Write of Passage - Day 7

August 8, 2009: Eugene, Oregon -- Climbing Trees

(Before I even start this posting, let me apologize once again for the silent weeks that have passed. To be honest, I found myself a bit overwhelmed by the enormity of this next journal entry. Cote and I have reached the moment where we are about to climb trees. The ones we have talked about, dreamt about, for so long. I have been struggling these past couple of weeks as to how to capture this entire experience into words, so that others would see and feel everything we saw and felt. In my journal, I have eight pages of written notes describing this one event from our 2-week rite of passage. Eight pages. When I sit and read over them, the words I scribbled take me back to the treetops. But my notes are a mess, they are raw and jumbled, and hold no true pictures for an outside reader. Thus, my challenge has become to somehow bring you along, to make you feel as if you were there climbing the trees with us. I hope I succeed. For if I do, you may then just find yourself sitting on a branch far above the world, taking in a view few have ever seen. An ocean of green will spread out before you, and you will be swept away by the beauty of it all. This was a once in a lifetime experience. I have but one chance to describe it, one chance to get it right, one chance to take you there.)

“I become one, as the trees become many.” ~ Hannah Witt, 2009

Today started early. Cote and I woke up in Eugene, Oregon, inside an out-dated, single-level, L-shaped Holiday Inn, which was clean but by no means fancy. The accommodations didn’t need to be, however. We were more wrapped up on what the next 24 hours were going to bring, than how pampered we could make our sleeping arrangements last night. This was it! This was the day! Cote and I were going to meet, and greet, and climb our trees. Real trees. Huge trees. Trees bigger than even our imaginations could begin to ascend. Not only would we climb them, but we would eat in them and sleep in them. How we were going to do all this, I still did not know. But I couldn’t wait to find out.

Debbie, one of the owners of Pacific Tree Climbing Institute, (the outfit we had booked), had given us some very helpful instructions prior to our arrival. Don’t eat too much. Don’t drink too much. Staying hydrated was good, but she advised us to avoid any foods that may upset our stomachs 24 hours before climbing, and to go easy on coffee and other beverages as well. She also gave us detailed driving directions. From our motel in Eugene, we were only about 25 miles from where we would climb, but she warned us it would take 90 minutes to get there. So we left by 8 am, and ended up an hour and a half later somewhere in the backwoods of Oregon.

The roads we traveled twisted an turned, and completely erased our sense of direction. Trying to find the exact spot where we were to meet Jason, our guide, proved to be a bit challenging, despite Debbie’s good intentions and impeccable directions. Cote and I began to second-guess our location. We were surrounded by trees, the dirt roads were rutted, the area was deserted. In fact, the only person we saw was a petite, dark-haired woman who was leaning on the outside of her red Volvo, where the road forked and split in two. Cote and I passed her by, and wondered what in the world she was doing out here all alone. We drove a bit farther, but the one-lane track we had veered off on, soon became impassable. We turned the car around and headed back to the split, and the woman who waited there. Maybe she could point us in the right direction.

Her name was Jenny, and she told us she too was there to meet Jason. After some quick introductions, we relaxed into our surroundings and started to share details about who we were and why we were all here. Cote and I discovered that Jenny was a single businesswoman, on vacation from Los Angeles. She claimed to not be the “outdoorsy” type, yet every summer she hits the open road, alone in her car, to explore new places and seek out new adventures. She spends her days hiking, and her nights sleeping in her car, and although she has rock-climbed 5 or 6 times in the past, she has never scaled a tree. (But has always wanted to try.)

Cote and Jenny hit it off immediately. And I was so impressed. I watched as my 18-year-old daughter engaged a complete stranger in conversation that would not end until some 24 hours later. Jenny was a woman about 15 years older than Cote, from a totally different background and place. Yet, as Jenny shared details about her life, her philosophies, her goals, I could tell Cote was gaining wisdom and courage and a deeper sense of her own self-confidence. All of this from a woman who just happened to decide to climb a tree the same day we did.

About twenty minutes later, Jason arrived. He pulled up in a very old, very used car, and apologized profusely for being late. Car troubles, he explained. Last minute and unexpected. It was probably a good thing Jason began rushing around from the moment he stepped out of his vehicle, for if he hadn’t I’m sure the look on our three faces would have betrayed our every thought. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting our guide to look like, but I know Jason’s appearance caught me more than just a bit off-guard. His shoulder-length blond hair was pulled back in a low pony-tail and he was sporting a 3-day beard. His clothes looked as if he had slept in them, possibly more than just one night. He had all the makings of being a throw-back hippie from the sixties, though he had to be only in his early to mid thirties. To be honest, these first impressions made me a bit nervous. I found myself questioning his capabilities and wondering what in the world I had gotten us into.

As soon as he started to speak, however, I realized just how wrong first impressions can be, and I was ashamed of myself for judging so quickly. Jason talked about being an arborist for 14 years, about perfecting his trade and how he fell in love with trees. He spoke about our safety, about taking precautions, and how PTCI only provides the best in climbing gear. This man was totally competent, totally capable. His passion for nature was pure and contagious, his knowledge about his craft was comforting and confidence-building. From the battered trunk of his car, he pulled out all our supplies……harnesses and rope, helmets and sleeping bags, water bottles and safety latches. He spoke of what to expect from our climb and what it would take to make it to the top. Then he led us on a short hike through the forest to the mighty Three Musketeers.

