr… doesn’t seem like it some days in this cold MN climate). Along with lots of other useless tidbits, I learn I have brown eyes, tend towards curly hair, am taller, and tend to tan rather than sunburn; all things I have somehow managed to figure out after being on earth for 63 years. But what I really want to know, do I have a gene coding for cancer, is suspended in the health results that only say, “pending.” I think this very strange.

            Towards the end of January 2021, my husband is also invited to join this same study. He signs up on February 2, 2021, and submits his saliva sample a few days later. Ten weeks later, on April 19, 2021, his results are flashed to us as “ready.” He is negative for all eleven of the genes they are testing for that code for cancer. Hurrah, at least our daughter has a fighting chance!

            Puzzled as to why he has received his results and I have not, I send an e-mail to Helix, the company being used by Mayo for this study, “I signed up for the Helix genetic study back in October 2020. The information originally stated that we would receive results by twelve weeks. It has now been 5 months and there are still no medical results. I did get the basic genetic characteristics results, but I am just curious why I still haven’t gotten my medical results…?” Helix does promptly respond, “Our systems indicate that your sequencing has been sent out for interpretation. At this time, I cannot give you a time frame … Your Health results are taking longer to sequence than previously stated. We are unfortunately back logged due to Covid 19.” I find this all very confusing. Yes, maybe Covid is slowing down their results but that doesn’t explain how someone who signed up after me has already received their results and I haven’t. I am convinced that they have lost my sample and/or my results and are finding it convenient to blame it on Covid. It doesn’t occur to me until later that they are simply not telling me the truth; that they do know the results and because they are positive, they are not ready to tell me. If I could read between the lines, it would say, “Your results were positive. Therefore, we sent them to be confirmed by a second company.”

Mother and Daughter

            Three more months go by. I send several more e-mails to this company and each time I am told that my results, “are delayed due to supply chain issues” or “covid testing taking priority.” Finally, on July 26, they report that “it looks like your results are in a recent batch that should be released by Helix any day now.” Coincidently, Mayo sends an email three days later that says “you will receive an email from Helix very soon, with instructions on how to access your results on the Helix website. As a participant in this study, a Mayo Clinic genetic counselor would like to review your results with you over the phone.”  This should have been my clue that Mayo has already known the results for some time, and they are not good. Afterall, they never requested to talk to my hubby by phone to discuss his results.

            It isn’t until July 31, 2021, 9 months after signing up for this study that I get the results. “You were found to have an actionable* variant in the BRCA2 gene that is associated with a genetic condition called Hereditary Breast and Ovarian Cancer (HBOC). Individuals with HBOC have an increased risk for certain types of cancer, including breast, ovarian, prostate, and others.”

A numbness spreads over me. Why did I think joining this study was a good idea? I would have been better off never knowing. What I had hoped would provide peace of mind to my daughter has opened a yawning pit of anguish and anxiety. I am now 63 years old and have lived 25 years without any cancer reoccurrence. I have no desire to make any “might be possible cancer” a focus of my life. I can’t live that way. But the question remains, should I ignore what was better unknown or try to pursue some interventions, some of which are of a huge magnitude in order attempt to prevent what might happen? The medical community seems to be in a huge rush now to push me down this path towards interventions. No one seemed to care much before, and my cancer diagnosis 25 years ago has pretty much been forgotten. When I think about it later, the whole process of the genetic testing makes me angry. Helix and Mayo have known for at least 6 months but kept trying to pretend they didn’t by blaming other issues and now, it is all a big rush for me to respond.

            I take a breath and step back. There is no emergency here. I don’t have cancer. The first intervention I request is to be retested by another reputable company to make sure this is an accurate result and can be used to drive any decisions made going forward and will be accepted by health insurance companies. After being led along for 9 months, I do not trust the results I am being given. And it is not the first time such a test result has been wrong. I decide to give a blood sample this time as it has a higher rate of reliability than saliva and proceed to do so in early August. But if I was hoping for a different result, I will be disappointed. This test confirms the original finding of a “pathogenic variant (mutation) in the BRCA2 gene associated with Hereditary Breast and Ovarian Cancer syndrome.”

            So what is the big deal with this genetic mutation and what are it’s implications? BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes code for proteins that work to suppress cancer cells, mostly in breast tissue, and help to repair any DNA damage that occurs in the course of normal life. If they are missing or damaged, the cells cannot repair themselves and they go on to grow unchecked and become cancerous. BRCA2 is found on chromosome 13 while BRCA1 is found on chromosome 17 so they have slightly different cancer type expressions when missing. BRCA2 is associated with a 45 -83% lifetime risk, according to Mayo genetics, of developing breast cancer by age 70 (the average risk for the general population is 12%), a 27% risk of developing ovarian cancer by age 80 (the general population has a 1-2% risk). I think I have that one covered already. BRCA2 mutations also are associated with a higher risk of pancreatic cancers and melanoma than the general population.

