Passing the Torch

Mark referred to his young sons as the ‘cubs.’ That fit. As a seasoned alpinist who had once ascended Ama Dablam, climbing the final summit pitches solo, he had adopted the shy and elusive Central Asian snow leopard as his spirit animal. That day in June, just five years ago, his sons Chase and Tyler were eleven and thirteen. Nonetheless, the ‘cubs’ moniker still seemed right as they rapidly ascended the steep and rocky trail on Bandera Mountain, both quiet, nimble, and quick.

We had come for the Beargrass super bloom and the expansive alpine views. The creamy white blossoms blanketed the steep alpine meadows but the day was densely foggy and offered no vistas. The Beargrass was magnificent, but the gray shroud of mist dampened our spirits. We sat on the summit of Little Bandera and ate our snacks in silence. While the cubs seemed to enjoy the hike, it was hard for me to gauge their enthusiasm for more. They too seemed shy and elusive.

Our next adventure took us even higher to cowboy camp under a clear night sky with brilliant starlight and a robust meteor shower, the famed Perseids, streaking overhead. Tyler had a previous commitment but Chase, now a year older, accompanied his dad as we trudged up the trail to the Granite Mountain Lookout. Mark and I had heavy packs, me with ten pounds of camera gear, and Mark with all the fixings for a gourmet camp meal, his savory smoked chicken sausage stew. I knew our hike would be a grind as I had been there many times before with a lighter day pack. Even then, it was always an ass-kicker. We arrived, feeling spent. The strenuous effort was soon forgotten as we settled in, made camp among the summit boulders, wolfed down dinner, and waited for the light show.

Chase explored the jumbled granite world of the spacious summit, energetically jumping from boulder to boulder and sometimes turning back with a smile. His enthusiasm was contagious. As the light departed the day, we added layers, and the cold and starry night enveloped us. Mark and Chase laid back on their sleeping pads perched on granite boulder recliners as I manned the camera in my first attempt at capturing the Galactic Core of the Milky Way. It soared above us as it arched over the eastern shoulder of Mount Rainier to the south. The fire lookout tower framed it on the other side making the dramatic composition I had envisioned. Once finally satisfied, we snuggled into our sleeping bags and looked up at the ancient lights of countless stars. We felt the wonder of it all as we drifted into dreams.

The next day dawned a brilliant golden orange as the sun crept over the eastern peaks. I took a few more panoramas in the saffron light before breakfast. We ate silently, all remembering the night. With some regret, we packed and departed. As we descended the rocky trail, we encountered over a hundred Saturday hikers coming up. It would be crowded at the lookout today, but last night we had it all to ourselves. As we headed toward the trailhead I briefly thought of Tyler and wished that he had been able to join us as the whole experience, which I called the “Granite Mountain Galaxy Quest” had been pure magic. Of course, there would be other future hikes to share. So, I thought.

But in 2020 there were none. COVID-19 held court and I hiked solo, discovering my aloneness.

Last year, I finally resumed hiking with Mark, and the cubs, soon to no longer be known as the cubs. We embarked on two epic adventures, the first a failure and the second a success. Mark had long wanted to return to the Picket Range and climb Luna Peak. Since we were in the business of helping each other realize our alpine dreams I quickly embraced his vision. It became mine as well through the process of planning each section of the journey. One thing was clear from the outset. It would not be easy.

Our mission to Luna Peak was to experience the ethereal summit views of the dramatic surrounding peaks of the Northern and Southern Pickets. Instead of a quick trip, we decided to take five days. I called our schedule the Luna Peak SKT (slowest known time). We'd hike to Luna Camp on day one, ascend to Access Creek Camp on day two, summit Luna Peak and return to the high camp on day three, descend from Access Creek Camp back to Luna Camp on day four, and hike out on day five. It was a good plan. It seemed easy and doable from my desk at home. But like so many mountain adventures in the North Cascades, the plan did not survive the second day. It simply blew up.

We left my house at the crack of dawn and drove to the Marblemount Ranger Station to pick up our pre-reserved Luna Camp permit. We arrived around 8:00 a.m. to find a host of hikers milling about, waiting for walkup permits. It was a ‘please take a number’ situation, literally. So, I took a number and waited. The time cushion from our early start was evaporating. We had a 9:45 a.m. water taxi reservation at Ross Lake.

When we got to the Marblemount Ranger Station permit desk the ranger asked if we had ice axes and helmets. We did not. The young ranger frowned. GPS and/or locator beacons? No. Another frown. Bear cans or bags? Yes. Finally, a smile. Had we bushwhacked before? Why yes, we had. Another smile. Did we bring blue bags? No. Another frown. So, the ranger gave us enough for our party of four for two nights at Access Creek Camp. I assured the ranger that we had long mountaineering experience and would not do anything stupid. She smiled and handed me our permit. The process was impressively thorough but chewed up more time than I had anticipated.

We left intent on hauling ass from Marblemount to the Ross Lake parking lot. It would not be as we had imagined. At mile 134, we encountered three separate road crews working on repaving. Why now, I thought. Good weather, of course. Three stop-and-wait situations occurred, all with a slow drive following the lead truck through each of the one-lane sections. More time evaporating. A nail-biter. We finally got to the Ross Lake parking lot and found what looked like the last available space. We shouldered our packs and sped down the one-mile trail to the lakeside dock.

The boat finally showed up at 10:00 a.m. We loaded our packs and climbed in. With 250 horsepower, the water taxis again hauling buns, the first of the day. A feeling of exuberance enveloped us all as we sped towards the Big Beaver dock. We exchanged broad smiles. The trip to Big Beaver Camp and the start of the Big Beaver Trail took only 10 minutes. We disembarked, took a group photo, and started up the trail.

That Wednesday and Thursday were forecast to be around 90 degrees so we wanted to make time in the morning before the day really heated up. Fortunately, the early part of the day was reasonably cool. The plan was to continuously hydrate and eat snacks during a single push on the 10 miles to Luna Camp. As we hiked the long approach toward Luna Camp, the day grew measurably hotter and the last miles to camp were brutal, even with relatively light 35 lb. packs. We perspired mightily as pesky bugs swirled around us. The ‘cubs’ took it all in stride.

Once at the Luna Camp signpost, we descended the spur trail to find two tent campsites and a single campsite for horse campers, all spread far apart from each other. We picked one, pitched our tents, and settled in. The local bugs arrived on cue and tormented us as we tried to relax and make dinner. Even so, the insect’s attacks could have been way worse. And, the air was still and without rain, a blessing The camp toilet location was well signed. An open-topped wood box looked out over a forested area thick with fallen timber, truly a room with a view. The nearby water source was a free-flowing creek with a shallow pool which we used to wash and cool our sweaty bodies. We ate dinner quietly, anticipating the next day, bound to be even more difficult.

