August Fireballs and Waterfalls

August Fireballs and Waterfalls
By Noel Laflin
 June 3, 2010

Deer Creek Falls - Grand Canyon



The spectacular fireball roared across the hot August night.  It caught me by total surprise as it flared out of the west and tore over our mountain, eastward bound.  Our Friday night campfire had concluded a short time prior to this and folks were heading back to their lodgings, as was my intent.   Walking alone, my eye was suddenly drawn skyward as this massive greenish-blue meteorite streaked above the tree line leaving a glowing trail in its wake.
 
Now, I have seen a lot of shooting stars in my life, but never the likes of this big boy.  It was magnificent to say the least.  Although silent, as it ripped the night apart, I could only imagine how it sounded upon impact – wherever the hell that was.  It appeared to be so close overhead that I feared it had struck Green Valley Lake itself, a mere two miles away.  It couldn’t be, I reasoned - one would have heard the explosion and felt the mountain shudder.
 
“Jesus!” cried an unknown staffer from the dark.  “Did anyone else see that thing?” he asked, with more than just a bit of trepidation in his breaking tone.

“Yes,” I shouted in reply.  “Wow!”

By then we could catch the sound of other voices coming from afar, all exclaiming similar oaths of wonder.  The forest had suddenly come to life.

“I’ve got to call this in to the forestry service,” I said aloud.  “That thing had to have hit our mountain.”  And with that I rushed off to the night owl’s station where an outside phone line was available.

Much to my amazement and slight embarrassment, I later learned that the fireball had landed in Arizona – not even remotely close to the San Bernardino Mountains.  So far away, I thought; how could this be?  It was right overhead, or so it appeared. How could it land some two hundred miles from here?  Well, I was both relieved and disappointed at the same time.  Not that I had wanted a scene similar to the one out of Siberia back in 1908, when a great portion of the Tunguska forest was obliterated by a blazing meteorite or comet of some sort … but, I was hoping for some kind of minor excitement nonetheless.

Looking back on it I realize now that the true spectacle was in the mere witnessing of this particular space rock blazing its way across the strata and burning up in our atmosphere.   Maybe it was the altitude of our mountain that gave me both the advantage and clarity of seeing this behemoth for what it may not have appeared to be in the smoggy murk below us.  At any rate, I am grateful for a glimpse of something so truly colossal - something that I have been on the lookout for ever since - but have never seen again. 

Six years later I found myself in Arizona.  I wasn't hunting meteorite debris - rather I was in the depths of the Grand Canyon, staring up at a magnificent waterfall.

In the muggy monsoon summer of 1982 I had the privilege of rafting through the Grand via the mighty Colorado River.  It was my first, but by no means last time to do so.  It was both hot and rainy that particular week in August. Temperatures would easily climb past a hundred each day; thunderheads would then begin to dominate the horizon and soon pounding rains would devour us.  Rain gear should have been in order, but it was easiest just to stay in a pair of swim trunks as you dried out immediately after the frequent showers.  It was never cool.  We slept atop the sleeping bags as opposed to inside them as the nights never dipped below the eighty degree range.  Despite this, you could not beat the adrenaline rush of just being in this ancient land.
 
On day three of this trip our boatmen put in at  Deer Creek Falls - one of just several beautiful waterfalls hidden within the canyon.  The water fell from high above to the sandy beach below.  It was an excellent place to shower off the layers of Colorado colored mud which had leached into our very pores.  Leaving the rafts tied up at the river's edge we began the hike to the top of the falls.  One had to hug the wall as the trail narrowed around a few challenging bends.  As we climbed, the boats and river grew ever smaller. 

But once we reached the top of the esplanade we spotted the many painted hand prints of some of the Ancient Ones adorning the opposite wall across a deep chasm. The age of those small outlined hands are not known exactly, -anywhere from five hundred years and counting by most estimates. And how those folks scaled what appeared to us a formidable height is remarkable.  It was a sacred site, we were told by our boatmen and to treat it as such.  We did - for it is said that when these former dwellers of the canyon died, spirit guides led the departed to seven sacred points in the canyon - this being the last stop.  As they crossed the final chasm, to the side of the rocks where Deer Creek came bursting forth, they then passed on forever. 

      
It is both a beautiful and haunted spot.  I have since been back two more times over the last three decades, making the climb and viewing the hand prints of ancient daredevils who left their indelible human stamp behind.  I am never at a loss for humility when there.  You can feel something tugging at your very soul each time.  Others have commented on the same feelings as well.  I was witness, once again, to a thing I find hard to explain adequately. 

But the years since have taught me to be at peace with such mysteries.  I am simply grateful for the experience - whether it be on a western mountain top on a warm August night filled with sudden brilliant light or an intensely hot August day standing beside a sacred waterfall deep within one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World.  Jesus, can anyone ask for more?

