The Brocolli Crown. A Haiku.

I eat thee with haste,

unrinsed, uncooked, raw.

Damned the aphids.

Closer to fine.

Much of mountain climbing involves the efficient use of energy. One learns to not squander same by way of anger, regret, or frustration. A trashed tent represents an opportunity to see how a team gets by putting six climbers in a couple two-man tents. Faulty communications equipment invites mid-mountain commerce, trading toilet paper ("mountain money") for a few minutes use of another team's satellite phone. A delayed move to the next camp is a chance to recheck vital gear and better appreciate the view of the camp you are stranded in. Normally this applies to just the days spent on the climb, but in practice it kicks in the moment you leave home.

My flight out of Phoenix was delayed an hour. This left me ten minutes to make my connection in Atlanta for Santiago, Chile. The odds were stacked against me pulling it off, Atlanta being the world's busiest airport with sprawling distant terminals. But I negotiated my way to a forward cabin seat and hoped for the best. The best passed as we sat on the tarmac in Atlanta for 35 minutes, waiting for another jet to clear out of our terminal. My flight left without me. As this particular flight occurs only once a day, I would have to stay the night in Atlanta and catch this connection the following evening. I cued up with numerous other travelers awaiting the chance to scan their now worthless boarding pass and learn their fate. A burly woman in a Delta Airlines uniform stood next to the machine. She was not there to offer sympathy. Whatever demonstrable remorse she once had was used many shifts ago.  It seemed most likely she was there to protect the scanner.

"You booked on the nine thirty flight tommora," she would say to a disbelieving Passenger. "This voucher is for you to stay the night at the Wellesley Hotel and you pay $50," she continued. She almost always had to repeat this before it sunk in that a person was not only going to be a day late for a business meeting, cruise, wedding, or organ transplant, but that he would also pay $50 for the inconvenience. Watching this was nothing short of Human Theatre.

People stormed off, only to circle back and re-engage. They pleaded their case that this was not their fault. The burly Delta Attendant would examine the voucher and note that weather was the cause of delay, stating "Delta caint control the weather." Indeed the hub for Delta, Atlanta, was experiencing very stormy weather. This granted them a virtual carte blanche for blamelessness worldwide. "But the weather was fine in Phoenix," one woman complained. "Yes, but that aircraft came from Atlanta," she was told. "We were delayed because of a power outage in Minneapolis," the man in front of me challenged. "That's the city power," the Delta rep countered, "Delta caint be responsible for that. Besides weather probably caused that outage." As their were few remaining flights that evening to anywhere, it was clear most of us would be spending a rainy night in Atlanta. The $50 was all that remained to be debated. If you could prove the delay was Delta's fault entirely, they would pay the full cost of your room and offer a meal stipend. When my turn came I decided to try the only thing I had not yet heard. "Alien abduction," I stated, dropping my boarding pass on the scanner, too late realizing this too was not Delta's fault.

It was probably easier for me than most passengers. I was scheduled to arrive a day early in Punta Arenas and this simply meant I would arrive on the same day as the rest of my team. The only damage to me being the omission of the trip I planned to take to the penguin colonies that day. It was not the same as missing a wedding  ...though I have been to many weddings I would sooner trade for a penguin colony. Really, they look pretty similar if you think about it.

I took my vouchers and walked a short distance away. From there I watched a few more acts of the Theatre. One poor woman, who spoke almost no English, seemed convinced she was being taken advantage of. She was correct, of course. But in the tradition of all great greek trajedies, the Fates were the pick-pockets. She collared a Security Guard standing on a Segway. With a toxic voucher pinched between the fingers of each hand, she waved her arms in grand sweeping arches. She spoke fast and lucid, punctuating her conviction with a squeaky noise like that of a dog toy. One foot stomped all the while. Unfortunately, the Security Guard knew no Lebanese. Frustrated, the woman stalked off in the direction of an ice creamery. "Yes, happy food," I said to myself, "it can only help."

In short order I found myself waiting in cold drizzle for the hotel shuttle. I passed the time watching people, guessing their stories. One woman was nine feet tall. That was my first guess. She was remarkably tall. But nine feet seemed implausible. I lowered my estimate to six feet seven inches. Still she may have been seven feet. My goodness she certainly was tall. I thought about how awful it would be to be tall against your wishes. Short people have a similar problem, but at least it does not stand out like a flag pole. "Tall can be a disability," I thought to myself. The woman seemed particularly vexed by something. In the absence of further information I assumed it to be her height.

