Mt. Bachelor

I'm lying on my back, staring up at a beautiful, snow-covered mountain. Morning sun falls across the golden snow, and a forest of dark trees, still in shadow, marches towards the glowing mountain. The heavens are an indigo abyss... as my perception draws back, I find myself on a table, staring at a poster on the ceiling, while a grandmotherly technician scans my family business with an ultrasound. The poster's subject is the mountain, and the mountain's name is Mt. Bachelor.

I ask the technician if the poster was a cruel joke.

That was the day before I learned I needed surgery for a mass found on my testicle.

A few weeks ago, I woke up in pain, feeling like I’d been kicked. The pain lasted all day, and gave way to swelling. I checked, and thought I felt something, but I also thought I might be imagining it. Maybe I was just paranoid. I didn’t want to jump the gun. But the pain returned periodically, and I made an appointment for a physical.

At the physical, my doctor had me take urine and blood tests. He said he didn’t think my condition was serious, but he scheduled me for the ultrasound just in case. A few days later, the lab work came back – perfectly healthy, except there were some red blood cells in my urine.

Though the lab results were relieving, I still didn’t want to face the results of the ultrasound. The weekend was beautiful, the first warm, sunny days of spring. I went to my appointment on Monday and then spent the afternoon drinking with Mike at Nick’s Coney Island, watching the hipsters and hippies walk down Hawthorne in summer clothes pulled from their wardrobes for the first time in months. I napped when I got home, and missed the message on my machine.

Dr. Crouse wanted me to call him immediately.

It was too late, so after another round of drinks, I set my alarm for 8:30 am and went to bed. The phone rang at 8. I answered it. It was Dr. Crouse.

“The ultrasound indicates a mass. I’ve made you an appointment with a urologist.”

“When?”

“Today, at 2.”

I thanked him and hung up. There didn’t seem to be much good in getting out of bed.

The urologist’s office called to reschedule for 4. When I arrived at the clinic, I was asked to report to the lab for a urine test. The form was marked STAT in big, red, block letters.

When Dr. Zusman entered the room he asked to examine me. No preamble, really. Very direct, matter of fact. Cold, almost. I laid down on the table and he looked to see if my lymph nodes were swollen. “Do you have family in town?” he asked.

By this time, I’d been poked, probed, and prodded by man, woman, and machine alike. Modesty went the way of the coelacanth many days back. I’d told myself that if things came out worst case, I wanted a doctor that was up-front and didn’t mince words. I got my wish – Dr. Zusman is like that, but when he examined me all I could think was that he was a dick.

He’s not, though. He sat down and adopted his “I have bad news” face. When you’re expecting it, it’s obvious. He had his routine, and I had my tough-guy routine, too. I’d already accepted the diagnosis and I knew what was coming. It sounds easy to say – that I’d made my peace – but I had made my peace, done the research, all indicators pointed to the next step, and when Dr. Zusman recommended surgery, it came as no surprise. We spoke for a while, I signed a consent form and headed down to the lab for a baseline blood test, and then I went to the bar.

On Tuesdays, I play pool at a billiards hall in Hollywood, with two really close friends. I was late arriving. I had to tell them. They were the first to hear about it, and it hasn’t gotten easier informing anyone else. You want your friends to know, but this kind of news is shocking. There’s no way to make it easy on people, and my heart nearly broke seeing the look on Kerri’s face, and hearing Matt blurt out “But you don’t ride a bike!” I’d lived with it for a few weeks; no one else had the chance to catch up.

Part of the problem is that there's no way to determine if this is cancer without removal. Fortunately, removal is the first and best treatment if this turns out to be cancer. And those test results aren’t due back until next Tuesday. I can’t tell people it isn’t a big deal yet. I still have people to call, and each time it’s rough.

None rougher, though, than calling my parents on Tuesday night. Kerri insisted I use her cell phone. I stood in the parking lost in the waning light of day, the first few stars appearing in the darkening sky, and conversed back and forth with my Mom and Dad for half an hour. My mother is a nurse – she can hide her worry behind that. But my father can’t – he can only hide his worry behind care and the macho behaviors and social norms that men are allowed. And maybe those aren’t the healthiest ways to deal with emotion.

I feel like I want to spare the people I care about all the details, but I also want them to know what’s happening. The more information I share, the less friends, family, and coworkers have to worry about. Humor has been really helpful, as have the support of friends I've called upon since the initial decision to perform surgery (and one since the first symptoms). The process was long enough to prepare me for the worst, and so far this isn't the worst. I knew, in a strange, unknowable way, that the first symptoms were serious. I can't explain how I knew that. But I’ve had a chance to live with it for a while. This is one of those things that some people are embarrassed by - patient or otherwise. But it's life, you know? It sucks you-know-what, but it happens. The surgery is minor - an hour or so long, and I come out the same day, half the man I used to be... All jesting aside, it's a simple procedure and after a few days I'll be itching to get out. Those mountain hikes are farther away than my two-week, mandated rest period, though.

