Preface: I was recently diagnosed with ALS.
My oldest and best friends took me to Hawaii because they are great people.
We had an amazing adventure and did all the things.
This is the story of our trip to the summit of Haleakala to watch the sunrise.

It was 80 degrees at 3:00 am on the coast. We knew we were in for different
weather at 10,500 feet, so the five of us packed every article of clothing we could find
into the back of Bill's rental car, loaded up with hot coffee and muffins, and took off
up the coast road in the inky black Maui night.

The road up the volcano is truly a white knuckle drive. This thing goes straight up from the
coastal plain to over 10,000' in a series of switchbacks that would make Mario Andretti cry.
Bill did an admirable job, with his four rowdy passengers spilling coffee and singing along
to the country music CD that a previous renter had left in the car. and got us to the summit in
one piece and well before dawn.

Sunrise on Haleakala is a thing here. Tourists (and a few locals, believe it or not) brave the frigid
winds and the slippery trails to watch the tropical sun rise over the ocean, and spread its warmth
across the island. It's kind a spiritual thing, I'm told. Being an entirely non-spiritual mutt, I was just
along for the view, and to share the company of my friends.

We opened the car door and were met by the dry, strong wind. The temp on the car dashboard read 39.
I hate the cold with a passion, but I bit my tongue, donned my jacket, burritoed into a blanket, and
set off with my buddies to climb the path to the rim of the crater.
Walking on flat ground is hard enough for me now, and walking up a rocky path in the dark while freezing
my tail off was a real challenge, but my friends offered their arms and shoulders and got me to the top of the path
without incident. I perched my frozen butt on a friendly rock and gazed out onto the eastern
horizon, watching it get lighter minute by minute.

Just before the sun began to show its shining face, a native Hawaiian docent started a chant to celebrate the
coming day and the gift of the warm light. It was absolute magic. The crowd, and I, stood transfixed by the
sight of the sun as it slowly rose over a bed of clouds, its rays piercing the dark and spreading colors
that I had never seen. The docent finished her chant, welcomed us to the day, and the crowd burst into
applause. It was a moment I'll never forget!

Everyone began to wind their way back to the parking lot, and we stayed behind for a few minutes to allow
the trail to clear in case I lost my balance and ended up crushing a nice couple from Buffalo.
When in was suitably empty, we meandered down the hill. My buddies wanted to get back to the warm car, while
I stopped to use the bathroom, telling them to go ahead and warm up and I'd be there in a few
minutes. I made my pit stop, began to walk to the car, when I noticed there was a visitor's center just up the
hill, and I suddenly felt I HAD to go there. I have no idea why. I was compelled to climb those steps!

The stairs to the visitor's center were steep, and there was no handrail. I made it 2/3 of the way up, then
found myself hopelessly stuck, unable to climb one more stair. I figured I'd just wait it out and my friends
would eventually find me, when I felt a hand on my arm. I turned to see a gray haired lady, about 60 years
old and about 5 feet tall, smiling up at me.
"I know what you're going through" she said.

She easily helped me climb the last few stairs. That lady was strong as an ox!
She guided me to the railing, and we stood gazing out onto the expanse of the island,
and the ocean beyond. The visitor's center was deserted except for us.

"My husband had ALS" she said in a quiet, calm voice.
"We brought him here and he loved the sunrise and the island. It was his favorite place.
He passed away last year so I came back to see the sunrise again and honor his memory.
His spirit is here, and yours will always be here too."

I turned to thank her for the help, tears in my eyes, and to offer my condolences on her
husband's passing, but she was gone. I mean gone.
She was there one moment and then she disappeared.
I leaned hard on the railing and began to cry.
Then I began to sob.

I hadn't really cried since the doctor told me I had ALS.
I'd had a few tears here and there but nothing like this.
Everything came flooding out and I had to grip the railing as tight as I could to stay standing.

I don't know how long I stood there sobbing.
I slowly became aware of arms around me, holding me up and hugging me close.
My fiends had found me.
They didn't say a word, they just held onto me until I was done.
I don't know if this was 2 minutes or 2 hours.
Time lost meaning. All I knew was that I was loved, and I would miss my friends dearly
when I leave this world. It hurt, but it hurt less and less the longer we stood there.

One by one, and in their own way, they told me it'd be OK.
I absolutely trust these guys and I felt a weight lift from my chest.
I knew they were right.
It would be OK...

We made our way back to the car, drove down the hill, and things slowly
began to return to normal.
By the time we stopped for breakfast, I felt like myself again, and we had
another wonderful Hawaiian day, snorkeling, playing in the surf, and laughing
our fool heads off. It was a wonderful adventure and I hope I get to go back
one day.

So, I am left to ponder: was the lady real?
Did I imagine her?
Did I lose track of her because I was overcome by grief?
Or was she a guardian angel, sent to get me where I needed to go?

Duuno. Mutts are dumb and we can't wrap our small brains around such questions.

All I know for sure is that I am loved, and indeed it's going to be OK.


TLDR: I got cold, got manhandled by an old lady, and then ate pancakes.