Right up there with hitching thousands of miles alone from West Africa to Southern Africa.
Right up there with solo camping at Point Reyes after the 1989 San Francisco earthquake.
Right up there with swimming three miles to a two-palm tree island and back to mainland at Busua Beach, Ghana.

There's a reason they call this kind of action "fool hardy."

But, once I'd been cleared to go because I had cables (new-fangled chains), there was no way to go but forward. The exits hadn't even been cleared yet. I know because I looked every time, sorely tempted to steer my car off this wild track of snowblind and slip-sliding driving. But, no sense getting stuck while trying to escape.

Going down the mountain was no time for sightseeing. Ice built up on my wipers so they couldn't do their job. A veil fell over my wind shield. I followed truck lights and kept inside their tracks as well as I could as they cut through the snow on the road.

My most amazing feat of trick driving? I slid into a snow bank, reflexively reversed out, slid into the opposite snow bank, down shifted and gunned it forward. How did I manage to do this? Me who has no experience driving on snow? Sheer cussedness. I sooooo did not want to be stuck and stranded by the side of the road.

Plus, I felt the blessings of the retreat as mantras, prayers, and visualizations for Guru Drakpo (a Tibetan Buddhist protector), Guru Rinpoche, and Vajrakilya spontaneously arose in my mind and on my lips.

I drew upon my strength and resolve from the risky ventures I'd lived through and grown from in the past...hitching, camping, swimming, and driving on safari sand.

--I remembered the kindness of the Africans I met who gave me rides and cared for me in their homes.

--I remembered emerging from the Point Reyes expedition enriched with visions and certainty.

--I remembered that during my ocean swim when it occurred to me that I might not make it, that I looked towards the two palm trees on the island and paddled onwards.

--I remembered my father's lessons to chop my breaks in delicate taps.

--I remembered my father's instructions in double clutching and downshifting as we drove through the sand tracks on the way to the Moremi Wildlife Reserve in Botswana.

I remembered that I'd always made it through. My tremendous desire to get down that mountain fueled my perseverance and stoic resolve. I'll get through this I told myself. The terror and the tremulousness wouldn't last forever.

About half-way down (45 miles) at the Secret Village exit the roads cleared the sun came out.

I never would have made it without the help of the Mexican shoveling crew in the Truckee parking lot as I set out. I never would have made it without the help of the Mexican truck driver who struggles to get off my cables.

In both instances these men went The Second Mile. My father has taken this as his slogan throughout his life. In the New Testament Jesus said to go two miles when forced to go only one. Going this extra distance is where the life of a servant begins.

My father was that servant. Equipped with tow chains, jumper cables, stalwart tow bar, he rescued many. I consider him as a Roadside Angel.

The parking lot crew wouldn't rest until they brushed 18 inches of snow off my car, cleared the windows, shoveled a track, and in the end, drove it out of the lot onto the street after I got stuck going up the small rise.

Even though that truck driver had a load to deliver and it cost him money each second he helped me, he stuck by me until we solved the problem of how to get those cables off.

In both cases, none of these men demanded payment or even wanted to be paid. I had to press money into their hands. This is firmly held kindness. This is when you are viewed as a sister or mother...part of a human family. This kindness touches me deeply.

From snow bound to snow blind to snow struck to blue skies at the end of the journey, I made it one more time. My heart once more filled with gratitude to providence and the amazing depth of human hearts.

Mainly, grateful for continued connections with friends across the U.S. and all over the world. Continuity is sweet in a life on the move.

How good it is to come back to Lake County...to see it's beauties...and have friends who still want to see me. So often a move has meant an erasure of a life era.

--The move to St. Louis in 2007 was the right thing to do. It takes time to settle in to the settled small town that is St. Louis.

--So happy we got Worth Remembering out, and so many people enjoy it...the award of course.

--The bloggers who helped me on the official launch for the "Sightlines" audio book...and connection with online friends...Riehlife.

