Hiking the Courthouse Wash. The Final Chapter.

I feel like I'm dragging this story out a little too long, and truthfully, how do I top a fire?

So, I'm thinking I'll resort to that old gimick from the 80's television and movies: The Working Montage.

(Remember those scenes on The A-Team and Macgyver, where they would compress several hours of the story into just a few minutes -- where B.A. Baracus would turn his van into a tank, and Mac would build a glider out of duct tape, all before the next commercial?)

Without further ado, here is the Courthouse Wash working montage:

The scene opens on Erin Bawden's brand new Chuck Taylors. His brand new WHITE Chuck Taylors, purchased just for this hike. This hike through the deep red soil of southern Utah.

Next, the camera pulls back to reveal a meandering line of scouts, following the riverbed, making their way past a small herd of cattle, grazing near some cottonwoods, along the bank of the trickling stream.

Eight cows. One bull.

The scouts file by uneventfully, with the exception of one -- Erin Bawden, who decides to try his hand at bullfighting.

Dissolve to all the non bullfighting scouts, stopping suddenly...wondering what that low rumble is...louder...louder....in the distance stretching out behind them, they see a cloud of dust...getting closer...closer...then around the corner comes the matador, panting like a racehorse, running like a cartoon character, and mentioning to everyone else that they might want to...

RUN!!!!!

Dissolve to all the parched scouts frolicking -- yes, frolicking -- in a beautiful pool, hidden below the overhang of an ancient cliff. Despite stern warnings from their leaders, they are filling up their canteens from the small waterfall that feeds the sapphire pool. Remember the leaders are the only ones who still have any water at this point.

Despite the presence of water, all the scouts remain mostly clothed, which leads me to another digression:

The only time I have EVER participated in a strip poker game, was in a teepee full of scouts. Nothing in the Scout Law saws you have to be smart. 

Dissolve to one curious scout -- Paul Stoddard --  who comes upon a pair of frogs, doing...well...what comes naturally. Doing what this scout should have learned about in ninth grade biology. We're not sure what he's thinking. Maybe he thinks that the one is hurting the other? Maybe he thinks they would rather do something else (after all he wouldn't have health class until the tenth grade), so he pulls them apart. When the other scouts explain what he has done (don't ask me where they got THEIR information), he throws the frogs. 

He just throws them. A good thirty yards. 

Dissolve to Danny Luscher cooking the greatest camping meal I have ever had in my life: macaroni and cheese. For two days he had hauled a pot, a bag of macaroni and a giant block of cheese through the desert. This night he boiled the pasta in river water, then slowly melted the entire block of cheese into the macaroni, over the camp fire. It was a masterpiece, and never duplicated -- trying to cook macaroni and cheese this way in the kitchen does not work. I've tried. 

Dissolve to one scout -- me -- still awake after all the others have faded off to sleep. Zoom in on my eyes, wide open. See the universe reflected. As I lay there, in the quiet of the desert night, I stare into the face of time. For the first time in my life, I understand why they call our galaxy The Milky Way. The number of stars, and the beauty of the night sky overwhelm me. There is no way I am sleeping. There is no way I'm going to miss the show.  

Dissolve to Tayah Edwards suddenly going in, up to his waist, in a pool of quicksand. Panic sets in. A rush of motion. Screaming. Yelling. Aaron pulling him out by his back pack. Concern. Relief. 

Pause.

Whoa! Quicksand!

Dissolve to scouts eagerly seeking out, and happily, gleefully, stupidly, intentionally wading into every other quicksand pool they come across. 

Dissolve to the scouts, nearing the end of their journey, coming across a family of naked children playing in the river. The parched, weary, and sunburned scouts can't help wondering what it would be like to be sunburned...there?

Dissolve to mouth of the Courthouse Wash -- a small series of waterfalls -- where the meandering stream, flows into the mighty Colorado.

Hey! The Colorado is about as mighty as rivers get in these parts.

The boys have survived. The leaders have survived. The National Park has survived.

Dissolve to Erin Bawden's Chuck Taylors, now, and forever more, as rusty red as the Moab sand.

And...go to commercial.

Whatever shall I write about tomorrow? I'm open to suggestions....

Hiking the Courthouse Wash. Part Two.

When last we left off, our small band of intrepid adventurers were poised to plunge off into the wilderness of southern Utah, for a Spring Break adventure they would never forget.

And neither would the National Park Service.

Having never been a smoker, I'm not sure how long a typical cigarette lighter is supposed to last, but having been a scout I know that a three day camping trip requires at least three lighters.

Per scout.

