hiking journal

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 31, 2007 at 5:55 AM I’m sitting with a xanga friend in the coffeeshop this beautiful Saturday morning. libsonshine is giving me a xanga tutorial. What a patient teacher!

Here are some photos from our Colorado trip earlier this week.

On the trail to Black Lake

My handsome main man

We spent an hour and ten minutes trying to get to Shelf Lake. It’s a steep ascent, 1000 foot altitude gain. This is one of the rare places we weren’t thigh deep in snow....






Lake Haiyaha

Mills Lake



I got tangled up in my big feet (snowshoes) and fell right over on my side. The soft snow was like falling on a featherbed. I was tired, so I just laid there a while, until the snow started soaking through my pants.....

It sure was a fun day!

holy week

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 29, 2007 at 4:55 AM One of my xanga buds was talking today about prayer.

Lots of great questions, and great comments below. I am convinced the most meaningful thing we can do in life is to pray, to take advantage of the unbelievable opportunity that’s been given to each one of us, to have an audience with the Creator of All.

Next week is Holy Week. I have a TO DO list that is twenty miles long, it never gets complete. I am just as busy as all y’all. But I’m making plans to try to put off or do ahead everything that’s not essential, as much as possible, and try to spend some quality time every day, starting Palm Sunday, doing nothing but being in the presence of God.

What’s that mean, practically? It means finding a time and a place where I’m not distracted. It means reading and meditating on the Psalms and the events of the Holy Week from the Gospels. It means determining how long I’ll stay at it and refusing to budge until the time is up. It means resolving not to do those things which will invariably arise and cry for my attention, to refuse to live under the tyranny of the urgent. I will probably sing some grand old hymns, every verse, right out of the hymnal. I will probably write some thoughts down. I will talk to Jesus, the lover of my soul. And I will listen and hear what He will say to me.

Some great things might just happen!

girl meets god

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 27, 2007 at 11:54 AM You’d think that after the day I had yesterday I’d be unconscious for the next 12-18 hours, but no, here I am, wide awake at 2:30 am after just 3 1/2 hours of sleep. Yesterday we spent 9 hours hiking and snowshoeing through 13 miles of mountain trail, maybe a third of that time off trail in deep snow. We got back to the cabin, showered, and then went to one of my favorite restaurants, Mary’s Lake Lodge in Estes Park, for dinner. I told Brian it was ironic that most of the time I remember eating in this place I was so famished and exhausted after hiking that I could hardly keep from laying my head down on the table while waiting for my food. Last night my lower legs ached so bad I squirmed in my chair trying to get comfortable and finally dug around in my purse for some aspirin as an appetizer. But they have excellent food here and my sea bass was worth waiting for.

I’m reading a book I’m loving, that’s making me think, and that’s why I ended up getting out of bed. Girl Meets God, by Lauren Winner, is the story of her journey to Jesus, traveling through Orthodox Judaism and ending up in the Episcopal Church. That’s a different journey than I’ve been on, but we’ve both ended up in the same place, which is passionately pursuing the Kingdom of God. As I’ve read this book, I’ve thought over and over, "She is just like me!" I’ve seen it as clear as day, but there are many who would look at us, and wonder what in the heck is the same. Our exterior lives look very different, but I’m talking about the hidden person of the heart, that ardent seeker after truth who has found that Jesus really knew what he was talking about when He said HE was the Way and the Truth and the Life.

She came to that understanding, and like me, is still coming to that understanding, but we had different starting points, and I thank God that He in His unfathomable wisdom and insight is able to speak to each of us where we are and use our unique backgrounds to call us and to woo us to Himself.

I was a little hippie who came to Jesus at the tail end of the Jesus Revolution in 1973, and now, 34 years later, find myself helping my teenage sweetheart pastor a large non-denominational church we started back in 1981. I love doing that, and I love still being on the journey discovering Jesus. It’s a great church filled with great people on that journey with us.

One of the things that spoke to me in the book (ouch, no "kicked me" would be more accurate) is her description of her perception of evangelicals and fundamentalists. I am definitely in the evangelical camp, although there are many things attributed to evangelicals that I don’t want to claim, and I find a few things that would put me in the fundamentalist camp in her eyes, but I feel like I am really less like that than some people would think. We all want to put people into neat compartments--it makes life so much easier, but I think our Father is perhaps doing something in the world to break down walls between His kids, and wouldn’t it be something if we could do away with all the labels and just be Christians?

Our dinner conversation tonight was about how we as believers in Jesus, on a JOURNEY with Him, ought to be continually changing and growing, and the importance of humility, of not acting like we know everything and arrogantly and pompously regarding ourselves and those just like us as the keepers of the truth--everybody else is just deceived. We unfortunately see way too many people in Christianity like that, and that is certainly not what Jesus intended. We talked about how the Bible is the most difficult book in the world, and how arrogant and silly it is to assume absolutely anybody can interpret and understand the whole thing. The Scriptures are a gift of God to the collective church, the Body of Christ.

I love reading books like Lauren’s, and even though I’m only halfway through, feel "safe" in endorsing it. And even in that statement, there is an absurdity. Must I agree with every single word in order to endorse a book? Must I be so cautious? Can’t we be thinking people, who can read and interpret and discern a wide and eclectic range?

I reached a spot right before I finished reading last night that illustrated a difference we have, where she describes having difficulty believing prayer works for the day to day difficulties of life, in that particular case praying for a grandmother who is near death to rally. That is something I believe to the depths of my being, that we can change things here on earth, like yesterday when I prayed for Brian to find the GPS that fell out of his pocket in all that snow. I also believe, like Lauren does, that prayer is how we change ourselves, as we encounter and interact with a living God. I think some Christians have a limited view of prayer, only sending up frantic requests for help in this life and never once considering that He wants to fundamentally change US, not just our circumstances.

