Return to the Imnaha

The recent movie Contagion tells the story of a virus that rapidly spreads around the globe, causing death, widespread panic, and a lot of resulting bad behavior. The movie had a happy ending, of sorts, as a CDC scientist develops a vaccine that halts the spread of the virus. Bad as the scenario depicted in the movie might be, the contagions that afflicted the native inhabitants of the Americas were vastly worse. The book 1491 describes the near annihilation of tribes throughout the continent because they had no immunity to the Europeans' diseases. I can barely imagine the horror and suffering those people endured. And yet, they are voiceless; to my knowledge no Native American record describes the misery visited upon them by the Europeans' diseases.

The the extent the voice of the American Indians is preserved at all, it is found largely in the oral histories of their eventual, inevitable defeat in the wars with the US Army following the Civil War that continued almost to the turn of the 20th Century. I have read the sad stories of the Navahos, the Apaches, the Comanches, the Sioux and other tribes of the Great Plains, and more recently, the story of Chief Joseph and the Nez Perce as told in Kent Nerburn's "Chief Joseph and the Flight of the Nez Perce."

Based largely on the oral histories of the Nez Perce, Nerburn's book tells the heroic and tragic flight of the Nez Perce from their ancestral home in near Wallowa Lake to their eventual capture by the U.S. Army in Northeastern Montana, only 30 miles from the Canadian border. There Joseph is reputed to have said, "I will fight no more forever." Remarkably, his undernourished and lightly armed tribe including women, children and elderly outwitted the US Army for three months in a chase that covered much of Idaho and Montana. The Army succeeded only because the Nez Perce were cold and starving and some of their chiefs believed that they finally were safe and could rest before making the final push into Canada. Unfortunately, the relentless Colonel Miles captured them before they had time to gather enough strength to cross the border.

From the book I learned that the Nez Perce' winter camp was on the lower Imnaha River, 30 miles distant and 2000 feet lower in elevation than their summer home on Wallowa Lake. The lower Imnaha was precisely with the location of my first Boy Scout camp 50 years ago. Reading of the Nez Perce kindled in me the desire to return and see what, if anything, has changed in the remote place where my friends and I camped so long ago. My old friend Art Richards and I have talked of taking a man trip for years. Art readily agreed to my suggestion that we return to the Imnaha, and last Thursday, after weeks of anticipation, we finally departed.

Our original Boy Scout trip to the Imnaha was organized by two Johns - Hopfield and Sundwall. Hopfield was Scoutmaster of our troop in Portland; Sundwall, a friend of Hopfield, was Scoutmaster of a troop in Vancouver, Washington. I somehow was appointed quartermaster for the trip. Together Hopfield and I planned our meals and purchased our food -- a dehydrated product called Kisky's. Sundwall, a contractor, owned a large moving van, in which we 20 or so Scouts, together with our food and gear, traveled the roughly 380 miles from Portland to the Imnaha. I had traveled much of the route with my parents on our annual summer trips to Utah to visit my grandparents, but no Utah trip seemed so endless as that ride in the back of the van, where we passed at least part of the time repeatedly singing "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall."

We traveled the final 50 miles on an unpaved road. The rear door of the van must have been open because I have a distinct memory rugged hills and of herds of deer, so many that the brown hills almost seemed to move. As we drew near our destination, John Sundwall stopped the van, pulled out a rifle, and downed a deer with one shot. That deer became our first meal after we set up camp.

We camped at a bend in the river near the remains of a washed out bridge that hovers over a deep hole in the river. There the canyon widens and flattens out, creating an ideal camp site. We all slept on cots under plastic tarps suspended from a frame of wooden poles lashed together. The cooking area was a short distance from where we slept, folding tables surrounding a stove consisting of a metal plate welded to four stout legs.

The two Johns imposed strict rules, the most fundamental of which was that we were never to go anywhere without a buddy. To assure compliance, they built and posted a sign on a tree near our cooking area listing our names in descending order to the left, and, in a heading above our names, a list of various locations near the camp. To the right of each name was a series of pegs corresponding to the various locations. At all times we were required to place a washer on the peg showing our location. If we failed to comply, we were sentenced in the Johns' nightly kangaroo court to "run the line."

The line consisted of two rows of Scouts armed with switches, which we cut from willow bushes that grew near the river. Each offender had to run barelegged through the line as his fellow Scouts swatted the back of his legs. A Scout could be punished not only for failure to properly mark his location or be with a buddy, but also for such offenses as failure to take a full swing at a Scout running the line or throwing a dead rattlesnake at one of the Johns. It was not uncommon for a Scout to emerge from the line with his legs bleeding and covered with welts. While no one wanted to run the line, the line was in fact a source of high amusement for the both the Johns and we Scouts.

I imagine that a similar trip today could result in prison time for the two Johns. If not the poaching, the child abuse and lack of seat belts in the van would have done them in.

We spent most of our time either fishing or hanging out naked at the swimming hole near our camp. In the ten days we spent on the river, we did not see another person. We all were sunburned in places that never before or since have seen the sun. We hiked one day the 5 miles to the Snake where instead of the usual bass we caught a few catfish in the shadows of the high walls of Hells Canyon. On our hike back several of the Scouts straggled far behind under the watchful eye of a young adult leader who assisted the Johns. Hopfield led the hike while Sundwall stayed behind at camp. While we were away he went deer hunting. We returned to a delicious dinner of fresh venison, corn on the cob and watermelon. Never had food tasted better.

After the first two or three days, the thrill of our adventure had worn off. We frequently talked of home and counted the days till camp ended. Art and I craved Cheerios and bananas, which was in fact my first meal when I returned home.

