One Mountain at a Time

By Michael Giere

“Now, as he waited in the abandoned shed, menaced by a howling cold wind and a grey sky that sat overhead so close you thought you could almost touch it, Ricky began to wonder if he would see his dad again...Dad, where are you? Then, as he turned to see Emily staring back at him, he realized that she already knew what he suspected and she had accepted the fact that Dad might not be able to find his way back to them. They were alone on the side of a mountain, surrounded by trees for as far as one could see or walk.”

In a one-of-a-kind adventure and love story, Richard Murray and his children are lost on the side of a mountain during a surprise October blizzard facing life and death decisions. After his addictions destroy his family life and cause a tumultuous divorce, his choices and the intense search and rescue operation become the bridge connecting both the agony of great loss and the possibility for new love. Based on an actual incident, One Mountain at a Time celebrates redemption and hope, and rejoices in Grace.

“[The] interactions and surprises of the characters involved is intense and compelling. It will keep you crying or cheering.”

“An authentic and beautifully written book that captures the pain and consequences of sin destroying the things we love most – overcome by the larger purposes of God.”

“This book is a tale of real people of faith and their lives. These are people who have screwed up, people who struggle every day to do the right thing, people who fail, and people who do things they never imagined they would be able to do.”

“Giere has a way with making you want to read the next page and then the next chapter. You have to know what's next, and you never see the end coming.”

Set on the Western Slope of the Rockies and the backdrop of the White River National Forest, One Mountain at a Time is an adventure and psychological page-turner, and is the first novel in the White River Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Castle Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Jul 17, 2017
• ISBN: 9781629897448

Michael Giere

After decades of writing non-fiction, Mike Giere debuts his first fiction novel, One Mountain at a Time, in 2015. His new novel is the first of five in the “White River Series,” that bring together real life adventures on Colorado’s famed Western Slope, with stories of faith, hope and love. Giere’s extensive non-fiction writing on current affairs, politics, foreign policy and issues of faith have been seen in national publications including The Washington Times, The Washington Post, and Human Events among others, as well as numerous national blogs. In addition, he has written major studies and monographs for various federal agencies, including the Department of State (The Foreign Policy of the People’s Revolutionary Government of Granada). Originally from Texas, Giere now lives in Virginia with his wife, Colleen. They have three grown children and three grandchildren.

Book preview

Sunday Afternoon

You should write it now.

There it was again, that voice. The voice.

Richard craned his head over his shoulder. Both children were focused on an old stained map they had discovered, seemingly unaware of the voice. In the other direction, he saw only the warped, misshapen door stationed against the fury of the snow storm. No one was there.

Should I? Is that what I should do? Richard said softly, almost to himself.

It’s what you were thinking. It’s in your heart Richard, the voice whispered.

Would it make a difference now, after everything that’s happened—everything I’ve done?

Would it?

Richard drew a breath deeply into himself, trying to find some reasonable and rational way to fix his mind on the fact that he was in a discussion with a voice, or a person, that he couldn’t even see.

In an instant his mind fixed on the exact moment one year ago when he had first heard this voice. The memory came with all the attendant smells and sights just as real as if he were still in Rowlaski’s Bar in downtown Denver. Even more real, he thought. It was a broken down bar for broken down drunks and people on the far edge of their lives, their radius so wide that they were in danger of escaping it completely. Richard thought it was his just punishment.

He could actually, somehow, see himself in a fetal position, his head partly resting in his own drying vomit, with the dank stinking odors of stale beer and liquor and old food hanging like unseen curtains in the dark and empty bar. His back was resting against an ancient juke box on the hard bare concrete floor.

His drinking buddies had left him where he had passed out hours before and the lone bartender and proprietor, Simon Rowlaski, had simply turned out the lights, locked up and gone to his upstairs apartment.

Richard, was the first word the voice had spoken to him, rousing him out of his stupor. Now, in his memory, he could actually feel the mess on the side of his face again as he lifted his head off the cold concrete, vaguely aware that he had been blind staggering drunk just hours before. The scene was so vivid in his mind that he winced at the stench from his own clothes and the bar as he watched himself peer into the darkness.