I feel like what I have in common with this author is what is most important, something I would describe as "the fear of the Lord", the fundamental understanding that He is always right, and that as I make my way through life and encounter situations where I sense a conflict between His ways and my ways, there’s no question which of us is going to do the changing!

Okay, now it’s 4 am, and maybe I’ve gotten my thoughts out and can go back to sleep....God is SO GOOD!!!!

colorado adventure

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 27, 2007 at 6:19 AM Sunday afternoon Brian and I flew to Denver where he preached that evening. His message was called The Fifth Element, and he taught about the four sources of events in our life--God, the devil, choice, and chance. It’s a message that can really help people, especially those who are always trying to find meaning in everything that happens, or ascribe every little thing to God, or who maybe give the devil way too much credit. Sometimes things just happen by chance. One of the things that Jesus taught was that those who follow him can learn to alter those events by FAITH, the fifth element. ("Be it done unto you according to your faith.")

Now we can hardly come to Colorado without going to the mountains, and so we scheduled a couple of days in Rocky Mountain National Park, our home away from home! We drove up to Estes on Monday, and on our way in, one of those chance encounters came our way. Chances are, if you drive enough in this part of the country, someday you’re going to hit an elk. And we did. Or, I should say, an elk hit us.

Now, thanks to our God, it wasn’t near as bad as it could have been. (I’m speaking for us, and not for the poor elk.)We both saw her coming, Brian braked and swerved and didn’t hit her head on, which means the airbags didn’t inflate. We weren’t hurt a bit. It was a little scary, she hit the front fender and then wiped out the driver’s side mirror. She hit Brian’s window pretty hard and I thought at first it was broken, but it wasn’t. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite that close to an elk’s face though.

The poor thing was still up and moving and kept going. The car is going to need some body work and a new mirror, but it’s a rental, and insurance will pay for it. It could have been so much worse, but GOD took care of us!

We checked into our room, went downtown and rented some snowshoes, and then headed for the mountains. We went to the Bierstadt Lake Trailhead and hit the trail about 5:15. It was late, but we so wanted to do something. We hiked about 3.5 miles up to the lake and back, and got back just before dark, at 7:15. We did the first mile in about half an hour, which doesn’t sound like much, until you understand that part of it was snowcovered and that mile up has about 1000 foot elevation gain, at an altitude of about 9000 feet, with no acclimitization for these Missouri hikers. Sorry, I know I’m bragging! A little credit also goes to that new A.C.T. energy drink Joe B introduced me to--that stuff is potent!

We had to go into town after that and get some groceries, and ended up with a frozen pizza for supper because we were too tired to do anything else. It turned out to be the worst pizza we have ever eaten because I burned it black--cooking at altitude!

I fell exhausted into bed shortly afterwards, and then Brian drug my sorry self out of bed at 5:45 because he had big plans for the day. It did turn out to be a great day, 9 hours snowshoeing more than 13 miles. I’ll try to post details when I get home--WITH PICTURES! (I forgot the cord to download with....)

I do so believe that God intends for us to have faith in him to do all kinds of things in our daily lives. Someone might argue that if God was watching over us, we wouldn’t have had the accident with the elk. But he WAS watching over us, and even though it happened, I believe He was at work and the bottom line is, IT’S ALRIGHT!

At one point snowshoeing today, we were breaking through deep snow going up a steep, steep ridge. Every step Brian took his snowshoes sunk in about two feet. I had the easier time of it because he was breaking trail, and I would just put my feet where his had been. He reached down to check the GPS, which he was doing about every fifteen minutes because we were unsure where we were headed, and realized it had fallen off his belt. He told me to stay put, and he would go down to try to find it. I knew it would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. It was an impossible situation. It would definitely have sunk into the snow. But we needed that GPS to find where we were going, never mind the fact it cost $400!

Brian went 30 feet or so down the mountain, out of sight. (We were in heavy trees.) And I PRAYED he would find the GPS! It took faith to pray, because it certainly looked impossible. But about five minutes later, he yelled, "I found it!" Our God is an awesome God. Not just because he showed Brian where to find the GPS, but because it’s an indication of his ability to do so much more, to intervene in the most mundane parts of our life.

God, help me to always put my trust in you!

cats--the drama unfolds

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 27, 2007 at 2:19 AM I’m a little behind in my posting, and I know you are all dying to know what’s going on with our cats. Well, sentencing has been postponed for the present. They may have lost a valuable ally in Philip as he showed me a wicked looking angry red scratch all the way down his forearm on Saturday.

I will say the cats have always been very good about using the litter box, and that has certainly bought them a little more time. I have very little tolerance for violations in that area. But Saturday afternoon, I opened the bathroom closet where I had my lime green light-up flip flops thrown in the floor. (I reserve those for wearing only at home.) Right on top of one green shoe was a little brown pile. I felt my anger burn. I imagined this as a retaliatory act for the incident that occurred Thursday night. I mean, whose shoe did they choose to adorn? I am beginning to think these cats are EVIL!

So I gingerly picked up the shoe to carefully carry it to the toilet and dump it. The offending thing slid right off, but didn’t splash as I expected, rather, it felt slowly and silently and lay there floating on the water. I bent down and peered a little closer and realized to my surprise that it wasn’t at all what I thought it was, but a brown cotton ponytail scrunchie, still twisted into a knot after having been pulled from my hair. I fished it out with some chagrin. I guess I need to wear my glasses in the house more often.

The cats continue to be on probation.

cat scratch fever

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 24, 2007 at 4:34 AM Two months ago, we made the decision to open our hearts and home to another kitty. Our beloved Mr. Jinks had been gone for a year and a half. With love in my heart and hopes and dreams of the good times we would share, I arrived at the place of castoff pets, the city animal shelter. I was hoping to find a tiny kitten, just separated from his mother. In fact, I was determined not to get an older cat. But, as Pascal says, the heart has its reasons of which reason knows nothing. Once there, I latched onto a five month old tabby cat with a black stripe down her face. And, in a fit of overwhelming compassion, I could not separate her from her sister, and plunked down double the money to adopt two adorable cats.

