Brother Number Two

Brother Number Two, back left

Introduction

 

A home filled with many brothers and sisters is often very lonely and sad. Chaos can do that. Sometimes a small kindness will make the world feel better. This is a story about Brother Number Two.  

 

Family

 

There once was Family with one girl and seven boys. First came Boys Number One through Six,  then Girl Number One (and only), then Boy Number Seven. The reason for so many was that the Mom wanted a girl. In fact, she wanted many girls. She might have been marginally disappointed with the birth of each boy, and she loved those boys with her whole heart, but boys are dirty, and thoughtless and just plain exhausting. Her love for those seven boys was real, although sometimes questioned, and rightfully so. How could it not be questioned? Raising boys is  HARD!  Multiplied that by Seven in quick succession and you might understand.   

 

This is a story about Brother Number Two, but first we need to know the nature of people these people. 

 

The Dad was a cluster of many opposing traits. He loved to laugh and find joy in life, but the stress of life and providing for eight kids was hard. He was often mad or grumpy and that caused a real distance between him and the kids and the Mom. He worked non-stop, up early and home late. He was always working. He made a lot of money but money was not the driving force. He had simple interests, a big house or fancy cars meant nothing to him. An obsession for money is not healthy, at either end of the spectrum, rich or poor. The Dad grew up very poor, so his money obsession was about not spending any of it. He loved physics and natural science, and that was his drive for an education, not money. Working too much.

 

He loved camping in the desert, it was his escape from his stresses of life. And took all those kids with him, and sometimes the Mom. He was often grumpy on these trips because, unlike the Mom, he was not used to being around all those kids all day long. The kids still loved to camp, but they kept a guarded distance from their Dad. He had only two sleeping bags for everyone, so those desert campouts were miserable affairs. Only the two lucky enough to get the sleeping bags would sleep, usually the oldest two, while the rest of the family would wrap up in a blanket on the ground, and they FROZE! The Dad grew up on a farm, in a big family, two parents and eight kids, and they were poor. That family of ten lived in a two-bedroom house. His parents claimed one of the bedrooms, his four sisters the other. He and his three brothers slept outside on the covered porch. In the winter he’d often wake in the morning with snow on his blankets. Maybe that’s why he was OK taking his kids camping without sleeping bags? In the summer he and his brothers would get eaten alive by mosquitos, because their farmhouse was just a short distance from a huge wetland and a marsh. In fact, in the winter when the Dad was just a boy, those wetlands froze, and the Dad would ice skate for miles and miles and miles, all on hand-built, wooden skates. The family was poor, the house did not get electricity until the Dad was nearly ten-years old. He loved to read, he read any book he could find. His favorite stories were about real explorers. He also loved books about wildlife, especially birds. So, for a boy without electricity who loved to read, reading in bed at night was a challenge, he had to light his pages with a candle or kerosene lamp. The Dad was old enough to be drafted into the military during World War II.  But he wasn’t drafted, his Dad kept getting the draft of his sons deferred, so they could farm and provide food to the country during wartime. Be he hated his Dad telling him he had to be a farmer instead of a soldier. So, without telling his Dad, he enlisted in the Navy. His Dad just thought the draft deferrals had ended. He never admitted to his dad that he enlisted and was not drafted. That small defiance brought him joy.          

The Mom came from a different country, from the southern hemisphere, an English commonwealth, and not New Zealand. She came from two very English parents. She had five sisters and one brother, her sisters all very English with a bit of Aussie, but her brother was all Aussie. As a teenager she loved to swim in the Indian Ocean, their home just a few streets away from the beach. Once while swimming quite far from the beach, the shark horns started to shriek, warning of sharks in the water. She was too far from land to swim back, so she swam to the nearest buoy and crawled on top. She sat on that buoy for hours until the shark siren ended. She was a tough girl, and she was calm under fire. A personality trait that would serve her well when she became a mother of seven boys and one girl. She spoke with a strong accent, but that accent was more proper English than Aussie brogue. She was embarrassed by the Aussie, she tried her best to sound English, but the Aussie brogue was her natural voice, and it would quickly take over when she was excited or stressed, and when she realized she was speaking pure Aussie, she seemed embarrassed and went back to proper English. She loved to knit, sew and bake bread, but she was no wilting rose, she was a worker who knew how to take care of herself and her family. She was quiet and understated, and very aware of world events and everything happening around her, near and far. Because of her quiet manner she was often dismissed as naïve and ignorant. When her boys were teenagers and pushing limits, she knew what they were up to when they thought she was clueless, and she always stopped them short of total teenage ruin, much to their surprise. Over time they realized she was not stupid. 

 

She loved everything English, she loved the Queen and loved that they were born just a few months apart. As her children grew older, she constantly quoted English poetry and verse from memory, still fresh in her mind from her school days. She met the Dad during World War II, when the Dad was a sailor in the Navy, stationed in her hometown, in that southern hemisphere, English Commonwealth country. After the war she followed him home, but make no mistake, she was no wilting violet, always at the disposal of her man, she was in control of her life and did not wait around for help when she could take care of herself.  She was three years younger than the Dad.

 

They had eight kids, seven boys and a girl. 

 

Brother Number One was a tease, and not always a nice tease. He loved guns and hunting and he loved classical music. He played the violin and he loved to clean his guns. That was his heaven. But guns and Beethoven? A very queer union. He was generally nice, but his first priory in life, after his guns, was to laugh. He loved to laugh and he didn’t mind if someone else had to suffer for his laughs. He was 25 years younger than his Mother, and 28 years younger that his Father.  

