She was the stuff of dreams, and I would know, because I'm the one who dreamed them. When she smiled, I lost my breath. When her emerald eyes looked my way, my quaking knees collapsed. When she laughed her gossamer giggle, angels bent to listen. We met when we were 12-years old, and I'd spend every day of the next six years trying to convince her that she liked me, too.
Lisa overcame me on the first day of seventh grade at Belview Elementary School. My family and I had just moved to Virginia from New Jersey, after having lived a little less than 40 miles outside the Apple for five years.
Arriving in the small Southwestern Virginia town during the 1971 World Series, we lived in the Holiday Inn for our first few weeks there, all the while looking for a more permanent home. Mom and dad finally found a suitable one, and we moved into the salmon-colored split level house that had been built in the mid-60's. It was a comfortable home with a quarter acre lawn, a couple of red maple trees scattered about the property, and a dog barking in the backyard. The best thing about it, though, was that it was in her neighborhood.
The first Saturday we spent in our new house dawned clear and crisp. The leaves on our maples had just about finished turning from their chlorophyll-laced green of summer to their chromatic scarlet hue of Autumn. You could see your breath that morning, but by noon it had warmed to a very comfortable 65 degrees.
"What do you want to do after this?"
I hadn't even heard Donnie's question, so I continued to sit cross-legged on the chilly, hardwood floor of my bedroom, rifling through my baseball cards. I wanted to find a good one to put in the spokes of the back tire of my bike.
"Hello?" Donnie knocked on my head with his fist. "You in there?"
"Oh, sorry. I didn't hear you, I guess," I said through a slight North Jersey accent that I'd unconsciously lose in just a few months. "What did you ask me?"
Donnie pursed his lips with agitation and repeated himself. "What do you want to do after this?" He was the best friend I had since we'd moved in and he was over most every day. He only lived a few doors down.
"I don't know," I said. It's a nice day out. What do you wanna do?"
He took a deep breath and exhaled impatiently. "How 'bout riding bikes?"
This was my favorite thing to do and Donnie knew it. I had an old, yellow and silver Huffy one-speed with a black banana seat and sissy bar in the back. It was so 70's that it should have been wearing bellbottoms.
"Yea, that'd be good," I replied. "Wanna go down around the big block?"
Donnie looked at me knowingly. Our neighborhood was in the shape of a figure-eight. The small block, which I lived on, was about a half mile around and the top of the eight. We lived up on top of the hill, our loop going progressively downhill until it reached the intersection with the big block. That loop was a full mile from start to finish. It also went downhill on both sides until you got to the bottom near Doug Cranford's house. Lisa lived on the left side of the lower half of the eight.
"I wonder where YOU want to go," Donnie said with a slight twinkle in his eye. He'd been the only one I'd confided in about my feelings for Lisa.
"Will you stop?" I demanded. "It's not like that. I just like to ride bikes."
Donnie laughed and grabbed a Richie Hebner card from the pile. "Yea, whatever. Come on, this one will do fine," he said, and launched himself out the door. I took the Merv Rettenmund from the top of the pile and chased after him.
Running out back to the clothesline, we took a couple of mom's wooden clothes pins and secured the cards to the back fork of our bikes and put them through the spokes. Donnie's bike was an old, beat up Schwinn that his cousin had given him. It was actually too big for him, but it got him where he wanted to go.
Racing down the hill toward Carol Robinson's house, we imagined ourselves riding motorcycles, the engines revving louder with every slap of the cards against the spokes. We were the epitome of cool.
I felt my heart beat more wildly with every stroke of the pedals. I stood up in the saddle and let the hill blow cool wind through my short, blond hair. At the bottom of the hill I took a quick right turn and headed up the hill toward Lisa's street. Taking that left, I again stood on the pedals and raced down the hill, momentarily taking my hands off the handlebars and gripping the middle bar with my knees until I felt the fear of disaster.
My mind raced. In a few short seconds I would pass in front of her house. Oh, how I hoped she would be in the front yard, playing with her sister or sitting in the porch swing that was hung from the eaves just outside her front door.
But today, there would be no such luck. Her dad's car wasn't even in the driveway. No one was home.
"Rats," I thought, hitting the brakes and coming to a screaming halt. I put both feet on the ground and turned back. Donnie was just coming around the corner to ride down the hill.
We rode around the block together for about another hour, passing by Lisa's house as often as I could without awakening Donnie's keen sense of suspicion. Just before going by I'd speed up so as to leave him behind, then, while keeping my gaze firmly on her front door, I'd slow almost to a crawl, excusing it as waiting for him to catch up. I just wanted to get a glimpse of her, or maybe even a wave. But it was not to be. I'd have to wait for school on Monday.
That night, as I sat watching Hee Haw on the color television mom and dad had bought when we moved in, I tried to devise a plan to get her to like me. What could I do? It almost seemed that she didn't know I existed.
"That's why I love her and that's why I do right," Roy Clark sang. "And if there's a reason God gave me a feeling, baby, it's you."
I hated country music, especially the twangy kind, so I got up off the couch to change the channel. Not even the sometimes funny, always corny comedy was worth this.
"She hates tangerines," he sang. "She loves the ring, volunteers me for everything. And the bank has never been right in her life."
My jaw dropped and a knowing smile pursed my lips. At that very instant, I knew what I had to do. Roy Clark had inspired me in a way he'd never know.
Coming soon - Part II
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Friday, October 22, 2010
Tender Mercies
Several years ago I was driving down a two-lane country road near my house. I was on the way to work and by this time I'd driven down this same road literally hundreds of times. I've now worked in the same office for 12 years and change, taking the same route nearly every one of those nearly 3000 days, both to and from work. So, you can imagine that I was very familiar with the intimate nuances of this particular road.
Pageland Lane cuts off of one of the main roads in our town, and stretches for about four miles before connecting with another main road on the other side. For me, it's a shortcut, allowing me to bypass a lot of traffic that goes through the battlefield. Around here, any shortcut, even if it only shaves seconds off your time, is priceless.
After turning off the main road, you first encounter a small rise before going downhill on a straight stretch that lasts almost a mile. The road bends after that, going through some dense woods, over a creek and past one of my favorite ponds and several cow pastures. It concludes after a sharp dip and another short, straight section.
I've seen countless people pulled off to the side by police officers on this road over those 12 years. As is true anywhere, the police have their favorite places to hide. Just past that initial rise there is a small road that turns off and goes over to an old Civil-War era house. That turnoff lies behind a little bluff, behind which the police like to lurk.
There's another hiding spot a couple of miles down, a little closer to the end of the road, where a cop actually pulled me over many years ago. I was passing a school bus and he got me going 54 in a 45. He let me go with a warning, but I've slowed down since that day and, knock on wood, haven't been pulled over since.
This particular day dawned beautifully, just as all days seem to around here in Autumn. The air was crisp, the leaves were a crescendo of color and a light zephyr caused them to quiver as if they were shivering in the cold.
Canada geese swam around on the pond, patiently searching for food and running off anyone else that dared inhabit their space. It had rained several times in the two or three weeks prior, so there was plenty of water to hide the small frogs and fish that made the pond their home. I always liked driving past the pond, for there was always something new to see.
The speed limit on this road is 45 throughout, but today I was going about 53. As I neared the first of several tight turns, a nearly audible voice spoke my name. "Stefan," it said, "you need to slow down."
It only spoke once, for I understood what it meant. There were police ahead and I was going to get a ticket. I slowed to 44 mph and rounded the second turn where I expected to see a police cruiser waiting to nab the next unsuspecting lawbreaker.
Instead, a deer scampered out in front of my car and into the woods on the other side. A large dump truck bore down from the opposite direction, and that's when it hit me. There's no police cruiser. It was the deer.
If I'd continued at my too-high rate of speed, I would have hit that deer and pushed him into the other lane where he would have been hit by the dump truck. The truck would most likely have sent him back into my lane and maybe through my windshield.
Yesterday, I came to work an hour early. I lay in bed at 5:30am, awake and wishing I weren't. The alarm wouldn't go off until 6:30, but instead of lying there awake for another hour, I decided to get out and get ready for the day. After showering, dressing, praying and packing my lunch, I left the house at 6:10am.