Later that evening I ate dinner at the hotel bar, sitting next to an Army Sargent named Robert. Robert was on his way to Afghanistan. He had served there and in Iraq on several prior deployments. When I asked Robert about his experiences he opened up a photo gallery on his IPhone and started talking. "Why have you taken pictures of these people," I asked as he scrolled through shots of Afghans walking down the street. "Because they are part of my life," he answered. Though a bronze star and purple heart are also a part of Robert's life, he seemed to carry no animus for the people of the country which sponsored them. "Buildings like this," he instructed, pausing on one photo,"don't take bullets well. You and I would go in hip to hip, always touching so we knew where each other was in the darkness. There would be shooting. Bullets bounce around inside concrete buildings like this, so it would be important to stay about a foot away from any wall." Robert had worked trading Municipal Bonds for Merrill Lynch at one time. It was safe. But that may have been the problem. Already a member of the Reserves, Robert matriculated into active service and has served, by his account, in over 400 combat missions since. He is 43 years old. Very old for a combat warrior. I asked Robert if he ever feels fear in combat. In a very believable tone he said he did not, adding "you're already dead." "By that, do you mean you live with a sense of destiny," I asked. "I don't wanna put words in your mouth, but do you feel you are meant to be here, you are here for a purpose, and if you die here then that is the way things were meant to be?" Robert smiled a little as he considered this. "Yes, " he said, "and no."

I am languishing away the hours before my flight this evening in the Delta Sky Lounge. It costs the suspiciously similar sum of $50 for non-members to spend a day here. I tried to negotiate gratis admission, recounting my faultless delay the prior evening. They would have none of it. Though I must say it was the most relaxed and pleasant "no" I have ever enjoyed. I invited them to consider my Alien abduction story. (Note to self: The Alien abduction story does not work.) I pointed out what a great organization Delta Airlines is and how this represented an opportunity for them to truly stand out among the mouth-breathing competitors who masquerade as fellow eagles in their congress. They returned a still nicer "no." "You are clearly an important and powerful person within this organization," I fixed upon the woman behind the mahogany counter, "but I wish to speak with someone still more powerful, someone your power plus one." She handed me a phone a moment later.  The Supervisor on the other end explained Delta has several thousand similarly afflicted passengers wondering the terminals of Atlanta International Airport at that moment. Delta could not afford, nor did they have room for, free admission for these refugees into their lounge. I suspect this Supervisor is the Nice Trainer for the Lounge Reception people. There was something about her refusal that made me like her more. I felt like a sorority girl.

The rest of the Team." Your search result preceeds you."

You may have had the experience of starting to tell what you were sure to be unique tale, only to be waved off by the listener a few sentences into it. It turns out you are among the last to have heard this story, and the fact that you did not realize this attests to both your lameness as a story teller and a profound unawareness of that lameness. If it is possible to be disrespected in the same manner by technology then I suffered such a fate recently while researching the other members of my team. I entered the home country of each Climber into my search engine. Then I began typing the respective name. In each of the four cases the name was completed for me by the search engine, a clear indication it already knew where I was going. It had heard this story.

I omit the last names of each climber pending the completion of this Blog and their approval to include same.

Mitchell.  Originally from New Zealand, Mitchell now lives in Johannesburg, South Africa. In May of this year he summitted Mt Everest, the highest peak on the planet. He is 62.  “Too many people get to a certain age and think they are too old to do something,” he commented during an interview after returning home a local hero.  “I would like to encourage people to look at their lives: there are so many fantastically exciting things to do,” he continued. And it would seem Mitchell has done many of them. Having already stood atop the continental summits of all but Antarctica, the upcoming expedition is nothing less than an exclamation point to his philosophy of living, the seventh summit and his place in history among the very few humans to have touched them all.      

