Class V - Part IV

We hit Pillow Rock with a roar, the aerated waves and our momentum pushing the right side of the raft down into the torrent and forcing the left side up onto the rock, standing the raft up on its side. Remembering our brief training, I tried leaning into the rock, but almost as soon as I made the effort, I felt myself falling, interminably, into the bubbling foam. All of the other rafters had already been thrown out, now trying to keep their heads above the water that so forcefully pulled us down.

The first thing I consciously did was look at my paddle. In our training session that morning, the first thing they told us was, "If you get wet, cling to your paddle. It could be the only thing that saves you." So, with reckless abandon, I threw it away. It was hard enough to keep my head above the water with it in my hands. I now found it nearly impossible without it.

The churning current repeatedly yanked me below the surface, only allowing me a gulp of an air-water mixture when my previous breath was almost totally exhausted. Time after time I gulped in a short breath, only to hit another wave face first, pulled down by the river's unimaginable power. My lungs screamed for oxygen, but I was only able to give them a short burst at a time.

After fighting for my life for what seemed like an hour, but was only seconds, my head popped one more time above the white, turbulent froth. Trying to see through bloodshot eyes I saw what looked like a gray 1967 Beetle directly in my path. Volkswagen Rock.

Up to this point in my life, I'd only been really scared a few times, and those were mostly in dreams. When I was 6 or 7 I dreamed I was being chased by wolves. It was so real that I asked Marc, who occupied the lower bunk in our room, to go into the bathroom to make sure there were none there. On another occasion I was being put into a toaster by a two-headed giant. Nothing like a little toasted boy and jam for breakfast.

This time the fear shook me like never before. I could imagine myself going under the rock and being pinned there for weeks. I was sure I couldn't hold my breath for that long.

Seeing the rock come closer and closer at breakneck speed, I did the only thing I really could do. I put my feet downstream and tried to swim around it. Despite my efforts, though, I hit the rock hard with my left shoulder and pushed as hard as I could. The current pushed me to the left of the rock and spit me into a large pool on the back side.

Still not understand that I was out of danger, I tried to stay afloat long enough to find the raft, when a large pair of hands grabbed the back of my life vest and pulled me into a raft. So quick and powerful was this pull that it nearly yanked the life vest up over my head. Turning around and looking at the person who'd saved me from the monster rapid, I saw my own dad. He was smiling from ear to ear.

"Are you all right?" he asked, patting me on the back.

"I think so," I sputtered, spitting what seemed like buckets of water out of my mouth.

Looking around the raft I saw Akers, a couple of the other guys we didn't know and Tom. No Marc.

Turning around with a snap I quickly scanned the pool. Marc was not there, either.

"Where's Marc?" I said anxiously.

"We're not sure yet," dad said. "We're still looking for him."

Feeling that same fear well up in my chest that I had just felt slamming into Volkswagen Rock, I looked feverishly up the rapid. Where was he? Why wasn't he in the raft? Why wasn't he somewhere in the water?

Panicking and fearing the worst, I shouted again, "Where is he?" In my head I prayed frantically. "Please, God. Where's Marc? Please help him!"

Time slowed to a crawl and seconds stretched into hours. Breathing, already made difficult by the amount of water in my lungs, became almost unbearable. My heart beat faster than if I'd just run several miles. My hands shook. My knees quivered. My heart ached.

Then, dad put his hand on my shoulder and pointed up the river on the far bank. "There he is," he said.

I quickly scanned the shore and saw my brother walking down toward us, waving his paddle high over his head, the biggest smile on his face.

A collective sigh of relief emanated from the raft and we paddled toward the bank, behind Volkswagen Rock, to pick him up. "The river just pushed me right toward the shore and I got out," he said after climbing in. "I watched the whole thing!"

I learned in the next pool down that it wasn't Marc I should have been worried about, but rather my dad. After exiting the raft like the rest of us, he was pulled directly under the raft and below Pillow Rock. The violent water pushed him through a small hole on the under side, banging his helmet-covered head on the bottom of the rock, and spewing him out the other side.

"I guess I took a shortcut," he joked while we floated peacefully toward Lost Paddle rapids, the next rapid in line. "I was in the pool before the raft was!" I could see that gold-colored tooth he had on the right side of his mouth as he laughed and joked, but I could tell he was thankful to be alive.

Dad died of cancer about ten or fifteen years later. I miss him terribly and think about him every day. But the memories we founded on this day, and others, will last me until I see him again.

Since stepping out of the raft at the New River Gorge Bridge that afternoon, I've never been back on the Gauley. In fact, I've never been whitewater rafting, either. I must say, though, that it's not because of Pillow Rock. I have a family now and I just have other responsibilities. Some might say that I don't have a death wish anymore. Bungee jumping, whitewater rafting and spelunking no longer excite me the way they used to. One day maybe I'll introduce my own kids to their thrills, but not yet. They're still too young to conquer monsters much bigger than inconsiderate baseball coaches and having a fight with their best friend.