The trio of Douglas firs grew within inches of each other. They were not particularly big around, but they stood strong and tall. The one we would climb was 257 foot high. We craned our necks upward, following ropes that hung down the sides of the trunks but disappeared gently into the canopies above. The tops were out of sight. Our lesson on climbing was quick and not too detailed. Jason went over the basics with us, about how the ropes could hold thousands of pounds (what was that supposed to mean?) and our latches were safety-proof. We could only climb up, we need not worry about sliding (falling?) back down. The mechanical teeth biting into the rope would prevent us from doing so. We could sit in our harnesses and relax at any time, but we had to stand and push ourselves up in the foot-straps in order to inch our way skyward. We wouldn’t fully understand these instructions, nor the coordination it took, however, until we were strapped in and forced to climb. Live and learn. Trial and error. We would be safe, but until we stepped in, latched on, and started up, there was not much else to say.

We donned our helmets, our harnesses, and clipped on to our ropes. Water bottles dangled from our belt loops, as we pushed off one by one from the forest floor. Jenny first, then Cote, then me. It was awkward at first, trying to get the hang of what to do. We bobbled, we wobbled. But before long our feet and hands began to move in steady rhythm, and we hoisted ourselves up inch by inch, with slow methodical movements. At about 50 feet, I looked back down and saw Jason beginning his own ascent. Clipped to his belt harness was all our night-time gear, sleeping bags, pillows and three tree-boats. Jenny was only staying for the daytime climb, she wasn’t planning on spending the night, so she wouldn’t be needing a bed to sleep in. She had told us about her long drive back to Los Angeles (13 hours), and how she needed to be at work bright and early Monday morning. She would have to bid us goodbye right after dinner.

I decided to slow my pace and wait for Jason to catch up. Cote and Jenny were already slipping out of sight, as they raced to the top, but the sound of their fading voices told me they were still talking non-stop. A part of me was a bit saddened by the separation. I had always pictured Cote and I climbing side by side, once we finally got here. But as I dangled in my own solitary, sacred space, I realized it was better that we remained true to our own agendas, our own set of needs. Cote and I were at different stages in life. She was on the threshold of the new and exciting, she was rambunctious and ready to conquer. She was ready to see what there was to see from the very top. No stopping, just living, reaching, for the next highest branch, the next thrilling moment. She would push both time and her own physical strengths to get there. My own self-truth was to breathe more deeply, more slowly, my pace needed to match the wants of my spirit. The climb for me was to be savored, so that all of my senses had time to share in the experience. I didn’t want to miss the smallest of detail, the tiniest treasure. Trees hold a very special meaning for me, now that I am older. In many ways, they stand as symbols of God's great and powerful love.

From the hidden roots that nourish, to the branches that reach towards the heavens, and everything else in between. Trees are a sign of God’s presence in my life. But it took 30 years for this perspective to take root inside of me, 30 years for this symbol to reach the light. So both of our journeys to the top were to be respected; both our methods of climbing held merit. Cote’s choice couldn’t claim more weight, nor could mine claim more validity. We shared the climb, yet our experiences were unique and all our own. By remaining true to our inner voices, we eventually found ourselves sitting on top of the world, side by side, just like I had always imagined. Getting there, however, was just the way it should be. Cote wrote the words of her story, while I penned the pages of my own.

My version included Jason, who by now had piqued my interest. Here was a man who climbed trees for a living, who had a knowledge and a love for nature that seemed to know no bounds. On any day of the week, he could see the world from an entirely different view. How did this change him as a person? How did this alter his vision? Did he resent or welcome outsiders to his palace in the sky, and how did he cope with caring for an environment so many others disregarded on a daily basis? I felt like a reporter, digging for a story, but Jason answered my questions as we climbed with patience and a passion for what he does. His greatest love is to bring children up into the canopies, he told me, school kids from the inner city. “Black tops to tree tops,” he called it. His goal was to foster a love for nature in the next generation and to help these kids discover their own inner strengths while doing so. Watching them climb, even those who think they can’t because of physical limitations or because they might think themselves to be too over-weight, was the greatest joy for Jason. As these kids accomplished personal goals they originally thought were out of reach, as they climbed to new heights and surpassed their own expectations, he saw self-confidence grow, self-esteem soar. There was nothing else like it in the world for him. At 120 feet, Jason stopped to hook up our treeboats, so that they could be secured in the light of day and be ready for us that evening. “Keep climbing. I’ll meet you all at the top when I’m done."

I continued on, alone now, up the side of this great tree. The higher I went, the more it seemed everything else below me just melted away. The noise, the crazy roads, the rush of life. All that remained were the trees, their simple beauty, their quiet dignity, their noble presence. I kept inching upward, stopping every so often to relax into my harness and take in the view peeking out between the branches. Here’s what surprised me the most……I was never afraid. Not even for a minute. Back when Cote and I were exploring the Rockies, I remember how dizzy I felt whenever we would walk out to the edge of a particular view and look down. Or how nervous I would be driving with no guardrails along the sides of the mountains, high up in the national park. It gave me chills at times, and back then I kept thinking, "How am I ever going to climb a tree? How am I going to strap on to just a rope, climb up 250 feet, and open my eyes?"