Well, if that isn’t all depressing. And how is one even supposed to begin to deal with statistics like that? My first reaction is to have a double mastectomy without reconstruction and get it over with. I don’t want to be thinking about breast cancer every moment for the rest of my life. But after doing significant research on double mastectomies, I realize that they are not benign surgeries either. Many women have chronic pain afterward. Others have numbness and upper body muscle weakness. I am a fairly healthy 64-year-old by now. I run a chainsaw. I lift weights. I’m active. I do not want a life where I am cancer free but simply existing because I am debilitated and in pain constantly. And finally, having my breasts removed will remove any chance of having a meaningful intimate relationship with my husband. I am distressed to say the least about the dismal statistics but can’t decide what I want to do.

ME and my brothers

In October, I meet with a doctor from the breast clinic at Mayo. We go through my options: 1. Do nothing (that is not encouraged at all) 2. Have a double mastectomy (see reservations above) 3. Start taking aromatase inhibitors to help prevent cancer and/or 4. Monitor with alternating mammograms and breast MRIs every 6 months. I groan at each of them. I hate visiting medical facilities and doctors and have no desire to visit there constantly. Taking aromatase inhibitors sounds interesting but it is mostly a “hit and miss, maybe” approach. No one knows if I will actually get the kind of cancer that is prevented by drugs that block estrogen production and uptake. So there is a chance that I’m taking a toxic drug that is providing no benefit to me personally. I lean heavily away from their use after I read the side effects: hot flashes, night sweats, join pain by 50% of those taking it, muscle pain, and bone loss. I am back to the same issues of decreased quality of life to treat what currently doesn’t exist. I don’t know what to do.

Before I leave my breast appointment, I am offered the opportunity to join another study, “GENetic Risk Estimation of Breast Cancer Prior to decisions on preventative therapy uptake, risk reduction surgery, or intensive imaging surveillance: A study to determine if a polygenic risk score influences the decision-making options among high-risk women.” The polygenic risk score will take into account genetic risk factors, known as single nucleotide polymorphisms (SNPs) for breast cancer. While individually, these SNP risk factors are of little clinical value, when combined as a polygenic risk score (PRS), they yield a strong risk factor for breast cancer and can be used to personalize breast cancer risk. In other words, the polygenic risk score is an analyzing of 30 or more genes that influence whether a person develops cancer and coming up with a projection for any one particular person as to what their personal chances are of developing breast cancer. At first, I reject the idea of joining another study. I am already overwhelmed by all the information and decisions being thrown at me but the more I think about it, I wonder if it could provide me with the information to make a definitive choice as to the direction I should go. And so I sign up for one more genetic study. While I wait for the results, I try to go about life as normally as possible.

This time, I do not have as long to wait. Within 8 weeks, the results are back. “I have good news,” are the first words from the doctor’s mouth when I sit down with her. “You are in the lowest 7th percentile on the polygenic risk scoring. Because you had a hysterectomy at age 38,” she says, “I assess that you have a 9% risk of developing breast cancer in 5 years, an 18% risk in 10 years, and a lifetime risk of 27%.” That figure is still high compared to the general population, but I now know which direction I am going. At least for the present time, I will alternate the mammogram and breast MRI every six months. If any abnormality ever shows up, I will opt immediately for a double mastectomy without reconstruction. Now that I have made this decision, we have to come up with a plan for safely performing the MRI as I am allergic to the gadolinium dye that they use. This will be my biggest roadblock to following through on this decision.

In November of 2021, after loading up on methylprednisolone and Zyrtec, an anti-histamine, I successfully traverse the breast MRI. All findings are negative. I can breathe a sigh of relief, at least for six months. I begin to move on with life and focus on the future. And then, “your Cologuard test is positive.” Is there no end to this craziness? Is this what old age is all about? Waiting for the cancer shoe to drop? I reject that premise. I choose to live my life in freedom from such fear, God willing – to treasure each day for what it is.

Is Salvation Only a Gift for Specific People?

            One day while idly scrolling through my Facebook account I came upon a post by a Facebook friend. “Is God unfair in not choosing to save everyone?” it questioned, “‘Fair’ would send everyone to hell. You don’t want fair. You want mercy.” John MacArthur.