My monsters are a little smaller these days, too. The fire-breathers now only emit a small puff of smoke and crawl instead of fly. But I'll always be able to say that for one day, on that Indian-summer day, I felt the worst a truly big monster could dish out, and I came out on top.

Stuck - Part I

I didn't want to let him down. That was my sole reason for going in in the first place. Trouble was, it was nearly a mistake I couldn't live with.

We were staying in the Adirondack cabins up on the hill during that sweltering week of July Scout camp. Only High Adventure Scouts got to stay up there. The younger Scouts had to sleep in the regular tents with large wooden pallets beneath them. I'd stayed in those a million times, it seemed, beginning when I was a Boy Scout myself and ending the year before as a leader. I always found way too many spiders, Daddy Longlegs mostly, in my sleeping bag.

The Adirondacks were different, though. They were square, wooden cabins with three walls, the open side actually a large porch that overlooked the valley. Bunk beds were built along the inside, up to six people sleeping in each cabin. The smell of cut pine greeted you each day when you awoke, and it was the last thing you smelled at the end of the day. They reminded me of small ski chalets, only it was a lot hotter.

We'd arrived at Camp Powhatan on Saturday evening, a full day ahead of the rest of the campers. Church on Sunday morning and a quick lunch at mom's house broke up the weekend. When we arrived back at camp that Sabbath evening, it was crawling with Scouts, young and old.

Having unpacked the day before, I went into my Adirondack and got my towel, a razor, some soap and some new clothes. It was hot, and I wanted to take a cool shower and get a fresh start to the week.

After drying off and getting dressed, I went out to the water trough that served as a wash basin, my trusty razor in hand. Every year I'd gone to Scout camp as an adult I'd shaved my balding head to the scalp, prompting many of the boys to call me Stone Cold. The boys had almost begun to expect it, and I was not one to disappoint.

That night I felt very comfortable lying in my bed, the cool pillow feeling refreshingly cool against my bare head. "Lights Out" had been called several minutes before and I was ready for some serious rest in anticipation of the high adventure week. The only problem was that James Jackson snores.

James is one of the nicest guys you'd ever want to meet. He's a faithful member, loving father and devoted scout leader. But he could snore the stripes off a zebra.

Several years before he'd been sleeping in a tent that was several tents down from mine. He'd kept me awake nearly the entire first night. The next day I moved my stuff several more tents away and across the compound. I could still hear him through the foam ear plugs I'd bought at the camp store, but it wasn't enough to keep me from sleeping.

This night, though, he was sleeping in the bunk directly above me. Having prepared for such inevitability, I'd bought some extra strength ear plugs before I traveled to camp. Those, along with the Tylenol PM I took, kept me sleeping hard the whole night. They had to shake me the next morning before they left for breakfast. I hadn't heard a thing.

To get to the mess hall from where we were staying, you had to descend from your mighty perch on the hill and then meander across the parade grounds, a long piece of grass where everyone assembled each morning to greet the day. When I was a kid during the 70s, one night I'd taken all of my clothes off and streaked across this grass. Today I was dressed in a camp T-shirt and scruffy jeans.

Most days the other 200+ scouts in camp were already there when we arrived, dressed and ready for the Pledge, the Scout Law and an opening prayer. Today was no different.

"Decided to join us, huh?" joked Larry, who was at the back of our chow line. Larry was the Scoutmaster of our troop, but at 26 he looked more like 14. A Major in the Air Force, he was literally a Rocket Scientist, but he was also repeatedly mistaken for one of the Scouts.

I smiled and stretched my arms high above my head. "Yea, I guess I slept pretty well."

Our High Adventure scouts were ready to eat. There's was the privilege of going into the mess hall first since they had to get out into the rivers, lakes or caves before too much daylight was burned. Today, the first day of camp, we were going caving, so the younger scouts gave us some sideways looks as we sauntered in in our holey jeans and t-shirts. They were all required to wear their Class B uniforms to breakfast, so we felt special.

After cramming down some pancakes, a little cold cereal, and some fruit and milk, we were on the bus and ready to go. I was particularly excited about today's activity as Spelunking had always been a favorite activity of mine when I was growing up in Southwestern Virginia. The hills there are laced with relatively soft limestone, and with names like Pig Hole, Stompbottom, Locomotive Breath, and Smokehole, caves are everywhere. Today we were on our way to one named Horsehead.

Horsehead Cave lies in the middle of Pulaski County, about a 25-minute bus ride from the camp. We were all excited to get there, if not for the adventure of Spelunking, then for the fact that it was only 45 degrees inside. It was the only time all week we got a reprieve from the stifling heat.

