Plum Tired

Plum Tired

Noel Laflin

7-23-13

I am going to have to take down the old Satsuma plum tree soon – and I am not happy about it.

You see, this particular old friend has been providing us with some of the most succulent purple fruit one could ever hope to bite into for the past thirty years.  And, even when summer is laid to rest each year, there’s still the promise of tartly sweet plum jam to get one through successive autumns, winters and springs.  Oh, just bring forth those hot English Muffins smothered with melted butter glistening within every hidden nook & cranny and topped off with a generous spoonful or two of our plum jam!

But there is one other reason that I lament the eventual taking down of this quiet backyard horn-of-plenty; it will erase yet one more touchstone to the past. 

“We should plant two plum trees,” Tom declared, as we labored to till the land of our newly acquired small and rocky backyard.  It was early December – 1983; we had just moved into the new condo in the old Paloma neighborhood in Orange over the long Thanksgiving weekend.

“If we have two trees, we’ll have better chances of pollination,” Tom continued, as we struggled to lift one more heavy rock from the hard-as-clay soil.  In fact, it was hard clay mostly, as I recall.  Tom said that gypsum would help break it down over time.  And like all things related to gardening, he was right about that idea too.

“I suggest we go with two varieties – a Santa Rosa and a Satsuma.  You remember that Satsuma tree in Jim’s backyard?  Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  I’ve never tasted a sweeter plum,” Tom said, as he closed his eyes, wet his lips and clicked his tongue in remembrance.

“Yeah, that was a pretty good plum,” I agreed, leaning hard into the shovel as Tom wedged the pick ax under a massive boulder we were attempting to dislodge from the middle of the yard.

 

“I grew up on Santa Rosas,” I continued, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from my eyes with the sleeve of my sweatshirt.  “You can make great jam from Santa Rosas, Tom.  I watched my mother do it for most of my life.  You’ve tasted her jam.  It’s still legendary in my folks’ old neighborhood.  I bought a lot of favors from old neighbors if I showed up with any half pint of my mother’s plum, peach or apricot jam.”  Now, it was my turn to momentarily close my eyes and lick my lips in tribute to the thought.  “Yeah, we’ve got to plant plum trees for sure.” 

And, so we did.  The two trees were in the ground by Christmas.  Within two years we had our first small crop of Satsuma’s and Santa Rosa’s.  The trees were planted within just a few feet of one another and soon entangled their branches high above our heads. The rest of the garden burst forth in bloom under Tom’s green thumb as well. Koi ponds were dug and stocked and thrived under his supervision.  But the two young plum trees were the real treasures as they quickly grew reaching for the sky, producing exponentially year-by-year.

Ten years later, as twilight lingered just long enough, I was planting Tom’s ashes beneath a giant rock that buffeted one of the koi ponds.  The gypsum that he had insisted would help break down the hard clay had done its job apparently, as the digging was easy, even by hand.  Tom had come home to rest in the shade of two stately plum trees.  I had become an expert in the art of jam making by then.

 

Seventeen years later, the old Santa Rosa came to the end of its life and gave me one last crop of small, but tasty fruit.  I savored every one of those edible gems before taking down the gnarled old giant one fall afternoon.  I used a curved hand saw – never having liked the noise and disrespect a chain saw brought with it.  I apologized multiple times to every brittle limb before starting each cut.  I also thanked the tree for the thousands upon thousands of plums it had provided my family and friends for a quarter of a century.  Once the tree was disassembled, piece by painful piece – I went out and bought a new young sapling – a Satsuma - and planted it within feet of the remaining old plum tree of ‘83.  The youngster’s branches now reach for the sky as it too explores the realms of exponential fruit multiplication.

And so, now, I am faced with the sad fact that the last old remaining pioneer must come down, as soon as I harvest this last small crop.  The tree is three quarters dead you see.  The last of the fruit will be easy to gather.  I probably should have taken the old fellow down last fall, but could only bear to saw off a portion of my tired, brittle friend.  Just one more summer I thought; just one more crop.  Let’s make it an even thirty years, I reasoned.  The ghost of Tom nodded in agreement.

I was sampling from a lower limb at twilight just a short while ago and smiled at the familiar first bite – that first tang of sweet and tart that hits one’s taste buds – the taste of summer itself. 

Of Mice and Beans

OF MICE AND BEANS

Noel Laflin

7-10-13

It was early August 1966 and I was on the hunt for at least one more merit badge. 

So, I set my sights on a newly needed round of cloth in order to qualify for the rank of Eagle Scout. It was called Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge.

The thin paperback Scout pamphlet spoke of a dozen things I needed to learn about nature and conserving our natural resources, but first led off with the following:

“Experiments and Explanations for the Conservation of Natural Resources Merit Badge.

