LOVE SONG - FEEL THE LOVE

 One of my favorite groups from the Jesus Movement. Love Song had a "secular" hit under the name Blues Image; "Ride Captain, Ride" before the guys became Christians.

HUMAN FRAILTY

Sunday's message from Hebrews 4:12-16:

There are two reasons Christ can intercede for us; He has been tempted just as we are and He has successfully resisted that temptation. Hebrews 5 tells us Jesus “learned obedience through suffering temptation.”

PRECIPICE CHAPTER 2

TWO

Yosemite National Park

THURSDAY AFTERNOON

By the time Drake exited the mini-mart the clouds had closed in, blotting out the sun and threatening sudden catastrophe. But down here, at a mere four thousand feet of altitude, he figured he would only have rain and fog to contend with. Still, according to the pretty girl behind the counter, he had to cover another fifteen miles or so before reaching his penultimate destination; Yosemite Village.

Drake glanced across the parking lot. Harlan and his brother were long gone. He blew out a harsh breath. Alone at last. A fine mist began to fall, causing Drake to look up at the lowering clouds. He turned and gazed back east toward Tioga Pass. And home, he thought. Drake hesitated, then sighed and yanked open the driver’s door.

As he climbed aboard, a sharp blast of arctic-cold wind pierced his heavy jacket and thick cotton shirt. He shivered and slammed the door, shutting out the elements. Inside, Hank—suffering the emotional pangs of separation—crowded over, exceedingly happy to see his master again. He greeted Drake with prancing paws and a big wet slobbering tongue.

            Drake pushed the dog away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m glad to see you too, Mutt,” he wiped his face. “Move over to your side so I can drive.”

            Drake started the Chevy and drove out of the service station-mini mart, stopping as he reached Tioga Road. “If I turn left I can be in Yosemite Village in a few minutes. If I turn right I can go back home and forget this whole stupid idea by tonight.” Hank seemed to sense his confusion; he nudged Drake’s side. Ignoring the dog, Drake continued his musing. “If I go left who knows what I’ll meet. If I go right I’ll only have to come up with a good excuse for the church.” He became aware of Hank’s attempts for affection and put his arm around the dog, pulling him close.

What to do? What to do? It would be easier to go left, but he really didn’t want to. It would be harder to go home, but at least he could return to status quo. Yet he knew, like it or not, he was going on; if for no other reason than Harlan’s nagging accusation that he lacked faith. Could Harlan be right? No, and I’m going to prove it.

With a sigh of resignation Drake turned the steering wheel left. Almost immediately he came to the intersection with Big Oak Flat Road, the park’s main north/south thoroughfare. He immediately ran into a surprise. The two men from the helicopter had established an impromptu traffic checkpoint. They were stopping each car, giving the passengers a cursory examination without actually searching the vehicles. Drake waited until the three cars in front of him passed; then it was his turn. Both government men closed in on Drake’s Suburban from either side. Hank began to growl, his tail slashing back and forth.

“Down boy,” Drake put out a steadying hand, “Don’t bother the nice men.”

Drake swiveled his head, looking out both sides of the Suburban; two sets of professional stares gazed back. He felt cold X-ray eyes, probing not just his truck and his dog but obviously scanning deep into his very being, searching for any indication of corruption. This is weird. His forehead tightened in thought. Why the big government presence? Come to think of it, the ranger at the Tioga Pass entrance hadn’t been the usual chipper, Boy Scout model either; more a law enforcement type.

Drake rolled both windows down admitting a blast of freezing wind. He winced, then stuck his head out like any nosey tourist. “Say, what’s going on here today?” He glanced from one man to the other. “Has there been a jail break or something?”

“Simply a routine precaution sir,” said the man on the driver’s side, a husky gent in his thirties with sandy red hair. “Nothing to worry about.” He spoke in that cold, not altogether reassuring tone, professionals tend to reserve for civilians. The guy on the right looked awfully cool to be a G-man. He sported a goatee and a snappy brimmed hat. Both wore navy blue windbreakers with large, yellow block letters; the kind of cheap, quick-identity jacket favored by law enforcement agencies. Drake tried to read the letters but the unzipped jacket on the near side guy kept flapping in the icy breeze. The sight of that open coat made Drake feel even colder. Finally he caught a glimpse on the other jacket: BATF. Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms? Drake kept his face in impassive, pastoral-counseling mode. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” The man gave a stiff-armed wave down the road. “You can move along now. Please drive safely.” The guy didn’t seem the chatty, informative type so Drake stifled his curiosity, put the truck in gear and continued on his way.

            The main park road turned out to be comfortably wider than Tioga. Still, the ever-present recreational vehicles and luxury compacts continued to endanger the highway with their incessant game of tortoise and hare. The light drizzle ceased, but the dark, rain-laden clouds continued to settle as if they were actually homing in on his vehicle. Before long a heavy blanket of fog enveloped the road. With visibility pert-near zero, Drake switched on the fog lamps.

