Dorothy, Otto, and I remained silently frozen in place for the next five minutes. It seemed an eternity; Dorothy gazing into space as if she were trying to recall her next instructions, Otto staring at me with those mocking eyes as only some self-important mixed terrier could, and I not having a clue as to where to look or what to say. Finally, Dorothy broke the silence. "Come here!", she exclaimed. "Aha!", I thought, "you can fool me once but you can't fool me twice". I instantly turned to Otto, looking as smug and condescending as I could, and waited for the dog to rush to her side. Without turning her head to face either the dog or myself, Dorothy impatiently said, "Not Otto, I was talking to you!" If the irascible canine could have roared with laughter, it would surely would have been his next move. The arrogant little pooch looked again at me with a clearly visible sarcastic smile as if to say "but can you roll over too!"

I quickly scrambled to my feet and joined Dorothy as she stood on a large sandstone boulder on a mountain ledge. She was gazing with an unobstructed view at the horizon in front of her. She pointed, arm straight towards the sky, adjusting the arm's direction to compensate for the downward bent of the distal phalanx of her slender right index finger. She whispered to me in reverent tones, "Tell me what you see?" I looked up at the clouds. The message I had previously witnessed was still in place, but now totally in view. It read, "there is no place like home". After a brief pause and in halting and perplexed tones, I repeated the words aloud, "there is no place like home?" I repeated the words again and this time with more assurance, "there is no place like home.". Finally, again, this time with pure unbridled confidence, "there is no place like home! There is no place like home!" as if my salvation had risen like a Phoenix from the mountain slopes to whisk me in an instant to the waiting comfort of the tan leather bucket seats of my light green XJ8 Jag.

Having said the words, I quickly turned to Dorothy to share the obvious joy of my discovery. I had finally learned the true ethereal message of that mystical poster on the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central. So this was the divine message I had been sent to find on that desolate mountain peak. It a lesson not to be found on some "smart phone." It is not an insight to be gained by travelling to unforgiving impersonal worlds. The answer is within us all. We only have to look within to find it. I repeated the words blissfully as I turned to my guiding apparition from the small farm in Kansas, "there is no place like home." But, alas, Dorothy and her little terrier were nowhere to be seen.

Within the next instant, I found myself on the ground in a most unusual position. I was propped against a boulder, my legs and torso facing to the right. My arms were spread eagle in both directions with my head facing opposite to the direction of my chest and abdomen. It was much like a rag doll having fallen below from its resting spot on a nearby table top. I was dazed and felt that I had just awoken from a deep sleep. My left forehead ached as if it recently experienced the crush of a striking blow. I put my fingers to a place above my left eye and felt a bruise the size of walnut. My guess it was the rock I was laying on that had provided the damage. There was a trace of blood on that stone that matched the drops left on my fingers from their dutiful exploration. What had happened? I recalled a violent wind and then my encounter with Dorothy. Then, the next thing I new, I was lying on the ground nursing a most untimely wound. Could there be another explanation for what I had recently experienced? Could I have possibly been blown from my standing point by the gale forces, my head falling only to encounter the hard rock with ensuing loss of conscience? Did I dream my experience with Dorothy and her terrier? Was it all a figment of my imagination?

I rose to my feet and began trecking down the mountain. I never paused to question my direction. The next thing I knew, I was on an obvious trail. There was now a clear purpose in my steps. Within a relatively brief period of time, I could hear other cars in the distance passing the trail head at which I was parked. It was a clear sign that I would soon be back to safety. I had time to recall the days events, no longer in a state of hysteria. I know now the importance of things held dear to life. I know now that endless searching will not provide the peace and happiness we need. I must look within to find the satisfaction. I chuckled at the thought that I had to be knocked unconscience alone on a mountain peak and dream the existence of the famous characters from the land of Oz to discover that truth. I chuckled again at the thought of the vivid dream as I reached my car. Finally, I put my hand in my left pant pocket to pull out the keys. The keys were there ready for use. But there was something else I felt unexpectedtly. There were two other objects, one metal and the other cloth. I pulled out both objects to view. It was a metal shoe buckle and a small red dog collar with the word, Otto, engraved on its tag.

