Eight Years Ago

June 16, 2026 — Pat Bertram

I hadn’t realized it until my blog reminded me, but my Pacific Crest Trail backpacking trip was eight years ago. Actually, the blog detailing the trip was written exactly eight years ago today, so I can only presume that the trip was a day or two before that, but still, it’s close enough.

It’s funny that eight years doesn’t seem that long ago. When I’ve mentioned hiking and backpacking, people nod at me, thinking it was when I was young, and I might have been younger eight years ago, but I was still climbing up in years while I was climbing up those hills.

What surprised me about the blog post, No Resfeber for the Weary, was the reminder that I took the overnight hiking trip in June. In the desert. What was I thinking? I also remember that I was just getting over a cold, so again, what was I thinking?

I do remember, come to think of it. I was thinking that if I didn’t do the backpacking trip then, I never would. And I was mentally ready.

Apparently, despite my hiking with a filled backpack for months before that in preparation, I wasn’t really physically prepared. Since I’d planned to be gone for several nights, I needed to carry one heck of a lot of water because there was no water up in those hills. I wish I could have been out longer than that one night — it really was incredible being by myself on that isolated trail, camping alone out in the middle of nowhere — but physically, I gave out. I’d heard of “hitting the wall,” but had never felt it. And then I did. Hit the wall, I mean. I was lucky I didn’t tip over and fall down a mountainside. Oddly, I wasn’t sore. Just unable to move.

My one regret is that I was never able to do a long backpacking trip, but I am very glad I managed to do that particular overnight trip. Hiking, of course, wasn’t anything new, nor was camping, but the combination of the two was what made it an unforgettable experience.

I was right about that being my only chance. Exactly one month later, my homeless brother died, which in a roundabout way changed my life. And now here I am, a thousand miles away from where I hiked that day, living in my own house, tending my garden, and trying to hold back the years still creeping up on me.

After Jeff died, I was determined to live despite the agony and angst of grief. I didn’t want to waste the years of freedom he gave me (his dying freed me from further care and I’ve always been cognizant of that sacrifice, involuntarily though it might have been). And looking back, not just at the past eight years, but the eight years before that, I see how much I have done. I bet he’d have been glad I experienced life in the way that I did — he felt bad that the constraints of his illness stole my spontaneity from me, and I made sure that I got it back so he wouldn’t have to feel bad. (Odd how that worked — he was gone and it wouldn’t have mattered to him, but it mattered to me.)

I’ve lost that spontaneity again, at least mostly. I’m certainly not going on any backpacking trips (though I still have all the equipment, just in case), but then, I have nothing left to prove to me or to anyone. Nothing left to make up for, either.

Still, I do sometimes dream of a long trail hike, and I wonder . . .

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

Posted in Adventure, dealing with old age, grief, life. Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , . 8 Comments »

The Perfect Road Trip

May 24, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
How do you plan the perfect road trip?
View all responses

The perfect road trip, obviously, is the one that’s perfect for you, so my experience might not be applicable. For one thing, I had years to plan since I was taking care of my aged father at the time and couldn’t take off even if I had wanted to. For another thing, grief still lay heavily on me, so I wouldn’t have enjoyed the trip even if I could have taken off. For yet another thing, it was great having such a long time to plan because a big part of a road trip is in the planning.

And the not planning.

I had originally wanted to do an epic hiking trip, such as one of the long trails or a walk across the country or anything that would take me out of myself and perhaps change both me and the trajectory of my life. When it turned out that I couldn’t do an epic hike (too much water to carry and not enough stamina), I decided to walk across the country my own way by driving from campsite to campsite and from hiking trail to hiking trail. That way, I got the feel of a lot of different places as well as the feel of a doing a long hike without actually hiking the whole way.

Once I’d decided on the project, then it was time to decide what gear I needed for where I wanted to go. Since I left in February, my itinerary was obvious — along the southern edge of the country. Then, since I had no camping supplies, the next step was to research what I needed. I had a lot of backpacking equipment in preparation for the backpacking hike that never happened (except for one overnight hike and hundreds of day trips), but no car camping gear, such as a livable tent and heavier clothes. I of course posted all this preparation online, and some people found it amusing to watch what I was doing. I suppose it was amusing, my buying for a camping trip when I’d never camped before, especially since I might not even have been able to go on the long trip. But the preparation was important to me regardless of what might have happened in what at the time was an unforeseeable future.

