Game Over

Tonight, along with five others who are also finishing treatment, I gave my graduation talk. This ritual concluded the wrap-up of my program that began a week ago with the discharge class.

Two days ago I had my final consultation with Dr. Bush and his resident, Dr. Do. As usual, this visit didn't take very long. I've had no side effects, and all has gone as designed, so aside from monitoring my progress the doctors had little to do on my case once they had set up my program of treatment. "We expect success," were Dr. Bush's parting words.

Then, this afternoon, I had my last treatment and said good-bye to the techs who staff the afternoon shift in Gantry 3—Brian, Nancy, and their assistants. After my treatment, they gave me a big black marker with which I wrote "D-O-N-E-!" on my pod. The insulation with my body imprint will be discarded, and the pipe that forms the pod's walls will be recycled. They also gave me the wax bollus that helps shape the proton beam and—lest I forget—a balloon apparatus. These items will be enshrined on my mantle at home.

Perhaps strangely, I don't have a sense of jubilation over the conclusion of my treatment. I think, in large part, my ambivalent feelings have to do with the fine care I've received. Never did I feel like someone's science project. Always, from receptionists to techs to doctors, everyone on the Loma Linda staff treated me like a person. They embodied the Loma Linda motto, To Make Man Whole. Then also, the end of treatment means leaving this beautiful part of the world with its temperate climate and returning to the south plains of Texas where, yesterday, they experienced 70 mph winds and this morning the thermometer registered in the 'teens.

It occurs to me that, had I undergone surgery, I would very likely still have had a period of several months out of circulation while I recuperated. But what a different experience that would have been! Instead of hiking, making friends, sharing stories, enjoying life, and productively carrying on my teaching, I would have encountered physical pain, incontinence, loss of sexual function, and quite possibly severe depression.

What lies ahead? In terms of my cancer, I can expect it will gradually disappear as a result of the radiation. I'll have my first follow-up appointment in 4 months and then at 6-month intervals far into the future. These sessions will consist of PSAs and digital rectal exams as well as dealing with any side effects that might show up. The expectation is that my PSA, over time, will drop to near zero and will stay there and that the side effects will have little impact on my quality of life.

In terms of the rest of my life? I honestly don't know. We hear that we will never be the same. However, I don't think the nature of any changes will appear until later. A week or so ago, I began to ask guys who were almost done how the experience has changed them. Few could pinpoint any significant changes. I'm guessing that now is too soon to know.

I expect that much will remain the same as I return to normal activities at Tech, at St. Johns, and within the Lubbock community. I hope I can find interesting places to continue hiking. I look forward to reuniting with Amy. Then there is the realization, as Lynn Martel reminds us weekly, that we will eventually die—not from prostate cancer, but die nevertheless. As Lynn also pointed out at tonight's support meeting, a brush with cancer heightens one's sense of mortality. The point is to greet each day as a new opportunity, as a gift—This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it .

Treatment count: 45 down. Done.

Island

Yesterday at 9:00 I boarded the Islander, along with 50 or so others, and headed out for Santa Cruz Island, part of Channel Islands National Park.

Occasionally the sun would pierce the clouds, and constantly, off our port side, Anacapa Island, neighbor to Santa Cruz and only dimly visible in the picture, rode the horizon.

After disembarking and receiving a briefing from a Park volunteer, I set off on my walk.

The thousands of years of Chumash culture on the island left little mark on the land. But in the 19th century Anglos began using Santa Cruz for raising cattle and sheep, and it will take years—maybe centuries—for the island to recover from our exploitation. Thank God for the National Conservancy and National Park Service who share ownership of Santa Cruz and are, together, committed to restoring and preserving its natural beauty.

To a walker like me, the island seems immense and its hills and mountains stunning. I have to wonder what the vegetation was like, pre-sheep.

And how beautiful its coastline of pebbled beaches and rugged cliffs as in the picture I took near Potato Harbor!

Eventually my wanderings brought me back to the inlet that shelters Scorpion Landing. There in the distance waits Anacapa. Maybe someday I can visit that island.

At 3:30, the Islander began the loading process, taking on camping gear, scuba diving equipment, and the string of kayaks in the picture.

As we left the island, the sun and clouds again painted a picture over the island. My iPhone camera does it only partial justice.

Walking, like any really worthwhile activity, stimulates insights into the self. I learned something about my self on Santa Cruz with which I'm not altogether comfortable:

I'm a loner. In a way, I'm as isolated as an island.

As I was talking to the Park volunteer, making certain I knew where I was headed, a young East Indian, Gary, joined us, asking questions about the same destination—Smugglers Cove. Eventually the question that I was dreading: "Do you mind if I walk along with you?"

Yes, I really did mind. Why? After all, the guide sheet said, "Never hike alone!" and here was a ready made buddy for the day. He seemed like a nice enough guy. I could get acquainted with someone new. Why did I mind?

Unable to come up with a good answer, I said, "Sure." It took me a while to get set to leave—stash my sweatshirt, extend my hiking poles, that kind of thing—so Gary said he'd get started.

It wasn't long 'til I caught up with him, even though he turned out to be a stronger, faster walker than me. We visited a bit, but I was increasingly uncomfortable with the necessity of engaging in conversation when I enjoyed the silence, of matching my rate of walking with Gary's.

So at the first junction, about a mile along the way, I consulted my map and told Gary that I was having second thoughts about Smugglers Cove and had decided to do the Scorpion Canyon loop instead. We went our different ways. I felt like a prisoner who had won release.

As I thought about it, I had to face the fact that I'm not a very sociable guy. I like being an island. I almost never feel lonely—even when compelled to be by myself for extended periods of time. On the contrary, I can be positively uncomfortable in groups—what do I say? how do I relate? what do I do? Some of my most moving, most enlightening, most enjoyable experiences have occurred when I was by myself—my solo bike rides to Ruidoso, New York, and Big Bend, to mention a few.

I find this realization uncomfortable. It seems somehow non-human, embarrassing—a fault. There on the trail, I worried, for instance, about the future of my new-found hiking hobby. I had thought I'd like to share this joy with Amy, with Ted—a veteran hiker. But now I wondered. How would that work out?

Clearly, doing things with Amy has always enhanced the activity. Many have been the times over the past 2 months of basic solitude when I've thought, This would be so much more fun with Amy. But what about hiking? What if our rates of walking don't match? What if I want to stop and look and she doesn't, or more likely, she wants to stop and look, and I want to march on? Maybe we can devise some solutions to make certain both get from the experience what each most enjoys. What solutions? What arrangements? What agreements? I know Ted has often hiked with others, so maybe he will have some insights that will help me——

Again walking becomes an analogy for living. If we are essentially individuals—islands—yet we have this capacity, this drive, even this necessity for relationships, how do we manage? One would think that by the age of 67 I would have figured it out. Maybe 2 divorces testify that I haven't.