The Boy Scout must perform one task from each of the following categories.

1. Carry on an experiment examining how organisms respond to environmental changes and discuss the findings with your counselor.

2. Explain how an ecosystem survives in nature.”

Piece of cake, thought I.  There was just one hitch; we were leaving on vacation for Minnesota early the next morning.  How was I going to carry out any nature experiments in the family Ford?

“Why don’t you plant a bean seed in a coffee tin,” my father suggested. “Beans will sprout damn near anywhere as long as you water them and keep that can in the sun as much as possible.  Sun won’t be a problem where we’re headed.  That plant ought to be half a foot tall by the time we get back.  It will make a good story for your counselor as well.”

So it was that a single pinto bean seed in a Folgers coffee can, stuffed with backyard dirt and moistened with Anaheim tap water, was packed with the rest of the luggage in the old Country Squire station wagon.  It had a place of honor atop a suitcase or two so that it could bask in the sunshine of ten different states. 

And, sure as shootin’, my dad was right – the top of the soil began to crack somewhere around Gallop and a curled green sprout announced its arrival close to Minneapolis.  Dang, thought I, beans do grow in the strangest of ecosystems.

I faithfully carried my coffee can from lake shore cabin to suburban St. Paul home to Midwest farm, all the while explaining to grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins as to just what the hell I was doing.  Some marveled at the astonishing rate of growth of said bean plant.  I quoted frequently from my Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge booklet, trying to sound important.  Grandparents, elderly aunts and uncles looked impressed, for the most part.  My farm-raised cousins were not; as they had seen a million kernels of corn perform the same trick in their daddy’s fields year after year.

By the end of our week long stay in the land of ten thousand lakes, the bean plant stood at least four inches high; my father had predicted that kind of growth.  As I had also read my merit badge pamphlet from cover to cover at least a dozen times, I knew I was ready to ace whatever questions the counselor might quiz me on once we were home.  And so, home we headed.

My father drove all the way to Jackson Hole, Wyoming that day.  We had brought camping gear and decided to rough it that evening at the base of the Tetons.  It was downright frigid by the time we had cooked supper and zipped ourselves into the family tent.

Come Sunday morning, we saw exactly just how cold it had gotten as frost covered everything.  We shivered in our summer shorts and tee-shirts waiting for the sun to break over the mountains as we ate breakfast and then broke camp.  My dad wanted an early start as he had to be at work Monday and intended to make the eight hundred mile drive in one stint.  

My father tossed me the keys to the car and told me to start making room for the gear.  The Ford gleamed with frost.  I lifted the back window and laid down the tailgate.  And, then I saw it.  My plant had died of frostbite.  The once proud, green bean pole was now ashen grey and drooped over the lip of the Folgers’s can.  It was a sad sight indeed to see what this unexpected environmental change had brought about.

“Just one more story for the counselor,” my dad noted as we hauled the tent, camp stove, sleeping bags and air mattresses into the back of our portable lab on wheels.  I tucked the coffee can in a corner and figured I would deal with explanations later.

I suppose it was somewhere in Utah when my father and I heard the screams coming from the back seat where my mother and sister had been drowsing in the mid afternoon sun.

“It’s a mouse!” they cried in unison, scrambling about the old bench seat, trying valiantly to keep their feet from touching the floorboard.  I caught sight of a fleeting flash of grey as the critter jumped the back seat and secreted himself away with all the luggage piled high behind us.

Yup, it was a mouse alright, I confided to my dad as he continued to speed down the Beehive highway.  “Looks like we must have packed him away with the gear this morning."
  
"He’s just a little field mouse," I said, turning to face my mom. "Nothing to be frightened of," I continued.  "He’s probably scared to death being trapped in here with us.  Kind of a cool stowaway, don’t you think?” 

Neither my mother nor my sister took much comfort in my keen observation.  And all the coaxing and luggage rearranging performed at our next brief rest stop could neither discover nor dislodge our tiny hitchhiker.  So, my dad drove on into the late afternoon sun where the heat of Nevada soon greeted us.

By the time we made Baker it was nearly eleven o’clock in the evening.  My father pulled off the highway for one last gas fill-up, quick bite to eat and bathroom break.  As we all opened the four doors of the old Ford I noticed a flash of grey leap out of the rear passenger’s side and hit the hot gravel of the parking lot.  The mouse had seen his chance and pounced.

I have often wondered what he thought as he raced across the desert.  He had been born and raised in the cool shade of the snow capped Tetons and suddenly found himself in hell.  Despite the time of night, it was still a hundred and five degrees outside. 

