The seeds for my “Spirit Quest 2026” were planted many years ago.  They came to fruition this past July, when four fellow climbers and I, along with two guides, spent five days in pursuit of the summit of Mt. Olympus, in the heart of Olympic National Park.  Several of us, including our friends Bruce and Lynette, began discussing a climb of Mt. Olympus more than a decade ago, but when Bruce was diagnosed with ALS in 2021, these plans fell by the wayside.

Few diseases offer less hope than ALS, yet since his diagnosis Bruce has been practicing hope and inspiring others to do the same.  Last fall I proposed reviving the idea of climbing Mt. Olympus, but this time as a fundraiser for ALS Northwest, which has provided Bruce and Lynette with invaluable support.  Our crew of five came together quickly, and the way forward opened:  we found a guide service we all liked, ALS Northwest jumped in enthusiastically, and soon we had permits for our preferred dates.

Fundraising is an activity most people dislike—including us—but this was simply a matter of inviting people to participate in something larger than themselves:  to express support for Bruce and Lynette, even if not known by most who were solicited, and to practice hope for a future without ALS.  We practiced hope ourselves by setting a fundraising goal of $15,000 with no idea where it would come from, but in the end we raised $27,000 from 127 donors.

Mt. Olympus is named after the home of the gods of the ancient Greeks, and aptly so.  The trail begins in the heart of the Hoh River rainforest, which receives 140+ inches of rain annually, producing trees of extraordinary size presiding over a lush canopy and groundcover.  The scale of this landscape was the first of many reminders that we were but brief visitors to a world created and governed by forces more powerful than ourselves, and that we should tread respectfully, humbly, even reverently.

After traversing 12 miles of level valley floor the trail begins climbing, at first gradually, then with steadily increasing steepness, and each of us began encountering another form of humility: the limitations of our bodies.  For one of us, it was the lingering effects of a sinus infection; for another, foot blisters.  For myself, it was simply exhaustion from the exertion of ascending with a 50-pound pack.  After dinner on our second evening we gathered to assess our capacity for a summit push the next day; we each took inventory of what we felt capable of, and we developed a plan that fit each person’s desires and abilities.  Three (plus a guide) would rise early and ascend the Blue Glacier until an agreed-upon turnaround time; another climber and I (with the other guide) chose to rest our bodies for the return trip, then ascend to the Blue Glacier overlook to enjoy the view and await our companions’ return.

No one reached the summit, but in the end this journey delighted us all.  The vast expanses of glaciers and peaks were breathtaking reminders of the glory of our created world and our small place within it.  In this alpine heaven, it felt as if the boundary between the terrestrial and the celestial had parted, giving us a glimpse into the world beyond even if we couldn’t enter it.  As seasoned climbers, we seek the summit, but here it felt like more than enough to enter the Olympian abode of the divine, to share our hopes and prayers, and to leave offerings of gratitude:  for our own experiences, for the donors and well-wishers who supported our journey, and for all that Bruce and Lynette have brought to our lives.

Psalm 90:12, a favorite verse I have often reflected upon, says, “Make us know how few are our days, that our minds may learn wisdom.”  Increasingly, I encounter limitations not only of time but also of my body, and my hope is to gain wisdom from these encounters.  After my 70^th birthday in 2025, I realized my days for undertaking this climb were growing fewer, as were the chances to honor Bruce and Lynette while he is still with us.  I am so grateful for the nudge to make this happen, and that Bruce was able to celebrate with us afterwards. 

This climb also helped me embrace the fact that, as I age, the list of things I can no longer do is continually growing, yet there also remains much I can still do.  Bruce has embodied this wisdom throughout his journey with ALS, and one of the best ways I can honor that is to “go and do likewise.”