Well, I've got some years left to work on the problem. I hope Amy and friends like Ted can put up with me while I do.

Curing/Healing

I've wanted to post the following piece on this blog ever since I heard Bob Marckini read a portion of it when he was here at Loma Linda last month. He sent it to me today.

From time to time I've mentioned the idea that curing a pathology and healing a person are related but different. Both are important, but the spiritual, relational, and emotional aspects of healing give it an edge. I'd go so far as to say that curing without healing is terribly inadequate, while healing without curing is sometimes the best that can be done and, in fact, is sufficient. I first read about this difference some years ago in a book on Jesus written by John Dominic Crossan who suggested that, whether or not Jesus cured diseases may be open to debate, but that he healed people is certain.

Although Loma Linda pioneered proton treatment as a cure for cancer, what really convinced me to come here was the expectation of healing. The healing has to do with Loma Linda's mission to make man whole. I have not been disappointed.

The author of the following piece is Fred Recklau, apparently a Lutheran pastoral theologian. I know nothing more about him, Googling his name will turn up multiple sites that present these contrasts. They're worth repeating here.

Cure alters what is; Healing offers what might be.

Cure is an act; Healing is a process.

Cure acts upon another; Healing shares with another.

Cure manages; Healing touches.

Cure seeks ultimately to conquer pain; Healing seeks to transcend the pain.

Cure ignores grief; Healing assumes grief.

Cure encourages mystery as a challenge for understanding; Healing encounters mystery as a ready channel for meaning.

Cure rejects death and views it as defeat; Healing includes death among the blessed outcomes of caring.

Cure may occur without healing; Healing may occur without cure.

Cure separates body from soul; Healing embraces the soul.

Cure tends to isolate; Healing tends to incorporate.

Cure combats illness; Healing fosters wellness.

Cure fosters function; Healing fosters purpose.

Treatment count: 42 down, 3 to go.

Discharge

About a dozen of us who are finishing our treatment program in the next week attended the discharge class today.

Surprisingly, I had never seen 3 or 4 of the guys at the meeting—surprising because I've regularly attended the weekly potlucks, education/support meetings, and restaurant tours as well as waiting in the lobby for my treatments along with other patients. Although I haven't made the acquaintance of many of the guys I see at these meetings, I recognize them. But here were several guys I'd never even seen before. As I thought about it, it became less surprising. There are upwards of 100 prostate proton patients in the program. But on any given night, attendees at the Wednesday evening support meeting probably don't number more than 8o, including spouses. I'm guessing the normal potluck attendance is about 30 (plus spouses), and even fewer participate in the restaurant tours. Probably the strangers at today's meeting simply haven't participated in any of these functions. The proton treatments cure the cancer, but these "extra" meetings are where the healing takes place. Opting out of them seems to me to be turning down a huge part of the therapy available at Loma Linda. At one point in Jesus Christ Superstar, an exasperated, harried Jesus screams at the crowds who are demanding his attention, "Heal yourselves!" I know this moment has its basis in a story in the Gospels. I understand Jesus' frustration. How often do we pray for miracles but not take responsibility for our own healing?

At today's meeting, Lynette, the nurse in charge of follow-up, went over the schedules and procedures for our care after finishing treatment. She explained what we could expect to happen to our PSAs, which we'll monitor the rest of our lives. Then she detailed the kinds of side effects we might experience after treatment—blood in the stool, urinary problems, erectile dysfunction, fatigue, and blood in the urine. Most of these have a very low percentage of incidence for proton patients, are transitory, and are treatable by life-style adjustments ("Drink more water!") or, in worse cases, medications. The most common—blood in the stool—occurs as collateral rectal damage from the radiation heals itself and creates new blood vessels that, at first, are thin walled and may break under abrasion from constipation or rough foods like chips and corn. This too will take care of itself in time.

There was nothing about diapers, nothing about kissing our sex lives goodbye, nothing about colostomy bags, nothing about installing penile implants or artificial sphincters—all of which I've heard about from recipients of other therapies.

As I walked home after the meeting, I felt two emotions—relief and suspicion. Relief that I would be very unlikely to face the devastating side effects so common amongst men who have gone through radical prostatectomies or suffered by survivors of other forms of cancer. Suspicion because I wondered, Can it really be this easy? Is there something they're not telling us? Are the statistics phony? I have no real reason to believe any of the information we received was falsified. I think my suspicions are simply the flip side of my relief. I'll certainly be alert, ready to take action should any side effects show up. But for now, I'll rejoice in my relief.

Treatment count: 40 down, 5 to go.

Amy

Happy birthday, Amy! Today you reached the ripe old age of 33, the same age as Jesus when he was crucified.

On your birthday, I want to tell you that I love you.

I love you because you make me laugh, and laughter is healing, so you heal me with your laughter.

I love you because you keep me young, and age creeps on apace, so I am glad to find in you my fountain of youth.

I love you because you see to it that I look young. Over the past three years you've accomplished a make-over on me, so I no longer look my age.

I love you for sharing with me your beautiful body which gives me such pleasure to see and which I long to hold again.

I love you for keeping me humble, for pointing out my faults, for reminding me at least once a week that I'm sort of funny looking, for reminding me daily that I'm a lucky old fart to have such a hot and sexy little lady as you to hang out with. I need all that. It's way too easy for me to get proud.

I love you for your energy and diligence, for your wisdom and your intelligence.

I love you for your uncertainties, your obsessions, your concerns, your hopes and your dreams.

I love you for your passion and commitment

I love you for your honesty, your commitment to the truth and to truth telling.

I love you for your creativity, your digital skills, your abilities with languages. I love to watch you develop your talents and skills.

I love you because we pray together.

I love you for your love of shopping, your eye for fashion, your familiarity with celebrities about whom I am totally ignorant.

I love you for your loyalty throughout this whole cancer ordeal.

I love you for the joy you bring into my life.

Your presence in my life is God's good gift to me.

You're a little concerned since, at age 33, you have not yet saved the world. Well, you've saved me, and maybe that's a good start.

Happy birthday, Kim Ye-min. Many happy returns of the day! And may I be there to celebrate many of them with you!

Treatment count: 39 down, 6 to go.

Oxnard

Several times this past weekend I drove through a city with one of most unpleasant sounding names in the English language—Oxnard. It sounds like the home town of Gollum and the Orks. Of course, living in Lubbock, a town with a name like a frog's mating call, maybe I shouldn't talk. The people who named these towns must have had other things on their minds than melodious sounds.

