Nathan E. Lewis

In the days of his youth Fred was an outdoor enthusiast hiking the trails of Oregon. As an old man he began to suffer more and more from arthritis. He bought a modest RV, one of the simpler ones with an expanding bay window and a dish on the roof. He would park it along the Salmon River peering at the riffles where he would have fly fished in days past. At some point he began to surf the 378 channels off the satellite. He regularly drew the drapes of the bay window to cut the glare on the screen. In time he was confined to a wheel chair and installed a lift on his RV. The conventional wisdom of his friends and care providers was, “Don’t go out; you will endanger yourself.” And so, his mindset toward the nature he loved changed from joy to fear. His surfing finger would pause most often on Oregon Field and Stream, then he began to watch nothing else but the History Channel. Then, he took an interest in Christian cable, mostly fanatics crying the demise of American culture and morality.
In time he was watching shows about dark eschatology, switching to SciFi as a sympathetic companion to his darkening world view.
One long time friend, Cecil, showed concern for Fred. He would ride his motorcycle to Fred’s campsite to visit with him several hours at a time. “Why don’t you let me wheel you along the paved path on the river bank to spy a fish or two and to identify the spring flowers?” Fred said that it would be too much of a risk. Cecil said, “We’ll take it slow and I won’t take my hands off your chair.” Fred said, “We are approaching tourist season and there will be too many out of staters on the path snapping their cameras and the children will annoy me.”
The following visit Cecil persuade Fred to take the stroll along the river. “Smell the water! Feel the wind! I know a place where the water rushes for sufficient length and there I can scoop up a cup of snow melt to delight your soul.” Fred said that the last thing he needed was giardia.
In the late summer Cecil said, “Fred, let me take you to Timberline. I will wheel you up the paved path and then we will take your chair off road on the trail. It’s a bit rocky, but we can make it to the top of the Palmer Lift. Would you not love to see Mt. Jefferson to the south?”
Fred said, “Seasoned climbers die on Mt. Hood every year! Perposterous! What if my chair tipped over?”
Cecil said, “Then I will wheel you to where the pavement ends and I will strap you to my back and carry you to the top so that you can see the forest you love spread out beneath us.”
In late September, Fred finally consented only to put an end to Cecil’s begging.
The two older men drove to Timberline Lodge, parked the car. Cecil helped Fred into his chair and wheeled him up the paved path. At its end with the rocky trail above them, Cecil strapped Fred to his back and carried him to the top of the Palmer Lift. A glorious waning sun enlightened the peak of Mt. Jefferson and the two friends basked in its splendor. Cecil said, “I don’t think that I can carry you back to the chair. I will have to call the patrol at Timberline.”
The rescue team arrived to scold the two old men and fined Cecil a hefty sum. Fred insisted on splitting the payment and said, “Next season, let’s climb Mt. Shasta.”