I knew a lot of the spots where I wanted to stop — mostly national parks and national monuments, but also people I wanted to visit. (Many of my online friends volunteered to host me. Offline people warned me about going to stay with people I’d never met face to face, but in every case, the person I met in real life was exactly what they were like online, so it felt like what it was — a continuation of an established friendship.) I also left a lot unplanned because I didn’t want to keep to a strict schedule and I knew there would always be tantalizing vistas and advertisements along the road to drag me off course.

I was lucky; since I had no home at the time (my father had died, the house sold, and I had yet to decide where I was going to live), the trip didn’t have to be a quickie affair. In fact, I was gone almost six months. I might never have returned, but I had promised to do a dance performance, which put me on the clock, but it was still a lengthy trip. All the preparation helped make the whole adventure easier, including the “not planning” I mentioned above. As I travelled, people I didn’t know but who knew me through my grief blogs, invited me to stop by, which added surprising twists to my journey. In one case, a woman I met at a campground invited me to visit, and I decided what the heck, and that had surprising twists in a different way since I felt as I’d stumbled into a Southern Gothic story. Whew! I was never so glad to set on down the road.

I also didn’t camp as often as I’d planned because some of the campgrounds were closed or they didn’t feel right, or they were too full or too empty, but that’s where the money I’d set aside for a motel fund came in handy. As I’d learned, always plan for a change of plans.

If you can’t take a road trip and wish to do one vicariously, you can follow my trip here: Road Trip 2016 | Bertram’s Blog. It truly was a remarkable experience, both the road trip itself and the fun of planning it.

You can also plan a road trip without ever intending to go anywhere. Pick a route, follow along the road with Google maps or — heaven forbid! — a paper map, then see what photos and information you can find. With all the online resources available, there is a lot you can see in the palm of your hand.

Oh, I almost forgot — the most important thing when planning the perfect road trip? Having fun!

Chiricahua National Monument

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

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The Camping Life

April 29, 2026 — Pat Bertram
Daily writing prompt
Have you ever been camping?
View all responses

The summer before my epic cross-country trip, I lived in a friend’s camper in Northern California where I could tramp along the coast and hike the redwood forests. Although most people call this camping, to me I was simply living in a tiny house and enjoying the environment that was so different from anything I’d experienced before. (And enjoying the friendship, of course.)

The other end of the camping spectrum is “cowboy camping” — out in the wilderness with no roof over your head except the Milky Way and so many stars you wouldn’t believe. Although the romanticism of that appealed to me, the physical sensation of being out alone and vulnerable in that vastness seemed too intimidating, so I never did it.

I did camp in a tent, though, which seemed, Goldilocks-like, to be perfect, falling as it does somewhere between a tiny house on wheels and an infinite roof overhead.

I loved tent camping. Like most of my adventures, people kept telling me I couldn’t do it — I was too old, it was too dangerous, too many things could go wrong — but that didn’t deter me.

The first night I camped out was the first night of my cross-country trip. I’d practiced setting up the tent, so that wasn’t a problem, though it was a bit awkward since the tent was a six-footer. (I got a big one because I wanted to be able to stand up. And it was on sale.) I had a folding lounge chair big enough to sleep in since I wasn’t sure I could sleep on the ground, and all sorts of other comforts, including the main one — a restroom within walking distance.

I woke in the middle of the night to use that rest room. By the time I got back I was wide awake, so I lay on the top of the picnic table and drank in the stars. Eventually, I went back into the tent and finished the night in my cozy pallet on the ground.

I learned a lot about how to be comfortable in that tiny space. I spent most of my time outside, of course, so it was only at night and in the heat of the day that I sought shelter. A few nights were frigid, and I couldn’t get warm, so I opened my backpacking tent inside the larger tent, and soon became warm enough to sleep comfortably.

