I'll take the high road ...

Ben Nevis

I fly to Glasgow on Tuesday, via Reykjavik, on the first stage of my traipse across the north of Scotland, via the geologic fault called the Great Glen, a depression that includes several lakes -- notably Loch Ness, of monster fame.

Jim, who I know from university days, and his wife Dorothy will have arrived a day earlier, and will meet me and others at the airport.  The others include Jim's brother and his wife, his sister and her husband, and an unrelated next door neighbor.  The day after arrival, we take a train ride of just under four hours from Glasgow to Fort William in the north -- a train ride paralleling the West Highland Way which I hiked back in 2011.

On arrival in Fort William, we will have four days to acclimate, explore the area, visit perhaps some of the neighboring Hebrides, and avoid eating haggis.  Jim and I -- and possibly others -- also plan to attempt a climb of Ben Nevis, assuming decent weather.

Ben Nevis is the Everest of the United Kingdom, I say jokingly.  Yes, it is the highest point of that kingdom, but at 4,411 feet, it's not exactly large by Himalayan, or even Rocky Mountain, standards.  The elevation gain is about the same as climbing Mt. Si, near Seattle, which I do in under two hours.

On the other hand, the weather is unpredictable in northern Scotland, and it can easily snow in June.  There is a humorous essay on-line written by a fellow who climbed Ben Nevis in June 2015, and encountered rain, fog, sunshine, and snow on the way up.  He ran into a hapless couple about one hour into the hike.

It’s raining with a slight headwind and for once I’m wearing the right gear, equating to comfort and safety.  In front are a young couple. He’s soaked, his jeans hanging low in the style of some hip hop rapper type dude. The showerproof kagool offering him little protection as the rain has already broke through. She’s in a worse state. Her footwear is open toed sandals, no jacket, instead she’s wearing a cotton or light wool smock, with neither a hood or back pack in sight.

The writer could hardly believe his eyes, but met them still ascending on his way back down.  When he told them that there was snow ahead, the woman exploded.  A relationship appeared to be unraveling and coming to a messy end.

Jim and I are both well familiar with hiking at any elevation in the Pacific Northwest, and won't be caught unaware sartorially by the weather.  On the other hand, the weather can be pleasant, or it can make for a difficult and even dangerous climb.  Many climbers have been caught in fog at the summit, and have started down the wrong way, with unfortunate consequences. 

We will have compasses.  And knowledge of the bearing we need to get off the summit.

But, as Bobby Burns reminds us, “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men  gang aft a-gley”  If, as we climb, we run into problems that are causing us to gang a-gley, we'll scurry back down to the bottom and to the hotel, where we'll have us some nice single malt whisky and bowls of porridge as we regale others about our misadventure. 

After all, we're going over for the walk, not for a climb.  Still -- fun to stand on the highest point of the United Kingdom, eh?

The Eight Mountains

Paolo Cognetti

I spent my "junior year abroad" (six months, actually) in Florence.  We were given frequent periods of free time to explore post-war Italy on our own.  During the first free period, most of us went to Rome, some to other cities.  But a kid named Fred ("Federico" to our Italian language teacher) went to a place most of us had never heard of -- the Val d'Aosta. 

Aosta is an Alpine valley in the far northwest corner of Italy, hugging the southern slopes of Monte Rosa -- opposite Zermatt which is on the Swiss side of the mountain.  This was 1961, before the outdoors and backpacking craze had hit American youth.  Aosta seemed like an odd  place to visit, at least for a kid's first experience in Italy, but Fred was a quiet, friendly, clear-eyed, and patently decent young man.  If anyone in our group was meant for a remote Alpine valley, it was he.*

Paolo Cognetti writes about a small fictitious Aosta village, Grana, in his novel, The Eight Mountains -- the first of his writings to be translated from Italian to English.  It has won awards across Europe.  As have its English translators, who have given us a translation that is in itself a work of art.