On the other hand, I spent Saturday night in Port Hueneme. When I asked the desk clerk how to pronounce the town's name, she said "Why-NEE-mee" and went on to tell me the story behind the name. Princess Hueneme of the Chumash who inhabited this part of the coast, was in love. But a witch who lived on Sulfur Mountain, near present-day Santa Clara, put a curse on her beloved so that he could not see her beauty. What is it with these witches? They need to get a life! Spurned, Hueneme climbed to the top of Mugu Rock and threw herself into the sea. Her death broke the spell, and when her admired saw her body floating in the sea, he recognized her beauty and his loss and cast himself off Mugu to join her in death.

Thankfully, the Latin culture of California resulted in a beautiful symphony of names—Laguna, Los Olivos, Paso Robles, and a whole pantheon of saints—San Luis Obispo, Santa Ana, San Clemente, Santa Clarita. Lord only knows what names these communities would carry had it been left up to English speakers. We'd be stuck with tags like one of my favorites in Texas—Stink Creek Road. Wouldn't you like that address on all your mail? If the Anglo Saxons had carried the day at Grand Canyon, we'd all be visiting Big Ditch.

My home-away-from-home is a case in point. The first settlers and would-be developers in this area gave it the sorry name Mound City. What were they thinking? Who wants to move to Mound City? Mound of what? With PR skills of that level, they deserved to fail, and they did. Fortunately, the Adventists rechristened the area Loma Linda. Good choice. Much better than the English translation Pretty Hill. Loma Linda. The alliteration of the liquid ells and the consonance of the nasal "m" and "n" plus the assonance at the words' ends and the trochaic meter—all these blend together to form a place name that sounds like healing.

Most of us get no opportunity to name anything except our kids—and don't even get me started on the names that show up on my class lists! If we do have the chance to bestow names, let's roll those words around on our tongues like we're tasting fine wines. If we have to spit 'em out in disgust, better that than punishing the ears of posterity.

Treatment count: 38 down, 7 to go.

Point Mugu

The map posted at the Point Mugu State Park trailhead resembled my guide map in broad outline, but not in detail. I wondered if I'd get lost. If I did, instead of doing the whole 8-mile loop, I'd just turn around and come back.

Setting out with that uncertainty, I hiked the first third of the trail up La Jolla canyon along a dry creek bed. The water fall I passed was all fall and no water, but the moss growing there suggested that, come the rains, it would flow. The brush was so dense that sometimes it formed a tunnel for the trail.

My map proved accurate, and eventually the 1,100 climb up the canyon brought me to the Overlook Backbone fire road. Well-named, that road. It gives breathtaking views of the very rough highlands of the Santa Monica Mountains.

Somewhat more than half the way around the loop, I found a hillock on which to perch to eat my lunch, and there in the distance I could see a triangle of the Pacific. The trailhead at the beach was, of course, my destination, and I guessed that I'd have other views of the ocean as I hiked onward. That glimpse of the sea set me thinking. More about those thoughts later.

As I walked on, the sea was seldom out of view. Some vistas just overwhelmed me. I wondered if the poet of "America the Beautiful" had hiked this trail before writing "from sea to shining sea."

The trail was anything but direct, and sometimes I wondered again if I was on the right route, but the signposts and my map seemed to agree, so I walked on. At some places on the trail, if I looked left I saw the highlands pictured above, and if I turned right, the sea stretched out to the horizon. Magnificent.

But more glories were yet to come. Eventually I could see, far, far below, the trailhead parking lot and the surf on the beach. But more yet. Although this picture, taken with my iPhone camera, only faintly reproduces the view, there in the far distance mountains rose out of the sea—the Channel Islands, floating there like some beckoning paradise.

Soon the Ray Miller trail took off from the Backbone Road and led down, down, down to the trailhead. I don't know who Ray Miller was, but if he built this trail, he deserves to be remembered forever. Just plotting the route would be a terrific accomplishment, not to mention carving it out of the mountainside.

Eventually I reached my pickup at the trailhead. What a wonderful walk!

Which brings me back to those lunch time thoughts.

This hike spoke to me strongly of life's journey. We begin at the sea and eventually return there. Along the way are uncertainties, labors, rewards, and surprises. At 67, I am forced to realize that I'm well past the half-way mark on my loop. I feel some regret over that realization. But that sea, which had disappeared from my sight for so much of the trip, now becomes ever more promising and leads me forward. It stirs in me hopes that the remainder of the journey will be even more beautiful, more amazing, more breathtaking than the first part of the trip. Readers may think of other parallels, but will leave it at that.

For now, I will march on, anticipating the surprises at each turn in the trail.

What a wonderful walk!

Dume

Went hiking today at Point Dume, 3 or 4 miles up-beach from Malibu. The actual highland of Dume, sacred to the Native Americans who lived here and a landmark for mariners, is almost hidden behind the lifeguard station which, according to the guidebook, was featured on "Baywatch." Pamela Anderson, unfortunately, was no where to be seen.

From the top of Dume point, you can see the entire Santa Monica Bay. Beautiful.

I descended from the peak and walked along the beach all the way to Malibu.

Along the way I saw remarkable rock formations like these ribs of the earth that reach out into the sea.

Since it was high tide, I couldn't really investigate the tide pools like I would have enjoyed, but I did spend a little time by one small basin and saw hermit crabs, seaweed, anemones, and of course the ubiquitous mussels and barnacles.

Gulls, pelicans, and shorebirds plied their trade, and a pod of seals were playing around a bell buoy several hundred yards out.

Eventually I reached Paradise Cove Beach Cafe where I had a tuna sashimi salad literally as big as my head. The picture doesn't do it justice. Thanks to dining experiences with Amy, I was able to thoroughly enjoy the raw tuna that laced the salad.

I got back to Westward Beach where my truck was waiting just in time to see a wedding in progress, complete with cellist. I can't imagine what the sea spray that coated my glasses was doing to that cello.

As I walked along the edge of the sea today, the phrase "soup of life" kept running through my mind. I think this soup of life is what keeps pulling me back to the sea. The ocean, throwing itself up the beach again and again, pulsing, and heaving, seems like a living thing. Then all the creatures—the birds, the seals, the fish, the invertebrates—and the kelp that littered the beach. The sea, mother of life. No wonder a couple wanted to be married by the sea. The sea teams with life.

And death. Those birds, those seals, those fish—predators all that live by the death of their pray and that, themselves, will eventually die and provide a banquet for others. The sea holds in its restless bosom both life and death.