It's dark here at 6am, so I flipped on the headlights and off I sped. I was nearly to the turnoff for Pageland Lane when a voice in my head spoke my name. "Stefan," it said, "you need to slow down."
Having been in nearly the exact situation several years before, I slowed down immediately, and from my left I saw a deer run out in front of me and into the woods on the other side.
I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, nor am I the most righteous. I try my best to be a good man, but sometimes I still come up short. I don't now all of the ways of the Lord, but one thing I do know without the least shadow or hint of doubt. The Lord is there and He sees me. He knows my name, as I am His son. He loves me and He watches over me and my precious family. I've felt His tender mercies on more than these two instances and I am very, very thankful.
"The Lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works." Psalms 145.9
Pageland Lane cuts off of one of the main roads in our town, and stretches for about four miles before connecting with another main road on the other side. For me, it's a shortcut, allowing me to bypass a lot of traffic that goes through the battlefield. Around here, any shortcut, even if it only shaves seconds off your time, is priceless.
After turning off the main road, you first encounter a small rise before going downhill on a straight stretch that lasts almost a mile. The road bends after that, going through some dense woods, over a creek and past one of my favorite ponds and several cow pastures. It concludes after a sharp dip and another short, straight section.
I've seen countless people pulled off to the side by police officers on this road over those 12 years. As is true anywhere, the police have their favorite places to hide. Just past that initial rise there is a small road that turns off and goes over to an old Civil-War era house. That turnoff lies behind a little bluff, behind which the police like to lurk.
There's another hiding spot a couple of miles down, a little closer to the end of the road, where a cop actually pulled me over many years ago. I was passing a school bus and he got me going 54 in a 45. He let me go with a warning, but I've slowed down since that day and, knock on wood, haven't been pulled over since.
This particular day dawned beautifully, just as all days seem to around here in Autumn. The air was crisp, the leaves were a crescendo of color and a light zephyr caused them to quiver as if they were shivering in the cold.
Canada geese swam around on the pond, patiently searching for food and running off anyone else that dared inhabit their space. It had rained several times in the two or three weeks prior, so there was plenty of water to hide the small frogs and fish that made the pond their home. I always liked driving past the pond, for there was always something new to see.
The speed limit on this road is 45 throughout, but today I was going about 53. As I neared the first of several tight turns, a nearly audible voice spoke my name. "Stefan," it said, "you need to slow down."
It only spoke once, for I understood what it meant. There were police ahead and I was going to get a ticket. I slowed to 44 mph and rounded the second turn where I expected to see a police cruiser waiting to nab the next unsuspecting lawbreaker.
Instead, a deer scampered out in front of my car and into the woods on the other side. A large dump truck bore down from the opposite direction, and that's when it hit me. There's no police cruiser. It was the deer.
If I'd continued at my too-high rate of speed, I would have hit that deer and pushed him into the other lane where he would have been hit by the dump truck. The truck would most likely have sent him back into my lane and maybe through my windshield.
Yesterday, I came to work an hour early. I lay in bed at 5:30am, awake and wishing I weren't. The alarm wouldn't go off until 6:30, but instead of lying there awake for another hour, I decided to get out and get ready for the day. After showering, dressing, praying and packing my lunch, I left the house at 6:10am.
It's dark here at 6am, so I flipped on the headlights and off I sped. I was nearly to the turnoff for Pageland Lane when a voice in my head spoke my name. "Stefan," it said, "you need to slow down."
Having been in nearly the exact situation several years before, I slowed down immediately, and from my left I saw a deer run out in front of me and into the woods on the other side.
I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, nor am I the most righteous. I try my best to be a good man, but sometimes I still come up short. I don't now all of the ways of the Lord, but one thing I do know without the least shadow or hint of doubt. The Lord is there and He sees me. He knows my name, as I am His son. He loves me and He watches over me and my precious family. I've felt His tender mercies on more than these two instances and I am very, very thankful.
"The Lord is good to all: and his tender mercies are over all his works." Psalms 145.9
Monday, October 18, 2010
The Wonderous Gift is Given
The moon shone brilliantly through the large stone window, throwing shadows over the young, powerful body that stood behind the stone counter. Owning the inn was a large job for even the healthiest man, and keeping it clean kept Aha in very good shape. It had only been three years since he had purchased it from Elizar of Damascus, but for Aha every day had been filled with strenuous labor.
Today had been an exceptionally hard day, filled with cleaning, dusting and the like. There were so many people in town now, all come to pay their taxes and be counted. Now he stood behind the counter anxiously waiting the time when he could finally go to bed.
Aha's bright blue eyes glistened in the silvery light as the clouds crept silently across the moon's path. "There is more light than usual tonight," he thought as he walked toward the window. "There is always much light in Jerusalem, but not here in Bethlehem. It is such a small town. I wonder where it comes from."
As Aha leaned on the stone window, he saw a brilliant star far away in the eastern sky. It was a star he had not seen before, and Aha stood for several minutes transfixed by the beauty of the celestial body.
A sudden rap on the door snapped Aha out of his dream and back into reality. "Who could be calling at this hour?" he whispered to himself.
As he pulled the heavy oak door open, he saw outside a poorly-dressed man and a woman sitting on a small donkey. "They are Nazarenes," he thought, looking at their tattered clothing. Dust covered the man's face and both looked very tired and in great need of a night's rest.
"Sir," the man said, "we have traveled many days and my wife is great with child. Do you have a room where we could rest for the night?"
Aha looked at the woman. Her weathered clothing did her no justice, for she was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. He could tell that she was extremely tired, but her eyes still danced with joy, and the smile on her face made Aha's heart leap within him.
But they were Nazarenes. He could not let Nazarenes stay in his inn. What would his brethren say if they found out?
"I am sorry," he said. "I do not have a room for you." The words sounded deafeningly in his ears, for he knew he had a bed in which the woman could lie down.
The woman looked into Aha's face and smiled. "Are you sure?" her husband asked. "We have already been to all of the other inns. You are our last hope here in Bethlehem."
Aha gazed into her eyes again. There were so beautiful and seemed to entrance his heart with charity. Love swelled his heart and he smiled. "I have a bed where your wife can rest, but it is in a room that is already occupied."
The man's frame dropped slightly, but he smiled and said, "Thank you," as he turned to leave.
Aha looked at the woman. She was still smiling, but now slightly sadder. Aha's heart nearly burst.
Quickly he cried, "Wait!" The man turned abruptly and Aha said, "I do have a small stable that I think would be very comfortable. Sometimes travelers stay there if the town is very crowded. You would have privacy there and the hay is very soft. Come, I will show you."
Aha quickened his pace as he led the couple to the back of his inn, his heart overflowing with inexplicable joy.
Aha busied himself with making the two comfortable. Running back and forth between the inn and the stable, he noticed that his body ached no more, but rather he felt stronger than he had in weeks. Blankets, pillows and hot stew filled his arms while love for the woman filled his soul.
That night, the woman delivered her first born baby, a son. Aha brought out more blankets for the baby, for the night was becoming chill. As he wrapped the blanket around the child and put him back in the manger, Aha looked into his eyes and dropped to his knees. Never before had he beheld such a precious baby. Only minutes old, his bright blue eyes twinkled as eh looked into Aha's face and smiled.
Far into the wee hours of the morning, Aha tended to the needs of the small family, ignoring the aches and pains that presented themselves with no small force to his mind. Gone were the misgivings about his unforgiving brethren. Gone was the hesitation. Gone was all hatred he had ever felt. They were all replaced by an inexorable amount of charity. No gift, no matter how precious, was too for this child.
Thirty-three years pass in what seemed like one beat of Aha's heart. He reflected many times on the occurrences of that night so long ago. He remembered how he had cried into his pillow for many hours and how his heart had nearly exploded with love when the child smiled at him. Never would he forget that smile and the look of love that emanated from those electrifying eyes.
Walking toward Jerusalem, Aha noticed that his leg hurt more today than it usually did. It had been nearly twenty years since he had fallen off the ladder as he put the finishing touches on his inn. It had needed a good whitewashing for quite some time, but after the fall he had to leave the inn business to someone else. The doctor told him that he would never be able to walk without a limp and that small, wooden cane would, from thenceforth, be his constant companion.
