Brian Head is on fire. That’s the big news out of Cedar City right now. My dad has posted several updates from news media on his Facebook page for anyone that is interested in the details. My brother John was down this week, and he said it’s really bad—like the-whole-mountain-is-pretty-much-destroyed bad. According to Channel 2 News out of Salt Lake City, the fire has consumed over 60,000 acres (the 4th largest fire in 15 years) and is, as of the date I’m writing this, now 60% contained.
I saw another story, on the website for the Fox affiliate in Salt Lake, about some kids who made 40 gallons of lemonade for the firefighters. It’s 112 in Vegas today, and I feel like I could put down a gallon of lemonade myself. I imagine it was like nectar of the gods to those firefighters.
According to Wikipedia, Brian Head is home to the town with the second highest elevation in the United States—9800’ above sea level. It’s a little resort town at the top of a mountain, sprinkled with cabins and other ski-resort-town amenities. Wikipedia also reported (and I love this) that the “population was 83 at the 2010 census, a significant decrease from the 2000 figure of 118.” A “significant decrease.” Awesome.
I feel for those 83 people, but they should have known better.
My more astute readers will remember that six years ago Clorinda and I had the scare of our married lives when Clayton got to spend 4 days in the hospital. Those of you that haven’t been paying close attention can get up to speed here. Regardless, at the end of the 4 days, the doctor cleared Clayton to go to “camp” with his young men’s group from church.
You know, camp. Where you stay in someone’s ginormous cabin at a mountain resort and spend your days mountain biking and your nights in the pool and spa at the clubhouse. Camp.
Clayton’s camp was supposed to end on Saturday morning, which also happened to be July 2. (Six years ago today (well, by the calendar it's tomorrow, but who's counting?).) You know what that means, of course—LONG WEEKEND!! (courtesy of Thomas Jefferson, et al.). Clorinda and I decided to spend the whole next week, in Utah visiting family and enjoying the respite from the Vegas heat. (It regularly gets into the 90s in Utah during the summer, even the occasional triple-digits, but that is considered a relief from the fiery pits of Las Vegas. Having lived here for over twenty years, I don’t even fear hell anymore.) But the boys were driving back to Vegas that day, and it seemed counter-intuitive to have Clayton come ALL the way back to Vegas just to turn right around and drive back up to Utah.
Solution: Dad gets to drive up a day early, “camp” with the boys, and then meet up with mom and the girls mid-day in Cedar City. What could go wrong?
“Camping” was great. I got there in time for dinner, which I have absolutely no memory of. Delicious. After dinner we went to the clubhouse, which included a HUGE pool/hot-tub area and two (2!) saunas. I spent way too much time in the sauna (it felt like spring (again, Vegas)), and then got to sleep, er, camp, in a queen size bed with something like 30 pillows. Little did I know that the mountain was plotting against me getting another decent night's sleep for a long, long time.
The next morning we got the boys all packed up, and I uttered words that have haunted me ever since. “Hey, since we’re here, I’d like to take just. one. ride.” Two of the YM leaders, Dan and Cody, grabbed their bikes, I took Clayton’s bike, and off we went to the top of the mountain. Dan and Cody had been there all week with the boys and knew the ins-and-outs of the trails, and they (certainly taking note of my nearly 40-year old lawyer/dad bod) decided on what was supposed to be a rather easy trail. We started off down the path, coasting mostly but occasionally having to pedal. Several minutes in we came to a point where a tree had fallen across the trail, and they took a sharp right through a meadow. Nothing bad—a pretty good slope initially, then across a small stream and then down a more gradual slope at an angle. Dan was out front, and Cody was probably 10 yards behind him. I was another 10-15 yards back from Cody, just enjoying the ride.
It was gorgeous. We were literally almost 2 miles above sea level, cruising down a mountain on bikes on a cool Saturday morning in July. Snow still hung tightly to spots that were shaded from the daytime sun. The green trees and grasses struck a beautiful contrast to the blue sky, and it seemed that if you stood up on the pedals you could see right over the edge of the peak. There was nothing between us and the sky.
And just like that there was nothing between me and the ground. Well, nothing but that same blue sky.
They say that everything slows down before you die. I’m curious how anyone knows this. I was a sociology major in college (motto: let’s all work at the Gap!), so I know a thing or two about surveys and research methods, and I cannot for the life of me figure out how you gather data from people who are DEAD about whether everything slowed down for them RIGHT BEFORE THEY DIED. Paranormal Sociology. THAT is what I should have studied.
Nonetheless, I found myself soaring above the ground, headed for certain DEATH because EVERYTHING WAS SLOWING DOWN!
