The Shack (4 page)

The sense of adventure and camping fever gripped everyone, and the place became a whirlwind of activity. If they had done it Mack’s way, they would have simply backed a moving van up to the house and shifted most of its contents for the long weekend. At one point in all the confusion, Mack decided he needed a break and settled himself in his daddy chair after shooing off Judas, the family cat. He was about to turn on the tube when Missy came running in, holding her little Plexiglas box.

“Can I take my insect collection camping with us?” asked Missy.

“You want to take your bugs along?” grunted Mack, not paying her much mind.

“Daddy, they’re not bugs. They’re insects. Look, I’ve got lots of them in here.”

Mack reluctantly turned his attention to his daughter who, seeing him focus, started explaining the contents of her treasure box.

“See, there are two grasshoppers. And see on that leaf, there is my caterpillar and somewhere... There she is! Do you see my ladybug? And I have a fly in here somewhere too and some ants.”

As she inventoried her collection, Mack tried his best to show attention, nodding along.

“So,” Missy finished. “Can I take them along?”

“Sure you can, honey. Maybe we can let them loose into the wild when we’re out there.”

“No she can’t!” came a voice from the kitchen. “Missy, you need to keep your collection at home, honey. Trust me, they’re safer here.” Nan stuck her head around the corner and lovingly frowned at Mack as he shrugged his shoulders.

“I tried, honey,” he whispered to Missy.

“Grrr,” growled Missy. But knowing the battle was lost, she picked up her box and left.

By Thursday night the van was overloaded and the pull-behind tent-trailer hitched up with lights and brakes tested. Early Friday, after one last lecture from Nan to her kids about safety, obedience, brushing teeth in the mornings, not picking up cats with white stripes down their backs, and all manner of other things, they headed out; Nan north up Interstate 205 to Washington, and Mack and the three amigos east on Interstate 84. The plan was to return the following Tuesday night, just before the first day of school.

The Columbia River Gorge is worth the trip by itself, with breathtaking panoramas overseen by river-carved mesas standing sleepy guard in the late summer warmth. September and October can offer some of Oregon’s best weather: Indian summer often sets in around Labor Day and hangs on until Halloween, when it quickly turns cold, wet, and nasty. This year was no exception. Traffic and weather cooperated wonderfully, and the crew hardly noticed the time and miles passing by.

The foursome stopped at Multnomah Falls to buy a coloring book and crayons for Missy and two inexpensive, waterproof disposable cameras for Kate and Josh. They then decided to climb the short distance up the trail to the bridge facing the falls. There had once been a path, which led around the main pool and into a shallow cave behind the tumbling water, but unfortunately, it had been blocked off by the park authorities because of erosion. Missy loved it here, and she begged her daddy to tell the legend of the beautiful Indian maid, the daughter of a chief of the Multnomah tribe. It took some coaxing, but Mack finally relented and retold the story as they all stared up into the mists shrouding the falling cascade.

The tale centered on a princess, the only child left to her aging father. The Chief loved his daughter dearly and carefully picked out a husband for her; a young warrior chief of the Clatsop tribe, whom he knew she loved. The two tribes came together to celebrate the days of the wedding feast, but before it could begin, a terrible sickness began to spread among the men, killing many.

The elders and the chiefs met to discuss what they could do about the wasting disease that was quickly decimating their warriors. The oldest medicine man among them spoke of how his own father, when aged and near death, had foretold of a terrible sickness that would kill their men, an illness that could only be stopped if a pure and innocent daughter of a chief would willingly give up her life for her people. In order to fulfill the prophecy, she must voluntarily climb to a cliff above the Big River and from there jump to her death onto the rocks below.

A dozen young women, all daughters of the various chiefs, were brought before the council. After considerable debate the elders decided that they could not ask for such a precious sacrifice, especially for a legend they weren’t sure was true.

But the disease continued to spread unabated among the men and eventually the young warrior chief, the husband-to-be, fell ill with the sickness. The princess who loved him knew in her heart that something had to be done, and after cooling his fever and kissing him softly on the forehead, she slipped away.