This past Wednesday, Lynn Martell, who is probably best described as chaplain to the proton patients, told us that several years ago he was diagnosed with a rare lymphoma for which there is no known treatment. He said the doctor told him it would probably take 8 to 10 years to kill him. "'Course," Lynn said, "who knows when it started?" He also shared with us two perspectives on his situation. First, he pointed out, there are lots of worse things than dying. And there are. I have biker buddies who refuse to wear helmets because, they reason, in the event of an accident, they'd rather be dead than incapacitated. Lynn often reminds us that, in spite of the proton beam's efficacy, we all will die. "What are you going to do with your life between now and then?" Secondly, he said he purposely lives life fully every day. Almost every week he reminds us all of the importance of today. "This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it." This is the day. This. Live it. Don't mortgage it to regrets about yesterday or worries about tomorrow. Wednesday I better understood Lynn and his message.

The sea—cradle of life and home of the dead. Death is a part of life. We Americans don't deal very well with that idea. Maybe we need more acquaintance with the sea.

Podluck

Among the various activities that make up the healing matrix here at Loma Linda, one of my favorites is the weekly proton potluck (or, as one patient renamed it, "Podluck") that takes place in the Loma Linda Springs meeting room each Tuesday evening.

The Springs provides the place, and Radiology's Patient Support Services encourage attendance, but beyond that, the potluck is a totally volunteer activity organized and maintained by the patients. Since new patients constantly arrive and others graduate, there's frequent turn-over. In my time here, we've had 3 emcees—one the mayor of Homer, Alaska, one an actor from Tucson, and the present one, Kent, a pastor from Virginia. I recently came to be in charge of setting up and striking the P-A system, but will be passing that light duty on to another in a couple weeks. Several wives of patients set up the food—all donated by participants in true, haphazard potluck fashion—some patients set up tables, purchase water, set out the wine, and so on.

During the potluck itself, there are jokes, announcements, and lots of conversation. People are purchasing Marckini's books from Bud (the current volunteer manager of books) or necklaces from which to suspend their name badges from Sherry (the current volunteer maker and purveyor of these fashion items). Others distribute the weekly update of the patient contact list, a service that cannot be provided by the hospital due to patient privacy issues. (Inclusion on the list is also completely voluntary). So it's a noisy, even chaotic event.

But we usually manage to quiet down enough to enjoy the programming that is arranged (again by a volunteer). A few weeks ago, Willie brought in his Community Orchestra made up of musicians of all ages and levels of ability. Willie says that, if you can play 2 notes, you can be in the orchestra. Here Willie is leading the group from his keyboard. The little guy sitting directly in front of Willie at his own keyboard was on his very first gig this evening. He seemed to know exactly 2 notes, and he carefully played them right on cue. Willie's organization will establish community orchestras like this one any place in the country. Willie reasons that it's better to be making music than mischief. No argument there.

Last evening we were favored by a full program provided by the Loma Linda Senior Strummers—a ukulele band. While many in the band certainly merit the term senior—the woman front row center has to be nearing 90—some are young whippersnappers scarcely out of their 40s. Beside ukes, the band also featured a harmonica (front row, second from the right), guitars, and even a conch shell.

And also hula dancers—three to be exact—who each did a very credible job. Perhaps it was just as well that their costumes didn't include grass skirts.

The podlucks, strange as they may be, do indeed promote healing. The conversations around the tables invariably include the sharing of cancer stories—"How did you hear about proton treatment?" "How many treatments have you missed because the machine broke down?" "What was your PSA?" "Did you have any trouble with your insurance company?"

The bonding that happens through working and eating together serves a crucial purpose. I heard recently about an oncologist who gives his patients his home phone number and promises he won't let them suffer because we all dread two things most of all—pain and loneliness. Few things could cure the lonelies as well as the podlucks.

And the atmosphere is always upbeat, full of humor, optimistic, mutually supportive, laced with faith.

It's hard for me to imagine proton treatment without the weekly podluck. It's one of the ways I'm being made whole.

Treatment count: 37 down, 8 to go.

Contrasts

Getting back to the stories of my ancestors, what are the differences between these two accounts—“Ancestors” and “Elizabeth”—and what do the differences say about the people who own the stories?

Three contrasts jump out at me. First, Sarah’s version focuses on the male characters—in particular Jean and Peter Bert—while the German version puts a woman, Elizabeth Pastre, front and center. The gender focus goes further in the German version by portraying Elizabeth as the victim of a male–dominated community, a victim who resourcefully finds a way out.

Secondly, in Sarah’s version, Elizabeth married twice, and her sons were orphaned when her husbands died. In the German version she never married so both of her sons were illegitimate. The latter version has the ring of authenticity. I believe it is based on research in church and civic records. Furthermore, it’s easier to see the details of the latter version as the source for the first version than visa versa.

Third, religion has a different character and plays a different role in the two versions. In Sarah’s version, religion produces heroic martyrs and eventually provides Peter a home. In the second version, while religion is capable of heroism and hospitality, it also alienates Elizabeth from her home community and later divides her from her son.

So in one version we have a male-dominated moral tale in which a man leaves a religious community in the old world and finds new faith in the new world. In the other version a woman whose unfortunate romantic alliances put her at odds with a stodgy religious community flees her home only to encounter another rigid sect in the new world, one that absorbs her son.

It’s not difficult to see why Sarah, a frail Kansas farm girl and committed church member who lost her beloved father and went on to found a rescue mission for working-class immigrants in Chicago, would find inspiration and strength in the ancestral story she believed and passed on to others.

Why do I find the second version a source of personal power and pride? What does this story, that I believe, tell about me? Perhaps it says that I value drama. It suggests that I believe victims can be heroic. It suggests that I don’t see the world in comfortable black and white as much as in disquieting shades of gray, that along with my religious faith I also harbor a deep suspicion about religious institutions and practitioners.

We tell our stories, and our stories reveal us.

Had I learned what I know about my ancestors twenty years earlier, I believe I would have named my daughter Elizabeth.

Treatment count: 36 down, 9 to go.

Seeing

From Indio to Blythe, I-10 crosses 100 miles of desolation. Vast expanses of empty desert stretch out to barren mountains in the distance. I knew these vistas well, having passed them many times when courting Barbara who lived in Blythe. This desert was only boredom to endure. There was nothing to see.

Yesterday I hiked in those mountains, some of which are in Joshua Tree National Park, and I found a wonderland.

My goal was Lost Palms Oasis at the end of a 4 1/2 mile trek over ridges and through washes. The guidebook called the palms majestic. It didn't mention the visual delights along the way. At every turn of the trail, amazed at views like the one pictured here, I could only say, "Wow!"

Along the way I passed through a veritable garden of desert foliage—Mojave yuccas, California juniper, jojoba and creosote bushes and ocotillo and cholla. And cute little red heads like this barrel cactus.

