Remember the Breeze

My Mom unexpectedly passed away when I was 9 years old, and my Dad became even more mired in an alcoholic fog, so my grandfather (he liked me to call him “Gramps”) took over in raising me.

I was in a denial fog, certainly normal for a kid, waiting for my Mom to come back home, for about three weeks, but then Gramps took me out to the mountains to tell me she was gone forever. It was probably a tough call for him to even talk to me, but he was doing the best thing for me, and forcing me, in a gentle way, to accept life and death. But the fortunate upshot was that Gramps started taking me with him to this whole new World of Beauty in the rain forests and mountains of the Olympic Peninsula.

I miss Gramps intensely, but I also smile when I think of him always dragging me up the hillsides. He gave me an irreplaceable gift - the knowledge that the beauty and ecosystem of the Olympic Mountains and other wild places can teach us many things about ourselves and our human role on this planet, as well as being a tangible piece of serenity that acts as a buffer to the harsher realities that life can throw at you.

When I came back from Vietnam, and landed at SeaTac airport, I was a somewhat lost 20 year old young man, not really knowing even what to do or how to act, and the culture shock was getting to me already...I had previously landed in Oakland, and was pelted with vegetables there by a protest group. So, I didn't know what the heck to expect at SeaTac. Well....guess what? There was Gramps standing at the concourse with a map in his hands, looking as maniacal as he always looked when in exploring mode! This was the absolute best thing that could have happened for me, as his old demeanor brought back instantly all that was truly important to me. He was almost foaming at the mouth, to actually have his grandson/guinea pig back again to drag up some hillside. And even before we hugged, and even though we hadn't seen each other for 25 months, the first words he said: (I'll never forget the words, I have them written down, and I quote - pardon the swearing): "Larry, dammit, let's get going! Look at this map! I found a really good way to approach those lakes near Mount Anderson. It's kind of steep [sic], but we'll have fun!” The people in the concourse sort of steered clear of this gesticulating, grinning man with the crazy eyes, loaded down with maps, and still wearing his hiking clothes, but I fell into his arms with internal gratitude and pure emotional joy.

He was wise enough to know how to get me back "into the world" again, and to put bad memories of atrocious human violence into their proper perspective. Looking back on his actions, I don't know how anyone could have ever done better than him. He kept me from feeling too sorry for myself, and always gave me a fresh perspective of my feelings. I did have some internal struggles and nightmares for a few years after the war – the commanders at their desks back in Washington DC would not acknowledge that we were sitting ducks in the river patrol boats, and I lost some good fellow comrades. The guilt of surviving was hard to shake off.

My deployment on the river boats was extended from one year to two years just a few days before I was scheduled to go back to America. I was already packed and ready. This was such a shock, I actually went immediately to my knees, trying to catch my breath, just from the despair. The 'reasoning' in the order was that we had already lost a high percentage of men, so there was a lack of trained men capable of running the boats.

I was able to access a communication center across the Mekong Delta, and got a phone patch to Saigon, and thus to my grandfather in Washington State. He gave me a mental lifeline by saying, “Think of the trails and the high country. I love you, and we'll be hiking again before you know it.” The fact that my grandfather was a wise and sober man, able to bring me out of my turmoil, attests to his wisdom and beauty inside. Life has been good, and my initial problems with dealing with the post-stress have been managed well.

Here's an example of the kind of man Gramps was: When I was a pre-teen, we used to lay on our stomachs over the edge of a bank of the Quinault River. This was a perfect way to view frogs, flowers, fish, rocks, etc., and just talk about the various things we saw, but mostly to talk about life. One day when I was just past my 12th birthday, while doing our traditional “stomach observing” I told Gramps how I noticed that the breeze had a certain cold steel, earthy smell. He just grinned and said, “I always wondered when you were going to notice that”, and explained how the glaciers and the vegetation all mixed together to form that earth smell descending from the headwaters. He then said that I was ready to go find that glacier source of the Quinault River, and gave me permission to go solo up to the Anderson Glacier to find that source! It was a turning point for me, and probably for him as well. He knew I was ready for my own adventure, and he already had me well prepared for the three day trip.

From that point forward, we often made many smiling references and jokes about “remember the breeze”, taking us back to those great days of observations and our original conversation. We would peruse the old topographical maps, and plan routes from the rain forest valleys to the high peaks and meadows. The 'old joke' was always, “I wonder if there's a breeze there like the one we shared when you were just a wimpy kid?”

Often times, when we were struggling cross country up a steep hillside for many hours on hot days, and sometimes very cold days, Gramps would turn his head toward me, smiling a maniacal grin, sweat dripping off his nose, and lock his eyes with mine. I won't forget those eyes, glimmering with joy and rimmed with sweat.

I was fortunate enough to be able to accompany Gramps in the hardest hike of all -- his last days of life. We both knew that the inevitable was coming soon. So, he requested The Maps, and I pointed out new mountain meadows and worked out new routes for us during those precious hours. I had assumed he might have been in too much pain and too much medication to really take all of it in. However, I realized that this was just one more ploy by this “maniac” to keep my spirits high…he was requesting the maps more for my own good than for his!

In his final hour, as he was slipping in and out of consciousness, he opened his eyes and gave a nearly imperceptible squeeze to my hand. I bent down low to listen to him. He squeezed harder and said in a croaking whisper, “Remember the breeze”, gently turned his head aside, and then passed on to the great mountain meadows that awaited him.

I often talk to Gramps on my trips to the Olympic Mountains. And yes, the “remember the breeze” conversation does come up…what a truly Noble (capitalized on purpose, of course) man he was.

What a fortunate guy I am…