Coming soon - Part II - The conclusion

Class V - Part III

The first four rapids on the Upper Gauley are called Initiation, Balance Beam, Insignificant, and Meadow View. None of them is bigger than a Class IV rapid, and none of them gave us any trouble whatsoever. In fact, Meadow View, a Class II, gave us so little that we drifted the whole rapid while talking about the fifth, which is called Pillow Rock.

About a sixth of the way down that part of the river, Pillow Rock is the first Class V of the trip. The rapid is named after a house-sized, pillow-shaped rock on the left-hand side, around which the river bends. At the beginning of the rapid, and toward the center, is a large inertia hole formed by several consecutive rocks under the water. If you hit it, it takes away all of your momentum and can throw you into another eddy on the left side of the Pillow Rock. They call that eddy The Room of Doom.

Just past Pillow Rock, and towards the center of the water, lies another large obstacle called Volkswagen Rock. You have to go to one side or the other, but going to the right could force you into the bank. And to make matters worse, Volkswagen Rock is undercut.

Undercut rocks are the rafters nightmare. Having been slammed by years of cascading water, rocks tend to wear away, leaving holes through which the water continues to pound. Sometimes the holes are big enough to pass a person. More often, though, the holes are too small, pinning the rafter below the water until the dam can be closed. By that time, it's way too late.

"There are a couple of things you absolutely have to remember here," Tom implored. "First, if you go in the water, whatever you do, don't go near Volkswagen Rock! If you can't help it, put your feet against it and push to one side, hard. We don't want you going under. It might be a couple of weeks before we see you again."

Laughing nervously, one of the guys from the back of the raft asked, "What else do we have to remember?"

Tom became more serious. "Remember what I told you about getting high-sided? If we high side at Pillow Rock, everyone lean into the rock. It's very important because Pillow Rock could flip us over."

We heard Pillow Rock rapid long before we saw it. Over the course of the rapid's route, which is just north of 100 yards, it drops 30 vertical feet, creating deafeningly-loud, bus-sized waves. To add to the suspense, just after Meadow View rapid the river takes a sharp left turn to the southeast, making it a thunderous, though invisible, specter.

"There are two routes we can take down this rapid," Tom said. "We can go down the right side near the bank and around Volkswagen Rock. That way we stay away from Pillow Rock and we all stay dry. That's the safe route."

I looked askance at Akers. Safe routes were for losers.

"What's the other?" he asked, wiping some spray from his grin.

Tom smiled widely. "The other way is to go down the left side," he said. "The rapid will take us right up to Pillow Rock and then whip us around to the right. As soon as we get around we have to start paddling Left Full to keep us away from Volkswagen Rock. That route is called The Heroes Route."

We all stewed in that information for just a few seconds before Tom asked, knowingly, "Who wants to go down The Heroes Route?"

It was unanimous. Every one of us raised our paddle to indicate our vote. We all felt like heroes and we wanted to prove it.

"Good," Tom said through a toothy grin. "I was hoping you'd say that."

Making the left-hand turn, the rapid loomed just in front of us like a powerful, roiling dinosaur. "All full!" Tom shouted, and we dug our paddles into the water as if we were digging post holes for a fence. Forcing our way down the left bank, and missing the inertia hole, Pillow Rock emerged directly in front of us.

"Right full!" Tom cried. Being on the left, I relaxed for just a moment before he commanded, "All full!"

- Coming soon, Part IV

Class V - Part II

The morning of the trip dawned magnificently. The forecast was for mostly sunny skies and high, wispy clouds with a high in the mid-70s. It was to be a perfect day for rafting.

Arriving at the outfitter's offices a little before 6am, we parked and boarded the modified school bus that would take us to water's edge. Having another hour drive before we were there, I tried to grab one last quick wink of sleep before arriving at the drop-off point. It was nearly impossible after hearing the booming roar of the water.

At the base of Summersville Dam are three large corrugated pipes, each large enough to swallow a semi. From all three gushed enough water to flood a medium-sized town, sending crashing waves down the valley, almost as if the dam itself had broken.

"You've got to be kidding," I said with saucer-sized eyes, my mouth suddenly dry with anxiety. "We're getting into that?" I stuck my head closer to the open bus window and peered at the "headwaters" of the raging torrent. Spray from the violent deluge landed softly on my cheek like gossamer on the wind.

"Ain't it cool?" said Akers with a smile as large as the waves we looked at.

"Yea, cool," I replied. But I didn't mean it. I was nervous and the quiver in my voice probably belied the fact that I was less than enthused about his choice of rivers.

We donned our orange life preservers and helped pick up our raft. It was a 20-foot long, black rubber raft with three tubes that ran cross-wise through the middle, dividing the raft into four sections. It seemed to weigh about 200 pounds, but with 10 of us it seemed relatively light.