 

Brother Number Two was quiet and thoughtful, but he could be a crank. He liked to stay away from the family, he found them to be annoying, he had a small group of friends that were carefully selected, and that is where his joy in humanity was found. Some would say he was a loner, but he probably had more friends than anyone in the family, but his friendships were very selective. He played the trumpet, and he was in the high school marching band, where he had many friends. He was two years younger than Brother Number One. 

 

Brother Number Three was trouble. He was short, smaller than most his age, and he was full of rage. That rage brought him respect, but not the kind of respect that society would admire. He was always smiling, but not in a friendly sort of way. His smile carried an icy stare, a signal to all that he was not one to trifle with. He was two years younger than Brother Number Two.

 

Brother Number Four is smart. He inherited all the intelligent genetics that his ancestry had to offer, and he knew it. None of the other siblings came close. They might be grounded in common sense and demanded proof of everything, but Brother Number Four just knew stuff. He was an excellent student, but his smartness was not just at school, he had the ability to feel the moment and that enabled him to find truth more easily than most. He simply did not follow blindly. He searched for and insisted upon proof of everything. A weakness of humanity is to follow along with the crowd, if only to be part of the popular crowd. Brother Number Four was incapable of following along with the crowd. He was three years younger than Brother Number Three.  

 

Brother Number Five was physically gifted, a natural athlete, very strong and fearless. Very social and loved people, but not all people, just certain people. Very smart, but not in school like Brother Number Three. He had a great instinct to get to the heart of an issue, a seeker of truth in the real world. He liked to laugh and liked to tease, in a fun way, not in an annoying way like Brother Number One. There was a lot of good in Brother Number Five, but he never knew he was gifted, or smart, or funny. He never gave himself any credit. He always assumed he was five steps behind the rest of the world, that he was stupid. He was burdened with a dark inner voice. He was a good boy but never knew it. Quite simply, he was a troubled soul from an early age, but that is a different story. He was three years younger than Brother Number Four.

 

Brother Number Six was a combination of his five older brothers, but he never excelled in any one thing like his older brothers. He was too bashful and reserved, perhaps timid, and a bit afraid to take on the world. His first memories in life weren’t of his Mom or his Dad, but of Brother Number Five. They were close in age, and he tagged along with Brother Number Five in his daily tromp through the neighborhood. Brother Number Five, from a young age, was always out to establish his dominance with the bullies of their street, and Brother Number Six was always trailing behind. Brother Number Six never wanted trouble with the bullies, but Brother Number Five never backed off from a fight, so Brother Number Six was always a few steps behind his brother. He was a year younger than Brother Number Five. 

 

Sister Number One was a girl! Hallelujah!  A gift from God to their Mother! Despite six older brothers she was sweet and feminine. She wasn’t a tease, and she was intelligent but did not always dig for the truth. Sister Number One never looked for a fight, and was never trying to prove physical dominance, never a tom boy as one might assume of a girl with six older brothers. Instead she loved to dress up and wear make-up and jewelry with her many girlfriends. She loved to always have a girlfriend nearby, obviously to get away from her smelly bratty brothers. She was the salvation of their Mother, who had too many sons. Sister Number One was very puzzling to her six older brothers, who only knew boy things. She introduced them to a whole new world, of which those six brothers were completely ignorant. She was three years younger than Brother Number Six. 

 

Brother Number Seven resulted from a try by their mother, but not their father, to get another girl, a little sister for Sister Number One. But it was not to be. A boy it was. Like all the others he loved to laugh and joke and smile. With six older brothers and one older sister he feigned a surly toughness, but his inner being was simply too nice to pull off that act. He cared about people and treated all with kindness, but in a gruff sort of way. When meeting a new friend, he’d start out as a ‘tough guy’ but within in minutes they’d both be laughing and telling jokes like they’d known each other all their lives. Brother Number Seven was an athlete. Every physical activity he tried came naturally and he was always better than his friends or his brothers at anything he did. He was two years younger than Sister Number One.       

 

 

Upholstery

 

If the Dad escaped from life by camping in the desert, the Mom escaped from life with big hobbies. The Mom took classes to learn how to upholster furniture, and then re-upholstered all the furniture in their home. She said it was because the Dad was too cheap to just buy a new sofa or recliner, but it was really her escape from life for a few hours a week. During the school year it was not a problem for her to be gone for several hours a day. During the summer, with the kids out of school, the boys created war and mayhem when their mother was out of the home.  

 

During one week when the Mom was busy upholstering their couch, there was a state of teenage boy warfare as soon as the Mom left, but abruptly stopped when she returned. The boys acting like nothing was wrong. Each day during that week the mayhem escalated a bit more than the previous day. At first it was minor teasing and joking but soon escalating to punches thrown. 

 

On the Wednesday of that week, Brother Number Two was practicing his trumpet, in his room with the door closed. He was in the marching band and the new school year was about to start.   He would be playing his trumpet with the marching band during half-time of every football game. While brother Number Two was practicing, Brothers Number One and Three let their true selves come out. They started with a simple knock on the door of Brother Number Two, then running away. Brother Number Two opened the door and seeing no one there, he knew the war was on. But he didn’t react, he closed the door and went back to practicing his trumpet. Brothers Number One and Three again pounded on the door, harder than last time, and then ran away. Brother Number Two yanked the door open, knowing no one would be there, and he yelled at the top of his lungs to “KNOCK IT OFF!” The yelling just added fuel to the fire. 

