The Power of Belief

There is a lone Engelmann spruce that stands near the bottom of the Hogum Fork drainage in Little Cottonwood Canyon that is often referred to as The Medicine Tree.  Hogum Fork is difficult to reach in winter and perhaps even more so in summer.  But the tree.  She must be hundreds of years old and must be three hundred feet tall.  A few of us tried to join hands around the tree once but couldn't quite reach (possibly because we had our skis on).  But it's easy to stand next to her trunk because the lower forty feet has been pruned of all of her limbs.  She meditates, alone, beneath the 1500' avalanche paths of the Dresden Face, just below the Thunder Ridge.  The Medicine Tree has suffered the onslaught of avalanches for hundreds of years.  And still.   

                                              (photo: Marauders)

Many of us carry a piece of her bark in our pocket, taped to our field book, or glued to our avalanche transceiver.  We Believe that perhaps whatever magic has protected the Medicine Tree will protect us as well.  But it's more than that.  

I carry a piece of the Medicine Tree with me to remember. 

To remember Who Actually Assumes the Risk (if I don't make it back)? 
To remember There is always some Risk and Uncertainty in the Mountains. 
To remember to Pause in order to shift from Instinct to Intention.

Maybe it's no better than a lucky rabbit's foot.  But if a desiccated hare's paw reminds me of what I need to remember, then it has done its job.  (My good friend Kevin has a photo of his toddler girls on the tips of his skis.) 

Years ago, as a young novice in the avalanche world, I gifted my piece of bark to the most venerable avalanche worker in Little Cottonwood Canyon.  He was suffering from throat cancer.  I'm sure he had his own piece of bark.  There was little to say and so I said nothing.   He was free from cancer within months.  Perhaps he believed he would become healthy in the end.  This was over twenty years ago.  I see him from time to time.  

Now this is a hard pivot.  

Two weeks ago, an avalanche colleague in Little Cottonwood Canyon took his own life.  I wonder if he believed in tomorrow.  I wonder if he had a piece of bark with him from the Medicine Tree.  I hope that he has finally found peace.  

                                                 (Kelvin-Helmholtz waves above the Pfeifferhorn)