We put the raft into the water and Tom, our guide for the day, lashed two large, red plastic coolers into it. These contained our lunch and some wet bags filled with camera equipment for recording our trip.

Once in the water, Tom guided the raft to an eddy, a small pool which had a current running opposite to the violent current going downstream. There he versed us in his commands for the day.

"If I say right full, that means only the right side paddles, left side rests" he shouted above the din. "If I say left back, that means only the left side paddles back, right side rests. If I say all full, all of you put your paddles in the water and go like there's no tomorrow."

I looked over at Akers, who was sitting next to me in the front row. He was wearing a pair of Hawaiian-style swim trunks and under his life vest a Myrtle Beach t-shirt I'd bought him the year before. "Old news," he mouthed. I nodded my agreement and continued to listen.

"We will hit some rapids today that could flip us over," Tom continued. "If we get too high on one side, EVERYONE needs to lean into the high side. Does everyone understand that?"

I turned halfway around and looked at Marc and dad, who were in the seats right behind Akers and me. They both nodded, assuring me that they did. Marc was not a newcomer to the rafting experience, either, but dad was. He'd been canoeing and such before, but he'd never been on a rubber raft in the middle of a world-class river. I wasn't worried in the least. He was an athlete.

"Let's do some practice then," shouted Tom. "All full!" Scrambling to get going, we all dug our paddles into the water and paddled hard. Breaking free of the eddy that gripped us only took about three seconds and Tom shouted, "All rest!"

We floated backwards down the current for a little while, watching the dam and its violent emission disappear slowly into the distance. Tom turned the raft using his over-sized paddle as a rudder and we headed down the river toward the first Class V rapid most of us had ever seen.

Class V - Part I

In the heart of West Virginia there lies a monster.

It's not a winged fire-breather nor a red, pitchfork-wielding demon with a bifurcated tail. This monster doesn't even rear its devastating head every day. In fact, it's only reanimated for a few weeks each year, in October, its thunderous voice echoing for miles down the switchback canyons.

This monster is worse than those. This monster is a river, the Gauley River, and our paths crossed on an Indian-summer day in late 1989.

For most of the year, the Gauley is more like a stream, meandering lazily through the West Virginia hollers. It's power is only unleashed when the Summersville Dam is opened during a few short weeks each Autumn. Then, the dam spews nearly 2800 cubic feet of water per second, flooding the rocky banks with frothy, white foam and killer, world-class rapids.

When the river finally turned its gaze to me, I'd known Akers for ten years or more. His real name was Tony, but I never called him that. It just didn't seem to fit, for some reason. He was always Akers, and most of the time he called me Sling.

"Going white-water rafting next month," he told me one day, sipping enthusiastically on his apple-flavored Slurpee. "Wanna go?"

I fought back the brain freeze that was starting to envelope my cranium and gave him a quick glance. He was just starting to back his vintage Volkswagen beetle up out of the 7-11 parking space. White-water rafting was something that interested me, and Akers knew it. Together, we'd gone down the New River on several occasions, each time feeling the adrenaline rush that comes from supposed near-death experiences.

"New?" I asked assumingly, having never even heard the word "Gauley".

He took a quick slurp and swallowed hard. "Nope," he said. "Gauley."

The Upper Gauley is only ten miles long, but it boasts of 5 class V rapids. Anything more difficult than a Class V is deemed unnavigable. By contrast, the Colorado River has three Class V rapids in its nearly 300-mile stretch.

That night I called the rafting outfit's number. Several slots were still open, they said, and it would only cost $50 apiece. That price would cover the raft, the guide, lunch and transportation to and from the river. Sounded like a bargain to me.

Over hot dogs and potato salad, I brought the subject up at dinner that night and found two more takers, my brother, Marc, and my dad. We called back the next day and gave them credit card numbers and names, reserving our place on the large, rubber rafts. It was only the day after Labor Day, but we were all now set for our dance with destiny's devil.

Grooooooannnnnnn

Let me be very honest here. I hurt today.

My muscles ache. My legs are heavy. I feel like death warmed over.

I ride. I ride hard. I ride a long way, sometimes up to 100 miles. My legs get tired. My body aches. But I love it.

I try to ride 6 days a week, taking Sundays off. I ride because I love it. I'm currently in training to ride my next century on September 11th. Antietam to Gettysburg and back. Seventy-four hundred feet of climb in 100 miles. Yes, it's going to be tough, but I can do it.

While not in training I probably put in about 100 miles plus per week. Nothing compared to the greats, who do that and more in one day. But for me, it's a lot of exercise.

But even riding so much doesn't give me these kind of aches and pains. You see, the reason I hurt so badly today is that yesterday was Thursday.

Thursday night is ball night. On most Thursday nights I go over to the church at about 9pm and I play basketball with the fellas. Full court, four on four, running up and down for 2 to 2 1/2 hours. It's so much fun. I love it.