Aside from the Hells Canyon hike, the single most memorable event on the trip was the night an unfortunate rattlesnake slithered near our camp. The first Scout who saw the snake ran into camp yelling "rattlesnake!!" The rest of us arose as one and ran toward the snake. One of the older Scouts poked at the snake with a stick, causing it to strike. With the snake fully extended, another Scout grabbed the snake by the neck and quickly sliced its head off. We then triumphantly skinned the snake and ate it, each Scout receiving a small morsel.

We were, it seems, a bloodthirsty band, having no more remorse about the dead snake than we did about the fish we caught, the deer Sundwall shot, or the welts and bruises we inflicted on each other.

But we did not lack some kindness for each other. We stuck together in our misery, and, when the Exlax the Johns made us take to keep us regular struck, we accompanied each other to the latrine, even when the need arose in the middle of the night.

After so many years, I longed to see how much had changed and how much my memory of the camp corresponded to reality. Also, having recently read about the Nez Perce, the Imnaha now was of historical interest. I hoped to learn more about where and how the Nez Perce lived and how they evaded the U.S. Army for so long.

Art and I departed on our journey from the Portland airport late Thursday afternoon. We drove immediately to Tad's restaurant on the Sandy River, near the west end of the Columbia River Gorge. There we met my brother Ron, from whom Art managed to coax stories I had never heard, and ate Tad's signature dish, chicken and dumplings. We topped off the main course with marionberry cobbler. After dinner we continued on to Pendleton. There we got rooms at the Travel Lodge, where I would swear I stayed nearly 40 years ago. When I advised the desk clerk of that fact, he informed me that I was wrong. He insisted that the Travel Lodge had formerly been known as the Longhorn, and had only recently changed its name, long after my visit. Oh well, this would not be the last mistake I would make on our trip.

In the morning we visited the Pendleton outlet, where, as Tauni noted, I demonstrated my shopping compulsion by purchasing three wool blankets. I thought they would be great for the cabin or gifts. Her reaction after I presented the blankets upon my return, "Sure, just what we don't need. Wool blankets. Good luck finding someone who would like to receive one as a present."

We next stopped in the town of LeGrande, gateway to Wallowa County. There Art purchased a few of his favorite pocket t-shirts at JC Penney. Meanwhile, I stopped at a neighboring bike shop to inquire where I could find a fly fishing shop. A very helpful and fit looking sales guy asked where I was headed.

Me: "The IM-na-ha River."

Him: "You're not from around here, are you?"

Me: "No. How can you tell?"

Him: "It's the Im-NA-ha River."

Me: "Oh."

So Art and I have been mispronouncing Imnaha for 50 years. Reminded me of what yokels we thought Easterners were when they spoke of the state of Or-e-GONE, rather than OR-e-gun.

Despite the sales guy's efforts to direct me with a map, we couldn't find the LeGrande fly shop. We proceeded to Joseph where we had no trouble locating the Joseph Fly Shop. We chatted awhile with the owner, Rob Lamb, who like the bike shop sales guy got out a map and painstakingly described every fishing hole and landholder on the Imnaha. I purchased a few flies and a net, and further indulged my shopping compulsion by purchasing a Sage sweater and a Joseph Fly Shop ball cap. Lamb was an interesting guy. He explained that he made and lost a lot of money buying and selling land on the Columbia River. Eventually he accumulated enough to purchase 4000 acres near Joseph, where 20 years ago he opened his fly shop. About 10 years ago Lamb led an effort to spruce up Joseph's main street, which now is lined with boutiques and galleries. That didn't endear him to the locals at the time, but I am sure that the cash left behind by the resulting tourists has helped ease their pain.

The entire town of Imnaha

My plan had been to check into the Imnaha River Inn, the B&B where we stayed, have a relaxing evening, drive the next morning downriver to the location of our Scout camp, and then take the 5-mile hike to the Snake River and Hells Canyon. It was not to be. After a brief stop in the town of Inmaha, we drove quickly past the Inn and headed down the canyon to the location of our old Scout camp. Rob Lamb had warned us that the first part of the road was high above the river. He wasn't kidding. The road was not only high but seriously exposed, enough to awake my dormant fear of heights.

High above the River

Along the road we saw a couple of deer, a flock of wild turkeys, and a herd of mountain sheep.

Sheep

After a harrowing 13 mile ride that seemed to last a couple of hours we came to a bridge and there, before our eyes, was the swimming hole and camp site where we spent ten days 50 years ago. We quickly located the the sleeping and cooking areas, the willows, the site where the unfortunate rattlesnake met its demise, the trail to Hells Canyon, and the rocks where we sunned ourselves above the swimming hole. While much was as we remembered, it was jarring to see two canvas tents near the bridge, a truck, tent, 4-wheeler and gear in our old sleeping area, a rather large piece of machinery that looked like a crane, and a large porous cone shaped device in the river that apparently was connected to the crane. Fifty years later, our remote, pristine spot had been discovered. We later were told by our innkeeper that the tents belonged to the Indians (the Nez Perce?) and that they use cone shaped device to count fish. I question that, but there is no doubt of a semi-permanent human presence. A small sign on the bridge announced the Historic Nez Perce Trail. The Nez Perce crossed at or near the bridge and then hiked an ancient trail over a hill westward to the Snake on their flight from the pursuing Army.