Now, here I was doing just that. With absolutely no fear. On the contrary, all I felt was peace and serenity. The sky was the limit, the tree was my anchor, the beauty of creation surrounding me like a protective blanket. I felt safe, and whole, and free all at the same time. We often go through life describing beautiful images, incredible experiences, as taking our breath away, and I thought this was how it would be when I finally found myself sitting in the topmost branches of these super tall trees. But it wasn’t. To say the view was breath-taking, would be almost the opposite of what it felt like for me, the opposite of what I experienced. Instead, when I was intertwined with the limbs, when I was cradled inside these outstretched arms, it was as if I found myself truly breathing for the very first time ever. With the trees surrounding me, supporting my every movement, I breathed deep, really deep, clear down to my soul. The air was pure, and fresh, and clean. It was almost as if I had been living in an oxygen-deprived room all my life, and a door was suddenly thrown open. Nestled high within the trees, was where I could finally breathe for real, breathe on purpose, and breathe completely . I became one……as the trees around me, beneath me, beside me, and spread out before me…..became many.

We ate lunch at 230 feet, the highest point we would climb. When I caught up with Cote and Jenny, they were still chatting away, learning the finer details of each other’s lives. Seeing Cote perched casually and comfortably on the branch overhead, warmed my heart. I could tell she was enjoying this adventure as much as I was. We opened our brown bags, and discovered hearty whole-wheat turkey sandwiches with avocado and sprouts, all-natural potato chips, and an apple....all packed by Debbie, herself, who just happens to be, by the way, Jason's wife. It was strange yet peaceful to be eating so high up in the air, tucked against the trunk of a tree, with a view spanning before me as far as I could see. I felt like an eagle, come home to its nest. It wasn’t long before Jason joined us. He asked us how we were all doing, what we all thought, while he sat on his own branch and ate his lunch. Then it was time for our lesson in getting back down, which was going to be a whole lot easier, he said, than coming up.

One by one, Jason switched our mechanisms from ascenders to descenders. Even during this quick change-over, we were never “unlatched” completely from the safety of our ropes. Jason made sure we were attached to secondary ropes during the cross-over. The descender mechanism was basically a pull-lever. Pull it down, and you went down, gravity did all the work for you. Stop pulling, and you stopped instantly, wherever, whenever you wanted. If you pulled too hard, a safety catch would kick in and shut the gear down, so there was never any worry about going too fast. But who would want to? There was still so much to take in. From the smallest of lichens growing on bark, to the soft-covered moss dripping like molasses from branches. The canopies were at our fingertips. They were full and green, and waiting to be explored and appreciated. We took our time coming down, and eventually passed our treeboats as we did, the place where we would be spending the night. They looked comfortable enough, each one slung from between the mighty trunk to an outstretched branch. After dinner, we would head back up at dusk to sleep beneath the stars and our naturally-grown blankets of green.

Around 4pm we finally touched down, we returned to our roots, if you will. It felt weird at first to be standing on solid earth again, very heavy, our legs like dead weight. We dropped our belts, shook off our helmets, and stretched our own limbs. We had an hour and a half before Debbie was to arrive with dinner, (could this day get any better?), so Jason took us on a hike through the Oregon forest to find a hidden stream. This place was amazing. The ferns carpeting the forest floor were lush and dense, the soil we walked upon was dark and earthy, the trees towering over us were powerful and protective.We found the stream, spent some time by the trickling water, and then headed back to camp.

Debbie was there waiting for us, with a spread that was a feast to our eyes and growling stomachs. Pasta with homemade sauce, fresh salad straight from her garden, and warm bread. For dessert there was Marianne-Berry Pie, kind of a cross between raspberry and blueberry, a fruit native to their Oregon area. It was all absolutely delicious, we ate our fill and then some. But one of the best treats of the evening was to finally meet Debbie in person. We had spoken several times on the phone and shared info by email, but I was hoping we would have the chance to thank her in person for all her help in setting up this incredible adventure. Our time together over dinner was relaxing and enjoyable. Debbie is a gentle soul, with a constant smile. She was as warm and inviting and natural as the very trees that circled around us. Later on, Cote and I agreed she was just about the sweetest woman we both had ever met.

Dusk slowly began to settle in, and it was time to head back up into the canopy. Jenny surprised us all by saying, “I can't leave. I just have to stay and sleep up there. How can I come this far and not do it? I’ll worry about my drive home tomorrow. If I don’t spend the night tonight, I may never do this again.”

We helped Debbie pack up the dishes, while Jason grabbed another treeboat from his trunk. He had some unexpected last

minute work ahead of him, but he never once complained. He remained true to his nature, his goal in life…..to help others appreciate the beauty of trees, to spend time in them, and possibly uncover a bond they never knew existed. We quickly readied ourselves for the night and geared up for the climb. The sun was setting low as we took to the trees. For the next 12 hours we would tuck ourselves into a whole new world. A night-time world full of mysterious sights and sounds. We would fall asleep amidst the branches above, but I had a feeling our spirits would be awakened as never before.

(To be continued).

Write of Passage - Day 6 (CONT.)

August 7, 2009: Crescent City, California -- Afternoon in the Redwoods

Cote and I checked out of the motel, mid-morning, and took Hwy 101 north, back-tracking just a bit, in order to reach the Redwoods National Forest. We had driven this exact same stretch of highway last night, when we made our way to the coast, but the fog, the drizzle, and our mild state of exhaustion, hid the overwhelming beauty of the landscape now before us. Everything this morning was large, and green, and alive in the bright rays of sunshine. Our spirits were refreshed, our energy levels had been restored. The trees surrounding us were absolutely massive, yet we still had no idea just how big they were going to get.