 

The door pounding continued, but while it did, more hijinks were unfolding. Brother Number Three, with time on his hands before another round of door pounding, would feign a fake game of pool, but with a disgusting twist. He would wrack up the balls and remove the center ball, replacing it with one of their pet Gerbils. They had twenty Gerbils in one small cage, and Brother Number Three thought they could dispose of a few. The Gerbil experiment started out with two males, the Dad did not want additional Gerbils so he insisted on males, but somehow one of those “males” gave birth to a litter of five, with more to follow. Brother Number Five got the two Gerbils as pets, but like any pet of young boys, the Gerbils were soon totally ignored, and it fell to the Mom or younger sister to feed the Gerbils and clean the cage. 

 

So, Brother Number Three was playing pool with one ball replaced by a Gerbil. Brothers One, Four and Five thought this was hilarious but Brother Number Six did not. After a few hits of the balls, that poor Gerbils was injured and in pain. This bothered Brother Number Six. There was much laughter after every hit of the balls, but finally Brother Number Six took action, he ran to the pool table and grabbed the injured Gerbil and tried to run away. Brother Number Three would not have it. It was his game and no one was going to take that away. As Brother Number Six ran by, Brother Number Three reached out with his pool stick, catching Brother Number Six at his knees causing him to trip and fall face first into the arm of the coach, the one not currently being re-upholstered by the Mom. With that face plant the laughter from the older three brothers was deafening. They loved to see a younger brother smash his face, with a Gerbil in hand. Luckily the Gerbil was OK, but for the injuries from that fake game of pool. Brother Number Six was near tears and his nose was bleeding profusely, which only brought more laughter from his brothers. As for crying, that was never to be. If he had cried, it would have been grounds for profound and severe ridicule form the other brothers, for decades to come. So no, Brother Number Six DID NOT CRY! Brother Number Six got up, held his bleeding nose with his free hand, and returned the Gerbil to its cage, then went to his room, closed the door and, all alone, he cried.  

 

While crying alone Brother Number Six heard the hijinks continue. Brothers Number One and Three pounded on the door of the trumpet-practicing Brother Number Two, and Brother Number Two, had had enough and now came out for a fight. Brother Number Three might have been born with rage in his soul, but Brother Number Two was strong, and he would not be trifled with. He ran after Brothers One and Three, catching his older Brother Number One, and punched Brother Number One in the center of his face. Now there were two Brothers with bloody noses. Brother Number One might be a tease, but he was not a fighter, especially when his younger, stronger Brother Number Two was throwing punches. So, Brother Number One quit the door-ditching and went away, maybe to play his violin, but more likely to clean his guns or count his bullets. Such a strange juxtaposition of interests.      

 

But Brother Number Two was not done. He was mad and would have his justice. After a wild teenage boy race through the house, he chased down Brother Number Three. But Brother Number Three was a fighter, and he soon stopped, faced Brother Number Three with fist clenched, and threw a punch square in the face of Brother Number Two. Now there were three brothers with bloody noses, one crying, one counting bullets and the other momentarily stunned and shocked that Brother Number Three punched him in the nose. That shock almost instantly converted to total fury and rage. 

 

With nose bleeding he went after Brother Number Three who knew he was in trouble. A fast, windmill of punches from Brother Number Two landed on Brother Number Three’s face, head and chest. Number Three initially tried to make it a real fight, he tried to throw more punches, but Brother Number Two was too strong, too focused and too angry to feel anything, and Brother Number Three was soon just a punching bag for Brother Number Two. His best defense was to fall to the floor and cover his head with his arms to avoid the flying fists of Brother Number Two. And it worked. Brother Number Two stopped punching, but, standing over his bratty younger brother, yelled “NEVER TOUCH MY DOOR EVER AGAIN!” 

 

Now there were four brothers with bloody noses: one still crying, one still counting bullets, one Angry but playing pool, without Gerbils, the last now playing a trumpet, while his nose bled.       

 

Brother Number Six had a good cry, alone in his room, but he knew he had to get control quickly. If his older brothers caught him crying, the harsh brotherly treatment would be much worse than any bloody nose from getting tripped by a pool stick. He was wiping his eyes and stifling the sobs when Brothers Number Four and Five came in (all three shared the same room). Brother Number Four immediately seized on the crying of Brother number Six, “Oooooh, look at the cute little baby, crying for his Momma, what a cute little BABY! What’s next? Do you need your diaper changed and a SUCKIE (pacifier)?? What a cute BABY! WHAAAA! WHAAAAA!” Hearing this ridicule was like poring sugar on a Red Ant’s nest. Brother Number Five couldn’t resist, he had to get in on the action, “I want my MOMMY! I want my MOMMY!!!” Then sticking his thumb in his mouth, pretending to be a toddler sucking his thumb, all the while making a guttural crying sound as he sucked. Brothers can be so mean. 

 

Brother Number Six quickly regained his composure and stopped crying and started yelling at Brothers Number Four and Five to “shut up, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!!!” which only caused them to go louder and more vicious in their ridiculing: “Look at the pretty little BABY! CRYING for his Mommy!! I want my MOMY! I want my MOMMY!!”  Brother Number Six had had it, and grabbed the nearest weapon he could find, an old, wet tennis ball the dog had been chewing on all morning. He picked it up and threw as hard as he could, pegging Brother Number Four directly in the left temple, dog saliva splattering across his nose and forehead. It didn’t hurt so much and it showed disrespect from an upstart younger Brother, and, with that, he jumped at Brother Number Six, who guessed this would happened and had positioned himself near the door before throwing the wet dog-ball, running as hard as he could with Brother Number Four right on his heels, all the while screaming “Your DEAD, you crying baby mommas boy!” 