            I can feel the heated anger rising. I want to scream against this heretical insinuation. What is this statement actually saying? If you are a die-hard Calvinist of which John MacArthur is, there are certain beliefs that lie behind that declaration. First off, I should say, that I do believe we are all sinners and probably all deserve hell. But I have been taught all my life that Jesus (and God by inference) loves us and gave his life so that ALL individuals would have the opportunity to accept him as their Savior and obtain eternal life (heaven).

            So back to the beliefs that underlie this statement that trigger my anger. The first thing the statement is saying is that God “choose” not to save everyone. As a Calvinist, one believes that God actually created man to sin. I had a young preacher sit across from me in his office and declare, “they (Adam and Eve) could not have done otherwise.” I am still shocked by that assertion. After that comes the belief that God has also determined (chosen) before he even created human beings who would be chosen to serve him and go to heaven. Conversely, this also means he choose those who would go to hell. So the statement that you don’t want God to be fair strikes me as totally hypocritical. Yes, I want God to be fair AND I want God to be merciful. I don’t think it is an either/or. If He set up this world as the Calvinist insists, then there is no mercy and giving people no choice in their final destiny is not only unfair, but also cruel and unloving.  Holding someone responsible by sending them to hell for behavior they have no control over and has been pre-planned is irrational and heartless. Would I then expect mercy from such a God? Does the Bible really teach this?

My question is, is this the kind of God you believe in? Is God fair if he pre-determined before the world began which souls would be chosen for heaven? Is God merciful if that belief is true? To me the answer seems obvious. The comeback always is “God is God so he can do whatever he wants.” That is true but that doesn’t mean these conclusions are true as to God’s intentions and desires for man. The Bible does not say any of those things, but these teachings have become accepted by the majority of evangelical professing Christians today. In the seminaries and in the pulpits, the meanings of words used in the Bible have been changed to make this systemic theology seem to fit together. How do you invite anyone to love Jesus if you carry such underlying beliefs? There is no point in doing so.

I often wonder, does no one think about and question what they are being taught. Why do so many Christians I know blindly follow this theology. They sit mesmerized under the teachings at church and in Bible studies and no one speaks up. It surprises and saddens me that there is only silence when I write something like I have presented here. There is no negative response and no positive response. It is simply ignored. It is like people think if they just ignore what they know is not right but can’t explain, it doesn’t exist. The great wall of silence allows these teachings to continue on unchecked – with no one to defend the true Biblical reputation of God and His love for his creation. “For God so Loved the World, that he gave His only begotten Son, that WHOSOEVER believes in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” John 3:16 This is what Christmas is all about.

I Think I Need to be a Dog Whisperer

This is our Bella (Not Jay)

Rrrarf…RRRARF…RRRARF… I am met by drawn back lips, a large yapping jaw, and jagged teeth as I peek through the crack I have created in the doorway. I have come here at the request of the owner of this large totally black male German Shepherd to let him out to go potty since she will be gone for about twelve hours. I visited this home just a couple of days ago to meet Jay, a 7-year-old recently adopted dog. He barked at me initially but then was happy and approachable. He rubbed his head on me and delighted in my ear rubs and sociable pats. He seemed like a friendly fellow.

            I am always cautious with animals that do not know me, and I am not surprised at this fairly normal response to my invading his territory. I have come prepared with a couple of dog treats. I extend my hand with the treat to Jay through the crack in the door. He takes one look at what I have to offer, turns tail, and sprints off through the kitchen, continuing the hair-raising barking as he goes. Then all is silent.

            I fully push open the door and slowly tread through the lighted kitchen and into the living room. I peer into the darkened bedroom where Jay has fled. Two bright shining circles reflect back at me. I flip on the light switch. Grrr… a low growl emits from the trembling animal perched on the bed.

            “Jay, it’s OK. I’m not going to hurt you,” I speak kindly and softly while tossing another of my treats his way and taking a few steps in his direction. He continues to stare at me and send that little rumbling growl my way. We repeat this a few times over the next ten minutes with little progress.

            “Do you want me to take over?” It’s the voice of my hubby behind me who has followed me after hearing the initial greeting.

            “He’s all yours.”

            “It’s OK, Jay. Do you want to go out?

            The ears perk up and Jay jumps off the bed, heading for the door Dave holds open for him. In a flash he is gone. I am not sure this was a good idea. I am thinking we should have left him for tonight and hoped for the best. My biggest fear now is that he is out, and we will not be able to corral him. He does have an e-collar on that his owner told me that, if pressed, he would return right away. I pace on the porch holding the remote control to the collar while Dave tries to keep a sight line on the dog’s hurried strides around the yard. I am anxious and worried. I think he has gone far enough into the dark, so I push the button, “Jay, come here,” I call. He bounds up the step then back through the door I am holding open. But I am too slow and whatever fear overwhelms him takes over again and all his power is applied to the door as he makes a determined escape.