Steve.  At the age of 36, Steve found himself battling cancer. To this day, he harkens back to the difficult treatments he had to endure. When things seem tough during a climb and his body pleads with him to quit, he reflects on those treatments and finds strength in the knowledge that he can take so much more. Though he had done a fair bit of climbing prior to cancer, there was something about having survived the disease that awoke a sense of still greater ambition in him. While traveling internationally in his role as an Investment Banker, Steve trained wherever he was. He competed in marathons and Iron Man Triathlons. He went ice climbing in the French Alps. He did most of the things a person would do to train for a major mountain climb. Yet he had no such design. I believe many plans in life are made for us. We live the truth of our path and trust in where it is leading.  On short notice, in 2008, an opportunity arose for Steve to join a team planning an attempt on Mt. Everest. He thought of the inspirations in his life: his sister (who was born with a disability), and his brother (who died when Steve was 17). “You only live once,” he said in a subsequent magazine interview, “and it can sometimes be shorter that we like, so take risks and live life to the fullest.”  At age 38, two years after battling cancer, Steve stood atop Mt Everest.

Phil.  Phil is a policeman on the Isle of Man, UK.  I suspect he is the lone Isle of Man Reader of this Blog whom I identified recently (see The Produce is Selling well).  In as much as that is the case, I hope he persuades and few neighbors to start following along as it could easily triple my presence there. This would also be the kind of selfless act Phil has come to be known for.  In the course of preparing for his attempt of Mt Everest in May of 2010, Phil used public awareness of his feat to raise funds for Ronald MacDonald house.  Even as he descended the mountain after successfully summiting Everest, Phil’s call back home reminded those who might be listening “It is not too late to make a small donation at any police station. They all have a box ready for anything that you can spare.” The first person from the Isle of Man to ever stand atop Everest, Phil was welcomed home to great celebrity. The Manx flag he held during his moment of triumph (an odd configuration of three legs in a pinwheel) was placed on public display. Phil is 40 years old.

Doug Bates: Guide.  Doug has traveled the world extensively, from skiing seasons in Utah, Europe, Japan and Canada, to kite surfing in Vietnam, Hawaii, Australia and Ecuador. A senior guide for Adventure Consultants, Doug has led successful Nepalese expeditions on Ama Dablam, Cho Oyu, Lobuche East, Island Peak, Mera Peak, and Everest. He has also guided on the continental summits of Denali, Elbrus, Carstenz Pyramid, Aconcagua, and Antarctica’s Vinson Massif. It would be difficult to imagine a more robust climbing resume. In the vernacular of mountain climbers, Doug is alternately described as a Goat, Beast, Animal, Troll, Mutha, and Stud. An active writer and photographer, Doug also organizes the annual New Zealand Mountain Film Festival. You should check it out …next time you happen to be in New Zealand.

Present History

The world came to know a remarkable young man named Jordan Romero this last spring. He,  at the age of 13, summitted Mt. Everest,  becoming the youngest person ever to do so.  Still more impressive, we learned that this Big Bear, California native has already stood atop the high summits of Africa, Europe, North America, South America, and Australia/Oceana. His first major summit was Kilimanjaro at age 9. Jordan has enjoyed much well deserved attention, guesting on the Jay Leno show, and speaking at high profile events. Many fine articles have been written about him and his achievements. The article this link will take you to details Jordan Romero’s plans to attempt Vinson Massif in December 2010. http://www.worldof22.com/2010/05/us-boy-jordan-romero-at-mount-everest.html .  So it seems we shall be sharing the ice with Jordan, a young man who will almost certainly complete the seven summits in the course of that visit. He is a fine role model for young people everywhere and lives on a trajectory that could well make him one of history’s greatest climbers.  I hope to shake his hand.    

Meet Guy.

I was listening to the sound of his voice, a British voice, as he spoke from his office in the Cayman Islands. "You think the answer is obvious," Guy began, "but then you don't know." I had asked him why he is doing this climb, and though he had been considering the question since I emailed it to him a few days earlier the answer still eluded him. This is typical of the altitude climbers I have met. While most people would require a clear rational motivation for undertaking a difficult and often dangerous task, the altitude climber does not. If anything, he seems that much the better for the lack of such encumbrances. "I love to travel," Guy offered in the tone of a man headed out on a fall foliage tour.

I will meet Guy for the first time when our team rendezvous' in Punta Arenas on December first. He is 36,and engaged to be married, having proposed to his fiancee on the summit of Kilimanjaro. Originally from the UK, Guy lived and worked for a number of years in Tokyo. It was during this time he took a love for Trekking to the next level. After attending a mountaineering course in the Swiss Alps, Guy set about an ambitious effort to climb the highest summit on each continent. Attempts on Denali and Elbrus were rebuffed by the horrific weather too typical of both. But Guy summitted Aconcagua (the high summit for South America, 22,841 ft) and Kilimanjaro. In 2004 he made a trip to climb some of the peaks on the Antarctic Penninsula. "It was the best trip ever," he told me. Guy spoke of the remoteness, the pristine nature, the solitude of Antarctica., and the reverence in his voice explained much of why he is returning.