As we drove on, Cote laughed at me every time I craned my neck to see through the top two inches of our windshield, trying to take in the full height of every tree lining the roadside.

"Just look up through the sunroof, would you, you goof."

"Oh, yeah. I forgot we have that."

But within seconds, I would be overtaken again by the sheer size of another giant redwood, and I would find myself pressed to the steering wheel once more, my eyes straining upward, my mouth gaping open.

We really didn't know what to expect when we arrived inside the state park, and we really didn't know where to go. So we drove slow, looking in every direction, but mostly up. There were little dirt side roads, off the main one we were on, that seemed to lead to hidden places deep inside the forest glades. We decided to take one, and soon found ourselves squeezing between rows of redwoods, ferns, and foliage. Little pull-offs were available in case two cars met up, but that didn't seem to be an issue. We were all alone back here, nestled inside the quietness

and majesty of the towering trees. Finally, Cote and I just couldn't stand it anymore. We had to get out of the cocoon that had become our car. It just didn't feel right...to be locked inside such a small space when we were in the midst of such exquisite beauty. These trees needed to be experienced up close and personal. We pulled the car into a little cove, and got out. The forest air filled our lungs, making us feel as if we were every bit a part of the world we were stepping into.

With the car's motor now turned off, the only sounds we heard were our own two voices, and those seemed to echo back to us from the canopies far overhead. Cote and I began to explore. We found nooks, we found crannies, we found trees growing so close to each other, they appeared to be double-trunked. We climbed up between them, using bark-covered ledges that grew at odd angles. We circled round several wide solid bases, their coarse woody exteriors scraping the palms of our out-stretched hands.

Our exploring eventually led us to the other side of the one-lane road, where we discovered the

4-foot high stump of a mighty redwood long since gone. It took a bit of effort to hoist ourselves up, but once we did, Cote and I stood in utter disbelief. The diameter of the trunk that stretched out beneath our feet was incredible. We could walk across it, lie down upon it, and lower ourselves into the deep crevices that years of decay had carved into this redwood's core. At first it was a mini-playland. Then in a sobering instant, it became a sacred space. Cote and I imagined the tree that once stood here, and

despite the thousands of others that still surrounded us, we somehow felt the loss of this single, solitary one.

We sat down quietly and traced the trunk's inner rings, touching the carved names that now criss-crossed over them. Many people had been here before us, leaving their mark for others to find. For a minute, Cote and I thought about adding our own. Doing so would prove our presence; we could officially record our rite of passage, 2009.

"Do you want to carve your name?"

"I don't know. Do you?"
"I don't know. There's a part of me that does, but then there's a part of me that doesn't. In a way, it just doesn't feel right."

"I know. It seems disrespectful somehow."

As we talked our way through it, Cote and I shared thoughts about caring for the environment, and the role we both play. Our perspectives, our actions, our daily

brushes with nature, effect the world we live in, either directly or indirectly. Cote and I kept talking, and as we did the engraved names began to transform before our eyes. Now they looked so unnatural, so out of place. We decided that adding our own would be like adding insult to injury....sprinkling salt, if you will, in an open wound. We wouldn't do it. We couldn't. Instead, we got up and left this place exactly as we had found it.

From this quiet little sanctuary, we headed down the road towards Stout Memorial Grove, a well-known section of the Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park. This time we parked our car in a mini-parking lot, along with a few others, and hiked a short distance down towards the infamous stand of trees. Now here was a playland! Lying wide open before us, was an all-natural wonder-world, that had been rightly protected and well preserved. We could climb up, crawl over, tuck in, and hide behind. This grove was full of redwoods, stoic and strong, mighty soldiers standing at full attention. They were amazing to look at, to stand beside, to touch. There were others as well, that had fallen over by natural causes, but still served with great purpose.....for they fed the roots

of those still standing, those still living, those still breathing.

It was here that I gave Cote her next letter. It came in a very special box, and I'm sure held a very special message. Cote sat in the crook of a tree, and opened her treasure. When she did, I stepped back and gave her some space. I didn't want to invade the moment or accidentally intercept a message that had been written just for her. She took her time, quietly savoring the moment, the note, and her thoughts about the special person who wrote it.

The rest of the afternoon, Cote and I simply played inside the Redwood National Forest. Watching her move about was like watching Mowgli from the movie, The Jungle Book. (Did this make me Baloo?). It was magical, it was serene, it was comical, it was unforgettable. Cote skipped, she jumped, she balleted. She defied gravity. She pushed

herself to the limits, time and time again. One moment in particular, will forever be ingrained in my memory. It was when Cote decided to jump from one cut end of a mighty fallen redwood to the other. (Part of the massive trunk had been sectioned off and removed, because the tree had fallen directly across the marked trail.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes. And I want you to take my picture when I do."
"That means I'd have to watch, and I'm not sure that's going to happen."

"C'mon, Mom......tell me when you're ready......."

I snapped the picture, I caught her in mid-air. Bare-foot with what appeared to be a hint of wings upon her shoulders. Cote made the jump. Just barely. She caught the other side, waist-high, and pulled herself up the rest of the way. Little did I know a lesson about life was coming next.....

"Should I jump back?"

"Excuse me? I don't think so."
"Why not?"
"Um, because you barely made it the first time."
"But, I did make it. And if I don't try jumping back,

I might regret it."