Twenty years ago, I could play ball every night and not feel a thing. In fact, there were times when I did. Only several years before I got married I was playing on Friday nights and then again on Saturday mornings. No repercussions whatsoever.

Now that I'm 51-years old, it's not quite that easy.

The mind, which is still very strong and active, tells me it's ready. "Come on, man. Let's go! I want to run and jump and play and shoot!!"

My body, which is inextricably joined to my mind is not always quite as enthusiastic. It can't always deliver on what the mind says it wants. It does its best, but on Friday mornings it has a tough time rolling out of bed. The mind wants to get up and ride. The body wants to hit the snooze and roll over just one more time.

Don't worry, though. I'll be fine tomorrow. Just give my body a day to recover.

After all, it's not quite as young as it used to be.

My First Girlfriend - Part III

She was wearing a white cotton blouse patterned with small red flowers, a pair of white Keds and blue jeans. The blouse buttoned up, but also had a pair of cotton strings so you could tie it at the top. She left them undone.

Her eyes were green, dark, like emeralds twinkling in the reflections that bounced playfully off of the pool. She wore makeup, but not a lot. She didn't need it. She was pretty without it.

Her dark brown, shoulder-length hair perfectly framed her gorgeous face, a few strands pulled back in a small pony tail that laid flat against the back of her head. A dimple on both sides of her mouth completed the perfect symmetry.

I found her sitting in the bleachers when I rounded the corner and started up the aluminum stairs. I felt a bullfrog jump into my throat and sit there the second I saw her. I was nervous, more nervous than I'd ever been, and looking back at Donnie I knew I looked it. He waved me on with both hands, so I turned back to my destiny.

Putting my shaking hands in my pockets, I continued to walk toward her. She turned and looked at me, smiling, and I felt the muscles in my knees begin to weaken. Mustering my strength and every ounce of courage I had, I stretched out my hand to shake hers. She was an angel.

"Hi," I said, my voice quivering ever so slightly. "What's my name?"

Excuse me?

The first time in your life you talk to a female like this and that's what you come up with?

Realizing what I'd just done and flustered beyond repair, I felt my tongue expand until it filled my mouth. My teeth began to chatter and sweat started flowing over my brow. Suddenly it was 100 degrees in that building and my brain screamed "Stupid!" over and over. My legs began to shake almost uncontrollably as she grabbed my hand and laughed playfully.

"Hi. MY name," she said, "is Kathy."

Gently cupping my hand in both of hers, she said, looking me straight in the eyes, "It's nice to meet you."

I let out an immense sigh and giggled nervously, like a school girl who'd just been introduced to the captain of the football team. Her smile captivated me, as if I'd just looked into the eyes of a muse, or at the very face of Aphrodite herself. But somehow, it put me at ease and I said, "Hi, my name is Stefan."

We sat and talked for a couple of hours, until it was time to go to dinner. We spent the rest of the day together, including the dance that night, holding hands like we'd known each other for years.

After the dance, and after I walked her back to her dorm, I lay awake in my cot, trying to recreate in my mind the way she looked, smelled and sounded. For another two years I couldn't get her out of my mind. She was my first love, and so will always be special. There were quite a few who came after her, but she wasn't the one I eventually fell in love with and married.

But she was the first. My first love. My first kiss. My first breakup. All before I was 18.

Of course, now being 51, I stopped thinking about her many, many years ago. I'm happily married to the woman of my dreams with children of our own, a couple of cars and a mortgage that would choke a horse. But every now and then, even 35 years later, the thought of my first time talking to a real, live girl creates a smile on my face that no one else can really understand.

My First Girlfriend - Part II

It was shortly past 12:30 when Donnie and I finally got out of class. I usually loved going to the classes at Youth Conference, but on this particular day they seemed to drag on forever. "How to do the Cha-Cha" didn't generate quite the same heart-stopping enthusiasm it usually did. I was preoccupied.

"What do you think I should wear?" I asked, not really hoping for a good answer, since I only had the clothes I'd crammed into my suitcase the morning before. The conference was only three days long, so I'd packed relatively light. A suit for dances and church, a couple of ties for variety, two or three t-shirts, a polo and a pair of jeans or two. That's it. Nothing extraordinary that would make a good second impression.

"I don't think you have time for that, man," Donnie declared, looking down at his Timex. "You have less than a half hour."

The pool was in a large, light brick building that also contained the requisite locker rooms, a couple of racquetball courts, a weight room and some offices. It was on the northwest corner of the campus in the Brock Sports and Recreation Center. I was a good 15-minute walk away near the Thomas Branch building on College Avenue. I'd never be able to put on my polo and make it up there in time. The homemade BYU t-shirt would have to do.