Hearting all the commotion, Brother Number Three, still with a bleeding nose, came down the stairs just at the moment that Brother Number Six was approaching, and, hidden by the corner, Brother Number Three, unseen by Brother Number Six, stuck out his foot and tripped Brother Number Six – again - sending him in a nose-dive right toward the couch that caused his first bloody nose. He slammed face first into the arm of that coach, his nose taking the brunt of the force – again - and stating bleeding – again. Now bleeding profusely. He was in total pain and again started crying, but this time he ran out into the garage, slinking down into the corner, hidden by bikes and old tires and about a thousand barrels of wheat, stockpiled by their Mom and Dad for some future apocalyptic, end-of-world calamity. This upholstery-day fight among brothers was not an end-of-world calamity, but the barrels of wheat served a purpose, they made for a private hide-a-way, a place to get away from his Brothers a place he could be alone because, he had a big family, and privacy was never really a thing. He sat down the floor behind those barrels, and cried.  

 

Hearing the commotion, Brother Number Two, nose still bleeding but plugged by a wad of tissue, put down his trumpet and came out of his room just as Brother Number Three came down the hallway headed to his room. (Incidentally, Brother Number Three shared a room with no one, because he was a tough roommate, one that quickly burned through any goodwill. The Mom and Dad, giving up on discipline, realized the best remedy was avoidance: separate Brother Number Three from the others and there will be much more peace and quiet in their home.) As Brothers Number Two and Three crossed paths in the hallway, Number Two glared at Number Three, and Brother Number Three, knowing Brother Number Two was much stronger, a better fighter, much more athletic and, at times, meaner, just dropped his head to avoid eye-contact, showing respect to the Alpha, and slunk away to his room. 

 

Ice Cream

 

Seeing the door to the garage still open, he walked out and could hear Brother Number Six crying behind those barrels of wheat. Walking around the wall of wheat barrels, Brother Number Two asks Brother Number Six, “ are you OK?”  

Brother Number Six, still sniffling repressing his crying, just nods “Yes.”

Brother Number Two, “do you want to get out of here?”

Brother Number Six, still sniffling and repressing his crying, just nods “Yes.”

 

They got in the Dad’s Volkswagen Bug, a 1965, old, faded blue/gray, VW Bug. It had no air-conditioning because there was no air-conditioning in cars way back then and it stunk sweaty boys and burning oil. It was dusty and dirty inside, because, without an air-conditioner, those windows were never rolled up. Plus, the Dad, a landscaping hobbyist, like to collect big rocks for their yard. His landscaping was all rock and a few plants. He loved big rocks. He dragged tons of rock to their yard, by any means possible. He was known to put 80-pound rocks, found in the hills above their house, on the passenger seat of that VW Bug, to bring it home for the yard. So, in addition to smelling of sweaty boys and burning oil, that VW Bug also smelled like the earth. 

 

Brother Number Five, the Mom holding Brother Number Seven, and the stinky VW Bug.

Brother Number Two drove around the neighborhood for a while, looking at the new homes. It was a new neighborhood, built into the foothills of a big mountain range, and it seemed like a new house would pop-up every other day. It was interesting to see how fast the new houses were being built. Also, being up against the edge of the mountain, they could see wild animals right out their door: deer, elk, coyotes, fox and sometimes grouse and quail.  At night they often heard Coyotes howling nearby, it sounded like they were just a few feet from their yard. The Dad and Mom and the Brothers and the Sister, all liked to hike in those hills. To the Dad, it reminded him of his youth, growing up next to the huge marsh full of birds and wildlife. To the Mom it reminded her of her youth, tramping through the bush in Australia with her sisters. To Brothers Number One through Seven and Sister Number One, living so close to wilderness meant freedom, something they all craved and enjoyed.    

 

After seeing all the new construction Brother Number Two said, “Do you want some Ice Cream? Let’s go get some Ice cream!” Like all the brothers, speaking and conversation was not their strongest attribute. When they talked to each other, which was rare, the communication was almost sub-conscious, they just knew what the others were saying from a look in their eyes, or a gesture of the hands, or a twist of the shoulders, or a nod of their head. There were far more grunts and gestures that actual words spoken in that family. Strange to an outsider, but them it was normal. They could sense what the others were going to say before any words were spoken. It was a brother thing, throwing punches one minute, sensing the deepest feeling the next. In this case Brother Number Six didn’t say a word, he was still sniffling, just a quick nod of his head, and Brother Number Two headed the VW Bug down the hill to get ice scream. 

 

As they were driving Brother Number Two, not really talking to Brother Number Six, but just clearing his head of thoughts, “Sometimes life can be really tough. Some people are good and others are bad, and it’s usually the bad ones that we remember the longest. Don’t let the bad people define you. If you feel like crying, then cry. Don’t worry who might laugh. Those unable to cry are weak minded and shallow.” Brother Number Six just sat there and nodded.  Now, talking directly to Brother Number Six, “You are a good boy and I’m glad you are my Brother. Don’t ever forget that we are Brothers. I’ll always defend you.” Brother Number Six was sort of stunned, that was the most he’d heard from Brother Number Two – ever. Plus, for these Brothers, it was not often that honest, deep, personal expressions of love were spoken. But it stopped the sniffling of Brother Number Six and put a smile on his face. All he could say was, “OK, ” but he was warm inside and he felt peace for the first time in long time.  