Aha laid the hated cane on the ground and sat down on a large rock. Many times had he wished that his body would do the things he loved to do in his youth; running, jumping and playing with his children. But it was not to be. He was now nearly 60-years old, and his leg would not move with the grace that it once did.
He looked down at the crippled limb and gave it a brisk run. "I do not have time for such thoughts today," he whispered as he shook the dreams from his head. "It is Passover time and I must get to Jerusalem before they close the gates."
Gingerly, Aha grabbed the can and stood erect, continuing on his journey to the Holy City.
A huge crowd had gathered in Jerusalem that day, more than the usual Passover throng. A buzz rang steadily through the air, something about a blasphemer and a false prophet. Full of curiosity, Aha hobbled to the front of the crowd. He had seen public trials before in Jerusalem, but this one today filled him with an indescribable horror. People, Jews like himself, were crying for a man's crucifixion.
What had this man done that was so terrible that God's chosen people were asking the heathen Romans to put him to death?
Several minutes later, Aha felt the rush of the crowd lining the streets of the city. The man had been convicted, sentenced to death by the Roman emperor, Pontius Pilate. The convicted man would pass by soon, carrying his cross.
As the man approached, Aha felt pity for him. Never had he seen a man treated with such disdain and degradation. Several times the man fell beneath the weight of the huge cross, only to be whipped by the unfeeling Roman soldiers. Men, women an children, even members of the illustrious Sanhedrin, derided him and spit upon him. His head dripped with blood, his back scarred and bleeding. The rough stones of the rugged road had opened large gashes in his knees. Despite all of the persecution which rained about him, Aha thought he could sense an air of kingly dignity about the man.
Stumbling along the road toward his death, the man fell directly in front of the old inn-keeper. Aha quickly hobbled to a nearby fountain and filled a gourd with pure, cold water. Returning, he pressed the gourd to the man's lips, but the centurion pushed Aha aside, spilling the water over the cold stone.
Looking up into the man's face, Aha was transfixed by the deepness of his eyes. "I'm sorry," said Aha, smiling. The man nodded.
A burning began in Aha's breast and spread until it had filled his whole being. That smile. That beautiful smile! It was the same smile he had seen more than thirty years earlier from that beautiful child in the manger. It was the same love he had felt that night for the child and his mother. This was that wonderful baby!
Aha watched from the ground as the centurion forced the man to his feet and made him continue his agonizing journey. People stepped over him and kicked his battered leg, leaving him at the back of the morbid procession. Tears welled up in his eyes as his love for the man grew to immeasurable bounds.
Aha had watched the pathetic criminals make their way slowly through the cobblestone streets to Golgotha many times. But he had never grown accustomed to the gruesome sight and sound of steel ripping massive holes through the person's flesh. It made him sick to think of it. But today, he watched carefully as the man he loved was nailed to a cross.
"He is the Messiah," something whispered in his heart. "He is the promised one, the Savior, the King." Aha looked up at the Man, falling to his knees in front of the cruel cross.
"Why is this happening?" he asked. "If He is the Messiah, He must be a just man. Why do they do this to Him?"
"Do not worry, Aha," said the stirring voice. "He IS a just man and He will ride again from the dead in three days. He dies now for you. Lay your burdens at His feet. He alone has power to save you from your sins."
The words cut quickly and deeply into the soul of the inn-keeper. Tears coursed his face and his trembling hands were lifted in a mighty prayer of repentance. "Please forgive me, Lord, of the wrongs that I have committed."
He brushed the tears from his face and looked into the eyes of the One on the cross. A bitter smile swept across His face, and even then, in the gall of His agony, that same love that Aha had seen thirty-three years before from the eyes of that baby, exuded from His soul. It was then, when Aha felt that same charity radiating like the sun from the Man's eyes, he vowed to make the rest of his life more like the short life of the Man on the cross. He would let the world know of Him and what He had done. Like no one else, Aha had a wondrous story to tell.
Aha picked himself up off of the ground, wiped the dusty trails of tears from his face and turned toward Bethlehem. For only the second time in his life his heart smiled as much as did his face. Slowly, Aha made his way back to his hometown, walking now without a limp, and the small, wooden cane, so long his constant companion, lie at the foot of the cross.
Today had been an exceptionally hard day, filled with cleaning, dusting and the like. There were so many people in town now, all come to pay their taxes and be counted. Now he stood behind the counter anxiously waiting the time when he could finally go to bed.
Aha's bright blue eyes glistened in the silvery light as the clouds crept silently across the moon's path. "There is more light than usual tonight," he thought as he walked toward the window. "There is always much light in Jerusalem, but not here in Bethlehem. It is such a small town. I wonder where it comes from."
As Aha leaned on the stone window, he saw a brilliant star far away in the eastern sky. It was a star he had not seen before, and Aha stood for several minutes transfixed by the beauty of the celestial body.
A sudden rap on the door snapped Aha out of his dream and back into reality. "Who could be calling at this hour?" he whispered to himself.
As he pulled the heavy oak door open, he saw outside a poorly-dressed man and a woman sitting on a small donkey. "They are Nazarenes," he thought, looking at their tattered clothing. Dust covered the man's face and both looked very tired and in great need of a night's rest.
"Sir," the man said, "we have traveled many days and my wife is great with child. Do you have a room where we could rest for the night?"
Aha looked at the woman. Her weathered clothing did her no justice, for she was the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. He could tell that she was extremely tired, but her eyes still danced with joy, and the smile on her face made Aha's heart leap within him.
But they were Nazarenes. He could not let Nazarenes stay in his inn. What would his brethren say if they found out?
"I am sorry," he said. "I do not have a room for you." The words sounded deafeningly in his ears, for he knew he had a bed in which the woman could lie down.
The woman looked into Aha's face and smiled. "Are you sure?" her husband asked. "We have already been to all of the other inns. You are our last hope here in Bethlehem."
Aha gazed into her eyes again. There were so beautiful and seemed to entrance his heart with charity. Love swelled his heart and he smiled. "I have a bed where your wife can rest, but it is in a room that is already occupied."
The man's frame dropped slightly, but he smiled and said, "Thank you," as he turned to leave.
Aha looked at the woman. She was still smiling, but now slightly sadder. Aha's heart nearly burst.
Quickly he cried, "Wait!" The man turned abruptly and Aha said, "I do have a small stable that I think would be very comfortable. Sometimes travelers stay there if the town is very crowded. You would have privacy there and the hay is very soft. Come, I will show you."
Aha quickened his pace as he led the couple to the back of his inn, his heart overflowing with inexplicable joy.
Aha busied himself with making the two comfortable. Running back and forth between the inn and the stable, he noticed that his body ached no more, but rather he felt stronger than he had in weeks. Blankets, pillows and hot stew filled his arms while love for the woman filled his soul.
That night, the woman delivered her first born baby, a son. Aha brought out more blankets for the baby, for the night was becoming chill. As he wrapped the blanket around the child and put him back in the manger, Aha looked into his eyes and dropped to his knees. Never before had he beheld such a precious baby. Only minutes old, his bright blue eyes twinkled as eh looked into Aha's face and smiled.
Far into the wee hours of the morning, Aha tended to the needs of the small family, ignoring the aches and pains that presented themselves with no small force to his mind. Gone were the misgivings about his unforgiving brethren. Gone was the hesitation. Gone was all hatred he had ever felt. They were all replaced by an inexorable amount of charity. No gift, no matter how precious, was too for this child.
Thirty-three years pass in what seemed like one beat of Aha's heart. He reflected many times on the occurrences of that night so long ago. He remembered how he had cried into his pillow for many hours and how his heart had nearly exploded with love when the child smiled at him. Never would he forget that smile and the look of love that emanated from those electrifying eyes.
Walking toward Jerusalem, Aha noticed that his leg hurt more today than it usually did. It had been nearly twenty years since he had fallen off the ladder as he put the finishing touches on his inn. It had needed a good whitewashing for quite some time, but after the fall he had to leave the inn business to someone else. The doctor told him that he would never be able to walk without a limp and that small, wooden cane would, from thenceforth, be his constant companion.