A crisp, early autumn afternoon had disappeared under the oppressive gloom of a mid-winter twilight. The temperature must have already dropped into the low 40’s, he thought. The sudden temperature change forced him to switch on the heater, setting it high. By the time he reached the legendary Valley of the Yosemite, all he could see were ponderous banks of drifting fog, haloed red taillights, and an occasional natural object by the side of the road.

            Drake found his spirits responding in kind to the dark ambience of the surrounding landscape. He had embarked on this trip in an effort to break the iron grip of his mourning, or depression, or whatever it was. And now, even the very environment mimicked the heaviness of his heart, like there was no hope of escaping the suffocating emptiness. He sighed, wondering if he would ever cast off these emotional chains.

Drake’s wandering attention gradually came back to the immediate present, much like the fat beads of water vapor slowly condensing on the windshield. At first the vapor merely looked like condensation on a glass. Soon however, the droplets began to collect and cascade down the glass, obscuring the view. He flipped on the wipers, twisting the column-mounted knob to long delay. That took care of the thickening moisture. If only his state of mind could be squeegeed so easily.

He peered at the shroud of mist and congratulated himself for making such an intelligent decision back there at the mini-mart. “Good call, Mister Drake,” he pronounced as the Suburban splashed through a puddle, “Welcome to the Mystic Valley of Enchantment.”

By straining his eyes until they ached, Drake managed to discern the brown and white National Park Service signs through the deepening murk. Black on yellow directional arrows guided him around the valley floor. Following these roadside helps he arrived at the correct lodgings. But he was not yet home free. First he had to drive around, searching the crowded parking lot for a large enough gap. At last, finding a precious, unoccupied space, he blessed God and eased the big Chevy into the empty slot. Drake climbed down from the Suburban, aware of a lot more stiffness than he had felt at the mini mart a mere forty minutes earlier. There’s something about arriving at your destination, he reflected, which your body interprets as a signal to stop being patient with you.

            “Come on, Hank.” He crooked his arms, rolling stiff shoulders. “Out you come, pup.” Hank jumped to the ground, bowing his big black head between outstretched paws. The dog raised his rump in the air, bending like a musical saw and giving himself a good stretch too. Drake walked about for a moment, easing his cramped legs and taking in as much of the misty surroundings as he could.

            Curling his arms up, elbows high, he did several slow side-twists to alleviate the agony in his back, grinning for the benefit of a middle-aged couple who stared back as he went through his antics. They were decked-out in matching bush jackets, rugby shirts, hiking shorts and boots. The man had an expensive looking 35-millimeter camera suspended from his neck. They had frozen in the process of getting into a silver Volvo in the adjacent parking space. Feeling a bit self-conscious he dropped his arms, curtailing his mountain-high aerobics program. He took Hank’s leash in hand, heading toward the Lodge to register.

            “Just a minute,” said the woman from the Volvo, “Did you drive all the way here by yourself, in that oversized SUV?”

            “No,” said Drake, just a bit puzzled, “my dog rode up with me, too.”

            She shook her head in exasperation over this nonsensical answer, “Don’t you realize that driving a sport utility vehicle with only a single occupant is a criminal waste of our precious fuel resources? And that’s not the sole factor to consider. Have you taken into account the fact that your selfish self-indulgence is making the roads unsafe for other drivers? Those overgrown pollution machines are built like tanks. When they hit a normal car they nearly always cause death. You have an unfair advantage in any kind of collision.” Her silent husband stood beside her, gravely nodding his head in agreement.

            “Excuse me,” Drake responded. “May I ask what business my choice of transportation is of yours?”

            “I’m a concerned citizen of Mother Earth. That makes it my business!” she said. “Instead of driving around in that, that thing, thoughtlessly destroying the environment and robbing the children of their future, you ought to be thinking about saving the planet.”

            Drake held his peace, a bit taken aback by this onslaught. It seemed just a bit hypocritical for someone riding around in one internal combustion vehicle to get all hot and bothered about the use of another—not to mention its pure and innocent driver. Their presumption puzzled him. According to Drake’s upbringing, it’s not neighborly to go around sticking your nose into other people’s business. It’s just not done. As a pastor, committed to his Christian faith, he would not feel right about sticking it to others like this. Witnessing with an opening might be one thing, pushing and shoving was unacceptable.

“Thank you for your concern,” he said, trying to be polite, resisting the impulse to thumb his nose. Turning away he said, “Hank, heel.”

Walking toward the lodge, he reflected on that evil instrument of doom, the sport utility vehicle. An awful lot of people seemed to be getting just a tad unreasonable about them these days. When you got right down to it, an SUV was nothing more than a sturdy cross between the old family station wagon and a practical, utility truck.