After we determined the lay of the land it was time to fish. My good friend Scott Loveless insisted that I could not visit a river like the Imnaha without fly fishing. He outfitted me with a rod and reel, fishing vest, line clipper and hook extractor. I assembled the rod, tied on a fly and began to cast at a quiet hole near the shore. To my surprise, a few small fish immediately surfaced and nibbled at my fly. I continued to cast and the minnows continued to nibble. After an hour or so, it was evident that the fish were in no danger from me, and Art had long since become bored, so we packed our fishing gear and at last embarked back up the canyon for relaxation and dinner at the Inn.

Heading for the Inn

Not only did the return drive seem shorter, but the terror factor disappeared. It helps to be on the mountain rather than the cliff side of the road. We arrived at the Inn just before the appointed dinner hour.

The Imnaha River Inn

The owners, Nick and Sandy, welcomed us to the Inn. After they showed us our rooms, I joined Nick on the deck behind the Inn, where he barbequed pork chops on the grill. After years as a homebuilder in the Portland area, he spent two years building the Inn. He and Sandy opened it to guests to raise the funds needed to realize their dream of living in paradise. Thanks to the crash of the real estate market, Nick's plans to build homes in Wallowa County came to naught. He has nonetheless managed to find work where he can and, even with a dwindling number of visitors, he and Sandy have survived. Rob Lamb warned us against discussing politics in Imnaha. Nick was good natured enough as he described his plight, but the combination of high unemployment and government policy discouraging anything but green jobs in Wallowa County have resulted in very strong feelings.

At dinner we discussed, among other things, fishing, hunting and family. Steelhead currently are running and Chinook salmon spawn in the river early in the summer. Nick told of 40+ pound salmon being pulled from the river near the Inn. He complained of a dwindling deer population due to reintroduction of wolves in the area. Dwindling or not, we saw a lot of deer in two days, though not near as many as I remember 50 years ago. I asked Nick for a recommendation for a mountain bike ride. He advised that with hunting season opening the next day I should avoid most roads. He pulled out a map and showed me a the location of nearby Trail Creek Road, which was closed to hunting because it traversed land owned by the Nature Conservancy, and recommended I give it a try.

After dinner Art lectured me on the virtues of Richie Havens and open D guitar tuning. He then demonstrated. Notwithstanding Art's explanation of chord structures, I failed in my attempt to figure out how to play "I Will," and so went to bed.

After a hearty breakfast of French toast, bacon, fruit and juice, we set out for a mountain bike ride on Trail Creek Road. After a bit of haggling, we agreed that Art would meet me at the top of the road at a place Nick described as the Zumwalt Plateau. This was not smart, because I had no idea of the distance or elevation gain. Nor did I allow for the possibility of mechanical failure. It took me about 30 seconds to fall while trying to change gears. In so doing, I managed to bend the rear derailleur hanger. Consequently, the chain wouldn't stay in gear in the rear sprocket. Loose dirt and rocks on the road surface made for poor traction, and a flat front tire added another degree of difficulty. The benign flat road at the beginning of the ride soon became far more challenging, rising to what I would estimate was a 4-6% grade. All of which meant that after riding for a very short distance I gave up and started to walk.

Trail Creek Road

I started riding at 9:30. By 1030 I thought that boredom would have caused Art to come looking for me. By 1130 I wondered if Art had found the road to Joseph and driven into town. I debated whether to ride the bike back down the mountain, but concluded that if I did I might never find Art. As I walked I imagined the each successive curve in the road would lead me out of the canyon and onto the high plateau where Art would be waiting. But as the road climbed I entered ever denser forest and found no end to the steep canyon walls that framed the road. I finally shouted Art's name into the silent forest, not expecting him to hear me but hoping for a telepathic connection. At last, around 12:30, I saw Art's SUV in the distance. I was both relieved and happy to see him.

I told Art it was my bad for not communicating a better plan for keeping in touch during my ride. I added that I was flattered he thought I could ride so far on that steep, slippery road. He replied, "I was glad it was you out there and not me. It was bad enough driving." He added that it had never occurred to him that equipment failure could be a problem. That hadn't really crossed my mind either, and I should have known better. Turned out Art had lost track of time while photographing an abandoned two-holer outhouse he spotted at the top of a hill.

The Two-Holer

We drove to Wallowa Lake, and then spent the balance of the afternoon more or less where I began, thinking about the Nez Perce. At the north end of Wallowa Lake, there is a memorial of sorts covering several acres of ground that is sacred to the Nez Perce. A trail meanders through meadows to a pond.

Sacred Indian Pond

From the pond the trail proceeds to a small graveyard at the top of a hill overlooking the lake. There Chief Joseph is buried.

Joseph's Grave

In town there is a small gallery of historic photos dedicated to the Nez Perce. A fundraising effort is underway to purchase and restore land to the tribe. The Nez Perce have owned no land near Wallowa Lake since they were driven out in 1877. If nothing else, it is easy to understand the fierce attachment of both the Indians and white settlers to the rugged and beautiful Wallowa country and how their competing cultures could never peacefully coexist.

As for Art and me, the next morning we drove a few miles back down the canyon to get one final look at the Imnaha. I would love to return to hike and fish, and show this magical place to my children and grandchildren.

Art

I returned a place that has a powerful hold on my memory. However lovely it is, it is of interest mainly because I experienced it then and now with one of the truest friends of my life. The Wallowa is sacred to the Nez Perce because it was home to a people. The Imnaha is sacred to me because it is a place of friendship.