We planned to rise early, get on the trail, and find the brushy backcountry route that left the Big Beaver Trail and descended to the water crossing. Once across the swiftly flowing water, we would ascend the intermittent climber’s trail on the north side of Access Creek which would lead us up to the open basin near the headwaters to Access Creek Camp, the area from which we would finally see the cathedral-like silhouette of Luna Peak. The second day’s objective looked like about 4 miles and 1,600 ft. of elevation difference. We expected to travel slowly as there was no established, well-signed route from the Big Beaver Trail. It traveled through the brush, and an obstacle course of fallen trees, to the shoreline of Big Beaver Creek. And once there we might find a friendly log to cross, or not. And if not, we must wade. A successful crossing depended on the right log and/or a wadable section. While it was still the approach, it stood out as the crux section of the whole trip. The crux appearing on the approach was not that unusual in the Pickets.

That morning we headed up the trail, cautiously confident that we would be successful. After all, we had many years of mountaineering experience among us and had read all the beta that we could find from Peakbagger.com, SummitPost.com, and WTA.org. Most reports suggested heading 1.5 miles up the camp marker and then plunging into the brush and making your way down to the water. The problem was that the dense brush was composed of small confers, Devil’s Club, and a continuous thicket of large fallen conifers, a practically impenetrable mess. Once there, a shoreline search for a crossing would occur. Some travelers reported finding convenient logs or wading reasonable sections, while others searched for hours to find a way to cross. The situation was always changing. Whatever we expected, it would be different.

We had met a couple of departing climbers on day one who had successfully completed their ascent of Luna Peak. As we suspected, they confirmed the presence of negligible snow and no need for an ice axe. They suggested leaving the trail at 1.1 miles up from Luna Camp. They also mentioned a faint trail near a fallen tree. I did not burden them with more questions as they seemed in a hurry to depart. I noted later that I should have asked them to describe the fallen tree so that I might distinguish it from the hundreds of others. What fallen tree?

We hiked much further than 1.5 miles on the main trail and yet found no indication of any climber’s trail to the water crossing. So, we backtracked and tried crossing through the brush at the 1.5-mile mark. It was an arduous undertaking and so distant from the creek that we turned around and went back to the Big Beaver Trail. We hiked down and tried again at 1.1 miles, without success. The cubs made several recons and while I worried about them when they were out of sight, they always returned. They had found no accessible crossing. Those unsuccessful forays into the brush and thick debris of fallen trees sapped our collective energy.

We headed back to a point where we could finally see the distant creek. It was less than a mile from Luna Camp. Now, even more bereft of confidence, we decided to make another quick recon, leaving our packs by the trail, and making an unencumbered bushwhack to the creek. Once there, a steep bluff overlooked the shore. We noted a crossable log and another two upstream that were higher above the water and narrower in diameter. The creek was flowing fast and deep enough to negate wading. We sat and meditated just watching the swift water and forest thicket ahead. Now what?

We had burned up more miles and time than reasonable to get to the water. But worse, the flailing effort had seriously eroded our confidence. Mark said, “So, we get to the other side. Then what?” Our failure to navigate this one short section had germinated significant seeds of doubt that we would do any better on the other side. After some consideration, we found that none of us wanted to hike back up to get our packs, thrash back down through the brush, cross the log, hike into more brush, and get completely fouled up, and completely lost. Or worse. I had already fallen backward off a large log during an earlier traverse. Fortunately, without injury, but could we count on that going forward? I had a map and compass, but there was not a GPS among us, so, we were a bit light on precision tools for navigating the brush with any confidence. Our motivation now depleted and with no universal agreement to proceed, we bagged our quest.

Were Mark and I disappointed? Hell yes! And, we were completely dumbfounded that we had not easily found the right path and crossed the creek. That had never happened to us before. We trudged back and settled in at camp and had dinner with the mosquitos and black flies, our penance. At least we had plenty of wine. Mark and I briefly grumbled about the day as we ate, yet we looked forward. The cubs wisely stayed silent. Always resilient, we conjured up a consolation plan. We would hike out, catch a water taxi, and head to the Thornton Lakes Trailhead, hike in, and summit Trappers Peak. We so needed to seize victory from the jaws of defeat. Yes, that would help us feel better. Absolutely!

The next day we hiked out, just missing a drop-off water taxi by 20 minutes. After waiting for three hours, the taxi finally showed up again at 4:00 pm and we sped back, a light rain now splattering on the windshield. After 10 miles on the Big Beaver Trail, we were not looking forward to that last uphill mile from the dock to the parking lot. The ‘cubs’ took the entire arduous effort, failed attempt, and retreat, quite well. I heard not one complaint or disparaging word from either of them. Even our defeat seemed an adventure to them. I noted that and was impressed with their graceful composure.

We trudged up, loaded the car, and drove away to search the nearby campgrounds for an overnight tent camp. All were full. It was Friday evening after all. Nuts! We left the North Cascades, returning to home base after a brief stop at the ‘Burger Barn’ in Darrington. As we wolfed down the savory burgers and fries, we resolved to come back, not for Luna Peak, but to summit Trappers Peak. The magnificent summit hosted sensational views of the Southern Pickets, vistas not to be missed. As we drove back, I reflected that there are thousands of these failure and redemption stories in the North Cascades. Our story was only one of many, and yet uniquely ours.

After our self-perceived ignominious defeat on the Luna Peak quest, we had to come back. If we could not gaze in wonderment at the spiky spires of the Southern Pickets from the north side, perhaps we could view them from the south side. Our earlier solution, to summit Trappers Peak and look north still held promise, a simple plan that renewed our hopes for a successful venture. Visions of granite peaks enveloped us as we envisioned not only the Southern Pickets, but also Mt. Triumph and Mt. Despair, and the three Thornton Lakes, all tiered in ascending rocky alpine bowls.

The trailhead to Trappers Peak is a long drive from the Seattle area for a day hike. I had done it before but did not look forward to that approach. Perhaps we could camp at Thornton Lakes and summit on day two? Fortunately, we could not get a Thornton Lake camp permit which led to a much better solution. We scored the single remaining available reservation for a walk-in tent camp at Newhalem Campground. It was perfect! A gift. Easy car camping and the Thornton Lake Road, the trailhead access road, was only minutes away.

We set our tents, settled in at the campsite picnic table, and carbo-loaded with Mark’s spaghetti with meatballs and a tasty Argentine Malbec. And, wonder of wonders, very few bugs! After dinner, we pulled out various maps and planned future trips. Our mood was auspicious. Our energy was renewed. The route tomorrow would require no bushwhacking. We slept that night with summit dreams.