 

They drove to Arctic Circle, a fast food drive-in down on main street. Decades later, that old drive-in is long gone, a bank now sits where they use to go for hamburgers and ice cream. They pull into the parking lot and Brother Number Two asks, “do you want to go in or should I go get it and bring it out?”  Brother Number Six did not want to go in, still feeling weepy and worried his red eyes would reveal his weakness, “No, I want to stay in the car.” So, Brother Number Two went in inside, returning a few minutes later with two ice Scream cones, one huge and the other one big, but not huge. He got in the car and handed Brother Number Six the smaller cone, but asked, “Can you eat this one?” gesturing with the bigger cone. Brother Number Six, not really understanding, he thought he meant the smaller cone, didn’t say a word but nodded his head and licked his cone. Brother Number Two handed the huge cone to Brother Number Two, taking the smaller one for himself. Brother Number Six was embarrassed, he hadn’t meant to take the big cone, but it was too late, Brother Number Two had started eating the smaller cone. 

 

Driving home, Brother Number Two said again, “Never forget, I’m on your side, I’ll always help you when the others are mean. I may not always live here, but just know that I’m always on your side.” Brother Number Six felt really good now. No more tears.

 

When they got home, they saw that the Mon had just pulled in from her upholstery class. She was smiling, she was beaming, like she always did after a few hours away from the chaos of seven boys and one girl. When she walked into the house, seeing the disaster that only seven boys are capable of, her demeanor suddenly changes, and speaking now in a high-pitched Aussie-brogue: 

 

“FAIR BLOODY DINKUM!! What the BLOODY hell! For crack’in ice, can’t I leave you Joeys alone for three damn, BLOODY seconds without you-all blowing the BLOODY roof off the BLOODY house!? Mary, Mother of BLOODY Joseph! ALL my Joey sons are BLOODY Bludgers! What? Not enough BLOODY Vegemite for brekky? What a bunch of BLOODY Drongos!” 

 

But the Mom’s tantrums were always short, and she soon felt embarrassed for her language and loss of control. She immediately switched from Aussie Brogue to perfect Queens English, “Now, now boys, let’s be nice, clean up your rooms and I’ll make some Cornish Pasties.” She was still fuming but she regained composure. By the time the Dad came home form work, all was back to normal.

 

Brother Number Two, in back with glasses, when he was in the marching band.

End Notes:

Brother Number one went on a mission, came home got married and had a bunch of kids, got divorced and lives alone. He still teases and he has about 50 guns and still counts bullets.

 

Brother Number Two left home soon after graduating from High School and didn’t come home for five years. He said he stayed away because “Dad was too intrusive, always pushing me to go on a fucking mission, so I left until he stopped pushing.” He led a long career as a river guide, and a snow-cat driver, never sitting at a computer ten hours a day like most of us, because “that is a sad, pathetic existence.” Late in his career,  The Boatman’s Quarterly Review (BQR) (gcrg.org), said Brother Number Two was one of only four Boatmen to run the Grand Canyon over 500 times. Anyone who knows anything about the Grand Canyon knows that is a huge statistic. No mission, but he knew who he was, couldn’t fake anything else, and a true leader in his profession. 

 

Brother Number Three got married, joined the Air Force, and is a much nicer person today. Life has a way of smoothing the hard edges.

 

Brother Number Four is still smart, he has several degrees and works building defense weapons for the US military.

 

Brother Number Five is gone now, but that is another story.

 

Brother Number Six still cries when no one is watching.

 

Sister Number One has a big family and is still not a tomboy. 

 

Brother Number Seven, still an athlete, everything comes easy to him.  

 

Other than the parents, the Sister and Brother Number One, the family is largely unreligious. Why is it that some are such easy believers and other struggle to believe? Why do some hear the voice of God at every turn and others hear only silence? Some can’t fake it. Oh the mysteries of life.

 

This is a true story, unless Brother Number Three reads it, then it’s ALL  fiction. 

Hidden Couloir, March 8, 2024

 

Anyone who has read my older posts know that I’m a bit territorial of the ski-offerings on Bountiful Ridge.   Yeah, I’ve been a bitch at times, but I certainly did not invent the selfish ski attitude. All the big names of Wasatch backcountry skiing are very coy about divulging their ski locations. Yeah, they post pictures on Instagram, and they post stats and photos on Strava, but they rarely, if ever, post a map or name specific locations. And No, I am not implying in anyway that I am a "big name” in the world of Wasatch backcountry skiing, just that they are big names in the ski world for a reason, and that is because they are NOT stupid. And No, I am not implying that I am not stupid, rather, I understand why they are coy. Like them, I just like a lot of space when I hike for hours and hours to ski, and feel cheated after hiking and hiking for hours only to find that everything is tracked out. The truth is I’m a small player in a small, grungy location in the Wasatch, and I have skied this small grungy location for decades because I was naive to think no one would ever waste their time skiing here. It really is small and grungy, but the ‘faddists’ have arrived. 

But why am I surprised this small, grungy location is now crowded? It should be obvious to all why Bountiful Ridge is now crowded when it was quite solitary just a few short years ago. Crunch the numbers, do the math. Crowding in the mountains was inevitable.  Today’s world has 8.5 billion people, and the Wasatch Front’s population has triple in just my lifetime. Plus another huge factor, ski equipment has evolved (can I use that term in Republican/Mormon Utah??) to the point that it is now idiot proof. 