Aha laid the hated cane on the ground and sat down on a large rock. Many times had he wished that his body would do the things he loved to do in his youth; running, jumping and playing with his children. But it was not to be. He was now nearly 60-years old, and his leg would not move with the grace that it once did.
He looked down at the crippled limb and gave it a brisk run. "I do not have time for such thoughts today," he whispered as he shook the dreams from his head. "It is Passover time and I must get to Jerusalem before they close the gates."
Gingerly, Aha grabbed the can and stood erect, continuing on his journey to the Holy City.
A huge crowd had gathered in Jerusalem that day, more than the usual Passover throng. A buzz rang steadily through the air, something about a blasphemer and a false prophet. Full of curiosity, Aha hobbled to the front of the crowd. He had seen public trials before in Jerusalem, but this one today filled him with an indescribable horror. People, Jews like himself, were crying for a man's crucifixion.
What had this man done that was so terrible that God's chosen people were asking the heathen Romans to put him to death?
Several minutes later, Aha felt the rush of the crowd lining the streets of the city. The man had been convicted, sentenced to death by the Roman emperor, Pontius Pilate. The convicted man would pass by soon, carrying his cross.
As the man approached, Aha felt pity for him. Never had he seen a man treated with such disdain and degradation. Several times the man fell beneath the weight of the huge cross, only to be whipped by the unfeeling Roman soldiers. Men, women an children, even members of the illustrious Sanhedrin, derided him and spit upon him. His head dripped with blood, his back scarred and bleeding. The rough stones of the rugged road had opened large gashes in his knees. Despite all of the persecution which rained about him, Aha thought he could sense an air of kingly dignity about the man.
Stumbling along the road toward his death, the man fell directly in front of the old inn-keeper. Aha quickly hobbled to a nearby fountain and filled a gourd with pure, cold water. Returning, he pressed the gourd to the man's lips, but the centurion pushed Aha aside, spilling the water over the cold stone.
Looking up into the man's face, Aha was transfixed by the deepness of his eyes. "I'm sorry," said Aha, smiling. The man nodded.
A burning began in Aha's breast and spread until it had filled his whole being. That smile. That beautiful smile! It was the same smile he had seen more than thirty years earlier from that beautiful child in the manger. It was the same love he had felt that night for the child and his mother. This was that wonderful baby!
Aha watched from the ground as the centurion forced the man to his feet and made him continue his agonizing journey. People stepped over him and kicked his battered leg, leaving him at the back of the morbid procession. Tears welled up in his eyes as his love for the man grew to immeasurable bounds.
Aha had watched the pathetic criminals make their way slowly through the cobblestone streets to Golgotha many times. But he had never grown accustomed to the gruesome sight and sound of steel ripping massive holes through the person's flesh. It made him sick to think of it. But today, he watched carefully as the man he loved was nailed to a cross.
"He is the Messiah," something whispered in his heart. "He is the promised one, the Savior, the King." Aha looked up at the Man, falling to his knees in front of the cruel cross.
"Why is this happening?" he asked. "If He is the Messiah, He must be a just man. Why do they do this to Him?"
"Do not worry, Aha," said the stirring voice. "He IS a just man and He will ride again from the dead in three days. He dies now for you. Lay your burdens at His feet. He alone has power to save you from your sins."
The words cut quickly and deeply into the soul of the inn-keeper. Tears coursed his face and his trembling hands were lifted in a mighty prayer of repentance. "Please forgive me, Lord, of the wrongs that I have committed."
He brushed the tears from his face and looked into the eyes of the One on the cross. A bitter smile swept across His face, and even then, in the gall of His agony, that same love that Aha had seen thirty-three years before from the eyes of that baby, exuded from His soul. It was then, when Aha felt that same charity radiating like the sun from the Man's eyes, he vowed to make the rest of his life more like the short life of the Man on the cross. He would let the world know of Him and what He had done. Like no one else, Aha had a wondrous story to tell.
Aha picked himself up off of the ground, wiped the dusty trails of tears from his face and turned toward Bethlehem. For only the second time in his life his heart smiled as much as did his face. Slowly, Aha made his way back to his hometown, walking now without a limp, and the small, wooden cane, so long his constant companion, lie at the foot of the cross.
Friday, September 24, 2010
This World's Good
He was just an old man, an average, ordinary man dressed modestly, even for Argentine standards. He hadn't shaved in a few days and he wore an old Fedora-style hat from the 40s that matched his old, torn overcoat. I didn't even know his name, and still don't, but he was a man who changed my life forever.
Zapala is a small, dusty town nestled comfortably at the base of the Cordillera, Argentina's portion of the Andes Mountains. Back in the early 1980s it was an even smaller town than it is today, and I loved it. There were probably no more than 10,000 people living within its confines, but they were good people, some of the best, most humble people I've ever known. And in my five months there, I think I may have met every one.
I'd been in Argentina for a little more than three months when my bus pulled into the station there. My first two months had been spent in a plains town called Carmen de Patagones at the southern end of the Buenos Aires province. After that I'd spent one very long month in Dolores with my first Argentine companion. From there it was off to Zapala for the best months of my mission.
Located at the terminus of the Bahía Blanca and Neuquén railroads, it lies no more than 50 miles from the Chilean border. Many of the residents of the town have Chilean ancestry, and you can tell from looking at them that they have Lamanite blood coursing through their veins. They didn't have very much money, but they supplemented that lack with an abundance of charity and joy.
I can't count the times I spent sitting in a house made of tin cans on an old, aluminum kitchen chair on a dirt floor with chickens running between my feet. On one such occasion, bouncing a toddler on my knee as my companion taught the discussion, I noticed my knee begin to get very warm. Needless to say, I had to change my pants when the discussion concluded.
My companion and I lived in a 60-year old, 7-room house on the corner of Martin Etcheluz and Candelaria Streets. That house also served as our chapel. An elaborate bathroom sat just off of our bedroom, complete with toilet, sink, shower and an unusual contraption I'd never seen before, called a bidet. We called it an Argentine foot bath.
The shower didn't work so we had to bathe in the outroom, a ten-foot square room attached to the back of the house, complete with shower nozzle and toilet. There was a drain in the middle of the floor and a squeegie in the corner. We had to walk outside to get to it, even in the Winter. I realize now that we had much more than most people in that town.
In the front of the house were several tall oak trees, one on each side of the yard. A narrow brick walkway stretched from the front door to the wrought iron gate that stood majestically on the corner. A stone wall, made of bowling ball-sized rocks collected from a local valley, stretched from one corner of the property to the other. Stretching the length of the wall was an iron trellis, corroded by years of Argentine weather.
My companion, Elder Soloa, was from Rosario, a large city to the north. He'd been in the mission field for about a year and a half when he first came to Zapala. I had to go to Neuquén to pick him up because his bus didn't go all the way to Zapala. On the way home he rested his head on my shoulder and fell asleep, immediately softening my heart toward him. It's not that I held anything against him initially. I'd actually just met him. But he was replacing my favorite companion.
Elder Wilson was the second in a string of four Argentina companions I'd have. He was from the capital, Buenos Aires, and exuded that big town confidence and swagger. He had a great sense of humor and seemed to love me despite my obvious flaws. He looked like an American, but he spoke absolutely no English.
We'd worked hard together, baptizing several people in the month or so before he got transferred. Without bicycles or public transportation, we'd left considerable shoe leather on the dusty streets of Zapala, but it was just the way we liked it.
In the two months I spent with Elder Soloa, we baptized more people than ever again on my mission. He was bold without being overbearing. He was good looking, so the people naturally gravitated toward him. And he was a hard worker, a trait I'd develop under his tutelage. Lamentably, I recently learned that Elder Soloa died at a relatively young age in a traffic accident in Rosario many years after we concluded our missions.
