Two years ago last night our beloved Candleshoe night happened.
What happened the next night is another story entirely.
B. and I had been on a few dates on and off that summer. I liked her, but she lived four hours away, attended another school, and pretty much had her whole life set there. I had done long-distance before with disastrous consequences and I had a feeling that if we ever did start dating, it would either end in marriage or in a very ugly breakup. I was hesitant to start a relationship for a number of reasons.
First off, I wasn't planning on dating seriously until I was almost or completely done with college. I knew I was considering a major in the arts, and while some would consider me an idiot for choosing such a major rather than something sensible like accounting or business or pre-med, I was not so much an idiot as to rope some poor innocent girl into my foolishness. If I was to starve, I'd do it alone. I had a plan. First college, then job, then girlfriend, then marriage.
But I keep traveling just to see her...
Second of all, B. and I were really good friends and I was starting a new chapter of my life where I wasn't living at home or on a foreign mission. I controlled where and when I moved. No more Uncle Sam or mission office controlling my location; my friendships and relationships no longer had a shelf life. I determined how long I was in one spot and how long I was around those with whom I liked to spend my time. If things went south with B., I could only blame myself for losing such a great friend.
But would I really come visit this often to only see a friend?...
There were a litany of other reasons and rationalizations with which I tried to buffer my pride, yet when she mentioned over the phone that she had a wedding to go to in Vegas, I promptly volunteered myself as a date. She was a little taken aback; she had noticed my subtle edging away from any sense of commitment into the comfort of the friend zone, so this turnaround had her a little confused, but she happily agreed and I made the drive down with bread, brie, grapes, candles, sparkling cider and all the trappings for what became arguably our most famous date.
The next day we drove down to Vegas and attended the wedding, enjoyed the fancy cuisine and kept giving each other a look.
When we drove down into the city of sin and I had to shake off the thought of us going on dozens of roadtrips together, we gave each other that look.
When we toured around the casinos we splurged and went to see the Bodies exhibit. Ever the scientist, she geeked out. We shared the look then, too.
When the minister gave some friendly advice to the bride and groom, we gave each other that look.
When the family toasted the happy couple, we gave each other that look.
After the wedding festivities, we walked down the strip until at last we came to the famous Bellagio fountains. Towers of water shot into the air in dazzling patterns synchronized with music. We stopped and watched the display of hydrotechnics and resisted the urge to reference Oceans Eleven.
Then she said it.
The question she'd been asking all day with that look.
"What am I to you?"
She knew I was hesitant. She knew I was concerned. She knew I was feeling more than I wanted to let on.
She'd seen my look.
So she wanted to know. Where was this going, if anywhere? Was this just going to be a will-they-won't-they drama until one of us graduated? What was she to me? A friend? More than a friend? A girlfriend? The love of my life?
...(all of the above?)
I think in actuality I only paused for about two or three seconds to run through any and all excuses I had hidden behind in the past. When none of them held up I happily reached the conclusion that we couldn't remain "just friends." So, in order to preserve the friendship, she'd just have to marry me.
I paused for a minute and told her, "I'll tell you when the song's over," praying that the fountains would start up again with Clair de Lune or something equally romantic. I already knew this was a moment we'd be telling our kids (and i guess you) about, I wanted it to be as memorable as possible.
She immediately responded with a stolid, "No you won't you'll tell me now," But I was firm on the timing; this had to be perfect.
Turns out, the fountains only play songs ever 15 minutes, so as silence swallowed the evening air, she turned expectantly, I gazed at the ay the city lights bathed her gorgeous face and finally let my lips say what my eyes - my look - had been saying all day:
"You're the woman I'm in love with."
She smiled. I smiled back. We were giddy schoolchildren waltzing down the Strip for the rest of the night. We were in love! At last! I finally let myself be happy, let my best friend become the center of my heart and my life. We didn't date for long. We were engaged only until she could move/transfer schools. We knew then that we were meant to be.
We celebrated this little anniversary of ours last night. We just went out to dinner, nothing too fancy. But as we spooned groggily last night she had me tell our story over again. It's worth retelling. I nestled closely to her, breathing in all the smells that are hers and now mine because of that perfect question:
What am I to you?