Oh, my head...yes...yeah... he could hear himself haltingly stammer. Yeah, what do you want? he coarsely asked, followed by a statement made out loud to no one, Oh, I don’t feel...I think I’m going to throw up...

Do you ever feel good after passing out drunk? The voice was barely audible now.

Say wha...huh? Richard suddenly realized that while he could clearly hear the voice, he couldn’t see anyone. Where are you, what do you need, oh, my head... In his mind’s eye, he watched as he was struggling to get his legs under himself, using the juke box as a crutch.

I’m here, don’t worry, the voice had answered. I came to ask you a question, Richard. The voice drifted off and was replaced by the buzz of the neon sink lights and the slight humming noises from the bar coolers somewhere in the darkness. Richard strained to see someone, but there were only shadows and dimly defined tables and chairs scattered around. The juke box had a row of soft lights highlighting the coin slot and the selection buttons that illuminated Richard’s hand as he pulled himself to an upright position.

Okay, a question, huh, but, who are you, do I know you? Richard heard himself asking.

Do you? responded the voice.

Now fully upright, Richard stared into the dark bar towards the spot where the side entrance should be, but could only see the flickering exit sign. It crossed his mind that he might be in danger. Should I run for the exit?

Do I know you? Richard repeated his question to give himself a moment to think. No, I don’t think so. He began wiping his face with the side of his hand to clear the mess off of himself. Should I? he heard himself questioning the darkness.

The voice asked, Do you want to?

What are you talking about?

Like a stretched rubber band snapping back into shape, the memory passed and once again the bitterly cold dilapidated shed was all too real. His two children were visible and real. The missing back wall of the shed was real. Will it make a difference if I write it down?

I don’t know, Richard, the voice said quietly.

Will she be okay if... Richard’s volume dropped off as the possibility of the kids overhearing him crossed his mind, ...I mean, if I can’t make it back?

Hmm, that’s a very good question, Richard.

So I may not make it back?

I don’t know Richard. After a moment of silence, the voice’s tone deepened just a bit. Richard, you must climb one mountain at a time. What happens here will happen here, but you already know what you must say.

Richard didn’t respond for a moment. Then, in a soft but urgent manner, he pleaded, But the children, they make it and she is okay, right?

Richard could hear nothing now except the howling wind, menacingly whipping the cold and the snow into a weapon, threatening and angry, looking to spend it’s fury on something or someone.

The voice finally interrupted, coming deep and resonating, yet strangling settling. Richard, no person gets to know the story of another. Not even a son, daughter, or wife. Their stories belong to them alone, as does yours to you.

Searching his backpack, Richard retrieved and unfolded the two page instructions from the camp rental office - the reverse pages were blank. Squatting on the buckled, uneven, cold wood planks of the shed’s floor he picked up a piece of what had once been a drawer bottom to use as a smooth surface. With shaking strokes he began writing.

The voice was gone.

Chapter 1

The Previous Friday

The divorce was final. That was that. Ricky sat on the wide wooden steps of his grandmother’s house chewing on that fact like a piece of hard taffy, the kind that makes your jaws ache and sorry you’d started.

He’d been thinking on the divorce for a long time now, since the day some judge, a man he had never seen before, announced to the world that the marriage between his mom and his dad was over. Just like that.

The judge hadn’t said a word about the comfortable life that he and his sister Emily had always known being over too. But it was over just the same.

He was keeping watch over the narrow ribbon of road in front of the house that vanished beyond the nearby trees, waiting for his dad to pick up the two of them for the first time in over a year. Everything about this unwelcomed new life was uncertain. After the many months that slipped by, Ricky wasn’t even sure that the love that had once bonded them so tightly together still stuck. He was absentmindedly picking at the blistered old paint on the even older front steps, peeling up and curling off the wood at the edges. Is that how it’ll be with all of us now?

If Emily was anxious about it, she kept her peace as she sat cross-legged on a white wooden porch chair at the top of the stairs, reading a paperback book. She would look towards the trees every now and then and return to her reading without any comment.