Even Drake’s own state had passed laws to restrict the demon SUV. Then there was the latest idiocy being espoused; a call to mandate that sport utility vehicles be constructed in a manner that would render them less crashworthy, thereby giving a diminished advantage in any collision. As he waited for a Ford Explorer to pass, Drake shook his head in wonder and silent derision over mankind’s inherent tendency to loonyness.

            Inside Muir Lodge, Drake found it looked just like a real hotel. The reservations desk stood to one side of a wide hallway filled by a whole lot of folks aimlessly milling about. A quick look around revealed a sprawling structure, housing all the tourist amenities, including several grades of restaurant, and of course, the obligatory tourist gift-shop.

Drake hoped this building was not a taste of what he could expect of the rest of Yosemite’s architecture. It looked like one of those sixties-kitsch office buildings—the kind sporting floor to ceiling plate glass windows and wandering trails of indoor-outdoor carpet. Even the synthetic ‘native’ stone and pebbled-concrete sidewalk did little to create a rustic atmosphere.

“Humph,” he jammed his hands deep into his pants pockets, Hardly the setting for a rustic mountain adventure. But the initial dismay faded when he realized that the building merely reflected the soaring, “space age” architecture of the 1950’s. He remembered that he had found pretty much the same style at Mt. Rushmore.

            After looking the place over, Drake maneuvered back through a sea of hustling bodies. He got in line, waited his turn and finally gave his name to the clerk behind the counter, explaining that he had a reservation. The clerk gazed back with raised eyebrows and began working on a desk-mounted office computer, opening applications and scrolling through several tiled screens, amassing the requisite information.

Based on his pre-trip research, Drake had discovered that one does not simply stroll into a Yosemite Valley hostelry and request a room. Even the camping sites, both drive in and hike in, require advance reservations. Drake had made his, both for a cabin in the valley and a week in the high country, months in advance. Of course, he reminded himself, back then the reservation had been made for two. He sighed and shoved that thought aside, trying to focus on the moment.

            The clerk stopped his Mister Technology Guy performance. Holding out an imperious hand, the thermal printer churned a hard copy right into his waiting digits. “Here we are,” he intoned happily. “One efficiency-cabin for the fifteenth through the twenty-first.” The clerk produced the usual magnetic strip plastic key card.

“Thanks,” Drake accepted the receipt. “Where can I find my cabin?”

“Just follow the sidewalk out front to the right, and then over two rows,” he said. “Go right on past the Lodge, and pass through a small stand of trees. On the other side of those trees you will find the detached the cabins.”          

Drake stuffed his paperwork and key card into a coat pocket and followed the walkway, passing through the little grove of pines. He found himself in the midst of a wooded acre of individual cabins. The cabins were much more in line with his idealistic vision of bucolic, backwoods habitation. They were sided with rough-sawn, overlapping pine boards, covered with faded green stain. The roofs were surfaced with ancient, moss-bedecked cedar shakes. Even the windows were old-fashioned; wood-frame, swing-open types. He mounted the steps, opened the door and surveyed number thirty-eight; not an ounce of politically correct, cutting edge, energy efficient, government approved, high technology to be seen. He loved it.

            Since the rolling, heavy mist still defied all his attempts to experience any kind of view spectacular or otherwise, he slipped the card through the lock and went inside. Now this, he smiled, is a cabin. Hoss, Lil’ Joe, fetch in some firewood, boys! Drake found himself in possession of a room about the size of a single car garage. It contained a massive wooden bedstead, an antique swivel-mirrored dresser, a small, scarred dining table and chairs, sink, stove, mini fridge, and an ancient gas floor heater. Beyond a door in the kitchen he found a small, serviceable bathroom. The place was perfect.

Drake went back to the parking lot and moved the Suburban. He parked it as near the cabin as possible. With Hank romping at his side, he began the demanding process of hauling in mountains of gear. He had lots to carry, but Hank helped out by straying constantly underfoot, threatening a heavy tumble for both of them.

“Hank!” snapped Drake with some annoyance, “Settle down boy, heel!” Hank obeyed, but gave Drake the benefit of his wounded innocence look. The pup took position at Drake’s side, his head keeping station with Drake’s left knee.

After feeding Hank, the first item of importance was setting up his work station. He lugged the leather bag over to the table, opened it and took out his new computer. Like anything is ever new in computers, he scoffed. Hardware and software both are out of date, practically before you get them home. Drake powered up the computer which soon mated up to the lodge’s wifi network. While the system checked his e-mail account he went back out to the truck for another load.