“Welcome to Baker,” I cried out.  “It’s the Gateway to Death Valley you know.”  With that I closed the car doors and followed my family into the small café attached to the filling station.  The rush of air conditioned air never felt so welcome.  If the mouse was smart, I thought, he would eventually make this discovery of his own. 

The discovery that we all made when we finally pulled into our own driveway three hours later was that the bean plant – frost bit and all – was no more.  It seems that the mouse had had it for dinner. 

“Now, this ought to make a good story for your counselor,” my dad chuckled as he handed me the barren coffee can.  “Help me haul this stuff out of here so we can get to bed.  I’ve got to be at work in a few hours.”

Two days later I found myself sitting opposite from Art Gray, my designated counselor for the Conservation of Natural Resources merit badge.  I had in hand an old Folgers coffee can with a quarter inch stub of something dead poking out of the caked dirt within.

“So, what the heck is that Noel?”

“ Mr. Gray - you know how organisms are supposed to respond to environmental changes and how an ecosystem survives in nature?” I stammered.

“Yes,” he said as he leaned forward to get a better look at my coffee can.

“Well, I’ve got a pretty good story that ought to drive the point home.”

Fizzled Out

Fizzled Out

Noel Laflin

July 1, 2013

(Adapted from “Ahwahnee Hit Parade of ‘68”)

It was a spirited, rollicking and fairly patriotic campfire we put on that July 4^th night, back in 1968.  And, it was at the end of said festivities that our intrepid program director proposed that we all follow him up the Red Trail to Superstition Peak, grab a rock for a chair and await the splendid fireworks traditionally launched over Lake Arrowhead.  He assured us that the spectacular show would commence at precisely nine that evening.  And, like believing children following the pied piper, all of Camp Ahwahnee emptied and trailed the man out of the fire arena, crossed the highway and up the steep switchbacks, searching out red florescent trail markers from many an old tree stump and painted boulder.

It looked like a scene from an old Frankenstein movie - you know the part where the villagers are approaching the old castle with torches ablaze.  Well, our torches were merely flashlights and it was hardly a castle we were storming - just the top of old Superstition Peak, which loomed a good eight hundred feet above camp. But it would have the greatest view in the entire area of the fireworks, or so our guide said.  And so we continued up the dark, dusty trail - all two hundred of us.

We eventually made it to the top with a good twenty minutes to spare before the polytechnics would begin.  So, kids scrambled for a piece of granite, stared intently toward the arrowhead-shaped lake far off in the distance and waited impatiently for the show to start. 

Nine o’clock came and went - and we still waited. 

Maybe the time had been moved to nine-thirty or ten, the program director advised us. So we waited some more. 

Once ten o’clock had come and gone, so were we. There were no fireworks that evening.  Turned out, we were to learn later, that they had been shot off the night before – or perhaps it was to be the night after - who knows?  For whatever reason, Arrowhead was on a different schedule from the rest of the nation.  Meanwhile, two hundred disgruntled young men trudged down the mountain, leaving just one guy still staring in disbelief at the darkened lake far below.

That one guy sheepishly came to breakfast the next morning sporting a handmade fake mustache and bearing a new identity via his staff name badge.  He insisted that we call him Rudy Begonia – a visiting international Scout from Italy.  He deftly took a seat in the old mess hall, grabbed a bowl of Cheerios and nonchalantly asked, “Hey! How-a-bout-a those Dodgers, huh?”

Disguise, banal banter and name change aside, our intrepid leader was quietly encircled by a score of outstretched hands and unceremoniously carried to the pool – into which he was promptly tossed. 

When the cheering was done, two hundred Scouts triumphantly returned to their seats in the old mess hall in order to finish their breakfast.

The new guy from Italy, along with a limply floating fake mustache, and altered name badge, had the pool all to himself.

Echoing laughter from the mess hall rebounded off the old mountain peak looming high above.

            

Star Witness

Star Witness

6-22-13

Noel Laflin

It was a last minute trip as I recall.  But then again, it was some forty four years ago.  We had driven up Highway 395 late one Friday night and swung into Death Valley from the Western entrance.  Dog tired from the long trip, we chose the first opportunity to pull off the road and roll out the sleeping bags.  It was well past one in the morning.

As the night was mild, we lay atop our bedrolls and sank into the blissful comfort of a large sand dune we had staked out as our own private mountain retreat.

There was neither moon nor artificial city light by which to dim the starry illumination all about us. As Death Valley stretches across such a low elevation, the sky above was truly dark.  Consequently, I have never seen so many celestial twinkling lights spread out across our universe.  The Milky Way never seemed so vast and yet so intimate.  We talked quietly among ourselves commenting on our good fortune of being the only ones out here to catch such a night - such a sight.  And, as the four of us gazed upward with arms behind our heads, lined up as we were atop our soft sandy mattress, the shooting star spectacular commenced. 