            “Jay, come here,” I demand but I am ignored. He paces a few times in the southern yard than disappears around the house. Dave follows. I wait, hoping that they will reappear but as the minutes tick by, no dark shadows re-appear. In the distance, coyotes howl. I finally walk around the house. There is no one in sight. “Where are you?” I call into the stillness. There is no reply.

Now I am really worried and desperate. Did Jay run off into the field and Dave follow? I dig out the flashlight, shining it into the deepening darkness while I stride out into the field to the west of the house. Where could they have gone? How can they have totally disappeared so fast?

            “Dave, where are you?” I call over and over into the blackness. No voice drifts back to me. Now I am panicked. Finally, the light bulb goes on in my head. Use your phone and call him. Dah! As I am preparing to dial, I hear my name being called.

            “Where have you been?” I demand

            “Jay came around the house right to the other door, so I let him in.”

            All this time, I have been desperately searching, he and the dog have been safely inside the house.

            “I thought I should let him in if that’s what he wanted even if it wasn’t the right door. I don’t think he peed but that’s the way it is. I was able to get him to eat the treats. He let me rub his ears and his belly and I got his e-collar off.”

            Well, Dave gets the prize for being the dog whisperer. Not sure we accomplished what we set out to do but at least the doggie is safely back in the house.

A Farm in Early Fall

Whitewater Rafting Desolation Canyon – The Rest of the Trip

Me in the raft

The wind is quiet, the stars twinkle in the heavens, and the night is calm. I sleep like a rock and do not wake up until 5:30 a.m. The sky is cloudy but the air feels invigorating. I am feeling refreshed and ready to tackle the tent packing task. This morning, I have twelve rocks to throw out of my sleeping abode before we even begin. The thought was that they would keep us from blowing away if necessary. It seems like a whole day’s work before breakfast.

            Bananas with blueberries, French toast, and sausage is being served. Along with my hot chocolate, it hits the spot. By 9 a.m. and launching time, the sky has begun to clear. Everyone is in the big rafts today as there, apparently, are larger and more numerous rapids on this stretch of the river. It also seems warmer temperature wise with a cloudless sky allowing for sustained hot sunshine.

            The guides start out rowing and every so many minutes, we navigate a new rapid. Dodging rocks is the main activity necessary in maneuvering through these low water rapids. Several times throughout the morning, we get hung up on a rock in the churning rolling water. This leaves Marla with the necessity of coming up with a strategy for getting off the hindrance. Marla is a 46-year-old high school English teacher during the school year. She is thin and of a slight build – not at all your body builder type. Soon instructions are issued to haul heavy objects to the opposite side of the boat and then more instructions for jumping up and down. Colin has been recruited for our raft as he is a big helper in getting us unstuck.

Lunch on the beach

            It is right before lunch when we beach our rafts along the shore just above the class III rapids known as Joe Hutch Canyon Rapids. The purpose of the stop is to allow Haden and Marla to scope out the rapids and develop a plan of approach. They confer for a few minutes and then we push off again. The dips and rolls are a thrill for me, and our raft makes it through the rapids with no issues. Marla is delighted when she looks back and realizes that Haden is stuck on a rock and not her. Haden is much more experienced and almost never gets hung up, so she feels accomplished.

Coming into a rapid

            Once we are through these rapids, it is time for lunch on another sandy beach. Some of the group jumps into the river to cool off. I opt to dump water on myself instead. The water is muddy, I can’t swim, and hearing aids don’t do well in water. I tell myself all these reasons but mostly, I just don’t want to be soaked all the way to my underwear. While everyone cools off in the water, Marla and Haden pull out a makeshift table and throw together a taco salad wrap. It is scrumptious. They are wonderful cooks.

            Once our stomachs are full, our guides make a decision to lash our rafts together again and put the outboard motor back on. We stop at a very muddy beach for this task. Jumping off the boat lands one in a thick black mud that sucks off my sandals. Getting the motor back on seems to be a struggle and then it doesn’t want to start. Haden and then Alex pulls the start cord over and over before it finally sputters to life. Through calmer water, we motor along at a faster pace than rowing allows. A quick decoupling occurs at the head of a rapid before we tumble through it. From there on out, each guide rows his own raft until close to supper time. Marla is tired and slowing down from exhaustion. Two other groups are closing in leading to concern for getting a campsite. Therefore, a decision is made to have Haden motor on ahead and claim the next site. We will catch up later.