"Ok, so let's think about this, shall we? Cote, you made the jump the first time. You proved to yourself you could do it. If you jump back now, you'll be landing on a narrower part of the trunk, and a part that's smoother and more slippery than the rough edge you just jumped to. All this means there's a higher risk you're gonna slip off."

"But life is about taking risk, remember? 'Fully participating, everyday' and all that stuff."
"Life is about taking good risks, thought-out risks, risks that make living more meaningful. Not about taking EVERY risk that comes along. Think about it, Cote.....tomorrow you're supposed to climb a tree. A very big tree. Huge...two-hundred and fifty foot high. You have waited a long time to do it, well over a year. What if you jump right now, on a whim, and then fall and break your leg? You won't be able to climb tomorrow's tree. You won't be able to make this bigger dream of yours come true. So is it worth the risk to jump again right now, when you know it may cost you climbing the tree tomorrow?"

Despite her mother's impeccable display of knowledge, it still took Cote several minutes to concede and come down.
But she finally did. She realized that I wasn't just being an over-protective mother, but that jumping would truly be pushing a limit that wasn't worth pushing. It was a risk whose price tag was just too high to pay.

We moved on, down the trail and discovered more trees, more treasures, more truths. Cote has a way of looking at the world that invites me to adjust and expand my own. Like, for example, when we came upon a

particularly beautiful and extremely tall redwood. Cote looked it over, from every standing angle, top to bottom, and then decided to try an entirely new point of view. She wanted to experience this tree from the position of lying down. So, she did. Without hesitation, Cote plopped herself right beneath that massive tree, and stretched herself out upon the ground below. It didn't matter that she was going to get dirt in her hair or that people would surely pass by before she was done with her experiment. The only thing Cote cared about was capturing this moment from a totally different perspective......from an angle most others would never consider. When I saw what she was doing, I couldn't help but join in.

So, there we were. Lying on the ground, side by side, looking up into the redwood's vast canopy overhead. There was something about lying prone that slowed our breathing, and brought us to a higher realm of consciousness. Our eyes drifted up through the branches,

where sunlight filtered and danced between the leaves, casting white-gold streaks upon the foliage and our faces below. We felt the solidness of the earth beneath us, woven with roots, while the view above made us feel feather-like and floating with possibility. It was incredible. How else can I describe it? Cote snapped a few more pictures, including one where we joined our hands together in the shape of a heart, commemorating our love for this tree, this place, this moment. A mother and a daughter.....taking on the world.....lying down.

By late afternoon, we had to pack it up and head out. We hated to leave the redwoods, but Eugene, Oregon was over 200 miles up the road, and we needed to be there by nightfall. Cote and I had more trees waiting for us. This time, they would be douglas firs. And the challenge for us wouldn't be to take them lying down. We'd have to face them instead, by climbing up.

Rooted Together

What you are about to read is a clip that I've kept in my journal ever since my mother passed away, seven years ago. When I was packing for the "Write of Passage" journey I'd be taking with Cote, I tucked this piece of paper into my bag to keep with me. I knew the Redwoods were going to be one of the most powerful experiences I would share with my daughter. Since trees have a way of speaking directly to my soul, the words written below have brought me much comfort and peace over the years. I know my own mother lives on in everything I do; her spirit has been rooted within me. Thank you, Mom, for the lessons, the love, the memories. May my own daughters' lives be enriched by your legacy.

Epilogue from Motherless Daughters:

A Legacy of Loss

by Hope Edelman

"Nature often offers metaphors more elegant than any we can manufacture. Redwoods have evolved to turn disaster into opportunity. In these coastal forests, death produces life.

This is what I mean: In the redwood ecosystem, all seeds are contained in pods called burls, tough brown clumps that grow where the mother tree's trunk and root system meet. When the mother tree is logged, blown over, or destroyed by fire--when, in other words, she dies--the trauma stimulates the burls' growth hormones. The seeds release, and trees sprout around her, creating the circle of daughters. The daughter trees grow by absorbing the sunlight their mother cedes to them when she dies. And they get the moisture and nutrients they need from their mother's root system, which remains intact underground even after her leaves die. Although the daughters exist independently of their mother above ground, they continue to draw sustenance from her underneath.

I am fooling only myself when I say my mother exists now only in the photograph on my bulletin board or in the outline of my hand or in the armful of memories I still hold tight. She lives on beneath everything I do. Her presence influences who I am. Our lives are shaped as much by those who leave us as they are by those who stay. Loss is our legacy. Insight is our gift. Memory is our guide."

Write of Passage - Day 6

August 7, 2009: Crescent City, CA--Morning on the Coast

Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover. - Mark Twain

I woke up this morning, early, before daylight. By nature, I'm not one who ever goes back to sleep once I'm awake. When I'm up, I'm up. Nevertheless, I knew for a fact that going back to sleep today was out of the question. It wasn't even a consideration. Waiting for us just beyond

the threshold of our hotel door, were treasures like we have never seen before. The mighty Pacific ocean was less than a stone's throw away; the towering Redwood National Forest was just down the road. There was so much to see today, so much to touch, taste, smell, and breathe in. I wondered how a single day was going to hold it all. Was it even possible? Yes, today was going to be huge. There was no way I was staying in bed for one more minute of it.

I slipped from beneath my covers, and padded my way softly to the balcony, sliding open the small glass door. The sound of waves gently washing over the rocky shore, was like beautifully orchestrated music, being played for those who were awake to listen. I couldn't see the water yet, but it wouldn't be long before the morning sun brought it to full light.