He left the camping equipment in the cargo area behind the back seat. There wouldn’t be any use for it until he headed up to the high country, anyway. Finally he had everything stored away. He checked the computer finding no new E-mail. Pulling a cold drink from the fridge he flopped into the ancient easy chair with and a sigh. Mountain Man, Drake has arrived, ready for action….Yes sir.

            Quiet… With all the chores done he had only Hank for company. Dogs didn’t give much lip but they contributed very little to the intellectual climate. Drake found his heavy mood returning. It never left him for long in any case. Here he sat like a useless lump in one of the world’s premiere vacation spots and Stan Drake didn’t want to do anything. What, load up the camera and take some simply enchanting pictures of fog? Go to a restaurant for a cozy meal by myself? Take a nature hike and watch the mist turn into a deluge? Nuts.        

            He got up, stripped off his sweaty travel clothes and trudged into the shower, luxuriating in steaming hot water. He found himself staring bleakly at the chipped blue tiles in front of his face, remembering how he and Linda had planned this trip over a year ago. Sighing over his past, and equally sorry present, he ran the soap roughly over his body. On stepping out, he found that the little bathroom had become a mist-shrouded sauna. By contrast the rest of the cabin felt dank as a meat locker. Shivering, trailing streams of water across the floor, he plodded to the heater, switched it on, and began groping for some warm clothes.

            After dressing, with the room nearing a more comfortable temperature, he felt a bit more like his old self. But he still didn’t feel like doing much of anything. Idly, he went to the computer, opening his vacation plans. The folder contained files of maps, schedules, points of interest and gear checklists: the works. Drake’s master plan for his personal conquest of Yosemite began with five days on Yosemite Valley floor. Using the cabin for a base he figured he could take his time prowling around every piece of glaciated real estate the place had to offer.

            Afterwards, he planned to check out of the cabin and head into the high country for another week devoted to backpacking, camping and being alone. A campsite at Merced Lake, up beyond Half Dome to the east, had his name on it. Drake wanted to spend a full week in Yosemite Valley in order to allow himself a gradual adjustment to the altitude. Nine thousand feet up in the alpine wilderness his lungs were going to need all the acclimating they could get. But he had no need to rehash all his plans again. He already knew this stuff by heart; he also realized he was still moping around.

            Okay then, he asked himself, feel better? Yeah, I guess so. Well then junior, let’s get out there and follow the footsteps of ‘ol John Muir. Drake switched off the computer, grabbed his coat and hat, and whistled for Hank. The dog jumped up from his pallet, bringing his leash to Drake. A quick check of the weather convinced him he might as well forget about the camera for the damp, dark present. He led Hank outside, shutting the door on a disagreeable afternoon.

REMEMBER, THERE'S NO "I" IN TEAM

IN FOR THE LONG HAUL

Four years ago today I was hiking in Yosemite's High Country. My friend Rex and I were making my third-and victorious-attempt at climbing Half Dome. The two previous attempts had simply been too many high-altitude miles in one day for me to overcome. On October 10, 2008, Rex and I parked the car at Glacier Point and hiked to Little Yosemite Valley where we made camp. The next day we S-L-O-W-L-Y and painfully (well, for me anyway) made our way to the foot of the cables of the monolith. Since Rex had made the climb previously, he felt zero need to do it again. I put on my leather gloves and began hauling myself up a sometimes vertical pinnacle of granite. Reaching the top was the culmination of a twenty-year goal. It was sublime, breathtaking, humbling. I'm glad I did it. And it left me with a single, ultimate conviction... NEVER AGAIN.

Which brings me to cancer. Not that it was ever a goal or anything, but beating it certainly is. On the previous two attempts at climbing Half Dome I found myself struggling just to place one foot in front of another simply climbing the well-worn trail. I quit both times within a mile of reaching the cables. And after the hike, let me tell you; the cables are the easy part.

No, the similarity between beating cancer and climbing a mountain is perseverance. If you want to reach the goal you have to have the mental toughness that says I'm in for the long haul. I may be exhausted but I'm not quitting. It is an amazing thing that the body will do what the mind determines to do; even when the body is whining and crying "uncle!" When my mind said "I can't do it," my body said "OKAY!" Wanna beat it? You just have to keep at it.

The other day my friend R.P. brought up the old saw that "the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over expecting different results." This bit of wisdom is deeply engrained in our culture. Most people simply nod sagely upon hearing it. Not R.P. He loves to wring the truth out of accepted conventional wisdom. "What if," he asked, "Moses had quit after nine plagues?" Humm... Hadn't thought of that. If you are trying to break a rock with a hammer you might have to hit it a LOT of times before it cracks. So, okay, there IS some wisdom in the old chestnut, but there is different wisdom to be learned from questioning it as well.  "The definition of perseverance is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome in the end."