Our last campsite – Hayden and Marla (our guides)

            We roll into the campsite around 6:30 p.m. This evening the sun is shining, at least, but the wind has picked up. The site is located on a sandy hill and our choice for tent placements appears limited. I sigh as I consider the work ahead to erect our tents. Dawn and I drag our fifty-pound waterproof bags up a steep sandy hill. My breath comes in huge gasps and my feet slip back in the sand each time I take a step forward. There are little thistles growing sporadically and I manage to kick a couple during my trek. Ugh! Each time requires sitting down and pulling out the thorns. As we pull out my tent, the wind howls and it threatens to blow away into the great beyond. While Dawn hangs on for dear life, I collect ten rocks to weigh it down. Even that is not enough. Beads of sweat roll down my face and into my eyes. This is exhausting and frustrating. I am already dehydrated and becoming more so by the minute. Inside the tent, the temperature is like an oven. The sand which has collected the heat all day radiates it back to me like a floor with radiant heat. Finally, everything is situated, and I flop into a lawn chair to wait for supper. I am so glad this is the last night as I have had enough fun erecting tents.

            With a little hydration, I recover enough to enjoy the tasty evening meal of mashed potatoes and steak. Then it is time for bed. The night starts out wild and noisy again as the wind picks up more shortly after flopping out on top of the sleeping bag. It whistles across the canyon and the tent rocks back and forth. Will I and my ten rocks hold it down. I hope so! Off in the distance, I hear the clattering sound of some of the kitchen equipment flying freely across the beach. I lay there awake for a couple of hours listening to the gale and the roaring water of the rapids close below. I finally decide I probably won’t blow away and drift off to sleep.

Me and my tent

            It is light when I awaken at 5 a.m. Dawn and I soon begin our last day task of taking down the tents and stashing our gear in the waterproof bags. We have become experts at creative stuffing. It goes much faster this morning, and I am soon ready to lug my bag down to the raft staging area. In my early morning wisdom, I decide to roll the heavy bag down the hill instead of carrying it. I aim for the open area between the tables and give it a push. But instead of rolling where I expect it to, it makes a left curve towards the liquids breakfast table. Oh no! I see horrified aghast looks on the faces of everyone on the beach as I make a running dive after the runaway bag. I catch it just as it touches the table leg.

            “Good catch,” Alex comments, “That was the save of the day.”

            Breakfast for me is the last of the hot chocolate, some grapes, and a bagel. Our guides are pushing to get moving this morning and soon have the boats loaded and ready to go. The sun has topped the canyon wall and it promises to be a sweltering day. The family of three starts out in the kayaks while Dawn and I each choose a raft. I decide to spend the day on Hayden’s raft for a change. Hayden is the lead guide on this trip and the one with the most experience. He is tall and thin and sports an unruly brown beard and matching hair. I learn Hayden is the son of a Mission Aviation Fellowship pilot having been born in Africa. He loves the outdoors and doing these trips. On Hayden’s raft, I actually have a backrest and spread out in the scorching sunshine. This is our last day and we have twelve miles to go.

            Hayden and Marla methodically row through calm water intermingled with short rapids. The water today is extremely muddy indicating a stream entering from storm runoff in another canyon. We stop for lunch on a sandbar around 12:30. It consists of a tasty wrap of lettuce, tomatoes, and other goodies.

            After lunch, Haden makes the decision to strap the two rafts together again and start the outboard motor. The kayaks are strapped to the sides, and everyone jumps aboard the extended boat. Soon we are tootling along at a nice clip. The sun beats mercilessly down on us. It is hot. I am guessing it is close to one hundred degrees and everyone is eager to make some time towards our takeout location. Pouring water over myself does help but it dries in as little as ten minutes. We cover five miles in record time. Then our guides break the rafts apart again for the last 2 ½ miles. Alex’s family resumes their trip in the kayaks.

Our strapped together rafts with kayaks on the side

            “Look, some mountain sheep,” someone points out. Along the riverbank are a couple of ewes, a ram, and a couple of babies. We have been rewarded at the last minute with spotting one of the animals we have been looking for our entire trip. Then around a few more curves, through a long rapid, and there is the concrete ramp for our takeout. As we drift up to the shore, an elderly man with a PFD on is standing in the water.

            “Sir,” Marla calls, “You need to move so we don’t hit you.”

            The man takes a step and falls right over. He floats in the water. It is evident that he is unsteady and unable to get up by himself.