The air was cool and the hike along the decommissioned forest road went quickly. After the second mile, the trail got down to business, ascending about 1,850 feet in the roughly 2.35 additional miles to the trail split post for Thornton Lake and Trappers Peak. I reflected that just looking at the stats does not adequately convey the difficulty. The woodland terrain is a veritable rock and root fest. The kind of trail where you spend a lot of time looking down, both ascending and descending. After another picturesque creek crossing at about 3.75 miles, just prior to the National Park signpost, there was an opportunity to filter more water as the trail up to Trappers Peak soon emerged into full sun and would get baking hot. A subsequent signpost announced the trail split to either Trappers Peak or Thornton Lake (the lower of the three) at 4.55 miles and 5,050 ft. elevation. We continued up.

Ascending Trappers took another roughly 0.8 miles from that signpost and 900 plus feet of additional elevation gain. Again, the stats minimaxed the effort, some of our ascent on an easy-to-follow trail with intermittent sections of steep scrambling. The crux scrambling section came at about 5,350 ft. The steep rock pitched upward against a granite wall on the left. The route narrowed into a chimney-like formation. Fortunately, there were several sturdy tree limbs on the right, easily available to grab onto. Always faster than me (I was carrying the heavy camera gear), Mark and his sons had waited above the chimney. As I prepared to climb it, Tyler descended and offered to assist by taking my pack. I had not considered needing his help as I had climbed this section on a previous attempt, but I thought accepting his kind offer was a good idea. He shouldered my pack and we both resumed. Mark later hefted my pack and declared. “It’s heavy.” Tyler replied, “But it’s comfortable.” What a guy!

Once past the crux, there were still a couple of steep sections with some exposure. One a short traverse along a narrow granite rib with considerable exposure on both sides. Highly motivated, we all watched our feet, ignoring the exposure, crossed the rib, and continued to the summit. On arriving at the top, we were exhilarated to witness a magnificent panorama of spiky peaks surrounding our summit. Drifting clouds alternately obscured and revealed each one. A dynamic visual alpine opera drifted before us. The rugged panorama held us speechless. I thought of my favorite superlatives. They all applied. And then some. Simply jaw-droppingly beautiful!

As I set up my tripod to shoot photographic images to make spherical panoramas, I noticed the weather was changing. I had pictured an array of clouds to provide visual structure but there were far more than I had envisioned, the sun at moments peeking through and at other times obscured by the enveloping clouds. It was yet another situation where I realized that I could not art direct nature. I accepted the gift of the present and moved forward. The summit peaks of the Southern Pickets were shrouded by the drifting white mist, yet the east face of Mt. Triumph jutted proudly before us. Upper Thornton Lake, ensconced in a steep granite bowl, still had ice on the surface. Completely entranced, we stayed, snacking, exploring, and photographing for an hour and a half before heading down. None of us wanted to leave.

But before our departure, I asked for everyone’s attention as I stood before Tyler and Chase and unfolded two sheets of paper. I read from them, addressing each individually, and inducted them into the Analogue Mountaineering Alpine Club, a society that I founded three years prior to honor the alpine accomplishments of old mountain companions. That day at our Colchuck Lake camp I inducted five founding members, all old farts, myself included. It was both a humorous send-up and a serious acknowledgment of our long friendship and shared mountain quests. I felt the summit of Trappers Peak was the appropriate place to induct two new members and that day Tyler and Chase became the youngest. Each received a document of their induction with the club crest and motto. Their ascent that day was no small accomplishment, one that I thought worthy of recognition. As I read, I was pleased by their satisfaction in that symbolic moment.

Our journey to the top was more physically challenging than the numbers suggested, a 10.6-mile round trip with 3,500 feet of cumulative elevation gain. On our way back to the trailhead Tyler approached me and said that he hoped to still be active in the mountains when he was 74. That of course was my age at the time. I was both surprised and touched by his comment. Both Tyler and Chase loved Trapper’s Peak, vowing to return someday to share it with friends. You cannot beat that for an endorsement.

I had become charmed by Mark’s sons, so capable and yet quiet and acutely observant, always evaluating, learning, and moving forward. I had seen Mark’s videos of their athletic prowess on the basketball court and was amazed at their virtuosity. Their speed, stealth, and dance-like movements routinely outwitted their taller opponents. Most notable was their keen intelligence, and their openness to learning new things. I thought it was due to their acute powers of observation. It was no surprise that they were superb outdoor athletes as well. Another year passed.

This year, Mark seemed determined to summit The Brothers, the higher south peak, Mount Edward. Since he lives on a bay that overlooks the Olympic peninsula, he gazes at the twin peaks every day, and that fed his obsession. Having climbed The Brothers in his youth, Mark now longed to share the summit with his sons. He invited me to accompany him to recon the climb before inviting Tyler and Chase. At first, I eagerly agreed to join him. However, after researching the route and terrain, I declined. It looked like too much unsavory territory to cover in quest of a summit, both on the approach and the climb itself. I called him and said so.

“My dear friend, I really want to do this for you, but I really don’t want to do it for me.” I waited a beat for his response. He understood and let me off the hook. Relieved, I thought no more of it until I had returned from a recent solo ascent of Mount Defiance and received a text from Mark. He and the boys were heading up to do The Brothers. I paused in thought and then wished them luck and a safe climb.

During the days of their climb, I waited and worried. Though they were all very fit, I thought the physical nature of the objective would push them to the limit. And, it did. The hike up and past Lena Lake through the Valley of the Silent Men to the climber’s high camp was a deceptively routine event if you overlooked the sometimes-challenging route-finding and an active hornet’s nest right on the trail before the high camp. They reached the climber’s camp after 6.5 miles and 2,500 feet of elevation gain and settled in for the night. So far so good.

They broke camp at 7:00 a.m., traveling light. Unfortunately, the summit day was an unseasonably hot one, one that would exact a price. They soon encountered another trailside hornet’s nest, followed by a steep and arduous ascent through rough terrain, and up loose rock with route-finding issues thrown in. They climbed higher as a relentless sun beat down. To his surprise, Mark’s hamstrings both suddenly seized up very near the summit, only 500 vertical feet away. To his consternation, he discovered he could not climb any further. Tyler and Chase conferred with Mark and a decision was made. The brothers continued up while their dad waited and worried. After an hour and a half of fretful anxiety, he looked up to see Chase energetically waving from the summit. The cubs had made it! It was no small feat as another group of seasoned mountaineers had missed the final key to the summit, a narrow chimney, and had abandoned close to the top. Mark felt both pride in their accomplishment and yet significant concern for their safe descent.

The upper slopes were steep loose and ripe for a fall. As Mark watched, he could have imagined his navigating it for himself. It was not comfortable. When his sons finally rejoined him, his relief was palpable. They carefully made their way down the balance of the steep scree. Finally, near the camp, they again encountered the upper hornet’s nest. Although passing the nest with care, Chase still received two stings and ran like a bandit down the trail as the determined insects pursued him. Once back at camp they rested briefly, packed, and departed. They soon braved a thicket of Devil’s Club to circumvent the lower hornet’s nest. It was a tossup, stinging nettles, or stinging hornets. A no-win situation. Nevertheless, they soldiered on down those last interminable miles of trail to the car, arriving completely thrashed.