“Whoa…did you see that one!” a Scout cried out, bolting upright with excitement.

“There’s another one,” said lad number two.  “It just streaked the entire sky!”

“And there’s another,” whispered a third voice. 

“Two at the same time!” the last kid exclaimed.

So it began and so it continued for the next two hours as hundreds of bits of rock and dust entered our atmosphere at a gazillion miles an hour, burning their way across our vast field of view, zipping their way into eventual pulverization.   It occurred to the sixteen-year-old boy who drifted off to sleep atop that sand dune that the spectacle was in the witnessing.  He had never seen a darker sky nor counted a night so filled with speeding light.

The sixty-year-old man of today still marvels at the memory.

He thanks his young witness.

 

Our Town Remembers: Welcoming remarks for tribute to Jack Schlatter

June 1, 2013 - Knott's Berry Farm Banquet Hall

GOOD EVENING, GOOD EVENING, GOOD EVENING!

     MY NAME IS NOEL LAFLIN AND IT IS BOTH MY HONOR AND PRIVILEGE TO START THINGS TONIGHT BY FIRST WELCOMING ONE AND ALL – BOYS AND GIRLS – YOUNG AND OLD - FORMER STUDENT OR FRIEND – SPOUSE, PARENT, CHILD, SIBLING OR SIGNIFICANT OTHER PERHAPS GENTLY BRIBED HERE TONIGHT WITH THE PROMISE OF A CHICKEN DINNER.  AND IF YOU WERE NOT ACQUAINTED WITH THE GUEST OF HONOR BEFORE THIS EVENING – I GUARANTEE THAT YOU WILL BE DELIGHTED TO CALL HIM FRIEND BY THE CONCLUSION OF THESE FESTIVITIES!  

    

      You know, if Motel the tailor (of “Fiddler on the Roof” fame) had only been a student of a certain man, for whom we pay tribute to tonight – well, there just might have been some tweaking to one of his verses.  And it might have gone something like this:

“Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles!

God took a student by the hand.

Turned him around and miracle of miracles,

 Led him to Jack Schlatterland!”

     Now, my own expedition into Schlatterland happened in the following fashion:

      You see, I was a scared, lanky, twelve-year-old when I chose my desk in seventh-grade American History class.  I looked about the classroom; signs of all sizes adorned the four walls: "When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going!” - "The Difficult We Do Immediately.  The Impossible Takes A Little Longer.”   

      "This is American History?" I mused.  I checked my class schedule again.

     The final bell rang and latecomers raced for unoccupied desks as we awaited adult tutelage.

     Suddenly the door burst open and a man, slightly disheveled in appearance, bound into our midst.  His thinning hair was askew, as was his narrow tie.  Black suit and white dress shirt were each in need of a press & tuck, respectively.  His boyish face radiated warmth and confidence.  Mischief flickered in his eyes.  "Welcome to Sycamore Junior High School.  My name is Jack Schlatter.  Is this history or drama?"

     He checked his own desk schedule, then winked.

     You see, Jack Schlatter drew people to his side, like moths to a flame.  I soon took every class he taught; speech, drama, summer school theater workshop.  I sought membership into one of the school clubs when I learned that he was the faculty advisor.  I was not alone.  On any given night one could walk down our school halls by just following the heady pipe aroma and find students, parents or faculty lingering outside his classroom spying on drama rehearsal for "Our Town,” "The Miracle Worker" or "Anne Frank.”  If we couldn't be part of the cast we'd volunteer for any related job, just to be around this man's energy.  He was tough but giving.  He was the most positive individual I had ever met.  When reverse mysteriously gave out on the transmission of his car, he merely said it was a reminder for him to always go forward, think ahead, never retreat, never be in a position of having to back up.  I don't think he ever fixed the problem with that car.  Because, as he so rightly reminded all of us, it was not a problem – but rather an opportunity.  But, hey, we were only fourteen years old so we believed him. 

     As Thornton Wilder’s stage manger so famously asks  in Our Town:

     “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?”

     Well, if they had ever had the privilege of being taught by the likes of you, Jack Schlatter, they probably just might have.