On this particular day, we were home for lunch. We'd eaten at the home of one of the members and then had come home for the siesta. In Latin American countries, the siesta is a given. Lunch is eaten, then you go to sleep for an hour or so. As missionaries it was almost counterproductive to work during that hour, since you'd have to wake people to teach them. Instead, we always went home and studied or read the scriptures. Irregularly we would also sneak in a couple minutes of sack ourselves, since after all we were still teenagers fighting the 6AM rise and shine time.
I was not very good at memorizing while on my mission. We had what were called The Rainbow Discussions, gospel lessons we were supposed to memorize word for word. I'd been wrestling with them now for five months or so and still hadn't memorized them all. The C, G and H discussions were easy. They were the Joseph Smith Story, the baptismal challenge and Keeping the Commandments of the Lord. We taught several of those every day, so with familiarity came memory. It was the rest of them that caused me trouble.
Pacing the walkway from the front door to the gate while memorizing was my siesta tradition. Every day after lunch I'd kick off my shoes and "walk the bricks." I was working on the F discussion, Truth vs Error. I'd been working on it for weeks and still felt no closer to being able to quote it word for word. I could teach it, but in my own words. Back in the late 70s, that was not the way we were supposed to do it.
I could feel the glowing warmth of the bricks beneath my feet. The beauty of the day escaped my teenage mind then, but looking back I realize how God had taken particular care in creating that day. The sun was out, an azure sky blazing behind it, and as dry a day as the Simpson Desert. It was almost perfect.
I'd been beating this path for nearly a half hour when, as I neared the gate, the old man stopped in front of me just beyond the wrought iron. His face was lined with wrinkles, like an ancient road map of the passing years. His hands were sunk deep into his overcoat pockets, a finger sticking out a hole made by years of hard work. His blue eyes were sad, telling the story of myriad years of being beaten down by poverty.
Though I'd only been in the country for 90 days or so, I'd met my share of bums. Each town seemed to have its own "town drunk", and Zapala was no different. We called him "El Lobo Ibanez", and from time to time he would come to our home asking for bread, alcohol or money. In his earlier years he'd been a rich, star soccer player on a national team. Influenced by greed and fame, his wife had left him for their attorney and he'd throw himself into a bottle of booze and had never come out. My first impression of the man who stood in front of me at this time was that he was more of the same.
"Do you have any bread?" he asked me in Spanish, his accent belying the fact that he'd lived in Zapala his whole life.
I looked him over and judged him, harshly, on the spot.
"No", I said. "But I have something much better. I have the gospel of Jesus Christ."
He looked at the ground, as if it would crumbled beneath his gaze. "I need bread for my family," he said. "I am going to pay my electric bill and I have no money to pay for bread. My children are hungry. Do you have any bread you can spare?"
Despite what they may tell you, missionaries always have food they can spare, and our situation was no different. We'd just been to the store a few days before and our larders were stuffed.
"No", I lied again. "But we would like to come to your house to teach you and your family about Jesus Christ. Would that be all right?" I felt a twinge of guilt, but I swallowed it back down, like a bad piece of blood sausage.
"No", he replied. "I just need bread. Thank you."
He turned away, his head hanging low, and walked toward the plaza at the end of the street.
I, too, turned and walked back toward the house. Almost immediately I felt the Spirit touch me. "This man needs your help", I seemed to hear it say. The same guilt returned, impacting my soul with a searing energy that wracked me with anguish.
Wheeling quickly around, I raced back to the gate. No more than five seconds had lapsed since I turned the man away, but racing through the gate I looked down the street. He was not to be seen.
I quickly turned the opposite way. He was not there.
I ran out into the middle of the intersection and quickly turned from side to side, desperately searching for him in every direction. But he wasn't there. He was gone.
Puzzled, I walked back through the gate and onto the brick walkway. It was then I heard the Spirit with my physical ears for the first time. "People don't want to hear what you have to say unless their bellies are full." It was gentle, but it felt so condemning.
I stopped, frozen in that agonizing moment for what seemed like hours. Tears welled up in my 19-year old eyes and I wept uncontrollably as I realized how selfish and judgmental I had been. I sat in a heap on the rust-colored bricks, hiding my head in my hands. Elder Soloa had to come to out of the house and help me in, not even knowing why my strength had been taken. It would be many days before I was able to even look at bread without the man's haunting face being emblazoned on my conscience.
That night, I sat in bed and read the scriptures before retiring for the evening. Most nights I would read The Book of Mormon. After all, it was that book that I was there to teach. But this night I was in the books of John the Beloved. They were short books and I figured I could read them all in one sitting. Scanning through his words, my eyes fell upon words that caused me to cry myself to sleep for the first time since my first night in country. They've been indelibly seared on my mind ever since.
"But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth." (1 John 3:17,18)
Maybe he was a man sent from God to test me in my ignorance. Maybe he was just an old man looking for some help. Maybe he was someone I could have gotten to know very well and learned to love like a father. I don't know, and I may never know. But one thing is sure. For someone who passed through my life so quickly, like steam from your mouth on a cold winter's day, he was there and then gone.
And he changed my life forever.
Zapala is a small, dusty town nestled comfortably at the base of the Cordillera, Argentina's portion of the Andes Mountains. Back in the early 1980s it was an even smaller town than it is today, and I loved it. There were probably no more than 10,000 people living within its confines, but they were good people, some of the best, most humble people I've ever known. And in my five months there, I think I may have met every one.
I'd been in Argentina for a little more than three months when my bus pulled into the station there. My first two months had been spent in a plains town called Carmen de Patagones at the southern end of the Buenos Aires province. After that I'd spent one very long month in Dolores with my first Argentine companion. From there it was off to Zapala for the best months of my mission.
Located at the terminus of the Bahía Blanca and Neuquén railroads, it lies no more than 50 miles from the Chilean border. Many of the residents of the town have Chilean ancestry, and you can tell from looking at them that they have Lamanite blood coursing through their veins. They didn't have very much money, but they supplemented that lack with an abundance of charity and joy.
I can't count the times I spent sitting in a house made of tin cans on an old, aluminum kitchen chair on a dirt floor with chickens running between my feet. On one such occasion, bouncing a toddler on my knee as my companion taught the discussion, I noticed my knee begin to get very warm. Needless to say, I had to change my pants when the discussion concluded.
My companion and I lived in a 60-year old, 7-room house on the corner of Martin Etcheluz and Candelaria Streets. That house also served as our chapel. An elaborate bathroom sat just off of our bedroom, complete with toilet, sink, shower and an unusual contraption I'd never seen before, called a bidet. We called it an Argentine foot bath.
The shower didn't work so we had to bathe in the outroom, a ten-foot square room attached to the back of the house, complete with shower nozzle and toilet. There was a drain in the middle of the floor and a squeegie in the corner. We had to walk outside to get to it, even in the Winter. I realize now that we had much more than most people in that town.
In the front of the house were several tall oak trees, one on each side of the yard. A narrow brick walkway stretched from the front door to the wrought iron gate that stood majestically on the corner. A stone wall, made of bowling ball-sized rocks collected from a local valley, stretched from one corner of the property to the other. Stretching the length of the wall was an iron trellis, corroded by years of Argentine weather.
My companion, Elder Soloa, was from Rosario, a large city to the north. He'd been in the mission field for about a year and a half when he first came to Zapala. I had to go to Neuquén to pick him up because his bus didn't go all the way to Zapala. On the way home he rested his head on my shoulder and fell asleep, immediately softening my heart toward him. It's not that I held anything against him initially. I'd actually just met him. But he was replacing my favorite companion.
Elder Wilson was the second in a string of four Argentina companions I'd have. He was from the capital, Buenos Aires, and exuded that big town confidence and swagger. He had a great sense of humor and seemed to love me despite my obvious flaws. He looked like an American, but he spoke absolutely no English.
We'd worked hard together, baptizing several people in the month or so before he got transferred. Without bicycles or public transportation, we'd left considerable shoe leather on the dusty streets of Zapala, but it was just the way we liked it.
In the two months I spent with Elder Soloa, we baptized more people than ever again on my mission. He was bold without being overbearing. He was good looking, so the people naturally gravitated toward him. And he was a hard worker, a trait I'd develop under his tutelage. Lamentably, I recently learned that Elder Soloa died at a relatively young age in a traffic accident in Rosario many years after we concluded our missions.