During that trip, I camped in deserts, mountains, forests, near swamps and lakes and on a beach. Each campsite was special. Each experience was exquisite. Each person I met was an instant friend. One slightly older woman had gone to the same high school I did, which made us even instanter friends. She was a retired teacher whose retirement funds didn’t stretch enough for a conventional life, so she spent most of her time on the road, living in her tent. Although campers were only allowed a two-week stay, she’d been there almost a month. There were few campers during that February, and so they let her stay.

I considered doing what she was doing, and if I hadn’t lucked out on buying a house, I might have lived the camping life, though to be honest, as much as I loved camping, I’m so much more comfortable living in a stationary house with a roof and heat and running water and my own bathroom.

I didn’t camp every night during that trip. Most often I was with friends, who treated me royally. Occasionally I spent nights in motels, especially if the weather was bad or I was tired or there weren’t any nearby national parks. (I did stay in a couple of state parks, but so many were almost as expensive as a motel that it didn’t seem worth it.)

I still have that oversize lounger. Maybe this summer I’ll drag it out and sleep under the stars. Or not. Although it’s a nice thought, second thoughts remind me that mosquitos, skunks, and other denizens of the night aren’t so nice.

It’s funny — sitting here writing this, I know I had all those adventures, but they seem as if they happened to someone else, as if I’d just read myself into some fictional character’s life — a character who is spontaneous and adventuresome and courageous, all things I’m not.

Except, apparently, I am those things. Or at least I was.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One

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Peace Pilgrims

February 12, 2026 — Pat Bertram

Several years ago, I seriously considered doing an epic walk — hike one of the long trails like the Pacific Crest Trail, trek along the Pacific coast, or walk across the United States. I was just starting to come out of my deep grief after Jeff died, and I wanted to find a deeper connection to both myself and the world, maybe even go through some sort of spiritual transformation. When I mentioned this desire to a friend, she suggested that I walk for a cause like the Peace Pilgrim did because if I had a cause, people would be more willing to help supply food, water, a shower or even transportation if I need it, and they might even get others to help. I never did find a cause, nor, despite training for it, was I ever able to do that epic walk. Instead, I took hundreds of day hikes, an overnight hike, and finally a 12,000, 21-week cross-country road trip, camping and hiking when I could, staying with friends or even treating myself to a motel when I wanted to or needed to.

As epic as that trip was, it was not what I’d originally envisioned, which was something akin to what the Peace Pilgrim did. The Peace Pilgrim was a woman who, in response to a spiritual awakening, had taken a vow to “remain a wanderer until mankind has learned the way of peace, walking until given shelter and fasting until given food.” Her pilgrimage began in 1953 when she was 44 and ended with her death in 1981. She carried only a pen, a comb, a toothbrush, and a map, trusting to those she met to supply what she needed, though she never asked for anything.

I admired her zeal and wished I could do the same, but I didn’t have that sort of trust. Still don’t. Nor do I have the physical ability for such an endeavor. I am on a different mission now, if such a solemn word can describe what I am living for — a peaceful life, taking care of myself, maybe even that deeper connection to myself and the world I once envisioned. Still, that old dream of a life-changing walk haunts me, which is one reason I was so fascinated by the monks and their walk for peace.

As with so many of my posts, the first few paragraphs usually serve only as background to a point I’d like to make, which is the uncanny connections between the Peace Pilgrim and the leader of the Walk for Peace.

She died in 1981. He supposedly was born in 1981. She started her walking mission when she was 44. He is said to be 44. They both experienced a spiritual awakening that took them from their mundane lives to one of spirituality, service, and inner peace. During both of their walks, they depended on others for food and shelter, accepting what is offered, asking for nothing. I’m not suggesting anything here, just making the observation that the second walk seems to be a continuation of the first. “Seems to be” being the operative words, since there really is no connection except for a few interesting coincidences.

Is there something bizarre about my sitting home, in my comfortable life, admiring (and I admit, envying at least a tad) those who willingly suffer the indignities of the road in the name of peace? If so, I am okay with that. I’m just glad someone is doing what I never could. And glad I got to participate in the Walk for Peace, if only vicariously.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One.