"If you are successful and summit Vinson Massif, what will this experience mean to you thirty years from now," I asked.
"A sense of achievement. Something only a small number of people have done. An experience that will not fade," he answered.
I asked Guy if he was a bit of a novelty around Cayman, going to Antarctica, climbing these mountains. He told me that, ironically, two other people from Cayman will be in Antarctica the same time as he. One is working on a Scientific study, the other is going to attempt driving across the continent in some kind of experimental eco-car. I felt bad for Guy. Then it occurred to me that I know two climbers from my home town who have already been there and done that. "It's a good thing we aren't doing this for the fame," I offered. "Yes," he agreed.

The produce is selling well.

Dear Readers, I recently discovered the "Stat" feature of Blogspot. It seems the people behind this resource have been quietly cataloging page views per article on a daily, weekly, and monthly basis. What's more, I can also pull up a map of the world which reveals, in shades of green, where my Readers come from! I must say you all are a far flung group. The largest concentration of Readers come from North America, but there are curious concentrations of you in Russia and Brazil. It appears the Germans will have nothing to do with me, and I get big virtual yawn from the French. But this is easily offset by the single Reader I have from the Isle of Man.

I learned as an Improv Actor how to play to the crowd, and I am shameless about doing so. As there are numerous aspects of altitude climbing that might grab a person's imagination I am naturally curious which articles have received the most attention. And there is a clear winner. Logging in four times as many page views as the next most popular entry in my Blog, "The Shallot: A Haiku" is what the people want. This would appear to be the case outside my Blog as well. This piece is presently the number one Google search result for "Haiku and Shallot."  This is, admittedly, a fairly narrow search. But hey.

I love that! Probably because I love the random parts of life; like the fact that a giant inflatable gorilla is suppose to make me want to purchase an automobile. But I am irretrievably committed to this climb, dear friends,  and so cannot shift my focus of fancy to fibrous consumables. "Ode to Broccoli Crown" will have to wait.

The Bees

I was recently asked about how I handle the situation when things go wrong on a high mountain.  Because I tend to think in analogies, the true story of an experience I had as a child came to mind.  I took the time several years ago to write this story out, so really I'm cheating a bit by inserting it here.  But this account reveals the answer to that inquiry, as well as the answer's origins, so I could not pass it up. 

The Bees

I remember how good it felt to be five years old and digging up the side of a dirt hill.  Though I've since time mucked about in the dirt on various occasions for various causes, at no time have I known the gratification that use to come from digging in the dirt  purely the sake of digging in the dirt.  And so I was an eager accomplice when Denny Pearl came to our door that August day in 1968.  After telling me what he had in mind, Denny asked my mother if I could come out to play in the field.  She consented, no doubt reasoning that two five-year-olds couldn't get into much trouble just playing in the field behind our house, even if one of them was Denny Pearl.  But Denny, at the tender age of five, had already learned the art of half-truths.  Having stolen his father's shovel and hidden it behind our garage, Denny didn't plan on just playing in the field.  We were going to move some dirt. 

Skipping out the front door with coat half on, I followed Denny around the back of our garage where he retrieved the suspect shovel.  We crossed the field to the dirt bank and, after a brief discussion of the merits of digging in one place versus another, lashed into the dry sandy soil with a sense of purpose.  The heavy shovel blade carved into the hillside creating a caving effect whereby large walls of dirt would tumble at our feet, raising a dust cloud that we imagined looking something like a forest fire.  Denny took off his coat and fanned it in the dust trying to send smoke signals to some distant tribe of Digging in the Dirt Indians.  We climbed up the dirt bank and jumped off into the pile we had made.  In the fashion of five-year-olds everywhere we were then swept up by the More Is Better philosophy and set about making a still larger dirt pile.  It was this same thinking that led to the notion that two shovels might move more dirt than one, and thus I sped off across the field to steal my dad's shovel.