Eleven-year-old Pietro, his chemist father, and his health worker mother live in Milan.  His mother is outgoing and cheerful, his father is precise, strict, and introverted.  Pietro, shy and sensitive, combines their personalities.

In 1984, they rent and rehabilitate a derelict summer home in Grana.  Pietro encounters Bruno, a boy his age and equally silent, who works tending cows on the neighboring property.  Pietro's mother brings the two taciturn lads together, and without making a fuss about it they become best friends -- a friendship that continues throughout their adult lives.

Pietro's father and mother both love the mountains.  The mother loves the quiet pleasures of woodlands and pastures, but the father is obsessively devoted to climbing summits far above the tree line.  Pietro feels his father cares little for the scenery -- only achieving the summit matters. 

The father takes the son with him on some of these expeditions.  The son is proud of his developing abilities, but he is prone to altitude sickness and secretly dreads each climb.  Achieving the summit doesn't mean to Pietro what it does to his father.

It was more of a relief than a cause for elation.  There was no reward awaiting us up there; apart from the fact that we could climb no further, there was nothing really special about the summit.

They take Bruno with them, and Pietro is both happy and a bit jealous that Bruno seems a more likely son to Pietro's father than does Pietro himself.

Cognetti's novel is a story of a boy's fraught relationship with his father, and a story of a friendship between two boys that survives despite great differences in their background and in their experiences as adolescents and young men.

The novel features yet another character, a critical character -- the mountain itself.  The novel revolves around the father's obsession with the mountain, around Pietro's love of the lower slopes -- the lakes, the woods, the streams, the paths and slopes, the sunbaked scree -- and around Bruno's intimate knowledge of his very small world of mountain and pasture, and his successful efforts to initiate Pietro into his world.  The mountain above Grana is the fulcrum on which the lives of both Pietro and his father balance -- while spending their early summers at Grana, and long afterwards when Pietro has moved far away, seeking fulfillment in the Himalayas of Nepal.  It is the tie that holds Pietro and Bruno together, and the obstacle that pushes Pietro and his father apart.

Pietro's father in his commitment to his work and to climbing the mountains has lost -- or perhaps never had -- the ability to listen to the people close to him, to understand that their needs were different from his own.  Pietro has inherited to a lesser degree this aloof quality.  As a young man, he is unable to commit for any period of time to any one woman.  He watches happily as the girlfriend  closest to him finally gives up, joins Bruno and has Bruno's daughter.

Like his father, Pietro hates any change in the Grana region.  Grana -- like the Westmorland of Jane Gardam's The Hollow Land -- was a once-prosperous and well-populated area that had lost most of its population as farming and mining stopped being economically viable.  The land  was littered with ruined farm buildings and huts, tunnels and bits of mining equipment.  The region was enjoying in places a bit of a revival from tourism and winter skiing -- but a revival that Pietro, like his father, hated.

Cognetti's writing is a hymn to nature, both to the lower mountain slopes, and especially to the mountain heights.  He describes the smallest details of climbing, the pains, the difficulties, the joys, the  terrain, and the trees and plants, as only a person who is intimately familiar with climbing can do.  For mountain hikers, the novel revives happy memories; for someone who hasn't hiked or climbed, it may encourage some eager experimentation.

Pietro's father dies of an unexpected heart attack at age 62.  Pietro then learns of the tragedy in his father's past -- in his twenties, Pietro's father had led his less-experienced best friend  Piero on a poorly equipped and poorly planned expedition across melting snow fields.  There was an avalanche, and Piero was killed.  His father never recovered emotionally from the death, especially when everyone -- including his friend's family -- blamed him for his negligence.

While in Nepal, Pietro learns from a local Nepali of a favorite subject of mandala designs -- the secret mountain Sumeru which exists in the center of the earth and is surrounded by the eight mountains and seas which constitute our visible world.  The Nepali continued

We ask who has learned the most, the one who has been to all eight mountains, or the one who has reached the summit of Sumeru?