It took her all night and the next day to reach the place spoken of in the legend, a towering cliff overlooking the Big River and the lands beyond. After praying and giving herself to the Great Spirit, she fulfilled the prophecy by jumping without hesitation to her death on the rocks below.

Back at the villages the next morning, those who had been sick arose well and strong. There was great joy and celebration until the young warrior discovered that his beloved bride was missing. As the awareness of what had happened spread rapidly among the people, many began the journey to the place where they knew they would find her. As they silently gathered around her broken body at the base of the cliff, her grief-stricken father cried out to the Great Spirit, asking that her sacrifice would always be remembered. At that moment, water began to fall from the place where she had jumped, turning into a fine mist that fell at their feet, slowly forming a beautiful pool.

Missy usually loved the telling, almost as much as Mack did. It had all the elements of a true redemption story, not unlike the story of Jesus that she knew so well. It centered on a father who loved his only child and a sacrifice foretold by a prophet. Because of love, the child willingly gave up her life to save her betrothed and their tribes from certain death.

But on this occasion, Missy didn’t say a word when the story was finished. Instead she immediately turned and headed for the van as if to say, “Okay, I am done here. Let’s get going.”

They made a quick stop for some brunch and a potty break at Hood River and then got right back on the road, reaching La Grande by early afternoon. Here they left I-84 and took the Wallowa Lake Highway, which would take them the final seventy-two miles to the town of Joseph. The lake and campground they were headed for was only a few miles beyond Joseph, and after finding their site they all pitched in and had everything set up in short order—perhaps not exactly the way Nan would have preferred, but functional nonetheless.

The first meal was a Phillips family tradition: flank steak, marinated in Uncle Joe’s secret sauce. For dessert they ate the brownies Nan had made the night before, topped with the vanilla ice cream they had packed away in dry ice.

That evening, as he sat between three laughing children watching one of nature’s greatest shows, Mack’s heart was suddenly penetrated by unexpected joy. A sunset of brilliant colors and patterns played off the few clouds that had waited in the wings to become central actors in this unique presentation. He was a rich man, he thought to himself, in all the ways that mattered.

By the time supper was cleaned up, night had fallen. The deer—routine day visitors and sometimes a serious nuisance—had gone wherever deer go to bed down. Their shift was picked up by the night troublemakers: raccoons, squirrels, and chipmunks that traveled in roving bands looking for any container left slightly open. The Phillips campers knew this from past experience. The first night they had ever spent in these campgrounds had cost them four dozen Rice Krispies Treats, a box of chocolates, and all their peanut butter cookies.

Before it got too late, the four went on a short hike away from the campfires and lanterns, to a dark and quiet spot where they could lie down and gaze in wonder at the Milky Way, stunning and intense when undiminished by the pollution of city lights. Mack could lie and gaze up into that vast-ness for hours. He felt so incredibly small yet comfortable with himself. Of all the places he sensed the presence of God, out here surrounded by nature and under the stars was one of the most tangible. He could almost hear the song of worship they sang to their Creator, and in his reluctant heart he joined in as best he could.

Then it was back to the campsite and after several trips to the facilities, Mack tucked the three in turn into the safety and security of their sleeping bags. He prayed briefly with Josh before moving across to where Kate and Missy lay waiting, but when it came Missy’s turn to pray she wanted to talk instead.

“Daddy, how come she had to die?” It took Mack a moment to figure out who it was that Missy was talking about, suddenly realizing that the Multnomah princess must have been on her mind since they had stopped earlier.

“Honey, she didn’t
have
to die. She
chose
to die to save her people. They were very sick and she wanted them to be healed.”

There was silence and Mack knew that another question was forming in the darkness.

“Did it really happen?” This time the question was from Kate, obviously interested in the conversation.

“Did what really happen?”

“Did the Indian princess really die? Is the story true?”

Mack thought before he spoke. “I don’t know, Kate. It’s a legend and sometimes legends are stories that teach a lesson.”

“So, it didn’t really happen?” asked Missy.

“It might have sweetie. Sometimes legends are built from real stories, things that really happen.”

