Editor’s Note: This is an edited, adapted excerpt from “Reconfigured: A Memoir,” by Barbara Wolf Terao, which will be released July 18 (She Writes Press; $17.95 paperback, $9.95 e-book); it’s available for pre-order online at Amazon, Bookshop, Barnes & Noble, Target and others; more information at barbarawolfterao.com.
IN THE MIDDLE of August 2017, I took an afternoon ferry from Whidbey Island to the mainland and drove east toward the Cascade Mountains. After eight months of cancer treatments amid a stream of doctors and other caregivers, I wanted to be alone in nature so I could be at home with myself again. Glimpsing Mount Rainier in the distance, the highest peak in Washington, I greeted the volcanic, snow-capped mountain: “I’m coming, Takhoma. I’m still here, still alive! I’m coming to celebrate.”
I spent that night in room 1013 at GuestHouse Inn in the town of Enumclaw. The next morning, I drove to The Alpine Inn to stay near Mount Rainier National Park and was assigned room 213. The two 13s in a row made me uneasy, as I remembered “unlucky signs” that had popped up before my breast cancer diagnosis. I pushed my superstitions aside and drove to Sunrise Visitor Center in the park. At 6,000 feet, I wasn’t even halfway up Mount Rainier, but it was close enough to meet face-to-face with the glaciated elder.
Alpine hiking is good physical exercise, a mighty challenge for almost anybody. Mountaineer Edmund Hillary implied its transformative benefits when he said, “It’s not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves.” Personally, I had no goals beyond reaching a wildflower meadow above the tree line.
Rather than with the fizz of Champagne, I would savor my survival with the melody of a mountain stream and the staccato chatting of Douglas squirrels. Mount Rainier, long known as Takhoma (and other names) by Indigenous people, was a healing place, a cathedral where I could cast my prayers, alive in the glory of its presence. As naturalist John Muir said, “Going to the mountains is going home.”
AT THAT ALTITUDE, spring wildflowers were still blooming. I walked among pasqueflowers in a green meadow, breathing the cool mountain air. Thank you for this beauty. Thank you for my life. I was alone, but not lonely. Perhaps along with forest bathing (Shinrin-yoku), we benefit from grass bathing or even mountain bathing. All I know is that I was bewildered by people, not wilderness. I returned to myself in the presence of nature.
For a while, I sat at a scenic picnic table soaking up the sun, with nowhere I’d rather be. With my heart brimmed full of Mount Rainier, it was as poet Li Po said: “We sit together, the mountain and me, until only the mountain remains.”
Clarity can come from facing suffering and our own mortality. Even as illness shuts us down, something in us wakes up, reminding us that a life span is finite. Nature, friends and family are seen in a more poignant light, and we might ask, as did poet Mary Oliver, what we are doing with our “one wild and precious life.”
DRIVING DOWN FROM Sunrise, I pulled over by the White River, getting out of my car to get a better view. I could see why Takhoma meant “mother of waters” in Lushootseed. The river was churned chalky white with glacial runoff, tumbling wild and free.
There are lessons here, I felt, lingering as the sound of water washed over me. What might I heal in the river’s presence? Memories bobbed up in my consciousness: chemotherapy knocking me down, and then my struggles to get back up; feeling forsaken in the maze of my HMO; my husband and I almost giving up on our relationship. As I started to cry, I clambered over the rocky riverbank. There, I sat and let my feelings come up with no critiques or limits, knowing this was why I needed to be alone on this trip, with total freedom to be me. The river was both angel and forgiver, blessing and releasing me.
As author David James Duncan did while observing salmon, I “thanked the prayer wheels that rivers are.” Rivers run, prayers rise and I evolve. Dysfunctional stress might have degraded my health, allowing cancer to take hold, but stress isn’t always corrosive. My struggles in dealing with cancer, marital issues and other problems made me tougher, wiser and more compassionate.
Borrowing the momentum of the rushing water, I cast away old pain, old roles and old stories on its currents. I granted grace to others as well as myself, forgiving my mistakes, naiveté and even my succumbing to cancer. I was not the same person I once was. Two months past my mastectomy, with a pink scar on my chest, it was time to let go of the precancer me and move on.
BACK IN MY cozy, Bavarian-style room on Crystal Mountain, I wrote in my journal: I am amazed I can be so happy. I love me. I love life. I have beloved family and friends. I have become a more giving and forgiving person. I have strength and wisdom and a voice. I make my own path as I make way for the new.
Of course, I hoped “the new” meant better health and complete recovery from side effects. I wanted to go forward free and clear of cancer, but my celebratory mood was tempered by caution. I thought of myself as someone who relied on science more than superstition, but those room numbers ending in 13 were hanging around, planted in the worry box of my brain. I felt like I was done with cancer, but was cancer done with me?
I was realizing that no matter how confused my mind, I could trust the quiet, often-humorous voice inside me. The more I heeded my heart, the brighter, clearer and more joyful my path.