Before all the fancy new gear, skis were long and skinny, boots were made of soft leather with more flex than an 1970’s East German gymnast, and the bindings were three-pins, and only three-pins, no powerful garage door lift-springs under foot to snap the ski back onto the boot between each dropped-knee turn. Back then telemark turns were not a sign of rebellion or a compulsion to be different like it is today with the massive four-buckle plastic boots and DIN 16 NTN bindings, rather, telemark skiing was a requirement because that was the only gear we had. Only the most skilled and athletic could ski Main Days or the Birthday Chutes top to bottom without yard-saleing. We fell a lot, but the rest of us just kept going, knowing that face-planting every fourth turn was part of the game. The fact is, back-country skiing was a miserable experience for all but the most masochistic. The gear was a serious barrier to entry. Most folks would buy a kit, ski three times and absolutely HATE every second, then take that shiny new kit to DI (Deseret Industries), and dump it, then hire their Mormon Bishop to Exorcise the tree-hugging demons from their souls, then ride lifts the rest of their lives.  Today back country skiing has no barriers to entry due to gear. The riff-raff is no longer filtered out because of sheer misery. 

So it’s now crowded everywhere. We have an exploding population, coupled with perfect, idiot-proof gear and a mindset of youngsters, young adults and bored professionals that need to hike for turns. Now, they ride lifts only when their real friends aren’t watching. Yes, back country skiing is now well beyond the “fad” stage, so it is no surprise that Bountiful Ridge, and everything in the Wasatch Range, now gets hit incredibly hard, by both the cranky old-schoolers and the “fad” skiers.

My point if this: there is nothing on Bountiful Ridge that does not get tracked out after every storm, except for a few hidden gems. Hidden Couloir is one. The location is obvious, but the the fun-to-work ratio totally sucks. It’s a lot of work to get to, more work to get out and the skiing is not great. It’s a long run by Bountiful Ridge standards, but it in a classic terrain trap, it’s steep, at the prime-slide angle of upper 30’s, it has three competing fall-lines, so it feels like your turns are never completed, that you're always turning hard right and only half a turn left, and it ends in a tight, bush-whack HELL that one must navigate to get out. Oh, and it's in a totally different drainage than the popular access of North Canyon, so its a long way out through a low-elevation brushy-hell, all while hoping/praying that the slab on that big, 38-degree headwall does not release. A burial would be deadly and, if you’re solo like me, your body would not be found until spring, assuming the Coyotes, Mountain Lions and rabid Mule Deer haven’t throughly scattered your bones.  

Today was a white out and the entrance to the Hidden Couloir was tough to find (hence the name), but it was a fun adventure. I ski it once or twice a year, always wondering why I keep going back and swearing “never again,” but by the next weekend, when I see all the tracked out stuff on Bountiful Ridge, I weaken and start thinking about the Hidden Couloir again. "Was it really that bad??" The tracked out ridge is a big incentive to go back. In over forty years of skiing the Hidden Couloir, I’ve never seen another set of tracks down the Hidden Couloir, so go back I must. 

Crescent Peak via Mueller Park and KPF II, Wasatch Backcountry Skiing, February 24, 2024

 

. . . here’s the edit, check back later for the write-up.

Still catching up. This was another great day BC skiing the Wasatch last February, in Davis County. Working way too much, life out of balance, but still skied at least once a week, a pathetic offering to the ski-Gods and real ski-bums, but the reality is life takes $$$$. One day the ski-Gods and ski-bums will get it. I’m two months behind on my ski edits. Maybe by Labor Day I’ll be done with winter ’23/’24??

Wasacth Backcountry Skiing, Davis County, February 11, 2024

 

. . . here’s the edit, check back later for the write-up.

Wasatch Backcountry Skiing, Crescent Bowl, February 4, 2024

 

. . . here’s the edit, check back later for the write-up.

Backcountry Skiing Malad Idaho, January 27, 2024

 

 . . . here’s the edit, check back later for the write-up.

City Creek Cirque, Wasatch Backcountry Skiing, January 15, 2024

 

 . . . . still catching up, here's the edit, check back later for the write-up.

BC Skiing the Wasatch, Scott Culter’s Yellow Coat, January 6, 2024

 

 . . . here’s the edit, check back later for the write-up.

Grizzly Gulch, December 26, 2023 - NO GONDOLA

Mt. Superior, 11,050 feet.

Went BC skiing today with my boy, Stuart, headed up Grizzly Gulch, aiming for Patsy Marly then Wolverine Cirque to do Big Chute. I did the whole parking reservation thing, now required by Alta on weekends, and, other than the $25 fee, its really not a big deal. 

In some ways the reservations are a good thing, it filters the crowds the parking shit-show disappears when parking is regulated, and the quality of the day is much better. The big debate about the Little Cottonwood Canyon Gondola is nuts. A gondola is a stupid idea. In my mind the solution is simple, DO NOT build a gondola, DO NOT add lanes up the highway, DO NOT add new parking. The solution is already in place, but needs improvement, just enhance the parking reservation systems already in place. Besides, why should the Utah Taxpayers foot the bill for Alta and Snowbird's profit margins? They already make money hand-over-fist, do they really need to become billionaire operations? 