I knew then where I needed to be. I had to be on the shoreline, when this day broke open. The water's edge was pulling on me as surely as the moon pulls on the ocean's tide.

It would have been easy to let Cote sleep, to let her stay inside the warmth of her dreams. I could have quietly slipped out of the room, and explored the coast in solitude, in silent meditation and morning prayer. But Cote and I had come so far together. I couldn't walk out without first waking her up, asking if she wanted to join me. I went back inside and shook her gently.

"Cote...."

"Huh?"

"Cote, it's morning. It's early, really early, but I'm going to go down to the water. Do you want to come with me?"

"What? What time is it?"

"Not quite 6. But I want to be down there before the sun comes up. You don't have to go, but I didn't want to leave without asking you."

"No. I think I'll stay here. Is that alright?"

"Yeah, that's fine. It's just that we've come all this way, to reach the west coast. I just have to be out there, I have to see it. I don't want to miss any of it."

A heavy sigh escaped from beneath the blanket.

"Hold on. I'm coming with you...."

We didn't even get dressed. What for? This morning wasn't about trying to make a good impression on others....it was instead about impressing the beauty of nature on our hearts, as we continued to keep this rite of passage real and true. We slipped on our sandals, and headed downstairs, dressed in our comfy pajama pants and sweatshirts. We made one quick stop at the breakfast counter, which was still closed, but a thermos of hot coffee was waiting for those early risers in need of a quick caffeine kick. I grabbed a cup and took it along with me.

As Cote and I stepped outside, the light of day was just beginning to break. We climbed over the grassy embankment, and gingerly picked our way over pebbles and driftwood to the water's edge. Without saying a word, we knew what had to be done first.

Standing side by side, we simultaneously dipped our toes into the mighty Pacific. The chilly water had us squealing with delight, as it rippled around our feet. Multi-colored stones sparkled back up at us, each one like a tiny, tempting jewel. We were here. Finally. We were as far west as the open road was going to take us. But nothing about this trip was over. In life, nothing is ever really "over." The landscape just changes. The path may curve, the road may fork, or in our case, even end. But the possibilities in life remain as vast and wide as the ocean of blue stretching out before us. Endings, after all, are just new beginnings, waiting to happen. Cote and I could stand together upon this shoreline and look back at how far we'd come, as well as look forward to all that was yet to be.

It was while we were looking forward, that the most amazing thing happened. In the grey mist of morning, with the sun slowly kissing both the surface of the water and the boulders that dotted the shoreline, the rocks began to move! Cote and I couldn't believe our eyes! We pointed and squinted, and pointed some more. How could this be? What was happening?

Finally, the sun broke through strong enough to fade the hazy mist, and into full view came harbor seals. Tons of them......right before our very eyes! They stretched and yawned, and groaned and grunted. They had been there the whole time, waiting to add a whole new dimension to our ever-changing landscape. But who knew? Once again, the possibilities of life seemed endless before us. Cote and I stood in silent awe for several minutes, watching as these majestic creatures came to life, bold and beautiful.

Finally, with an empty coffee cup now in hand, Cote and I were ready to explore the shoreline and scavenge the beach for the most unusual rocks we could find. We drifted in between and around the huge boulders that rose up out of the water like giant sea

creatures rising from the deep. We climbed a few, we slid our fingers across their slippery surface, and we peeked inside cracks and crevices so as not to miss a thing. We met a local woman out walking her dog, and we stumbled upon a few "fishermen" wading in thigh high water, poking poles under the massive rock formations. We had no clue what they were fishing for. So after casually watching for a bit and not seeing them pull anything from the water, we thought what the heck, and decided to shout out and ask. Eels, they replied. They were fishing for eels, which hide beneath the rocks when the tide goes back out to sea. They made good eating, or so the young fisherman claimed. We exchanged a few more shouted questions and answers, and then Cote and I bid our thanks and wished them good luck.

We explored more of the coastline and then eventually wound our way back to where we started, the beach in front of our hotel. There was something here that Cote and I had seen earlier when we first climbed over the grassy embankment, that we were anxious to get back and take a closer look at. It was a stick shelter, made from large pieces of driftwood.

It looked like a small wooden hut. When we first stepped on to the beach at daybreak, two young people, a guy and a girl, seemed to have staked a claim upon it. They sat on the pebbly shore, close to the structure, but not exactly close to each other. Now they were gone, nowhere in sight, so Cote and I circled around the driftwood hut and then stepped inside.

Someone had spent the night here.

There was a small makeshift fire pit, and a fast-food wrapper wadded up in a ball. A couple of log stools were pushed back against the "wall" and there was enough space to spread out a sleeping bag. Maybe the young

(18-20 year old?) rumpled couple we had seen earlier, had done just this. Spent the night here. Maybe they were homeless. Maybe they were adventure-seekers. Maybe they were locals who snuck out for the night. Or maybe they were just passing through town and needed a free place to stay. We didn't know their story, but like everyone else in the world, we were sure they had one.

Our morning continued on in this relaxed, easy fashion. Cote and I explored and talked, we collected rocks and spoke of life's possibilities. We finally went back inside the hotel, with grumbling tummies, to grab a bite to eat. We sat down in front of the huge plate glass windows, overlooking the ocean, a view we couldn't get enough of, and one that filled us in a way food never could.

Before long, the rumpled young man returned, wandering back from down the shoreline. He was alone, with his head bent low, almost as if he was studying the very ground he walked upon. Cote was interested in him. Being close in age, she wanted to know what brought him here, where he was from, and where he might be going.