So here I am, in for the long haul. Less than a month until my sixth and final chemo session. That is encouraging news. But it also means I have two sessions and twenty-seven more days to go. And I am tired. walking or riding my bike for thirty minutes feels like climbing Half Dome for hours above 7,000 feet. There's not as much air as I'd prefer to inhale. But I learned I could climb that mountain once. With God's grace I will conquer this mountain as well.

OUR SABBATH REST

Hebrews 4:1-11 The REST Joshua gave the Hebrews was temporary and incomplete. There remains an eternal Sabbath Rest  (Eternal Life) for God's People...

PRECIPICE CHAPTER 1

One

Tioga pass, Yosemite National Park

THURSDAY MORNING

           The Reverend Stan Drake fumed behind the wheel, feeling anything but reverend at the moment. He spoke to his passenger without taking his eyes off the road. “This road just had to be built by the same people who operate the local ambulance services. I mean, the crazy dangerous thing must generate a lot of trauma patients.” Drake swerved his Chevy Suburban toward the dirt shoulder, narrowly avoiding still another oncoming sedan. Hank, Drake's dog, whined as he strove to maintain balance on the wildly pitching seat. On Drake's narrow face, further sharpened by wrath, his mouth tightened into a bloodless line. His hands clenched the steering wheel in a tense death-grip, unable to relax. 

            He drove west along Tioga Road, having already crested the pass somewhere back in the stratosphere, seemingly. At 9,945 feet, Tioga Pass on the park’s eastern border is the highest auto-route over the Sierras. And Tioga Road, he’d discovered, had more than its share of impatient drivers. Drake had lost count of the near misses. These people pulled right out into traffic, fearless as mounted knights, challenging oncoming vehicles to single combat. He’d been fighting the crush for an hour now, and the experience had become tedious.

Drake eased shoulders stiff with tension. The minivan riding too close to his rear bumper poked it’s snout into traffic, sniffing for an opening. He pulled a sour eye from the large side mirror and glanced across the seat to check on his passenger. That last madman had nearly thrown his friend across the cab.

Harlan McCreery sat with one hand gripping the passenger grab handle and the other pressed against the dashboard. Harlan was a retired Army Chaplain and one of Drake’s fellow pastors in the sparsely populated Eastern Sierras. Over the past two years Drake had sought the older man’s counsel on a number of occasions. Their casual acquaintance had blossomed into a rich friendship. Harlan's presence today was temporary, aboard for only part of the journey. Harlan sighed, relaxing legs he had splayed and locked against the floorboard. He dropped his stiff arm and loosened his death grip on the handle.

“Well, well…” Harlan replied, wiping nervous sweat from his brow. “Nice to hear from you, at last. I thought you'd gone deaf and mute on me over there, brother.” Harlan waved an all-encompassing arm at the landscape, “Looks to me like our real problem is this dinky little trail—laughingly called a road. I doubt anybody ever intended it to carry this much traffic.”

Drake willed himself to relax. He eased his stiff hands from the wheel, flexing them one at a time. “It's not like I'm a flat-lander or anything,” Drake grumped. “I know how to drive in the mountains.”

“Maybe you do. I’m not so sure about these city folk, though.” Harlan shifted his bulk on the bench seat. “I tell you, I'm glad I'm not the guy driving. You got your hands full, brother. You gotta keep judging the distance between vehicles in front, behind and beside you. And, just to liven things up, you got all these suicidal nuts passing everyone in sight; there goes another one!” They watched as the sporty red minivan accelerated past, barely missing an oncoming truck.

           “Hoo Boy!” Harlan grabbed for the handle again. “Somebody’s in a hurry to meet her Maker. Did 

 you see that Hank?” Harlan watched the dog starring at the passing scenery. “Do you see something that needs chasing, boy?” Hank thumped his tail on the seat, resuming his ceaseless scrutiny of the landscape. Harlan spotted movement, pointed and said, “Look Hank, a deer! Look, right over there!” Hank turned his head to stare at Harlan’s outstretched finger. “Not my hand, you goofy animal, over there!” The dog looked from Harlan's face back to the finger, serious as a Bishop. Harlan playfully rubbed Hank's furry head. “This dog is dumber than a box of rocks.” He moved his hand to scratch behind the ears. “Yes, I'm talking to you, Mutt.”

In spite of the banter, Drake knew his friend had more serious issues in mind. He understood Harlan well enough to know he had taken advantage of Drake's conversational opening. Thus far the trip had been mostly silent. Now, as the terrain opened up around Toulumne Meadows, Drake braced himself for another dose of helpful edification. Like I haven’t gotten enough advice in the past few months.

“I’ve held my peace for a long time now, haven’t I?” Harlan spread his big hands. “You know me, I don’t like to go throwing my two cents in until I have something worth saying.” Drake knew that Harlan was watching him closely as he spoke.