I value the quality of the day much more than I value packing the canyon to way over-capacity. Over crowding destroys quality. How long would the Utah Jazz get away with selling 40,000 tickets to the 20,000 seat Delta Center? I’m guessing there’d be a huge revolt, by the fans and also the NBA, yet that is exactly what UTA, Alta and Snowbird are trying to do by building a gondola. The Wasatch Mountains are a finite resource. They canyons regularly reach capacity and the solution is to limit the numbers trying to access the canyon. Arches National Park as a good example. Until they started reservations for park entrance, there was often 3-4 hour waits, with a line of cars all the way to Moab, just to drive into the park. Then, hiking Delicate Arch was a major shit-show, IF you were luycky enough to find parking. The trail was wall-to-wall with humanity and it was/is impossible to get a family picture under the arch due to the crowding. Yeah, reservations are a pain in the ass, but this isn’t 1975 anymore. Utah’s population has tripled in the last 30 years. The days of spontaneous ‘jump in the car and go skiing’ is no longer possible. Plan ahead, make a reservation, and the quality of the day will greatly improve. It’s the new norm. 

Back to my day with Stuart skiing Grizzly Gulch; we didn’t get too far. Stuart was recovering from Covid and he could not catch his breath. Every few steps he had to stop, gasping for air. He thought he was over the Covid, at home he felt healthy and strong. He’s in excellent physical condition, but up at nearly 9,000 feet his lungs were still struggling with the virus. We made it about two miles up Grizzly Gulch but then called it a day, skied back to the truck and went to breakfast at Silver Fork Lodge. A beautiful, sunny crisp day in the Wasatch, made better to be with my boy. 

Patsy Marly 10,531 feet.

Devils Castle (l) 10,875 feet, Sugarloaf Mountain (r) 11,051 feet. 

 

BC Ski, Base of Bountiful Ridge, December 9, 2023

Above the trail, just below KPF.

Early season and little snow, the cover looked thin and un-skiable when scoping from home, but I went anyway . . just to see. The binoculars didn’t lie, it was thin. When I got to the base of Bountiful Ridge, where the angle dramatically steepens, I didn’t have the heart to continue. It looked like the skiing down would be brushy, trippy hell. When I was younger I wouldn’t have hesitated to go up and ski, but my advanced age has brought a wee bit of wisdom (Kara emphasizes the ‘wee-bit’ part), so I turned back and went home. Surprisingly, when I skied down KPF (short cut to avoid two miles of trail) the skiing was fun and made me re-think my decision to abort they day. Yes, very brushy, but with ramming-speed and direct hits, that brush was nothing more than some superficial ski damage and a few painful hits on my skins. No tripping and no falls. I know there are sharp, cut tree-stumps barely under the snow, but I’d like to think I’d see them before tee-boning or ripping a femoral artery. Luckily today there were no accidents. 

On the approach I booted all the way up North Canyon to the start of the single track (about a mile) before putting on skis and skinning. On the descent I reversed that, the double track was very thin, maybe six inches of semi-packed snow, and I didn’t want to totally destroy my ‘rock skis,’ my faithful Voile V6s. Yeah, they’ve never been my favorite ski, not quick turning and not very playful, but the more I ski them the more I like them, so I try to avoid damage if possible.  

KPF under about 12 inches of snow. Looks much better than expected. Not nearly as brushy as expected, and when I later skied down it, I had no major hits. Last year's work still evident this year. 

At the top of KPF I get the first glimpse of Bountiful Ridge. From here Mark’s Ghost (ski runs left of big Douglas Fir) looks surprising good, but we all know that area is notorious for hidden boulders and rock daggers, scary with thin cover.  

Snow stake boulder showing the thin base.

A new trail to be built along the ridge to Cave Peak, connecting the North Canyon trail the BST, is marked with survey tape, which reveals it’s path going directly through the Mountain Mahogany(directly ahead in this photo). This grove is small, about 75 feet wide by 200 feet long. I love Mt. Mahoganies, and they’re sort of rare up here. 'Sort of,' just know there are very few compared to the sea of Gamble Oak. I’m going to ask the Bountiful Trail Committee to consider moving the route 50 feet to the left to go along the edge of the Mahoganies, and instead go through the endless sea of Gamble Oak.

Fresh tracks. Small Mountain Lion?

Moose bed. I didn’t see them but many signs of moose near Rudy’s Flat. 

A veritable Moose party last night at Rudy’s?

Another Moose bed at Rudy’s, so fresh I think it jumped up and left when it heard me coming, which made me feel terrible for interrupting it’s rest on this cold winter day. 

54cm (21in) at Rudy’s Flat.

This is as high as I went today. This is at the base of the ridge above Rudy’s, where the angle gets steep (35 degrees). Just too brushy, it looked like more work to ski down than skin up. 

Cold day, at least it felt cold compared to the warm autumn temps I was use too. 24-degrees felt really cold, but as I write this (Feb 3) I’m now acclimated to cold. 24 degrees today would be an after-though. 

Big old Douglas Fir, I see these huge stumps and I wonder when this King started life? It’s just off the new BST cut, where the old short cut ascends the drainage off the North Canyon Trial. 

The fence at the North Canyon trailhead has been cut. It was built to keep ATVs and 4x4s from poaching the trail, but those days are now over, unless this is rebuilt. 

