Mountain of My Dreams: The Early Years

By Richard T. Antony

Most people end up questioning what they've chosen to do with their life. Richard Antony, an electrical engineer, went beyond just asking himself the age-old question. In the late 1970s, he convinced his wife, Sandra, a contract specialist, they needed to give up their promising careers and comfortable suburban lifestyle to start an azalea nursery in the foothills of the Virginia Blue Ridge Mountains. Because the couple had no horticultural training or business experience, few mechanical skills, and absolutely no idea what they were getting themselves into, numerous adventures followed. In the first of four planned books, Richard recounts, through hundreds of vignettes, the couples colorful story, a story of triumph and despair, of high expectations and harsh reality, and of the people who touched their lives along the way. In the tradition of such classics as The Little House on the Prairie and Walton's Mountain, Mountain of My Dreams shares the true story of two ordinary people and their memorable, often remarkable twenty-five-year journey. Much more than just another "back-to-the-land" chronicle, this is a heartwarming tale of a man, a woman, and their belief in each other. If youve ever wondered why the less traveled road is less traveled, you need to read their story.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 7, 2003
• ISBN: 9781403384348

Richard T. Antony

Richard Antony lives in beautiful Rappahannock County, Virginia with his wife, Sandra, and their two children, Christopher and Allison. When not repairing their aging farm vehicles or Rube Goldberg-inspired potting line, Richard manages information technology programs at SAIC. His first book, Principles of Data Fusion Automation, reveals what he does during his day job. Mountain of My Dreams tells the other side of his story.

Book preview

Chapter 1: Storm Clouds

It is vain to look for a defence against lightning.

Publilius Syrus (Circa 452 BC)

Storms make oaks take deeper root.

George Herbert

As I continued to stare out the window at the sodden world beyond, the early morning light grew perceptibly dimmer. The rain had become so heavy it made a rumbling sound as it beat against the fuselage, a sound easily heard over the high-pitched whine of the jet engines. The longer we sat motionless on the taxiway, the more my spirit sank. Desperately tired, racked by anxiety and guilt, I found myself staring at the jagged rivulets of water as they coursed down the thick glass pane. In many ways, they aptly depicted the fractured state of my mind.

Sandra and I had faced many challenges over the years, especially after deciding to move to the Blue Ridge Mountains to try to make a living raising azaleas. It had been a crazy mid-thirties kind of dream. Now we lived in the place of our dreams. It had taken years to construct the nursery and build our own home. We’d made plenty of mistakes along the way, but we eventually learned the skills we needed and now sold the vast majority of our annual azalea crop to one of the most prestigious garden centers in Northern Virginia.

Azaleas, however, had never been my reason for wanting to leave the city. I’d been after something far less tangible-a simpler life. Although we both enjoyed the Washington, DC suburbs, I felt we’d be even happier living in a small, close-knit rural community, earning a living the old-fashioned way – by the work of our own hands.

In the end, we found nearly everything I’d hoped for on Long Mountain. Despite some initial misgivings, Sandra eventually agreed that leaving the city had been an inspired decision. The bond we formed with both the land and our new way of life seemed almost inexplicable. I’m not sure whether our farm became part of our family, or our family became a part of our farm. How or why it happened hardly seemed to matter. Now, a raging hurricane looked as if it might destroy everything we’d worked so hard to build, and I wouldn’t even be there to try to keep it from happening.

Hurricanes had been little more than diversions when we lived in the suburbs, an occasion to take the day off and watch events unfold on TV. With a few notable exceptions, by the time hurricanes reached the DC area, they brought little more than heavy rain. Winds occasionally toppled a power line, but that just added to the sense of drama. Now that we operated a plant nursery, hurricanes seemed far more menacing.

I received the invitation to present a two-day technical seminar on my science research to a government group in South Korea early in the summer of 1996. At the time, it seemed inconceivable that accepting the offer might put our very way of life in jeopardy. I realized that during my absence I’d be placing the full burden of caring for the nursery squarely on Sandra’s shoulders. But, I’d gone on lots of business trips over the years. Admittedly, this time would be different. This time I’d be about as far from Virginia as I could get. If the irrigation system developed a problem during my absence, our nursery’s very survival would come into question.

In warm weather, container-grown azaleas must be watered every day, sometimes twice a day. As a result, we worried a lot about our irrigation system. From the beginning, constructing and maintaining the system had been my responsibility. I knew nothing about such things when we got started, but I’d gotten plenty of on-the-job training over the years.