Since it's discovery, fire has proved a usefull tool for mankind. We cook with it. We heat our homes with it. We even build with it. But it's greatest use, from the persepctive of a fourteen year old boy, is as a form of entertainment. You've heard the expression: "like moths to a flame"? I'm pretty sure they were talking about Boy Scouts. Boys are drawn to fire. I once stood so close to a campfire that I ignited my moon boots. I suspect that every boy, worthy of being called a boy, has at least one really spectacular fire story.

(I hope my son is not reading this)

But I digress...

It was the morning of the launch of the expedition. The troop was assembled and the gear was packed. If you have ever seen a properly packed Boy Scout backpack, it looks a lot like...well, like a mobile dorm room. Lot's of unwashed clothes, old smelly food and about fifty pounds of useless, back breaking, crap. And a sleeping bag. In the case of Aaron and myself the inventory also included a two litre bottle of club soda. This was an idea put forward by Aaron's dad -- the idea being that what better way to keep scouts, in the desert for three days, from consuming all of their water too quickly, than to give them something to drink that is so horrible, that only the threat of death by dehydration would compel them to drink?

In case you're wondering, death is preferrable to hot club soda.

As it turned out however, all of us consumed our water much quicker than anyone had anticipated...

As we milled around, waiting for our leaders, fate reared it's head -- with a single sentence.

"Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country."

"That's one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind."

Sometimes fate turns on a single sentence. In this case, it was the immortal words, uttered by Erin Bawden, as he took in the majesty of the ancient landscape that surrounded us...

"Wouldn't it be cool, if all of this was on fire?"

And Aaron Ball has never been anything if not obliging.

In a matter of seconds he whipped out his emergency back up lighter, and lit up the nearest bush. The fire started on one small branch, and mesmerized us as it spread into the interior of the foliage. It was a spiritual experience really. One second we were in Moab, the next we were translated to Mount Sinai, with Moses, before the Burning Bush. And, like Moses, we were instructed by the Burning Bush. It was a science lesson about what fire needs to live -- oxygen and fuel. Suddenly the Burning Bush had brothers.

Three of them.

(Cue zany, cartoonish montage: bulging eyes, hair standing on end, frantic scouts running in every direction. Chaos. Just another day in Troop 918)

And then and there we used every last drop of water we had between us to put out the fire, and save Arches National Park. There's no need to call us heroes. We only did what any one else facing a potential arson charge would have done.

Unfortunately, it's pretty hard to hide smoke, and charred bushes, or the guilty looks on our faces, and when the scout leaders arrived, they knew something was wrong. Naturally, they looked right at Aaron. It's funny how that was how it always went.

"Who let all the air out of the tires?"

...Aaron...

"Who chopped down this cherry tree?"

...Aaron...

"Who lit the national park on fire?"

...AARON!!!!...

Even if it wasn't always his fault, he always got the blame, which, come to think of it, was pretty convenient for the rest of us.

But before you feel too sorry for him, consider his punishment (and you must understand that his dad would have been destroyed by this punishment) -- Aaron, a recent Eagle Scout, was told by his father to surrender his Eagle Scout award for one week. That's it.

That is the scouting equivalent of "Go stand in the corner, and THINK about what you did!"

"Oh yeah Dad, I'm thinking REAL hard about it."

Greatest.  Punishment. Ever.

And this is still the first day.

To be continued....

Hiking the Courthouse Wash. Part One.

In my ongoing conceit that you all are keenly interested in every aspect of my life, I've decided to share a story with you from my youth. It's rather involved, and will probably take more than one posting to get it all out. 

Think of it as one of those dime store serial novels of the late nineteenth century. 

This is a story about Scouting.

There are two ways to go about Scouting. There's the way the Scouting Handbook tells you to do it, and then there's the way that all red blooded, immature, pyromaniacal, air breathing, earth dwelling American boys do it. The two ways are not the same. Not remotely.

The Scout Law says that scouts are trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. And they are. When their mothers are in the room. Sometimes. But a more apt description, something approaching reality would be: A Scout is hungry, dirty, hungry, wet, hungry, distracted by shiny things, ravenous, way too undisciplined to be handling that sharp object (not to mention the firearm), lurpy, curious, too curious, awkward and hungry. And has the attention span of a gnat. An over-caffinated gnat, with ADHD, and commitment issues.

Now that we've laid the ground work, I'm going to tell you about one scouting experience in particular: Hiking the Courthouse Wash.

The Courthouse Wash is twenty five mile long stretch of riverbed, meandering through Arches National Park. Arches, is the biggest collection of natural arches on Planet Earth, and it's possible to hike the entire Courthouse Wash without seeing a single arch. I know. I did it. I had no idea until a subsequent trip several years later, that we had been inside the park.