Unfinished business

Nearly 20 years ago, I did one of the best training runs of my life with my then law partners Bob Henderson and Brent Stephens, and Brent's wife, Leslie. We ran from the Stephens' house in Midvale to Sugarhouse Park and back, a distance of 20 miles. We did the run in about 2 hours and 40 minutes - 8 minute mile pace. We made one stop at a convenience store after we had run about 8 miles. I was starving for calories, and so I bought and quickly devoured Ding Dongs, to Brent's horror. To my considerable amusement, Brent talked for miles about how disgusted he was with my food choice. Brent's opinion notwithstanding, the Ding Dongs energized me. It was one of those rare runs where I felt as though I could go forever, and in my memory, at least, I was sad when we finally reached Brent's house.

I did many more runs with Brent, somewhat fewer with Bob, but that was my only run with Leslie. Brent was not an easy person to get to know. He was difficult to approach, and seemed to hide wells of pain of which he gave only hints. Over the years, he seemed to become increasingly angry at the world, and became a trial for his law partners. But we shared a lot with each other on our runs. We occupied neighboring offices and talked briefly almost daily. Brent was a voracious reader, though at the time I doubt that much of our reading overlapped. Whatever his demons, he had a good heart, a great sense of humor, and I deeply valued his friendship.

Eventually, after I took on two large antitrust cases, I sought Brent's help. He had the ability to write extraordinarily well, and his take on legal problems was unique. For a long time I thought Brent was one of the many lawyers who litigate to the brink of trial and then settle for fear of the court room. As we worked more together I learned that Brent actually seemed to savor conflict, perhaps because it provided an outlet for his anger, or, more likely, because he simply enjoyed the sport of outwitting his opposition.

As years passed, Brent gained weight, and started coming to work late in the morning smelling of alcohol. HIs drinking became serious enough that the firm undertook an intervention. He spent a week in detox and then returned to work. To my surprise, he joined AA, rapidly lost weight, and became steadfast in his avoidance of alcohol. It was after he joined AA that we discussed his belief in God. He was a lapsed Mormon, but he accepted that there was a higher power and rigorously followed AA's 12 step program, including from my vantage a willing surrender to that higher power.

I wasn't near as close to Bob, who was known both in the legal and ultra running worlds as "Mad Dog," but I mostly enjoyed his company, pacing him at least one year during one of his many Wasatch 100 endurance runs. Bob became a legend in the Utah ultra community for his consistency, longevity and intelligence in managing pace, nutrition and hydration during those demanding runs. Bob typically ran in a plain undershirt and torn Patagonia shorts. He would trail well behind the leaders at the initial checkpoint at 20 miles on Bountiful Peak, but his discipline and experience always served him well and it was rare that he did not close on the hares at the race wore on. One year he finished in excruciating pain, thinking himself a wimp because the pain bothered him so much. He was relieved to discover he had a serious muscle tear, vitiating his fear that he had become soft. The year I paced him we started in Lamb's Canyon and climbed to the summit of what he called Bareass Pass. During our climb it was dark and slippery. It had been hot during the day and many runners were struggling, unable to eat or drink, and thus being forced to drop out. Bob, as usual, seemed to get stronger as he went, shouting "I am so angry!" before asking, "What do we like?" He then answered his own question, "Coffee black, heuvos rancheros." The glories of heuvos thus imprinted on my brain, I learned to cook them at home, and for years rarely passed them up in a restaurant.

Leslie I never knew well, but later came to learn that she, like Brent, had a deep love of literature and was an extraordinary friend to a remarkable group of women.

About a year after Brent joined AA, he and Leslie went for a Sunday morning run. Near Hillcrest High School they ran on a sidewalk paralleling the road. As they reached a sharp left turn in the road, a driver loaded with a combination of alcohol and speed was unable to make the turn, drove over the curb to the sidewalk and plowed directly into Leslie, killing her instantly. The driver ran from his car. Brent chased him town. I somehow got the news quickly and joined Brent and a few other friends at a vigil at his house that afternoon.

Brent asked me to offer the benediction at Leslie's funeral, which I considered a great honor. Leslie's running friends were the speakers and it was from them I learned what a good and remarkable person she had been. A few days later Brent told me he went to AA on Monday, the day after Leslie's death. The group leader, not knowing what had happened, announced that the subject of the day was gratitude, and asked Brent to speak first. Brent told the group he was thankful for the AA organization. Without it, he said, he would have killed himself a year earlier, and if not then, would have done it the day Leslie died.

Brent remarried a woman half his age a couple years after Leslie died. She had a child who Brent adored. He adopted her, and then he and his wife had another daughter of their own. Sadly, however, his new wife also turned out to be an alcoholic. I recall Brent telling me she joined AA. By then I had left the firm and saw Brent rarely, but it was always a joy when I did. His birthday was May 5, Cinqo de Mayo, and I always tried to call that day. I heard of escalating conflicts with the firm that lead to the firm asking him to take a leave of absence, which became permanent. After his exit from the firm I called and asked what he was doing. "Trying to stay sober," he replied. Turned out he failed. As I came to understand, his drinking increased, and his wife eventually obtained a restraining order to keep him away from his children. Then, not long after a Thanksgiving holiday, I received word from one of my partners that he had been found dead in his kitchen. It was said he choked on a piece of turkey. I heard there was vodka on the kitchen table, though I don't know whether that is true. Whether he choked or not, I believe Brent was a victim of alcoholism.