In the early days, a single well pump fed both our barn and fledgling nursery. Over the years, the irrigation system had grown much more complex and now included three 220-volt well pumps, extensive low-voltage control circuits, a half dozen clock timers, and a chemical injection system. In the event of a main pump failure, we could switch to two backup pumps located in our pond. To prevent algae from clogging the distribution system, all pond water had to be shunted through a 7-foot high sand filtration unit, a unit that had to be flushed daily. Dozens of electric and manual valves controlled the extensive underground water distribution system. To help manage all these devices, I built a master control panel that contained so many tightly packed relays, transformers, indicator lamps, switches, and lightning protection circuits that replacing individual components took a delicate hand.

Not surprisingly, Sandra had shown little interest over the years in learning how the system worked. Perhaps unwisely, I hadn’t pressed her on the matter. Consequently, neither she nor Jarvis, our full-time employee, knew enough to track down and correct any but the simplest problems. Even a competent pump man might be unwilling to tackle our highly customized system.

Concerned about leaving Sandra with too great a burden, I agonized over my decision for several days. Sandra and I discussed the matter numerous times, but to no resolution. Each time, she’d repeat her argument that giving the seminar would be good for my career. Although I heartily agreed, when she went on to remind me that the irrigation system had operated flawlessly all summer, her argument broke down.

Sandra, you know how many times the system has failed over the years. What would you do if you had a problem you couldn’t fix? What if you couldn’t find anyone who could? Although presenting a two-day seminar would be a great honor, I did not want to leave Sandra with more than she could handle. After a great deal of hand wringing and numerous protracted discussions, I finally took my wife’s advice.

Although we seldom spoke openly about my being on the other side of the planet for nearly 10 days in early September, the strain felt almost palpable over the ensuing months. Then, just a week before my departure, the vague trepidation we’d both felt turned frighteningly real.

Three well-defined disturbances, Edouard, Fran, and Gustav began marching across the warm tropical waters of the Atlantic. Nearly in lockstep with each other, all three appeared headed for the US mainland.

Over the Labor Day weekend, Edouard threatened the entire eastern seaboard. Beach properties were hurriedly boarded up. Thousands of vacationers canceled their plans; others returned home early. As the storm neared the mainland, however, it shifted to a more northerly course, taking it out to sea. Although high surf forced beach goers out of the water, those who chose to remain at the shore enjoyed a glorious three-day weekend.

Sandra and I felt at least as grateful for the course change as the sun-seekers. At its height, Edouard, a category 4 hurricane, packed winds of 140 mph. We might be more than a hundred miles inland, but even the remnants of such a powerful storm could devastate our nursery. Besides the inevitable wind damage, the accompanying heavy rains would undoubtedly cause severe flooding throughout our mountainous county. Just the previous July, a flash flood had claimed the father of one of our son’s classmates.

Our sense of relief turned out to be short lived. Two days before my departure, Fran, the second storm in the triumvirate seemed destined to hit land near Charleston, SC with sustained winds in excess of 115 mph. If the storm remained on that track, only the outer rain bands would likely reach Rappahannock County, VA. As always, forecasters hedged their bets by reminding viewers that the track could change at any time. If it did, we might get no rain or a lot.

By the following day, as with the previous storm, the track shifted significantly northward. Unlike Edouard, however, landfall seemed inevitable. Fran now appeared to have her eye on Cape Fear, North Carolina. If she remained on that course, our nursery would be directly in her path.

A series of ditches directing water cascading down the eastern slope of Long Mountain away from the nursery represented our only real defense against flood damage. If any of the ditches were breached, a significant portion of the nursery would be destroyed, washing away plants and leaving a thick layer of silt behind when the waters finally receded.

We knew all too well this picture of disaster. In the mid-1980s, with just four zones in operation at the time, the better part of two got destroyed during a short, but severe afternoon thunderstorm. We watched, helpless to do anything, as the narrow gravel road leading down the eastern side of our mountain became a raging eight-foot wide river that washed away everything before it.

As soon as I arrived home from work on the evening before Fran’s arrival, I changed into my farm clothes, mounted our tractor, and began increasing the depth of all the culverts protecting the nursery. When I finished, I dragged over dozens of 8-10 foot long locust posts, laying them end-to-end in strategic locations to help fortify the ramparts. Just after 8:00 p.m., tired and hungry, I headed up the mountain.