"Go talk to him," I said.

"What? No way. I couldn't. What would I say?"

"I don't know. Just walk out there. See what happens. "

"I'm scared. What if he thinks I'm weird, or what if the girl shows up and thinks I'm hitting on him?"

"But you're not, Cote. And you're in a safe place. You're in front of a hotel full of people. I'll be sitting right here if you need anything. If you're curious, go out there. Strike up a conversation if it feels right. If it doesn't, just sit there and take in the ocean. If you don't at least try, you'll always wonder what might have happened if you did. Think about it. What do you have to lose? And what do you stand to gain?"

She went. And I watched in amazement, as my daughter walked outside, stepped over the embankment, and took the trail leading down to the water. She would face this fear head on, all on her own. She wouldn't be holding anyone's hand, nor would she have the luxury of someone beside her, adding a buffer zone to any possible embarrassment she may encounter. She had only herself to fall back on. But in doing so, she stood the chance to discover a strength inside herself that was there all along.

I opened my journal, and began to make a few sketches. I pretended my mind was focused on the page in front of me, and not on my eldest child who at that very moment was out in the world all alone. I forced myself to give her time--I forced myself to trust, and I let her go just a little bit more. I looked at my watch, and then turned to look out over the ocean. The embankment blocked her from my view. I took a deep breath, and imagined myself glued to the chair beneath me. I fought the urge to follow. Because really, if I couldn't give her this much, how would I ever let her leave for college in just three short weeks?

After a respectable amount of time (by whose standards, I'm not saying), I gathered up my things, refilled my coffee cup and headed out to find her. She was sitting quietly on a large piece of driftwood, all alone, and lost in thought. The rumpled girl had returned. She was down shore with rumpled boy. They were near the shelter, but still not really near each other. I went and sat next to Cote, curious as to what had happened.

"I didn't talk to him."

"No? Why not?"

"Well, I waited for a bit and just kind of watched to see if he might be open to either of us saying something. But he kept his head down, and then the girl came back. I thought about going up to the both of them, but it just didn't feel right. So I sat down here instead."

"That's OK, Cote. You followed your gut, and that's a good thing. You gave it a shot, so there's no regrets, right? Think about it.....that's more than what a lot of people would have done."

"I know. It's just that I would still like to know their story. I bet they have a lot of interesting stuff going on."

"Yeah, I bet you're right. I bet they do."

We sat there a while longer, not wanting to end the ebb and flow of either the ocean or our thoughts. It had been a magical morning. Full of newfound discoveries, about the world and about some of those who live in it, ourselves included. When the time seemed right, Cote and I stood up, headed back to our room, and got ready for the rest of our day. We had towering trees waiting for us down the road. The ocean had given us the opportunity to look forward, straight out into the horizon, and then back again inside ourselves. The redwoods would draw our eyes upward, towards the very heavens themselves.

I couldn't even begin to imagine what kind of gifts would be waiting for us there.

Write of Passage - Day 5

August 6, 2009: Battle Mountain, NE to Crescent City, CA (545 miles)

"...Take what you've learned so far and broaden it. Be a good listener. Be a good friend. But don't let people use you.....Don't forget where you came from and who you are. And remember, we all love you very much."

~Aunt Sis, Write of Passage letter, August 2009

We drove from Nevada to Oregon to California today, taking more back roads, dotted with more small and spaced-out towns. The landscape eventually began to change, but it took driving all the way through the rest of Nevada to finally see it. The sagebrush and

rocky desert continued well after we left Battle Mountain. We headed North on Highway 95, leaving civilization behind us for the better part of the day. Actually, since Cote's cell phone had no reception out here, it was road signs that became our only link to the "outside" world. We had Smokey the Bear who told us that there was a "very high" fire danger, and a yellow caution sign that warned us to watch for wild donkey crossings. (Which, lo and behold, happened to come in handy!). There was a huge black and white metal sign stating our duty to report any highway shootings we may witness while traveling the open frontier, and another sign graciously noting that it would be over 80 miles before we saw another gas station. (Yes, I heeded that one, thank you very much!).

There were signs warning against falling rock, snow zones, steep downgrades, and much more. Cote was so intrigued by all these captions, she became a "road-sign junkie," snapping pictures of every one,

digitally immortalizing them forever. There were no farms, no homes, no nothing else to really see out here. We were just a mother and daughter, on a journey, looking for signs....

Way out in the middle of nowhere, we turned off Highway 95 and took Route 140 west. This road would eventually cross us over the Oregon border, but we still had plenty of ground to cover (more than 100 miles). Occasionally, a mountain of rock would pop up,

and we'd have to trek up one side of it and back down the other, curving precariously at times as the road narrowed to a tight two lanes.

Finally Oregon arrived, and with it came a few farms, a few cattle, and a few fields. Not many. Just one here, and several miles later, another one there. But it broke up the landscape, and it gave us something to point at. Oregon also brought something else, though. A wicked thunderstorm. Somewhere out in the middle of this wide open space, a terrible storm blew in. Our car was engulfed by a sheet of rain so dense, we couldn't see past the windshield. Our wipers flew back and forth at top speed, but did no good. A grey curtain had been pulled down all around us.

There was no place to run, no place to hide, nothing we could do to stop it.