After Brent died, Bob's troubled marriage came to an end. One thing lead to another, and in the turmoil of the divorce circumstances came to light that lead to Bob's ouster from the firm. Bob had always been one of the most productive, hardest working lawyers in the firm, but he was never happy. After he left, he dumped his insurance defense practice and became a mediator. To the surprise of many, he excelled, largely because for all his flaws he had a powerful understanding of human nature and the good judgment to know when to fold 'em and when to hold 'em. Though we never ran together again after I left the firm in January of 2000, I periodically saw him on the street. He was invariably happy to see me and seemingly happy with his life. Leaving the firm freed him from his anger at conduct of his partners that he could not abide. He was rumored to have engaged in affairs with one or more women. The last time I saw him he was with a woman whose company he appeared to be enjoying immensely.

Not long after I last saw him I heard he had been hospitalized with an incurable brain disease, some form, I just heard, of mad cow disease. At age 63, he was training for his 20th (or so) Wasatch 100. He continued to train till it was no longer possible and then was hospitalized with no hope of recovery. Many friends visited him and all reported his joy at their visits. To my shame, I did not. I was traveling a lot at the time, and the time I learned of his illness to his death was no more than a couple weeks. I was unable to attend his funeral, but heard it was a bawdy affair, fitting I suppose.

It has now been 2 or 3 years since the death of the last of my three friends with whom I enjoyed that great run to Sugarhouse Park. I think about that not infrequently and wonder why I am the survivor and not any of them. We were roughly the same age. They are gone and I am here, still healthy, the winner of the tontine.

After leaving Snow Christensen, the firm where I met Brent and Bob, I joined Linux Networx, a supercomputer manufacturer, eventually to become a short-lived CEO. During that precarious period, I inherited Scott Loveless of the firm now known as Parr Brown Gee & Loveless, as outside corporate counsel. Scott and I worked on financing deals together. Because my legal experience had been largely limited to litigation, Scott became an important mentor and teacher, my responsibilities seemingly touching on legal matters daily. After a year at Linux Networx, it appeared the company would either be acquired or be forced to declare bankruptcy. Scott recruited me to join his firm, which I had long considered the best in Utah. I gratefully accepted his invitation. At first, I simply occupied an office, but expected that eventually I would join the firm as a partner when Linux Networx ran out its string.

I had great experiences at Linux Networx. I learned of a whole new world and made wonderful friends, among them Bernard Daines, who sacrificed millions of dollars in an effort to make the company succeed and who gave me the opportunity to serve as CEO. Unfortunately, after Bernard and I met with over 100 VCs we were unable to make a deal. Bernard, in the meantime had replaced me with himself as CEO while allowing me to retain the title of president. Our management styles varied greatly; indeed they hardly could have been more different. Clashes between us were inevitable. In one of my dumber, though honest, moves I told Bernard that if he were smart he would fire me. I didn't want to give up the dream of building a good, if not great, company but I had come to the realization that the dream was unlikely to be realized at Linux Networx and that, even if it were, there wasn't a good place for me as long as Bernard was CEO. When I received word from a potential investor, our last best hope for a deal, that they had decided to pass I called Bernard with the news. He walked into my office the following morning - I believe it was a Thursday - and told me my last day would be the following Wednesday. No ceremony, no severance. I had, fortunately, decided I was done anyway, and obtained a partnership offer at Parr Brown, orchestrated by my friend Scott Loveless. So I walked out the door at Linux Networx on Wednesday and in the door at Parr Brown on Thursday. And, true to our friendship, Bernard followed me to Parr Brown as a client, easing my transition by providing me a lot of legal work.

I have had my ups and downs at Parr Brown. It is a very conservative firm, built on principles of democracy, egalitarianism, and hourly billings. Ironically, I was hired in no small part because of my fame as one of the co-lead counsel in the landmark antitrust case of Caldera v. Microsoft, in which my firm received a contingent fee of $21 million. I think Scott and others hoped I could recreate the magic at Parr Brown. My first forays into new cases proved to be colossal failures and after about 4 years I wondered how much more patience the firm would have. About that time, a good friend, Jim Parkinson, introduced me to a group of San Diego lawyers representing victims of the 2007 San Diego wildfires. After a couple reshuffles of the lawyer deck, I ended up partnered with two small San Diego County firms. Collectively we represent over 160 separate claims. Although I was always confident that the case would pay off, the firm's investment period corresponded with the worst economy since the great depression and many in the firm wanted to dump the case. A part of me hoped it would because I would then be justified in leaving and taking the case on myself. After much scrutiny the firm decided to keep the case and so I stayed. We have now settled less than half our cases, and the return has exceed everyone's expectations. So for the moment I am a hero of sorts. As usual, Scott has been there for me, persuading the firm last year to give me the biggest single year raise in its history (which followed a couple years of demotions). I am, therefore, hugely indebted to Scott for his taking me under his wing, first giving me the opportunity to be part of what had been for years my dream firm and later making sure that the firm treated me as fairly as its system would allow.

Beyond all that, Scott has been an enjoyable companion. We have not become as close perhaps as either of us would have liked, but I still have valued our frequent morning or afternoon chats about the events of the day. More recently we have talked often about how long we would continue working and of our respective desires to provide well for our families. Just two weeks ago, given the volatile and uncertain financial markets, Scott told me he expected he would work till he is 70 (he is now 62), a four year increase from his previous plan to work to 66.

All that changed this past week, however. On Tuesday Scott send an email to many in the firm advising he has been diagnosed with incurable cancer, which began in his colon and now, despite six months of chemotherapy, has spread throughout his abdominal cavity. He advised he intends to embark on an aggressive course of chemotherapy, with the prospect of losing his hair, in hopes of stretching his life for two years and maybe more. The first signs seem unpromising but it is impossible to know how he will respond to treatment. My father was given two years to live twenty years ago, but his cancer responded well to treatment and he remains cancer free, his mental faculties intact, but with mobility close to nil.