It was only later that the boys shared with Mark that they were at times scared during their ascent and descent. They had undoubtedly approached their limit, but with their youthful stamina, athletic capabilities, and perceptual intelligence, succeeded where others had failed. When Mark later called to tell me their story, I listened thoughtfully said I was relieved by their safe return, and joked with him that this trip was indeed an epic beatdown, true Type 3 Fun. No small accomplishment. He agreed.

As I reflect on Mark, his sons, my recent time with them, and their alpine accomplishments I realize that our adventures with Tyler and Chase in the mountains have been a form of mentorship. It is sometimes a subtle thing as we pass on our experience both by the projects we undertake, how we plan, the decisions we make, and what we achieve in the alpine, and yes, also our missteps, our outright mistakes, and how we handle them. Nothing is hidden, everything is revealed. It is for the young alpine acolytes a meaningful coming of age.

I am now far older than when I embarked on my first alpine quests and so must temper my ambitions with the stark reality of my age and physical limitations. I think about that for my older companions as well. I joke with Mark that we must heed our personal ARC, ‘Alpine Reality Check.’ The way it is when we sense that our alpine time is limited and we mentally prepare to leave the stage. As for Tyler and Chase, while they have a decent alpine foundation, they are just getting started, and their future is bright. When I think of them and the symbolism and fire of mountain dreams, I like to feel that in some meaningful way, I have played a part in passing that torch.

PS: I took my tripod and captured multiple images to create some 360 spherical panoramas on the summit of both Granite Mountain and Trapper’s Peak. Here are links to two. I find the images mesmerizing and I think you will too. They are available for viewing at 360Cities.net via the links below. For the most immersive experience, click on the ‘Toggle Fullscreen’ icon in the panel in the upper right of the onscreen image. Then scroll to savor the views.

Granite Mountain Dawn Patrol: https://www.360cities.net/image/granite-mountain-dawn-patrol-alpine-lakes-wilderness-washington-state-usa

Trapper’s Peak, Summit Vista: https://www.360cities.net/image/trappers-peak-summit-vista-north-cascades-national-park-wa-state

Photo credits to Mark Valdez for the shot of me on Trappers Peak and his sons on The Brothers.

Cairn Kickers

Last year, I joined the Washington Hikers and Climbers Facebook group as it sounded fun. That was before I realized the group was overrun with selfie-takers who mostly favored hiking Mailbox Peak, Colchuck Lake, and The Enchantments. Anyhow, I thought some of my alpine ink and pencil sketches might be of interest and submitted a few. I particularly liked one of a cairn on the ridge above Maple Pass. I found the form striking. I was taken by the sculptural quality of it and the way key rocks pointed due north. I submitted my pencil sketch and was denied by the group administrator. He complimented my drawing but stated that they discouraged rock stacking and so he would not approve and post it. End of story.

What? Rock stacking? I had not thought much about it before that judgment as I had never in my wilderness travels encountered a collection of numerous decorative stacked rocks, like the ones in photos posted by the cairn haters. They seem to be abundant in places like Yosemite but not in the Cascades. In Washington’s mountains, I have mostly encountered only single cairns, some more dramatic than others. As a former architect and designer, I could usually appreciate the drama of a well-built cairn, er…, a well-built stack of rocks.

I have recently noticed significant editorial pushback against rock stacking and a clarion call to knock them all over. According to those who endorse kicking cairns, a decorative stack of rocks is the mark of human disturbance, and a visual distraction amongst untouched nature, which should be knocked down. They also state that the practice disturbs the soil and disrupts the habitat of small creatures that call them home. A recent news article from the Yosemite Park Service encourages hikers to stop building large rock towers and dismantle any they find. A Facebook group called Cairn Kickers International (Major League Cairn Kickers) states: “Cairns are a blight upon the Earth. Help us cull the herd.”

So, what sets the various types of cairns apart? What is the determinant of what is worthy and what is disruptive and not worthy? It is generally agreed that the most useful and appropriate application for rock cairns is to provide a navigational aid, to guide a hiker up a sometimes-indistinct trail, or to find the branch in an elusive unmaintained climber’s trail. Sounds reasonable to me as I have found those types useful. In fact, I might prefer them to the fluorescent surveyor's tape I recently encountered on the aggravating upper sections of the Rachel Lake Trail.

The steep, loose, and rocky route up from Colchuck Lake to Aasgard Pass is a prime example of an indistinct trail as it occasionally branches into meandering braids and sections where it is easy to get off route and into even steeper, more treacherous, terrain. There are occasional navigational cairns and rock stacks, which many hikers might find useful for guidance. But even on the path to Aasgard, the discernment between useful and ornamental gets tricky. If the cairn is not big enough to be noticed it serves no navigational purpose. If it is too big it may be judged decorative and offensive, a desecration of the natural world. So, where do we draw the line? What gets kicked over and what does not? My photo shows a larger-than-average cairn partway up to the pass. Should it be knocked over or left to guide?

The minuscule trail markers for Alta Mountain and Dirty Harry’s Museum trails are good examples of the more modest trailside rock piles that alert you to the trail branch that you will want to take toward your objective. Otherwise, you might easily hike right on by and find yourself later backtracking to find the turn-off. They are only small piles and clearly not decorative. Do they deserve to be kicked and scattered?

When we summited Alta Mountain back in 2021 there was a large rock cairn at the rocky summit. I liked it for its visual drama and the fact that we could see it far down the long ridgeline as we ascended. It was navigationally functional as it let us know exactly where the summit was and how much further we had to travel. We sat next to it as we had our alpine lunch and admired the distant views. I photographed it and later sketched it.

While I did not critically evaluate it at the time, I thought it deserved to stand. In reading recent WTA trip reports I noted with some disappointment that it has since been knocked over. I question the utility and wisdom of that action as it seems yet another disturbance with no value added. And who gets to decide? Who is the arbiter of what should stand and what should fall?

When I see photos of a veritable rock garden of a large group of cairns, a clearly excessive display of rock stacking, I can agree that they should not be there and warrant knocking over. Perhaps a single vertical rock stack on the rocky slopes surrounding an isolated lake in Gothic Basin is more decorative than navigational and should arguably be dismantled. But who decides? A former hiking partner told me that for years he routinely knocked over every cairn that he came across before finally acknowledging to himself that perhaps some provided navigational value and should be left as is. He has long since left the judgment game behind and now just passes by the mountain cairns he encounters.