S
Tuesday, September 24, 2013
Tuesday, September 17, 2013
The Bridge On Our Bookshelf
B. and I have a special spot on the bookshelf in our living room. On one shelf sit our paperbacks pleading with us to be picked up and read. Two shelves are taken up by our obscenely large DVD collection, which has coincidentally spilled over into the adjacent bookshelf, interrupted only by my wife's tasteful, ever-growing collection of teapots. The bottom shelf is encumbered with hardcovers and "heavier reading". B.'s Encyclopedia of Mammals is a prominent anchor to the whole fixture, as are the complete works of Shakespeare, Rowling and Tolkien.
But one shelf is entirely devoid of DVDs or our latest Barnes & Noble indulgence. This shelf is specially reserved for something both B. and I hold in great reverence and respect. This shelf is devoted to the cultures, customs and religions we admire and enjoy learning about. It's an eclectic smattering of artifacts and oddities. Next to our illustrated copy of the Tao Te Ching is a translated copy of the Quran. In the shadow of a large bust of a Hindu god rests a miniature figurine of the Buddha. Nestled next to our Matryoska dolls sits a Bulgarian Orthodox Bible.
Across the room from this shelf, next to our doorway is a mezuzzah, a Jewish wall ornament containing a Hebrew prayer on a small scroll. We picked it up at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. That trip also explains half of our paperback shelf; amidst my Steig Larsson and John LeCarre, B. bought numerous novels on Auschwitz, the Nazi regime and even a copy of Mein Kampf.
We aren't Jewish. We do however hold Judaism in high regard. We aren't Muslim, yet we find the devotion and poetry of Islam's teachings moving. We aren't members of any Slavic Orthodox Church, yet we appreciate the efforts of its members in bringing warmth to a cold part of the world. We aren't Hindu or Buddhist, yet placing representations of each religion doesn't offend us, it inspires us.
We've had friends jokingly refer to our collection, our "God shelf" as our method of cosmically "covering all our bases." Hardly. No one should have a backup belief system. I just believe in a loving God. Being Christian shouldn't deter me from admiring the paths others have chosen to come closer to God. I should emulate the love He feels for all races and creeds. I love God, therefore I love His creations and should respect their ways. Right?
I recall an instance where a high school friend of mine, a member of another church and certainly a much better person than me, was coming to meet me one Saturday morning for a rehearsal. She had pulled her car into the lot, put on the brake and then simply stayed there. I approached the car to see if she was all right, and as she opened the door a chorus of small voices faded away in the speakers. She had been listening to an African chorus worshiping the best way they knew how.
She sat there, visibly moved by the piece. I stood in awe, as I often was around her, both at the beautiful music and its effects on her as well as the very inspiring image she painted for me, sitting in her front seat. Here was a woman of one faith in one part of the world refreshed, replenished, inspired, affected, and affirmed by the work of others of another faith in another part of the world. As if the song built a bridge between our two continents. A bridge between churches and religions, with God in the middle, urging His creations to act more Godly with each new day.
I doubt she herself remembers this, it was a passing moment, the song ended, she hopped out and we went off to rehearse. But I've never forgotten the indelible impression it made on my life. B. and I love other religions, other cultures, strange exotic places and the wonders they hold. We want to travel. We want to celebrate the world.
But for now, I'm just happy to build a bridge on our bookshelf.
S
But one shelf is entirely devoid of DVDs or our latest Barnes & Noble indulgence. This shelf is specially reserved for something both B. and I hold in great reverence and respect. This shelf is devoted to the cultures, customs and religions we admire and enjoy learning about. It's an eclectic smattering of artifacts and oddities. Next to our illustrated copy of the Tao Te Ching is a translated copy of the Quran. In the shadow of a large bust of a Hindu god rests a miniature figurine of the Buddha. Nestled next to our Matryoska dolls sits a Bulgarian Orthodox Bible.
Across the room from this shelf, next to our doorway is a mezuzzah, a Jewish wall ornament containing a Hebrew prayer on a small scroll. We picked it up at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, D.C. That trip also explains half of our paperback shelf; amidst my Steig Larsson and John LeCarre, B. bought numerous novels on Auschwitz, the Nazi regime and even a copy of Mein Kampf.