     Before I conclude, and pass along the proverbial baton to others, I need to first extend some kudos to a few folks who helped put this event together.  First and foremost, as she is far too modest to make it known publicly, we need to thank Toni Encheff, who initially approached me with the idea of creating this tribute.  Quite simply put, without her gentle persistence we would not be here this evening.  Pulled quickly into our conspiracy was Rosalie Schooler Smith and her daughter Amy.  Also joining in the fun were Carol Blackwood This, Marjie Blevins, Mark Till, Pamla Manzar (for the wonderful individual chocolates and place settings), Bill Beville,  Roxanne and Dave Hill as well as Melody Encheff.  We need to thank Danelle Till who worked from afar via the Our Town Remembers Face book page posting daily quotes for two months.   Additionally, there are a couple of young men with video cameras who have been roaming the room capturing the antics of many tonight.  Thank you, David (of Sonora High School) for volunteering at the last minute – or should I say thank you Marjie for bringing David to our attention.  And thank you Charles for being here at the last minute to film as well.  And for all the other unsung heroes who made the trek from afar – and that would include the Philippines, Alaska, Oregon, Northern California, etc. - just to be here tonight – THANK YOU!  THANK YOU! THANK YOU!

     Thus, like some of Jack’s magic pebbles or wonderful gifts found by the side of this road we mutually traveled just to be here tonight, the rekindled as well as newly made friendships turned into unexpected diamonds.

     So, why, you might ask have we gathered here this fine evening?

     I think that storyteller, Ray Bradbury, may have summed it up best when he read aloud the note that he’d written to himself and hidden away until rediscovered some forty years later in the poem ‘Remembrance’:

“Knowing (and I quote) one day I must arrive, come, seek, return.
From the young one to the old. From the me that was small and fresh to the me that was large and no longer new.

What did it say (this note) that made me weep?

(it said)

I remember you.
I remember you.”

     You weren't fully aware of this production, till now, dear teacher.  But here's my belated report.  Your words and teachings still resound.  The teenage boy and middle-aged man have finally met.  Drama is reality after all.  Thank you for the unexpected gift.

    

    

Havasu Flush

Havasu Flush

By Noel Laflin

February 4, 2013

Low water levels reveal the tunnel's inner workings.  Jumping beats flushing at such times.

“It feels,” the precocious twelve-year-old was telling me, “like a giant flushing toilet taking you down and through a tunnel in the rocks.   It then throws you into a giant pool on the other side there!”  With this, the youngest member of our rafting party pointed to an area of the creek about fifteen feet downstream.

“Try it, Noel!  Don’t be afraid.  Just keep your arms close to your sides so you don’t scrape them on the rocks below.  And remember,” she dramatically paused for effect, “hold your breath!”

And with that final bit of advice, the youngster squealed with delight as she slowly walked downstream until she was a few feet from two large boulders, one barely visible through the pristine creek, resting in the middle of the waterway.  The water had risen up to her chin.  Then she stopped and brought her arms to her sides, fingers pressed tightly together, pointing straight down.  The girl inched forward in this ramrod torpedo-like posture until, whoosh! – she disappeared, blonde ponytail and all.   It was as if she had stepped into a giant hidden pneumatic tube.

Within seconds, Christa’s blonde head and upper torso came bursting out of the lower pool just beyond the two large boulders, as predicted, some ten or fifteen feet away.  Giggling once more, she swam to the right, climbed the bank and ran back upstream.  She wadded out to where I still stood - awestruck.  She gave me a gentle nudge.

“Your turn!”

I felt the soft wet sand squish between my toes as I inched my way forward ever so slowly.

“Oh, man,” I said aloud.  “I’m not sure about this…”

Christa just laughed as she plunged ahead of me, swam out to the boulders, brought her hands to her sides, took a deep breath and disappeared for a second time, only to resurface in the cool clear pool beyond a few moments later.  Her infectious giggles shamed me into moving forward once again.

We were in one of the finest natural playgrounds on Earth - Havasu Creek, at river mile 156 to be exact, in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.   The pull-in point for Havasu can be a harried affair, as there is limited room for rafts before the confluence of the creek and Colorado River.  Thus, if a boatman can’t find room to dock before the natural outlet, he is forced to pass it and dock off the slab of massive flat rocks smack dab in the middle of the fast moving flow.  This is where we ended up.  With extraordinary skill, however, our boatmen maneuvered the boats up to the rocky outcrop and had them securely tied off within seconds, before the current could carry us away.  We scrambled off and helped with the unloading of the lunch items. 

As the temperature was sitting well above the hundred degree mark we were soon on our way in search of a cool swimming hole.  Back into the shade of the canyon we hiked, marveling at the blueness of the creek.  Less than a mile in, we came to the first of several great swimming areas.  The creek was running swift, strong and clear all through here.  It was also running at an extremely high rate, due to the recent heavy rains.  But, one could scamper up western walls and jump out into deep pools.  Or, you could just float with the current and end up in a cool eddy and enjoy the view of the narrow canyon.

My favorite spot among all of these choices, however, was where I stood now – just waiting for the nerve to take one more small step.

I must admit that I was a might apprehensive about trying this trick.  Suppose the tunnel below was too narrow for me?  Suppose I got stuck?  Suppose, suppose, suppose! 