By this time, I was about as ready to get home from my remote unknown location on Slide Mountain as I am to finish this story. I was about to ask Dorothy what was to be the next move when she abruptly stated "sit!" I dutifully dropped to the ground. At her feet, with my elbows resting on my folded knees, I suddenly felt like a boy scout in front his scout leader ready to absorb every word. Not looking at me but gazing wistfully at the distance in front of her, she went on to quietly say, "not you, I was talking to Otto." I turned my head over my right shoulder and caught a glimpse of the little black terrier sitting on his back legs, panting with a tongue hanging all the way to his thin red collar. Other than the quick rhythmic movements of his chest, he was totally immobile. The cursed pooch was stareing at me like I was some kind of idiot. I was not pleased. My left eye twitching, lips tightly closed, I returned the look at the canine traveler and silently barked, "yeah, but can you write a blog!!"

"Otto, you just called him Otto, Isn't his name Toto", I asked now somewhat confused. Dorothy replied," that's his name, Otto". "But you called him Toto earlier", I responded. Dorothy softly giggled, blushing with innocent embarrassment, like a grade school girl being kissed for the first time by her youthful sweetheart. "I did? It must have been a senior moment. No, he's not Toto. Toto died about 70 years ago. Kind of a sad day when it happened. Died of old age, on Auntie Em's back porch. We were all there at the end; Auntie Em, Uncle Henry, the farm hands-Hickory Twiches, Hunk Andrews, and dear old Zeke." They had all apparently been present as Toto peacefully blew his last life's wind through his "wee" black nose. "He was a good dog," she added. "We buried him in the back near the shed underneath the big oak tree." I imagined his resting spot, deep within the prairie soil with a heavy stone placed knowingly as an eternal marker. He was safe there, not likely to be transported by the indescriminate clutches of a ruthless tornado.

She went on to explain that Otto was from a long line of Toto's male terrier descendants. Otto's mother, on the other hand, was a Border terrier from Topeka, named Jezebel. Dorothy adds, "she, as you folks say these days, 'had an attitude.' " I learn that Jezebel had come to the farm with her master, a local real estate developer shopping for a location to build a giant shopping mall, one of those monstrosities with the endless asphalt parking lot. Dorothy describes, "as you folks might also say these days, the little dog was 'one hot little bitch'. Wanted to make 'amore' with every four legged or two legged creature that walked. Goats, roosters, pigs, you name it. She even went after one legged creatures that couldn't walk. Take old Zeke for instance. Several years earlier, he had a bad stroke. Also lost his left leg to sugar diabetes. Pretty much, he was stuck in his bed oblivious to the rest of the world. We used to put him in a rocking chair on the back porch. He'd sit there never saying a word for hours. One day, I go to the back to check on him. There she was, as you folks might also say these days, 'humpin' his right leg'. Her tongue hanging out of the left side of her mouth, ears flat and turned backwards, eyes rolled up skyward, it looked as if she was at it for hours and totally worn-out. Old Zeke was just kind of slumped in his chair. If he wasn't moaning and groaning, I would have thought he was dead. He had no idea what was happening. He just sat there and groaned,'take me Dear Jesus, take me' ."

Too many questions I had to ask at this point. I had to drop them all and get on to important matters, like how to get home. It seemed, however, that Dorothy was developing a little slippage of the mind that belayed her many years.

For a moment, I was speechless. After all, who would believe this was actually happening? Did I even know it was a reality? Or was it some journey into madness; me, henceforth, a mountaineering Orpheus, ascending to the heights of hell to rescue peace and harmony from eternal damnation? On the top of a mountain, lost, and at risk of being lifted skyward by an unforgiving tornado headed directly towards me, I am suddenly rescued by one of the timeless characters of our lives. It was Dorothy, Auntie Em's loving niece, the youthful slayer of evil witches; she, previously, a technicolor vision ingrained in the silver screen recesses of our collective conscience, but now incarnate and 75 years older. Confused and searching for the right words, I looked at my now aged time-traveler and stated with a sheepish grin, "Um, er, ...I guess were not in Kansas anymore."