On Wednesday morning, the clinic called to tell me my surgery was scheduled for Thursday morning, and I spent the day getting ready to go to my parent’s house. I packed clothes, books to read, went through my bills. I went out with some close friends, but wasn't allowed to drink alcohol. In my mind, I blocked out the surgery, focusing on what I needed to do to prepare, and what I would need afterwards. Thursday morning was a blank spot, and the night seemed the same. I was with my friends, but we all knew what would happen the next morning. We joked about it, I was teased a lot, and it helped distract me. But I can’t say I wasn’t afraid. I got home, washed the dishes, smoked a last cigarette, and went to bed several hours after midnight.

Aladdin's Lamp, by John Freely

In "Aladdin’s Lamp," John Freely tells how Greek science was translated into Arabic, preserved in the schools and texts of the Islamic world, and eventually translated into Latin, helping to spark the European Renaissance. This fascinating culturally important subject deserves both wider recognition and deeper understanding, but unfortunately, "Aladdin’s Lamp" suffers from the sheer scope of its subject and the meticulousness of its author.

"Aladdin’s Lamp" reads like a catalog, presenting the reader with a bewildering amount of information. A randomly chosen and representative page contains six dates; nine names of people, including one in Arabic, one in Greek, and the rest in various romance languages; more than ten subjects of study; and various listings of books (some in Latin) alongside quotes from the Bible and a papal mandate. In such a work, facts float without context to anchor them, and sink from memory.

It isn’t that "Aladdin’s Lamp" fails to make its case. It simply makes its case in too scholarly a fashion. Nevertheless, for the reader who wishes to connect the dots or keep handy a meticulous reference, "Aladdin’s Lamp" will satisfy.

This review originally appeared in the April, 2009 issue of The Sacramento Book Review.

The Ten-Cent Plague, by David Hajdu

In this illuminating history of comic books, David Hajdu examines the cultural forces that led to a mid-century witch-hunt and the near death of an American art-form. Vilified as a source of juvenile delinquency by police and the press, burned in pyres by the church and youth groups, and attacked in congressional hearings and though state and local legislation, comic books and their creators finally fell victim to their publisher’s own attempts to self-regulate content. Not until years later were comics to regain their former range of subject matter, stature, influence, and expression.

Though Hajdu stops short of judging the censors or drawing conclusions about societal effects of the comic-book scare, "The Ten-Cent Plague’s" sympathetic treatment of comic book writers, artists, and editors places the issues of censorship and persecution squarely in the cultural milieu of the 1950s. Hajdu humanizes the faces behind the comics, bringing life to a nearly forgotten chapter of American history that might aptly be titled “Tales from the Crypt.” In doing so, Hajdu allows readers to draw their own conclusions and leaves them hungry for more - and that's not a bad thing.

This review originally appeared in the April, 2009 issue of The Sacramento Book Review.

Mountain Lyin'

Sad to say, the cougar print I thought I found two weeks ago most likely belongs to a far more domestic species in the genus Canis. A handy link made the track identification a little more clear. Some outdoorsman I am.

In the photo (cropped from the photo in the post below), I've drawn a red line to indicate the shape of a cougar's central pad. I'd like to believe that the track belongs to a cougar - the Columbia River Gorge is definitely part of their range - but I'll need to do a bit more hiking to find an authentic print. Excuses, excuses...

Elements of Surprise

Strange things are afoot in the Columbia River Gorge this week.

The Multnomah Falls to Wahkeena Falls loop is a quick, short hike, perfect for spur-of-the-moment excursions and a fairly easy way to get your blood pumping and see some of the best scenery the Gorge has to offer. It starts off crowded, at Multnomah Falls, and climbs past the sightseers and day-trippers through a gorgeous canyon and a nice path through the forest before dropping into the Wahkeena drainage, with two beautiful falls and a great overlook above the Columbia. Add a few connections with other trails and it becomes a jumping-off point for even more exciting hikes. Apparently, the area around this loop attracts far more than just your average day-hiker.

I usually hike this trail in spring or fall, when the weather improves or when the vine and big-leaf maple change colors. It’s too crowded in summer, especially considering all the other hiking options summer offers. Last Monday, a day that was supposed to be cold, overcast, and rainy, a good friend called, woke me up to the nice weather, and put the idea in my head. I grabbed my pack and was on the road within thirty minutes.

