Skip to main content

We Remember Moments

Podcast, "We Remember Moments."

"We don't remember days; we remember moments."

Wrapped in the cozy warmth of a down bag, I'm jolted awake from a deep slumber - nature calls. The rustle of my sleeping bag shatters the silence. The sweet aroma of the mountain air fills the senses, and that ever-present biting cool crisp air on your cheeks!

It's day three of my first wilderness-backpacking trip in the High Sierra Mountains (elevation 10,500 feet), 20 miles southwest of Bishop, California, camped at Dingleberry Lake.

The zipper moans as you free yourself, then the struggle to find your wool sweater, pants, and shoes to stumble into the brisk morning air. Another zipper whines as you quietly crawl to escape the protection of your mountain shelter.

Darkness surrounds you. It's early morning, late summer. It's tranquil, except for the soft gurgle of the trout stream that lulled you to sleep last night. Finally - clear weather, the rains have stopped; millions of stars twinkle like tiny sparkling diamonds against a pitch-black sky.

Orion, the hunter, is visible in the eastern sky; careful inspection, you can see the nebula glow.

Will it rain today? We need to break camp. No rush. Time on the mountain passes at a gentle pace. Has it only been three days? The deluge of rain, sleet, and snow on the high peaks is but a memory now. However, this morning, it's cold, crisp, and clear. Ah, a pristine sky, it looks like we can expect another beautiful day in the High Sierra Mountains.

My camping partner emerges from hibernation; his tent covered with a layer of ice, shaking off the cold, he says in a whisper, "Lets' shoot the sunrise on these peaks that surround our campsite."

We make our way to the edge of the lake, set up the tripod and camera, then sit back and experience the “magic of the mountains” as the morning sun caresses the peaks. Softly the blackness fades away, and the very tip of the mountains begin to glow. What a glorious experience!

This morning is the culmination of an adventure that began Friday, September 9, 2011, with an invitation to join Robert and Brendan on a late summer wilderness expedition.

“I know it’s late notice, but we would love to have you go with us on this trip?” Says Robert.

My response was immediate, "Yes, I'm in!" I was ready. Well, I thought so. Just a few months before, I had purchased a backpack with the anticipation of such a trip. As we began to collect our gear for the trip, I proudly pulled my new backpack from the garage; Brendan's response was immediate, "Not with that tiny pack. We need to share food, cooking gear, a tent, and supplies. We'll stop in Bishop; you can rent a pack."

Simultaneous thoughts began to whirl through my mind; anticipation, confusion, apprehension, what will we need to pack, how much will we carry? Three days, will I be able to pack the necessary load and keep up?

With a reassuring pat on the shoulder, Robert says, "No problem, it's easy - you'll see." So, with that assurance, we set off. We packed the truck to the hilt with equipment, food, and supplies for our weekend adventure in the Sierras'.

Yes, this was a glimpse of my first wilderness mountain adventure – upon reflection, I'm filled with inner peace and a feeling of accomplishment—an experience I'll treasure for a lifetime.

My listening friends, the next time you're presented with the opportunity to backpack the Sierra's with seasoned travelers, don't hesitate, say, "Yes, I'm in!" You, too, will be exhilarated by the experience; we remember moments!

"Won't you be my neighbor?" If you enjoy our weekly visits, please share them with a friend.

This is Patrick Ball; thanks so much for listening. I'll see you in the next episode.

Comments

Anonymous said…
unfortunate lake name

Most Popular of All Time

When Fear Becomes the Default

In this special episode, When Fear Becomes the Default. Early Sunday morning, I was cycling past a small veterans’ pocket park in San Marcos. The air was still, the streets nearly empty. On one corner stood a young woman, alone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: “Be ANGRY. ICE agents are murdering people.” I pedaled past, but the words stayed with me. I knew the context—the footage and headlines from Minneapolis the day before, already ricocheting through the country and hardening opinions. Even in the quiet of the ride, the noise followed. Two miles later, I stopped at a red light. A black car with dark windows pulled up inches from my bike. My heart jumped. My first instinct wasn’t neighbor —it was threat . I found myself bracing, scanning, and wondering if the person inside was angry, armed, or looking for trouble. Then the door opened. A well-dressed young woman stepped out, walked to the trunk, and pulled out a sign that read “Open House.” She turned, smiled brightly, and sa...

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...

Practiced Hands: The 50-Year Warranty

What Doc Burch Taught Me About Staying Active. We talk a lot about "life hacks" these days, but most of them don’t have a very long shelf life. Usually, they’re forgotten by the next app update. But back in 1972, I received a piece of advice that came with a 50-year warranty. It’s the reason I’m still on my bike today, still chasing a golf ball around Carlsbad, and still—mostly—in one piece. The Kick That Changed Everything It started with a literal kick in the pants. A kid at school in Cuba, Illinois, was joking around and caught me just right. By the next morning, my lower back was screaming. My mom didn’t reach for the Tylenol; she reached for her car keys. "Let’s go see Doc Burch," she said. "He’ll fix you right up." Harry E. Burch, D.C., was a fixture in Lewistown. He’d graduated from Palmer College in ’59 and had been our family’s go-to for years. He was a man of practiced hands and steady eyes. After a quick exam and an X-ray, the mood in the room s...

Sweden Called . . . They Said No.

Have you ever wondered about  the Nobel Prize? Let's look at Where Genius Meets “Wait—Where’s My Medal?” Every October, the Nobel Prizes are announced, and humanity pauses to celebrate the "greatest benefit to mankind." And every year, like clockwork, a specific type of person appears online to complain—at length—that they were robbed. (Well, maybe this year more than most.) The Origin: A Legacy of Guilt The prize exists because Alfred Nobel, a Swedish inventor, had a crisis of conscience. Nobel held 355 patents, but he was most famous for inventing dynamite. When a French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary, calling him the " Merchant of Death, " he decided to buy a better legacy. In his 1895 will, he left the bulk of his massive fortune to establish five prizes (Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Literature, and Peace). Because he was Swedish, he entrusted the selection to Swedish institutions, such as the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. The only outlier...