I'm in the car on my way to Lone Pine. Liam and I just ate our usual Chipotle hack, bowls with double rice, double beans, half and half meat, and tortillas on the side. It's a bit late, 9:40pm, but we got a late start thanks to me. But we are on the road and a mere 12ish hours from hitting the trail. It's still a bit surreal to be back at it again.
It's been a year to the day since Maddie and I walked down to Whitney Portal to meet our good friend, John. I mention this with the heaviest of hearts, as John continues to fight a losing battle with pneumonia and a host of other infections that have capitalized on his compromised immune system. Having suffered from myelofibrosis for some time and depending on a never-ending series of blood transfusions and various drug therapies, John was finally forced to undergo a stem cell transplant in February of this year. Despite a 10 point match, the treatment failed to reap significant gains, and he underwent a second, less strenuous transplant this summer. He always maintained an optimistic outlook when we spoke, and we shared in his spirit. It was only in the last couple of weeks that we were faced with the prospect of this second transplant failing. But we did not have time to react or look ahead to the next step, as he came down with a vicious infection this last Sunday. Within the next couple of days, his pneumonia and fungal infections worsened to the point that we were summoned to bid our farewells on Thursday night, as we prepared for the worst.
Thursday, August 6, 2015 was one of poignant contrasts. In the morning, I woke up, headed to the Hotel Laguna and officiated my best friend's wedding, a memory I will forever cherish. It was a beautiful day and it merits its own post later for all the joy it brought to everyone involved. While the morning festivities brought boundless joy and harmony, the evening wrought nothing but heartache.
Within a couple hours of eating cake and dancing the afternoon away, the entire family and fleet of friends were bound for City of Hope to pay our dear friend John a visit. The doctor's prognosis was poor, and though we distracted ourselves with the joyful happenings of the day, a quiet despair hummed in the background.
We arrived and were allowed to enter two at a time to visit him, donning gloves, a mask, and a gown, and under the assumed identities of his "cousins." Intubated and in a coma, it was a difficult sight to behold. In the hours preceding that moment, the emotions spilled over numerous times, to the point that I was surprised there were any tears left in the tank when we walked into the ICU. I won't belabor the scene before us, the elaborate Christmas tree of drip medications, the restraints, the steady mechanical cadence of the respirator, the occasional grimace on his otherwise peaceful face.
John has not yet left us, but with the most recent update giving him 24-48 hours left and me being stuck on the highway and not wanting to spend it quietly sobbing to myself in the back seat, I'll take this time to reflect on the man and mentor who has come to be one of my best friends.
John has known me my entire life, as his friendship with my parents extends back almost 50 years. I would not presume to know him as well as their remarkably close friend group that remains a shining example of enduring friendship and love. In fact, for many years growing up, I viewed John as my "parents' friend," a friendly face at my birthday parties or family celebrations. Straight-forward, outdoorsy, and almost always with a subtle grin on his face, John never really treated me like a child. In ways this intimidated me, but I almost feel like it facilitated our friendship that blossomed when I got older.
John worked for my mom at her index tab business for as long as I can remember. Her office/warehouse was my playground, exploring the cupboards and shelves of the place, one might easily find as many puzzles and toys as business documents. And you couldn't even begin to count the athletic balls that Ryland and I lost in the warehouse amidst mountains of boxes and underneath the innumerable dusty wooden slats. In retrospect, the risk for serious injury by means of black widows and/or warehouse machinery alone was in all likelihood shockingly high.
Besides the warehouse, my two favorite places in the office were the break room and John's office. The former because of a bevy of treats, from jelly beans I robbed of all the good flavors (tutti frutti is where it's at) to the most delicious potato chips and pretzels I've ever had that came in giant artisanal-looking metal tubs. I didn't even spend that much time in the latter, as I had the sense it was almost taboo to enter his office. I remember it being distinctly uncluttered in comparison to my mother's office. This makes more than enough sense now. While his office lacked the childhood playroom-like allure of the rest of the office, it harbored perhaps the best hidden secret of all: beef jerky. Tucked away on a shelf above his desk was a package of jerky I made a habit of raiding on a shamefully regular basis. It was only later that I came to appreciate his office's minimalistic decor and the little momentos and few photos displayed therein. Ryland and I played to our hearts' content in that office, and John was always a good sport about our undoubtedly counter-productive presence. Again, it was later in life when I came to view the office with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia that I truly appreciated the traces of John's witty humor that pervaded the office. Perhaps even earlier than his outdoorsy-ness, I think my first perception of John was that he was funny--funny in the wise-guy sense, a brand of humor that suited his resting grin. This Thursday was the first time I revealed to him that I stole his beef jerky. I promised him when he got out of the hospital I would take him to Costco to repay my debts.
In high school and to a greater extent in college, as one might expect with maturity and age, I came to appreciate the company, conversations, and insights of those I had always classified as my "parents' friends". They had all shaped me in some way over the years, offering a framework for how I defined friendship and envisioned my own life and comradery in the future. Their experiences became more relatable and my attention span was significantly greater than that of my 5-, 10-, or even 15-year old self.
It seems natural that John, with his steady presence at my mom's office and his regular visits to my mom's other office, most often joined us for dinner, as our family tended to eat out quite a bit. These enjoyable dinners and my growing appreciation for the countless professional photographs framed throughout my mom and dad's offices and home perhaps hinted at our budding friendship as well. What really cemented our bond, though, was my forray into hiking and outdoor activities. I knew from my parents and his photos that he was a nature buff, but it wasn't until my mom suggested I hang out with him and ask him questions that I realized how much I could really learn from him.
