An insertion near the End
author's note: At just under four pages, this is a short anecdote/semi-epiphany I had nearing the end of my summer tour. No karaoke involved. I'll be getting back to that soon. I might have sped this one up a little at the end for the sake of brevity. Or maybe I'm just tired.
Labor Day weekend.
Driving from Portland to San Francisco.
“Life is a short, warm moment,
and death is a long, cold rest.
You get your chance to try
in the twinkling of an eye,
80 years with luck,
or even less.”
-Pink Floyd “Free Four”
So I survived the flights to Maui and back. 5000 miles in the air. Over the ocean, no less. But I survived.
Probably my worst flight experience (and minor, at that, I’m sure compared to more seasoned travelers) was flying back to Missoula, Montana, one winter a few years back. I had just visited my parents for the Christmas holidays in Utah, and my final connection from Salt Lake was in a puddle jumper. Okay, I realize it was a little bigger than say, perhaps, float planes, but it still had propellers. I’m not real comfortable with that.
In case I hadn’t explained (or for those of you who don’t know), while I’m okay with flying, I’ve lived most of my life with a fear of falling from heights. A few years ago, I came to agreeable grips with my fear of falling (a skydiving experience helps this considerably), and a few years before that I gave up any sense of control when I had to travel by airplane. I figured, one way or another, the plane was going to come down. But in all of these years, I still hadn’t given up the possibility that any one of my flights might come down in a hail of fire and twisted metal. It’s the horror writer in me, what can I say? That “Final Destination” movie didn’t help much, that’s for sure. Actually, that movie, combined with my natural fears played a big part in the development of my second book, currently in the works, “One Second Until the Hour.” (shameless future plug).
Anyway, for the sake of brevity (haven’t quite accomplished that yet), I was on this puddle jumper bouncing in mountain turbulence coming into the small Missoula airport, which was covered in snow and ice.
My friend, George Auckland (as in the guy who is working on my website), was my “airport pick-up guy.” This was pre-9/11, so he was able to wait in the terminal by the gate. A news crew was also allowed in the terminal. They were doing a piece on people returning after holiday travel. Now you gotta’ know George. Anyone who does could see this coming a mile away.
“You should film my friend, Paul,” he apparently told the crew. “He’s coming back from Utah.”
Actually, I’m not sure what exactly he said, but as I stepped off the platform to find a crowded waiting room, somehow the cameras found me. I’m sure I hadn’t slept too much and drank too much Bushmill’s over the visit. I think I said, “Well, I cheated death again.”
I never saw the report, but I don’t think they used it.
So I’ve always wondered if my death would come by plane, the one force of motion, and fast motion at that, I had given up any control over. But I survived the flight to Maui. And I was on my way to San Francisco to meet up with the guy who was editing my book for my agent.
In nearly 8000 miles on the road by this point, I had somehow managed to work my travel days in at times that excluded heavy traffic. Of course, traffic is considerably heavier on the East Coast than the West, but most of my driving had transpired either on a weekday, or a Sunday at the worst. But here I was, near the end of my trip, ready to be done with almost three months on the road, and traveling on the Saturday of Labor Day Weekend. Out of Portland. Towards San Francisco.
Traffic was practically bumper-to-bumper through all of Oregon. Into Northern California it started to thin out, but I was already realizing that I wasn’t going to make it to my evening meeting with Adam in San Francisco. I hadn’t convinced myself yet, though, so when I got the opportunity mid-afternoon, with some flat ground and not too many other vehicles, I put on the steam a little.
On a dusty patch of road about two hundred miles north of the Bay Area, I had probably just started to relax. The day was cooling off, the shadow of my truck stretching longer towards the East as it bumped along through the dirt and brush. Window rolled down. Listening to Tuatara, a heavy instrumental band, no lyrics at all actually. Again like movie-theme music, but more tribal and diverse. (How about that for vague?).
Suddenly, about a hundred yards ahead of me, I see a flash of something big flip skyward, gleaming of metal, a swerving of vehicles and a plume of flying dust as whatever it was flew off the road into the dirt.