Per animal shelter policy, they had to be spayed before they could be taken home. I had to wait two days and went home excitedly to prepare a place for them. Two days later, Philip and I drove to the animal hospital where they’d had their surgeries, and brought them lovingly and tenderly to their new home. We knew they’d be sore, we knew they’d be shy, and we did everything to make them comfortable. We knew they’d probably want to hide and nurse their wounds for a few days and get familiar with the new surroundings.

It did take a few days, but one morning they were alive and awake like never before. They were running pell-mell through the house, up on the kitchen counter, knocking over plants and items on tables, like wild children. They did this all the time, except when we, their family, were anywhere in proximity. Then they were nowhere to be found, only emerging to dart like mice from hiding place to hiding place. Brian called them the stealth cats, said they were defective and that I should try to return them and get my money back.

We weren’t bonding, like I had imagined, like is supposed to happen. And we still haven’t. They have become brazen, doing all these things out in the open now, but still will not let us approach. We have wooed them, softly and tenderly. The times when we do manage to catch them, they have submissively allowed us to pet them, they have purred, wriggled onto their backs, and even put their noses under our fingers to encourage more petting. But it’s just an act. All the while they are plotting, they are scheming to find a way to escape. And when their chance comes, when we unwittingly turn our attention away, they scramble and dart and hide and we are left feeling cheated and deceived. And sometimes they emerge from their hiding places to sit some distance away, looking smug and defiant and insolent, taunting us with their hatred and rebellion.

Yes, they hate us. I am so disappointed. It hasn’t turned out like I hoped. All I want is to love them and provide a home for them, and to be loved in return, to have them brush up against my leg as I stand in the kitchen, to jump into my lap as I sit reading. On Tuesday , I finally had had it.

One had gotten trapped in a bedroom with the door shut, had used the bed for a litter box, and even worse, shredded some carpet in an attempt to dig his way out the door. My son came grumbling about it, showed me the carpet, and I blew up. I’d finally had enough.

And so I swore in my wrath, in a somewhat dramatic way, and said, "THEY WILL BE CAST INTO THE OUTER DARKNESS!!" Aaron said, "Huh?"

"I’m throwing them out. They can just go live outside."

"Mom, you can’t do that!! They’ll die!!!" he countered.

"Oh for Pete’s sakes. All kinds of cats live outside. I’ll still feed them. I’m just not going to let them keep treating us like this." I didn’t throw them out just then. I was mad, I honestly wasn’t sure I’d follow through, but I was blowing off a little steam. Besides, I didn’t have the energy to go try to find and catch them right then. That was always an ordeal.

Later that evening, I heard Aaron talking in a low voice to his brother in the next room. "She said she’s going to throw them out....." I strained to hear the rest, but I couldn’t.

A few minutes later, I heard Philip say, slowly and deliberately, "Well, I won’t let her do it."

I’m so proud to have sons who will stand up for righteousness, do what’s right even when the rest of the world is doing wrong. Who was this horrible shrewish woman they needed to protect these defenseless creatures from? Oh, that was me they were talking about. I felt ashamed.

I also realized that this cat saga is a microcosm of the world we live in. Our Creator Father rescued us from a fate far worse than the animal shelter and adopted us into his family, but so many of us despise him and refuse to let him love us and enter into relationship with us. It’s insanity.

And my tolerance and patience and love is so inferior to his. I’m going to try again to make them love us, to tame their fear and wildness, but I won’t keep trying forever. Maybe not even for another week.....

Thursday night I arrived home from a meeting in Kansas City late. Everyone had gone to bed except for Aaron, and we were talking in the living room about our day. The cats were darting about, and we decided to go for it again. Surprisingly, Aaron snuck up and caught Yancey fairly easily and I sat stroking her and loving her on the sofa. I so want them to love us, and every time I hold one of them I begin to think it just might work. She purred and arched her back.

But Aaron wanted to catch the other one too, and wanted me to sit in the entry of the room in case Buechner made a run for it. So I settled down with Yancey in my arms, my legs spread wide. And Buechner did bolt. I lunged to the right, and at the same time Yancey scrambled to the left. I yelled, and grabbed both directions, and to my surprise, found myself sitting in the middle of the floor in the midst of a furious frenzy, with the tail of one hissing snarling cat in one hand, and the foot of another hissing snarling biting cat in the other. It was one of those slow motion minutes, and I remember thinking how Yancey suddenly resembled a saber tooth tiger. They were both struggling like mad to get away, and I was frozen.

Aaron was standing right over me, and I heard him yell, "Let go!" and so I did. The hissing and snarling and gnashing of teeth ceased instantly and they were out of there. I had scratches on both wrists, and bite marks on one. But I was more sad than mad.

Dear God, I thank you that you had the wisdom and the patience to love me and woo me and that you are still taming the wildcat in my heart!

love the one you’re with!

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 18, 2007 at 4:26 AM I have a mourning dove coming to my feeder! He’s beautiful. I had a little trouble identifying him in my birdbook--Sarah was the one that identified him for me. They’re named for their mournful coo, but so far I haven’t heard him, he’s just sitting out there patiently, doing what? Waiting for his wife to come home?

Mourning doves mate for life, which is around 7-10 years. Some birds are evidently smarter than some people. I would never say that with the intent of hurting any of my many divorced friends, because I know you’ve already had enough pain, but if I can motivate any of you married people to stay that way, it’s worth it. Love the one you’re with! God hates divorce because of the pain it brings into people’s lives, and I’ve had to walk with some people through some pretty awful pain recently.