We aren't Jewish. We do however hold Judaism in high regard. We aren't Muslim, yet we find the devotion and poetry of Islam's teachings moving. We aren't members of any Slavic Orthodox Church, yet we appreciate the efforts of its members in bringing warmth to a cold part of the world. We aren't Hindu or Buddhist, yet placing representations of each religion doesn't offend us, it inspires us.
We've had friends jokingly refer to our collection, our "God shelf" as our method of cosmically "covering all our bases." Hardly. No one should have a backup belief system. I just believe in a loving God. Being Christian shouldn't deter me from admiring the paths others have chosen to come closer to God. I should emulate the love He feels for all races and creeds. I love God, therefore I love His creations and should respect their ways. Right?
I recall an instance where a high school friend of mine, a member of another church and certainly a much better person than me, was coming to meet me one Saturday morning for a rehearsal. She had pulled her car into the lot, put on the brake and then simply stayed there. I approached the car to see if she was all right, and as she opened the door a chorus of small voices faded away in the speakers. She had been listening to an African chorus worshiping the best way they knew how.
She sat there, visibly moved by the piece. I stood in awe, as I often was around her, both at the beautiful music and its effects on her as well as the very inspiring image she painted for me, sitting in her front seat. Here was a woman of one faith in one part of the world refreshed, replenished, inspired, affected, and affirmed by the work of others of another faith in another part of the world. As if the song built a bridge between our two continents. A bridge between churches and religions, with God in the middle, urging His creations to act more Godly with each new day.
I doubt she herself remembers this, it was a passing moment, the song ended, she hopped out and we went off to rehearse. But I've never forgotten the indelible impression it made on my life. B. and I love other religions, other cultures, strange exotic places and the wonders they hold. We want to travel. We want to celebrate the world.
But for now, I'm just happy to build a bridge on our bookshelf.
S
Thursday, September 12, 2013
My Calves Feel Suffocated
It's official.
Autumn is here, folks. How do I know this?
I'm wearing pants today.
Rather than donning my usual shorts and T-shirt, I busted out my jeans to "bundle up" against the morning chill. Pants, people! Shoes replace flip-flops, sleeves are growing longer, soon we'll be wearing jackets as the leaves die and fall around us in a seasonal fireworks display.
This summer B. and I tag-teamed summer school, worked full time jobs, gave up vacations, visited family and continued to learn and grow together as a couple. She got a raise. I was accepted into my program at school. We've improved, grown, laughed, fought, kissed, talked and enjoyed each other through the months of sweltering heat and no A/C.
Now two long semesters are staring us down. Two semesters of heating bills, student loans, homework, projects, late nights, early mornings, and working through weekends. For about 8 months we're getting downgraded from spouses to roommates. We'll see each other on the weekends I guess. Well, Sundays. We can do homework in the same room and call it "family time."
With so much of my time spoken for, I can hardly keep up the pace of blogging I maintained during the summer. When I rebooted this project on Father's Day, I had no idea how big of a reaction and a following it would get. Many avid readers, fans and friends have been more than supportive, some have even encouraged me to start writing fiction and try to get published. Your enthusiasm has bolstered my enthusiasm, and a blog whose entries were spotty at best quickly became a frequent, regular news feed of my meager musings.
But alas, as I said before, times are a-changin'. I'm currently signed up for six classes (17 credits total) this fall. And with such a heavy workload I'm afraid I must put more of my focus, my time and my energy into my education. In an attempt to avoid slacking off (yet again) this summer, I posted with almost religious regularity. But now, rather than my usual four or five posts per week, I will limit my entries to probably about once a week. I'm not abandoning writing; if anything I'm more encouraged by this blog to continue writing. Part of me really does want to take some of your advice and try my hand at fiction, should time allow.
But, truth be told, I can't blame homework entirely for my backing off. I feel like I've been sort of spinning my wheels a little for the past few weeks. My posts have veered off-topic. Rather than talk about how we're working out our bug(g)s, I've selfishly sunk into simple reminiscences or rampaging rants. I mean, I know we're a pretty crazy couple, but there's only so much dysfunction I can use for material.