But what about the single stacks of rocks on barren, rocky terrain that are both directional and decorative? I think back again to Gothic Basin in October of 2018. When hiking across a series of expansive, fractured rock aprons, I came across a carefully balanced stack of rocks about four feet high. To my eye, it stood out but not in a bad way. Was it navigational, decorative, or both? I could not tell, but I liked it. I set up my tripod and took photographic images to create a spherical panorama with the cairn as a foreground focal point. You can see it here. Gothic Basin Near Gothic Pass: https://www.360cities.net/image/gothic-basin-near-gothic-pass-north-cascades-wa-state-1

And, later, during our departure from Gothic Basin, I encountered two smaller artfully balanced rock cairns, one with three rocks and the other with only two. We descended past them on our way back to the main trail as we left the basin for the long hike back to the trailhead. Again, were these rock creations navigational, decorative, or both? They seemed both and I liked them enough to photograph the pair and later sketch them. Did their presence subtract from my wilderness experience? Not in the slightest as I deemed them a rare discovery and useful as they validated our path. 

So, I have been dancing around this issue for way too long. What is my takeaway anyway? It seems that any cluster of cairns, or rock stacks if you will, are highly suspect, especially if they serve no directional purpose. If they have no raison d’etre, gently knock them down. Scatter their components in an artful fashion as if they never were. If they are singular and point the way, warn of cliff precipices, or signal a waypoint, or a significant terminus. Leave them be. If they are stunning in their artfulness, you have now arrived at the point where you should make a considered decision. If you are in your artist's frame of mind, perhaps you could carefully examine their form, reflect on the intention of their creator, take a photo, and sketch or paint their representation later. And, of course, leave them standing. After all the cairn police are not likely to charge you for respecting beauty.

Going forward, as that is the only direction I have, I will evaluate each encountered cairn more closely but will probably leave the knocking-over routine to someone else.

 

Slow Dancing with Granite

Approaching Lamarck Col, a rocky pass from which we would descend towards our yet-to-be-determined camp, we looked back at the Lamarck Lakes and the tiny trail behind us. A mere thread of dirt. Our goal for the day: to climb steadily upward to the rugged rocky col, at 12,880 feet, and then drop down into Darwin Canyon, hike along the canyon lakes, and search out a suitable camp for our first night.

The trail up to the col was steep and rocky, and the sun relentless, but coming from the Pacific Northwest, we did not mind. We encountered what seemed to be a permanent snowfield up near the col and, after kicking small steps, gingerly traversed it, and soon gained the col. We paused to break out our water bottles and take in the view. Across the canyon, Mount Darwin and Mount Mendel dominated the skyline, massive gray forms with sharp spines, aprons of snow, and fields of talus and scree at the runouts.

The scale of the landscape was vast and desolate, hard, and unwelcoming. We descended, picking our way slowly through the jumble of rocks on a faint and seldom traveled trail. A chain of five small lakes, arguably tarns, all at about 11,600 feet above sea level, was visible at the bottom of the canyon. They led to the canyon exit and out to another small tarn at the Darwin Bench. Our first camp.

That day, fifty years ago, was my introduction to the vast hardscaping of the Sierra. The towering spires, magnificent ridges, and rocky rubble, known as talus were the beginning of my communion with granite. After a week in the Mount Goddard quad of Kings Canyon, we headed for Yosemite, which unbeknownst to me would be another doorway.

They appeared as ants, dark specs moving slowly up the immense granite walls of the 3,000-foot rock monolith. The dominating visage of El Capitan was stunning to us, as were the tiny forms of the climbers. We stared at them, as did others, at their systematic, incremental progress toward the top. I was captivated and puzzled.

Not content to merely look, I asked myself, “How do they do it?” It was a potentially dangerous question to ask. It could lead to learning the ‘how’ and then rapidly progressing to the ‘doing’ of climbing, an enterprise not without risk.

I held that curious question in mind as we entered the weathered wood structure that housed the Curry Company. They were a valley institution and appeared that way. I later learned they were the primary park concessioner at Yosemite National Park for nearly 70 years (1925-1993). The interior was an outfitters store, displaying a combination of both groceries and gear, a rustic place that fit well with the environs of Yosemite.

We added some trail treats to our basket and headed to the wood-planked sales counter. I noticed a small sign next to the ‘Pack It In, Pack It Out’ stickers. It said, ‘Go Climb a Rock.’ It advertised a two-day course in rock climbing instruction for beginners, to be conducted on the rock escarpments little more than a stone’s throw away from the Curry Company store. The price was affordable, and the climbing gear would be provided. I reread the words, decided for myself, and turned to Lara, my sales pitch short and to the point.

“We’re here, and we’ve got the time. Let’s do it.” I said as purposefully as I could. Adventure girl that she was, Lara readily agreed. We signed up on the spot.

The next day we met two rock-climbing gurus. They would instruct us on ‘how they do it.’ The lead guy introduced himself as Lloyd Price. I would learn that he was a Yosemite Valley big wall climber of some note during that era. His assisting instructor was a younger climber, lean and sinewy, who sported shoulder-length blond hair and a blue bandana as a headscarf, a veritable rock-climbing pirate. Next to him, Lloyd, with his shorter cropped hair, looked every bit the somewhat older professor, a professor in the school of rock, rock climbing, that is. We were two of only six students, a small class, but a good size for hands-on technical instruction.

We learned various rope stuff, how to make a figure-eight knot to tie in, butterfly knots, and so on. The gurus explained that the class would be divided into two segments, face climbing on day one and crack climbing on day two. We started bouldering on a modest granite face. Everyone in our small class leaned into the rock for purchase, about to receive our first lesson, a foundational lesson.

“Don’t hug the rock! Stand up and put your weight on your feet. Just do it. You won’t fall.”

At first, it did not make any sense, and then suddenly it made all the sense in the world. Contrary to the popular misconception, the primary parts of the human physique that do the lion’s share of the hard work in climbing are not your arms but your legs. The key to effectively using your legs in most situations is to place the weight of your body directly over them to achieve both balance and connection to the rock, which on a face climb means friction. We stood up. Yes, sensei, I understand, and I feel the force.

From there we moved steadily up, in that moment feeling like we had just made the first step into a secret new world. The experience was so tactile, focused, and thoroughly examined that it took us into the present moment like no other. Time stood still yet the days passed quickly. We practiced all day, interspersing instruction both on the rocks and off the rocks while resting.

Once back in the Pacific Northwest, we continued our affair with rock. Several days later, we traveled up the Tumwater Canyon and stood at the foot of Castle Rock. An informal gathering, a small ragtag group, all having responded to a paper flyer posted in the University District. For a few dollars, a local climber would go through the drill on climbing techniques, rope handling, placing protection, belaying, and leading. He also had the climber’s long hair, the pirate bandana, and wore dirty rock-climbing clothes, the cotton painters’ pants. After minimal verbal instruction, we split up into pairs and prepared to make our way up the various routes on the rock.

I began my first lead on Midway Route. Though I did not know it at the time, Midway Route had been first climbed in 1948 by the inimitable and, even then, legendary, Fred Beckey. The oldest and most popular route on Castle Rock, the first multi-pitch technical rock climb ever climbed in Washington state. Rated 5.6, it was way harder than the short practice cracks from my Yosemite sessions. As I led the route, it seemed almost insurmountably more difficult.