Within a short period of time, it became clear to me that years of valuable time and potential tutelage had been lost. I'm pretty sure there wasn't a single visit home from college that didn't consist of a dinner with John or nature walk. He took me to REI to buy my first backpacking equipment, and at the outset of my gap year after college, our nature walks became almost a weekly routine. His wealth of knowledge and experience made each jaunt a series of beautiful learning moments, and it wasn't long before our conversations became much more personal. I vented to him about everything, from my controversial decision to take a gap year to the trivialities of family disputes. His rich history with my parents gave him a deeper understanding of what I felt and helped provide a context for almost all of the peculiar family matters that I experienced growing up. He told me hilarious stories about my parents, and he told me about his adventures and the friendships he made along the way. He took me kayaking in Dana point, and he showed me little pockets of nature in otherwise overdeveloped Orange County. More than anything, John seemed to get me in a way that really no one else did. His steadiness, his logic, his interests, his familiarity, and his humor made him the perfect sounding board for helping me avoid the quarter-life crisis. Grounded. Level-headed. Moral. Humble. Curious. Non-judgmental. These and a hundred other amazing attributes made John one of the most interesting, comfortable friends one could have.
As his disease worsened, opportunities for outdoor exploration dwindled, and soon we were resigned to slow walks around Dana Point's "Baby Beach." This had no bearing on the level of enjoyment we both derived from these walks, but the diminishing activity took its toll on his spirits, though to a much lesser extent than it would have for the average person. For such a textbook pragmatist, John remained incredibly optimistic whenever he updated me on his condition. Self-pity wasn't in his wheel house.
John was one of, if not, the most significant figures of our JMT thruhike last year. His wisdom, advice, and absolutely unwavering support helped make the trip so successful. Though family and friends certainly made the journey possible, only one person never once questioned our ability to complete the hike from the inception of our plan to hike the trail: John. For Maddie, especially, I think it was not just his belief in her ability to complete it, but it was the "duh, of course you'll finish it" manner in which he said it. This likely speaks to his experience and knowledge of us, but to two relatively inexperienced backpackers, this sort of unqualified support was indispensable for the tougher moments on the trail.
And it seemed only fitting that he would be the one to pick us up at the end, arrival sign in hand, like the shepard welcoming home his flock. His condition had progressed to the point that altitude, even at the Portal, posed a bit of a challenge. His mountaineering days were by his own admission, done for now, and I feel like in some ways he was able to live vicariously through our adventures, as he was one of I'm sure a small handful of people who read every word of my blog. I still remember the drive home like it was yesterday, the cooler of goodies he welcomed us with, the epic stop at In N Out, and the regaling of trail life with a veteran. To think that his days of adventures are over, over mountains, through desert, and by sea, is something I just cannot wrap my head around.
I will cherish the night Maddie, John and I got dinner and spent the night exchanging stories and photos of our adventure, and in turn he set up his old school projector and showed us his slides of his own excursions through the Sierras and Idaho wilderness. He made us incredible prints from our journey, and we rejoiced in the memories of nature's boundless comfort. These and so many more memories, sunny Southern California hikes, family dinners, laughter, long phone calls, and even teaching me to drive a moving truck will be how I remember my friend, John.
John has been one of my biggest advocates, a voice of reason to calm my mother and quell my father, a therapist, a mentor, and a loyal friend. The impending loss of such a person is unbearable and the emotion is so raw, I struggle to find the words to write this. I am unsure how I will grapple with my grief on the trail. Indeed the hardest part so far has been having to leave him behind. But my mom assures me I will be taking him with me along the entire journey, to the most beautiful scenes on earth, to the places that embody his spirit and captured his heart. He didn't have children of his own, but his wisdom lives on in me, and I will continue to share it with those fortunate enough to reap its rewards, starting with Liam on this trip of a lifetime. I will continue to hike, to seek adventure, to practice common sense, and to lead a healthy, enriching life, and every step I take will be in his honor. When the going gets tough, I'll keep my head up, if only because John would ask, "what's the point in keeping it down?" In a battle between his cynicism and his optimism, though one was often the heavy favorite, I found the latter to prevail more often than not in matters of counsel.
And so I stood there Thursday night, my medical mask soggy with tears, and bade my friend farewell. I told him many things that night, many of which I've mentioned above--all things I will always wish I could have said to him the week before. We have not had enough time together. I don't want him to miss Jon Stewart's last show. I want him to see Stephen Colbert on tv again and let me know what he thinks. I want to look at more of his slides. I want him to continue reading my blog. I want him to teach me everything he knows about photography. I want to hear the story behind every photograph that decorates his home. I want to tell him about dental school, and the Navy. I want to go on walks, and ride in his ancient VW Orange bug. I just want my friend around.
This post may be revisited and revised as I continue to reflect on how much John means to me. I have every hope in the world that my friend will recover. Every bone of my body aches with desperation that he will make it through this and be in Yosemite to pick me up in a couple weeks. And if he does come out of this coma long enough to read these words, I hope he can then find the strength to carry on, knowing how goddam much he means to us, to his family, his longtime friends, to my brother, to me. I shudder to think about the pain I'm leaving my parents in as we drive hundreds of miles away, unable to comfort them in any way. But as broken as they feel, as we all feel, I know we'll band together in remembrance of one of the best human beings I will ever have the pleasure of knowing, let alone calling my friend. This trip is for you, John.
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