Recently I was chitchatting with a complete stranger, someone I’d just met. Not online, but the old fashioned, face to face way. It was a casual, social meeting, one of those occasions you’re just supposed to be friendly, but I found myself being extremely forthright and telling her what an awful, destructive thing divorce is. I stopped myself a couple of times and apologized, saying I wasn’t usually like this, then found myself going off again. She finally told me she was thinking of leaving her husband, and I realized it was the Spirit of God in me causing me to behave that way! I know she was very touched, and hope and believe that conversation was a turning point in her life.

My mate for life is increasingly precious beyond words to me. We have built something together than is beautiful. I cherish him and can’t imagine life without him.

Even looking at my bird book, The Birds of Missouri Field Guide, brings back a special memory. A few years ago, he was out running on the highway, and saw it lying on the side of the road. He picked it up, brushed it off, and carried it home. He handed it to me with a grin, and said, "Don’t say I never gave you anything." Every time he sees me looking at it, he says, "I gave that to you, remember?" I guess he’s proud! He’s given me plenty of wonderful gifts, but for some reason, this one is especially meaningful!

yes you can!

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 17, 2007 at 9:48 AM This is in response to all those who responded, either in comments, or by personal e-mail, to my mountain story, saying, in a variety of ways, "Oh wow, that’s so cool, I could never do such a thing...."

The reason I love to hike and climb mountains is because I CAN! All my growing up years I was a klutz, uncoordinated. I can’t dance or follow any kind of choreographed movements. The summer after sixth grade my friends talked me into playing in a softball league. I never got a hit the entire season. The only time I got on base was after being hit by a wild pitch. I thanked the pitcher as I trotted to first base. It was pathetic.

But I can put one foot in front of the other. Been doing it since about the age of twelve months, and I’m good at it. And it’s a lot of fun to do something you excel at.

Surely you understand I was pretty badly out of shape the first time I tried to climb to the Keyhole. That’s why it was the hardest thing I’d ever done, and when I did it again last summer, it was a piece of cake.

My training regimen? I walk. HAHAHAHAHA! It’s stupid easy! The hardest part is beginning, day after day after day. Our flesh has a natural bend towards sluggishness. It wants to be a couch potato, wants it bad. It can cry and squirm and whine and fight, begging you to leave it alone. You just got to let it know who’s boss! And when you do, an amazing thing happens--you start feeling WONDERFUL! Immediately! You drag home after a long day at work, will yourself to have the energy to get out there and move, and an hour later--voila! You’re doing the James Brown splits!

Four or five years ago, I started walking, four miles a day, 4-5 times a week. After a month, I dropped a jeans size. No weight, but the new ones were too big and I drug out the old ones. At the same time, a month after starting to walk, I drastically changed the way I eat. I quit being a slave to sugar.

I’ve preached this sermon a lot of times and I don’t want to get preachy. If anyone really wants to know how I eat, you’ll have to beg. But in about two more months, I dropped two more sizes, and about 20 pounds.

I’ve been a bit of a slug today, it’s Saturday, I’ve worked hard this week, and stayed up late last night. I’ve spent more time than I had planned with a computer in my lap. (Boy, that’s easy!) I’m grabbing the tennis shoes, and out to pound some pavement!

You could do it too!

brave new world

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 17, 2007 at 6:04 AM A good friend got married last year, to a man she met on the INTERNET! She really hates telling people where they met, watching their eyes widen and their jaws drop, and has come up with a snappy retort to those who ask, "What if he turns out to be an axe murderer?" She looks them right in the eye and says, "Then I’ll die happy!"

Obviously, not everyone who uses the internet is a deviant with evil intent. (That would mean you, reading this on the internet, are one too.) It’s not 1952 anymore, or 1972, or even 1992. We communicate differently. For better or worse, the internet has changed the world, the train is rolling down the tracks, and you can get on or get left behind.

E-mail is awesome. You can talk to whoever you want, whenever you want, at your convenience, and they can reply at their convenience. HOWEVER, there are some limitations. You can’t talk to those who haven’t chosen to get on the train....I am always amazed when I meet someone, we connect, we decide we want to stay in touch, I ask for their e-mail, and they tell me they don’t have one. That is happening less and less, nearly everyone is getting on board, with the exception of a dear friend who lives several states away, and says, "Oh, just call me." I do, and I get to talk to her machine, and she gets to call me back and talk to mine. The truth is, I’m not much of a phone talker, and never have been.

I know a guy who is a corporate trainer. I once asked him what he trained people to do, and he said, "Whatever they need to learn!" He just learns the stuff whoever hires him to train their employees want them to know....interesting. He’s a pretty smart guy. Anyhow, he said he taught a class on e-mail etiquette, learning the rules of this brave new world.

One of the first things he tells people is to always make sure their "from" line indicates who they are. "Squirrelygirly" is not enough. He says he automatically deletes all e-mails from unknown senders, and wants everyone to know that. I have on occasion almost deleted something like that, then went back and opened it, and it was from someone who would have been devastated had I not read their very important heartwrenching saga.

And I have deleted some of those e-mails, I’m sure, or they got lost in cyberspace, and hopefully those folks have either got over it by now, or sent me another one which eventually got through.

And everybody knows, (I think?) that all caps indicates you are YELLING!!!!!!

Some people write in all lowercase with absolutely no punctuation....sentences run on and there are no paragraph breaks anywhere. I may or may not be able to get through that, and the whole point of writing is communication, and if you’re not connecting, you’re defeating your purpose..... I use ellipses (...) a lot because that is how I talk....

BUT THE ABSOLUTE MOST IMPORTANT PRINCIPLE OF ALL????? Understanding that frequently communication is all about tones of voice, facial expression, eye contact or the lack thereof. A good writer can communicate all these things, but most e-mails are kicked out in a hurry, with no thought of these things, and there are frequent MISCOMMUNICATIONS, which can cause offense, hurt feelings, and damaged relationships.