And if Ricky couldn’t stop chewing on the divorce, Emily had seemed to swallow it whole. She never mentioned it. Sometimes Ricky would take off on a talking streak and get himself all worked up and angry over what mom and dad had done to them. Emily would just look at her book, or her tablet, or simply stare at Ricky without comment.

He could never figure her out anyway.

After the divorce, Ricky and Emily stayed in Grand Junction with their mother and moved into their grandmother’s house, while their dad went half way across Colorado to work. I’ll be back for a camping trip before your birthday on the first free weekend I have. I Promise. Those were his last words to Ricky—given with such assurance and settled with such disappointment.

Ricky’s twelfth birthday had come and gone. Now, after waiting for so long he sat and waited a bit longer, to see if this promise was meant to be a promise kept.

What’ya think, Em? Do you think he’ll come? Ricky wanted to ask. But he knew Emily would simply shrug her shoulders and keep her thoughts to herself.

Do you remember the last time we saw Dad? he asked instead.

Emily looked up curiously at her brother and shrugged.

He reclined back on the porch steps reconciled to waiting and looking up at the autumn sky with the brilliant sun loitering about with a few wispy clouds. Isn’t it just magic Em, you know, the leaves and all? You can close your eyes and imagine autumn anytime just by remembering the smells and colors.

Emily keep reading and Ricky gazed on as the passing summer was saluted in a bold swirl of the red, orange, and yellow colors that dressed the world for the new season.

"You know, it’s still good camping weather. We’ll be in camp tomorrow morning and tomorrow night we can build just the biggest fire ever!"

Emily put her book down and looked at her brother. Do you think we can cook marshmallows? That’s what I remember most from the last camping trip. Dad cooked me marshmallows.

Ricky turned and looked at his sister. Yeah, he did. Promise, we’ll cook marshmallows, Em.

Emily observed the only car that came from behind the trees on the narrow road all morning. He’s coming, she announced flatly.

Ricky launched from the stairs not noticing that Emily had buried her face in her book again. Wow! What do you know? Cool. We’re going to get an early start. Come on, Em, come on!

Richard Murray was a nice looking man in his forties with a large inviting smile that raised his cheeks up on his face like ramps, leading to his blue eyes. He was tall and nicely built with broad shoulders and kept his brown hair cut short making some think he was a former Marine, instead of the former sales manager he actually was.

Sometimes he was loud and rough, but he’s dad, thought Ricky. And he was a very affectionate man. Mom had said he was too affectionate sometimes, which really didn’t mean anything to him. In all the time they had lived together as a family, Ricky couldn’t think of many days that his dad had not told him I love you, or had not messed up his hair, or had not picked Emily up and spun her around while kissing her. He loved his kids, even though, as he had told them many times during the separation and divorce, I made mistakes and we can’t live together any longer as a family. Ricky didn’t get it and Emily didn’t talk about it.

No sooner had Richard’s foot cleared the door of the car than Ricky attacked him, wrapping himself around his father like a tire around a wheel. Emily closed her book and stood, holding her position on the porch and not moving off to meet her father.

Richard had only half lifted Ricky and pretended he couldn’t lift him higher, which was almost true. You’re too big! he exclaimed proudly, but hugged and kissed his son and ruffed up his hair. When he and Ricky started up the stairs Emily just watched with no apparent emotion.

At the top of the stairs Richard removed his arm from around Ricky’s shoulder and smiled at Emily without a word. She slightly cocked her head and pushed her glasses up on her nose and just waited. Richard stepped up to his daughter and covered her with his long arms so that Ricky, behind them, could only see his father slightly bent over and Emily’s feet dangling a foot off the porch.

Sara Barton, the children’s grandmother and Richard’s former mother-in-law, hearing all the commotion had come to the front of the house and stood behind the screen door watching the scene but not intruding. She had finally abandoned her hair to its true gray color, while her skin still carried the summer’s tan.

My word, she declared, look here, will you. I wondered what all the yelling was about! Richard looked up and Sara opened the screen door and joined them on the porch. With both children squeezed in the middle, Sara and Richard embraced and exchanged a kiss on the cheek, while Sara touched, then lifted his chin with her hand. You look well, Richard. You look well.

A runaway tear just managed to escape down her right cheek.