Along the way, I passed our tarp-covered electric generator, the one I fervently hoped we’d never need to press into service. At that moment, though, I felt glad indeed that we owned it. If we lost power after I left, Christopher, our 15-year-old, would need to connect the generator to the tractor’s 3-point hitch, hook up all the necessary wires, and follow an involved procedure to get the irrigation system operational. A somewhat demanding task, I had no reservations about his being able to handle the job.

With most meteorologists predicting sustained winds of just 40 miles per hour in our area, the risk of a power outage seemed remote. More than likely, keeping the ditches open and free flowing would be the real challenge, especially if we received the 12 inches of rain the National Weather Service had forecast.

The first leg of my flight to Korea left Dulles International Airport at 8:00 a.m. the following morning. Two colleagues, Richard Pei and Joe Karakowski, would be leaving thirty minutes earlier from Newark, NJ. Because Fran would not affect their departure, I felt confident they would arrive in San Francisco in plenty of time to make the connecting flight to Korea. With just an hour between my scheduled arrival and departure, my own prospects seemed far less certain. Even a 20-minute departure delay at Dulles might mean my coworkers would be flying to Seoul without me.

Concerned that I might miss my connection, I had contacted United Airlines two days earlier to review my options. As it turned out, the flight from the US to Seoul on Saturday, the day after my scheduled departure, had already been sold out. The Sunday flight still had a few seats available. If I left on Sunday, though, I wouldn’t arrive in Seoul in time to take the Monday morning train to Taejon with my coworkers. Our hosts had made all our in-country travel arrangements and those plans could not be readily altered. For all practical purposes, I had no options. I needed to take my scheduled flight and pray the plane got airborne before the storm shut down the airport.

Despite Sandra’s counsel not to worry, leaving my family and our nursery in harm’s way weighed heavily on my mind. My wife, raised in Central Florida, had lived through numerous hurricanes and took them more in stride. I had a lot less experience with hurricanes. I’d been attending a technical conference in West Point, NY when Agnes hit the DC area in 1972 but could hardly believe the damage when I returned home. The nursery will be fine, Sandra said. By repeating her comforting message again and again, I suppose she hoped I’d finally believe her.

I crawled into bed at 11:30 and arose at 3:30 a.m., moments before the alarm rang. I showered, ate a bowl of cereal, drank a cup of coffee, and left the house at 4:15. The wind had already become brisk and rain spit against my windshield as I pulled away. With the storm approaching from the southeast, conditions improved rapidly as I traveled north toward the airport. By the time I reached Dulles, the winds were light and the roads completely dry. I took the shuttle from the economy parking lot to the terminal and went through the United Airlines check-in process.

When I reached my gate just over an hour later, I could hardly believe the change that had taken place. Peering out the terminal’s large plate glass windows, I saw low, dark clouds and driving rain. Locating a pay phone, I called home.

Everything’s fine, Sandra said. It’s a good thing you left when you did, though. The rain got really heavy a few minutes after you pulled away. Rappahannock County schools are closed, so you don’t need to worry about the kids. The winds have picked up, but we’ve had much worse. Everything will be fine, she concluded. Christopher and Allison will help if I need them. Just try to enjoy your trip.

They’ll be boarding in a few minutes, I said. I love you, Sandra. I’ll call as soon as I arrive in San Francisco. As I moved to the end of the long line of passengers waiting to board, I kept thinking about Sandra’s calming words. Still, I remained anxious.

Tired from so little sleep the previous night, I closed my eyes as soon as I got settled into my seat. A minute later, they popped open again. How could I think about sleeping at a time like this? In my mind’s eye I could see huge trees bending ever closer to the ground, about to snap and fall on our house. I saw wind-driven rivers rushing down our mountain, overflowing the ditches, with red mud flowing like lava over our growing zones.

Living in God’s Country, surrounded by woodland, with an awe-inspiring view of the Blue Ridge Mountains had been a central dream during most of my adult life. Now it seemed foolhardy to be living so far from civilization, to have left so many tall trees around our house, and to be raising container-grown azaleas in the mountains.

I realized I shouldn’t be working myself up into such a frenzied state. Sandra would shuttle the kids to the basement before any trees began falling. As far as my concerns about the nursery went, I’d done everything possible to get it ready to weather the storm. At the moment, though, those efforts seemed hopelessly inadequate.