Anytime you think there is a chance of this happening is a good time to pick up the stinky old telephone and dial that number. Or better yet wait until you can connect face to face. And anytime you RECEIVE an e-mail that you think there is a chance you are misunderstanding, or that someone may have misunderstood you, you need to bail out of the internet and go to default mode.

I wonder how many times people hit that send button and think of it more as pulling a trigger? Ouch, don’t do that--you’ll HURT SOMEBODY!!

Use this great tool modern technology has afforded us to build great things, and not to tear anything down.

hind’s feet on high places

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 15, 2007 at 7:22 AM I love hiking in the mountains as much as anything. My mind feels clearer breathing that fresh clean air, and I can meditate, think, ponder, pray like no where else, with no distractions, no responsibilities except putting one foot in front of the other. I have so many awesome mountain memories that never fail to remind me of the spiritual pilgrimage I am also on, putting one foot in front of the other day after day, and just waiting to see what surprises I’ll encounter along the way!

Long’s Peak is a legendary mountain, the highest in Rocky Mountain National Park, known as the Monarch of the North. Brian climbs to the top nearly every summer, and several years ago, I decided to climb as far as the Keyhole, and meet him coming down from the summit. The climb to the Keyhole is over 13 miles round trip, with an elevation gain of over 4000 feet, to over 13,000 feet. Past the Keyhole the route becomes insane, with lots of what mountaineers call "exposure" which means you could fall to your death. That kind of climbing doesn’t interest me at all!

That year, I drove Brian to the trailhead and dropped him off at 2 am, and went back to my bed until 5:30, when my 8 and 13 year old sons and I again left the cabin and started our own hike. It was going to become the hardest thing I had ever done.

The trail was SO LONG. The boys and I had been going for about an hour and a half when at one of our frequent rest breaks I realized I had forgotten the sandwiches I had made for us all and stacked in the refrigerator the night before. "Mom, how could you???" the thirteen year old was particularly anguished. But we had trail mix, peanuts and M&Ms, and a few candy bars, and plenty of water. There was no turning back.

I gave each of the boys "jobs", and carefully described them as we started out. Aaron, the oldest, had the job of "encouragement". I told Philip his job was "enthusiasm." I knew them both so well. Aaron was likely to complain about his little brother holding us back, and Philip was just likely to complain. He did so now--not understanding the assignments. "They’re the same thing!"

"No," I explained. "Enthusiasm is for yourself. Encouragement is what you do for others." It turned out I would especially need to remind Philip of his job, as his enthusiasm waned incredibly about three hours in. By that time, he and I were both experiencing some symptoms of the altitude--nausea, headache, and severe fatigue. And we were on a long traverse, not seemingly making any upward progress, but actually going around the mountain that stood in the away, Mount Lady Washington, completely obscuring our view of the goal--Long’s Peak. We had seen it before we started, but now there was nothing to motivate us.

And so we walked on, Philip grumpy and lagging, and me doing all I could do to just put one foot in front of the other. Aaron was a pretty good sport, but quiet. In a way, on a mountain, even with others you’re all by yourself. It’s your job to get where you’re going, to motivate yourself, to keep going. There was nothing at all inspiring about this long fairly flat stretch--it was just hard walking at high altitude. Just like walking through hard confusing times in life. The trail stretched out endlessly in front of me.

And then I saw something, way ahead, that suddenly piqued my interest. Were those tiny dots elk up in front of me? Or deer? Or just more rocks? It was hard to tell. But it gave me something to look at, to think about. Five or ten minutes later, I finally decided that yes, there was a herd of elk, way up ahead, heads down, grazing, eating what? Rocks? That’s all I could see ahead of me.

I got closer, and tried to count them. There were quite a few. It looked like the trail went right through the area they were in. I got closer yet, and still they lingered. I began to wonder if perhaps they were going to let us quietly move right through their midst, we were getting quite close. And suddenly, they heard or saw us, and the whole herd ran down the mountain a ways, in just a few seconds. I watched them run, and marveled at how long it had taken our little group to approach them, and how suddenly they had moved from us.

It was a little disheartening. They were so much better equipped for this mountain climbing than I was. "Oh God," I breathed. "Why can’t I have feet like theirs?" I’m not sure it was a bonafide prayer, but He answered it anyhow. "I will make your feet like hinds feet--elk feet--and make you able to walk upon the high places." Oh boy, I got excited. By the way, that is a Scripture from Habakkuk, the Old Testament prophet. And being reminded of that promise was such a boost, such an inspiration. I was refreshed in my spirit, which helped me to be refreshed in body too. And then suddenly, the view changed entirely as we rounded Mount Lady Washinton.

Up ahead was the Keyhole. No, I’d never seen it, but I HAD seen it, plenty of times, in pictures. It was exhilirating, and I walked faster for a few minutes, but then the effects of the altitude and not drinking enough water were upon me again. I felt so sick. I told the boys we would still be accomplishing a lot if we made it to the Boulderfield, another landmark which I knew lay five hundred feet below the actual Keyhole, and was the beginning of a long hard push scrambling up huge housesize boulders.

I was extremely nauseated and so very tired, and I pushed my body on until I reached the Boulderfield, and collapsed on the first boulder that looked like a good place to rest. I closed my eyes, and was immediately asleep--totally exhausted. I was done! It was enough!

A little bit later, I awoke, or regained consciousness, or whatever! I felt a teeny weeny bit better, and still lying flat on my back, turned my head a little bit looking around for my boys. I didn’t see them. I had assumed they had sat down right beside me, but they were no where to be found. I struggled to a sitting position, and saw a woman sitting not far from me.

"Did you see my boys?" I asked her.

"They went that away," she said and pointed toward the keyhole.

I strained my eyes, and saw two tiny figures on their way up the mountain. The woman offered me her binoculars, and yes, they were wearing camouflage hats, one figure quite a bit shorter than the other. My boys hadn’t even hesitated when I collapsed on that rock. They had that mountain in their sights now, and they weren’t giving up. I sat and watched them with the binoculars until they disappeared. I was still paralyzed with fatigue, although the nausea and headache was getting better. I sat there for forty five minutes, when suddenly the mother instinct kicked in, and I said to myself, "I’m going after my boys!"