           Drake thought about what his friend would see. The same thing I see everyday; an average-sized thirty-year old, with dark hair. He grimaced. Oh, and don’t forget the pathetic, wounded expression that won’t go away. Drake couldn't seem to lose that facial cast. Six months and I can't get past Linda walking out. That alone is bad enough. What makes it worse is all the well-meaning folks who keep telling me how I ought to feel; as if I’ll suddenly start feeling happy-happy. Drake wasn’t totally helpless. He had some measure of control over his actions. He could still function as a man, a Christian and even as a preacher. But his recalcitrant emotions continued to overwhelm him at the strangest times.

            The Suburban crossed Toulumne's wide meadows, entering another round of narrow, twisting gorges on the other side. The big Chevy had been a loan for the trip. It belonged to Gene Prentice, one of his Deacons back home. It still retained an aura of stiff newness. Drake kept himself busy discovering its many quirks. The Suburban is a long wheel base, sport utility vehicle with a hefty amount of mass. Despite every automotive luxury known to man, including power steering, Drake found that it tended to go straight whenever the road required a particularly tight turn.    

“I love this truck,” Harlan patted the dashboard. “Yep, a big rugged SUV Just the thing for a hale, manly guy like you to take into the great outdoors.”

“Oh, yeah?” snorted Drake, “that's what I thought, too, before we got passed by something like sixty billion other SUVs. Every last one of them crammed full of kids and driven by their mommies.” He made a face. “I’ve changed my tune.”

“Well, anyway, you're doing the right thing, taking a rugged trip like this.” Harlan sat back against the seat. “You need some time away, think things over.”

Here it comes, Drake grimaced. The same line I got from the church back home. He remembered Gene handing over the keys….

“Go on.” Gene Prentice, Chairman of Deacons could be a hard man to argue with. “The Deacons have met and the whole congregation want’s you to take some time off. Go take that trip you’ve been planning, see if you can’t do a little mending. Here’s a check to cover vacation pay, and a little over.”

“I don’t know, Gene. I don’t feel right taking your Chevy.”

“Too bad, because I want you to take my truck. You don’t seriously think you can trust that old wreck of yours to cross the mountains, do you?”

Though he had tried to appear pleased and appreciative in front of Gene, he felt trapped. Secretly he’d hoped his beat-up old Datsun would be a good enough excuse to cancel the trip. Now it was back on track again, like some recurring nightmare. The whole story was sort of comical, if you had a twisted enough sense of humor; an entire congregation and their pastor pretending that everything was normal in the face of an obvious breakdown.

            “Seriously,” Harlan broke into Drakes thoughts, “You need to think long and hard about your situation. A lot of people are beginning to wonder if you’re trying to disqualify yourself from the ministry. Me, I think Linda’s death has left you with some serious doubts about your faith. But the fact remains, you need to get alone before the Lord and hash this out.”

“But my congregation needs me.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. Your congregation needs a healthy, functioning pastor; a man of faith. Right now, brother you ain't it. Do you hear me?”

            Drake took a deep breath. “I’m listening, but I don’t know if I can ever be the pastor I was before.

            “That’s good, because you can’t. You can either quit or you can persevere and gain some maturity, but you’ll never be the same kind of pastor again, that’s for sure.”

            Drake shook his head in frustration. “I feel like going on this trip is only running away from my problems.”

            “You know what you’re real problem is brother? You don't trust God.”

            “What!?” Drake jerked his head around to glare at his friend.

            “I’m serious as a heart attack.” Harlan jabbed a thick finger. “Listen to what you’re saying: ‘Poor little me, I’m suffering for Jesus and I don’t deserve it.’ You need to trust God to heal you and bring something good out of this garbage. Grow up.” Harlan crossed his arms. “Sermon over.” The older pastor set his jaw and looked out the window.

Drake stared out the windshield through dark, hooded eyes. Outside, aloof from the highway, the evergreen forest swept by, punctuated by immense piles of igneous rock.

            After a while Harlan shifted, uncomfortable again. “How much farther do we have to go anyway?”

            Drake forced himself to stop grumbling. “Oh, another twenty miles or so. Tioga covers about fifty miles from east to west. That’s as the crow flies, of course.”

            “We’ve only come thirty miles!? How come it’s taking so long?”

            Drake loosed a harsh bark of laughter. “Don’t know if you’ve been paying attention pal, but this is not a multi-lane freeway.” He punched the trip-computer button. “Look at this, we’ve averaged a whole thirty-five miles an hour on this leg of our jaunt.”

            Harlan leafed through a guidebook. “Says here this road was originally built to serve silver mines.” He stopped to gape as the truck narrowly passed between two huge boulders. “You gotta hand it to those old timers. They came to a remote plateau in the mountains and carved this road through trees, mud and solid rock.” He stopped thumbing through the book. “From the looks of this road, I figure those silver mines never did strike it rich. But hey, it makes a fine shortcut over the mountains don’t it?”