I feel myself starting to run out of things to say.
Well, things of value, anyway. That's a good sign it's time to shift gears.
I shouldn't have to force anything. I don't want to feel like I'm stretching to keep your attention. I don't want you to stop enjoying what you read because the posts feel were only written to meet some arbitrary self-imposed deadline. Some of these posts I'm really proud of. Others I might end up deleting. I have editing rights as a writer, right? Think of this summer writing blitz as making up for time lost in my long hiatus last year when I started this blog. Regardless, limiting posts to weekly updates will really allow me time to edit, ponder, and mull over what exactly I think should be said, rather than just what I could say.
Plus, I really enjoy including little illustrations with some of these stories, so spacing them out allows me time to add visual embellishments.
Good luck to all of you this fall. Hopefully we'll all come out relatively sane by Christmas. In the meantime keep reading, keep commenting, and keep sharing. I love to see new people reading, asking questions and participating in this conversation.
See you next week.
Promise.
S
Autumn is here, folks. How do I know this?
I'm wearing pants today.
Rather than donning my usual shorts and T-shirt, I busted out my jeans to "bundle up" against the morning chill. Pants, people! Shoes replace flip-flops, sleeves are growing longer, soon we'll be wearing jackets as the leaves die and fall around us in a seasonal fireworks display.
This summer B. and I tag-teamed summer school, worked full time jobs, gave up vacations, visited family and continued to learn and grow together as a couple. She got a raise. I was accepted into my program at school. We've improved, grown, laughed, fought, kissed, talked and enjoyed each other through the months of sweltering heat and no A/C.
Now two long semesters are staring us down. Two semesters of heating bills, student loans, homework, projects, late nights, early mornings, and working through weekends. For about 8 months we're getting downgraded from spouses to roommates. We'll see each other on the weekends I guess. Well, Sundays. We can do homework in the same room and call it "family time."
With so much of my time spoken for, I can hardly keep up the pace of blogging I maintained during the summer. When I rebooted this project on Father's Day, I had no idea how big of a reaction and a following it would get. Many avid readers, fans and friends have been more than supportive, some have even encouraged me to start writing fiction and try to get published. Your enthusiasm has bolstered my enthusiasm, and a blog whose entries were spotty at best quickly became a frequent, regular news feed of my meager musings.
But alas, as I said before, times are a-changin'. I'm currently signed up for six classes (17 credits total) this fall. And with such a heavy workload I'm afraid I must put more of my focus, my time and my energy into my education. In an attempt to avoid slacking off (yet again) this summer, I posted with almost religious regularity. But now, rather than my usual four or five posts per week, I will limit my entries to probably about once a week. I'm not abandoning writing; if anything I'm more encouraged by this blog to continue writing. Part of me really does want to take some of your advice and try my hand at fiction, should time allow.
But, truth be told, I can't blame homework entirely for my backing off. I feel like I've been sort of spinning my wheels a little for the past few weeks. My posts have veered off-topic. Rather than talk about how we're working out our bug(g)s, I've selfishly sunk into simple reminiscences or rampaging rants. I mean, I know we're a pretty crazy couple, but there's only so much dysfunction I can use for material.
I feel myself starting to run out of things to say.
Well, things of value, anyway. That's a good sign it's time to shift gears.
I shouldn't have to force anything. I don't want to feel like I'm stretching to keep your attention. I don't want you to stop enjoying what you read because the posts feel were only written to meet some arbitrary self-imposed deadline. Some of these posts I'm really proud of. Others I might end up deleting. I have editing rights as a writer, right? Think of this summer writing blitz as making up for time lost in my long hiatus last year when I started this blog. Regardless, limiting posts to weekly updates will really allow me time to edit, ponder, and mull over what exactly I think should be said, rather than just what I could say.
Plus, I really enjoy including little illustrations with some of these stories, so spacing them out allows me time to add visual embellishments.
Good luck to all of you this fall. Hopefully we'll all come out relatively sane by Christmas. In the meantime keep reading, keep commenting, and keep sharing. I love to see new people reading, asking questions and participating in this conversation.
