Blood Ties

Chapter 1 – Unexpected Visitor

On a beautiful July day in 1970, I was sitting on the tiny summit of a disintegrating rock pinnacle in the Oregon Cascade Mountain Range—the 7844-foot-high “Three Fingered Jack.” It was the best of days for someone like me who was always in need of the aesthetic fix of being on a mountain. The adrenaline rush I got from negotiating vertical rock walls, the euphoria of accomplishment, the camaraderie and life-dependent teamwork, the breathtaking beauty, and the joy of experiencing extraordinary, otherworldly places, doing things most others would never consider – these were the ingredients of my obsession.

My lofty perch, perpetually remodeled by erosion and lightning strikes, is so small that my legs dangled in space with nothing but hundreds of feet of air below me on all sides. I could see forever from my vantage point, and the view was stunning. Looking north into southern and central Washington and as far south as southern Oregon, mountain peaks majestically pierced the sky, just as they had been doing for millions of years.

I had an unobstructed view of a gigantic blue dome of sky and an endless string of mountains that gradually faded into the distance—Mt. Washington, Mt. Jefferson, the Three Sisters (three adjacent mountains - all exceeding 10,000 feet), Black Butte, Broken Top, Mt. Bachelor, Mt. Thielson, Mt. Hood—all Oregon mountains. Mt. Baker, Mt. Adams, Mt. St. Helens (still with its top)—all Washington mountains also visible from my 8000-foot-tall “horse.”

I could see an endless array of lesser peaks plus a scattering of too many lakes to count. Looking east and west, I could see the Willamette Valley, the coastal mountain range, the eastern high desert, forests that seemingly spread into infinity, and an occasional small airplane flying below me (yes, below me).

As the climb leader, I was responsible for managing the safety rope which secured each climber during the one-at-a-time ascent and descent, which protected them against falling. The route to my small perch in the sky began at a small, flat assembly area within shouting distance below. Each climber had to ascend a vertical rock chute with microscopic handholds. The more timid were advised not to look down. The vertical drop below the chute was more than 1000 feet—straight down. A great way to get the adrenaline flowing!

A rational person would probably think we were abnormal thrill seekers, and maybe we were.

The process of getting six climbers to the top and back, one at a time, is painstakingly slow. I had lots of alone time in my otherworldly piece of paradise. During those treasured moments, the peacefulness was intoxicating, free of all worldly clutter. No phones. No traffic. No TV. No deadlines. No appointments. No “To-Do” lists. My awareness fully present in my surroundings.

With barely enough room even for me on this tiny 8000-foot-high rock, I felt like I was floating in space. Nothing was above me, around me, or below me—for a long ways. The soothing, radiant warmth from the 85-degree sun; the feel of the gentle breeze on my arms, legs and face; the cloudless, deep-blue sky; the absolute silence; the stunning, wrap-around beauty of the vista—all awakened me to the essence of what really matters in life. Worldly clutter was emptied from my mind for the moment. For this moment, all manner of time, conflict and stress failed to exist.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a colorful little visitor came fluttering by—a butterfly! I can’t think of any reason a butterfly would choose to be way up here. It seemed way too high and far removed to be considered a “normal” butterfly environment. No food or water anywhere near. No flowers. No other butterflies. Just an 8000-foot pile of crumbly rocks and one out-of-his-element human. It occurs to me that neither one of us belongs here. My little butterfly and I have something in common.

For an instant, the entire universe consisted of only one little, papery butterfly and one, big, flesh-and-bones human. An unlikely pair, for sure. We had a momentary awareness of each other. It chose to linger within an arm’s length of me for maybe a minute, flying up and down and back and forth, as if trying to say hello. It stayed with me instead of continuing on. For a minute two very dissimilar creatures, a beautiful little butterfly and an appreciative, very surprised mountain climber, became instant friends at 8000 feet.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it flew away. I watched as my little friend-for-a-minute got smaller and smaller, receding into the distant atmosphere, and then it was no more. Strangely, I felt a sense of loss.

That little butterfly would never know or understand the impact our minute together would have on me. Could it be that it was a player in some grand scheme designed to initiate some enthusiasm into my life-long but going-nowhere search for someone, anyone…related to me. I sat on my rock in the sky trying to make sense of what had just happened. My tiny butterfly friend made me realize that the questions I had about it were the same questions I had about my own existence.

What gives me the physical ability, the mental desire, to end up in this hard-to-get-to, otherworldly place?

A more rational person would never be sitting in this place. What makes me the way I am? I was like a man from nowhere—no identifiable place of origin, no biological roots, and no history. My mother and father were key to those secrets but they were nowhere to be found. Oregon law made sure it would stay that way.

My chance encounter with a little butterfly gave me the motivation to keep trying. As the years continued to fly by with no success in my aimless search, I became more desperate for that miracle.

It happened, but it took 30 years.