The cast of characters include, as near as I can recall -- Aaron will have to fill in the ones I miss -- Aaron and I, Aaron's dad Talmage, Danny Luscher (back when we still called him Danny), Paul Stoddard, Erin Bawden, and more faceless scouts that I can't remember. But these are the ones that figure prominently in the following narrative.

Before you start any scouting trip, it's important that you gather all of your supplies. The Scout Handbook suggests things like a sleeping bag, a mess kit, enough food and water to last for the duration of your trip, rope, poncho etc...Real scouts bring a knife and a lighter. Why? Because they plan to hunt and gather their own sustenance and cook it over a campfire each night?

Nope.

Because they want to destroy everything in their path, and light shit on fire.

This particular trip took place over Spring Break, 1987. I was in the eighth grade, and as an aside, I am now the father of a scout, in the eighth grade. I now realize that our scout leaders had brain damage. Why, on God's green earth, would you haul a half dozen, pimple faced, smelly, irresponsible, adolescent boys out into the middle of the desert for three days? It must have been a sense of duty, because they sure didn't seem to like us much. 

The drive to Moab was uneventful, aside from Aaron and I lighting stuff on fire in the back of the truck, and then throwing the nearly spent lighters at the cars following behind us, and watching them explode in the dusk of evening. The lighters, not the cars. 

The real excitement began the following morning, as we gathered our bearings, prepared to set out on a three day trek into the wilderness, and Aaron set Arches National Park on fire...

To be continued...

An Unrepentant Dork

We live in a society that divides and subdivides itself, over and over again. In an effort to be special, we continually create new specializations by which to classify ourselves.

We define ourselves based on religion and race and politics and sexual orientation. We used to reject the names that people called us, and now we embrace them. I'm not making a judgement call on whether that is good or bad -- it's just an observation. Words that were once used to wound are now embraced, and even celebrated.

Geek and nerd are now used to describe the people living in the big houses, on the side of the mountain -- the guy you probably work for. Somehow they became respectable in the last two decades. Good for the geeks and the nerds. Bill Gates and Steve Jobs are nerds.

Me? I'm a dork. And an unrepentant one at that.

Napoleon Dynamite is a dork.

 I was made into a dork by my parents, but at forty, I figure there's no turning back, so I have embraced it. I celebrate it -- much to the chagrin and consternation of my wife and kids. Like so many other "special" people, I feel that this dorkiness is not my fault, and there is nothing I can do about it, but I've decided that for posterity - and possibly for a government subsidy (hey, I'm not a nerd or a geek) -- that I should explain how I became this way...

It all started when I was a wee lad....

While browsing the internet the other day, I came upon a ghost from my past: 

The Huffy Bandit. My first bike. The most ridiculous of bikes. 

 The Edsel of bikes.

It was the early 1980's, and all of my friends were getting bikes. BMX was the buzzword of the the day, though none of us was actually involved with Boy's Motorcross. My best friend, Aaron, had a bike called "Gold Fever." He told me it was a disco bike. I wasn't sure what that meant, but I saw no reason to doubt him -- like I said, it was the very early 80's.

So, when my parents finally agreed to get me a bike, this was the abomination that they brought home. 

It had a trapezoidal shaped seat. It looked like a black pound cake. There were, literally, dozens of boys, about my age, in the neighborhood where I grew up, we all got bikes about the same time. 

Only I rode the Huffy Bandit. 

As an aside, the bike was supposedly inspired by the "Smokey and the Bandit" movies. Remember that highlight of cinematic history -- when the biggest name in the world was Burt Reynolds, and he drove around in a black Trans Am, with a gold eagle on the hood?

I know Tans Am, and you, Huffy Bandit, are no Trans Am.

See those uniquely curved handle bars? There are two things that all boys want to do with on their bikes -- jump and do wheelies. The combination of the handle bars and the elongated seat made it possible to do NOT ONE COOL TRICK!!! I couldn't wheelie, I couldn't jump. The most spectacular feat I ever accomplished on the Bandit was to try and navigate a dip on a dirt road, and fall on my face. It was a lot like riding on the back of mentally challenged moose. But, not as graceful. 

I blame my parents. It's obvious, looking back, that they are to blame for the dork that I am today. You should have seen the way they let me dress back then: cowboy boots and guns, a space helmet and a superman cape.

At the same time.

Yes, I was dressing myself at that point, but they had the power to stop it, and they did NOTHING! It was a conspiracy. 