Past the top of Multnomah Falls, the trail climbs gradually up the creek, along a steep hillside covered in ferns and moss and cliffs. Sometimes the trail is right next to the creek, rushing past mossy boulders in cataracts and rapids that empty into quiet gravelly pools. Other times the trail is high above the tumbling stream, cut into the canyon wall with views down into the stream-bed and overlooking mossy maples and tall cedars. Snow covered many of these stretches of trail, an old icy snow packed hard by passing boots and covered in places by deadfall and twigs, needles and leaves. All the while the sound of water echoed from the creek and twisted up into the firs manning the slope like sentries guarding the secrets of the canyon, making the steep ascent from the crowds at Multnomah Falls well worth the effort.

I’d left my trekking poles in the truck, much to my chagrin – some of the snow banks were icy and a slip would’ve meant a slide down the hill. The trail was muddy and slick but otherwise passable, though some minor landslides made things interesting just below the intersection with the trail leading to Wahkeena. I waited for a while at the intersection to give two other hikers a little distance, then climbed up the ridge and hiked about half a mile towards the Wahkeena Falls trail. That’s when I saw the clumps of fur.

The fur lay in a small area that extended across the trail and down the slope. The fur was grayish, with darker roots, and I though that maybe a dog or two had gotten in a scuffle. But 20 feet later, as the trail curved around a small ridge leading up to a mossy basalt outcropping, I noticed more fur. Intrigued, I left the trail and followed the clumps up the hillside. The trail curved around about 180 degrees, and on the top of little hill between the curve I found more clumps of hair, clustered around a flat area where a strange green pile lay between deadfall. The green pile looked like horse manure, but horses aren’t allowed on this trail, and even if someone had taken horses up here, there was no other evidence of their presence. The hair lay over this strange green pile, and little depressions on the slope testified to the passing of some animal in the recent past.

What is this mystery? The only plausible solution I can come up with is this unbelievable scenario: the clumps of hair belong to a deer killed by a cougar, and the strange green pile was early-season bear scat, which, when dry, can resemble horse manure. But the odds of finding both a cougar kill-site and bear scat in the same place are astronomical… I continued on up the trail.

At the intersection with the two Wahkeena trails (they join up further down) and the trail to Devil’s Rest, I met the two hikers who’d been in front of me. They were smoking cigarettes and the young woman was trying to figure out where they were from a book that looked to be 20 years old. Since I usually use this intersection as a break-point, I asked if I could join them and I drew a map in the pine needles, recommending the left-hand trail that passes close to Wahkeena Spring. They left, and again I gave them some time before taking the same trail as it descended past the spring and down to Fairy Falls.

I never saw them again.

Just below Fairy Falls, I found an animal print in the muddy trail. Mixed among the many boot-prints were three paw-prints, one very distinct. At first I thought they were from a dog, until I noticed there were no claw marks. Dogs leave claw marks in clearly-defined tracks. Cats, with retractable claws, do not. And the only cat big enough to leave the prints I saw is a cougar:

The weather had been rainy, and I’d heard from other hikers that the trail had been very muddy for two weeks. In the area where I found the prints, the trail was muddy and soft, with many clear boot-prints. Most had washed away, leaving only patterns and shallow depressions in the earth. But these prints were deep, clear, and placed directly over the other prints – clearly, very fresh. And there were no other similar prints along the entire trail – in other words, no obvious dog prints.

I took a few photographs and moved on. Cougars will stalk hikers, and in winter, when food might be a bit scarce, I didn’t want to hang out, especially without trekking poles. Wahkeena canyon is one of those narrow places where a cat might stalk a deer and pounce from above. I didn’t want to be mistaken for a meal.

But I descended without incident the steep switchbacks above the bridge past Wahkeena Falls, and walked through hail along the trail above the historic highway back to my truck.

That was Monday. On Wednesday, I posted a trip report on portlandhikers.org, asking for confirmation on the cougar track. Within a few hours, someone agreed that the print was a cougar, and then someone posted a reply about a body found on the same trail as I’d hiked. I freaked out a little – I never did see that couple again, and that print was fresh… News was scarce – apparently a young man had been found dead just off the Wahkeena trail. But by 11pm, the media reported that the man was dressed in underwear and nothing else. By Thursday, they reported he’d died of hypothermia.

Also on Thursday, someone posted to portlandhikers.org that the strange green pile could very well be bear scat, and someone else reported seeing a deer-kill on the same trail a week before. I also read a news report of a hiker on the Washington side of the Gorge who was beaten, carjacked, and left for dead. A second news report described an apparently delusional man who blocked a side road with his car and tried to elude sheriff’s deputies by climbing to the top of a 40 foot waterfall a few miles west of Multnomah Falls.

I think I’ll take cougars any day. And my trekking poles. No more leaving them in the truck. Snow, large predatory mammals, violent criminals and the mentally unstable – next time, I’ll be better prepared for the wild, wild world of the Columbia River Gorge.