I got up and forced my legs to take me toward those boulders, to the place where I would have to begin scaling them and making my way up. A little ways, and I passed a couple coming down. "Did you happen to see two little boys?" I asked them. They just pointed behind them.

The next ones were a little more friendly. "Yes, we saw them, they were almost to the top. That was about ten minutes ago." And then the next answer, "They were both just sitting up in the keyhole." I knew that crossing through the keyhole was crossing into a whole new landscape, an unfriendly dangerous place. "Surely they wouldn’t go any farther!" I thought anxiously. But I pushed myself a little harder.

I was surprised when I realized I was feeling good. The headache and nausea were both gone--the sleep had done me a lot of good. So I kept going, scrambling from boulder to boulder, higher and higher. I had stopped for a quick breather when I heard it, Brian’s voice, yelling, "Aaron! Philip!"

What a relief! Brian was down off that exposed bit of mountain, safe and sound. And evidently my boys were safe and sound as well, and within sight of their dad. I waited happily for the next ten to fifteen minutes, and then they were down with me, and we were all together. I greeted everyone joyously, including Brian’s climbing partner, a good friend.

Tim didn’t greet me near as enthusiastically as the rest. Tim was really sick, had been vomiting. Some people suffer from the altitude a lot worse than others, and it seems to have nothing to do with the shape you’re in. I was feeling good now, and wanted to go on up to the Keyhole, but I felt bad for Tim. Suddenly I heard thunder rumble. That decided it for me. You don’t fool around with thunder in the mountains—people get killed by lightning strikes. We were going down!

We descended fairly rapidly, with lots of thunder and lightning for about fifteen minutes. And then, like it does often in the mountains, it cleared off and was gone. But we still had six miles of mountain to hike down, and that is one of the worst things about a long climb. My altitude sickness came back with a vengeance as we were descending, I felt HORRIBLE, I was grumpy, and even threw up once. (But I told Brian later I did it in a very ladylike way.) He was a jewel, and so proud of me for making it as far as I did. When we finally got back to the trailhead and our vehicle about 4 pm, I literally fell asleep as soon as my body hit the passenger seat, and slept until we pulled in at the cabin. I drug myself in to the shower, was there for about two minutes, wrapped a towel around my head and fell into bed. I was out. I had told Brian on the way down that mountain I was finished with mountains and never cared if I ever saw another mountain in my life. He just laughed and laughed. During that two minute shower, I thought how I wanted to sleep solid for the next two days and maybe, just maybe get up the third.

But an hour later, the pizza was delivered, and I smelled it! I didn’t know if I had strength to drag myself out to the kitchen, but somehow I did, and began devouring pizza like a starved dog. (Fortunately, he had ordered a lot.) After I ate a ton of pizza and drank a ton of water, I went back to bed, and slept the night through.

The next morning the sun came up again, and I bounced out of bed. I felt great! I was giddy with excitement, giddy with the accomplishment of having actually made it to the Keyhole of Long’s Peak! I was ready for Everest!

He let me talk for a while, and when I was finished, he said, "You know, I think it’s really great what you did yesterday, but the fact is, you didn’t QUITE make it to the Keyhole, and in mountaineering, almost doesn’t count." I wanted to kill him.

I countered him with, "I was so close! If I hadn’t been so considerate of others, and if it hadn’t started thundering, I could have done it. It was just a few more yards! Good grief! You know I could have done it!"

"Yeah, but the truth of the matter is, lots of mountaineers could say they ALMOST made it to the top. It only counts when you really do."

It wasn’t until the next time I tried, and actually made it to the Keyhole, six years later, that I realized how much farther I had had to go, and how much harder it turned out to be. The last five minutes, the last fifteen feet, are the hardest of the whole day, and I humbly admitted then, six years after being so put out with him, that I probably didn’t have six years earlier what it would have taken.

Yes, last summer, in 2006, I hit the trailhead at 2 am with Brian, Philip, and two other climbers. (Aaron had done the entire climb to the summit with his dad three successive summers since, and wasn’t with us on this vacation.) We climbed through the night with headlamps, and it was awesome, and so much fun, and so incredibly easier than before that it was hard to believe it was the same climb. The climb through the night seemed to last only a few hours, and we took only a couple of short breaks. I felt great, energetic, so unlike the first time.

I was sitting in the Keyhole at 7 am. Really there this time. The wind was howling, making you not want to stand erect for fear of being blown down the mountain. It was beginning to sleet—the sky was completely overcast—there had been no stars visible in the night. In my mind, all the way up, I had been thinking that perhaps I would go on with the rest of the group, who planned to go all the way to the top. But the weather made me decide to turn around—I had accomplished what I set out to do. They considered doing the same, but so wanted to get to the top, they pushed on in hopes the weather would turn. (It didn’t, and they had to turn around an hour later.) So I went down the whole mountain all by myself, and it was delightful. I had raingear and didn’t mind the rain, and it stopped after a little while and the sun came out.

All the way down I played, having such a good time, stopped to climb another peak that was begging to be explored. I prayed, and I pondered and I marveled at how much easier the trip had become. And when I came to the place where I had seen the elk six years before, I remembered. I remembered the promise, and I realized it had come to pass. My feet were transformed, I was transformed. Yes, I was in better shape physically then than I had been six years earlier, much better shape. And in the same way my body was better, my spirit was better too. I had progressed. I had changed. I had become more like Him. I was better able to "walk on my high places." And while I may not continue for the rest of my life to climb bigger mountains in the natural, I will continue to be changed and conquer bigger and bigger mountains of the kind that really count!