Like the possibility of wildlife on a dark highway at night, these are the moments you anticipate when you’ve spent many miles on the road by yourself. There’s plenty of time to think, and you imagine how you would deal with the worst case scenario (or maybe this is just me.)[1]
Instinct kicks in. I quickly check behind me and start tapping my breaks to signal any vehicles behind me, followed by a quicker succession of actual breaking. Traffic slows to 60…50…35… 25. Vehicles have pulled off to the side. A full-sized pickup truck is stopped in the median with an empty flatbead trailer. No vehicles on the road seem damaged, but the cloud of dust from whatever was on that trailer has yet to settle. As I continue slowly past, just seconds after the incident, I see a construction Bobcat flipped over on the west side of the Interstate.
The dust clears as I pass the accident. My first thought is, “That poor guy who lost that piece of equipment. Just ruined his weekend.” My second thought? Had the cards been layed out differently, I could’ve been right behind that trailer, doing 70 miles an hour, when that probably half-ton piece of machinery flipped off, for whatever reason, a bad tie-down, a faulty clamp, one 2 inch screw that just happened to work itself loose from a bolted down bracket. In a flash, it could’ve flipped onto my truck, and that would have been the….
But it didn’t. And my second thought was what a tenuous grip we have on this life. What peril we put ourselves in by just waking up in the morning. Just last night, winding down, sitting and listening to the radio, I saw a Black Widow spider just a couple feet away. And today I might have seen a Brown Recluse. (I probably shouldn’t say all of this about the wild kingdom, otherwise Jennifer might not come back by.).
But that tenuous grip is determined, dammit! That’s what makes this life so great, if we appreciate it. Death is nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing we can do about it, not when our clock is up, not when the cards are laid out on the table. Aces over eights.
Maybe that’s the great test of this life. Do you live in fear of death? Or do you live in celebration of life? We have to take advantage of every moment we’re given. Even in the hard times, we are given another day to see the sun and breath the air. As I said a couple years ago, just before I was to leave a comfortable life in Montana for an uncertain one in Southern California, “the only thing you can be certain about is where you are right now. So you might as well enjoy it.”
[1] This often includes stories for highway patrol in case you’re pulled over for speeding. And I know I’m not the only one who does that.hors note:
Labor Day weekend.
Driving from Portland to San Francisco.
“Life is a short, warm moment,
and death is a long, cold rest.
You get your chance to try
in the twinkling of an eye,
80 years with luck,
or even less.”
-Pink Floyd “Free Four”
So I survived the flights to Maui and back. 5000 miles in the air. Over the ocean, no less. But I survived.
Probably my worst flight experience (and minor, at that, I’m sure compared to more seasoned travelers) was flying back to Missoula, Montana, one winter a few years back. I had just visited my parents for the Christmas holidays in Utah, and my final connection from Salt Lake was in a puddle jumper. Okay, I realize it was a little bigger than say, perhaps, float planes, but it still had propellers. I’m not real comfortable with that.
In case I hadn’t explained (or for those of you who don’t know), while I’m okay with flying, I’ve lived most of my life with a fear of falling from heights. A few years ago, I came to agreeable grips with my fear of falling (a skydiving experience helps this considerably), and a few years before that I gave up any sense of control when I had to travel by airplane. I figured, one way or another, the plane was going to come down. But in all of these years, I still hadn’t given up the possibility that any one of my flights might come down in a hail of fire and twisted metal. It’s the horror writer in me, what can I say? That “Final Destination” movie didn’t help much, that’s for sure. Actually, that movie, combined with my natural fears played a big part in the development of my second book, currently in the works, “One Second Until the Hour.” (shameless future plug).
Anyway, for the sake of brevity (haven’t quite accomplished that yet), I was on this puddle jumper bouncing in mountain turbulence coming into the small Missoula airport, which was covered in snow and ice.
My friend, George Auckland (as in the guy who is working on my website), was my “airport pick-up guy.” This was pre-9/11, so he was able to wait in the terminal by the gate. A news crew was also allowed in the terminal. They were doing a piece on people returning after holiday travel. Now you gotta’ know George. Anyone who does could see this coming a mile away.
“You should film my friend, Paul,” he apparently told the crew. “He’s coming back from Utah.”