I grabbed a magazine from the seat pocket in front of me and thumbed through it, searching for an article that might grab my attention. I found nothing. I didn’t want to read. How could I read a magazine article with a dangerous storm bearing down on my family? I felt increasingly restless and distraught as more and more passengers filled the aisles and settled into their seats. The plane eventually moved away from the gate and queued up with the other departing flights.

Conflicted between responsibility to my job and to my family, I’d chosen in favor of my job. As I peered out the window at the ever-strengthening storm, I realized that it had been terribly irresponsible to leave home at a time like this. If we’d still been parked at the gate, I believe I would have collected my briefcase, along with the satchel containing hundreds of my seminar slides, and left the plane. We weren’t parked at the gate and I had no choice but to fly to the West Coast. Once we landed in San Francisco, I’d talk to Sandra and decide what to do next. If she needed my help, I’d hop on the next flight back to Virginia.

After an interminable wait on the ramp, the plane finally lumbered slowly forward before making a hard right turn. The engines revved to full power and we began racing down the tarmac. The wind, nearly still just two hours earlier, shoved the giant plane from side to side as the pilot struggled at the controls. Besides being unable to hold to the center of the runway, the plane seemed unable to reach lift-off speed. The endless thump-thump of the tires rolling over the joints in the concrete became an unnerving reminder that we remained earthbound.

When I finally felt the rear tires leave the ground, I peered out the window and noted that the runway just below had all but played itself out. Passengers all around me collapsed backward in their seats, their tense facial muscles suddenly relaxed. I released my own death grip on the armrest, closed my eyes, and took several long, slow breaths. The plane climbed steadily. Then, without warning, it dropped precipitously several times in rapid succession. Fran had unquestionably arrived.

Chapter 2: Prehistory

There is properly no History; only Biography.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

Ideals are like the stars:

We never reach them, but

Like the mariners of the sea,

We chart our course by them.

Carl Schurz

There is majesty in simplicity.

Alexander Pope

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and to see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.

Henry David Thoreau

Unwinding

The plane continued to shudder violently for several more minutes. Eventually, the clouds began dissipating and the turbulence ended. We’d outrun the storm. Back at our farm, it would be a very different matter. Both the wind and the rain would continue to build for many more hours as the remnants of the deadly eye drew ever closer to Long Mountain. During the several days I’d struggled over whether or not to accept the invitation to travel to South Korea, I’d tried to imagine every possible problem that might arise in my absence. I’d come up with quite a few, but none as frightening as leaving my family behind to deal with a hurricane.

I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer for my wife and our two children. For many minutes, my thoughts remained chaotic and confused. Then, although I had not willed it, I began thinking about our lives before the hurricane. Almost immediately, I could feel myself growing perceptibly calmer. Even the tension in my neck and shoulder muscles began draining away.

Despite what troubles Fran might bring, I remained convinced that moving to the country had been a wise decision. In many ways, it amazed me that either of us had even contemplated such a bold move. Conservative and cautious by nature, I hated taking chances. Yet, I’d been the instigator behind us leaving our comfortable suburban lifestyle. The seeds, I knew, had been planted early in my childhood. The actual planning for our great escape, however, did not begin until several years after Sandra and I got married.

Wanting to raise our kids in the country had been a strong motivation. By the time both kids could walk, they began helping us with nursery chores. As they grew older, we gave them ever more demanding tasks. Given this early training, both children had learned to be exceedingly self-reliant, something they’d carry away with them when they left the farm to follow their own dreams.

This is your Captain speaking.

The intrusion of the harsh, raspy voice coming from the public address system jolted me from my revelry. My eyes sprang open and I looked quickly about the cabin at the now calm faces of my fellow passengers. No one seemed disturbed by the barely audible, crackling voice. Nearly everyone appeared to be asleep. Few of those awake seemed to be paying any attention to the announcement.

We are currently at 23,000 feet on our way to our assigned altitude of 33,000 feet. I expect a smooth trip for the remainder of the flight. I’m turning off the seat belt sign, so you are free to move about the cabin. However, United requests you keep your seat belt tightly fastened while seated. Beverage service will begin in the main cabin once we reach our cruising altitude.

I’d heard a nearly identical announcement a hundred times before, yet, this time, I tried desperately to understand each of the pilot’s garbled words, hoping beyond hope that he might offer some update on the storm. He provided none. Instead, he described the weather in San Francisco. I realized that the arrival weather would naturally be of considerable interest to my fellow passengers. However, at that moment, neither my heart, nor my thoughts were in San Francisco. When the announcement finally broke off, I felt restless again, and remained agitated for many minutes before slipping back into quieter thoughts.