            “Forget about the road,” Drake nodded forward. “Look over there.” To the west, storm clouds clung to the horizon, somewhere near the Pacific coast. “Those clouds can stay way over there as far as I’m concerned. Maybe we can reach our destination before an early Fall storm buries us up to the luggage rack.”

            “You worried about snow in California? In September?”

            “Oh, we’ve got a reasonable margin of safety this time of year. But don’t think it can’t snow any time at all in the Sierra’s. Remember those two hikers who froze last August? That was somewhere hereabouts.”

            Drake continued to drive his four-wheel beast across the mountains. He felt sort of like Hannibal driving his elephant across the Alps. As he drove the clouds continued to close in around them too, just like trouble. Upon reaching the western terminus of the highway, Tioga met Big Oak Flat road. Drake pulled into the Gas-n-Mini-mart where Harlan expected to meet his family.   

            “There they are—I see ‘em. Thanks for the ride, brother.” Harlan got out and retrieved his bag from the back seat. He stuck his free hand into a coat pocket. “Man it’s cold here!” Before shutting the door he reached across and clapped Drake on the shoulder. “You think about what I said, now.”

“I will, Harlan;” Drake sighed. “In fact I already have.” The door slammed shut and Drake watched his friend greet some family-member-or-other across the parking lot.

“Come on, boy,” he roused Hank as he pulled up next to a gas pump, “time for a stroll.” Hank jumped up, shivering in sheer joy over the prospect of a walk. Drake pulled out a blue nylon leash. Snapping it to the dog’s matching collar, he held out the end. Hank took the leash in his mouth, walking himself; one of the few tricks Drake had been able to teach him.

            As he opened the truck’s door an unexpected rackety clatter drew his attention over to the west. It took a moment before Drake classified the sound as coming from a pair of helicopters. The clamorous noise moved directly toward the service station where they stood.

“Now that’s odd,” yelled Harlan from across the parking lot, one foot in his brother’s car. “The guide book says flying low over the park is illegal.” He pointed above the trees. “Can you see ‘em?”

Drake stared into the lowering clouds, until they appeared. Two dark bug shapes, ethereally materializing out of the mist. “They look military to me.” He called across the hood. “That’s your field, Chaplain.”

“Yep,” the older preacher agreed. “Those aren’t tourist’s flights. That’s the official government workhorse; the UH-60 Blackhawk.”

One of them flared, landing a few hundred yards away, right at the intersection where the main north-south route met Tioga Road. The Blackhawk squatted on the pavement, rotor still spinning. The other chopper remained aloft, flying in wide circles as if it were establishing a combat air patrol over the mountaintop landing zone—an L-Z, in military speak.

“Cool.” Drake might be a minister but he was also a typical guy. He snatched a pair of binoculars from the truck, swinging them to his eyes for a closer look. Switching his view from one helicopter to the other, he noticed that both birds were loaded with men. He could discern some sort of logo on the side of the parked chopper but, from where he stood, it was too sharp an angle to read. Two men, dressed in regular civilian clothing, disembarked their hands full of gear. Once the dismounted passengers cleared the whirling blades the pilot lifted off, formed up with his wingman and headed east over the pass.

Shivering with the cold, Drake soon dismissed the odd but certainly legitimate presence of U.S. government helicopters in a U.S. National park. He shrugged, locked the Chevy, and said goodbye to Harlan. Then he led a clearly anxious Hank over to some roadside bushes to take care of urgent doggy business. That done, Drake hurried to the Suburban and stuffed the pooch back inside. An icy blast of wind scattered leaves across the parking lot. Drake hastily zipped his jacket closed before turning to pump the gas.

BRIDALVEIL GIFT SHOP, YOSEMITE VILLAGE

 THURSDAY MORNING

            Paige unlocked the front entrance and shut off the alarm system. She bent to look out through the shop’s front window. Yosemite Falls winked at her in the distance. The waterfall’s feathery spring plumes had given up most of their glory this late in the season. Still, the sight never failed to stir her. As she flipped on the lights she repeated her mantra: “Another day in paradise.” With a practiced twist she flipped the sign on the door to ‘Come on in, we’re open.’

Opening the shop each day gave Paige Mitchell a sense of purpose. She might share a house with her friend, Megan Cameron, but Bridalveil Gifts was home. From the Victorian tearoom, to the hand crafted gifts, to her own art studio and gallery; Bridalveil Gifts was her domain. Technically, she and Megan were partners. They agreed to split the responsibilities fifty-fifty. But Megan had way-too-many outside interests to put in more than an occasional appearance. That was just fine with Paige. She had never known personal satisfaction like she found here in Yosemite. It wasn’t perfect of course, but virtually heaven compared to the life she’d left behind.