            “Do you need help?” Marla inquires.

            “No,” he responds, “I’ll just float over here to the dock.”

            As I watch him, he struggles to get on his feet. He grabs a stick floating in the water and tries to stand up but can’t. I can just see him floating through the rapids just beyond the dock and drifting down the river.

            “I think someone needs to help him before he floats away,” I implore Marla.

            Is he not with anyone? Is the question. She finally goes looking for someone who might be family or friends. Eventually, two men do appear and haul him out of the river by his flotation device. Talk about leaving someone in a perilous situation.

            A cool air-conditioned spot right now will feel really good. But nothing surpasses a few days in the vast wilderness God has created. It was a trip of solitude away from the chaos and craziness of the everyday world.

Mountain sheep

Desolation Canyon Whitewater Rafting – Day 2

Campsite with dish washing buckets

I am up by 6:30 a.m. because of a need to visit Grover. Grover is the portable toilet that gets placed in the great outdoors usually with a lovely view of the Green River. There is a 5-gallon bucket to balance upon for urine only and another little toilet shaped canister for number two. The instructions for disposing of human waste out here in this wilderness seems rather strange to me. The urine gets put in the river and the stool gets hauled back to headquarters. And yes, one is supposed to pee in the river in front of one’s companions during the day. Privacy is forgotten as someone of importance has decided that this helps the environment.

            The next task is to take down our tents and stuff everything back in the big blue watertight bag for the day. Dawn and I each have separate tents, but we find that performing this task is much easier as a team. We drop and roll each tent and then do some creative stuffing. The tent goes in first with our personal duffle bag stuffed down beside it. On top is positioned the sleeping bag and any extra items. One person can hold the bag open while the other person reaches in and guides the items past each other. Lastly, we roll the top down three times and fasten the fasteners. This will keep everything snug and dry until we need it again tonight.

            Breakfast is waiting by the time we are done our morning chores. Mine consists of an English muffin with fried egg, Canadian bacon, and cheese, along with hot chocolate. It takes our guides 1 ½ hours to get all the supplies and utensils stowed back in the rafts. I watch Haden for a while and realize he is pumping air into the rafts. Is that a bad omen?

Marla cooking for us

            “Is there a leak that you need to pump air into the raft,” I question.

            “No,” he says, “The air expands during the day but at night when it cools off, the air contracts so we fill up each morning” Whew! That’s good to know.

            The sun is coming over the top of the ridge by the time we push off. The rafts have been broken apart today and the motor stowed away. Haden will be rowing one raft while Marla rows the other. Dawn and I hop onto Marla’s raft. Alex, Colin (14 years old), and Casey (17 years old), the other members of our party, are trying out the inflatable kayaks. They will paddle between the rafts.

            The sun is bright today as well with a smattering of clouds. As we start out this morning, the wind is gusty and in our face. Marla struggles to keep the raft moving downstream. At one particular bend in the river, the wind catches the 2000-pound raft and spins it into an eddy, or an area where she rows and rows and rows without making any progress. Finally, she is able to get us out of our predicament and continue the slow paddle.

The inflatable kayaks

            Rapids are intermingled with areas of calmer water that require full body powering of the oars by Marla. A roar announces the arrive of a rapid and the water bubbles and churns over the rocks submerged beneath. These hidden rocks present a challenge with the entrance into each rapid. At one of these rapids, Marla enters in an area that looks to be obstacle free but as we bounce over the rolling swells, the raft scrapes over a huge rock and comes to a halt in the rushing torrent. Marla tries to bring the craft around, but we are stuck. Before I know what is happening, Colin has bumped into the back of the raft with the kayak and flipped. He is left clinging to the side of the raft. His water bottle and paddles have floated away downstream. Marla’s priority now becomes hauling Colin in by his PFD. Once everyone is safely on board, it is back to the work of freeing ourselves. Dawn, I, Colin, and Casey, who came on board earlier, are instructed to move to the front and jump up and down. Now jumping up and down on a rubber floor for two old ladies is a hazardous activity and isn’t about to happen unless one wants more people in the river. Dawn and I mostly bounce while grasping the side. Colin and Casey are left to do the jumping while Marla gets out in the rushing river and tries to pull the raft off the rock. Several versions of this procedure occur repeatedly throughout the day as we hang up on various rocks. As an alternative to jumping, I decide to grab both sides of the raft and rock back and forth. Amazingly, this actually has better results than the jumping.

            Further down the river, a voice calls out, “Did you lose a paddle?’

            “Yes, Colin did,” we shout back.

            “The park ranger has it up ahead,” we are informed.