Pausing at a point partway up to place protection, I experienced abject terror. In that frozen moment, I perceived that my attachment to the rock was sketchy and deteriorating. Suddenly my senses accelerated, adrenaline kicking in, my mouth becoming cotton dry, and my right leg pulsing rapidly up and down, an uncontrolled response to fear. I did not know its name at the time, but the dreaded phenomenon was known as ‘sewing machine leg.’

I was panicked, and I knew it. Microscopically noting the feeling of the rough crystalline texture of the rock under my fingertips as I searched for purchase, my eyes zeroed in, intensely examining the wall looking for any potential formation that could provide a more secure hold. Feeling pulled off balance by my annoying pumping leg, I had that sinking feeling that I was on the thin edge preceding an imminent and painful fall.

Somehow, I managed to shift my toes to take some pressure off my frenzied leg and began to talk myself out of the panic, telling myself, “You can do this.” And at the same time, I asked myself why I ever thought rock climbing was a good idea.

Fortunately, I was able to calm down, set the protection, move up to end the pitch, and set up a belay. Not my finest moment, but I doubt anyone else noticed it or thought about it after those few stuck minutes. Visiting the brink was a routine thing that had happened or would happen to all of us. Just another day at the office. The positive outcome was that I learned from that experience and kept moving forward, still in the game.

Our climbing practice continued in many venues. All our field study and effort was to make ourselves ready for the bigger, longer, more technically demanding objectives that we’d encounter higher in the mountains. Most of our education, after a few rudimentary classes, consisted of progressive self-instruction gained both from doing the routes and watching our friends. The rope handling and other practices of the art form of climbing became gradually integrated into our skill sets, so they became second nature.

Confidence was a most important attribute for climbers, and these shorter routes in no small way contributed to building that attribute. In the process, we met others from the same tribe and expanded our portfolio of climbing partners, learning from each other, stoking the fires of desire, and moving forward. A heady time, as we diligently prepared ourselves and passed through a gateway to a larger alpine world, a world that we were so inexorably drawn to by the power of our mountain dreams.

The first alpine climb was the South Face on The Tooth, a modest Snoqualmie area peak. The route was only three pitches long, and we swung leads, my mentor, Nicolai, taking the first and the last. I lead the middle pitch. Yes! The South Face route, though short, had clean solid colorful lichen-encrusted rock and moderate technical difficulty, making the climb easily doable, the structure of the exposed ledge adding to the thrill.

Little did I know that my next climb would not be a graduated progression in difficulty from The Tooth, which I might well have expected. It would instead be a herculean leap in not only complexity but in length and overall difficulty as well.

Mt. Stuart, at 9,415 feet high, is the largest exposed mass of granite in the United States. It’s the crown jewel of the non-volcanic peaks of Washington’s Central Cascades, according to Fred Beckey, and the North Ridge was already a Cascade classic. With a 50-meter rope, about twenty pitches of serious fifth-class climbing on solid granite, much of it on an exposed ridge crest and all of it with dramatic alpine views of the other jagged peaks in the range and beyond.

The rock on Mt. Stuart has a sharp crystalline characteristic that produces a bit of a cutting sensation on your fingertips. It might sound unpleasant, but it was not, being both distinctive and reassuring, something that stood out for me like savoring a unique and memorable wine.

“Yes, this wine is a bit assertive and full-bodied, makes you pay attention. It has a very expressive terroir. It is not flinty like French Chablis; it has a more masculine, sharp granite-like characteristic. I like it, yes, I like it very much.” Chateau Stuart, North Ridge, vintage 1974, an alpine classic!

During those early years, my dancing with granite was mostly technical, a full body exercise with both hands and feet and no small degree of risk. While the dance continues, today it is less risky, and except for non-technical scrambles, the routes involve mostly footwork, intricate at times, always mindful, and on the best of days, consummately graceful. And, in those moments I find joy in simply moving around, and over, and through the boulder-strewn trails and off-trail routes, on my way through the magnificent mountain wilderness,

Yesterday’s venue was, unsurprisingly, Granite Mountain. I embarked on a quest to seek our seasonal Beargrass blooms and dramatic clouds. My thought was to capture them with my spherical panoramic photography. I had no idea whether either would materialize but one thing I could count on was the granite boulders of the high meadows and summit ridge that hosted the historic Granite Mountain Lookout.

The lower trail, tree-shaded and covered with forest duff, pine needles, and cones, makes for a reflective experience that I call ‘right brain drifting’ and what others may know as Shinrin-Yoku, forest bathing. But that will soon change. After breaking out of the forest, the upper meadows snake towards a historic fire lookout perched high on a rocky ridge. The trail is festooned with boulders of many shapes and sizes, all of which must be surmounted to gain access to the summit. Few human movements are taken without thoughtful consideration and footwork. It is a slow dance, upward.

The rocks await, inert, oblivious to our desires. Yet they provide the perfect partner for this intricate alpine dance. On routes such as this, one does not simply drift into the present moment. The present moment presents as the result of involvement and physical determination.

I find it immensely satisfying. Simply sensational!

Uncrushable

You may wonder why this isn’t a story about alpine adventures or the artist’s journey, my normal go-to topics. Sometimes a memory vibrates and resonates with recent news. And, we don’t get to choose. It just happens. However, we do get to choose whether we share the story or just keep quiet. This seems like one to share. A story of hope. One of a new dawn.

E. Jean Carroll’s lawsuit against the one who will not be named had been on my radar for months. Finally, a brave woman would take him to task for his serial sexually abusive behavior. I rejoiced when the trial began and followed news of the daily testimony. As the trial proceeded, I wondered what it was like for the jury. What did they notice when E. Jean Carroll responded to questions both direct and cross? How did the jury react to pugilistic Joe Tacopina, the defense lawyer, as he brutally cross-examined Ms. Carroll? What did they feel for her? How did they evaluate her testimony? And, more to the point, what would it be like for me if I was a member of that jury? I wondered because I had once served as a Superior Court Juror in a case with a striking similarity, the charge of sexual abuse.

While E. Jean Carroll’s trial was a civil case, ours was a criminal case. The New York case had nine jurors while our Washington case had twelve, plus one alternate. The burden of proof in the civil case was lower, with guilt based on “the preponderance of evidence,” whereas the burden of proof in the criminal case was “beyond a reasonable doubt.” While a unanimous jury is required to convict in a criminal trial, the nine-person jury might only need 7 of 9 to convict in a civil trial. The bar was much higher for our criminal case.