Dorothy gave a prolonged. impatient sigh as she rolled her eyes skyward beneath her half-closed heavily wrinkled eye lids. She shook her head and said with an air of obvious disgust, "I am so sick of that stupid joke, you would not believe. I have been traveling for the last 60 years trying to rescue people lost and in danger in some remote location and that it is all I ever hear. And the last several years, it has for some reason gotten worse." I thought it better to drop the subject at that point. She apparently had not attended any local IMAX theater to view the newest cinema graphic marvel of our time.

She looked at me again and declared emphatically. "You know, for some reason or another, it's you middle aged men over the last 10 years or so, that are keeping me constantly on the go." I suddenly had visions of other like-minded pot-bellied boomers, dealing with mid-life crises, naively placing themselves totally unprepared in remote locations. I could see each one clearly. There was the out-of-shape aging wanna-be adventurer caught hopelessly in a sail boat just off shore in the Atlantic with a hurricaine about to descend upon his position. I saw the balding, overweight male with more chins than functioning neurons join a horde of other would-be mountaineers to swarm up the nearest mountain only to fall over the edge of an all-ready overcrowded crevasse like a hapless lemming. Or perhaps, it was the gray-bearded, near-sighted angler in a bright silver aluminum fishing boat with his newly acquired Orvis fishing gear. He is trying to put bait on a hook for the very first time in his life when his paddle accidently falls from the boat. He leans over to save the paddle only to watch as his car keys fall from his shirt pocket into the depths of the dark still lake. All this, just as sudden hail storm begins to strike with painful force. Dorothy was there to rescue each, to lead them back to their safer, more familiar life. I silently lamented to each of these kindred spirits with sad resignation, "No, I guess it's really true. We're not in Kansas anymore."

Not waiting for any further reply, Dorothy suddenly turned her head over her right shoulder to search for her travelling companion, the black Scottish terrier we all knew as Toto. She saw him just at the edge of the evergreen forest on a rocky ledge above our standing spot, digging furiously, nose buried within the middle of a decaying tree trunk which had fallen between two large moss covered boulders. He was oblivious to our conversation, having caught the scent of some aromatic tiny four-legged fur ball who had made the rotting log a warm abode . Dorothy yelled to the pooch in the sharp tones that only an 85 year old woman could reach, "Otto, come here!!"
(I'll continue later. I've got to get on with my workouts. Only about 30 days until I climb. Got to be sure I'm in shape. My wife is warning me about my blogging indulgence. "Get serious", she says, "you're wasting time.'' ??!!)

Mt Baker -Day 40( Dark Clouds Ahead-Conclusion, Part 2b)

Given that I could not use characteristics of the wind and barometric pressure in order to forecast the oncoming weather, the only clue left for me on the mountain that day remained the shape of overhead cloud cover. This, too, had been thoroughly detailed in my trusty text Mountaineering: Freedom of the Hills. In Chapter 27, the types of cloud cover formation are categorized. You got your common cumulus clouds. You got your altocumulus and your cumulonimbus formations. Then you got your basic cirrostratus, your nimbostratus, and a few others not necessary to name. Their readily visible shape will tell you weather or not a cold front is approaching. It will tell you weather or not rain is likely and even the probability of thunderstorms or lightning. You just simply stand in a spot where the trees are not blocking your view, look skyward, and there you have it. Simple. I scrambled on to the largest sandstone formation in my location away from the obstructing limbs of the balsam fir and looked up. Simple, right?

Wrong! My panic attack was overwhelming. I was no longer in control. To my untrained eye, there must have been six or seven different shapes? Were they heaped, were they sheet like, how low were they, and how low did they need to be? Not only that, but the cursed fluff kept changing with every moment I looked. Every word of the book that I had memorized seemed to fly away with the strengthening winds. Was the nimbostratus formation the one that predicted a cold front and rains or was it the cumulonimbus pattern? I suddenly couldn't even remember what the clouds were actually called. Was there something called cirrobottomless? Or was it hippopotamus? Muchoserious? Whatamessimus? Don't bother spell checking. The more I thought, the more panicked I became, and the more strange the terms that came to mind sounded.