See you next week.
Promise.
S
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
We in a Tight Spot!
I've mentioned before that B. and I love Zions National Park. We've had epic dates there and the vast landscape of red rocks and towering boulders holds a lot of dear memories for us.
This one is less dear.
We went to St. George, Utah the last weekend of summer (for B. at least, my classes will start after Labor Day) to attend a wedding but also to escape town and get some semblance of a vacation in the few weeks between summer school and fall semester. We were guests to my sister-in-law Jess and her husband. They're both fantastic, and I think the time we got to spend with them really allowed us to get to know each other better. Even better, we got to see our not-so-baby niece, too. She's an adorable handful and we love every chance we get to see her.
Our first day there was a marathon of scrambling across town, getting wedding gifts, B. getting her hair done, seeing this family and that family and at long last visit my grandmother, my uncle and my aunt. We took them out to one of our favorite restaurants down there and I had a great time talking with my grandmother as an adult rather than a little kid interested in candy, cartoons and not much else.
After such a hectic day, we blew off the hike we planned and postponed it til the next day. We had a down day. We cooked our classic staple polynesian chicken and introduced B.'s sister to its wonders. B. finally saw one of my favorite movies, Rise of the Guardians, or as little niece calls it, "Jack Fwost movie." We slumped on the couch and enjoyed the air conditioned indoors and chatted with the sister-in-law I had never really gotten to know too well. We talked about future plans, convinced her to jump on the Breaking Bad bandwagon, and enjoyed the hyperactive antics of her hilarious toddler.
That night we got all dolled up (B. looked fantastic in her 40s style polka dot dress) and went to a wedding. Pardon, a weddin'. The groom, the lucky man who won the heart of B.'s stepsister, wore a cowboy hat at the ceremony. They really embraced the Southwestern cowpoke motif. (as well as the term "getting hitched")
On the final day of our last hurrah before school hit, we set our alarm for 7:00 to make it out to the park early. Well, I did. B. it seemed, had other plans. As did her sister. They slept in while I dozed and fiddled on facebook. We finally got ready to go and left around 11 am, planning to be back around 3pm. 4 at the latest.
Weather and fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Our plan was to got on a hike called the Narrows, a trail following the deep crevice worn into the red stone by the Virgin River. Now, the full hike is a twenty-something mile trek that takes two days. Our abbreviated version would only take a few hours. We'd take a detour off into another branch of the canyon called Orderville Gulch and find a small but decent waterfall. I'd kiss my wife in the waterfall, we'd take some snapshots and turn back, no problem.
But there was a problem.
The last few days had been a bit rainy (darn monsoon season) and a lot of silty runoff had accumulated in the canyon, giving the normally clear river through which we were to traverse a chalky brown consistency. There were flash flood warnings up, but it hadn't rained in quite some time and we honestly weren't going too deep in, so we decided to try anyway (this was after all our last day of summer)
It took some getting used to, testing blindly with our river shoes for slippery footholds in the Willy Wonka river, but we established a pattern and I, the tallest was elected the guinea pig in testing depth. We had dressed to get wet, so I didn't mind an unexpected swim. We took some great photos, had a lot of laughs and stretched and hyperextended a lot of foot tendons in our numerous slips. We would be sore in the morning. At last we came to the long awaited waterfall, much shorter than expected but still taller than me and powerful enough to give it some real force. I inched up to it, dipped my head in, and returned to where B. and her sister had oerched to eat granola bars and trail mix. I sat down briefly and began munching, when suddenly we heard it.
A distant rumble in the sky.
All three of us locked eyes and knew. B. voiced what we were all thinking:
Time to go!
As it started to sprinkle, I became a little concerned about flash floods. At least until we broke out of the Orderville Gulch detour (a very narrow passageway). But even if we were overtaken by a sudden current, we were all adults who could swim and the current would only speed us back to the trailhead. Worst case scenario, we'd swim more than walk and the greatest challenge would be to stay together and stay afloat. Once we reached the main, wider banks of the Virgin River, I wasn't too worried.
