Friendships – Part Two

As a young boy, I discovered that my father’s happy place was his library of mountaineering books, specifically, Mt. Everest and the Himalaya.

When he drank, there would always be a point at which he could not stop. My siblings and I witnessed dozens of horrific recoveries. Sometimes at home, sometimes in the psychiatric ward of a hospital. We couldn’t assist him, I know what helpless is.

My subliminal coping mechanism was to take him to the mountains to a place I believed the demons could not reach him. I visualized him on top of Mt. Everest countless times, always celebrating him there with tears of joy. This is creative visualization, pray believing. At the time, I had no idea I was cultivating an outcome.

Dad passed and was cremated. I made plans to hike to Mt. Everest Base Camp (17,500 ft.) I chose to hike in with the climbers and trekkers using the company, Himalayan Experience.

My goal was to deposit his ashes on a beautiful vista point called Kala Patthar in full view of Everest and the surrounding mountains. My secret goal, however, was to somehow share my story in the hope that someone would offer to take the ashes to the summit. I didn’t know the customs or wanted to burden anyone by asking. I just had faith that something would happen.

On the fourth day, I came around a corner and saw Everest surrounded by the continuous ridgeline that creates the Western Cum. In a breath, I knew I would succeed, I was going to reach my goal. The cathartic episode draped over my trekking poles lasted until I ran out of tears.

At lunch, the eyes of team doctor, Monica, could see I was out of sorts. She told me to slow down and be the last one into our evening camp.

One guide was always the sweeper to ensure all the cows made it to the barn. On this day it was New Zealand guide, Mark Woodward (Woody). We walked side-by-side because the trail allowed it. We talked all afternoon and I shared my story. Woody was used to A type personalities bent on summit glory. I was the little boy, the namesake son, and the fifty-nine-year-old man covering this ground to bury my father. That day, I could see and feel his empathy even through glacier glasses. I knew he was the one that would help me. I was in the moment and presence of something very special: my dreams were real, I was in the correct location on earth, and I was walking with a guide who took clients to the summit every year. In total, he would climb Mt. Everest ten times. The air reeked with rightness.

Five days later, the day the trekkers left Base Camp to return home, I prepared the ashes as I packed my gear. The container was in my pocket and I reached for it when I approached Woody to say goodbye. He said, “How bout I take the ashes to the summit for you, mate?”

This incredible story had to be told. Upon my return, I took writing classes to learn how to craft my first award winning book, My Father’s Keep.

Years later, Kristin and I would visit New Zealand and have dinner with Woody and wife Roche. I told them if they were ever in the States, our door was always open.

In July 2024, they took us up on our offer, we just spent four days feeding them brats and seeing the July 4th fireworks on the lakefront in Sheboygan. They are driving through America across the lower 48 states on a Honda Gold Wing. None of their trips are small. They recently road bicycles around Taiwan. Being their host was a joyful enterprise.

This friendship is as unique as a specialized tool, the one needed to complete a specific task, a task impossible to render without it. Perhaps friendship is the wrong word to describe the childhood visualizations, the pluck it took to get this fifty-nine-year-old into the rarefied air of 17,500 feet, and the trust I felt walking next to Woody.

What Woody did for me wasn’t friendship, the word is, angel-business.