We turned and went north on Henry Street, past the Fountain Plaza on our left and the library on our right. The pool was only a few minutes away. Just up to Patrick Street and past the gym and we'd be there.

Involuntarily walking a little less briskly, I noticed my hands beginning to shake. Sweat beaded on my upper lip, which still had four or five years before it would be fertile enough ground for whiskers. I'd never felt this way before. It was almost intoxicating.

A slight zephyr blew past my face. Bending over, I picked up a marble-sized rock from the side of the road and tossed it nervously across the street. I looked over at Donnie. He had neat, closely cropped hair that hung down over his ears, dark brown eyes, and a slight paunch that belied his 16-year old frame. He really wasn't very athletic and at that moment I couldn't help thinking that he needed a shave.

"That's it over there," he said.

I looked up uneasily as a single bead of sweat made its meandering way down the side of my face. It itched, so I wiped it off.

"You think she's there already?" I asked, hesitating for just a split second before taking my next step.

Donnie shrugged his shoulders and then nodded almost knowingly. "I reckon," he replied. "You nervous?"

I'd never admit it to him, because I knew that, despite being two months older than me, for some odd reason, he looked up to me. "Nah," I said, doing my best to hide the fact that I shook like a leaf on a quaking aspen.

We walked closer to the building and I detected a hint of chlorine wafting through the summer breeze. "You sure you want to do this?" he asked.

Timorously I grabbed the handle to the front door and started to pull. "Yea, I'm sure," I replied, as I walked inside.

My First Girlfriend - Part 1

"Dude!"

No answer.

"Dude!"

Still no answer.

"Dude! It's 7:30. Wake up already, will ya?"

Donnie punctuated that plea with a well-worn pillow thrown across the room. It hit me directly in the head.

I rubbed my sand-filled eyes, opened them in a paper-thin squint and looked over at him. "Seven-thirty already?" I asked. "Why didn't you wake me up before?"

Donnie was my best friend and had been since the 7th grade. My family had moved from New Jersey to Virginia one month into that school year, 1971. Riding down the interstate with my family I knew it would be all about making new friends, and quickly. I met Donnie at church the first week we were there, so with him, making friends wasn't hard.

"I've been trying to wake your sorry butt up now for a half hour." He was already showered and dressed, blue jean bell-bottoms the order of the day.

"When's breakfast over?" I asked.

"Thirty minutes. You'd better get shaking."

Pushing the sheets down I crawled out of the cot. My feet hitting the cold tile dormitory floor sent a menacing shiver through my bones, a feeling I wouldn't shake for several minutes.

"Stayed up too late last night," I mumbled. "I couldn't find her."

"She may be at breakfast, if you hurry."

"She" was a girl I'd noticed at the dance the night before. She was absolutely radiant. Long, dark hair that curled around her seraphic dimples. Big, dark eyes that pierced me to the core. I'd asked her to dance with me, but it was a fast song and the music was loud, so I didn't get a chance to ask her name. When the song was over I smiled at her lamely and backed away, almost like I thought she'd explode.

I pulled on my faded pair of bell-bottoms and a white t-shirt that read "BYU Class of 1897" across the chest. I'd printed the t-shirt myself in Industrial Arts class with a screen printer I'd discovered in a closet stuffed with wood shavings and IA tools. I was anxious to show it off to the rest of the kids at the conference.

"Come on," I said, busting through the door. "Let's go!"

Randolph Macon College isn't very big. About 90 miles south of Washington, DC and 20 miles north of Richmond, it sits on 116 acres of fine Virginia land. The Methodists started it back in the early 1800's, but this week the Mormons had taken over.

Getting into the line behind some 14-year olds who had sneaked in for seconds, I grabbed a tray and started gathering my breakfast. A glass of orange juice, a piece of toast with honey and one of those small boxes of Wheaties and some milk. Breakfast of Champions.

I sat near a couple of my friends at a table near the door so I'd be close in case she walked in. Tony, Reed and Bobby were already cleaning up after inhaling their donuts.

I sat there by myself for a few minutes after they got up, when Donnie came over with his tray and a large smile scrunching up his face.

"What?" I asked.

He laughed slightly. "You are going to love me for the rest of your life," he said, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat.

"What?" I repeated.

"You remember that girl I danced with last night? The one I thought was really cute? Her name was Juna. Remember?"

I stared into space and thought a few seconds. This was not important to me at the moment. "Yea, I guess. So what?"

He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. "She's friends with her."

I didn't get it. "Friends with who?"

"I just talked to Juna and Kathy wants to meet you."

"Kathy who?"

Donnie put his tray down on the table and shook his head. "Have you not been paying attention? The girl you fell in love with last night. Her name is Kathy. And she wants to meet you." He emphasized the last sentence so it would finally seep in through my ten-penny skull.

"She wants to meet me?"