I didn't get far.  Perhaps thirty yards away I tripped and fell to the ground, landing hard on my elbows.  As I did, the surface gave way beneath them, caving in an underground nest of yellow jackets.  For their part, the hornets weren't pleased with this, and I was swiftly and summarily swarmed. I never saw the hornets.  The first sting hit my forehead and as I reached up, smarting from the pain, others followed.  My eyes clenched shut, I clawed at my own face and spun about miserably.  I remember the incessant white noise of their collective buzzing all around me. The pain was everywhere at once.  Bees were going up my pant legs.  Bees were in my hair.  Bees climbed inside my jacket and as I tried to take it off bees jammed in the zipper (this I would cite for years to come as reason number one why I shouldn't have to put on a jacket before going out to play).  I screamed and thrashed wildly at the air. I ran in dusty circles hoping I was headed for home.  I thought I had a problem.

But my problems were just beginning.  At this point Denny Pearl realized what was going on and, stricken with heroism, resolved to rescue me.  And while his intentions were good, Denny's five-year-old logic was fouled.  I don't say this because Denny would be entering a fracas with angry bees that might well sting him.  By and large most five-year-olds haven't got the sense God gave a dung beetle when it comes to self-preservation.  I say Denny's logic was fouled because his rescue plan involved smashing the bees with his father's shovel.

whampf! I felt the shovelhead strike flat across my shoulder blades.  I went down hard in the dust.  Fighting to my hands and knees, I stood while beating my own head furiously as the bees, now tangled in my hair, seemed be working there with particular enthusiasm.  “Don’t!  Don’t! Don’t!" was about all I could manage to scream.  I suppose Denny thought I was talking to the bees.

Kong! The shovel connected hard with my hip and down I went.  Again and again I struggled to my feet only to be beaten back into the dust by Denny and that shovel.  I suppose it was a good thing the bees finally turned on Denny because had they not he might have beaten me to death.  Looking back now it occurs to me that this would be the first time I came to know a friend as an enemy and an enemy as a friend.  Some lessons we learn young.  I understand the Chinese use the same written symbol to represent both crisis and opportunity.  Who knows, maybe Confucius was swarmed too.

Somewhere in the moments that followed, the bees grew tired and bored with stinging Denny and me.  Really, there couldn't have been much sport in it.  I ran home, where my mother met me at the front door with a hairbrush in her hand.  Though she clearly knew something was wrong, it was not readily apparent what it was.  I was screaming and crying, speaking only the language of a wounded creature.  Noting a bee in my hair she swatted it away with a flick of the brush.  Then she saw another, and another, and many many more all writhing about in an impossible tangle of hair and insect.  Horrified, she began beating my head with the hairbrush.  Of this I did not complain, glad for having traded down from the shovel.  Instead, I clutched desperately at my chest.  The bees that had crawled up my coat were still having at me.  My Mother moved the zipper only a short distance before it became further jammed with bees.  Grasping the collar opening with both hands she then ripped open my jacket, releasing a small cloud of Bees.

In rapid succession I was thrown into the shower, taken to the doctor, given a shot of something, smeared with an unpleasant ointment, and fed ice cream in quantities that clearly indicated my Mother had been as scared as I had.  In the final tally I was stung eighty-seven times, and for his trouble Denny was stung one hundred and eleven.

The other day I tried to look Denny up.  I imagined that he would be a Microsoft Licensing Agent not far from his hometown of Kirkland, Washington.  Or maybe, I thought, Denny is still digging in the dirt, running a construction company of his own.  Glancing at recent headlines, it occurred to me that Denny might even be in law enforcement somewhere in California.  In the end I wasn't able to find Denny, but in some strange way this was both a disappointment and a comfort.