Eventually I reached the oasis overlook. "Wow!" There they were, nestled down in the canyon and marching up the ravines—the largest stand of California fan palms in the Park.

Down in the oasis I found a big boulder to perch on and dined alfresco on the cold cuts, bread, tomatoes, and tangerines I had packed. What decor in my dining area! A feast for the eyes. A sight not even imagined by motorists whizzing along on I-10, intent on their destinations, regretting every minute they are forced to spend here where there is nothing to see.

And as I walked those 10 miles into the oasis and back, I thought about seeing and not seeing.

I saw only 2 species of animals on my walk—several little lizards scurrying out of my way and a cactus wren that was highly interested what was on the menu for my lunch.

But I know there were more animals around, because their feces were on the trail. I saw the little pea-like droppings of rabbits or perhaps the mountain sheep that frequent the oasis. And plenty of scat of predators—maybe coyotes or bob cats or mountain lions, all residents of the area.

I didn't see any of these animals, but I'm certain they saw me. Blending in to the terrain as they do, they'd be invisible to me. At one point, I climbed off the trail 50 feet to rest on a rock and drink some water. While I watched, two solo hikers walked past on the trail. Neither saw me, but I saw them. If they missed me, sitting there in plain sight wearing my white cap and chartreuse shirt, how much more likely that I missed seeing the yellow eyes that followed my progress up the trail?

And I thought about other things I have not seen. People ask me if I've had any close calls as a biker. Yes, I can recite a couple near misses with death or disaster while riding my Harley, but how many have I escaped without even realizing it?

And I thought about my cancer that I didn't see, didn't feel, would have had no knowledge of until it was too late had it not been for sophisticated medical technology. And I thought about the proton beam—again unseen, unfelt, but as real as the cancer it's destroying.

And I thought about Oedipus who ridiculed the blind prophet Tiresias, a seer who couldn't see, but ended up like the butt of his joke—blind but filled with terrible knowledge. I thought about acquaintances whose neuroses blinded them to realities so obvious to everyone around them.

And I thought about our proverb Seeing is Believing, and about magicians who amaze us with sights we see that don't really exist. And I thought about the biblical text: "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen."

And I thought about the folly of the confidence we place in the testimony of our senses.

And I prayed again my daily petition: Give me clarity to see reality, clarity to see Your Hand in the daily events that surround me.

Treatment count (as of last Friday) 34 down, 11 to go.

Elizabeth

Elizabeth Pastre, my great-great-great-grandmother, was born in a Waldensian enclave in western Germany. Persecutions had driven the Waldensians, a medieval sect the church considered heretical, into the far reaches of the Cottian Alps, but during the Reformation, they had allied themselves with the Calvinists and, since their valleys at that time belonged to France, they were now Huguenots. When the Edict of Nantes was abrogated, the persecutions began anew, and some of the Waldensians moved to the protestant duchy where Elizabeth was born. Those who stayed behind died or became Catholics.

Elizabeth got engaged to a young man named Jean Bert, but before they could solemnize their marriage, he was taken off as a soldier in Napoleon's army and died on the campaign into Russia. But Elizabeth was pregnant and in due time gave birth to their son, Peter.

Eventually, she fell in love with the inn keeper's son who also got her pregnant, but although she came from a venerable family, they were poor, and in a Calvinist society, poverty carried a powerful stigma. The inn keeper would not tolerate the marriage of his son to this poor woman.

Now Elizabeth had two illegitimate sons and little hope for a decent future in Rohrbach. She took her two boys, obtained a loan, and set sail for America. The three went to Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, where others from the Odenwald had already gone. There her older son soon found work as a weaver with Jacob Wenger, a minister in a strange, plain sect called the River Brethren. He eventually became a member of the Brethren and married one of his employer's daughters.

Elizabeth, who had already had her fill of rigid religious communities, took her younger son and moved on to Ohio. She would not be reconciled to her elder son until much later in their lives. She and Peter also cut off all ties with the community in the old country. When I visited Rohrbach in the 1980s, after a strange set of coincidences reunited the American and German branches of the family, the German Berts showed me a family tree, portrayed like a mighty oak with each branch labeled with names. Peter's twig bore the legend, "Went to America," and ended like its end had been broken off. From 1820 until 1985, they had no knowledge of what had become of him.

So there's the other version of my ancestral story. The sources for the European parts were the German Berts and their local historians. The Pennsylvania schisms and their reasons are partly family lore and partly my own guesses.

Does this version differ from the one in yesterday's entry? Can we count the ways? What do the two versions show us about stories and the people who tell them?

Again, stay tuned.

Treatment count: 33 down, 12 to go.

Ancestors

Among the myths we live by, stories of our ancestors rank high. I recently read an account of how my ancestors came to the United States.

At the end of the 18th century, Jean Bert lived in a community of Huguenots (French protestants in the Calvinist tradition) in the Odenwald of Germany. His ancestors had been forced to migrate there over a hundred years earlier because of persecution in France. He married a young woman from the community, but before the birth of their son he was conscripted into Napoleon's army and marched off to Russia. Like many others on that ill-fated campaign, he never returned. His widow gave birth to Peter, my ancestor. Later, she remarried and had another son, but his father also died. By this time Peter was 18. He borrowed money and, taking his mother and younger brother with him, set sail for America.

They ended up in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, where Peter soon found work as a weaver with a member of the River Brethren (later known as Brethren in Christ). He joined that small, strict group, became a minister, sired a very large family, and as an old man migrated again to Kansas. His grandson, Joseph, was born there and, in his turn, migrated to California where his son Eldon—my father—was born.

What an interesting and inspiring story—full of heartbreak, martyrdom, warfare, religion, and journeys into frontier after frontier!

The details of this story came from a family history written by Peter's youngest daughter Sarah who eventually helped establish and later managed the Brethren in Christ mission in Chicago—a bold, even shocking venture for a Kansas farm girl. One assumes she learned the story from her father and, perhaps, from her grandmother.

Even more interesting than Sarah's story, however, is the version I heard from the German Berts who still live in Rohrbach, Peter's birthplace. The comparison of the two versions holds a world of meanings.

Stay tuned.

Treatment count: 32 down, 13 to go.

Shadows

Writing about the Proton Story, I pointed out that, unlike many myths, it loses its dramatic impact very early on—even before the actual Quest, the treatment phase. The reason for this story anomaly is the disappearance of the urologist, the tale's primary villain or what story analyst Vogler calls the Shadow. No Shadow means no conflict for the Hero and no conflict means no drama. The urologist doesn't even get vanquished as does the villain in a rousing melodrama; instead the Hero-patient simply ignores him and moves on.