The winds were now howling and seemed to be swirling more like a tornado with a bad attitude. The sun could no longer be seen through the dark cover overhead. I could hear large branches breaking off the swaying trees in all directions. For secure minds, these mountaineering events could have been considered no big deal, just routine risks that come along on a nearly daily basis. But for me, with my biochemically determined stress-anxiety disorder, this was really heavy stuff. I was close to a psychotic breakdown. I began to see strange things. Black shadowy figures under the dark sky and within the balsam forests began to appear everywhere. I thought that someone was actually watching me. I started to think of all my disgruntled patients in my career. Did they plan this? Was this a moment they would seek their revenge? Maybe it was all the office staff to whom I demanded they find another job for some mistake that turned out to be my own. Or worse yet, all the in-laws for whom I always forgot the yearly Christmas gift. They had to be planning this for sometime. There were shapes that now stood out among all others. It was a frightening form that I believed I had first seen at some point in my childhood. Hundreds of them. They were more like monkeys than anything else. But they weren't monkeys. They had wings and they could fly and they wore some kind of funny helmet. Where had I see them before, I wondered? I started to recall something about the "wicked witch of the North"? My words were being spoken aloud at this point. "What is all this about?" "What do you want from me?" "Have I gone mad?"

I looked up again at the sky believing the end was approaching. I couldn't decide what was the greater problem, the eerie creatures within the nearby forest or the fear of a possible mountain storm. Suddenly, it happened. To the left of me was a black funnel with all the appearance of a whirling tornado headed directly towards the clearing in which I stood. To the right, however, there was an intense stream of light not dissimilar to the one I had seen strike the poster on the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central. That light as you may recall led to the poster's metamorphosis and divining message. The rays touched the clouds on the right and their formation began to change. No longer the natural curves of a cumulus cloud, they became almost a rectangular shape. "My god, it's the poster", I said to myself. A message in clear blue lettering began to shine through the now white clouds much like that I had seen on that fateful train. It read "there is no place like...." The last word was hidden behind a tall tree . "No place like ...what!?", I shouted. The tornado on the left was nearly upon me. Was this my final breath? I thought the time had come for me to meet my maker and then, from directly behind me, I heard a voice. It was a gentle voice, ageless, and womanly. "Are you lost?", she quietly said.

I turned towards the voice and saw a most peculiar sight. She was standing alone, no more than three feet behind me. I had never seen anyone like her. Her shoes caught my eyes first, ruby in color with a metal buckle. These were not shoes for hiking to some desolate peak six hours from civilization. Just as the flying monkeys shook my memory banks, so did these "slippers". Where had I seen them before? How did she arrive here walking with shoes that were more appropriate for a piano recital at a local school than scrambling over rocks, streams, and sand. Her dress, too, seemed out of place. It was cotton, light blue in color, simple in design, and hung to her knees. It covered a white delicate blouse that matched the color of her ankle socks. It looked as if it belonged on a young child who lived in another era, perhaps in the late 1930s. She stood erect, lithe. But her face was not that of a young girl. It was a most unusual face. The eyes were as blue as her dress; bright, kind, and all knowing as if she had previously lived my current predicament. Her lips were innocent, red and full. Her hair was light brown in color, parted in the middle, and braided into two pig tails that hung in back to her shoulders. Her age, however, was revealed by the skin of her face. It was not a face that matched the rest of her appearance. Her skin was pale and lined. Indeed, the myriad creases over her cheeks, eyes, forehead, and mouth reminded me more of the topographical map of the Adirondack Mountains that I had obtained at a local mountaineering supply store in Lake Placid. Though she dressed as she might have seventy years ago, her age must have been closer to eighty-five.

"Perhaps, I can help you find your way home", she said in almost whispered tones. My mind suddenly became calm.The nightmarish creatures had vanished and the strong winds no longer blew. Suddenly, I could see from the corner of my eye what for a moment appeared to be a small black four-legged animal. The woman turned and gently called, "Toto, come here boy." The creature came from the woods to her side. It was a black Cairn terrier with a thin red color around its neck. "Toto?", I questioned to myself. Suddenly, it was all beginning to make sense. The sudden realization caused my entire body to quiver. With the shock of sudden recognition of an old acquaintance returning from some distant continent, I turned to my fellow traveler and asked, "Dorothy?". With a slight smile, a single nod of her head, and a gentle blink of her eye, she silently affirmed, "yours truly".