On this particular day, we were home for lunch. We'd eaten at the home of one of the members and then had come home for the siesta. In Latin American countries, the siesta is a given. Lunch is eaten, then you go to sleep for an hour or so. As missionaries it was almost counterproductive to work during that hour, since you'd have to wake people to teach them. Instead, we always went home and studied or read the scriptures. Irregularly we would also sneak in a couple minutes of sack ourselves, since after all we were still teenagers fighting the 6AM rise and shine time.
I was not very good at memorizing while on my mission. We had what were called The Rainbow Discussions, gospel lessons we were supposed to memorize word for word. I'd been wrestling with them now for five months or so and still hadn't memorized them all. The C, G and H discussions were easy. They were the Joseph Smith Story, the baptismal challenge and Keeping the Commandments of the Lord. We taught several of those every day, so with familiarity came memory. It was the rest of them that caused me trouble.
Pacing the walkway from the front door to the gate while memorizing was my siesta tradition. Every day after lunch I'd kick off my shoes and "walk the bricks." I was working on the F discussion, Truth vs Error. I'd been working on it for weeks and still felt no closer to being able to quote it word for word. I could teach it, but in my own words. Back in the late 70s, that was not the way we were supposed to do it.
I could feel the glowing warmth of the bricks beneath my feet. The beauty of the day escaped my teenage mind then, but looking back I realize how God had taken particular care in creating that day. The sun was out, an azure sky blazing behind it, and as dry a day as the Simpson Desert. It was almost perfect.
I'd been beating this path for nearly a half hour when, as I neared the gate, the old man stopped in front of me just beyond the wrought iron. His face was lined with wrinkles, like an ancient road map of the passing years. His hands were sunk deep into his overcoat pockets, a finger sticking out a hole made by years of hard work. His blue eyes were sad, telling the story of myriad years of being beaten down by poverty.
Though I'd only been in the country for 90 days or so, I'd met my share of bums. Each town seemed to have its own "town drunk", and Zapala was no different. We called him "El Lobo Ibanez", and from time to time he would come to our home asking for bread, alcohol or money. In his earlier years he'd been a rich, star soccer player on a national team. Influenced by greed and fame, his wife had left him for their attorney and he'd throw himself into a bottle of booze and had never come out. My first impression of the man who stood in front of me at this time was that he was more of the same.
"Do you have any bread?" he asked me in Spanish, his accent belying the fact that he'd lived in Zapala his whole life.
I looked him over and judged him, harshly, on the spot.
"No", I said. "But I have something much better. I have the gospel of Jesus Christ."
He looked at the ground, as if it would crumbled beneath his gaze. "I need bread for my family," he said. "I am going to pay my electric bill and I have no money to pay for bread. My children are hungry. Do you have any bread you can spare?"
Despite what they may tell you, missionaries always have food they can spare, and our situation was no different. We'd just been to the store a few days before and our larders were stuffed.
"No", I lied again. "But we would like to come to your house to teach you and your family about Jesus Christ. Would that be all right?" I felt a twinge of guilt, but I swallowed it back down, like a bad piece of blood sausage.
"No", he replied. "I just need bread. Thank you."
He turned away, his head hanging low, and walked toward the plaza at the end of the street.
I, too, turned and walked back toward the house. Almost immediately I felt the Spirit touch me. "This man needs your help", I seemed to hear it say. The same guilt returned, impacting my soul with a searing energy that wracked me with anguish.
Wheeling quickly around, I raced back to the gate. No more than five seconds had lapsed since I turned the man away, but racing through the gate I looked down the street. He was not to be seen.
I quickly turned the opposite way. He was not there.
I ran out into the middle of the intersection and quickly turned from side to side, desperately searching for him in every direction. But he wasn't there. He was gone.
Puzzled, I walked back through the gate and onto the brick walkway. It was then I heard the Spirit with my physical ears for the first time. "People don't want to hear what you have to say unless their bellies are full." It was gentle, but it felt so condemning.
I stopped, frozen in that agonizing moment for what seemed like hours. Tears welled up in my 19-year old eyes and I wept uncontrollably as I realized how selfish and judgmental I had been. I sat in a heap on the rust-colored bricks, hiding my head in my hands. Elder Soloa had to come to out of the house and help me in, not even knowing why my strength had been taken. It would be many days before I was able to even look at bread without the man's haunting face being emblazoned on my conscience.
That night, I sat in bed and read the scriptures before retiring for the evening. Most nights I would read The Book of Mormon. After all, it was that book that I was there to teach. But this night I was in the books of John the Beloved. They were short books and I figured I could read them all in one sitting. Scanning through his words, my eyes fell upon words that caused me to cry myself to sleep for the first time since my first night in country. They've been indelibly seared on my mind ever since.
"But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him? My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth." (1 John 3:17,18)
Maybe he was a man sent from God to test me in my ignorance. Maybe he was just an old man looking for some help. Maybe he was someone I could have gotten to know very well and learned to love like a father. I don't know, and I may never know. But one thing is sure. For someone who passed through my life so quickly, like steam from your mouth on a cold winter's day, he was there and then gone.
And he changed my life forever.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Stuck - Part III
Getting through The Birth Canal was a difficult chore, and it almost made me feel like a snake shedding its skin. Wriggling and pushing, pulling and squirming, I finally got through to the other side. Having thrown my flashlight through the hole before entering, I grabbed it and turned back, watching Larry come through the tiny hole. Though Larry was somewhat smaller than the average adult, I marveled how any-sized adult could pass through such a small opening. I picked up his flashlight and handed it to him. "Pretty tight fit," he said. "Mmm hmm," I mumbled in reply.
Toward our back and to the right there was a rather tall yet narrow passageway that again only allowed one person at a time, and that person had to shuffle sideways. It was the beginning of Ballbreaker.
I stuck my head through the opening and looked for light. Seeing a glow on the other end, I began shuffling toward it. Some of the leaders had already started climbing up the slanted rock, positioning themselves every five feet or so to help the rest of us up the incline. The rock was nearly twenty feet long and created a climb of about 40 degrees through a passageway that was no larger than a foot and a half.
"We're supposed to go through that?" I said, turning and looking at Larry. He was at least 30 pounds lighter than me and about five inches shorter.
"I don't think it will be that tough," he replied.
"Not for you," I said, snorting derisively as I turned back to watch Scott's feet disappear over the top of the rock.
"Your turn," said Larry, planting his right hand directly in the middle of my back.
Stumbling slightly, I started the ascent.
Slipping on the damp rock, I searched for hand and foot holds. They were all over, next to me, above me and sometimes underneath me. I slithered through the extremely narrow passageway, not worrying about how my clothes would look on the other side.
Starting near the end has its advantages. You can see where everyone else goes and if they succeed you go where they went. It also has its disadvantages. Sometimes the rock over which you have to climb is left muddy and wet. So was the case on this day.
Nearing the top, my helmet got stuck between the slanted floor and the roof. Adjusting my head slightly, I pulled the helmet back and looked up toward the guys who'd already made it. The passage seemed to narrow just a little ahead of me, so I adjusted my position as to be lying directly on my stomach, back scraping the limestone ceiling. Figuring I'd be the smallest that way, I pushed myself into the even smaller space and then felt myself move no further.
I'd been stuck like this in caves before, so I didn't panic. I tried bringing my feet around to the side, which usually helped free my torso. No luck.
Stopping to think for just a second, I then looked ahead of me, up the incline to the top. I couldn't lift my head vertically because of the cramped space, so lying on my stomach I slid it sideways so I could see the top. It was no more than 7 or 8 feet away. Blindly searching for a hand hold, I found one near my right hand. Latching onto it, I pulled. Nothing. No movement whatsoever. I was stuck.
Starting to breathe just a little bit harder, and feeling my body expand so that it filled the tiny space, I looked at Amy, who was the closest guide to me. "I think I'm stuck," I said, trying not to let me voice betray the nerves that were welling up inside me.
Being all of four feet tall and about 100 pounds, she'd already reached the top and so had to slither down my remaining few feet. She sat erect in a small hole directly next to my imprisoning space and leaned over. Her headlamp shined directly into my eyes. "Ok, just don't panic," she said calmly.