"Um, isn't that what I just said? Duh!" Donnie looked down at his fruit cup and shook his head. "Are you still asleep?"

"She wants to meet me. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Juna said she liked you. You should have done what I said and asked her to dance with you again."

"She wants to meet me?"

"One o'clock this afternoon at the pool. Juna said she'd be there waiting for you."

"Wow, dude, how can I, what, wow."

"Easy there, dude. It's going to be fine. Just take a breath."

Red Rocks Rush

One week from today, Rush is playing at Red Rocks near Denver. Would that I could go. Rush has been my favorite band for more than 20 years and I've seen them at least five times now. Dancing rabbits on the sides of the stage in the Presto tour. A man in a chicken suit basting roasted chickens in the Chicken House in the Snakes and Arrows tour. Love the showmanship. Love the music. Love the Power Trio. Heck, once I saw them two nights in a row!

The Rush seeds were planted in me way back in early 1980. I was serving my mission in Argentina and was serving in a town called Quilmes. I distinctly remember being in a chapel in that town on a Preparation Day and my companion telling me that I should listen to Rush when I got home. I was leaving in a few short months and was already thinking about what I was going to do when I got back to the US. Rush was not one of them. "No way," I said. "I don't like the lead singer's voice." Little did I know when I was 21.

A few years after I got home in June 1980, I received a little more "persuasion" from my brother, who made me a tape of some Rush songs he thought I might like. He was already way into them and wanted me to enjoy their music, too. "No way," I said. "I don't like the lead singer's voice." Ok, at 24 I didn't know anything, either.

But out of respect for my brother, I listened to that tape, which included such classics as "Tom Sawyer", "Red Barchetta", "Limelight", and "YYZ". I was instantly hooked. I listened to that tape until I knew every song by heart. I still have it, too, though I don't listen to it anymore (do I even have a tape player anymore?). It's stored in a safe place in a low-humidity vault. It represents the inception of my fascination with things Rush...and the lead singer's voice.

Over the years I've collected every Rush cd known to man. I've read some of Neil Peart's books, I've seen the new Rush movie and I've scoured the Internet for Rush rarities. I've become a big Rush fan.

Alas, I will not be in attendance at Red Rocks next week. One of my best friends, Doug (who took the accompanying picture at last week's Rush concert in Salt Lake) WILL be there. Lucky stiff.

He (Doug) and I go way back, too. Before my Rush days. Before my Quilmes days. Way back to the LTM days singing Elton John songs in the mornings before breakfast. Thirty-two years since I first saw his mug. I can even tell you the exact day it was when we met. My brother from a different mother.

We've now gotten our own plan (and I've got Kelly's permission) for seeing Rush's next tour together. We're going to save up money, starting now, and pick somewhere cool on their next tour (like the Gorge Ampitheater, Madison Square Garden, Wembley Stadium or the Sydney Opera House) and we're going to go. Bucket list. We're not getting any younger.

Sydney's a long way away, though. I'd better get to saving.

UFO Sighting!

A new report out today contends that Winston Churchill covered up a UFO sighting back during the war. According to the UK's National Archives, he ordered a cover-up of an encounter between an RAF bomber and a UFO. The report says he "feared that news of the incident would create public panic and a loss of faith in religion."

It goes on to say that even Dwight D. Eisenhower, then the commander of the Allied Forces and future president of our United States, knew of the encounter and was ordered by Churchill to keep mum about it. This information was to be kept secret for 50 years.

One of Churchill's bodyguards overheard the order. Years later, he told his family, who told their family, who inquired about it to those in authority. Those files were made public yesterday.

It says that the UFO hovered "noiselessly" near the bomber before "zooming" away. Those on the bomber were able to take some photos of the UFO, but they were not released.

Let me say from the outset that I've always been fascinated by UFO's and their sightings, I DO believe in people from other planets, and I do think that UFO's are a perfectly acceptable possibility. If you think I'm nuts already, you're free to stop reading right now.

I just can not conceive of a reason why people can't accept this. Are we really the only ones in the whole universe? Have you looked at our universe lately? It's awfully big. To believe that we're the only ones in that whole starry sky just baffles me.

Why is it so hard to believe that Area 52 may have been real? I'm not saying it was, but why is it so hard to accept? Are we really so self-important that we can't believe that God may have created others on other planets?

I try to be a religious guy. I admit that. I embrace that. I think God is the Father of all those on the earth, and all those elsewhere. I believe He's so great and so omnipotent that He created worlds without end. Those worlds, a lot of them anyway, have other beings on them. What they look like, I don't know. But the scriptures I believe in say that we were created in God's image. We look like Him, just like a son looks like his father. Couldn't there be others who were created in His image, too?