Mt Baker - Day 44 (Storm Clouds Ahead - Conclusion, part 2a)

So there I was on the edge of the mountain trying to figure out what weather to expect in the next hour or so. A bad forecast would certainly be a call to seek shelter rather than brave continued climbing. My anxiety level was skyrocketing to heights well above the readings of my never-used altimeter hanging by a lanyard by my side. Slide Mountain is not exactly the Lohtse Face in the Central Himalayas. But there beneath the darkening skies, it was not exactly my usual warm confines of the Harvard Club in mid-town Manhattan either. I had never before been to this highest peak in the Catskills. For almost six hours, I had been hiking to what I initially thought was the highest ridge on the mountain.With the sun now disappearing behind ominous clouds, the usual clues as to direction of travel were no longer available. How did I get to the remote spot in which I then stood and how to return to where I came? There were no familiar clues as to my location; no trail head marker, no familiar trees, vegetation, geologic formations, no previously heard earthly sounds, nor any ready made street signs. Was I headed east away from my waiting Jag at the northwest trail head? Maybe I could pray for a southern direction and at least be a little closer to the nearest turnpike back to Pound Ridge. Better yet, pray for a direction which would lead to a welcoming mountain inn, a hot meal, and a full glass of shiraz? For awhile, my climb had been interspersed with brief intervals of descent as if I had been heading towards a valley between Slide and a neighboring unnamed peak. Did I even know whether or not I was on Slide Mountain at this point? I suddenly felt like an eternal time traveler arriving for a fleeting moment in some dark mysterious land. The only hope was to soon be transported to another more forgiving new age. In short, I was hopelessly lost. To make matters worse, was there now a brewing rain storm ahead that would leave me miserably drenched and shivering? The now prevalent balsam firs intermingled with rough hobble bush suggested I was well above three thousand feet, perhaps only a few hundred feet from the summit. I sat down on one of the sandstone boulders on a relatively level part of a now questionably discernible path to collect my thoughts. My watch said 5:20 PM. In a few hours, that day's light would be only a remembrance, a brief moment among my ever increasing faded memories. I silently cursed that Xanax did not grow in the wild, no easy pluck like some golden eliptical huckleberry hanging from a leafy bough. Its sweet nectar would instantly be a harbinger of my soon to be experienced mind's calm.

I had spent many hours reading and rereading Chapter 27 of Mountaineering:Freedom of the Hills on indicators of approaching storms. It was now the moment to test my knowledge. Perhaps, this was the moment the ever-changing poster on the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central had divined. My obsessive compulsive nature had dictated that the relevant pages be memorized word for word. The chapter describes four key elements from which to draw necessary conclusions regarding dire weather ahead: changes in cloud cover, changes in air pressure, changes in both wind-direction and wind speed. However, one of these elements were not to be realized. In my haste to start the climb, I had inadvertently left my handheld barometer recently bought at Eastern Mountain Sports on the front passenger seat of my Jag. I had learned that pressure decreases recorded on the barometer of as little as 0.08" can signal immanent winds with speeds greater than 40 miles per hour; a clear sign to move to a protected area. Were such pressure changes now in the works? I had spent a lot of money on the little gadget to assure myself of being well-informed. It was money suddenly wasted; its message not to be revealed. Even my all knowing iPhone could not be a substitute;no app to be downloaded to provide a barometer's clues. Steve Jobs, are you reading this? The winds suddenly felt stronger, more intense, their sounds more resonant as they rushed through gaps in the towering boulders above me. I had also learned that it was important to gauge wind speeds upwind of a gap before climbing to the gap location. Winds within these higher rocky passages may be twice as strong as ones experienced at lower altitudes; again a signal to stop climbing and return to a more sheltered location. (to be continued)

Mt Baker- Day 49 (Storm Clouds Ahead -conclusion)