But I was the only one. My poor sister-in-law was bawling. She had a baby girl, she couldn't die here! My poor asthmatic B. was having an anxiety attack as we splashed our way back. I told both of them we would be fine, they only partly listened. I held B. close for a second and urged them both to be fast but smart. We couldn't see where we stepped, so it was best to move at a quick pace, but still move carefully. A sprained ankle would only slow us down further. I could carry one of them, both of them would be a challenge. We all held hands in a chain as we crossed from bank to bank, hurrying with the rising water level and quickening current.
Trying to lighten the mood, B. wondered aloud about the scene in Fellowship of the Ring where Arwen summons the watery horse-head waves to drown the Ringwraiths. I love my wife; even in a panic attack she can pull Lord of the Rings references. I laughed. Jess just splashed ahead of us.
The rain picked up briefly, soundly soaking us and giving birth to new waterfalls along the trail. We were rounding a corner as one spouted off of the edge of the canyon and splashed down next to us. That did not help to ease the two hysterical women clinging to my arms in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but laugh. Not at them or their distress, but I just loved every moment of the trip, being caught up in the elements, drenched to the bone, witnessing the birth of waterfalls in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I drank in the moment, even as we hurried back to dry land (well, high ground).
Obviously we made it back just fine. Jess's knees were killing her, I had to carry her a little on the way back to the shuttle. B. was a trooper - thank goodness she packed her inhaler. We were all relatively damp if not dry as we left the shuttle and made our way to the car. In the last fifty-foot stretch before we got to our car, the heavens opened up and dumped on us yet again. We just had to get the car wet apparently.
Showered and changed back home, I rubbed my already tender and sore feet. My metatarsals hand been warped and stretched in all sorts of nasty ways. B. felt a million times better after a hot shower. Jess, once in the cozy comfort of sweats at home, admitted that our situation might not have been as dire as she had originally thought.
I just smiled to myself, taking comfort in the fact that my marriage has taught me enough to know when to offer advice, when to offer facts, when to offer comfort, and when to just shut up and let women have their hormonal freakouts. B., my headstrong feminist told me (and Jess) as we were scrambling our way back to the trailhead that she was glad they had a man around at that moment. I don't quite know what to make of that, but it's good to hear from my woman.
Next time we'll go when the water's clear.
S
This one is less dear.
We went to St. George, Utah the last weekend of summer (for B. at least, my classes will start after Labor Day) to attend a wedding but also to escape town and get some semblance of a vacation in the few weeks between summer school and fall semester. We were guests to my sister-in-law Jess and her husband. They're both fantastic, and I think the time we got to spend with them really allowed us to get to know each other better. Even better, we got to see our not-so-baby niece, too. She's an adorable handful and we love every chance we get to see her.
Our first day there was a marathon of scrambling across town, getting wedding gifts, B. getting her hair done, seeing this family and that family and at long last visit my grandmother, my uncle and my aunt. We took them out to one of our favorite restaurants down there and I had a great time talking with my grandmother as an adult rather than a little kid interested in candy, cartoons and not much else.
After such a hectic day, we blew off the hike we planned and postponed it til the next day. We had a down day. We cooked our classic staple polynesian chicken and introduced B.'s sister to its wonders. B. finally saw one of my favorite movies, Rise of the Guardians, or as little niece calls it, "Jack Fwost movie." We slumped on the couch and enjoyed the air conditioned indoors and chatted with the sister-in-law I had never really gotten to know too well. We talked about future plans, convinced her to jump on the Breaking Bad bandwagon, and enjoyed the hyperactive antics of her hilarious toddler.
That night we got all dolled up (B. looked fantastic in her 40s style polka dot dress) and went to a wedding. Pardon, a weddin'. The groom, the lucky man who won the heart of B.'s stepsister, wore a cowboy hat at the ceremony. They really embraced the Southwestern cowpoke motif. (as well as the term "getting hitched")
On the final day of our last hurrah before school hit, we set our alarm for 7:00 to make it out to the park early. Well, I did. B. it seemed, had other plans. As did her sister. They slept in while I dozed and fiddled on facebook. We finally got ready to go and left around 11 am, planning to be back around 3pm. 4 at the latest.
Weather and fate, it seemed, had other plans.