Seeing my former law and running partners Bob and Brent go was sobering enough. The prospect of losing Scott, who had been the guardian of Parr Brown's culture and its moral center, is even more daunting. Pick your metaphor -- third act, fourth quarter, final inning, 11th hour, Winter -- anyway you slice it I have, in Bill Clinton's phrase, far more yesterdays than tomorrows. I feel sudden, increased urgency to get the most of those tomorrows.

I am inspired by the words of Steve Jobs in his famous Stanford commencement speech:

"No one wants to die. Even people who want to go to heaven don't want to die to get there. And yet death is the destination we all share. No one has ever escaped it. And that is as it should be, because Death is very likely the single best invention of Life. It is Life's change agent. It clears out the old to make way for the new. Right now the new is you, but someday not too long from now, you will gradually become the old and be cleared away. Sorry to be so dramatic, but it is quite true.

"Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary."

It is time to consider unfinished business. What do I need to accomplish in whatever time I have? My first priority ought to be my family, and some of the time, though not often enough, it is. That is Tauni's sole priority, friends excepted, and she does a world class job of maintaining relationships not only with each of our children but tending to and building friendships with our grandchildren. She talks to them all almost daily, often many times a day. I talk to my kids weekly, mostly, and my grandkids probably less, though I rarely miss a family gathering. I took oldest grandson Carter to a football game Friday night - BYU v. Central Florida - thinking all the while of how much my few outings with my grandfather meant to me, enough so that he remains perhaps the great role model and hero of my life.

I think next of friends. On the one hand I feel as though I am blessed with many. On the other, it is but a handful to whom I am really close. This includes brothers. These friendships require constant cultivation and I can only try to keep tending to them. More later on this, but next week I return to the site of my first Boy Scout camp fifty years ago with one of my oldest and most enduring friends.

Much of this blog has been devoted to fitness and that remains a huge part of my life. Recovery from my hip injury has not been easy and for a long time I wondered whether walking without a significant hitch in my gait would be possible. Today I rode 65 miles and, though tired, I came away from the ride with minimal limp. My goal to ride 109 miles in El Tour de Tucson in November is realistic and I expect to achieve it. I hope to follow that with a ride of the entire Ragnar Florida Keys route, contingent on my persuading friend Dee Benson to finally make that trip. My trip to the Keys to support Dan and his All Bikes No Vans team earlier this year was one of my best experiences ever. Now I hope to repeat the experience.

I want to continue to create, to finish the two books I have begun to write. I hope to write histories of our family. I want my children and grandchildren to understand something of the lives that made their lives possible. I need to visit and interview my German cousin with whom I have corresponded since my mission. It would be tragic if I did not learn more of her and her family before it is too late. My departure from Ragnar two years ago remains a crushing, though necessary, disappointment. Perhaps if I had behaved differently the outcome could have been different. But given who I was I did the best I could at the time, even if that best wasn't very good. That said, having left Ragnar, I still hope for some form of association, and to create new ventures involving the outdoor sports world that has brought me so much joy.

I plan to continue to read widely and to learn. I believe and love the concept of eternal progression, and intend to continue to progress so long as I am sentient.

I am so thankful I have healed as quickly and well as I have. The ability to move is a joy and a blessing, and it seems almost central to every other blessing. If I can discipline the physical, the mental and spiritual follow. It seems I need to take care of the animal before I can bring out the best of my humanity.

There is so much I wish to do and now it seems every day is a gift I do not dare squander for fear of failing to reach what potential I have left. Bob, Brent, Leslie, and perhaps soon, Scott, have left or will leave too soon. The circumstances of death or fatal illness occur randomly and unpredictably. As were my friends, I am part of the old that must soon be cleared away to make way for the new. I must live productively and happily, and now, if I am to finish the business for which I was sent, I must follow my heart and my intuition. In doing so I must tell my story, which is part of my unfinished business. And I must move quickly, for I do not know what time remains.

Broken Hip

In a gathering shortly after the beginning of my second year of law school, several of my classmates shared how they had spent their summer vacations. One of my classmates explained that he had spent the summer training with the US Army, intending, as I recall, to embark upon graduation with a career as an officer. During a training exercise, however, he fell and broke his hip. This injury derailed his plans, as he was unable to complete the summer program. He concluded that the injury was the Lord's way of telling him he should not have an Army career. He now understood that he must look for something that would be more accommodating to the demands of his large family.

After the meeting, a close friend, who shall remain nameless, joked that, with most people a "still, small voice" would do. In the case of my classmate, who apparently was hearing impaired, the Lord found it necessary to issue the command: "Break his hip!"

That phrase may or may not have occurred to me when my father broke his hip last summer. Dad was, in his eyes (and maybe mine as well) indestructible until he was about my current age (62), at which time severe arteriosclerosis necessitated life-saving quintuple bypass surgery. After that, he never quite had the same spring in his step. As I recall, he retired from full-time insurance sales shortly after his surgery. Though Dad was always very busy and continued to serve a few clients for many years (and maybe still does), he became, for the first time in my eyes, an old man following his surgery. He still continued to pursue his interests -- golf, adding up long columns of numbers, yelling at the TV when watching sporting events, fulfilling church assignments, and spending time with family and friends on a scheduled basis, preferably with several days advance notice. But I no longer recall him bounding out of bed at 5:30AM, playing racket ball at the YMCA, jogging regularly, or needling his boys to excess as had been his practice while we were growing up.