Someday, when my number is up, I’d like to follow a spirit guide on one last tour of the seven sacred spots within the Canyon and cross over to Deer Creek Falls.  I will be looking for painted hand prints on the red rock wall and listening to the sound of rapids way below.  I am sure I will be grinning from ear to ear anticipating the next great adventure - not to mention the solving of a mystery or two. 

An immense fireball skyrocketing out of the west and zipping through the star-filled Arizona night at that exact moment would be an added treat …

           

           

           

           

Mother, Mouse, Cat and Dog

The Dangers of Ironing

By Noel Laflin

2-19-02



I have never cared for ironing.

The plain truth is, I detest it.

The thought of burnt fingertips, funny creases in obvious places, and unruly long sleeves will put me in a sour mood each time I am forced to deal with wrinkled garments.

But piled up it had, the laundry that is.  The clothes had gained such height that I now faced the inevitable.  I finally found myself forced to go in search of the old wooden ironing board stashed away in the upstairs closet one evening. 

“I hate ironing,” I mumbled for the umpteenth time.  “How the hell did mom do this all her life?” I wondered. 

Remembrances of her standing in front of an ironing board, very similar to the one, which now resided within my home, came to mind with a flourish.  Shirts, pants, blouses, neckerchiefs, handkerchiefs, pillowcases, Brownie, Cub and Boy Scout uniforms, as well as bed sheets were all put under the pressing of her strong arms.  I recall the faded brown burn on the inside of her right arm, a reminder of a passing hot iron from years before.

“Did it hurt, mom?” I had asked one day.

“Like the dickens,” she replied.  “Got too close, I guess.  Put some oleo on it as soon as it happened, though, and stopped the pain.  Oleomargarine works every time,” she insisted. 

“Ironing does have its dangers,” she mused, absently touching the old scar.

Long forgotten conversations from my boyhood home danced about in memory.  There was mom going about this weekly chore - radio playing in the background and me lying on the bed watching her press - watching her create neat, creased order out of wrinkled chaos. I envision ever so vividly the steam rising from damp cloth as the heavy iron pressed hard into the fabric of my father’s shirt.  I can see her still, expertly skirting the buttons.  I can hear the hiss of steam coming from the black and stainless steel iron when it was tilted back in place as she realigned the pant leg on the narrow end of the board, lining up the crease.  I remember, as if it were yesterday, the smell of dampness meeting heat when the old iron was put to task again.  I can hear, once more, the shaking of the sprinkler-corked soda pop bottle now filled with water, baptizing white cotton sheets.  I recall the clunk, clunk, clunk, as the iron hit the board.

“Damn, where is that thing?” The old memories quickly faded.  I had reached the spare room closet and could not find the accursed ironing board.  It’s counterpart, the iron, was already plugged in, warming up down in the kitchen. Shirts and pants were piled high on the table. I could never bring myself to tackle bed sheets.  Saw no sense in that.  Never did tell mom, though.

I brushed various articles aside and looked to the rear of the closet.  Not there either.

Sliding the door closed I went to the other end and peered within.

“Ah, ha!” I whispered. Serving secret duty as a coat rack, the dreaded board stood erect in the far corner.  I removed this instrument of torture and flipped it over in a horizontal position, for easier carrying down the stairs.

That’s when we made eye contact.

A small gray field mouse was nesting in the slipcover and padding on the bottom of the ironing board.  He or she had gathered up quite a bit of the excess cotton and brought it all to one end of the board, making what looked to be a very cozy mouse house.

“Well, damn!” I muttered in amazement.   “You don’t use something for a month or two and half-pint squatters soon take over.  What do you know, Joe?” I asked my newly found freeloading tenant. 

The small, black, beady eyes locked onto mine.  Messier or Madame Mouse looked as if he or she had just been awakened from a fine nap. Well, at least the little guy or gal was putting the damn board to some good use.  The rodent was now frozen in place, as was I.

“What to do, what to do?” I wondered to no one in particular, except the mouse.

I had not been aware of mice in my place up until now.  Having a cat around, as I always did, freed me from ever giving much thought to rodent questions of this sort.

“The cat!” I cried, looking about quickly for the black and white tabby.  Her name was Omen.  She would assume this new find in the ironing board to be a good omen indeed, if she caught wind of it. 

The cat was not in sight, however - good omen for the mouse, perhaps.

“What to do, what to do, Joe?” I asked once more.  I needed a plan. 