But it was too late. While she had been coming to my aid I'd tried freeing myself again a couple of times with no luck. Every push and every pull seemed to wedge me in tighter. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing and heart rate, knowing that if either was elevated too much it would only serve to make my body larger and more apt to remain where it was.
"Have you tried pulling yourself to this side?" she asked.
"Yes, that's what I tried first. But I can try again," I said, as I pulled my legs up the sheer rock face toward my shoulders. My body did not move.
"No go," I said.
She put her finger on her chin. "Ok, there is a small chute here just above your head. If you can get your back into that, you'll be home free."
I pulled my helmet off so I could see what she was talking about. Just above my head was a small place where the space actually got a little bigger. Reaching up toward it I grabbed a piece of the wall and pulled. Nothing.
"Alright," she said, a small amount of nervousness in her voice. "Let me go talk to Bobby," and she shinnied up the rock face away from me.
Left in the relative darkness, I closed my eyes. Feeling an irreversible panic arise in my chest, I breathed deeply. "Calm yourself, man. Calm yourself. It's going to be ok." But I knew it wasn't true. I was going to be left there in total blackness with no hope of ever being freed. This was my ultimate prison, my purgatory for having lived such a terrible life, ironically being left in the sheer darkness because of my dark deeds.
I thought of rescue squads coming to the hillside to try and dig me out. It would take weeks to dig through that much rock. I thought of how long it would take to lose 20 pounds, enough to be able to unjam myself from the vice in which I now found myself. It had come to this. I was going to die in a cold, dark, bat-infested cave. I would try to hold on long enough to see my dear, sweet wife again, but she'd have to come down into the cave to see me herself. I'd never hold my precious children again. I was going to die right where I was.
Physically trying to restrain myself from thinking such atrocities, I opened my eyes and looked toward the light. Amy was coming back down. She tried several new approaches to getting me out, none of which worked. She tried to get me to go back down the rock. She tried to get me to roll over more on my side. She tried to help me go to the right and then to the left. None of them worked. Now breathing itself was getting more difficult.
Amy climbed back up the rock and left me in the darkness again. I closed my eyes. "Father, if you can hear me, please help me get out of this. I am stuck and there's nothing I can do to get out. I've tried everything I can think of and I do not want to spend the rest of my life stuck in here. Please, please help me get out."
No sooner had I said Amen than I felt my feet raise up off the floor of the passageway and plant themselves firmly in the roof. Pushing with all of my might I felt my chest slide across the wet stone. I pushed again and felt it slide just a little bit more. Gathering steam and hope I pushed once more, this time grabbing the closest rock I could find. I pulled myself through the small opening and up into the larger room 7 feet above. I was free!
I laid on the floor in the darkness next to Scott. Looking up where heaven would be, if not for several hundred feet of rock, I thanked my Heavenly Father profusely for helping me out. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I realized that I'd just been the recipient of one of His tender mercies.
Slithering back through The Birth Canal several minutes later, I felt reborn, a new child who'd escaped the dark confines of his terrestrial cell. Reaching the sunlight at the front of the cave, I reached for the sunlight I thought I'd never see again. The warm glow on my cheeks was like touching the face of God.
Toward our back and to the right there was a rather tall yet narrow passageway that again only allowed one person at a time, and that person had to shuffle sideways. It was the beginning of Ballbreaker.
I stuck my head through the opening and looked for light. Seeing a glow on the other end, I began shuffling toward it. Some of the leaders had already started climbing up the slanted rock, positioning themselves every five feet or so to help the rest of us up the incline. The rock was nearly twenty feet long and created a climb of about 40 degrees through a passageway that was no larger than a foot and a half.
"We're supposed to go through that?" I said, turning and looking at Larry. He was at least 30 pounds lighter than me and about five inches shorter.
"I don't think it will be that tough," he replied.
"Not for you," I said, snorting derisively as I turned back to watch Scott's feet disappear over the top of the rock.
"Your turn," said Larry, planting his right hand directly in the middle of my back.
Stumbling slightly, I started the ascent.
Slipping on the damp rock, I searched for hand and foot holds. They were all over, next to me, above me and sometimes underneath me. I slithered through the extremely narrow passageway, not worrying about how my clothes would look on the other side.
Starting near the end has its advantages. You can see where everyone else goes and if they succeed you go where they went. It also has its disadvantages. Sometimes the rock over which you have to climb is left muddy and wet. So was the case on this day.
Nearing the top, my helmet got stuck between the slanted floor and the roof. Adjusting my head slightly, I pulled the helmet back and looked up toward the guys who'd already made it. The passage seemed to narrow just a little ahead of me, so I adjusted my position as to be lying directly on my stomach, back scraping the limestone ceiling. Figuring I'd be the smallest that way, I pushed myself into the even smaller space and then felt myself move no further.
I'd been stuck like this in caves before, so I didn't panic. I tried bringing my feet around to the side, which usually helped free my torso. No luck.
Stopping to think for just a second, I then looked ahead of me, up the incline to the top. I couldn't lift my head vertically because of the cramped space, so lying on my stomach I slid it sideways so I could see the top. It was no more than 7 or 8 feet away. Blindly searching for a hand hold, I found one near my right hand. Latching onto it, I pulled. Nothing. No movement whatsoever. I was stuck.
Starting to breathe just a little bit harder, and feeling my body expand so that it filled the tiny space, I looked at Amy, who was the closest guide to me. "I think I'm stuck," I said, trying not to let me voice betray the nerves that were welling up inside me.
Being all of four feet tall and about 100 pounds, she'd already reached the top and so had to slither down my remaining few feet. She sat erect in a small hole directly next to my imprisoning space and leaned over. Her headlamp shined directly into my eyes. "Ok, just don't panic," she said calmly.
But it was too late. While she had been coming to my aid I'd tried freeing myself again a couple of times with no luck. Every push and every pull seemed to wedge me in tighter. I closed my eyes and tried to calm my breathing and heart rate, knowing that if either was elevated too much it would only serve to make my body larger and more apt to remain where it was.
"Have you tried pulling yourself to this side?" she asked.
"Yes, that's what I tried first. But I can try again," I said, as I pulled my legs up the sheer rock face toward my shoulders. My body did not move.
"No go," I said.
She put her finger on her chin. "Ok, there is a small chute here just above your head. If you can get your back into that, you'll be home free."
I pulled my helmet off so I could see what she was talking about. Just above my head was a small place where the space actually got a little bigger. Reaching up toward it I grabbed a piece of the wall and pulled. Nothing.
"Alright," she said, a small amount of nervousness in her voice. "Let me go talk to Bobby," and she shinnied up the rock face away from me.
Left in the relative darkness, I closed my eyes. Feeling an irreversible panic arise in my chest, I breathed deeply. "Calm yourself, man. Calm yourself. It's going to be ok." But I knew it wasn't true. I was going to be left there in total blackness with no hope of ever being freed. This was my ultimate prison, my purgatory for having lived such a terrible life, ironically being left in the sheer darkness because of my dark deeds.
I thought of rescue squads coming to the hillside to try and dig me out. It would take weeks to dig through that much rock. I thought of how long it would take to lose 20 pounds, enough to be able to unjam myself from the vice in which I now found myself. It had come to this. I was going to die in a cold, dark, bat-infested cave. I would try to hold on long enough to see my dear, sweet wife again, but she'd have to come down into the cave to see me herself. I'd never hold my precious children again. I was going to die right where I was.
Physically trying to restrain myself from thinking such atrocities, I opened my eyes and looked toward the light. Amy was coming back down. She tried several new approaches to getting me out, none of which worked. She tried to get me to go back down the rock. She tried to get me to roll over more on my side. She tried to help me go to the right and then to the left. None of them worked. Now breathing itself was getting more difficult.
Amy climbed back up the rock and left me in the darkness again. I closed my eyes. "Father, if you can hear me, please help me get out of this. I am stuck and there's nothing I can do to get out. I've tried everything I can think of and I do not want to spend the rest of my life stuck in here. Please, please help me get out."