Richard, she stated as much for the children as for herself, you always have a place in this house. You remember that.

Yes ma’am, Richard replied and let it be.

Well, it’s been a pretty exciting day around this place, waiting on you like you’re the King of Siam or something, Sara winked. And what a beautiful weekend you brought with you!

Richard didn’t reply but simply bent down and kissed Sara on her cheek again. Ricky thought he saw another fugitive tear on the loose and he also couldn’t help but notice that Emily had backed up a foot from them and was studying the wooden boards of the porch.

Sara looked out beyond the front of the house and noticed the new model car Richard was driving, New car?

Oh, heaven’s no, can’t even afford my old truck, much less a new car. It’s a rental. I didn’t want to chance a breakdown up here or on the way to Glenwood Springs and back.

Sara nodded, Yep, that’d be a good thing! She held the screen door open and then stood like a toll booth attendant shooing them all inside.

It had been a long time since Richard had been in this house. His memories were like a squeaky staircase, where every noisy footfall announced the next. Passing the foyer into the large living room, Richard felt comfortable at once. It had the warmth of old, well-worn furniture, throw rugs, and soft lamps. There were photos spread around the room chronicling the life of Sara, Mary and the children. Richard couldn’t help but notice that there wasn’t even one photo that included him. Yeah, saw that one coming.

Richard sat on the couch that he had sat on for the twelve years during which he and Mary had come over to Sara’s house for Thanksgiving or Christmas, birthdays or anniversaries, or dinners and lunches. With Ricky sitting on one side of him and Emily on the other he recalled the progression of his life with Mary in this room in a happier time. When he and his wife had been there in love, or when they were there proudly pregnant, or delivered of a first child, then of another. He could hear Mary’s lifting laugh and soft touches to his knee to still a comment or encourage one.

Ricky couldn’t stop talking and every breath seemed to bring a new thought that found its way to a question. Every time Richard looked straight at Emily she would shyly look at her feet, but when he turned and engaged Ricky or Sara, he could see out of the corner of his eye that she was staring at him. Richard shifted in his seat abruptly and was facing Emily, So tell me about middle-school. How exciting is this?

Dad! Fifth grade isn’t middle school! Finally, he had snared a small smile out of his daughter.

Okay, so how exciting is fifth grade?

Dad, Emily seemed genuinely disgusted. It’s boring. And I don’t get to read enough.

Oh. Okay, I can see that would not be good. Richard reached around her and pulled her to himself and gave her a loving squeeze. Emily couldn’t help but smile.

Sara was sitting in a side chair next to the couch and finally offered, I know you all are in a hurry to head out to Aunt Gloria’s and pick up the camping gear, but I want to fix some hot chocolate for the kids and coffee for us before you leave.

Sara didn’t wait for an answer, but stood up and headed into the kitchen while barking out orders, Kids, head upstairs and finish getting your bags ready. I’ll call you when the hot chocolate is done.

Ricky didn’t want to leave the room, much less go upstairs, but figured this was one of those conversations he had become used to during the breakup of his family. Whatever those conversations were they never seemed to solve anything he noticed.

Chapter 2

He found Sara in the kitchen, the first place he ever saw her, framed in the large kitchen window back-lit by the autumn sun.

What’s the smile for, Mr. Murray?

Just thinking that I asked you if I could date Mary at this very table, pointed Richard, and you’ve not really changed a bit. Still asking a lot of questions.

Yep, that’s my job Richard. You know... Sara paused as she turned her attention to the tea kettle on the stove, giving Richard the impression that this was a discussion she didn’t want to have but was determined to have anyway. If your sponsor at Alcoholics Anonymous hadn’t called Mary and told her about you being sober a year now, I don’t think she would have approved this weekend.

Sara didn’t follow up for a long moment and then with a slight crack in her voice she said softly, I’m proud of you. I know it must be very hard. Honestly, I didn’t know what to think when you started in rehab. I wanted to think you could get better... Sara’s voice cracked harder but she was forcing herself on, It was hard for all of us Richard, especially the kids.

He sat down at the table and didn’t respond until she had finished pouring the hot water and coco mix together for the children. She