Our plan was to got on a hike called the Narrows, a trail following the deep crevice worn into the red stone by the Virgin River. Now, the full hike is a twenty-something mile trek that takes two days. Our abbreviated version would only take a few hours. We'd take a detour off into another branch of the canyon called Orderville Gulch and find a small but decent waterfall. I'd kiss my wife in the waterfall, we'd take some snapshots and turn back, no problem.
But there was a problem.
The last few days had been a bit rainy (darn monsoon season) and a lot of silty runoff had accumulated in the canyon, giving the normally clear river through which we were to traverse a chalky brown consistency. There were flash flood warnings up, but it hadn't rained in quite some time and we honestly weren't going too deep in, so we decided to try anyway (this was after all our last day of summer)
It took some getting used to, testing blindly with our river shoes for slippery footholds in the Willy Wonka river, but we established a pattern and I, the tallest was elected the guinea pig in testing depth. We had dressed to get wet, so I didn't mind an unexpected swim. We took some great photos, had a lot of laughs and stretched and hyperextended a lot of foot tendons in our numerous slips. We would be sore in the morning. At last we came to the long awaited waterfall, much shorter than expected but still taller than me and powerful enough to give it some real force. I inched up to it, dipped my head in, and returned to where B. and her sister had oerched to eat granola bars and trail mix. I sat down briefly and began munching, when suddenly we heard it.
A distant rumble in the sky.
All three of us locked eyes and knew. B. voiced what we were all thinking:
Time to go!
As it started to sprinkle, I became a little concerned about flash floods. At least until we broke out of the Orderville Gulch detour (a very narrow passageway). But even if we were overtaken by a sudden current, we were all adults who could swim and the current would only speed us back to the trailhead. Worst case scenario, we'd swim more than walk and the greatest challenge would be to stay together and stay afloat. Once we reached the main, wider banks of the Virgin River, I wasn't too worried.
But I was the only one. My poor sister-in-law was bawling. She had a baby girl, she couldn't die here! My poor asthmatic B. was having an anxiety attack as we splashed our way back. I told both of them we would be fine, they only partly listened. I held B. close for a second and urged them both to be fast but smart. We couldn't see where we stepped, so it was best to move at a quick pace, but still move carefully. A sprained ankle would only slow us down further. I could carry one of them, both of them would be a challenge. We all held hands in a chain as we crossed from bank to bank, hurrying with the rising water level and quickening current.
Trying to lighten the mood, B. wondered aloud about the scene in Fellowship of the Ring where Arwen summons the watery horse-head waves to drown the Ringwraiths. I love my wife; even in a panic attack she can pull Lord of the Rings references. I laughed. Jess just splashed ahead of us.
The rain picked up briefly, soundly soaking us and giving birth to new waterfalls along the trail. We were rounding a corner as one spouted off of the edge of the canyon and splashed down next to us. That did not help to ease the two hysterical women clinging to my arms in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but laugh. Not at them or their distress, but I just loved every moment of the trip, being caught up in the elements, drenched to the bone, witnessing the birth of waterfalls in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I drank in the moment, even as we hurried back to dry land (well, high ground).
Obviously we made it back just fine. Jess's knees were killing her, I had to carry her a little on the way back to the shuttle. B. was a trooper - thank goodness she packed her inhaler. We were all relatively damp if not dry as we left the shuttle and made our way to the car. In the last fifty-foot stretch before we got to our car, the heavens opened up and dumped on us yet again. We just had to get the car wet apparently.
Showered and changed back home, I rubbed my already tender and sore feet. My metatarsals hand been warped and stretched in all sorts of nasty ways. B. felt a million times better after a hot shower. Jess, once in the cozy comfort of sweats at home, admitted that our situation might not have been as dire as she had originally thought.
I just smiled to myself, taking comfort in the fact that my marriage has taught me enough to know when to offer advice, when to offer facts, when to offer comfort, and when to just shut up and let women have their hormonal freakouts. B., my headstrong feminist told me (and Jess) as we were scrambling our way back to the trailhead that she was glad they had a man around at that moment. I don't quite know what to make of that, but it's good to hear from my woman.
Next time we'll go when the water's clear.
S
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