As my anxiety level dropped, I found myself reflecting on even earlier times, back to our days in the suburbs. We’d actually been quite happy then. Both of us enjoyed our chosen careers. We loved the modest 3-bedroom home that we’d painstakingly renovated. We shared many happy hours working side-by-side in our huge vegetable garden. We appreciated our diverse mix of neighbors that included Government employees, shop owners, and the head of the Entomology Department at nearby University of Maryland.

Young and hopelessly idealistic, however, I wanted even more. For one thing, I wanted more space to call my own, at least enough to grow a significant portion of our own food. Just as important, I longed to escape the noise of the city and the stress of urban life. Beyond these purely practical considerations, I believed we’d be happier living in a place where people shared our personal value system, especially since my generation seemed bent on being remembered as much for being the Consumer, as the Boomer Generation. Everyone seemed to be scrambling for prestige, material wealth, or both.

It seemed obvious that if we moved to some rural backwater where people’s material expectations were a lot lower, we’d be able to find everything we really needed: more land, a greatly lowered stress level, plus aesthetics more in line with our personal goals. Because we hoped to start our family soon, raising our kids away from the temptations of large metropolitan areas would be our special gift to them.

At the same time, the idea of actually leaving the city and our professional careers seemed both unrealistic and a little scary. Still, I kept stirring the pot. Sandra, having grown up in rural Florida, seemed less enamored by the idyllic images I painted for her of living on the fringes of civilization. It took quite a few years and a lot of stirring before the idea of starting a specialty azalea nursery in the Blue Ridge Mountains finally materialized. Still, Sandra seemed genuinely intrigued by the idea.

Because neither of us had any horticultural training, we knew we’d inevitably make mistakes. Somehow, we had made it through the hardships and frequent periods of self-doubt those first few years.

From the beginning, we realized that running a nursery would require a considerable financial, physical, and emotional investment. To succeed, the project had to be a team effort. Our plan seemed reasonable enough. Sandra would keep working until we had children. Once that happened, she would quit her job so she could manage both the baby and the plant nurseries. I needed to remain at my present job until we’d built a barn, 12 growing zones, and our irrigation system. As soon as we had all the major capital improvements paid for, I’d quit my engineering job and become a full-fledged partner in the nursery’s day-to-day operation.

For lots of reasons, quitting my job never proved feasible, but I did my best to support Sandra with the daunting task of raising a family and thousands of azaleas, putting in long hours in the evenings, on weekends, and during my annual vacation. In the early days, I’d been blind to the challenges we’d face getting a new business off the ground. Our family and friends, on the other hand, seemed quite aware that we’d taken on a huge burden.

Both my parents and Sandra’s became troubled when they first learned the extent of our Great Escape plans. In hindsight, they had good reason to fear we might one day come to regret leaving our good-paying jobs and pleasant suburban lifestyle for the uncertain financial rewards and the long days of backbreaking physical labor.

A complex set of forces came together to help convince us to head back to the land. Perhaps first and foremost had been the volatile, impassioned 1970s. An unshakable idealist in my twenties then, I became sensitized to many of the issues of the times, things like toxic substances being used in commercial food production. This awareness, quite naturally, spurred my interest in organically grown food. Two years before Sandra and I got married, the 1973 gas crisis rocked the nation, fueling my interest in alternate sources of energy. Inevitably, these concerns and others propelled my interest in the back to the land movement, a movement that became a national phenomenon, reversing decades of shift from family farms to urban centers. While the establishment viewed returning to the values and virtues of an earlier, more self-reliant time as anachronistic, it seemed to me to be the way forward.

Even though it would be far easier to continue down the path of least resistance, Thoreau had offered a warning that seemed important to consider. If we continued blindly plowing ahead with little thought to what we were doing, we might reach the end of our lives only to discover we’d never really lived.

Raised in a quiet suburban neighborhood, the son of a first generation emigrant Greek father and a third generation German-Welch mother, I’d been brought up as conservative as they made kids back then. We lived in a comfortable, unassuming brick house on a small lot just outside the future Washington Beltway. The oldest of five children, I had a pleasant, contented childhood.