            Thankfully, the Bureau of Land Management ranger has caught Colin’s missing oars and returns them to him as he rows by.

Haden rowing

            Just as yesterday, around 3 p.m., the sky darkens, and a downpour begins. Today we planned for this, so I have my rain jacket. And no ice balls clunk on our heads either. But the water still wets our heads and trickles down into my pants and underwear before ceasing twenty minutes later. The sun comes out and the canyon wall sparkles with the moisture. We soon pull over and proceed to hike to an old abandon homestead from the early 1900s. Swedish immigrants who were given free land in the new world made an attempt at farming in this hostile climate before abandoning the efforts after just a few years. There are the remains of a stone roofless house, a wooden shop with star gazing potential, and a small stone chicken house. The fences were constructed with pieces of tree branches positioned at various angles. Soon we are drying out and warmed up and we tromp back to the rafts to continue on to a camping site.

            A couple more hours bring us to our overnight camping spot. The sky is again clouding up and the same mad scramble ensues to get the tents up in the wind before the next downpour. I am getting rather frustrated with this crazy weather every day. Casey has come up with a new name for Desolation Canyon. She calls it Bipolar Canyon.    

The abandoned farmsite

Desolation Canyon Whitewater Rafting – The Journey begins

Captain Dan of our airplane flight

The alarm is set for 4:50 a.m. but we are awake by 4:40. We have been told to meet at the airport at 6:30 a.m. for our air flight to the put-in site for Desolation Canyon. As I walk out our hotel door at 5:15, I am met by wet payment and the smell of rain. Light sprinkles touch my face. I didn’t know that rain was expected but it has cooled the atmosphere from the prior day’s heat. By the time we arrive on the north skirts of Moab, it has stopped drizzling. The cloud cover is starting to move on, and the sun’s rays are peaking through. It is sixty-eight degrees – a beautiful day.

            We arrive at the airport shortly after 6 a.m. and settle down on a bench outside to wait. The airport lobby door is locked and there is no sign of any other passengers. The air is cool and the morning pleasant but as the minutes tick by, butterflies begin to awaken in my stomach. Did we misunderstand? The clock ticks slowly by 6:30 and still no one has arrived. Two small planes sitting on the tarmac fire up, taxi away from the hanger, roar down the runway, and disappear into the sky. Now our anxiety has spiked, and we begin to pace back and forth. We have no cell phones and no way to contact anyone. Did they leave without us? Are we at the wrong airport? There is really nothing we can do about our situation, and we feel helpless. We check all the doors again– still locked. Finally, a car pulls up to the Redtail Aviation Maintenance building. We rush over to the gentleman who emerges.

            “Do you know anything about a flight leaving at 6:30?” I question anxiously.

            “There is a flight scheduled for 7:30,” he responds, “I’m the pilot and my name is Dan. I will be taking you today.”

            Whew!! What a relief. They haven’t left without us after all. I let out a huge sigh. Now that our panic has been eased, we settle down again to wait some more. Right around 7:30, the remaining people arrive. There is a dad, Alex, and two teenage kids, Casey and Colin. We are soon led out to a small eight-seater airplane. Decked out in red and white, it greets us with an open door. There is no ID required. After a short orientation, I am soon strapped in with a seat belt and shoulder harness. Headphones finalize the ensemble and the pilot throws instructions our way while revving the engine. Soon we are speeding down the runway and lifting into the air.

The Green River below us with a view of the launching site

            Below us, the dry barren land of Utah gives way to the sandstone cliffs of Desolation Canyon. The land east of the Green River in the canyon is part of the Utz Indian reservation so we will only be able to camp in the wilderness area on the western side. Our route takes us north along the canyon’s course just a few thousand feet above the ground. A forty-five-minute flight later finds us bumping along the pebble strewn ground of the makeshift landing area of a flat mesa above the river launching area. Soon we are bouncing along a rocky dirt trail in a pickup winding our way around and down to the river.

            We have been informed that the river is extremely low this year due to a small snowpack last winter and little rain. The river is at 800 cfs (cubic feet per second) which is the lowest level they have ever rafted at. The two rafts that we will be taking have been lashed together and our guides, Haden and Marla, will be using a small outboard motor to move us along in the slow flow and calm water. Any rapids today will be class 1 or 2. Dawn and I clamber into the front of Marla’s raft. The first thing I notice is that there is water seeping into the boat at my feet. Having water coming into out floating home doesn’t seem like a good way to start out a water trip.

            “There’s water coming in,” I point out to Marla.