No sooner had I said Amen than I felt my feet raise up off the floor of the passageway and plant themselves firmly in the roof. Pushing with all of my might I felt my chest slide across the wet stone. I pushed again and felt it slide just a little bit more. Gathering steam and hope I pushed once more, this time grabbing the closest rock I could find. I pulled myself through the small opening and up into the larger room 7 feet above. I was free!
I laid on the floor in the darkness next to Scott. Looking up where heaven would be, if not for several hundred feet of rock, I thanked my Heavenly Father profusely for helping me out. Tears streamed down my cheeks as I realized that I'd just been the recipient of one of His tender mercies.
Slithering back through The Birth Canal several minutes later, I felt reborn, a new child who'd escaped the dark confines of his terrestrial cell. Reaching the sunlight at the front of the cave, I reached for the sunlight I thought I'd never see again. The warm glow on my cheeks was like touching the face of God.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Stuck - Part II
The entrance to Horsehead Cave is no larger than a VW Beetle, excavated by the relentless dripping of water and shifting of the earth's crust. Hunkering down to get past the geologic gargoyles that guarded the front entrance, we entered one by one into the blackness. The dry coolness was the first thing that greeted us on the inside, feeling it before we even got all the way inside. It was a pleasant reprieve from the sticky conditions we'd been living with in the outside world.
Our eyes took several minutes to adjust to the inky dark, the native smell of dirt, rock, water and dust filling our nostrils. I fumbled for a short time looking for my flashlight, finally retrieving it from my backpack. Clicking the switch, I brought it to life, shining a light saber beam on the limestone walls. In their turn, each spelunker did the same until the room was nearly as light as if we were outside.
"Once we get down into the cave," said Bobby, one of our guides, "remember to keep as close to the walls as you can. There are some deep holes down here and we don't want anyone falling into one of them."
Looking over at Brother Jackson I smiled and winked. I had given such warnings myself many times, but I always enjoyed the faces of the uninitiated when such admonitions were given. A mixture of apprehension, anxiety and anticipation made for a great expression.
The deeper we climbed the more apprehensive some of them became. It was obvious to me that several of them had never stepped foot even remotely near a cave, much less inside one. A couple took off their helmets while others shined their lights in their buddy's eyes, two absolute no-no's in a dangerous cave.
"You're not going to take those helmets off once you bang your heads on the ceiling," I warned. "It only takes one time for you to learn." A couple of the boys laughed nervously. "It won't be funny once you're hurt." I sounded like an adult.
Toward the back of the cave is a passage called Fruit Loops. It's a circuitous passage that wraps around in a loop so that you come straight back to the same place you started. It requires you to crawl on all fours, wriggling your body through smaller and smaller passages all the time. You get very dirty in Fruit Loops. It was the halfway point of the expedition.
"Everyone needs to go through this tunnel," said Bobby. "Once we finish here we'll start heading back to the front of the cave, unless..." He stopped for just a second for the drama to set it. "...anyone wants to go through Ballbreaker."
Ballbreaker was a very small passage that barely allowed one person at a time to go through. Once inside that room there was a flat, nearly vertical rock that created a small upward-slanted passage that was barely a foot from the ceiling. To get through, you had to push yourself through on your stomach to the top of the 15-foot-long incline, where a somewhat larger room awaited.
Ballbreaker was preceded by another small hole in the wall called The Birth Canal, thus named because of your resemblance to a baby being born as you slithered through. Because of the size of the hole, your hands had to be kept above your head, only allowing you to push yourself through with your feet. You had to go into Ballbreaker through The Birth Canal and then you had to come back through it on your way out.
After finishing Fruit Loops, Bobby looked around and said, "So, who's in?"
"What's it like," asked one of the boys, nervously.
Melissa, another of our guides, smiled broadly. Once she explained in detail about how small The Birth Canal and Ballbreaker really were, most of the boys said no. They wanted no part of it. "We'll wait for you out here," they said.
But Larry, our fearless leader, said he was in. So did another boy or two. And then Scott Jackson, James' son, said he was in, too. Then they all looked at me.
Now, I must confess that I suffer from terrible claustrophobia. Being in the cave itself isn't bad at all, but when I have my arms confined at my sides or if I am unable to move, I start to feel it, and feel it badly. One time I'd gone caving with Reed Lambert and he'd gotten stuck in a particularly small hole, trapping me inside the room, with no way of escape. I felt it really bad that day.
This day, I was not anxious to go through The Birth Canal nor Ballbreaker, but I didn't want to let Scott down, either. He was the Senior Patrol Leader of our troop. A future Eagle Scout. One of the few boys I have ever looked up to. And so I said I was in, too. It was nearly a mistake I couldn't live with.
Coming soon - Part III - The Conclusion
Our eyes took several minutes to adjust to the inky dark, the native smell of dirt, rock, water and dust filling our nostrils. I fumbled for a short time looking for my flashlight, finally retrieving it from my backpack. Clicking the switch, I brought it to life, shining a light saber beam on the limestone walls. In their turn, each spelunker did the same until the room was nearly as light as if we were outside.
"Once we get down into the cave," said Bobby, one of our guides, "remember to keep as close to the walls as you can. There are some deep holes down here and we don't want anyone falling into one of them."
Looking over at Brother Jackson I smiled and winked. I had given such warnings myself many times, but I always enjoyed the faces of the uninitiated when such admonitions were given. A mixture of apprehension, anxiety and anticipation made for a great expression.
The deeper we climbed the more apprehensive some of them became. It was obvious to me that several of them had never stepped foot even remotely near a cave, much less inside one. A couple took off their helmets while others shined their lights in their buddy's eyes, two absolute no-no's in a dangerous cave.
"You're not going to take those helmets off once you bang your heads on the ceiling," I warned. "It only takes one time for you to learn." A couple of the boys laughed nervously. "It won't be funny once you're hurt." I sounded like an adult.
Toward the back of the cave is a passage called Fruit Loops. It's a circuitous passage that wraps around in a loop so that you come straight back to the same place you started. It requires you to crawl on all fours, wriggling your body through smaller and smaller passages all the time. You get very dirty in Fruit Loops. It was the halfway point of the expedition.
"Everyone needs to go through this tunnel," said Bobby. "Once we finish here we'll start heading back to the front of the cave, unless..." He stopped for just a second for the drama to set it. "...anyone wants to go through Ballbreaker."
Ballbreaker was a very small passage that barely allowed one person at a time to go through. Once inside that room there was a flat, nearly vertical rock that created a small upward-slanted passage that was barely a foot from the ceiling. To get through, you had to push yourself through on your stomach to the top of the 15-foot-long incline, where a somewhat larger room awaited.
Ballbreaker was preceded by another small hole in the wall called The Birth Canal, thus named because of your resemblance to a baby being born as you slithered through. Because of the size of the hole, your hands had to be kept above your head, only allowing you to push yourself through with your feet. You had to go into Ballbreaker through The Birth Canal and then you had to come back through it on your way out.
After finishing Fruit Loops, Bobby looked around and said, "So, who's in?"
"What's it like," asked one of the boys, nervously.
Melissa, another of our guides, smiled broadly. Once she explained in detail about how small The Birth Canal and Ballbreaker really were, most of the boys said no. They wanted no part of it. "We'll wait for you out here," they said.
But Larry, our fearless leader, said he was in. So did another boy or two. And then Scott Jackson, James' son, said he was in, too. Then they all looked at me.
Now, I must confess that I suffer from terrible claustrophobia. Being in the cave itself isn't bad at all, but when I have my arms confined at my sides or if I am unable to move, I start to feel it, and feel it badly. One time I'd gone caving with Reed Lambert and he'd gotten stuck in a particularly small hole, trapping me inside the room, with no way of escape. I felt it really bad that day.
This day, I was not anxious to go through The Birth Canal nor Ballbreaker, but I didn't want to let Scott down, either. He was the Senior Patrol Leader of our troop. A future Eagle Scout. One of the few boys I have ever looked up to. And so I said I was in, too. It was nearly a mistake I couldn't live with.
Coming soon - Part III - The Conclusion
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
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.
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
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
Monday, August 30, 2010
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
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
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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.
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.
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