Proof you ask? I submit my final exhibit:

About the same time as the Huffy Bandit Affair, as it has come to be known, the kids in the neighborhood were getting roller skates -- the pre-roller blade kind. These were the skates with the plastic wheels, and the big rubber stopper on the end of the toe. The kind that made the quiet whooooooooshingsound, when you rode them down the street. Naturally, I wanted some too. 

Christmas that year was the only Christmas, of my childhood, that I distinctly remember there being no snow. A perfect Christmas for roller skates, and, on Christmas morning, I got roller skates. 

With metal wheels. 

And no brakes. 

Naturally, I was the only one so blessed. 

Do you know the sound of metal wheels scraping along pavement? It's like a cow bell around your neck. It's a dork alarm, so that everyone knows when you're coming. 

I'm not bitter though. 

Really.

When did she grow up?

I took Jordan for her second "driving lesson" this afternoon.

And here's the problem...she was good.

I'm forty years old, and that doesn't bother me. I also don't mind my children getting older. As cute as they were as babies, they're a lot more fun now. We go places, we do things, we can speak intelligently with each other...well, they are teenagers...intelligence is one thing, rationality is another, I guess.

But driving, that's different.

Driving is a step into the adult world. I thought I was ready for this, but I'm not. I thought this would be a longer process, I didn't think we'd get here so quickly. I thought I would hold her hand a little longer. I was prepared for white knuckles and tension headaches. I was ready for jerky starts and running over curbs. But she drove well. She drove competently. She accelerated and braked when she was supposed to. She made all the correct turns. She followed the rules.

She needed me less than I thought she would.

Driving is a step toward independence. It's a step toward dating and courtship (a VERY SMALL STEP, let's be clear on that point). It's a step toward leaving. From the day our children are born, they are moving toward that day when they leave home behind, and move on and create their own lives. I know this and I accept it, but why did it come so fast?

I've been moving to the wings for years, as Jordan takes center stage in her own life, and the truth is, I love the view from here. I've known Jordan was special from the first time I looked into those big, blue eyes. She is my artist and my writer. My poet and my soul searcher. It is my great luck to share the stage with her, for the little time I have. It is my joy to have a front row seat to watch her become all that I know she is going to become.

It is my privilege to be her father.

I want Jordan to go out into the world, and set it on fire. I want her to share her beautiful soul with those unlucky enough not to have met her yet. I want her to know what I know about her -- what she can only know through independence -- that she is strong. That she is capable. That she is smart. That she is rare. That she is precious.

That she is a diamond.

But, I don't want her not to need me.

Not quite yet...

My Life in 100 Words

I was born to see the world through the eyes of a gypsy and a dreamer. 

I don't know much, but I know what friendship is. 

My life's soundtrack begins with the 20th Century Fox Theme. 

I am blessed to love a love worthy of all that I can give her...and more.

Seeing myself in my children affects me more than they'll ever know. 

My childhood was magical. Really magical.

If I had five minutes with you, I could tell you why you matter to the universe. 

My life, in one hundred words, doesn't begin to scratch the surface.

The Old and the New

The ball has dropped.

The toasts have been made.

The old is out and the new has arrived.

But, as I sit here, in the shadowy silence of my living room, I can't let go of the night, until I take a moment to reflect on the year that just passed.

I remember the darkness in 2012. It stands out because some of our darkest hours were our final hours -- a ship of fools, sailing toward a fiscal cliff...children, taken from us, before their lives had really begun. Every year has it's share of tragedy, and sorrow, and that pain should be acknowledged, and, where appropriate, honored.

But I can't linger on the darkness, when I remember so much light.

2012 was a year that I began the second half of my life. It was the year that old friends became new again, and new friends were found, and embraced. It was the year that I learned to love my wife more than I ever have before. It was a year that I saw my children do things I had never seen them do.

I saw very small gymnasts with very big smiles. I saw an Olympic swimmer do something that perhaps no one else will ever do again. I saw eighteen years of marriage. It was a year that I loved and was loved in return.

It was the year that the world did not end.

It was the year that I saw the world every day, through the lens of my camera.

I saw Disneyland and the ocean. I saw sunrises and sunsets and sunflowers. I saw icicles and parades and smiling children and towering mountains and hidden lakes. I saw hundreds of things that I can't even recall. I saw the beauty in the every day mundane world.

2012 left me in the company of those I love most, content, and smiling.

And last of all, a toast to the year before us...

May the new year find you at peace, but not content. May you strive for the better angels of your nature. May you learn to be the people that your mothers believe you to be. May you take life as it comes to you, accepting your sorrows, but growing from them, embracing your joys and learning to share them. May you lift instead of tearing down. May you hold the darkness at bay, with the light that you give.

May your lives be as blessed and my life is blessed by each of you.

Happy New Year everyone!






Chris