About six years later he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. When diagnosed, the cancer had spread through his bones and was considered untreatable by surgery, chemo or radiation. The doctors had one remaining silver bullet that often gives prostate cancer patients a reprieve, but seldom a complete cure. Prostate cancer tumors feed on testosterone; if testosterone is eliminated from the system the cancer starves, at least temporarily. Dad opted for surgical treatment on his doctors' promise that, if successful, he might live another 3-5 years. As hoped, the tumors shrunk, and he soon Dad was cancer free. What Dad had no reasonable reason to expect, but what has happened, is that he has remained cancer free for 19 years and counting.

But, as with Hercules, the gods threw more labors in Dad's path. Somewhere around age 75 it became evident that Dad suffered from a balance disorder. His brain could no longer make the vast number of calculations required to process changes in ground surface and direct his feet where to go while maintaining balance. Dad learned to shuffle along on smooth surfaces, but uneven ground slowed him and, too often, grounded him. As fate would have it, Dad's primary contact with uneven ground came at one of his favorite places, the golf course. Now, even with a cart, a round of golf became a peril, the mere survival of which without injury was an achievement. One of Dad's first fractures occurred when he stubbornly refused to give up for lost a ball that he hit into a ravine. Unable to judge the surface, he lost his balance, fell and broke his arm. This was but one in a series of increasingly debilitating falls and fractures, from which we learned that Dad also suffered from severe osteoporosis. Besides breaking arms, elbows and wrists. Dad had a penchant for stress fractures to his foot. It seemed, after awhile, that there was seldom a time when he was without a cast or a bandage. Eventually he grudgingly accepted that he could not walk without a walker to aid him in maintaining his balance.

Early last summer Dad fell yet again, fracturing his shoulder. This was the most serious of the fractures he had suffered, not only because the cumulation of falls had drained him of a lot of strength, but because the shoulder fracture deprived him of an upper limb that was essential to supporting his body and maintaining any semblance of balance. As a family, we wondered if this signaled the end of life without constant nursing care. While deliberating how we might deal with that possibility, my brother Ron and his wife Karen volunteered to move in with Mom and Dad for long enough to nurse him back to health. (Mom wasn't exactly the picture of health either, having had two knee replacements and a recent early stage cancer diagnosis).

Not long after Ron and Karen moved in, while shuffling along with his walker in his kitchen, Dad apparently blacked out momentarily and fell. This time he broke the big one, his hip. Hip fractures often signal the end with elderly patients, and it surely appeared that Dad would be no exception. I recall gathering in his hospital room a few days after the fall. Dad is always impeccably groomed, and on this day he was anything but. He seemed so frail that even raising an arm taxed the limits of his strength. He seemed uncharacteristically downcast, and I wondered if his seemingly inexhaustible will to live was finally spent. Within a few days, however, he had set his goals for reaching physical milestones, had regained his color and immaculate appearance, and was focused on one thing, home. This time my sister Katie and husband Steve volunteered to move in with my parents. This arrangement provided the economic relief Steve and Katie needed while offering my parents the nursing care my parents required. Remarkably, after a few weeks stay in the rehab ward, Dad, once again, achieved his goal. He returned home.

Since that return, his forays outside his home are few and well monitored. He still attends church and the occasional family function. Mostly, he sits in his recliner with book or remote control in had. His involvement in sports now is limited to the morning paper and yelling at the TV, but the constant variety and drama of athletic competition still gives Dad a reason to get up in the morning. As for Mom, she accepts her caretaker role, and seems anxious only when separated from Dad for more than a very few hours.

I have observed Dad accept his condition with minimal complaint. My visits are too few, but when I see him he always seems in good spirits and appreciative of the small amount of time I spend with him. I have wondered if I could endure his labors anywhere near as well.

And then it happened. I have been working out for months, lost 30 pounds, recently completed the Salt Lake Century bicycle tour with son-in-law Blake, and am possibly the strongest I have ever been. On June 10, while at a Boot Camp session under direction of a trainer, on a day focused on core exercises, I choose first to work on a balance board, my least favorite core exercise. As I shifted my weight on the board, I overcompensated, the board flew out from under me, and I landed hard on my right hip. I couldn't move my right leg at all, and knew immediately I had hurt myself badly. The trainer told me afterward to me he heard a pop, though I remember hearing nothing.

The Farmington fire department paramedics arrived first. One of them broke a needle trying to start an IV in my left arm. They couldn't move me and called for help. The Davis County paramedics showed up next, large no nonsense guys who had undoubtedly seen far worse injuries than mine. The largest of them, who probably goes about 6'4", 275 lbs, grabbed my right arm and without fanfare jammed a needle in one of my forearm veins. Despite my whimpering, the Farmington and Davis County guys circled me, counted to three, and lifted me onto a gurney. I directed them to take me to Lakeview Hospital, which has the virtues of being the closest hospital to my home, and have a wonderful orthopedics staff and my brother-in-law Rand Kerr as CEO.

I arrived moderately sedated with morphine, enough that I was slipping in and out of a dream state, what Tauni in her more direct way called hallucinating. I had a few years earlier visited the orthopedist on call, Josh Hickman, for diagnosis regarding my sore hips. He told me I had moderately advanced osteoarthritis in both hips and would be a candidate for hip replacement once the discomfort got bad enough that I couldn't stand it anymore. I had learned the Dr. Hickman is an outstanding surgeon and was thrilled to learn that he would be providing my care.