I had always been rather fond of mice, even wild ones, such as this.  I perceived them to be the underdogs in life, the little guys just trying to make a go of things.  I had pet mice as a kid and tolerated the families of field mice that took over our shabby summer quarters at Scout camp.  The mattresses at Camp Ahwahnee were so infested with mice that you sometimes could feel them beneath your prone body as they ran up and down their padded mouse paths within the bed itself as you tired to sleep.  They made nests in your boots, clothes and footlocker, if they could find a way in.  They stole your food, chewed holes in your last clean pair of socks and kept you up half the night scampering about the staff cabins.  They were there first I figured.  I was only a summer guest.  It was only a temporary sharing of quarters.  I would not trap them, as others did.

Despite their noisy nocturnal habits and thieving ways, I liked them nonetheless.  I could never bear to watch the nature crew feeding captured mice to the rattlesnakes.  The likewise captive diamond back rattlers had to eat too, I guess.  And although it fascinated many a boy to watch a poor mouse being dropped into the thick glass terrarium, freeze in place once he saw the snake and then await his violent death, the kill always sickened me.  The mouse never had a sporting chance, locked in the confines of this see-through prison.  It was always just a matter of time before the snake made its move, opened its mouth, pounced, bit and swallowed the rodent whole.  Unhinging its jaw, the snake could swallow the prey slowly, yet determinedly.  Over time one could watch the lump make its way down the snake’s belly, eventually getting smaller and smaller until fully digested and them eliminated as a furry gray snake turd some days later.  Nope, I just never did take a hankering to that scene. 

So, I looked about for the cat once more.  Not up here, at least.

If I could only make my way down the stairs without spooking Joe here, or alerting the cat, I reasoned, I  just might get the board outside and shake the little one free.  OK, so I had a plan.  But to quote Robert Burns: “The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men . . .”

I was halfway down the thirteen steps when I spotted Omen.  Head in the air, she had apparently caught a whiff of what I carried in my arms.  Like Joe, Omen had been asleep too.  Well, she was fully awake now, and off that old couch in a flash.  She bounded for the base of the stairs and stared very intently at my carefully held bundle.  A low growl emanated from the back of her throat.  Her tail whipped the air, back and forth, her green eyes wide and wild looking.  Natural instincts had taken over.

I whispered to Joe to just be cool and not make any sudden moves.  I continued my decent, keeping one foot ready to kick Omen away should she stray any closer.  My small stowaway was frozen in place.  I wondered if it too could smell or at least sense the potential danger awaiting him or her at the foot of the stairs.  Must have.  As I reached the landing and slowly went for the handle of the front door little Joe make a mad dash for freedom. 

Leaping from its snug nest the mouse bounded over my shoulder and landed on the second step.  The cat, seeing her chance, jumped up from where she was poised and flew past my leg.  She over shot her leap, however, and missed her prey.  The mouse, seeing the new danger now so close at hand, turned tail and ran back down the stairs.

By now I had the front door open and motioned stupidly for Joe to head this way, where I intended to block the cat’s pursuit and give the mouse time to hide in the ivy out front.

Poor dumb mouse.  It bypassed the road to freedom and headed to my left, straight for the living room.

Enter the newest player at this point - the dog.

Now Tara was of a smallish breed, a Lhasa Apso, black in color, gentle in disposition.  She weighed no more than twelve pounds, at best.  She was a calm, loving dog and was,  until recently, napping in the dining room. It seems they had all been napping - all but me.  Regardless, with the sudden commotion now happening not more than ten feet away, she awoke from her slumber and spotted the small gray toy-like object speeding her way.  I don’t believe, in her young life, that she had ever seen a mouse up until now.  At  any rate, with unforeseen alertness, she leaped from her bed and joined the race.  Both dog and cat were on a collision course.  One fast moving mouse lay trapped between them.

With Omen now less than a foot from her rapidly moving target, Tara beat her to the punch, opened her little canine mouth and gulped down the surprised mouse in one swift reflex of a move.  Joe was no more.

I stared in disbelief.

The cat stared in disbelief.        

The dog swallowed hard and burped in disbelief.

I must have looked brokenhearted.

The dog looked sheepish and yet proud.

The cat looked downright pissed off.  Glaring at Tara, she slunk off in embarrassment.

Tara lay back down and went to sleep.

I, standing like a dummy with the old wooden ironing board still in hand, recalled my mother’s warning of long ago:  “Ironing does have its dangers."

Damn right, mom.  Just ask the late, great, little Joe.

With that, I proceeded out the open front door, walked to the dumpster and unceremoniously tossed the old ironing board into the trash.

The next day I put on my least wrinkled shirt, loaded the rest in the car and headed off in search of a new best friend.  I found him a short time later in Old El Modena.  His name was  Kevin -  Kevin the drycleaner.

There are some dangers, unforeseen as they may be, that should be avoided at all costs.  Fifty cents a shirt was what it now cost me.  A small price to pay, I thought, as I threw the iron in the dumpster later that day.

It made the most satisfying clunk as the iron hit the board.

And with that - I pressed the issue - nevermore.