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Lusting After Wanderlust

January 24, 2022 — Pat Bertram

A friend and I had tea together today, which was so nice, we couldn’t figure out why we didn’t do it more often, though the truth is, we are both busy and our schedules don’t often coincide.

We both live alone, and one of the things we talked about was getting feeble and if there would come a time when we would need to text each other (or text someone, anyway) every day to let them know that we are okay. My next-door neighbors pay attention to the shade in my computer room; if it’s up, they know I’m awake and okay. If it’s closed in the morning or the lights don’t come on at night, they will text me to make sure I’m okay, so I do have that bit of security. More than a bit, actually. It’s very comforting to know that my neighbors would notice if something happened to me.

My friend and I soon decided to change the subject because it was too depressing talking about getting feebler, and besides, it didn’t really seem all that relevant because both of us were feeling good today. Good meaning no real problems. Good meaning not old. Good meaning feeling the way we always did.

Walking home, there was even a spring in my step, and it seemed as if I could do anything I used to do. Until I turned on the computer at home and saw photos from a hiking group I belong to and never unjoined because it seemed too much like giving up. Seeing those photos of various individuals walking on trails way beyond civilization, gave me a bad case of wanderlust.

I might still feel as if I can do what I used to, but the truth is, hiking alone in the wilderness is out of the question. But oh, I do miss those adventures! There was nothing like it, being out alone among the rocks or trees, following a trail wherever it led, nothing to do but put one foot in front of the other and breathe in the freedom. Although I wish I lived closer to a wilderness area, as I did when I lived near the desert, or when I spent that summer in Crescent City with a friend who so generously dropped me off at the beginning of a trail and picked me up at the other end, I suppose it’s just as well I don’t live closer. It’s hard enough yearning for wilderness trails that are beyond reach; it would be almost unbearable if the trails were but a hand’s breadth away and yet I couldn’t trust myself to hike alone.

I might feel differently someday. My knees aren’t really giving me any problem, and I’m gradually getting back in the habit of walking (weather and work permitting) so who knows what I’ll be able to do in the future. And who knows what I won’t be able to do since generally people don’t get younger with the passage of time. But I don’t want to think about that.

Still, walking is good. Trying to get into hiking shape is even better. If nothing else, it will give me something to focus on rather than a possibly feeble future.

***

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A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

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Trail!

March 20, 2020 — Pat Bertram

I have missed trails, missed following a path into unknown wonders, so when I found a nature trail at Bent’s Old Fort when my friends and I visited the historic site, I took the opportunity to head out on an adventure. I’d felt as if I had stepped back in time at the fort, and the short hike in the prairie and along the Arkansas River did nothing to dispel that feeling.

I looked back once and saw the fort, but even that sign of civilization soon disappeared from sight,

and all was as it had once been. Prairie, and trees,

and the Arkansas River.

Unless I want to travel a hundred miles or more, or traverse gravelly roads for long distances, this trail seems to be the only trail that is available to me. It’s still further than I want to drive for what is a rather short walk (though with my tweaked knee, that mile and a half seemed like a far piece.) Still, when my garage is done (if it ever is) and I can easily get on my “horse” and head out without having to uncover the vehicle and unlock gates, I’d like to visit the place more frequently. Maybe even find a place where I could take a photo each time I went so I would have a visual presentation of the slow-changing scene.

It could be an interesting project, and even better, would help me overcome my aversion to driving to a place merely to walk.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

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Hiking in Hocking Hills

May 2, 2016 — Pat Bertram

A friend recommended Hocking Hills State Park in Ohio as a place to go hiking, and since I desperately needed to make some sort of wilderness connection, no matter how tame, I visited the park.

It was worth going out of my way to visit the place — fabulous rock formations and a lovely hike through trees to a lake where I saw red-wing black birds, cardinals, and a huge bird that might have been an owl.

Although the park was fairly crowded, I took the trail less-traveled. On my way back I noticed a young woman sitting cross-legged on a wall. She seemed sad, so I asked if she were okay. She gave me a faint smile and said yes, but still I hesitated. I asked if she would like to talk or if she needed a hug. She stood and said, “I can always use a hug.” I held her for perhaps a minute while she cried, told her I was sorry for her troubles and continued on my way.