Those close to me have said that the last three blogs are difficult to understand. I think it is because they have taken it literally. No, these past events described in Storm Clouds Ahead did not really happen. There is no 6:50AM train from Katonah to Grand Central. Yes, these recent blogs are essentially paying homage to the knowledge required to predict weather while in the wild. Yes, I intend to further detail those skills. But no, there was no metamorphosing poster on the 6:50AM train, no poster that starts as an add for The Weather Channel, no poster that subsequently changes under the influence of the sun's rays to an ethereal message of truth and destiny. Other characters briefly mentioned in these more recent blogs and to be introduced later in today's conclusion are also not real. The process of writing on a blog is essentially for me a new life's experience. I suddenly realized the pleasure of "creative" writing, if that it is what it is called. May even take a course in it, perhaps at NYU night school, or wherever else it might be offered. Regardless, I have been advised to return to the detailing of day to day preparations for the July 23 summit. OK, I hear you. There are very meaningful things that need to be retold. The goal, indeed, is to climb Mount Baker and, most importantly, raise funds for a hopeful cause. But let me finish my recently experienced drama before moving on. It is a drama that has changed my life forever. So here goes the conclusion: truth, fiction, or otherwise.

Having quickly exited the southbound Metro North commuter train heading to Grand Central and having left a message to my office to cancel all the day's appointments, I arrived by return metro at Katonah and quickly scrambled into my waiting Jag at the station's parking lot . I headed north to the Catskill Mountains. Keeping to a steady speed with no traffic, I knew I would be there before noon. My intent was to climb one of the Catskill's 4000 foot summits and try out the skills of forecasting the weather detailed in the book Mountaineering:Freedom of the Hills. After three hours of travelling, I finally arrived at my destination, the northwest trail head of Slide Mountain. Though my iPhone was still on my belt, a resolution was made to keep it powered off for the duration. I had learned from previous experience that its Weather Channel app may not be a reliable means to forecast weather in the remote mountain peaks with temperatures well below freezing. Better now to become less dependent upon the digital world. The crisp white shirt, my usual red paisley tie, and recently shined brown Italian loafers were left behind, replaced by more appropriate climbing attire always kept in my car's trunk just for such contingencies.

For those of you who don't know, Slide Mountain at 4,180 feet is the tallest peak in the Catskills. No Himalayan Mountain for sure but still a means to test certain mountaineering skills. The main trails are easy to follow but several paths branching from the trail can surely test ones capacity for orienteering. Taking "the path less chosen" off the main trail so as to proove my mountain worthiness, I climbed through forests of sugar maples, beech, black cherry, and hemlock. It was, indeed, a beautiful hike. The mountain laurel was in full bloom, its delicate white flowers looking like a neckless of perfect radiant pearls. The sky at this point was blue with only an occasional cloud. I could hear the soft clear songs of red-eyed vireo and yellow-bellied sapsuckers, each having recently arrived during their yearly migration from the Arctic to South America. And so it went for the next three hours.

I soon realized that the path had changed. No longer marked, I was less certain that a trail actually existed. Limestone boulders covered with club moss began to dominate the setting. Forests also changed in character, reflecting the sub alpine altitudes. The trees were smaller with a greater number of balsam firs mixed with feathery ferns and rough hobble bush. There was now a chill in the air. The blue sky was now sparse. Was this the moment my ethereal poster in the first car of the 6:50 AM train from Katonah to Grand Central had divined? A judgement had to be made as to whether or not to end my climb and head back to the car at the northwest trail head . What could I expect in the next two hours - rain, sun, high winds, cooling temperatures, lightning? I realized the time had come to use nature's clues and test my newly acquired mountaineering talent for predicting summit weather (oops, sorry, the conclusion to this episode will have to be saved for tomorrow)

Mt Baker -day 50 (Storm Clouds Ahead-cont.)