 Don’t go there, I thought.

Instead, I pressed my arms tightly to my sides as instructed and did a little duck waddle to the point of no return.  I could feel the hidden vacuum below tugging at me more fiercely as I approached the large rocks – one well above the surface and the other, massive as it was, submerged below the water line of this high running creek.  I felt a tremendous pull - as if my feet were being grabbed by some unseen water monster lurking beneath. There was no time to even draw a small breath as the opening below sucked me down.

 

Jesus!  This was like being flushed.

With eyes still wide open I saw a flash of dark rock to either side of me and felt my elbows scrape, ever so slightly, against smooth rock walls.  Suddenly, I was cast into a large underwater pool of blue lit faintly from the sky above.  It was an Aquarian fairyland.  In short order I was able to right myself and felt the strong tug of the current raise me to the surface.

Wow!  I’ve got to do that again!  And again.

Soon, others from our party joined us as the young tutor and I both explained the mysteries of the vanishing trick. 

Now, Marshall, a large guy from Michigan, followed Christa and me, riding the underwater tube and bobbing to the surface as expected.  I sat at the end of the pool just to keep an eye on folks, letting others take a turn or two.  But Marshall stayed in the pool treading water, looking sheepishly, if not a bit frantically down and all about him as if searching for something lost.

That something – in the form of his swim trunks came floating my way.  I snagged them and hid them behind me.

“Hey Marshall,” I cried out.  “How’d you like that ride?  You want to try it again?”

“Ah, well, yeah – it was great,” he replied, peering nervously all around the pool.  “But, I think I’ll just stay here a while and catch my breath,” he concluded.

“Marshall,” I yelled - “you better get out of the pool and make way for more folks about to ride the chute.  You don’t want ‘em torpedoing into ya.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!”  Marshall finally hollered back.  “I can’t get out of here.  My damn suit was sucked right off me somewhere in that rocky tube.”  He was looking a bit nervous now.  “Anybody seen it?”  There was dead silence all around.

“Did you bring a towel, Marshall?” I finally deadpanned.

“Nope,” he said sadly.  “I left it on the raft.”

“Guess it’ll be a breezy walk back to the boat then,” I replied.  “Those trunks have got to be all the way to the river by now.  They’ll probably be in Lake Mead by the end of the week.  Bummer, dude!”

By now the poor man was beside himself so I decided to let him in on the find.  I tossed the runaway garment back his way and apologized – kind of.  And with that, the happy guy slipped them back on, climbed out of the pool and ran back to ride the flushing toilet once more.  This time he made sure his arms were not only tightly pressed against his sides – they clamped handfuls of cloth all the way to the end as well.

At the same site 24 years later - with another twelve-year-old daredevil.
Imagine the water level being level with our shoes.  
That's when the water slide becomes a water tunnel.

Crystal Clear Fear

                                                       CRYSTAL CLEAR FEAR

                                                        

                                                               By Noel Laflin

                                                              January 30, 2013

                                                                             

“We are now ready to start on our way down the Great Unknown.”

Major John Wesley Powell, August 1869

I am still puzzled, these many years later, as to how I ever became interested in tackling the mighty Colorado of the Grand Canyon as my first rafting trip.  All I do know for sure is that some river itch got hold of me, and powerfully so I might add.  Nothing would do but to scratch it with a white-knuckle, wild-water joyride down that cold, muddy river and see it all the way through the depths of this legendary and foreboding canyon conceived in equal parts of harsh reality, myth and dream. 

It was in a moment of dumb blind faith I suppose, some thirty years ago, that I walked into the first travel agency I found and inquired as to how one went about doing such a thing.  Within the hour I departed this enlightened institution with documents in hand proclaiming me an officially paid member of a Western Rivers Expeditions rafting tour.  I would be departing in late August of 1982 - destination: The Grand Canyon of the West, one of the seven natural wonders of the world!  I would be viewing it from the bottom/up.  My neck was already sore in anticipation of the view.

Now, the first three days within the depths of the canyon were mighty fine indeed.  And I could, without much prodding, bore both young and old alike with tall tales of natural wonders, condors in flight, newly made friends from the likes of Boston and Montreal, torrential monsoon rains, spectacular lightning storms, secret coves, elfin-like waterfalls and alas, but by no means least … the unexpected pleasure of an unplanned canyon romance thrown in for good measure.  But, I won’t go there presently, although some of these events deserve – or perhaps not - a separate telling of their own some day.  Regardless, let’s set all of that aside for the time being instead and jump ahead to just one day of this adventure - one memorable afternoon in particular – the running of Crystal Rapid.

  “The walls now, are more than a mile in height – a vertical distance difficult to appreciate. 