Before seeing Dr. Hickman, however, I needed an x-ray. After all the attention I received that morning, it seemed odd when I was wheeled into an x-ray room with but one technician. I told him I hoped he didn't plan to move me off the gurney. He assured me that was unnecessary. He took the first x-ray with me laying on my side in the fetal position I had occupied all morning. The second x-ray, he told me, required that I roll onto my back. Though his tone indicated he would not mess with me, I told him that would not be possible. He told me that unless I rolled to my back, he could not take the x-ray. He told me to roll my shoulders back and the hip would follow. I rolled my shoulders but could not find the strength to roll my hip. He finally told me he was going to pull up on my sheet and flip me to my back. My brain was too addled to evaluate whether this was a good idea. Before I could process it I felt the sheet lifting and I flopped to my back. The pain of the maneuver, surprisingly, was less than I expected. I felt much more comfortable on my back than in the fetal position.

The only surprise from the hip x-ray was that my hip was merely fractured, not dislocated. Actually, from the x ray it appeared there were several fractures at the femoral neck, where the main femur bone joins the femoral head that fits into the pelvic socket. Dr. Hickman finally arrived around 1:30 or 2:00, bursting with energy and enthusiasm. He announced that my injury was just "bad luck." He said the location of the break precluded a hip replacement, but that he could repair the fracture with a rod that would run the length of the upper femur and pin that would attach the femoral head. As is always a wonder with surgery, there seemed to be no passage of time between the visit of Dr. Hickman and the anesthesiologist and my revival in the recovery room following surgery. I recovered a reasonable semblance of consciousness quickly, and soon found myself in my room surrounded by family. I have no memory of that evening, other than that I remained sufficiently drugged that my comments coming in and out of dreams, visions or hallucinations kept everyone wildly amused.

Given my workload and related travel plans, the injury could hardly have come at a more inopportune time. My first post-op reaction was almost relief that I would have some reprieve from all the travel and work. I finally went to the office on Thursday, six days after the injury. One secretary told me I was "white," another that I looked "grey," and there seemed be staff consensus that I was foolish to be there. They collectively did their best to run me out of the office and back to bed. The lawyers' reactions were appropriately sympathetic, but none of them commented on my color or seemed dismayed at my presence. After all, that's what we do, show up too soon and work.

Lawyer work ethic aside, I mostly rested the next three days. I did take one short field trip. I rode with my son-in-law and most of his team up to Exchange 6 of the Ragnar Wasatch Back in Liberty, which my sister manages. Trying to walk with crutches across the uneven ground of Liberty Park was not pleasant, nor was sitting in a fold up chair watching healthy and energized runners walk by. It was a relief when my daughter Mari called for help. She needed to drop off her cousin Kelsey and get to Oakley stat. Kelsey's mother Joeen, who was helping Katie, handled the crisis perfectly. She told Mari to drop Kelsey off at a McDonald's in Ogden and that we would head down to pick her up immediately. Thus ended my one great weekend adventure. I spent the next two days reading and watching Rory McIlroy's thrilling victory at the US Open, occasionally scouring the Internet for the latest NBA draft rumors.

I had a mound of work at home, and began to dig at it in earnest Monday morning, putting in a full day. My home care physical therapist showed up in the afternoon and put me through a round of exercises. Tauni was very concerned about my level of pain meds, so I called Dr. Hickman's nurse, and with her guidance came up with a plan to wean myself off them. I believe that, where drugs are concerned, I have a very non-addictive personality. I am not highly reactive and have never had difficulty dropping them following prior surgeries. Nonetheless, Monday night, after skipping the usual dose of oxycontin, I had transformed from a combination of Dopey, Sleepy and Happy to just plain Grumpy. When Tauni made the not-unreasonable comment that if I needed drugs for pain I should take them but if I needed them for sleep I should not, I hollered "I don't know what I need," gathered my stuff and stomped off to try to sleep in Brandt's bed, feeling sorry for myself for the first time.

It proved to be a painful night, and I awoke discouraged, impatient for the remaining recovery time to end, particularly to be able to walk without aid of crutches. I thought about Dad and his multiple fractures, who spent a combined six weeks of hospitalization last summer for his fractured shoulder and hip, and even upon discharge couldn't shower, dress or use a toilet without assistance, who even now can only move slowly with aid of a walker, and spends most of his days seated in his recliner. I thought of all the selfless care he has received from my mother, my sisters and my brothers. Each of them has sacrificed time and personal comfort to see to his. I thought about pain, about those who must face it day after day, no end in sight. I wondered how they manage. Where so much of my joy has come from getting stronger, fitter and faster, I wondered how I could face a life where those things are no longer possible. I remembered laughing about the Lord's command to "break his hip." I don't imagine the Lord told anyone to break mine, but I recognize my need to learn from this very hard dose of reality.

It is one thing be sanguine about the training benefits of pain - just enough to know your body is getting fitter but not so much as to signal injury. It is quite another to be sanguine about the pain that follows injury or that comes with disease, pain that tells you something is terribly wrong after the wrong has occurred, that seems to have no purpose but to sap your will to live. There is nothing to be done with that pain, other than to learn to endure it, and hope that the pain ultimately sweetens, rather than embitters. I credit my parents for their patience and endurance. I can't but admire my once invincible Dad still setting goals, making plans, finding little things that bring him small doses of joy each day, small bursts of sunlight through the storm. I think of Oscar Wilde's line: "There is no Mystery so great as Misery.'"

Admittedly, my small misery ain't much in the scheme of things. I am thankful for the health and strength I have enjoyed. But I am in the third act of my life, and, as in many things, my parents by their examples, have shown me that, even though I will recover, that recovery will last only for a season, which I must cherish. When that season ends, I will look to them for the courage, faith and patience I will need to endure with grace. And meanwhile, I hope to return some of the graces given to me while I have been in pain.