Pietro, always contemplative, decides that the mountain at Grana was his own Sumeru.  His mountain brings him back repeatedly to Grana and to Bruno.  Bruno and Pietro spend a summer together building a hut high on the slopes above Grana, a place selected by his father before he died.  Bruno has no interest in finding a life in Milan or Turin, a city life away from his mountains.  He considers himself fit only for mountain life, and chooses to live in their hut summer and winter.

Then, the winter Pietro and Bruno were forty, an avalanche hits the house.  Bruno is killed.

From my father I had learnt, long after I had stopped following him along the paths, that in certain lives there are mountains to which we may never return.  That in lives like his and mine you cannot go back to the mountain that is in the center of all the rest, and at the beginning of your own story.  And that wandering around the eight mountains is all that remains for those who, like us, on the first and highest have lost a friend.

Pietro returns to the Himalayas.  A beautiful and beautifully written story.
---------------------------
*Fred has nothing further to do with this post. He was simply the occasion of my first hearing of the Val d"Aosta.

Climbing

"Good day to you," one would say.  "The boy sure can run, no?"
"He sets the pace," my father would reply.  "I just follow."
"What I'd give to have legs like his."
"That's right.  But we did have once."
"Oh sure.  Decades ago maybe.  Are you going right to the top?"
"If we can make it."
"Good luck," one of them would say, and with that the exchange was concluded."

This trail-side banter, between one hiking group being overtaken by another, rings true with anyone who hikes.  Here, it is reported by eleven-year-old Pietro, hiking with his father to the summit of a lesser mountain to the south of Monte Rosa in Italy.

In a few lines, the conversation suggests the camaraderie between mountain hiking groups, the edge of competitiveness between them, the envy of youth, the regret of advancing age, a father's pride in his son, and the optimism by climbers already tired that they would reach a distant summit.

I've experienced them all.  And, most notably, I now experience the frustration with declining ability both to climb long distances and to function efficiently at high altitudes.  The frustration is made tolerable only by the memories of climbs done when younger.  On the other hand, it is intensified by the thoughts of climbs left unclimbed, hikes left unhiked, views left unviewed.

Like the Ancient Mariner, therefore, I wag a bony finger at the young and urge them never to put off climbs and hikes until a more convenient time.  It will never be easier than now, and when you're older there will be other, possibly more insistent, demands upon your time.

These thoughts are inspired by, and my initial quotation drawn from, a novel I've just begun reading -- The Eight Mountains, by Paolo Cognetti.  The book was reviewed in this morning's New York Times.  It reads so beautifully, and so truly, that I hate to finish it too quickly.

I suspect a review will be forthcoming on this blog.

Keeping cool

"Don't let him see that you're upset," Peggy warned me.  "Cats sense when you're upset, and get upset themselves."

I was a bit embarrassed, because I didn't think I was really upset.  Or if I was, that it was evident to the casual observer.  Peggy is our neighborhood "pet woman."  Mainly dogs.  Every day you run into her out walking dogs along the sidewalk, standing in for neighbors who dearly love their dogs, but apparently don't have time for them. 

Peggy will also be my cat person, looking in twice a day on my surviving feline Muldoon whilst I'm off wandering around the Highlands of Scotland.  I say "whilst" just in preparation for Britain.

If not "upset," I do confess to being a bit concerned.  Muldoon has been diagnosed with a benign thyroid tumor, a common problem, apparently, in cats.  The tumor causes the thyroid to produce T3 and T4 hormones (don't ask, I'm not a doctor) in large quantities.  I take Muldoon into a specialist tomorrow who will inject him with radioactive iodine.  The iodine is immediately absorbed by the thyroid gland, where it will kill off the tumor without bothering the healthy tissue.

This, at least, is the plan.  Muldoon's tumor is a bit more advanced than average, and the chance of the procedure being a complete success is only 70 percent.  If in the unlucky 30 percent, he'll either need a second procedure to complete the job, or -- if the dosage overshot the problem -- he'll have to be given thyroid pills for the rest of his life.