     A thousand feet of this up through crags, then steep slopes and perpendicular cliffs rise,

         one above another, to the summit.  The gorge is black and narrow below, red and gray and flaring above, with crags and angular projections on the walls.”

Major John Wesley Powell, August 1869

If one ever chose to personify the character of a rapid, I think it would be safe to say that Crystal was one nasty looking lady.  In fact, upon first glance, she had that look – as if someone had done her wrong long ago - and she was still pissed off over said offence.

However, to back up just a bit, we paying passengers all had our own first clue as to Crystal’s mood based upon sound alone.  You see, we had already survived the likes of several heavyweight rapids just that very day and were prematurely congratulating ourselves on having conquered some tough whitewater, which in actuality was the color of Colorado mud.

Sure, one of my new Bostonian friends, by the name of Ann, had been violently thrown off of our raft, not once but twice already that day, by the brute force of both Sockdologer and Old Man Hermit Rapid.  But hey, she lived to both tell and laugh about it once we hauled her back into the craft at the end of each run.  However, we suddenly all grew very quiet and attentive as a new far-off sound of angry water grew ever closer and louder.  In fact, this new roar made the aforementioned Sockdolager Rapid sound downright friendly in comparison.  There appeared to be, based upon the increased decimal ratings alone, some serious business up ahead – just around that very next bend.

“Crystal,” our boatman, Bruce, whispered to no one in particular.  The bravado level amongst the passengers paled considerably as we caught the lilt of both respect and fear in his one word pronouncement.  He gradually guided our craft to the left bank of the river so that we could tie up and check out whatever lay ahead.  We all took stock of this new deployment as we had never stopped to scout a rapid up until this point. There would appear to be some serious shit ahead.

The second raft tied up beside us.  Soon, our ragtag group was scrambling up and over large boulders as we followed the boatmen headed down stream.  They sought some elevation for a better view below.  We finally got our own eyeful.

“Holy Jesus!” I cried.  “We’re going through that?” 

As the boatmen conspired amongst themselves, we passengers became more nervous. Several stepped away toward the river in order to deal with a nervous bladder.  I longed for a cigarette, or better yet, a way out of here without going through those infernal raging waters below.  This was truly the first time in my life that I felt deep down, gut-wrenching fear. I wasn’t fond of the potential coward lurking within.

The crew eventually approached us after a time of quiet deliberation amongst themselves.

“Crystal,” the senior boatman began, “used to be a so-so rapid up until the mid-sixties.”  He looked out over the roaring, churning whitecaps not far below us. “That was,” he continued, “until a particularly horrendous amount of rain pounded this area and brought down, by way of Crystal Creek, boulders the size of houses.  Overnight, the storm changed the configuration of this rapid from a class five to a class nine/ten rapid.  I would not liked to have been the first guy through here after that deluge, not prepared for what had changed.”  He paused for thought and continued on.  “Now, as you can see, there are three rather ominous looking holes down there.  We intend to run them all.  Western has never flipped a J-Rig yet, and we don’t intend to now.  But this will be a ride to remember.  We are going to need a lot of weight up front, so I want the regular daredevils to keep their places there and more to come forward, especially on Bruce’s boat.  In fact, Ron, I want you to ride with those guys, as they need more weight.  Bruce, I want your rig to go first.  Enjoy your ride and then wait and watch for us below.  I cannot stress just how tightly you will all need to hold on.  Get your feet deep within the webbing and hug that rubber with your legs for all you’re worth.  And keep low.  Suck rubber.  That water will try to tear you off.  See you at the bottom.”  With that he was done.

We quickly clambered back aboard and fought over seating arrangements. No one wanted to be up front, at least not the very first person up front.  I finally settled for second, behind the aforementioned boatman named Ron. Ann, who had flown through the air twice already, was behind me.  Art, Steve and Beth (more Bostonian friends) sat to our left, on the middle pontoon.  Cynthia, also from Boston and two Englishmen sat on the right pontoon.   Bruce and his girlfriend, Pam, were busy in the back literally lashing down the steadfast elderly sisters, Ruth and Francis, who sat atop the back coolers.  We were finally set.

As we made our approach, Bruce began to shout last minute instructions above the ever-increasing roar of Crystal.

“Remember, there will be three holes,” he bellowed, straining to be heard.  “When we crest that first wave, we will be going straight down.  The next wave will drop us into a deeper hole.  However,” and he paused here for emphasis, “watch out for the last hole, as it will appear to have no bottom!  That is the nastiest one of all.”  We heard no more.  The roar was deafening.  We were making our entry, close to the left side.