Again silence, then, “So is Jesus dying a legend?” Mack could hear the wheels turning in Kate’s mind.

“No honey, that’s a true story; and do you know what? I think the Indian princess story is probably true too.”

Mack waited while his girls processed their thoughts. Missy was next to ask. “Is the Great Spirit another name for God—you know, Jesus’ papa?”

Mack smiled in the dark. Obviously, Nan’s nightly prayers were having an effect. “I would suppose so. It’s a good name for God because he is a Spirit and he is Great.”

“Then how come he’s so
mean?’

Ah, here was the question that had been brewing. “What do you mean, Missy?”

“Well, the Great Spirit makes the princess jump off the cliff and makes Jesus die on a cross. That seems pretty mean to me.”

Mack was stuck. He wasn’t sure how to answer. At six and a half years old, Missy was asking questions that wise people had wrestled with for centuries.

“Sweetheart, Jesus didn’t think his daddy was mean. He thought his daddy was full of love and loved him very much. His daddy didn’t
make
him die. Jesus chose to die because he and his daddy love you and me and everyone in the world. He saved us from our sickness, just like the princess.”

Now came the longest silence, and Mack was beginning to wonder if the girls had fallen asleep. Just as he was about to lean over and kiss them good night, a little voice with a noticeable quiver broke into the quiet.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Will I ever have to jump off a cliff?”

Mack’s heart broke as he understood what this conversation had really been about. He gathered his little girl into his arms and pulled her close. With his own voice a little huskier then usual, he gently replied, “No, honey. I will never ask you to jump off a cliff, never, ever, ever.”

“Then, will God ever ask me to jump off a cliff?”

“No, Missy. He would never ask you to do anything like that.”

She snuggled deeper into his arms. “Okay! Hold me close. G’night Daddy. I love you.” And she was out, drifting deep into a sound sleep with only good and sweet dreams.

After a few minutes, Mack placed her gently back in her sleeping bag.

“You okay, Kate?” He whispered as he kissed her good night.

“Yup,” came the whispered reply. “Daddy?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“She asks good questions doesn’t she?”

“She sure does. She’s a special little girl, you both are, except you’re not so little anymore. Now get some sleep, we have a big day ahead of us. Sweet dreams, darlin’.”

“You too, Daddy. I love you tons!”

“I love you too, with all my heart. Good night.”

Mack zipped up the trailer on his way out, blew his nose, and wiped away the tears that still remained on his cheek. He prayed a silent thanks to God and then went to brew some coffee.

3

T
HE
T
IPPING POINT

The soul is healed by being with children.

—Fyodor Dostoevsky

W
allowa Lake State Park in Oregon and its surrounding area has been well referred to as the Little Switzerland of America. Wild rugged mountains rise to almost ten thousand feet, and in between them are hidden innumerable valleys full of streams, hiking trails, and high elevation meadows overflowing with sprays of wildflowers. Wallowa Lake is the gateway into the Eagle Cap Wilderness Area and Hells Canyon National Recreation Area, which sports the deepest gorge in North America. Carved out over centuries by the Snake River, it reaches a couple miles top to bottom in places, and ten miles at times from rim to rim.

Seventy-five percent of the Recreation Area is roadless, with more than 900 miles of hiking trails. Once the domain of the prevailing Nez Perce tribe, the remnants of their presence are scattered throughout this wilderness, as well as those of white settlers traveling through on their way to the West. The nearby town of Joseph was named for a powerful tribal chief whose Indian name meant Thunder Rolling down the Mountain. This area is home to an abundance of flora and wildlife including elk, bear, deer, and mountain goat. The presence of rattlers, especially as you get closer to the Snake River, is reason enough to hike cautiously, should you decide to venture off-trail.

Wallowa Lake itself is five miles long and one mile wide, formed, some say, by glaciers nine million years ago. It now sits about a mile from the town of Joseph at an elevation of 4,400 feet. The water, though catch-your-breath cold most of the year, is comfortable enough by the end of summer for a leisurely swim, at least close in to shore. Sacagawea, at almost 10,000 feet, looks down on this blue jewel from her snow-capped and timbered heights.