            Paige fired up the computer and started some soulful, Gaelic pipe music to set the proper mood. As the music swelled, evoking images of green hills and quiet happiness, she put on water for tea. The daily deluge of browsing tourists would soon appear. It wouldn’t be right to meet them half prepared.

She turned back to the computer and brought up the shop’s inventory window. Humm… She scratched her ear. Running short of redwood burl plaques again, she noted. The silly things had been big-seller this season, for some inexplicable reason. She noted other shortages then logged onto her supplier’s web site and placed an order.

As she went about her morning routine the silver bell over the door chimed and a dark-skinned park ranger entered. “Good morning Chiquita, I brought in your mail.”

“Hi, Uncle Rudy,” she called from behind the computer. “Just leave the checks and return the bills as non-deliverable, please.”

Rudy Gutierrez smiled at the old joke. He placed the bundle on the counter. He moved into the kitchen. While checking out the contents of the fridge he called, “do you still wish to travel into the high country on my rounds next week?”

Paige followed, pausing to pour herself a cup of herbal tea. “I sure do. I’m trying to develop some fresh ideas for a new series I’d like to paint.” Moving back to the counter, she picked up the envelopes. “Let’s see what we have here….” Paige picked up the bundle, sipping while leafing through the stack. With a practiced hand she quickly separated junk mail from personal, private from business.

Paige frowned. Her hands began trembling as she came upon an envelope bearing a familiar address. Her hand dropped slack to her side. So, Mommy and Daddy are at it again. She considered the implications before concluding, who cares? She tossed the offensive letter, unopened, into a wastebasket.

Paige bit her lip, glaring down at the plain white envelope, nestled among the other trash. She would have liked to go about her work as if the letter was as unimportant as she feigned. She sighed, fidgeted with the computer, and burned her tongue on the hot tea. Absolutely not possible. The letter lay in the wastebasket calling to her. Paige stood tense behind the counter, fists clenched, unseeing eyes staring at infinity. Her hand crept upward and resumed its nervous hair-twirling.

She struggled for inner strength but the emotions were simply too powerful. The wounds still deep and easily opened. My parents are such hypocritical phonies! She surrendered to the familiar rage, unable to stem the flood of poison. Throughout her childhood she’d watched them live a double standard. On Sundays the whole Mitchell family would go to church, piously condemning grievous ‘sins’ like drinking, dancing, and card playing. For the rest of the week those same ‘sins’ and worse were a regular part of the Mitchell household. Why couldn’t they see what they were doing to me? she raged. Didn’t they care? she often wondered. Of course not, came her oft reply.

Paige had finally rebelled, of course. Most teenagers do, though not often as single mindedly as she. Paige conceived a master plan to out-do Mommy and Daddy. She stopped going to church, partied and played around with the worst boys; just like she’d learned at home. The difference: Paige did her sinning in the harsh light of day. In fact she went out of her way to shame her parents before the entire community. In the small town of Gridly, California, Paige Mitchell created quite a scandal.

For a while her shocking behavior satisfied a burning desire for vengeance, filling some sort of void. She worked hard at having a good time. And that, she’d learned, was the definition of happiness. Right? Parties, drugs, booze, boyfriends; Paige wasn’t about to miss out on anything. She kept herself so busy she had little time to ponder her growing misery.

And then one day she woke up in a strange and filthy room. Head-aching again, she began to take a long hard look at what her life had become. To her amazement, she realized she felt shame. That surprised her. How could she feel shame; her religion was a sham wasn’t it?

Paige discovered that in trying so hard to punish her mother and father, she had only connived at hastening her own destruction. So she left. Completely. Packed up and disappeared that very day. She hitchhiked her way to Yosemite where Rudy, her mother’s estranged brother lived.

Twice her parents had tried to contact her; twice she had rebuffed them. She had no further need of parents. Paige had permanently resigned from the American Association of Doting Daughters. Bridalveil Gifts was home now, her refuge. She had attained something solid, wholesome, something worth doing. She had found friends and earned respect. What else could I need? But the void remained deep inside, aching like a broken tooth.

Paige set her jaw and reached into the wastebasket. She snatched the unopened envelope, crushing it in her clenched hand. Snatching up a pair of scissors she proceeded to cut the letter into irreducible confetti, fluttering to the counter. Take that!

Caught up in her slasher frenzy Paige suddenly came to herself. Uncle Rudy! Red-faced, hair escaping its headband, she looked around to see if he had seen her deranged performance. No! He’s gone. Relief swept through her until she heard a slight noise. Taking two short steps, Paige peered around the corner into the kitchen. Uncle Rudy stood near the back door, head bowed, one hand covering his eyes.