I realize now how fortunate I’d been to have plenty of good role models during my early years. My father, for one, taught me that knowledge is power and that education paved the way to success. So, I applied myself in school to the limit of my ability. My mother taught me the importance of honesty and dedication to family. So, I tried to help my parents around the house and be true to my friends. My mother’s German father taught me the value of hard work and the virtues of self-reliance.

Because Carl Vollmer lived in Detroit, I rarely saw him more than once a year, but when I did, I paid particular attention. Even Mrs. Bond, my straight-laced 12th grade English teacher, left her mark on me. John F. Kennedy’s inauguration introduced me to Robert Frost, the man, but it was Mrs. Bond who forced me to read his poetry.

During high school, my primary interests centered on math, science, and girls-not necessarily in that order. My mandatory English class ranked at the bottom of the list. I struggled with nearly all the writing assignments and rarely discovered the transparent symbolism begging to be appreciated in the many great works we read. All that changed, however, when we began studying Frost. Frost’s words mysteriously resonated with my own thoughts and aspirations.

To this day, I can’t understand how a poem like Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening can evoke such palpable images and strong emotions. Even on first reading, I could picture myself standing at the edge of an expanse of northern woodland. Breathing in the chill air an hour after sunset with the North Star and the Big Dipper just visible, I could almost imagine hearing the snort of a nearby buck probing the night air for signs of danger. But, as the last lines foretell, all too quickly it would be time to move on. The glorious word images faded and I’d once again become conscious of my physical surroundings.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

I enjoyed nearly every Frost poem we read that year. By far, though, The Road Not Taken had the most profound impact on me. The poem’s final lines sent a shiver up my spine when I read them 40 years ago. Just as the thundering C-minor chord that ends Saint-Saëns Organ Symphony stirs me at every hearing, Frost’s words touch me to this day:

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

A few weeks after high school graduation, I found myself pondering the plans for my own life’s journey. John Ferguson, a close friend, suggested to a number of his buddies that we write down our aspirations and put them in a time capsule. He planned for us to get together every ten years, reopen the capsule, and evaluate our 1964 predictions. John’s questionnaire asked things such as what will your hobbies be, how many children will you have, what kind of work will you be doing, and where do you expect to be living in 1974, 1984, and 1994?

I had some reasonably firm plans. I knew, for instance, I’d be attending the University of Maryland in the fall to study electrical engineering. Naturally, I hoped to get a good job after graduation. Once I’d saved a little money, I knew I’d probably buy a used car, just as my father had always done. Then, I’d rent an apartment, just as my folks did when they started out. I planned to do a little traveling, beginning with some of the better-known National Parks. But, that’s where my dreams abruptly ended and the future became murky.

Although I’d dated a little, I’d never seriously contemplated marriage, let alone speculated on the size of my future family. I had no idea where I’d be living or working in 1984. Not wanting to let my buddies down, I made a concerted effort over the next couple of weeks to clarify my vision of my future. Despite a sincere effort, my contribution remained conspicuously absent when the time capsule got sealed and buried on the front lawn of Northwood High School.

While speculating about my future, one thing did become almost painfully clear. Most of my destinations-college, career, marriage, a house, children, and retirement were identical to those of all of my friends, and, for that matter, not much different from those of my parents. If Frost had it right, the path and not the destinations held the greatest promise. Up to this point in my life, I’d sought out the well-traveled way. Even if I wanted to, how would I go about choosing a better one? Besides, what difference would it really make?

Chapter 3: Sandra

There is only one happiness in life,

To love and be loved.

George Sand

First encounter

After high school, time seemed to accelerate. Almost before I knew it, I’d graduated from college and taken a job with The Harry Diamond Laboratories, located in Washington, DC. Within a few months, I saved enough money to buy a one-year-old Ford Mustang and moved into a garden apartment about 15 miles from my parents’ home. I thoroughly enjoyed my new sense of freedom the first couple of years and invested considerable effort in personalizing my home. However, despite a growing number of material possessions, something seemed to be missing in my life, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what it might be.

Soon after I began working at Harry Diamond Labs, I made it a habit to take a short walk after lunch, usually in the residential neighborhood north of Connecticut and Van Ness Streets. The path I normally followed took me past a wide assortment of interesting building styles and nicely landscaped yards, so different from suburban neighborhoods where entire streets might have variations of two or three house designs. I especially enjoyed these walks in the early spring when the temperatures were still cool and the yards were ablaze with blooming azaleas.