IN 2019, I HAD a recurrence of breast cancer, requiring lymph node surgery and six weeks of radiation therapy. That summer, when those treatments were completed, my husband and I took a trip together to Mount Rainier National Park and the Crystal Mountain ski resort nearby. We stopped at Alpine Inn at Crystal Mountain and got our key and room number, which, thankfully, didn’t end in 13 this time.
A woman at the desk told us to keep an eye out for a family of silver foxes in the area, adding, “Remember, they’re wildlife — a lot of fun to watch, but give them space to do their thing.”
We said we would.
Following a guidebook I’d brought along, Donald and I explored the park, starting at Naches Peak Loop Trail. The white petals of avalanche lilies spread across the field like stars, leading us into a wonderland, joined by purple phlox as we got to higher elevations. The guidebook said the loop was 3 miles long, rising to an altitude of 5,800 feet.
Still recovering from radiation, I wondered whether I could make it the whole way and have enough energy to enjoy the rest of our visit. Our walking sticks came in handy, crunching our way along the rocky trail. With a new view or lake around every bend, we both were motivated to keep going. As we rounded Naches Peak, the bright snowy face of Mount Rainier appeared.
“Look, Donald, the mountain is out!” I said.
“The mountain is out,” he echoed with a smile, amused at our newbie attempts to sound like experienced Pacific Northwesterners.
In the evening, before having supper at Alpine Inn, Donald and I walked up the hill to the grounds of Crystal Mountain ski resort, quiet in the offseason. Ahead of us, by the far side of the road, I saw a flash of charcoal-gray fur followed by a luxuriously fluffy tail tipped in white. Pointing, I whispered to Donald, “What is that?” Just then the animal sat down in the road, and two smaller versions emerged from a hole in the ground to join her. “Oh,” I sighed, “it’s the silver fox mother and her kits! So beautiful.”
Donald nodded, pausing to watch them. As I moved around our side of the road, snapping photos, my husband stood still, both of us remembering to give them space. Goofy packages of joy, the young foxes played and toppled over each other until their mother led them back to their den. It seemed that nature was conspiring to make me happy.
WE CONTINUED WALKING and came to a bell tower, about 20 feet tall, next to the parking lot of an administrative building. I stopped and took Donald’s arm. “A bell! I wonder if they use it as an alarm, like for weather alerts or ski accidents.” I turned to Donald. “You know what I’m thinking?” I said, assuming it was obvious.
“No idea.”
Already starting to walk toward the building, I reminded him, “I never got to ring a bell when I finished chemotherapy, and now I’m done with radiation. Maybe they’ll let me ring this one!”
My husband stopped in his tracks, wanting no part of my brainstorm. Attracting attention rarely appealed to him. When I entered the chalet-style building, I spoke to a man at a desk. I was prepared to tell him my reason for wanting to ring the bell, thinking he would require persuasion, but he didn’t ask. “I saw the bell tower out there, and I was wondering if I may ring the bell.”
Hardly glancing up, the fellow said, “Yeah, OK,” and returned to his work.
I found myself disappointed not to have a chance to tell my end-of-treatments story. I went back outside to the bell and invited Donald to join me. Instead, as with the foxes, he stood apart and gave me space to do my thing.
For a moment, it seemed a little pathetic to carry out the bell-ringing ritual in the vast silence of a deserted ski resort with no one to cheer me on, but I realized this was my chance to celebrate.
I thought about both of my alarming diagnoses of cancer. Now, instead of sounding an alarm, I was signaling relief. I tugged on the thick rope over and over till the clapper hit the metal side with a resounding clang. This is it, I thought. Ring out! The tones of the big gleaming bell bounced off Crystal Mountain and reverberated down the valley.
My husband might have been a little embarrassed by my jubilation, but he was there, nearby, just as he’d kept me company as we rounded every bend in the trail. Donald was a steady support to our family and me. Our relationship dynamics might not work for everybody, but with extra effort on both our parts, they worked for us. The space between us had its advantages, giving me freedom to hear myself, make my own decisions, ring my bell. We went to the inn and ate a delicious dinner of salmon and soup, and then had a deep sleep, side-by-side.
BACK HOME ON Whidbey Island, I could see Mount Rainier on clear days, and I looked for opportunities to return. In June 2022, Donald and I invited our grandson, Miro, and his parents, Stephanie and John, to join us for a summer trip to Mount Rainier. Not quite 3 years old, our grandson didn’t expect to see snow in June. We hiked by Narada Falls and walked up the frosty slopes of Paradise. The white peak of Takhoma sparkled in the sun as we played in the snow.
Whether watching rushing rivers and waterfalls, hiking in subalpine meadows or sledding in snow, I was grateful for the staggering beauty and life-giving powers of the mountain. Though Mount Rainier is an active volcano likely to erupt again someday, for now it gives me peace.
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