The center of Garfield Mountain is hollow, a steep sided bowl with a rim like jagged dragon's teeth. North, a narrow cleft drains the bowl. That is where you enter.  From below, wade the snowmelt river, then climb through the forest to the boulder talus. Walk the rocks up, all the way to the ancient hemlock guardian, eight feet in diameter, then thread the needle past the waterfall above the gorge, and you are there, the Heart of Garfield.

It was here, in the fall of 1999 that a single event, and my emotional response to that event, would change the course of my life. That trip was my sixth into the place my friends had begun to call Bors' Bowl. I set my tarp shelter nestled low against a massive hemlock tree at the top of a cliff.  A small fire, and the tree, were my companions for the evening. After dinner, I sat sipping hot black tea. The darkness beyond the fire was physical in its utter lack of light. After tea I was looking forward to that depth of sleep you get af...