Later, back on the highway, I became tearful. It wasn’t until the unexpected bout of melancholy passed that I wondered where those tears had come from. Had I absorbed her sorrow?

Remembering other tearful episodes on this trip, I realized the tears always came after visiting people caught in grief-stricken or stressful lives. Tears for me seem to be a response to stress, so although it is possible I absorb other people’s emotions, it’s also possible I am just reacting to the stress of the situation, or maybe it’s only that their sorrow calls forth echoes of my own.

I don’t suppose it matters one way or another — whatever the reason, I process the emotion, then wash it away.

And in this particular situation, what I am left with after the cleansing is the memory of a hike made more poignant by that brief encounter with another human being.

***

(Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”)

***

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Sabino Canyon Adventure

February 19, 2016 — Pat Bertram

Note to self: do not take hiking advice from frail little old ladies at national park visitor centers.

About a half-hour drive from the foothills of the Catalina Mountains where I am staying, is the Sabino Canyon Recreation Area, a part of the Coronado National Forest. I’d seen a picture of the Sabino Canyon Trail, and since it is here (or rather, since I am here), I thought I’d sample the trail.

It seemed such a simple thing — go to the area and start hiking — but there were so many intersecting trails and so many people (I managed to snag the very last parking space in a vast lot) I figured I needed a map.

The aforementioned frail little old lady stood behind a small counter, and asked where I wanted to go. I told her I didn’t know, that I’d never been there before. She seemed to be mentally rubbing her hands together with glee when she responded, “I love when people ask for advice.” Apparently, all those hundreds of people milling about outside knew instinctively this woman couldn’t help, but not me. So I blundered forth with my questions.

It turned out that the Sabino Canyon Trail was at the top of a long shuttle ride, which did not serm inviting to me. People were crammed into those open bus-like contraptions, forced to listen to a narration of what they were seeing. And they paid for the privilege.

Not me. I opted to walk up at least part way. The frail woman showed me a six-mile loop hike on the map, said it was a wide path, no stream crossings, no rocks, and level except for perhaps a quarter of a mile uphill. Sounded good to me, so clutching my map, I thanked her and headed out.

Sure enough, the path was wide, level, well-maintained, with no rocks or other obstructions for the unwary to trip over. For about a tenth of a mile. Then things changed. Became narrow. Slabs of rock to hike across. Small boulders to navigate over. All uphill. Up and up and up.

Still, it was pleasant. Beautiful. Since I walked slowly, everyone else passed me (am I the only one who doesn’t seem to be part mountain goat?), so I only had sporadic sounds of voices to distract me. (I’m learning to accept human noises as sounds of wildlife. Makes it easier.)

Within sight of the acropolis, a huge rock outcropping, I perched on a boulder, nibbled a protein bar for lunch, and changed my socks. Rejuvenated, I headed back down the other part of the loop trail that the woman had told me followed a stream, but had no stream crossings. I went down some steep slippery slopes until I hit the stream bed. And sure enough, the trail followed the stream for more than half a mile. It was cool down there — green vegetation for shade instead of the ever-present saguaro. Since I was sore and exhausted from the long trek, I looked forward to the end of the trail. Unfortunately, the trail did not end at the visitor center, but at the stream. A wide stream. A knee-deep stream.

Realizing I hadn’t seen anyone else since I hit the river bottom, I figured I’d taken a wrong turn. So I retraced my steps. Found the trail marking, and took the other fork. Ended up at the water again. And no visible sign of the trail. So I went back to the trail marking and waited. Finally, a small group showed up, and the man seemed to know what he was doing. Soon another group of men arrived, and we all stood by the water trying to figure out what to do. (The knowledgeable man had already made his way across, just plunged into the water and kept going.)

Considering that my only other choice was to go back to the acropolis and retrace my steps down the mountain, I opted to cross the stream. All the folks who crossed with me had paid for the shuttle, so they waited at the stop for their ride, while I trudged soddenly back to the visitor center.

