May 8, 2026 : Hood Requiem -

Forty years ago, early in April, 1986, our daughter Anne was born at Emanuel Hospital in Portland. Like many a new parent, I found myself suddenly super-sensitized to the precarity of human life.  

Ten days later, Ronald Reagan bombed Libya.When I heard news of the bombing on the radio, I started rage-crying. How dare he? How dare he start a war, when there were babies and children, all over the world?

A month later, the Mount Hood disaster happened. Sophomores from Oregon Episcopal School, and some adult companions, set off on a school-mandated adventure trip from Timberline Lodge at 2:30 on a Tuesday morning, despite iffy weather. Some turned back, but the rest were caught in a storm, and not found until Wednesday night, by which time nine had died – seven students and two adults. 

Two more victims were revived from near-death at Emanuel Hospital, right where Anne had been born. I had a dear friend working at Emanuel, I wasn’t sleeping much, and like many in Portland, I was on high alert for those two days, and left grieving at the aftermath. I didn’t know any of the bereaved parents, but I couldn’t stop thinking about them. I added natural disasters to war-mongering men, in my growing list of Things That Endanger Vulnerable Humans.

(I thought all the details of this event had been burnt into my new-mom brain, but I had gotten some wrong. If you want more information, here’s a start.)

Last night, forty years after the fact, I met one parent, Wayne Litzenberger.  His daughter, Alison, died on the mountain, aged 15. Oregon Episcopal School has commemorated the tragedy every May, but this year Mr. Litzenberg wanted to do something special for the whole city, and so tonight there will be a memorial at Trinity.

The Cathedral choir is singing the Fauré Requiem, along with students from OES and the choir from St. John the Baptist Church, which is on the OES campus.  We had a combined rehearsal last night, about one hundred of us singing, maybe 25 in the orchestra, and a few people in the otherwise empty cathedral, mostly parents waiting to take their kids home. Mr. Litzenberger spoke to us briefly at the beginning, thanking us for our time and effort, talking about Alison, and about how the Fauré held a lot of meaning for him, how he had sung it with his own choir after her death.

And then he sat, alone, in the tenth row, and listened. From where I was standing, he was just to the side of our director, Katie, and I could see him, mostly sitting quietly, but occasionally singing along with the men. I kept wishing he wasn’t sitting alone.

We rehearsed the movements out of order, saving the Pié Jesu soprano solo for last. All the singers except Arwen, our transcendent soloist, were told they could slip out silently, and most did. I went and sat in the pews, behind Mr. Litzenberger.  

Arwen did her magic, and Katie let everyone go, and the orchestra began packing up. 

In the years since Mt. Hood, I’ve known some bereaved parents, and they have told me that they don’t mind, and in fact appreciate it, when people acknowledge their stories. So I waited a little while, and then I touched Mr. Litzenberger on the shoulder and said it was wonderful that he had spearheaded this memorial, and that I was so sorry about his daughter. He was already red-eyed, so it was easy enough for us both to tear up together. He said, “I miss her every day.” I thought how immensely grateful I am that my kid just turned 40.

The memorial is at 7:00 tonight. I’m told that 500 people have said they are coming, so far. If you come, dress lightly. The Cathedral holds heat more than you would expect.