            She chuckles. “These are self-bailing boats,” she proclaims, “They have openings to let the water drain out if we get swamped in the rapids. Otherwise, we would have to hand bail.”

            Oh, that’s an interesting concept I never thought about. At least I know we will not be sinking in the first hour.

            The sun is bright and warm. With a little breeze, the day is not uncomfortable. We move along slowly, not unlike a barge and a pusher on the Mississippi River. We weave this way and that attempting to navigate in deeper water. Sand bars extend into many areas of the channel. Several times, we get bogged down in the sand and Marla and Haden jump into the water and push our stranded vessel out of its predicament. Then we motor onward.

Everyone but me in the picture, motoring the first day

            Around noon, we glide onto a sandbar purposely and our guides set up a table to serve us a meal of pita bread with fixings. The temperature is quite warm, and I wade into the water to wet my feet while simultaneously trying to clean the mess off my pants that I have made from being a sloppy eater. The afternoon starts out much like the morning though clouds have now started to obscure the sun at times. This makes for a much more comfortable temperature. But as the afternoon progresses, the sky continues to darken and over the next couple of hours, the dark clouds advance. By midafternoon, lightning flashes occasionally and rumbles of thunder punctuate the silence.

            “Should we be getting off the river?” is the question being asked. We are from Minnesota and electrical storms mean “get off the water.”

            Our guides seem unperturbed, “With the canyon walls being ¼ mile high, there is little chance that we will be struck by lightning” is the sentiment and we continue with our water journey. Soon splashes of water touch my skin and bounce off the raft. But what starts out as sprinkles soon turns into a pouring deluge. Then those raindrops begin to feel rather hard. Ouch! Ice balls bounce off our heads, collect in the raft, and create large ripples in the water. It is hailing. I hunch over miserably as the water and ice creeps down my back under the personal flotation device and into my underwear. All our raingear is packed away in the dry bags which is not at all helpful. Haden and the other three guests grab helmets to protect themselves from the onslaught. I am too wretched to move. Marla comes to join Dawn and I bringing a six-foot long by three-foot-wide seat cushion which we hold over our heads while we huddle together shivering. Marble size hail balls sting the skin on our hands and legs. Dawn develops bruises from them. It seems like this ambush from the sky goes on forever. Is this ever going to end?

            Just as quickly as it began, the torment stops, and the sun comes out. But we are cold, wet, and shivering. Haden makes a decision to land at the next campsite so that we can move around, dry out, and warm up. We are led along a trail through the desert sand in the sunlight to a cliff with petrographs. This is just what the doctor ordered. The sun warms our torsos and begins the drying process of our clothes. My scrub pants and underwear are still soaked but at least I am no longer hypothermic once we jump back into the raft.

            A few more hours of navigating lead us to our campsite for the night around 6 p.m. The sky has again clouded over and thunder rumbles. We grab our dry bags with all our possessions and scramble up the sandy hill. The race is on to get our tents erected before the rain begins again. Then we dive in while the downpour cascades from the heavens. I am exhausted. But soon this shower too has passed and the sun shines on us for a pleasant evening.

Hailball (size)

            As we sit in lawn chairs waiting for our supper, someone spots a small brown head gliding just under the water in the river. As it emerges on the opposite bank, we are able to identify the creature as a beaver. He or she splashes merrily around for our entertainment. The Bureau of Land Management ranger who visits us the next morning reports that a bear was also spotted across the river on this evening. I am so disappointed that we missed this appearance.    

            Our guides cook and eventually serve us a scrumptious meal of shrimp alfredo pasta along with a salad. It is topped by strawberry shortcake for dessert. By 9:30 p.m., we are stuffed and ready to crawl into the sleeping bags and tents for the night. I discover after I arrive in my tent that my carefully checked and battery replaced flashlight does not work. Great! Just great! There will be no light to find anything in my tent and no light to stumble my way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I also brought along an air mattress and a small battery-operated air pump. The air mattress is waiting for me positioned on top of one of the seat cushions from the raft. This arrangement will work out splendidly. It cushions my body perfectly as I lie there trying to fall asleep. The wind has picked up outside and the tent begins to rock back and forth. These tents are designed to sit on top of the ground without staking corners into the ground. Here stakes wouldn’t stay anyway due to the loose sand that covers the landscape. In the escalating wind, my tent begins to rock back and forth. It bows almost to the ground on one side. As it bends over, everything on that side of the tent gets dumped up on me. Flaps flop up and down like a bird with wings. I lay there in the pitch dark wondering if I am going to be trapped inside this enclosure. I finally fall asleep after I decide I probably won’t smother if it does totally come down on me.    (to be continued)

After the flight