Oddly, I did fine until I sat down to change into dry socks. When I stood again, I could barely move. Utterly stiff and sore from head to foot. (The hiking poles I use take some of the weight off the leg joints and redistribute it to the shoulders.) The soreness and stiffness lasted the rest of the day, but I’m doing okay today with just a bit of stiffness to remind me of my adventure.

And oh my. Such an adventure!

***

(Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”)

***

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Lure of the Trail

September 7, 2015 — Pat Bertram

It’s hard to believe I’ve been here in this idyllic place of vast trees and vaster water bodies for eight weeks. Harder to believe my summer adventure is coming to an end, but it is — I’ve already purchased my ticket back to the treeless, waterless desert.

Hardest of all to fathom what I experienced.

I have seen ponds, lakes, lagoons, bays, brooks, creeks, rivers, and especially the ocean. I have seen tiny Douglas fir seedlings and gargantuan coastal redwoods. I have tramped more than a hundred miles through various forest terrains, and almost as many miles along the ocean shores.

I’ve meandered through some of the creepiest places on earth — dark forests with gargoyle-like tree trunks, mouldering stumps of long-dead trees, and moss hanging from blackened branches like the wispy green ghosts reaching out from the centuries.

I’ve wandered through cathedral-like groves of redwoods, the sun shining through the canopy like stained glass.

I’ve traversed ghost highways and long-forgotten logging roads, and though these were not “est” trails — not the longest, shortest, showiest, hardest, or easiest and the trees weren’t the tallest, oldest, biggest — these were some of my favorite hikes. Just pleasant strolls in the woods.

And through it all — dog bite, spained calf muscle, bruises, aching feet, sore muscles, and mosquito bites galore — I never lost the lure of the trail.

This summer adventure might be over, but there are other days, other places, other trails.

And so the adventure continues.

***

(Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”)

***

(The heart is a shell fragment I found on the beach yesterday. Maybe the ocean was telling me it hearts me.)

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Oregon Coastal Adventure

August 24, 2015 — Pat Bertram

Yesterday I hiked what was supposed to be a four-mile section of the Oregon Coast Trail, but turned out to be only two miles. Apparently, the distance for that particular hike was calculated as round trip rather than one way, but since the description left out that salient point, when I emerged from the woods into the parking lot after only an hour, I was confused. I wasn’t lost, of course, but I felt lost since I didn’t know where I was exactly, and I didn’t seem to have a phone signal to contact my ride in case I had to notify them of a change in plans. So I continued on down the trail, hoping that the next turnout would give me a better idea of where I was.

The sections I hiked were not really difficult except in spots where steps up or down were more than I could handle. (Like stepping up onto or down from a slanting, very narrow backless chair.) Sometimes I could pull myself up with the help of a trailside tree, other times I had to clamber up on my knees.

After I left the little parking lot, the trail became steeper and narrower. The footpath as a whole was narrow — often only about a foot wide — but sometimes this additional trail section was only six inches wide. And there were more parts that were hard for me to climb up or down. Still, I managed to get to where I could see the next parking area though I couldn’t figure out how to get there from where I was. One unmarked trail led to a creek. Another unmarked trail led to a marshy area.

I did figure out where I was since I was high enough to see that the terrain matched my map. I also figured out that the mileage on the trail description was off. So I headed back up to the first parking area, assured that was my rendezvous point.

Going back up was easy. Or rather easier. (Downhill is much harder for me than uphill. Balance is off; footing is different; and if my left shoe is tied snug enough to keep my foot from sliding forward and squishing my big toe, it pinches a nerve on the the top of my foot.)

I ended up hiking four miles after all. Ended up where I was supposed to meet my friends. Ended up learning something, I am sure, though I don’t know what. Maybe: take things as they come. Perhaps: do whatever necessary to accomplish the next step no matter how awkward or inelegant. Possibly: don’t get so caught up in the doing you forget the being.

Mostly I learned that there is a pub in Oregon with the absolutely best hamburgers ever, made with beef grown and pastured four miles away.

***

(Pat Bertram is the author of the suspense novels Light Bringer, More Deaths Than One, A Spark of Heavenly Fire, and Daughter Am I. Bertram is also the author of Grief: The Great Yearning, “an exquisite book, wrenching to read, and at the same time full of profound truths.”)

***

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