I received my jury summons in early December 2015, a postcard ordering my presence at the King County Superior Court in the Malang Regional Justice Center in Kent, Washington. Driving south on a rainy gray day, I pondered my journey into the unexpected. I wondered if I would be selected to serve. A juror’s card, with a bar code and ID number, accompanied me, my validation for entry. I parked and approached the imposing courthouse, the front of which was dominated by a multi-story rotunda, the colonnaded public entrance, whose architectural grandeur no doubt signified justice. But I entered through an institutional metal service door at the back of the building, the juror’s entrance. No architectural grandeur whatsoever. An armed guard examined my card and waved me through the security equipment. I followed large yellow arrows taped on the floor, and then on the walls, making my way through a maze of gray hallways to Room 2E.

I took a seat in the crowded room and pulled a thick history book from my satchel. I expected a long day. Intermittent, seemingly random numbers appeared on a video screen at the front. My number finally appeared, along with a group assignment to an unnamed case. Eventually, a moderator stood and asked whether anyone had a legitimate reason to be excused. If not, you stayed. Most of us wanted to be excused. Some were. Dismissals ranged from child-rearing responsibilities to ejection for inappropriate outbursts. Without excuse, I continued to the subsequent round, now assigned to a group and a case, destined to return the next day.

We entered the spare dark wood-paneled courtroom and sat first in the spectator area as another smaller group was ushered into the jury box for questioning. I quickly lost interest and opened my book. I continued reading as both the prosecution and defense queried prospective jurors, and either dismissed or selected persons from the groups ahead of us. Then it was our turn. Now, one of thirteen in the jury box, I wondered what questions I would face and if my dismissal was a possibility. I hoped so.

Until this moment I had only seen the defendant from behind. I could see him clearly now as he faced me. Clothed in an orange county jail jumpsuit, with his long and disheveled hair he looked gaunt and hard and suspicious. He asked me a question. Stunned, I now realized that he had elected to represent himself. He would be both defendant and attorney for the defense. I recalled the old law adage that a man who chooses to represent himself has a fool for a client. I wondered if that would be born out. We would see.

After several rounds of questions from both prosecution and the defense, a few of us remained. The judge now queried the smaller group, if any of us had concerns whether we could serve without bias. I raised my hand. The judge motioned for me to stand. I explained that the defendant bore a strong resemblance to Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber, with his crazy hair. I questioned whether that might predispose an assumption of guilt for me due to my perception of him. Surprisingly, my statement was not enough to deter anyone, even the defense. I was selected. Of course, the defendant evaluated my comment about his appearance. At the trial, he was physically transformed. His hair now neatly trimmed, and wearing a grey suit, he pretended to be an attorney.

We did not know the nature of the case until we were seated in the jury box on day one. I had wondered if it would be robbery or murder. It was not. It concerned the repeated sexual abuse of a young girl. The crime was despicable. And, once our jury duty was over, I wanted to never think of it again. But now, over seven years later, after many high-profile adult sexual assault cases, and the recent E. Jean Carroll trial have the memories of my jury trial experience returned to be examined once again.

Although the genre of the crime was the same, there were several differences. E. Jean Carroll was an adult woman at the time she was assaulted and, although it was a violent encounter, it was a one-time event, something she kept to herself for decades until she reached her personal tipping point. And, once resolved to act, she bravely came forward to face her perpetrator some 30 years later. The victim in the Washington case was a young high school girl who had been sexually abused multiple times as a young teen, over a span of a few years and now facing her abuser only two years later as a high school senior. And, the perpetrator was her father.

During E. Jean Carroll’s trial, two other women testified of their experiences of sexual abuse at the hands of the miscreant. The one other witness who testified of sexual abuse in the Washington trial was the victim’s older step-sister, again victimized as a minor, by her father. I found myself repulsed by the heinous and repeated acts.

Carroll’s trial included seven key witnesses: two close friends, her younger sister, two other women who had been assaulted by the perpetrator, and two expert witnesses. A small group, all adult professional people. By contrast, the state, representing the young woman in the Washington trial included a broader spectrum, the victim’s younger brother, her best girlfriend, her older step-sister, her mother, her stepmother, her stepfather, a school teacher, a school guidance counselor, a policeman, a detective, and her best friend’s mother. They came from more everyday walks of life than those in the New York trial. Another key difference was that several of the Washington witnesses were young teens. The prosecution had to proceed deliberately but with extra care. It was emotionally difficult for the witnesses to revisit and recall their memories, and the details of the case. There was an emotional impact on the jury as well. How did we manage to feel the pain that the perpetrator had presumably caused while tasked with staying objective? I found it difficult.

E. Jean Carroll was represented by a renowned litigator, Roberta Kaplan, along with the best legal team that money could buy. The wealthy LinkedIn founder Reid Hastings provided the financial means. Kaplan’s team was tightly organized, on point, and efficiently prosecuted their case. They did not waste time. They made the defense lawyer, Joe Tacopina, look like a bumbler. Their prosecution was regarded as a masterpiece.

While the Washington prosecutor was buttoned up, concise, and professional, she was court-appointed and had one clerk, a small team. Unlike the New York defendant, who employed a highly paid team of lawyers, the defendant in the Washington case had the arrogance to choose to represent himself. He would prove himself to be incompetent and, in the process, drag everyone through what seemed an interminable undertaking. Playing at being his own attorney, he was rambling, vague, and repetitious. As I tried to remain without bias and understand the purpose of his questions to the witnesses it became clear that some of them made no sense. It was often difficult to discern exactly where he was going during his cross of the witnesses.

He often badgered witnesses with repeated versions of the same question. When he did this to his daughter it felt to me like continued abuse, psychological abuse. His behavior throughout the trial was challenging for both those on the stand and the judge, who often had to intervene. The defendant, while performing as an attorney, revealed himself to be a narcissistic time waster who wore me, and everyone else, out. Consequently, the trial took three weeks before the prosecution and defense finished. It could have been completed in half that time and because of that, I felt the defendant had abused us all.

Soon after jury selection and before the trial began, we received instructions from the court. They included the admonition not to discuss the case with anyone outside the case and not even among ourselves until the prosecution and defense had rested and we retired to deliberate. Although we spent time in recess together and sometimes shared lunches over many days, I doubt there was any substantive discussion of the case. We were a mixed group of men and women from many trades and professions. I was easily the oldest.

We were each issued a notebook, a black 3-ring binder full of blank pages. It was ours to take into the jury box to take notes if we wished. We returned them to the court at the day's end and received them again at the beginning of every new day. I took copious notes. I wanted to be able to follow what seemed to be a potentially long and rambling evidentiary thread with key reveals at unanticipated points in the testimony. Several other jurors also took notes while others merely listened. That surprised me. How could they remember it all? So, one day, in the jury chambers, I asked one of the court clerks if the transcripts of the trial would be made available to the jury during deliberations. The answer was no. Suddenly, more of my fellow jurors began taking notes.

