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My mother immediately volunteered to be my donor. There was no question in her mind. Children are always a partial match with their parents. It seemed to be the best solution. While my mother began a rigorous series of tests, I went on with my life as though nothing was wrong. After all, I didn't feel sick. Had it not been for the blood tests, I wouldn't have even known that anything was wrong. I don't remember being worried. I knew that everything would work out in the end. Either my mother would be the donor, my name would come up on the donor list, or—or I would start dialysis. That word still makes my skin shiver and crawl. For many, dialysis is the only option. It's a welcome escape from the nightmare of kidney failure. For me, however, dialysis would never be an acceptable solution.

While my mother continued to take one test after another, I went to Minnesota to work as a wilderness guide. I had just graduated from UNH with a degree in outdoor education and was off to explore the world. I was away for nearly four months, leading canoe and kayak trips for people of all ages and all abilities. Other than a single blood test at the University of Minnesota Health Center and trying to adhere to a special diet, I hardly had thought about my kidney disease. However, my journey had already started to affect me.

While watching the sunset over the waters of Kabetogama Lake one evening in late August, my friend and fellow guide Peter asked me a question that I'll never forget.

"Hey, Pirate," he said. Pirate was what everyone called me. I had chopped off my ponytail before going to work in Minnesota and had felt awkward with nothing upon my neck. Wearing a long bright red bandana had been my solution and it had also earned me a nickname among my fellow guides. "What do you love?"

It sounded like a simple question. I answered Peter without pausing to think. "You mean besides life?"

"If anyone other than you said that, Pirate, I would call 'bullshit,'" Peter said, laughing.

We sat together for a long time while I explained the philosophy that I had adopted while guiding on the trail. Everything is an opportunity; even the worst trials and obstacles. We would be paddling more than 15 miles the next day with heavily loaded boats, but we were lucky to have that opportunity. We were all lucky to have the chance to see whether or not we could do what seemed daunting or impossible.

Our small group slept out on the rocks that night, our array of sleeping bags like a giant patchwork quilt of blue, grey and red. I awoke the next morning with a crow inches from my head. He looked down at me and I looked up at him. With a raspy caw, he spread his wings and flew over me. I thought little about that moment until days later when I was flipping through a book about the spiritual symbolism of animal spirits at the Minneapolis Public Library.

crow: Seeing past, present, and future together; look with the innocence of a child; feel with the instinct of a mother; see with the eyes of an elder; working in darkness without fear; carrier of souls from darkness to light.

I wouldn't know it until I went home weeks later, but my mother had failed one of the final tests. The doctors would not allow her to donate a kidney. She had failed a glucose tolerance test and there was a chance that she could develop diabetes with only one kidney. The doctors refused to even consider my father because of his cardiac stent. Our journey had come to a sudden halt. There was talk of dialysis. My stomach felt queasy at even the thought of that option. In the midst of the confusion, Eric suddenly called from his home in California.

"Hey, Mike, I just had my blood type tested. We're a match."

"That's great," I replied. I felt like an idiot. I didn't know what to say. How do you say "Thank you" to someone who's just offered to donate you their kidney? What words can express such overwhelming emotions? "Thank you" just didn't seem like enough.

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