Glory be to God!

my donald duck

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 13, 2007 at 6:28 AM When I was about eight years old, I was out seeing the cousins on the farm. There were five boy cousins, brothers, and they were rough and tough. I wondered how Aunt Bev handled all those boys!

It was springtime, they had ducks, and the ducks were laying eggs. My mean boy cousins were throwing duck eggs at the barn door, and I went ballistic! "STOP!!!!! You’re KILLING those baby ducks!!!! Somehow I managed to wrestle two eggs away from them and ran off to the safety of my mom and dad. I refused to put those eggs down, and took them all the way home to town with me, determined to keep them safe.

My wonderful, wonderful dad told me he would take them somewhere they could hatch, and to my great delight, and probably to his great surprise, after several weeks, THEY BOTH DID!!! We went someplace, I’m not sure where, to pick them up, and I was the proud possessor of two baby ducklings, cute as could be.

And then my wonderful dad built a coop for them, a simple wooden frame covered with chicken wire. There was a hole in the top to put them in, and we’d cover the hole with a small piece of plywood weighed down with a brick.

The ducks grew quickly. We had a big backyard, and they never wandered off. I was outdoors all day long, and got them out of the pen first thing every morning. They loved to play in the little plastic wading pool we had, although I had to change the water pretty frequently because of the deposits they made in it....

And then one day, early in the summer, the unthinkable happened. My dad came and woke me up early, and told me I had been irresponsible in forgetting to put the lid on the coop. And the cat had got them. One duck was dead. I was devastated.

The other duck hadn’t faired quite as badly, but one eye was a little mangled. His eyelid was torn and hanging. My dad, who could do anything, pulled out his pocketknife and neatly clipped the dangling eyelid off. From then on, my duck never closed that eye. I held and petted my duck that day as long as he would let me, and grieved for his brother. But I only grieved that one day, and then it was over, and I loved the duck I still had.

It was a summer of bliss. It was the summer before time began, before life became a hurry, before there was a schedule and an agenda. That duck was so much fun! I played with him everyday all summer long. What incredible memories of an endless summer, long days spent outdoors lying in the grass, climbing trees, riding my bike, and yes, playing with my duck. I had a dog and a cat, but this was the summer of the duck.

Whatever we were doing, he was right there with us. I remember working beside my mom in a small flower garden. He helped! I still remember her screaming when he stuck his rubbery beak up the back of her shirt as she bent over the flowers. I remember my dad, standing at the BBQ grill with a metal spatula to turn the hamburgers, bending over to scoop up a pile of duck doodoo. He acted as if he would use it on the hamburgers, and then laughed and went in the house to get a clean one when we all yelled.

These are wonderful memories, and what is more wonderful yet, is that I DON’T remember what happened when summer was over. I know the duck was gone before it got cold, but I don’t have any traumatic memories of my duck becoming Sunday dinner. I think my dad must have just quietly got rid of the duck somehow. Happy childhood memories are one of the best gifts parents can ever give.

breaking news: the world wide web is not.

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 4, 2007 at 10:50 AM The World Wide Web ain’t happening in Ulan Udee, Siberia. So they should call it the ALMOST world wide. I did use someone else’s computer to try to post while I was there, but it was SO SLOW the thing would time out and erase everything I had just typed, so rather than pull my hair out, I gave up.

Yesterday was a 33 hour day--I thought the sun would never go down as we kept moving west along with it. We had started back home at 11 pm Friday, after being up all day and going hard. We took the sleeper train back to Moscow, and then had five hours to kill in the airport there before getting on the plane for an 11 1/2 hour flight to Atlanta, and then on to Kansas City.

I journaled for xanga while I was out of internet range, and will be posting the entries as I have time. Here’s the account of my last day in St. Petersburg before coming home.

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Our friends Dmitri and Anya live right in the heart of St. Petersburg, in the neighborhood where Fyodor Dostoyevsky lived and wrote more than a hundred years ago. The apartment where he died is located just down the street and has been turned into the Dostoyevsky Museum. (Brian and I did steal an hour to tour the museum.) It is a very desirable location to live in, and they love it there.

She and I went walking Friday evening while the men’s meeting was going on at the church. The neighborhood is full of shops of every kind—an Italian shoe store across the street where the cheapest shoes go for $500, a nice bookstore in the next block with a small shelf of English books, a small grocery or "cynepmapket" (prounounced supermarket), restaurants and appliance stores all located with two minutes walking distance.

The streets and sidewalks of Russia are messy, messy, messy in the winter months. There is a disgusting amount of mud, slush, ice and puddles everywhere. I am convinced that Russian cars use more windshield washer fluid than any other country—there should be a continuous setting on the control. Boots and shoes are always filthy, and so are coats and anything else exposed to the elements. Water streams off the roofs of buildings and refreezes on the sidewalk, making navigation treacherous. Fortunately, it is socially acceptable for women to hold hands or lock arms with their friends as they walk together, and so I clutched Anya’s arm continuously in an effort to keep from falling. She also told me that there are always "tradegies" (shame on me for mocking her English!) every winter when people are killed by ice falling off the roofs.

Anya is such a sweet gal, although she laughed plenty as I tried to pronounce different Russian words. I admire anyone who speaks a second language, and I’m always jealous when husbands and wives can talk secretly in front of Brian and me by switching to their mother tongue. So I speak to him in my pathetic broken French, but he never understands a word!

We walked about thirty minutes and arrived at the food market, not to be confused with a grocery store or supermarket. This is the place where Russians have bought their food forever—it is only in the last few years that larger grocery stores have moved in. The food market is a huge building lined with counters where women sell their wares—nice vegetables and fruits in attractive displays—imagine that just a few years ago these items were available only in the summer. There is a huge dairy counter where women sell their homemade cheeses, butters, and other dairy products. It is expected that you will want to sample before you buy, and Anya sampled sour cream from at least five different vendors until she chose the one she thought was best. And I thought sour cream was sour cream!