Of course another potential Shadow lurks in the background—the Shadow that started the whole story to begin with by invading the Hero's Ordinary World, the Shadow whose presence gives the urologist much of his power, the Shadow that disrupts the Hero's life, sends him to the Inland Empire, costs him time and money, and follows the him throughout the Quest of his treatments, the Shadow that may accompany the Hero on the Way Back and once more assert itself in the future, necessitating watchfulness on the part of the Hero as long as the Hero lives—the cancer itself.

So why doesn't this Shadow, prostate cancer, provide a villain that enlivens the Proton Story?

Partly because it's a-symptomatic. I have yet to meet a patient whose cancer has not metastasized who felt anything amiss "down there." Nor does the cancer or even the prostate become painful under treatment. And the treatments themselves cannot be felt, seen, smelled, or heard. Some patients experience mild side effects—fatigue, urinary discomfort, or gastro-intestinal disturbances—but these mostly respond to light medications or dietary adjustments, and patients uniformly ascribe them to the treatments, not the cancer. It's hard to agonize over a Shadow that is non-palpable.

Furthermore, given the efficacy of the proton beam, the cancer is a doomed, weak, ineffective villain. True, left untreated, it will kill the Hero. But under treatment, it's a goner. I haven't heard any patients worrying about their cancer. We're all certain that the cancer is incapable of resisting the treatments, that the doctors and the technology they wield has already won the battle. And everything we hear, be it statistics or anecdotes, reinforces that confidence. If Darth Vader had entered the movie on a gurney, festooned with IVs, gasping his last asthmatic breaths, and incapable of raising a hand, the audience would have fallen asleep.

But most importantly, the cancer is incapable of intentionality and hostility. It has no personal ambition, no capability to plot alternate strategies, no power to lash out at the Hero or the technicians or the doctors like a cornered beast. We describe some tumors as "aggressive," but that's a description of their energy, not their will power. Patients may describe their urologists as narrow minded, self-serving, greedy for fees, biased, angry, cunning, hostile, or threatening—all qualities of effective villains—but none of these characteristics can be ascribed to a tumor except as an analogy. Cancer's lack of consciousness and self-determination renders it uninteresting as a Shadow.

How strange! A network of hundreds of doctors, nurses, engineers, and technicians—with accumulated centuries of time in school and on the job—manipulate tons on tons of sophisticated equipment that cost hundreds of millions of dollars, all focused on destroying a cancer. But one urologist who brands a treatment option as voodoo medicine, prophesies doom for the patient, and tells the Hero he never wants to see him in his clinic again—this little man generates more story excitement than the lump that is the focus of all that panoply of machinery and personnel.

This difference points to the immense importance of human relationships. It underlies the difference between curing a disease and healing a patient.

Treatment count: 31 down, 14 to go.

Brunch

The annual Brotherhood of the Balloon brunch yesterday, presided over by Bob Marckini, featured centerpieces consisting of a balloon—far more flamboyant than the ones we encounter at each treatment—and flowers in pots like this one made from a bollus, a device, peculiar to each patient, that shapes the proton beam.

Some things heard at the brunch:

Bob Rimer, a BOB member, had a PSA of 61 and a Gleason score of 10. His doctor gave him 18 months to live. Now, 11 years after proton treatment, he's thriving.

Judge Bill Osland, another BOB member, is a 12-year alumnus and maintains a PSA of 0.01.

Dr. Richard Hart, President and CEO of Loma Linda, told us 85 countries are represented on the campus which comprises 5 hospitals and 7 schools (Medicine, Nursing, Public Health, Allied Health, Pharmacy, Science and Technology, and Religion). Following Baby Fae who received a baboon heart in the '80s, the hospital has performed 500 infant-to-infant heart transplants. 90,000 physicians have graduated from the university in its 100 years of operation.

Dr. Jerry Slater, head of Radiology and the son of James Slater who pioneered proton treatment, surveyed research and program development underway in the areas of medical radiation engineering and patient treatment. Programs are in progress to bring down the number of treatments required to treat prostate cancer, to cure early breast cancer with protons, and to apply proton treatment to pancreatic cancer.

Bob Marckini reviewed the state of the BOB. The organization pursues its tripartite mission to support each other, to promote proton treatment of prostate cancer, and to give back to Loma Linda. BOB members now number 4,257 with 700 joining in the past year. Members live in all 50 states and 28 foreign countries. To date, BOB members have donated $5.2 million to Loma Linda. In the past year, BOB conducted a survey of alumni. 40%—an unheard of number—responded to the voluntary questionnaire. Of these respondents, 94% asserted that their quality of life is as good as or better than before treatment. 95% said that their cancers continue to be in remission; of the remaining 5% most either did not know or said it was as yet too early to tell.

230,000 men are diagnosed with prostate cancer each year. Of that number, only one half of one percent find proton treatment at one of the half-dozen facilities in the country.

I am amongst the tiny number of the blest.

Treatment count: 30 down, 15 to go. Two-thirds of the way through.

Crystal Cove

For the third weekend in a row, I took a hike. But no heroics this time.

I spent the day in Crystal Cove State Park, a wilderness area just up-shore from Laguna Beach. These are typical southern California hills, which is to say that that they're covered with scrub brush instead of big trees and, at this time of the year, their foliage is almost all browned out, waiting for the rains that will come in late winter and spring. So the scenery wasn't as glorious and overwhelming as last week going up San Jacinto or even as ruggedly impressive as the previous week in Joshua Tree National Park. However, Crystal Cove has its own beauty and wonders. For instance, at almost any time on the hike I could turn to the southwest and see the Pacific Ocean, and the sea breezes constantly cooled me.

And there were exceptions to the dead, brown bushes, like this prickly pear in blossom—

—and this native holly all dressed up for Christmas.

By the time I got back to the visitor's center, I had hiked 11 miles with an 800' rise and descent. According to my Omron pedometer, I had taken over 21,000 steps and burned over 900 calories. And I had gotten up close and personal with another part of my childhood state that I had never seen before. All in all, a great hike.

But what's a day on the coast without a little beach? Although the largest portion of Crystal Cove is the wilderness I hiked through, the State Park actually takes its name from its extension along an adjacent strip of sea shore. So I drove across the Pacific Coast Highway to Reef Point and spent some time sitting on a barnacle-covered rock amongst the tide pools.

The sound of the surf punctuated by the cries of gulls, and the blessed scent of salt, fish, and seaweed soothed and refreshed me body and soul.

But Crystal Cove had still more to share. I visited the Historical District of the park, made up largely of vintage cabins. There I found the Beachcomber Cafe, situated right on the beach. I got a table on the veranda and watched the sun sink into the Pacific as I drank my heffeweizen. There may be, somewhere in the world, better shrimp linguini than they served me, but I seriously doubt it.

