Sitting on top of a pile of papers, a doodle guy that looks like a character out of Where the Wild Things Are, is jumping off the page. Arms held high, goofy smile, angel halo and horns, he is celebrating life under a gleaming star and radiating heart. This is the letterhead of John Nichols.
The character in one form or another is never far from his activity of communication, pen on a page, a self-portrait perhaps.
John writes, “Dear Kyle, Thanks so much for letting me read your exquisite book and see all the photographs also. I didn’t say much in the Foreward because your magic book says it all.”
Such miraculous, brief but splendid interactions. How did this even come about?
When Who Love These Mountains was barely in its infancy, I had already imagined John Nichols, our local legend, writing an introduction to our book. Someone told me of a practice, where if you had a goal you want to manifest, write it down, fold it up and stick it in your wallet, something you carry close to you on a daily basis. So, I did just that.
A year went by as stories and poems, hidden away in various notebooks, pulled together. Rough pieces of inspiration scribbled down, while resting from an arduous wilderness hike. Little gems of experience in the high country, home to marmots and pikas, ravens and bear and Bighorn sheep. Wild places of violent storms erupting from a previous blue sky. Sunlight streaming through clouds you could almost touch. Kestrels streaking overhead with tremendous speed.
Another year was spent selecting and refining photographs from nearly a half century of visual histories that accompany the written stories and poems.
What was the possibility of meeting John now that the manuscript was nearing a readable form?
Serendipity. Synchronicity. When the time is right, the opportunity appears. Cataloging the plethora of flowers in the book, there were some I simply could not identify. Who better to ask for help than my friend Mary Ann, ex-forest ranger supervisor? Together we poured over her collection of flower books and still some resisted identification. Finally, she said the most amazing words. “I know who will know what these are, John Nichols. He is a dear friend of mine.”
Mary Ann agreed to approach John with my manuscript. With his health failing for a rather long period of time, she would visit frequently, often bringing him some prepared recipe he might nibble on. He did not eat much those days.
Magnanimously, he agreed to write the Foreward for someone he had never even met. I felt like this whole experience was dreamed into existence. But, he still hadn’t seen the photographs, which comprise half of the book.
My first visit was a week later in March 2023. Mary Ann explained how John was a night owl, sleeping during the day and working at night. We went to his house at 7 pm. I thought we would be there 15 minutes or so, while I flipped through the pages of photos. But each page invoked a story, a memory of being in our shared sacred spaces of the Wheeler Peak Wilderness, just outside Taos Ski Valley, New Mexico.
He had names for specific Bighorns. My ‘Hidden Pond’ was his ‘Lake Fork Tarn.’ In one picture, he pointed out a snow patch that lingered late into July, year after year. He called it the flying squirrel that appeared below Spoon Mountain. We had different names for these things and places, but we knew we were kindred spirits in love with a pristine, secluded world. He pulled out one of his many books to show me, this one was called, My Heart Belongs to Nature. So fitting, I wish I had thought of that first. During this visit, John shared how with every book he wrote, he would edit it 100 times. He held up a tattered, duct-taped together thesaurus type of book, I now wish I had gotten the name of. This became what I would call, ‘The curse and blessing of John Nichols’, as I now had to consider that revelation as an instruction for success.
Three hours passed filled with remarkable conversation. He even knew the year when the Bighorn sheep were re-introduced into this Taos wilderness. 1993. Sharp as a tack.
Bob and I visited him a few weeks later. Those 3 hours were spent with John and Bob exchanging fishing stories, tales of trails into the depths of the Gorge, steep treacherous paths down to the Rio Grande, scrambles of a younger version of himself. Sweet recollections of better days and better health.
The last time we visited John was in early November. We brought him the published copy of the book. On November 9th he sent a most beautiful letter. I’ll share a small piece of it.
“Wow! The book is beautiful and what a huge amount of work you did to put it together! I was thrilled when you asked me to participate, and brought over a copy of the finished book. It’s so much fun that we have shared a love for that area for so many years. I love just staring at the cover of your book and remembering all my adventures on Lake Fork Peak. And I really miss that wonderful little tarn below it. It is very moving to read the book again. What luck we had to really discover and get to know such a place.”
November 27th, he passed.
I am so privileged and grateful that we got to spend such precious time together. And you know, others have stories like this. What a wonderful human being. He will be missed.