We walked through the meat market, manned by tough looking Russian women. There was a hog head, fully skinned. Yum. And then I came to the rabbits. They were all laid out on their backs, stretched as if they were sunning themselves, but also completely skinned, except for their feet, where the fur was intact. It was hilarious, as if they were all lying there wearing fuzzy knee high socks.

I asked Anya if she had ever eaten rabbit, and she said "of course!" She went on to tell me that there would have been no way for her family to eat when she was a child on the salaries of her parents, so a big garden and rabbit hutches were not a hobby, but a necessity. She was raised in Belarussia, or White Russia, which we know as Belarus. Gardens have historically been a necessity for all Russians and most city people had (or still have) a summer house where they go to live and raise vegetables in the summer.

Her parents still live in Belarus, which can be reached by an all day train ride. They still live in the same house where she was raised, and later, cooking blini, or pancakes, for caviar, she told me how her mother makes pancakes in a long-handled skillet in the wood-fired stove in her kitchen. Most Americans would think of a wood-fired stove in the kitchen as an incredible luxury, as they would the banyas, or steam saunas most Russian country homes have. But these items are just a way of life in Russia. (Anya’s mom also now has an electric stovetop.)

More than anything else, Americans seem to excel in efficiency, when compared with the rest of the world. We absolutely know how to get things done. But in our streamlined, efficient way, we are also extremely casual, and have done away with some of the formality and respectful ways of living and addressing one another. In other words, we may have lost some of the elemental necessities of true culture. I love America, but sometimes wonder if some of the rest of the world seem to do what they do with a little more style.

soviet encounters

posted by Peri Zahnd on March 2, 2007 at 12:14 PM Russia is a study in contrasts. It is a nation struggling to emerge from the depths of the economic disaster which is the legacy of Communism. I’ve seen a lot of change since my first visit in 1999, and then again in 2002. It’s now been sixteen years since the fall of the Iron Curtain.

America is said to be a nation of diversity, but we seem to me to be much more homogenous than Russia. The extremely rich exist side by side with the extremely poor. Walking the streets, you can see very hip, trendily dressed people and others who look like 19th century serfs, who, incidentally, were emancipated by Czar Alexander II in 1861. This is true in Moscow, now the most expensive city in the world, but also in Ulan Ude, Siberia. MTV is everywhere and leaving its mark.

I got to experience one of the contrast of Russia when I left the chic, modern domestic airport in Moscw and boarded the plane bound for Ulan Ude, leaving eleven hours late. No, they didn’t get the plane fixed, they went to an airplane graveyard and resurrected one from the dead. It wasn’t even a Dodomedovo airplane (I love to say that word), but said AirUnion on the side. It probably hadn’t been flown since the days of the Soviet Union.

As the decrepit old machine started down the runway, creaking and groaning, then finally accelerating faster with the sound of clanging metal, clanging faster and faster, tray tables at empty seats around me were popping and falling, and I was doing a little mental math. I was calculating our combined insurance policies and the equity in our house, and dividing it by three to determine what each of our children would get in the event of our joint demise.

I had the misfortune of visiting the airplane TYANET early in the flight. It was atrocious. I said as much to Brian when I returned, and he said, "I guess you’ll probably blog on it." So, to spite him, you’re all going to be deprived of a description.

The Communist regime may have met its end sixteen years ago, but the mentality instilled in many of the people still has not. Again, I will say it’s better than it was in 1999, but still will probably take some time to be totally eradicated. The idea of "customer service" was never practiced in the old regime. I remember once in 1999 waiting until the clerk was finished filing her nails to pay for some toiletries. We had an incident in the hotel in Moscow which illustrates this very well.

We had a 6 pm checkout arranged at the hotel, and arrived back on Sunday afternoon a few minutes after 4:00. We went straight to the room to change clothes and pack up—we were leaving for a brief tour of the city and Red Square before we had to be at the airport at 8:30. But upon reaching the room, we found our electronic keys weren’t working, which was slightly irritating because the same thing had happened that morning. We had to wait in line several minutes to get them changed, and were going to be rushed as it was. So we both went back down, and after waiting our turn, Brian explained the problem.

The head desk clerk, a heavyset woman with black chin-length hair and short bangs, looked at her paperwork, then went to a filing cabinet and begin rifling through documents. She finally found what she was looking for in the second drawer and brought it over to us. It seems there had been some confusion with check-out time—it was recorded on that document as 1600, which is military time for 4:00, not 6:00, easily confused. Her English was limited, but we could see what the problem was, and finally understood why the key didn’t work—it had been deactivated at the stroke of 4.

After trying to explain the mix-up, we finally told her if she would just let us in our room, we would retrieve our things and go. To which she just kept replying, "NYET!! NYET!!!" We hadn’t checked out at 4:00, and that was just too bad. She left the reception desk and retreated into a back room, tossing her head and saying "Sorry!"

I saw my husband’s nostrils flare. Uh oh. Time to get some help. We called our friend Dmitri, who had already changed clothes in his room and laid down for a quick nap. We were all supposed to be checking out at the same time, and somehow he had got in his room! He hustled right downstairs, and was able to speak to the woman. Dmitri is a very amiable, good-natured guy, a real people person, and I was surprised to hear the voices of Dmitri and Little Ms. Nyet, as we began to call her, grow louder and louder. Pretty soon they were both yelling in Russian, and other people standing at the desk were watching with great interest. I had slunk into a chair nearby.

What did this woman want in order to let us get our things from the room—a little extra money, or to pay for an entire extra night? No, it seems Little Ms. Nyet was refusing to let us into the room to get our things without a LETTER from the travel agency which had booked the rooms. The rooms weren’t even booked by a travel agency, and I don’t know how we’d get a letter from them at 4:30 on a Sunday afternoon if they DID exist.

Finally, a little money did change hands. Just a little, but enough that she was able to save face. It would be so much fun to have the whole encounter on videotape, complete with English sub-titles.