What a terrific day!

I've never been much of a hiker before, but I think I'm hooked. It's powerful exercise amidst marvelous scenery. So, in addition to getting the cancer thing whipped, I may have found a new hobby. I'm already plotting about where I might continue my walks once I return to Lubbock—other than just kicking up dust in cotton fields. I've got some ideas.

But for now, next Saturday's only a week away. Where will it be? I'm thinkin' maybe Old Baldy, the tall grey-back that sits dead north of Upland in the San Gabriels. I saw Old Baldy from the valley almost every day of my childhood. Maybe it's time we got better acquainted.

Treatment count (from yesterday): 29 down, 16 to go.

Balloons

I got a bonus today: An extra balloon.

The tech lacked experience on balloon insertion, so instead of the water going into the balloon, it went all over my legs. Nancy, who probably put in the very first balloon ever inserted, looked at the problem and told Jose, "You're gonna have to take it out and start over." Oh goody. They promised me I wouldn't be charged for the extra balloon. What a deal. Two balloons for the price of one.

Which leads me to believe that tonight's the time to talk about balloons and myths.

We share our myths by telling the stories. But when we're really serious about it, we create a ceremony in which we celebrate our story through action. In religion, the ceremony is called a cultus, and it's carried out through ritual and liturgy. In Christianity, the central myth, which gives meaning to our lives, guides our ethic, and bonds us into a world-wide community, is the story of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. The celebrational cultus in which we reenact that event is communion, the Lord's Supper, the Eucharist. By eating that bread and drinking that wine, we participate in that central Event and real-ize it anew. There is often something shocking about a religion's central cultus, something that those outside the group easily find offensive, and so it is with communion. We speak of eating the body of the Son of God and drinking his blood. No wonder the early Romans accused us of child abuse and cannibalism.

The proton prostate community also has its central ritual that bonds its members like nothing else can—not even their common disease. The ritual is fittingly enshrined in the name of the one group that unites us—The Brotherhood of the Balloon. At first, I found the many references to the balloon—and the many jokes made about it—amusing. Then it began to wear thin. I thought, Give it a break, guys! We sound like a bunch of junior high kids in the locker room. But now I realize the importance—dare I say the sacredness?—of that balloon. It's such a fitting ritual—invasive, embarrassing, uncomfortable, yet necessary, salubrious. It carries with it hints of homosexuality. It's offensive. But every one of us takes his balloon five days a week for as long as he's in treatment. We joke about it, complain about it, and twit each other about it. Last night, Bob Marckini, who got his treatments in Gantry 3 where I get mine, told the group that Gantry 3 is obviously the best of all and that the other gantries are supplied with our second hand balloons—it's a matter of ecology. But for all the jokes, that balloon is our uniting sacrament. We come from all racial groups, all economic strata, many states and foreign countries. We're young (OK, 40s) and old, fat and thin, sound and crippled. And we all get our balloon. We are, indeed, the Brotherhood of the Balloon.

So tomorrow at 2:00, I'll strip away my mundane street clothes and don the sacred alb that ties at the neck and leaves my buttocks open to the world. I'll enter the inner sanctum where the priest-like techs in their white jacket vestments busy themselves about the paraphernalia of my healing. I'll mount the altar-like table on which rests my pod and assume The Position. I'll receive my balloon—that symbol of my membership—and I'll lie back in a dead-man's pose while my pod and I move mysteriously into the heart of the gantry, there to receive the terrible, healing beam of protons. And I'll know that I'm being cured, and more, that I'm being healed. I'll know that I belong.

I have my story, my cancer is being destroyed, I have a brotherhood. I have received my balloon.

Treatment count: 28 down, 17 to go.

Marckini's Story

Tonight Bob Marckini, author of You Can Beat Prostate Cancer: And You Don't Need Surgery to Do It, spoke to the patients' group.

Before he was introduced, several alumni of the program greeted the current patients. They gave the bare outlines of their stories—their names, their original PSAs, the dates of their treatments, and their current PSAs. One had been treated 11 years ago; before treatment he had a PSA of 10; now his PSA was 0.45. Another was treated in 1992—early in the program; he now has a PSA of 0.4. A patient from Germany had the highest PSA of any patient ever treated here—a whopping 400. I didn't know PSAs could get that high. He was treated 9 years ago. His current PSA is 0.1. Encouraging. Very encouraging.

Marckini's talk was amusing. In the group of a hundred or so who gathered to listen to him, I doubt more than five had not read his book, so much of what he said refreshed our memories rather than giving us new information.

What interested me? His story, of course. It fit the outline I've presented like a glove. Here it is, organized in the stages of the Hero's Journey:

The Ordinary World: His father and older brother had both had prostate cancer, so he should have known he also would develop the disease, but it still seemed to come as a surprise.

The Call to Adventure: In 2000, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. He immediately began to research all the methods of treatment—surgery, traditional radiation, radiological seeding, cryosurgery, hormone therapy, the works. Every practitioner assured him he was the ideal candidate for that doctor's chosen specialty, but most were reluctant to give him names of patients he might interview. He heard about Loma Linda and proton therapy, contacted them, and received the names of 50 alumni he could contact. He developed a 22-question survey and proceeded to contact them all, plus others that they referred him to.

The First Threshold: He told his urologist that he was going to undergo proton treatment at Loma Linda. The Shadow told him, "Fine. They'll burn a hole in your rectum, and you'll wear a colostomy bag the rest of your life." This urologist later admitted that he knew little or nothing about proton radiation at the time of his prophecy.

The Quest: Marckini underwent treatment and spent most of his time golfing.

Seizing the Reward: At the end of his treatment, there was no declaration of cure, but he understood that the cancer cells were programmed to die.

The Road Back: As his treatment neared an end, he and six other patients created a secret group, the Brotherhood of the Balloon (BOB) so they could stay in touch. The secret leaked out, and by the time he left for home in Boston, there were 19 members of the group.

Resurrection: His PSA gradually decreased until about a year later it reached its nadir of around 0.5 where it has remained ever since.

Sharing the Elixir: The membership list of BOB now is the size of a metropolitan phone book. BOB serves the tripartite mission of providing after-treatment support, helping others discover proton treatment, and giving back to LLUMC. In 2001, Marckini began writing his book which he published 5 years later. He edits a monthly 20-page newsletter, BOB Tales.

There it is. Again. The Proton Story. The mythic narrative that we each tell with our own nuances and that helps us make sense of this experience. And there again, the Quest proper is the least interesting component of the story. More about that later.

Treatment count: 27 down, 18 to go.