Actually, I’m not sure what exactly he said, but as I stepped off the platform to find a crowded waiting room, somehow the cameras found me. I’m sure I hadn’t slept too much and drank too much Bushmill’s over the visit. I think I said, “Well, I cheated death again.”
I never saw the report, but I don’t think they used it.
So I’ve always wondered if my death would come by plane, the one force of motion, and fast motion at that, I had given up any control over. But I survived the flight to Maui. And I was on my way to San Francisco to meet up with the guy who was editing my book for my agent.
In nearly 8000 miles on the road by this point, I had somehow managed to work my travel days in at times that excluded heavy traffic. Of course, traffic is considerably heavier on the East Coast than the West, but most of my driving had transpired either on a weekday, or a Sunday at the worst. But here I was, near the end of my trip, ready to be done with almost three months on the road, and traveling on the Saturday of Labor Day Weekend. Out of Portland. Towards San Francisco.
Traffic was practically bumper-to-bumper through all of Oregon. Into Northern California it started to thin out, but I was already realizing that I wasn’t going to make it to my evening meeting with Adam in San Francisco. I hadn’t convinced myself yet, though, so when I got the opportunity mid-afternoon, with some flat ground and not too many other vehicles, I put on the steam a little.
On a dusty patch of road about two hundred miles north of the Bay Area, I had probably just started to relax. The day was cooling off, the shadow of my truck stretching longer towards the East as it bumped along through the dirt and brush. Window rolled down. Listening to Tuatara, a heavy instrumental band, no lyrics at all actually. Again like movie-theme music, but more tribal and diverse. (How about that for vague?).
Suddenly, about a hundred yards ahead of me, I see a flash of something big flip skyward, gleaming of metal, a swerving of vehicles and a plume of flying dust as whatever it was flew off the road into the dirt.
Like the possibility of wildlife on a dark highway at night, these are the moments you anticipate when you’ve spent many miles on the road by yourself. There’s plenty of time to think, and you imagine how you would deal with the worst case scenario (or maybe this is just me.)[1]
Instinct kicks in. I quickly check behind me and start tapping my breaks to signal any vehicles behind me, followed by a quicker succession of actual breaking. Traffic slows to 60…50…35… 25. Vehicles have pulled off to the side. A full-sized pickup truck is stopped in the median with an empty flatbead trailer. No vehicles on the road seem damaged, but the cloud of dust from whatever was on that trailer has yet to settle. As I continue slowly past, just seconds after the incident, I see a construction Bobcat flipped over on the west side of the Interstate.
The dust clears as I pass the accident. My first thought is, “That poor guy who lost that piece of equipment. Just ruined his weekend.” My second thought? Had the cards been layed out differently, I could’ve been right behind that trailer, doing 70 miles an hour, when that probably half-ton piece of machinery flipped off, for whatever reason, a bad tie-down, a faulty clamp, one 2 inch screw that just happened to work itself loose from a bolted down bracket. In a flash, it could’ve flipped onto my truck, and that would have been the….
But it didn’t. And my second thought was what a tenuous grip we have on this life. What peril we put ourselves in by just waking up in the morning. Just last night, winding down, sitting and listening to the radio, I saw a Black Widow spider just a couple feet away. And today I might have seen a Brown Recluse. (I probably shouldn’t say all of this about the wild kingdom, otherwise Jennifer might not come back by.).
But that tenuous grip is determined, dammit! That’s what makes this life so great, if we appreciate it. Death is nothing to be afraid of. There’s nothing we can do about it, not when our clock is up, not when the cards are laid out on the table. Aces over eights.
Maybe that’s the great test of this life. Do you live in fear of death? Or do you live in celebration of life? We have to take advantage of every moment we’re given. Even in the hard times, we are given another day to see the sun and breath the air. As I said a couple years ago, just before I was to leave a comfortable life in Montana for an uncertain one in Southern California, “the only thing you can be certain about is where you are right now. So you might as well enjoy it.”
[1] This often includes stories for highway patrol in case you’re pulled over for speeding. And I know I’m not the only one who does that.hors note:
posted by A Man without a Band at 11:17 PM
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