I wrote well over thirty pages and I was glad that I did. It served at least two purposes. It helped me stay more emotionally grounded while sifting through the testimony. Unlike a murder trial which might rely on a recovered body, weapon, fingerprints, or trace evidence such as DNA, there was no physical evidence. There was only testimony, verbal recollections of memories, and impressions of events past. Our task was to make sense of it as best we could, by examining the witness statements for consistency, continuity, and veracity. We had to discover the threads that would tie the narratives together and provide us with the information necessary to confidently evaluate and determine guilt, or not. My notes helped provide the information, the pieces of the puzzle, that would build that evaluation structure.

As the days passed each witness added more pieces to the puzzle. I found the process and testimony all-consuming as I analyzed both the approach taken by both the prosecutor and defender and the content that slowly revealed itself through the voices of the various witnesses. I found myself looking forward to each new person, their answers and recollections of events, their experiences, and their insights. As I took notes, I tried to achieve clarity. It wasn’t always easy but near the end, I felt the pieces fitting together. I became ever more confident that I could make sense of the events and see the truth. And though we did not share our thoughts on the case I felt that the same was happening for others.

Once both sides rested it was our turn. Time for deliberations. The alternate juror was revealed and released. Though I hoped it would be me, it was someone else, someone that I knew, from our lunchtime interactions, who would make the final process much more difficult, perhaps impossible.

That troublesome insight occurred during our first recess on day one. One juror brashly announced to the rest of us that, in his opinion, the defendant was innocent, and that he was being railroaded and framed by the women. I was shocked, appalled, and annoyed. I did not know what the others thought as we were too new to each other and we were not supposed to openly discuss the testimony, or any insights or opinions until deliberations. And now, this juror had already made up his mind in the first hours of the trial and made a smug public announcement, as if to influence the rest of us. I noted his statement, thought him an idiotic misogynist, and considered how we might examine the evidence to determine the truth, despite his bias. If he maintained his pre-determined position while the rest of the jurors used the evidence to arrive at a guilty verdict, we would have a hung jury and a mistrial. That thought hung over me for the duration of the trial, like the precarious sword of Damocles. Fortunately, he was later identified as the alternate juror and was subsequently released. I was not sorry to see him go.

We needed to select a foreman to lead the process. A brash younger guy, who worked in sporting goods sales, volunteered and actively lobbied for the role. I was not impressed. In fact, I was taken aback. While the young man was gregarious, sometimes boisterous, and an occasionally interesting lunchtime companion, I had no confidence in his ability to lead the jury. At first, I waited. When no one else expressed any interest, I finally raised my hand. I thought my experience in managing business teams was more suitable. Fortunately, I received a majority of the votes and became the jury foreman.

The first task was to determine how to proceed. We received no instruction from the court on how to arrive at a verdict. We were on our own. With four criminal counts to consider we’d have to pare down and focus. We would tackle them one at a time. We needed a process with structure, one that would allow every juror’s voice to be heard without the group devolving into a chaotic debate with everyone talking at once. Without a structured process, we’d struggle mightily to arrive at a well-reasoned verdict.

I stepped up to the whiteboard and authoritatively proposed a process. It was important to project authority. I explained an input survey format to gather, rank, and evaluate the evidence that applied to each count. Everyone accepted my proposal. The process involved going around the room and allowing every individual to contribute without interruption. After listening to my fellow jurors, I would restate what they said in a more concise way and ask if they approved. I then wrote it on the whiteboard. I would add my input last. This is where my rigorous note-taking really paid off. Once we had the first round of input, we kept on going until the question or issue at hand had exhausted all input. We then reviewed the input, each point in turn. The goal, at this stage, was to involve everyone and create alignment in focusing on the issues or the case, without debate. The process provided both inclusion and structure and my fellow jurors embraced it. A good first step for the job with which we were tasked.

After our initial input and examination, I thought we had convincing evidence of guilt on the first count. I proposed we go around the room and each vote in turn. I was astonished that five of our group found themselves unable to reach a guilty verdict. We had run out of time and adjourned for the day. I was despondent. As I drove home my mind churned on the problem. How could we reapproach this and come to a decision? I wasn’t sure that we could.

We began the next day by stepping back to discuss the determinants of guilt or innocence and reexamine our whiteboard entries one by one, discussing in detail what each statement meant and its relative importance as evidence. We drilled down and, in that process, gained further insight and alignment. Again, using the input survey format. The second vote narrowed to two holdouts on a guilty verdict. We then queried each juror about their rationale. That process led to resolving their sticking points. We reached a unanimous guilty verdict in the third round. I knew we were all pleased with the knowledge that we could work together to do this. Know that there was no predetermined motive to reach a guilty verdict. That is simply what the testimony supported and where it took us.

After the first count, we used the same approach to examine the second and third counts and made a unanimous decision for each. Guilty. I was elated with our progress. In my mind, the perpetrator was guilty on all four counts but the decision had to come from all of us. The fourth count stymied us. One juror just could not get to a guilty decision on the fourth count. After three rounds, it was clear that no reasoned debate would sway her. It was time to stop. We all agreed that we would present the court with a guilty verdict on three counts but we were unable to reach a unanimous verdict on the fourth. The court accepted our verdicts. The next day I stood in the jury box and addressed the court. I read our decisions out loud. The prosecution was pleased. Our job was done. We stood, turned, and left the courtroom.

During the trial, the most anticipated witness was the victim, the daughter of the defendant. As she took the stand, she seemed measured, yet confident. And once on the stand and answering questions, she was poised, composed, and articulate. In those moments I found myself proud of her and wondered at her strength and resolve. How had she achieved that?

Once the trial concluded, we filed back to the jury chambers to surrender our notebooks, gather our belongings, and depart to resume our normal lives. As we did, the judge unexpectedly entered the room, thanked us for our service, told us that we had done well, and shared that she was very pleased that it was now over.

She surprised us when she revealed that we were the second jury to hear the case. It had been tried before. But all the prior testimony and work of the court, prosecution, defense, jurors, and witnesses had been for naught. The case had to be retried because one juror refused to participate in the deliberations. He stubbornly opted out of the process when he was told that court transcripts of the testimony would not be provided to the jury. The judge’s satisfaction with the successful completion of the trial meant even more to me with the knowledge of the prior failure. We were appalled by the behavior of that juror and even more proud that we had collaborated to reach our decisions and play our role in serving justice for this young woman, who could now move forward with her life.

While the young woman’s father, the perpetrator received a prison sentence and it seemed that justice was served, the trial and deliberations were a messy and emotionally exhausting endeavor. They could in no way compare with the impact of the crime, yet we felt we had done the best we could. It was a case that I did not want to dwell on further. Like many others, I just wanted to move on and get back home for the holidays. Now, for me, E. Jean Carroll’s case, with a well-earned guilty verdict, has brought back many of those memories. But, even with recent social progress, such assaults remain all too common as the evolution of man seems to occur at an aggravatingly glacial pace. Even so, I like to think that we are moving forward. The optimist in me needs that. And, to believe, that despite the darkness that surrounds us, my optimism will remain as uncrushable as the courage of the victims who came forward.