 

To Ibex for the Eclipse, October 14 & 15, 2023

 Ibex

We camped at Ibex to watch the eclipse on October 14th. Ibex is a famous bouldering/climbing area about 60 miles southwest of Delta Utah. We camped on the Tule Valley Hardpan, a dry lake-bed, near the most popular climbing area, with big boulders and serious cliffs. I use the term ‘camp’ loosely here, we hardly slept a wink even in our comfy camper, due to the ‘Burning-Man-ish’ shit-show of other campers who never shut the hell up. All night long they drove their four-stroke/two-stroke/no-stroke ATVs on the hardpan - all night, they shot their guns - all night (surprised no one was killed) and they yelled and screamed like it was a frat party, ALL NIGHT. I was naive to think we’d have a peaceful night at Ibex. The last time we camped there we were all alone. Maybe the eclipse had something to do with bringing in the noisy crowds? Of course it did, stupid! It’s an eclipse! And eclipses do strange things to people, it gives them an excuse to be dipshits when Kara is trying to sleep. We weren’t alone, there were other sincere folks there just to watch the moon pass a shadow across the earth. There were old folks like us and there were families with kids just trying to enjoy a spectacular moment in the desert. The tent-trailer right next to us was a young family with four kids, they all looked to be under the age of ten. It was so noisy I don’t think they slept either, I heard the baby and the three-year-old crying most of the night.   

It was a ring-of fire eclipse, the space and distance between the moon the sun and the earth meant the moon did not completely cover the sun, leaving a fiery ring of the sun peaking around the edges of the moon. It was beautiful but wasn’t as stunning as the total eclipse of 2018(?) when we went to Rexburg, Idaho to watch. Still worth it, even with no sleep and the noisy crowd. 

The eclipse began at around 10AM and we were so groggy we went back to bed just after sunrise when the noisy frats-boys and Barbi-girls finally fell into a silent stupor. We went back to bed to nap before the eclipse, and we almost missed it! But in my sleep I heard a young kid nearby yelling, “Its starting! It’s starting!” Panicked, it would last only about an hour, I jumped out of the camper and looked, the moon was just starting its path across the sun. A small bite into the sun had just begun to take form. I woke Kara and we sat there for the next hour, watching the moon in it’s slow dance across the sun. Very awe-inspiring, leaving me humbled to know we are really nothing at all in the broad scheme of things. It made me recognize my arrogance to think all those noisy people should go obediently silent at 10PM, just so I could sleep. It made realize that nothing humanity does is deep and powerful enough to compare to nature, or the earth, or the universe. We are temporary energy and nothing more. 

It looks like we’re alone but we’re not even close. Creative photography erases the riff-raff.

None of my photos captured the eclipse. The best shot I got is this reflection on a cloud.  

After it was done, I hiked up the rocky hillside above our camper (boxy thing sort of alone in the middle of photo), trying to find a way to the top without falling off a cliff. I got near the top but was turned back by a 20 foot vertical chimney. The chimney looked like an easy climb, but exposed enough that a fall would be deadly (40 vertical feet), so I turned back. As we were driving out, seeing the cliff from a different angle, I saw a large diagonal ledge that would have been an easy, non-technical walk to the top. I was surprised no one was trying it? But I realize my interests and hobbies are strange to most people, walk to the top of a mountain? Stupid! Oh well, the bit of climbing I did in my effort was fun, reminding me of a past life when climbing was everything. I miss it. 

Kara and our camper/truck, the white boxy thing, mid-right (there’s a gap in the cars to the left of our camp). My climbing route to the top roughly zig-zags above our truck, using the easy scree then zigging up the ledges. I was turned back near the top, at the shadow just below the top on the right (the small shadow on far right, not the big shadow mid-right). Just to the right of that shadow is the ‘easy diagonal’ ledge that would’ve been an walk-up. It can be seen trending right and down from the shadow, out of the frame.  

Life finds a way.

Notch Peak is the high point in the middle. Notch peak is said to be the largest and highest vertical cliff in the state of Utah, higher than the Great White Throne in Zion.

Best I could do without a tripod and filters. 

Notch Peak (only half)

The plan was to camp at the Notch Peak trailhead and hike Notch Peak the next morning, but when we arrived, there were cars everywhere, every semi-park-able spot was filled with five or ten cars. People everywhere.  Like Ibex, last time there I was all alone. There was no level parking, or camping, anywhere. Who knew Notch Peak would be so popular during an eclipse? We decided to hike partway up the trail, hoping that much of the crowd would leave while we hiked, then go back a find a flat spot to camp. Then in the morning I’d get up early and run to the summit while Kara slept-in. If you drive to the trailhead it's not a long or difficult hike to Notch Peak (8 miles RT, 3k ft vert gain), so very doable in the wee hours of early morning.  Driving to the trailhead requires navigating a rough, high-clearance road, so many people park way down and start hiking much farther away. In the Tacoma, with a camper, we had little problem driving to the trailhead. I was shocked to see some of the cars that drove all the way, most surprising was a Toyota Corolla and a Honda Accord. It’s no 4x4 road, but it is rough. Some of those cars undoubtedly high-centered and dragged oil-pans across rocks in many spots.

We found a side-hill and parked, barely off the road, and hiked about half-way up Notch Peak from the trail head. /the trail follows a cool, serpentine desert canyon, but as the sun was setting we turned back and headed down. Once back we knew it was hopeless, nobody had left. We would be miserable trying to sleep on that side hill, and we didn’t want another noisy, sleep-less night, so we headed home. No Notch Peak. A long drive home, but no bad Tacoma this time.      

Small arches are numerous along the Notch Peak trail.