Take away the religious part for just a second. Say you go to the beach and enjoy yourself on vacation. It's the only beach you ever go to, but you enjoy it so much that you always go back. Does that mean that there aren't other beaches? Maybe you'd enjoy them even more if you went to one of them instead.

Same thing, if you ask me. We're here, but it surely doesn't mean we're the only ones. There has to be somewhere else. There have to be other worlds with people on them. If one day I find out definitively that there are other places and other people, I certainly won't lose my faith in religion. In fact, that faith will have been strengthened by that knowledge.

Viva la Argentina!

Esta mañana recibí unas noticias de una chica (ahora una mujer) a quien conocí en la Argentina ya hace 30 años. Se llama Odilia, y no les puedo decir como me hace sentir saber que todavía se le recuerda quien soy. Serví en su ciudad, Zapala, por seis meses en 1978-79, y todavía me recuerda. Tal vez hice algunas cosas buenas allí. Su familia era como la mía Argentina. Bautizé a su hermana, Irma. Comimos nuestra comida en su casa cada día. Aquí es una foto de Irma y su esposo en frente del templo en Buenos Aires.

Pero debe haber hecho cientos de misioneros que servieron en Zapala, ¿y se me acuerda de mi? El gozo que siento es maravilloso.

Pero les tengo que decir algo. Aunque ese gozo es gigante, el gozo que siento al saber que todavía son fieles al evangelio es aun mas grande. Y mas poderoso. Y me da mucha paz, tambien. El viento sopla un poco mas tierno. Las estrellas brillan un poco mas brillante. Los sueños son un poco mas dulces.

Ya hace algunos años, salía con una chica que se llamaba Kimberly. No era miembro de la Iglesia cuando nos conocimos, pero lor misioneros le enseñaron y se bautizó algunas semanas despues. Mi padre le bautizó. Siempre dije que aun si nunca hice otra cosa buena, siempre sabría que había hecho algo bueno consigo.

Ahora tengo que decir que sé que hice bueno algo mas. Serví una misión en la Argentina y conocí a la familia Alarcon. Siempre amaré a ellos.

Odilia, o Irma, o quien sea, si leas esto en algun dia, te doy gracias a vos y a tu familia por permitirme estar en su casa. Espero volver a verles en esta vida un dia, pero si no, espero que sepas que les amo y que les veré en el otro lado.

Algunas personas son buenas. Estas personas son los mejores. Y yo les amo.

Uncle Frank

There are some things in this life that just make me stop and reflect. Take for instance the fact that, while I grew up, my family lived in the East while the rest of our relatives were in the West. I never got to know them as much as I would have liked. I think I missed out on a lot of terrific relationships.

I loved growing up out here, though. We were some of the only members of the Church in our school and I think it helped mold a stronger testimony. I instantly fell in love with the mountains, too, and now crave their presence when I'm away. Even on my mission I pleaded with my mission president to send me to a place with mountains. The pampas just made me feel so lonely.

Autumn is my favorite time of year, but only in the East. The mountains in Virginia are just so pretty at that time of year. You just don't have the same seasons on Left Coast as you do here.

We moved away from Salt Lake when I was five or so, and except for a few years in college, I never moved back. Those years at BYU were some of the best of my life, but being so far away from home like that taught me a few things and made me appreciate others. Like family, for instance.

My Uncle Frank died a few days ago. The first thing I think I remember about missionaries was Frank coming home from his mission and staying with us for a few days in New Jersey. I guess he'd flown into one of the New York airports and had some time to visit. I must have been all of 8 or 9 and I was awed by the sight of a real missionary who was related to me. He was the first I'd ever seen. A few years after Frank's visit, another uncle, my Uncle Ron, did the same thing.

Later, when I was a teenager, we'd drive out to Utah and stay at grandma and grandpa's house on 7th East and 9th South. Frank was always there, scrunching up his nose and cheek that way he did to scootch his glasses up further on his face. He was a cool uncle, the kind you always hope you'll be when you grow up. All of my uncles are like that. I've always thought the world of them.

Frank was there when I left for my mission, too. As I remember, he came to the airport to see me off. He wrote me a few letters, which have long since been lost, but which offered encouragement and hope. And I knew he meant it, too, because I remembered that he'd been in those same Red Wing Postman shoes.

Being one of the first, if not THE first, in the family to get a graduate degree made Frank an example to the rest of us who followed behind. When I started going to Radford for my Master's degree, I often thought of him and what an inspiration he was. I clearly remember looking at a picture in mom and dad's photo albums of him in his cap and gown. I wanted to be like that, too, and so I was.

A couple of divorces, death in the family and a couple of health problems whitened Frank's hair up long before his time. But when I saw him last, despite all of his troubles, he still pulled out one of those genuine smiles for me. And I loved him for it.

I just wish I'd gotten to know him better.


(Photos thanks to Frank's son, Martin's, Facebook page)