So much has happened in the last two weeks that will impact upon the Mt Baker summit.I worry that I am not any better prepared than I was two months ago. It's getting hot outside and long aerobic runs are becoming increasingly difficult. Enough with that, however. Let's get back to other equally serious issues -specifically: 1) how does one accurately predict mountain weather while "on the job", half way up the mountain when the only protection is the cover of base camp five thousand feet below? This a critical skill that can save a life. Mountain weather is fickle. It can change from serene to catastrophic in a moment. Just pick up "Into Thin Air" by John Krakaur and you will know exactly what I mean. And most importantly 2) what was the hopefully relevant ethereal enlightenment being conveyed by the ever changing poster on the 6:50 AM Metro North train from Katonah to Grand Central? You would have to read my more recent blogs to know to what I am referring. The poster was more than an add for The Weather Channel. Its ever changing content was meant to prepare me not only for the unforgiving mountain with its unforseen forces but perhaps also a guiding light through the calm and storms of my own life as well.

I took my seat as usual on the 6:50 AM train. My foremost objective was to learn the deeper message of that 2'3"x 3'5" poster to the left in front of me as I sat in the first seat of the train's first car. The never-changing cast of silent commuters were there as well to witness the event. They were true "partners" I have come to know on a daily basis. People who were the one constancy in my life; partners in daily living with whom I have never once spoken a word. In fact, I know them only by the hats, caps, coats, and other substances they use to cover their faces as they rest silently with their shoulders against the window, arms folded tightly in front. Their monthly commuter cards always flash clearly on their chests so as to alert the conductor of their not to be disturbed meditations. Maybe, they have experienced the poster's message in the past. Maybe they have resultantly achieved the serene place for which I strive.

There were many on the train that day. I have come to know them by name. Among them was "Lou Gehrig", as I have come to call him. He sits on the right hand side of the first car, one row behind me; the Yankee clipper, the iron man (or welder as the case may be). He's surely never missed a day of work in the last 10 years. I know him by his faded blue blue baseball cap with the NY insignia pulled down over his face, covering all but the three day growth on his square chin. His thick calloused hands, heavily worn jeans, and thick-soled, skuffed, tan boots speak to his life in the nobler profession of steel and dust. Directly behind me was "Norma Desmond", looking as if she just came off the set of Sunset Boulevard. I have yet to see her face as well. I recognize her by her skin pulled very tight at the edges behind her ears. My surgical experience has led me to understand her recent submission to a 15 Bard Parker blade to mask her many years beneath the abusing sun. I recognize her also by her jet black hair serving as a stark contrast to the fading hues of her aging eyes. Her mask of heavy colors are always propitiously applied to the usual facial recesses to make for certain disguise. Is it possible, too, that she may have experienced the poster's call? There was the usual cast of others. "Darth Vader", "Cinderella" and "Wolfman". "Ralph Cramdon" and his buddy "Norton" were in their usual seats. Behind them were"Thelonius Monk", "Lolita" and "Andrew Carnegie".Finally, in the back row from left to right were "Rabbi Rabinowitz", "Che Guevara", and "Clarence Darrow" All there to receive the message. Their frozen constant positions reminded me more of characters from a back room at Madame Tussaud's than group of early morning commuters.

So there I sat patiently waiting. Then on the third day of the week, it happened again. The same brilliant sun streamed through the window directly upon the poster. The same change in color of the poster from green to pure white was coupled with the poster's metamorphosis into a cumulus cloud. The now clear blue lettering peeking through this fluffy white vision spelled, yet, another message I knew I needed to heed. The message was strong and unambiguous. It spelled out with clear force my next instructions. It almost bellowed to me in deep tones. It read "go now to the mountain". I instantly pulled out my trusty iphone and left a message to my secretary. "Important, something has come up, please cancel all appointments for the rest of the day. I'll explain later". I got off at the next stop. From the corner of my eye as I exited the train, I could see my "partners" turning in unison to face the poster with blank stares and gaping mouths. Did they see the same message or some other call to their own personal destiny? The doors closed behind me. I stood alone on the platform on the station and watched as the 6:50 AM train headed south. I knew then that a stage of my life had just ended. I would never sit in that train again. My "partners", those feckless frozen characters, were gone forever. My future now uncertain, the call to the mountain clearly enticing , I waited impatiently on the platform for the next train headed north to Katonah and the waiting seat of my Jag('01, XJ8, light green in color). I could be "on the mountain" by noon if I stayed focused on what exactly I needed to do. (to be continued tomorrow or the next day)