--Collaboration with Stephanie Farrow.

--My brother's practical support.

--Pop lived through another year, day by day..."as gracefully as possible", aging with grace, dignity, and usefulness...a beacon for many that life doesn't end until it ends..and maybe not then.

--Grateful for the balance, strength, and health I've worked for.

My mother and father together, with typical generosity, set up a similar revolving loan fund at Western Illinois University in Macomb, Illinois, my mother's Alma Mater, and my nephew David now looks after it. Though the fund was dedicated to her parents, Court and Grace Johnston, I feel the fund is a living tribute to my mother, who so loved education.

The revolving loan fund model is under-used in the United States. In developing countries the revolving loan fund model has been used to good effect for supporting entrepreneurs in villages and completely changing the face of commerce and opportunity there.

The revolving loan fund concept is simple: a pot of money is invested and out of this pot loans are made, and then re-paid. In this way, the pot is not diminished, as it would be if the funds were permanently disbursed in grants or gifts.

I like the spiritual principle of the revolving loan fund...there is the giving...and then the giving back. There is the sense of a common good, not only the individual benefit.

Here is the beautiful dedication my father wrote for this fund...dedicated to the Riehl family who raised him...and from whom I took my name when life turned a corner for me in my early 20s.--JGR


Erwin A. Thompson, author of Thompson Western Series and Folk Treasure

I WOULD LIKE TO DEDICATE MY SUPPORT TO THIS FUND TO THE RIEHL FAMILY.

A hundred years ago the Riehl name stood for honesty, neighborliness, hospitality, the urge to make things better for his family, his friends, his community, and horticultural excellence. E. A. Riehl was a leader. He was a man that other men looked to for leadership, and followed.

His accomplishments have been forgotten through the years. The people who remembered him have nearly all of them passed on to what we hope is a better land. There is not a Riehl in Jersey County. His name on the road leading back to our farm is still used, but few realize the reason for the name.

In addition to the biological debt which all of us owe to our ancestors, I have another debt to the Riehl family.

When I was nine months old, I was expected to die. I had double pneumonia and was the same size that I had been at birth. I could not turn over by myself. Doctor Munson told my father: "That boy is going to die, anyhow. Why don't you send him down to your wife's sisters, and then your wife will have a better chance." (She was also in poor health).

The suggestion was agreed upon by all parties and the move accomplished.

The Riehl family on the Home Place at that time was my Grandfather, Emil A. Riehl, and his three daughters Julia, Emma, and Mim who had given up the opportunity of marriage to stay at home and help with the care of their invalid mother. Mathilda Riehl had died in 1910.

They decided that I didn't need to die. Aunt Mim had just returned from a trip to the west coast. It had been designed as a pleasure trip, but while there she had undergone a serious intestinal operation and suffered what she found out thirty years later had been tuberculosis.

Since Mim was on the recovery list, also, and not able to perform the never ending work of the farm, she became my chief care taker. My first memory is of her singing Percy Wenrich's "Rainbow" to me as a lullaby. She said "We learned to walk together."

E. A. Riehl was strictly a No nonsense Man. And yet. He would always take time to repair my broken toys. He took me on walks. We have a wonderful picture of the two of us walking up the road together. My biggest regret is that I could not have known him better. [E. A. Riehl died when my father was 10 years old.--JGR] To partially make up for this I have read and transcribed his day book accounts of his early years of struggling to carve a working farm out of the property as he had acquired it.

You should read my story: "My memories of the Riehl's". In spite of their lack of formal education, they were quality people. They wrote fine letters, used good grammar, and in spite of the hardships of their life they maintained a wonderful sense of humor.

I am sure that they would appreciate the purpose of the fund. I dedicate it to Grandpa E. A., Aunt Judie, Aunt Em, and Aunt Mim who thought I didn't need to die, and worked diligently to make certain that I did not.