But my concern really isn't about the procedure.  I'm just aware that Muldoon is not the most easy-going sort of cat.  Unlike his recently deceased step-brother, he doesn't take change in stride.  And in a short period of time, he's had to adjust to being the sole cat in the household, and then wander the empty house alone for four days while I was back in Washington D.C.  Now he faces a trip to the vet, impoundment at the hospital for up to six days until he stops giving off radiation in excess of what the government allows, and limited hugs and contact with me for another week or so, even after he comes home.  And then, the final straw, I'm abandoning him again in favor of the Scottish moors.

It's enough to make a cat question the humanity of his human.

I was holding up well, nonetheless, or so I thought, until Peggy warned me that my anxious demeanor might somehow freak out poor Muldoon.  So now I march about the house, under Muldoon's suspicious eye, looking incredibly -- and unbelievably -- blithe and unconcerned. 

"Tut-tut, it looks like rain," I keep repeating loudly, imitating the inimitable Christopher Robin in a vaguely similar context.  Muldoon stares impassively at the blue sky.

I'm hopeless.  Sooner or later, I'll break down, burst out crying, and give him a huge bear hug.  Muldoon will regard me with some concern, but will make every effort not to show it. 

He hates to upset me.

Cloudy skies over the Nation's capital

A worried Lincoln

Washington may be one of the most beautiful capitals in the world, unless we include capitals -- like Rome -- that are adorned with picturesque ruins as well as with buildings still in use as buildings. 

During my visit over the past four days, the shiny, white marble of Washington's classical edifices was often highlighted against skies dark with gathering storm clouds, and illuminated by flashes of lightning at twilight.  What could a partisan (such as I), with a mind inclined to obvious metaphors, conclude but that the darkness was a Trumpian darkness, a malignant darkness dimming the beauty of the American Republic.

Washington Monument
under stormy clouds

Except, the darkness and the clouds were actually quite lovely in their own way.  As Trump's personal darkness decidedly is not.

I did the usual.  Museums.  Buildings.  Parks.  Riding Metro, back and forth from my hotel near National Airport.  And walking -- I covered over 25 miles during just the two complete days I spent in the city. Rather than describe further the city, often shining -- whether under bright sun or under lowering clouds -- I'll just let you look at some of my photos.

Bikers in front of the
Smithsonian "castle" 

Gen. Lafayette on horseback

Eisenhower office building

Press in front of Supreme Court

National Airport

Lincoln Memorial

Off to Washington (the other one)

He went off to Congress an' served a spell
Fixin' up the Government an' laws as well
Took over Washington so I've heared tell
An' patched up a crack in the Liberty Bell.

Where is Davy when we need him? 

I'm off to Washington myself tomorrow.  I'd love fix up the government (and laws as well).  And the problem of the crack in the Liberty Bell sounds quaint when one considers the many cracks (and crackpots) which today find a home in our nation's Capital.  But I never kilt myself a bar when I was only three, and while the pen may be mightier than the sword, I don't feel capable of using my pen to kill bears -- or to defeat people acting worse than bears.

So, no.  I'm off to Washington for a few days, but as a simple tourist.  I expect to wear off a little shoe leather and put a few miles on my phone's pedometer.  I was just reminded that the Mall, alone, is two miles from one end to the other.

It's a great town, politics aside, with lots to see, monuments to gaze upon, free museums in which to hang out, and lots of fellow tourists to rub shoulders with.  And many miles to walk.

I return late Monday night, and -- if past visits to D.C. suggest anything -- I'll have comments to make when I return.

Moot court

I served on a three-judge panel, representing the entire nine-judge U.S. Supreme Court, at a law school moot court proceeding Monday night.

I've done this many times before, and have commented occasionally on this blog how impressed I've been with the students' performance.  Let me say so again.