“This may not have been the best idea I’ve ever had. How did I end up OVER the handlebars? Look at that dirt down there—it looks…”
It was about that moment that my musings were rudely interrupted by Brian Q. Head. The face hit first. Actually, I think my left hand and face hit about the same time (it seemed important to me to get my hands up to try to soften the blow) and I dragged through the gravel and dirt and rocks and grasses. My right shoulder slammed into the ground, and the many sins of my past (read: repeated trips to cheap casinos for prime rib specials at 11:00 at night—curse you Las Vegas) conspired to give me a refresher on Newton’s laws of motion. And probably some other physics lessons that I didn’t study in my sociology of violent death course.
I let out a weak groan. Truth be told, I didn’t have a choice. The mountain knocked the groan out of me. When the gravel finally succeeded in stopping my body (see Newton’s First Law of Motion), I stared down the hill and could just see Dan and Cody. They had reached the bottom of the hill and come to a stop near a grove of trees to check behind them. I’m not sure whether it was the heap of mangled flesh and bones or the bike still tumbling through the meadow that cued them there was a problem, but to their credit, they didn’t just leave me there. I couldn’t move anything, but I could see them running back up the hill. (It was like the opening scene of Baywatch, but with fully clothed men running up the side of a mountain instead scantily clad lifeguards jogging on the beach.)
I’m pretty sure Cody thought I was dead, which made two of us. They managed to get me straightened out and turned around and over onto my back, so I was face up, head up. My left hand was swelling up like Thunder when he sees that Lo Pan has been killed, so I asked Cody to take off my wedding band. Dan took off to get help (Cody did NOT want to get back on the bike after seeing how the mountain had abused me), and Cody and I waited. To say I hurt is an understatement. Brian is a big dude, and his cranium is solid rock (literally). He put a beating on my like I’ve never experienced before or since. I. Hurt. Everywhere.
Dan got back a short while later with a couple of other guys. They fashioned a sling for my right arm and helped me to my feet. Jared grabbed me on my left side and Si’itupe grabbed me by my belt and nearly tossed me down the mountain (that is one big Samoan).
Can I just say how much I appreciate all of those guys? True bone-deep gratitude for each one of them. Healthy bond-deep, even.
When we got back to the cabin, Clayton’s first question when he was told that his father—his own flesh-and-blood, life-giving father—had just endured a near death experience on the side of the mountain, was “how’s my bike?” Priorities of a twelve-year-old, huh?
Having raised three kids I’ve spent time in emergency rooms. I am not a fan, so I was particularly surprised when we got to the ER in Cedar City and … wait for it … there was NOBODY there. I was it. The lone patient. OK, that’s not true. They had some people that were being treated in the ER, but there was NOBODY waiting. They got me back almost immediately, where I learned that I had broken my right humerus (NOT FUNNY!) at the shoulder and two bones in my left hand.
Me in the ER in Cedar City. Photo credit: John Fontano
When you are employed as an attorney, it is not convenient to have NO USE of EITHER ARM! It’s very difficult to type (I eventually became proficient with my thumb, pointer finger, and middle finger on my left hand), and Clorinda (for some reason) didn’t want to let me drive. My right arm was strapped to my chest. I had to sleep on my back, which meant a lot of nights out on the recliner in the family room. I won’t even begin to get in to the personals except to say that Clorinda has secured her spot in heaven (this was my twin nephews’ (then almost 7 years old) favorite thing about the accident). I couldn’t feed myself, and my angel wife sees meal time as a social event, so I often resembled a baby bird, mouth wide open begging for food while she chatted away with someone else, oblivious to my plight.
To top it off, the pain meds made me itch. Everywhere. Constantly. And I had NO USE of my arms and hands.
I did have a hearing that I couldn’t get out of about 2 weeks later. I looked like Chevy Chase in Spies Like Us—one arm in a cast, the other in a sling, face covered in road (mountain?) rash. I was local counsel and had co-counsel from Seattle there, our first face-to-face meeting. Classy.
That was not the best independence day weekend of my life. Oh, I’ve recovered, for the most part. My wedding band does not fit on my left hand anymore, and I don’t have full range of motion in my right arm, but they are otherwise fine. And I have only ridden a bike one time since the accident, and that was a road bike on flat ground. I have panic attacks on high places, like rooftops. And stairs. But it's all good.
It's been six years. I really thought I’d forgiven that mountain for what it did to me, but when John said the mountain was pretty much destroyed, all I could think was that karma is a, well, you know the rest.
I think I need a glass of lemonade.
