BEIJING – JULY 1, 1997

In the afternoon, green-shirted soldiers had pushed me with several of my schoolmates out of Tiananmen Square.  The main celebration that evening was invite only.  A giant countdown clock had been sitting for weeks in front of the National Museum.  Blocky characters in red and yellow had been erected in the square facing the Forbidden City to commemorate the occasion:  香港回歸.  The Chinese translates to “Hong Kong returns to the motherland”.  The British simply called it a transfer of sovereignty.

As darkness fell, I took the cheap steel bike I had purchased and rode south from 北京師範大學 (Beijing Normal University), where I was a Chinese student.  The university sits on an artery called 新街口 (Xinjiekou), near the third ring road.  Riding south, I passed the second ring road, a then popular and new shopping area called 西單 (Xidan), and eventually into some 胡同 (hutong) south of there, probably near the intersection of 廣安門大街 (Guanganmen Inner Street) and 菜市口大街 (Caishikiu Street).  This put me a solid ten kilometers from my dorm.

Night had fallen by the time I reached the hutongs.  As I bicycled down the narrow curving streets, the locals showed their own fascination, calling out 老外 (laowai).  “Laowai” is a polite way of calling someone a foreigner, though I’ve routinely heard Chinese use it here in the US to refer to non-Chinese.  This happened most recently during my orderly, but painful forty-five minute wait last Saturday night to get a bowl of authentic Taiwanese herbal jelly, red beans, and taro from the new 鮮芋仙 (Meet Fresh) in Cupertino.  The tofu was sold out, so come early.

Hutongs are traditional Chinese neighborhoods of fairly ancient construction, now endangered species.  As I rode, my way was lit intermittently by floodlights, and the glow of Chinese bodegas, gathering places for the residents.  Above us, the most spectacular fireworks display I had ever witnessed, then or since, was streaming multi-hued glory overhead, giving everything below an eery, tremulous glow.  Yes, I’ve remembered that moment for the rest of my life, but this was that rare situation where I knew right then that I would.

GRAND CANYON NORTH RIM – AUGUST 1989

It was family vacation.  Within a year, my family would be leaving our home in St. Louis for San Jose, but none of this was in the works as of yet.  I was still used to long jaunts through the woods around our house, discovering mud as if I had a detector, and “accidentally” falling into creeks (I was far too expert at my stone-to-stone crossings than to claim an actual fail).  

The north rim of the Grand Canyon isn’t as popular as the south rim.  There are more opportunities to hike in relative solitude.  For the first time in our lives, my parents trusted my twin brother and I to hike alone, down into the canyon, making us pledge that we would return by a certain hour later that afternoon.

We must have had the reckless aim of making it to the bottom because we plunged down the trail with no thought of the difficulty to return.  At last, we lost our nerve to continue. We had spied a little cataract near the left side of the trail.  It spilled into an area like a giant bathtub, and looked suitably deep for swimming.

And jumping.  As I remember, one of us did carefully check the “tub” for any underwater obstructions, but it was easy enough to see from some five to ten meters above that it was crystal clear and free of debris.  We stripped down on one side of the hill facing the tub.  I don’t remember who jumped first.

The water was frigid.  It could have been five degrees off still being snow.  The shock was such that I wondered for a moment if I could move my arms.  Adrenaline must have kicked in at this point because I swam hard for the rocks at one edge.  The experience was terrifying.  I immediately began climbing back up the hill for my second jump.

Michael and I took turns jumping for the better part of an hour.  When we did agree to retire, it was only out of fear that we would not have enough time to climb our return.  Also, I think I mentioned the water was very cold.

Then a minor disaster struck.  While I struggled to get my pants back on, I accidentally brushed one of my shoes.  It rolled down he hill, splashed down, then continued merrily downstream.

I didn’t relish the idea of climbing several miles out of the grand canyon with one shoe.  Michael, bless his heart, went racing off with me to retrieve the shoe.  There was no trail by the creek, so we were poking our way through brush and spider webs, dodging and weaving, knowing all the while that water can move a shoe much faster than we could keep up with it.

Then, I caught sight of it floating upside down, caught behind a large branch.  Nike Air had saved me.  I plucked it from the water and heaved a huge sigh of relief as I put the gloppy shoe back on. 

Hiking back up in a wet shoe was miserable, but I didn’t let myself complain even once.

GLACIER NATIONAL PARK, LOGAN PASS – JUNE 14, 2005

I had the ring hidden in one of my pockets for about forty-eight hours, since we had entered the park.  Today, we were driving from Lake McDonald up Going to the Sun Road to our final destination of the Many Glacier Hotel (these pictures was taken when we reached the hotel that day).

When you reach the Continental Divide, it is called Logan Pass,  Even in our summer month, it was covered in snow, though not uncomfortably cold.  We hiked a few miles along the Hidden Lake Trail until we reached a small boardwalk that comprised the Hidden Lake Overlook.  Fortunately, Cathy was happy when I proposed.  Sadly though, she had to remind me to go down on one knee. I was nervous! The icy landscape and lake below felt like a good omen to me.  Like the hardy natives of the most northern climes, we would learn to live together, with a warmth we create, one to carry us through the hardest winters and storms.

DARTMOUTH COLLEGE – OCTOBER 2006

Dartmouth has a secret spot called the Big Empty Meeting Area or BEMA.  The BEMA is set up in the woods behind Reed and Dartmouth Halls.  If you reach it from high ground, you’re likely to bump into a full size bronze of Robert Frost just sitting on a rock amongst the trees.  He scared me three-quarters to death when I was wandering around in those trees without a flashlight after dark.

The BEMA is a large, yet intimate clearing in the woods with a couple of granite steps left, or maybe put, on one side.  In photographs I see they’ve added some bench seating at one end.  I guess someone thought a little extra seating wouldn’t take away from the magic of the place, and I would say they’re right.

If you come at night, the milky way, in glorious detail, spreads above you, framed by the ring of trees.  The last time I visited the BEMA, I was in it at night alone.  I danced and sang to the forest, stars, and moon.  Some things you can’t explain.   You can feel them though.  My soul was moved by that place, and I take great hope from what I’m told, that it is still there, still the same.

The trees and sprawling stars heard me that night, the wind running through the leaves.  It was one of the strangest, most heartbreaking places I’ve been.