Time collapsing

I feel time growing short now. I leave for Antarctica in less than three weeks.  Anything that comes up must be done in these three weeks. Things that would have been done four and five weeks from now are also crowding into this time. I will inventory my gear, spreading it out on the garage floor like a yard sale.  I will host Thanksgiving. Over the next three weeks I will consume fifteen salads and do ten loads of laundry.  My son, Chase will turn 17.  Because I have a phobia about mail I will go to my mailbox only three times. I will pack sixty pounds of water up 8,400 vertical feet of trail. The days will grow shorter, the workouts longer. I will start to miss my loved ones, even as they sit across from me at the kitchen table. I will load Christmas music on the I-pod I intend to take along. I will ask myself why I am doing this as the inconvenience of my departure weighs heavy. There will be no answer, as there never has been. I will take my Father to a Doctor's appointment. I will clear the leaves from the deck. I will work long days at my job to meet as many commitments as possible. I will spend time allaying my Mother's fears. I will wear a red flannel shirt. I will carry a dog biscuit in my pocket in case that aggressive Labrador comes out to bark at me on walks. I will consume a half gallon of half and half. I will finish burning down a holiday scented candle I lite each morning and evening. I will play a video game with my son. (It is called Nazi Zombies. Technically, Zombies are already dead so we aren't hurting anyone. And Nazi's? C'mon. If there was ever justification for heating up a 50 caliber machine gun Nazi Zombies are it!)I will deep fry a turkey. I will listen the George Winston's Autumn album. I will drag a tire-laden piece of plywood around on the streets of my neighborhood. I will steal away with my love, Lin,  to Lopez Island. I will sell my drum set. I will mumble to myself without thinking about who might be watching.  I will Skype with my son, Trevor, in Chicago.  I will purchase an audio book about Sir Ernest Shackleton. I will scrutinize the financial markets. I will scrutinize the details of the climb. I will scrutinize the lines beneath my eyes. I will become irritable as I realize I can't possible complete everything before leaving. Then, as I square up to say Goodbye, it will all fall away.                                                                                                                                                          

(F x Y) + (K x X) = Belief

The above diagram came up in the course of a Google Images search for "Belief." There were better images I could have chosen, images of children looking skyward or the Japanese sign for Belief, but I find myself in a left-brain mood. Curious, I clicked on the image to learn more. This took me to a software coding site where it was part of a discussion about video game player skill levels.   
"Rather than assuming a single fixed skill for each player, the system characterizes its belief using a bell-curve belief distribution (also referred to as Gaussian) which is uniquely described by its mean μ (mu) ("peak point") and standard deviation σ (sigma) ("spread"). An exemplary belief is shown in the figure," it read. As best I understand this theory, I disagree with it entirely. 

I have been thinking a lot about the idea of Belief lately; how it works, what it is made of. Mountain climbing, after all, requires a fair bit of Belief. I see Belief as being quite different from optimism, which is also critical to success in mountain climbing. I have never met a Summiter who was a pessimist. Optimism is a sense that things will work out regardless. I fell into a crevasse once and, hanging from a rope, thought "boy, this is going to make for a great story later on." That is optimism. But belief is different.

I spent Christmas of 2006 with my sister, Noelle, and her family in Anchorage, Alaska. In the restless space between Christmas and New Years, my brother in-law, Ty, suggested we make a winter attempt of Wolverine Mountain in the nearby Chugach Range. I had never camped in the snow, but knew we would be doing plenty of it during the attempt we planned to make on Denali the following spring. This seemed like a good chance to get my feet wet frozen. We packed and left for Wolverine.

Ty and I climbed all morning with heavy packs before stopping to set up camp. The daylight hours during Alaskan winters are few and dim. Thus we started for the summit at 3:00pm with headlamps on. But the weather turned nasty and our progress slowed. High winds were gusting and a remarkable amount of snow accompanied them. My body felt heavier and heavier as the horizontal snow pelted and stuck to me. As we reached an exposed ridge a series of powerful blasts thrashed us. We dropped to our bellies to avoid being blown off the mountain, but even then felt it prying like a tool that removes tics. We stood for a moment when the wind rested. "We better bugger off this ridge," I said as another blast hit and we again dropped to our bellies.   All that night we took turns shoveling snow off the tent and trying to fortify it from within against the tempest without. All the while I kept looking at Ty, trying to read any sign of worry on his face. There was none. I believed we were going to be fine. This belief was based 100% on faith, my faith in Ty. Ty also believed we were going to be fine. His belief was based 100% on knowledge. Ty had twice climbed Mt McKinley and seen much worse than this along the way. Though we would later learn that this blizzard was sufficiently strong enough to knock out power to half of the community of Eagle River, our separate beliefs allowed us to experience that night with a giddy haunted house excitement.

As I recall other times in my life where I experienced belief it occurs to me that each constituted some combination of Faith and Knowledge. The curious thing to me is that they all felt the same. It is as though there are no degrees of belief.. It is an absolute. If it is mixed in an eight ounce glass and you remove a single teaspoon you no longer have belief. Once the glass is full you can try adding more but it will just run over onto the counter. In the end belief is a cocktail mixed with varying portions of faith and knowledge, yet always tastes the same.