Unlike most of the moot court proceedings over which I've presided, or joined with others in presiding, this was a moot court for first year law students only.  It was the first moot court in which any of the participants had participated.  Moot courts were less common and less frequent when I was in law school.  But all first year students were required to participate once as part of our legal writing class.  I enjoyed the writing; I was terrified at the prospect of defending my opinions before three practicing attorneys.

I vowed that, once graduated, I'd become some sort of scrivener, surrounded by books in the back room of a law firm, writing briefs with a quill pen for others to argue.  Instead I became a trial attorney, with considerable experience in appellate practice.  Such are the little surprises that life springs on us.

But, although some seemed a bit more nervous than others, no one appeared terrified last night.  Arguing before us were four first-year students, two arguing that the lower court's ruling should be overturned (counsel for the petitioners), and two arguing that the lower court's ruling should be affirmed (counsel for the respondents).  They argued complex constitutional issues regarding freedom of speech and due process of law -- not the sort of issues that most students encounter during their first year of law school. 

Both sides did an excellent job of analyzing these issues.  All four students appeared poised and articulate.  All four did a good job of responding to the judges' questions.  I have argued a fair number of cases in the state court of appeals and the state supreme court.  I would have considered any one of these four students a competent adversary. 
 
Part of our job as moot court judges was awarding points for various qualities of argumentation and, finally, choosing one of the two teams the winner.  (Moot court judges do not judge the issues argued on the merits -- we judge the quality of argumentation.)   The losing party was not eliminated from the first round -- they were to face each other again last night, changing sides as to whether they represented petitioners or respondents.

I was pleased with the experience and pleased with the students.  I'm pleased that my law school is both admitting and educating superior future attorneys.

War-war more fun than jaw-jaw

So America today trashed the agreement with Iran that has prevented that country from proceeding with its nuclear program in exchange for the West's lifting of crippling sanctions.  Or rather one individual, Mr. Trump, has trashed the agreement after eliminating one by one every adviser who had advised otherwise, and after dismissing with disdain the united opposition of our European allies.

Did he do it because of his pathological hatred of Obama, who has been credited with negotiating the treaty?

Maybe.  Or maybe it's just one of those gut feelings on which he has based all aspects of his life, a gut feeling predating his election.  As Trump said, trashing the Iran deal was one of his campaign promises, and by golly Mr. Trump is a man who keeps his promises.

So we further alienate a major country in the Middle East, one whose middle classes have traditionally been friendly to the United States.  We make it more difficult for moderates to prevail, and make it easier for the radical fundamentalists to keep a chokehold on Iran's foreign policy.

While alienating Iran, whose nuclear program at least purported to be aimed at providing nuclear energy, Trump falls all over himself in seeking to reach an accommodation with North Korea -- a country led by a far more unstable Supreme Leader, a guy who has threatened repeatedly to involve the world in a nuclear conflagration, and a country of far less importance to the world economically and geopolitically.

If I felt that Trump had made his incomprehensible decision based on some skillfully developed strategic plan, in coordination with the best political and military minds our nation offers, I might be more cautious in my criticism.  But Trump is a man whose lack of curiosity about other nations and inability to focus on any matter more than five minutes is one of the wonders of our time.  At some point, something about Iran irritated him.  He probably doesn't even remember what set him off; but he does remembers that, boy, he sure doesn't like Iran.

Or Obama.

Who knows, maybe everything will work out.  Even dead clocks are right twice a day.  Trump feels that yelling and blustering and being the bully that he is by nature is prompting North Korea to consider a peace treaty.  He thus concludes that he has a technique that will work everywhere.  All that Peace on Earth has been waiting for is the advent of some streetwise real estate dealer from New York who will straighten things out. 

"You got a real nice town here, this Tehran.  It would be a shame if something happened to it."

Bullying may work in New York.  It may even work in Korea, although that's far from certain at this point.  I don't think it will work against the proud descendants of the Persian Empire, a people who, with patience, have repeatedly come back from adversity throughout their some 2,600-year history.