Now, to this day, I can’t rightly begin to describe the force of this water.  Nor can I accurately calculate just how high the waves were.  All I do know for sure is that as we crested the top of the first massive wave, I could barely hear Bruce’s voice behind us shouting, “First hole!”  Up and over we went into this muddy, white-capped abyss.  It took all my strength to keep from being sucked from the raft by the force of the water.  But up we rose from that hole, only to see an even bigger wave in front of us.  Up, up, up we climbed again, cresting and falling straight down once more.  “Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!” I cried, feeling the water ripping at my hands and feet.  I had my head crushed into the back of Ron’s life jacket by now.  I felt Ann grab me by the waist as she lost her grip momentarily on the ropes.  I thought we would both fly away.  And then wave number three rose up to greet us.

Sweet Jesus!  This one was truly colossal.  We climbed until I was quite sure that we would do a back flip.  The nine of us up front looked like we were hugging a rubber totem pole at this point.  And then, over we crested once more and looked straight down into the gut of hole number three.  It truly had no bottom.  All I remember, at this venture of the ride, was just how dark everything appeared to be - mud dark, to be exact.  Additionally, there was this awesome pulling force once more.    It almost felt like a vice grip, trying to rip me from the boat.  I could see nothing, as gritty water filled my eyes.  After what seemed to be an eternity, we blasted to the surface, like a giant blue whale coming up for air.  My eyes cleared and I hooted for joy.  I was alive!  But something was missing in front of me. It turned out to be Ron.

“Holy Smokes,” I cried and jumped shakily to my feet, struggling to keep my balance on the still rocky ride.  “Kill the motor, Bruce!” I hollered and pulled my hand across my throat trying to indicate my fear.  Bruce understood immediately and stopped the engine and pulled the blades out of the water.

“Ron’s gone!” I shouted.  Bruce came bounding between Ruth and Francis, leaping over gear and front-end daredevils.  “He’s gone,” I repeated lamely looking over the front edge of the boat.  About that time, Bruce and I both spotted fingers gripping the web from under the raised pontoons; they were Ron’s fingers to be exact and fortunately Ron was still attached to them as well.  Suddenly a head came bursting to the surface, which, first blasted out a great mouthful of muddy water and then inhaled deeply.  Yep, it was Ron, all right.  Three of us flipped him back on board the boat.  He had a crazed look in his eyes. 

“You OK, buddy?” Bruce was asking him, pounding him on the back.

 “I think I just saw the face of God,” Ron finally gasped.  “Whoa!  What a ride.  Let’s do that again!”

Bruce jumped back to the controls and brought the boat about in the eddy below.  We watched from the relative safety of our eddy as the next raft took the plunge and gyrate through maneuvers similar to our own.  I was glad not to be in their shoes. I think I found God myself down there.  Either that, or it was the devil himself in hole number three.  Gratefully, neither chose not to keep me there. 

With that, we ran the rest of the gem series, including Ruby and Diamond and a few less memorable rapids before calling it a day.  By the time we made camp, we were one hyped-up group.  It was a night of celebration, as the Bostonians and I claimed a cozy, flat, sandy lookout high above the river.  Within short order we were imbibing in some of Mother Nature’s finest weed, pounding down ice cold beer and taking Polaroid’s of ourselves by the light of a very full moon.  We all wore shades in the last group shot, howling at the bright light cresting the rim above.  We were a delirious crowd, the Bostonians and I, stoned beyond belief as we told and retold the running of Crystal - and having the damn good fortune of having lived through it. It was a night to remember – some of which I actually do.

As it turned out to be one of the Canadian’s fiftieth birthday, the crew had baked a large chocolate-marble cake in a Dutch oven and set it aglow with fifty wooden matches.  As everyone was now off eating desert and wishing the man many happy returns, I happened to stumble upon a quiet stretch of the beach.  It was here that I overheard Bruce asking Ron, just what he was thinking while down in the big hole on Crystal hanging on to the tip of the raft by his very fingertips.

Ron looked around, not wanting to be in earshot of passengers. Failing to see me or not caring if I did hear, he reminded Bruce of how he had seen drift wood and large ponderosa trees, brought down from the rim in heavy storms and getting trapped in a hole like Crystal … and never being spit out.  “I had visions of that,” he said. I believe, “scared shitless” was the phrase by which he ended his conversation with Bruce. 

I wandered off, with my slice of cake in hand, back to the private party on the cliff above.

Ron’s last pronouncement pretty well summed it up for me too.  Visions of being stuck in a watery, churning cruncher like Crystal, forever-and-ever, tried to invade upon my good time.  I got back to my friends as quickly as I could.  There were some dreams that I would not allow that night.  Instead, I donned a pair of sunglasses, downed another beer and howled at the full moon with renewed vigor. 

           

 Washing off river mud with some of the Bostonians.