One fateful Monday near the end of May 1971, I set out for my midday constitutional looking forward to enjoying the remaining late blooming azaleas and early blooming rhododendron. The route I’d chosen this day took me past the Manse, a generous-sized wood frame building once the main house of a large estate that had years earlier become the grounds of the National Bureau of Standards. Several large picnic tables lay scattered about the lawn near the building making it an inviting spot to have lunch. Yet, few people took advantage of the tables even on mild spring days.

On this particular day, I noticed two girls eating at one of the tables. My walking companion recognized one of the women, so we sidled over to the table where I got introduced first to Linda Spencer who then introduced both of us to her sister, Sandra. The three girls chatted briefly before finally resuming our walk.

Although we had exchanged few words, I felt a strange attraction to Linda’s quiet older sister. In hopes of running into Sandra again, I decided to eat my lunch at the picnic tables the following day rather that at my desk, as I normally did. When I arrived, none the tables were occupied. Disappointed, I sat at the one the two sisters had used the previous day and began eating my vegetarian sandwich, heaped with lettuce, tomatoes, sliced cucumbers, and smothered with bean sprouts.

I ate slowly, hoping the girls might yet show. I didn’t have long to wait. Within five minutes, the two emerged from the main administration building and wandered slowly over in my direction. When they reached the table, they asked if I minded company.

I learned a lot about the Spencer women that day. Linda lived with a roommate in the Maryland suburbs and taught high school in Virginia. Before moving to Maryland with her future husband, Linda had taught school in Ohio for two years.

Sandra shared a house with another young woman in Parkersburg, West Virginia. She taught fourth and fifth grades. Since graduating from University of South Florida, Sandra had spent her summers working as a bank teller. Linda, I learned, worked at the Labs the previous summer. She’d enjoyed her job and recommended that her sister apply for a similar position this summer. Although Sandra enjoyed her bank job, she took her sister’s suggestion. The previous day had been Sandra’s first day of work.

Sandra and I frequently shared our lunch hours that summer. Romantically involved with someone else at the time, our relationship didn’t go much beyond these lunchtime encounters. At the end of the summer, Sandra returned to West Virginia. We exchanged letters a couple of times over the intervening 8 months. In one, I learned Sandra intended to return to the Labs in June. We ate lunch together even more often the second summer. However, given my on-going commitment, once again, we rarely saw each other outside of work.

By the end of that second summer, Sandra made what turned out to be a truly fateful decision. She accepted a full-time teaching position in Montgomery County, MD. Within a few months, I broke up with the woman I’d been dating for nearly five years. At that point, Sandra and I began seeing each other regularly.

Flat Tops

By the following year, Sandra and I appeared to be headed toward marriage. Thus, the summer of 1974 seemed like the last chance for my brother and me to take a vacation together while we were both still single. I mentioned the idea of one last, great vacation to Roger and he agreed. But, where would we go?

When I first became interested in backpacking, I read Collin Fletcher’s book The Man Who Walked Through Time that described the author’s solo backpacking trip the length of the Grand Canyon. The trip entailed severe physical and psychological challenges. Although I had little interest in anything as demanding, Fletcher’s description of his almost transcendental experiences during the many weeks spent alone in the wilderness intrigued me. By the time I’d finished the book, I couldn’t wait to experience both the physical challenge and the backpacking highs of an extended trip to some remote location.

I shared a few of the author’s more intriguing stories with Roger, convincing him that such a trip could indeed be the perfect capstone to our summer vacation legacy. We just needed to find a wilderness area that would remove us from civilization, and test both our endurance and self-reliance. These requirements seemed to rule out the nearby Appalachian Trail. Not only was the AT quite popular, it seemed far too familiar, crossed too many roads, and passed near too many towns.

After reviewing a number of possibilities, we settled on a two-week hike through the Flat Tops Area of the White Mountain National Forest located in central Colorado. The area appeared remote enough and had plenty of hiking trails. Because our planned hike would last five times as long as the longest hike either of us had ever taken, it seemed certain to provide the challenge we sought.

I studied the hiking maps, readied our equipment, and purchased provisions. We laid our supplies on the living room floor a week before our departure. Bags of dried fruit, hiker’s mix, dry cereal, rice, and more than a dozen packages of freeze-dried food lay in neat stacks. I brought my 2-man pup tent up from the crawlspace and set out our two sleeping bags, several water bottles, medical supplies, clothes,