That was when the hail hit. I couldn't believe my eyes and ears. Hard packed, dime-size snowballs, pelted our roof and hood. But again, there was absolutely no place to take cover. The sound was deafening and made me sick to my stomach. All I could imagine were thousands of tiny pock marks being indented all over the black paint of our less-than-one-year-old Ford Edge. I pulled over to the side of the road, hoping that by sitting still the

pelting would be less intense. I wanted to cry, but Cote wouldn't let me. In a crazy "Freaky Friday" kind of moment, she took on the role of adult, while her mother sat curled up and sniveling in the driver's seat.

"Mom, it's ok," she soothed. "It's just a car, it can be fixed. There's nothing we can do about it, so just let it go. Everything will be alright."

Of course, she was right. So I stopped my whining, but kept my eyes shut.

She, on the other hand, picked up her camera and took more pictures.....

The storm finally passed, and when I reopened my eyes, I felt like Dorothy stepping into Oz. Everything around us had new color, new life. The air was fresh, clean. The dry, brittle, dusty feel of the past several days was gone. We put the car in gear, and drove on. As we did, the color green grew stronger and bolder before our eyes. Oregon had fields of grass and groves of pine. Trees. Beautiful, green, and soul-pleasing trees. They started out small, almost inconspicuous at first, but grew taller and fuller the farther we drove in. There was a renewed sense of hope here, a deeper shade of life. Yes, we had to weather a storm to reach it, breathe it, feel it. But sometimes isn't that the way life is?

The miles passed, and California closed in, as more green foliage closed up the sides of the roads. Gone were the wide open spaces. Now we were cocooned inside the safety of the trees, nestled in the arms of their outstretched limbs. The coast was somewhere just beyond the next towering pine. We couldn't see it yet, but we knew we weren't far. The air had a distinct smell, fresh, powerful. The ocean breeze was faint, but growing stronger. Night was drawing

near by the time we finally crossed the California border. Looking at the map, we had only about 50 miles to go before we reached Crescent City, but Highway 199 was a road full of twists, turns, and pull-offs, which allowed faster moving traffic to pass. A foggy mist had settled in, followed by a light drizzly rain, making the drive even slower for those of us unfamiliar with the territory. It was painstaking. Cote and I knew just beyond the next curve, the next tree, the ocean was patiently waiting for us. Yet every mile we logged seemed like ten. We were tired, exhausted, anxious with anticipation.

Finally Highway 199 ended, and 101 was there to welcome us. The fog still loomed along the edges of Crescent City, but we were thankful to be here, as we pulled into the first motel we could find, a Best Western. I went in, asked for a room, and was told they were booked solid. What??! No!! I returned to the car, and told Cote to start praying. She had been talking with Hannah on the phone, so she petitioned her sister to do likewise. The Best Western people told me our only hope for a room would be the Hampton Inn, down the road. The one sitting right on the water's edge, with the beautiful ocean view. I could only imagine the cost. But we had finally arrived at the coast. Cote and I had driven over 2300 miles to get here, and had done so with minimal amount of spending. I was ready to pay full price, if need be.

One thing I had learned back in Steamboat Springs, CO, however, was that hotel prices could be negotiated. I'll share that story some other time, but suffice it to say, after being successful in Steamboat, I was wondering how I could fair in Crescent. I walked up to the counter and was greeted by the manager. Or at least I assumed he was the manager. He looked the part, anyway. He had also just separated himself from the younger "manager-wannabe-looking" guy stationed further down the check-in counter, who was helping someone else book a room.

"Good evening, may I help you," my guy asked.

"Yes, do you have a room available?"

"Only a few left tonight, but we do have one on the third floor, with a balcony over-looking the ocean."

"Uh, huh. And how much does that one run?"

"Well, our regular rate would be......." He wrote the figure on a small piece of paper and then slid it over for me to see. $259.(!) My heart hiccuped. "But, I can discount it for you tonight, and let you have it for......" Again he scribbled. $159.

Of course, this figure had me breathing again. But still I wondered....if my guy is being so secretive, what exactly does this mean? Am I supposed to counter-offer? Is he expecting me to?

I smiled, and asked what amenities his hotel offered.

"A full hot continental breakfast, of course. Use of all the facilities, free wi-fi, etc."

I did my best to look both pleased, but also slightly unsure.

"Oh....hmmm.....you know.....my daughter and I just drove all the way from Michigan to see the Pacific coast. It's been a really long haul. You don't by chance, have a special Michigan-rate, do you?"

Then I smiled as sweetly as my tired face would allow.

"Well, I suppose for our guests from Michigan, I could let you have it for....."

Scribble, scribble.....$139.

Of course, I grabbed it. Yes, it was only another $20 discount, but hey, it paid the taxes.

The room was gorgeous, the view would surely be spectacular by morning. (It was still foggy and overcast). It didn't matter that we couldn't enjoy it tonight. By the time Cote and I dropped our backpacks, we were ready to call it a day. I did, however, have to return to the lobby about 20 minutes after we checked in. As I passed through, I just happened to over-hear "manager-boy-in-training" tell a new arrival he was sorry, but the hotel was completely booked for the night. So, it was true. We did get one of the very last rooms at the Inn. Our prayers had been heard and answered. I had a quiet feeling, though, that this had been part of some master plan all along. That Cote and I ended up right where we were supposed to be. Something told me, come morning, we would open our eyes to this vast ocean before us.....and see just how far we'd come......and realize just how endless life's possibilities would always be.

P/S.....for those who may be wondering.....our car was just fine. Not a mark on it!