The Myth

I want to get back to the story told by proton patients.

Far more than just a story, the narrative told by my fellow prostate patients and me is a myth. A myth, in the sense I'm using the word, is not a false story but rather a peculiarly true one. Here's a definition: a myth is a story that encapsulates, celebrates, and communicates what a community or culture believes about themselves and the world in which they live. In the words of Christopher Vogler (The Writer's Journey), “A myth . . . is a metaphor for a mystery beyond human comprehension. . . . A myth, in this way of thinking, is not an untruth but a way of reaching profound truth.”

According to Vogler, myths, which have been told since the beginnings of speech, typically utilize several archetypical characters and follow a common story pattern.

Many of the archetypes of myth appear in the Proton Story—the Hero (the patient himself) who must go on a quest to secure an invaluable prize (in this case, his health); the Mentor, an old sage who, like Obi Wan Kanobe or Gandalf, guides the Hero on his quest (in the Proton Story James Slater, the founder of Loma Linda's proton program, or maybe Bob Marckini, author of You Can Beat Prostate Cancer); Allies who assist the Hero (here represented by the proton program staff from receptionists to nutritionist to physicians); and, of course, the Shadow who opposes the Hero and sometimes turns out to be a Shapeshifter who is not always who he seems to be (in this Story, the urologist who seems to be an Ally and perhaps even a Mentor to the Hero until proton treatment is mentioned, at which point he becomes the chief villain).

The mythic story line follows typical stages. It begins in the Ordinary World—the pre-diagnosis world of the Patient. Then a Herald, in the form of a PSA and biopsy, issues the Call to Adventure. The Patient/Hero may at first Resist the Call, assuming as I did, that the surgery offered by the one I took to be my Mentor was the only answer to my dilemma. But then, sometimes introduced by an Ally, the true Mentor (Marckini) appears in the form of his book or ProtonBoB.com or even in person or by telephone. The Patient/Hero now Accepts the Quest for the Elixir (Healing With Quality Of Life Preserved) and faces the First Threshold when the Trickster Shadow urologist throws off his Mentor-healer mask and instead opposes the Hero. Defying the Shadow, the Hero then enters Act II of the story—the Quest Proper—as he undergoes treatment, encounters tests and new Allies, and eventually Seizes the Reward of a clean bill of health. Act III sees the Hero on the Road Back, undergoing periodic tests in the form of PSAs which sometimes threaten him momentarily with "PSA bounce." But in the end, he experiences mythic Resurrection—the experience of Health With Quality of Life Preserved and even greater Wholeness in the form of a new understanding of himself and his world. He goes on to Share the Elixir with others who, like he did in that long-ago Ordinary World, receive the diagnosis and the Call.

This is why the stories told by us patients are so similar—not only because that was our experience, but also because we instinctively narrate our story in the ageless form of the Myth of the Hero. In so doing, we give meaning to what might otherwise be just a chaotic sequence of random experiences.

However, there's a very strange variation in the Proton Story. In the typical mythic story—such as the original Star Wars or the Lord of the Rings, to which I alluded earlier—the suspense and excitement grow and grow until the final showdown near the end of Act II. In stark contrast, in the Proton Story, the real excitement peaks at the end of Act I when the Hero crosses the First Threshold and the Shadow is left behind, never to reappear. The quest itself—the treatment program—is so uneventful and conflict free as to be almost boring. In other words, the Proton Story would make a lousy movie; all the excitement would top out before the film was a third of the way finished.

Like all such variations in typical phenomena, this peculiarity in the Proton Story has its own mysteries to reveal, mysteries that hold deep truths. I have some guesses about those truths. I'll talk about them another time.

By the way, The Balloon, to which I have not referred for some time, figures significantly in the Proton Mythos and Cultus. More about that later, too.

Treatment count: 26 down, 19 to go.

Mt. San Jacinto

Just to prove that my foolishness last week in Joshua Tree National Park wasn't an aberration, I went on a little walk yesterday in Mt. San Jacinto National Monument.

I took the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway to Long Valley (Elev. 8400') and set out for Round Valley where I intended to have lunch. The 2 miles and 560' climb went so fast and easy, I decided to wait on lunch until I reached Wellman Junction. This stretch was 1 mile during which I climbed another 600'—definitely more challenging. Along the way I saw this tree scarred from bucks rubbing their horns on it in the spring.

The view from Wellman was just spectacular—a sea of mountains. I had my lunch and was about to head back when someone said, "May as well go on to the top. Won't be any worse than from Round Valley to here." I think I actually wanted to go to the top from the very beginning, and that little nudge was all it took. I headed up the last leg of the hike.

Along the way I saw many wonders, such as this tree, hollowed out by a lightening strike and still fiercely surviving in spite of its injury. A lesson in there somewhere.

The views were also spectacular—like this one of the desert far below and the mountains beyond.

OK, Mr. "Won't-be-any-worse." It's worse. I'm climbing another 900' in 2+ miles. And my legs have already done 3 miles. And the air is getting thinner and thinner.

But along the way, each bend holds another treat like this collection of rock slabs.

I begin to enquire of hikers coming down, "Much farther?" All assured me I was almost there. Right.

The trail ends about 30 or 40 vertical feet from the top, and so I scrambled up the pile of boulders that caps the mountain. "Scrambled" may not be the right word; it implies a speed and energy I did not exhibit on this last part of the climb.

But finally, there it was! The sign that told me I had made it! "Mt. San Jacinto Peak. Elev. 10,834'." I have to say I was pretty proud of being able to snap a picture of that sign. The guidebooks warned that this hike was "strenuous" and suitable only for "expert hikers." I don't consider myself an expert hiker. But here I was, at age 67, on top of the second highest peak in southern California.

I sat down and finished the food I'd packed.

Then I headed back down.

Going downhill has its own share of challenges. It gets at a different part of the legs, and my toes jammed against the end of my shoes. And boy oh boy was I tired. Those 6 miles going down now seemed almost interminable. I had gone up in stages, realizing all along that, at any point, I could simply stop and go back, but now I had to keep going. Six miles. No choice. I constantly marveled that I had actually hiked up all those footsteps, each one of which now felt like a whole hike of its very own.

Along the way, my cell phone suddenly came alive with Amy's characteristic piano chords. I couldn't believe I could get a signal on top of Mt. San Jacinto. AT&T oughta put it in their ads. Amy was up to her eyebrows in little girls auditioning for the new Coen brothers film she's working on.

I got a good scolding. Again. "Stop doing these huge hikes!" she said. "Act your age! You're scaring me!" Ok. Justly deserved. I may even listen to her this time.

But San Jacinto is only the second highest peak in southern California. Hmmm . . . .