In my zeal to provide the best care possible for my new pets, I scheduled a routine health exam with my favorite vet.  I have a long time relationship with Dr. E., about thirty-five years or so. 

My first horse, Blue, was a poorly trained little fellow with strong opinions of his own.  He resisted the advances of a vet who tried to examine his one remaining male part, without proper introduction.  Though sedated, he placed a kick very near the man's own privates, knocking him to the ground.  Needless to say, we were obliged to seek another doctor after that experience. 

I found Dr. E whose patience and quiet manner was the perfect match for my high-strung (but unhung) gelding.  Dr. E didn't even consider using a twitch to control him when I mentioned that he was excitable.  Instead, he stood leaning on Blue, but otherwise ignoring him, and chatted with me until the horse relaxed.  From that day, to the day Dr. E gave him that final exit, Blue never misbehaved.  Thirty years later, Dr. E provided the same kindness for my second horse, Sunny.  Suffice it to say that I have the utmost trust in this vet.

I wasn't sure how Gemela would behave, as Steve had told me of some pretty serious resistance to treatment in the past.  I need not have worried.  Both Flo and Gemela stood quietly for their shots and dental exam, again, thanks to the good doctor's understanding of horse psychology.   

That was Monday afternoon.  Tuesday afternoon I went up to exercise Flo and noticed that both horses acted unusually lethargic.  In fact, Gemela was showing symptoms of West Nile virus.  Her coordination was impaired and she seemed weak.  Dr. E was concerned but assured me that it could not be West Nile as that vaccine uses dead cells.  He said it was rare but some horses had reactions to the influenza vaccine or possibly the encephalitis vaccine.  One in three hundred, was the statistic he quoted and I was facing two.  At any rate, he said if they were not improved by the next day, Wednesday, to call him back.  (He also said to take her temperature and administer anti inflammatory medication if she was feverish, but we had neither a horse-sized rectal thermometer nor any Phenylbutazone).

Wednesday morning and at lunch time, there was no change but by dinner time Gemela seemed noticeably worse.  I called Steve up to the barn to render a second opinion as I don't trust my own judgement when I get emotional.  He agreed she had neurological impairment.  I could tell that neither horse had laid down over night because they had no shavings in their tails.  Normally they do lie down so I guessed that they feared they wouldn't be able to get up in their impaired condition.  At this point I began to obsess.  Dr. E said he would come out in the morning which meant a long sleepless night for me. 

As soon as it was light enough to see (we have no electricity in the barn) I went up to check on them.  Flo was standing and Gemela was down in her stall.  My relief was palpable when she scrambled to her feet without difficulty.  Both of them showed eagerness for their breakfast even though Gemela was still moving a little stiffly.  I walked her out to the arena to observe her gait and decided she had turned the corner and was on the way to recovery. 

I'm not a religious person but I sang a hymn of praise all the way home. 

I was in the kitchen, preparing my coffee, when I heard the unmistakable sound (scritch, scritch, scritch) of dog toenails peeling out on the concrete of my driveway.  I dashed out the back door to protect my brood of cats.  Gray Kitty was peering fearfully around the corner of the house, hair all fluffed up, so I knew that danger lurked nearby.  Fearing some brute had caught one of the others (perhaps Other GK) unawares, I dashed down the driveway to the front of the house.  There was no longer any sign of a dog, but Big Bad Bob was walking proudly back across the neighbor's lawn, hair standing at attention. 

This bullying has got to stop! The neighborhood dogs are being terrorized.

 Sometimes I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.  Today was just another day in paradise.

Sally and I went for a bike ride this morning and found that some of the trails that had been so messed up have been repaired.  I guess I didn't rant in this forum about how our favorite trails had been ruined.

The powers that be who run the Crafton Hills Open Space Conservancy hired a trail builder to revamp the Conservancy trails.  In doing so, he closed our favorite trails, Yikes! and Rollercoaster.  When we first discovered the piles of brush blocking the trails I was fit to be tied.  These trails were in existence for decades before the Conservancy came into existence and they are virtually maintenance free, as far as the Conservancy is concerned.  We who ride them keep the brush trimmed back (just barely wide enough for us to pass through) and we welcome the ruts that appear every winter and then get worn down as we ride them during the year.  So, it makes no sense to us that they would close them.

Anyway, I'm sending in my membership dues to join the Conservancy and plan to attend the next meeting.  Clearly they need a voice of reason in their group.  I'm not sure where they will find it because I'm near hysteria myself.  Just kidding.  I'll be nice.

So, back to the day in paradise:  After the bike ride, I took Gemela and Gracie out on the trail.  It was a little warm and when we came to some water running across the trail, Gracie flopped down in it.  She looked so cute lying there with her hind legs splayed out, that I pulled my hydration pack off and dug my new camera out to take her picture.  I had pulled my feet out of the stirrups to give my knees a rest but Gemela was standing quietly so I thought it would be safe to take some video footage, because by now Gracie was rolling in the mud like a little pig.  With my hydration pack balanced across the front of the saddle I began filming.  Here is the result.

Day 4  Monday  (Again, thanks to Guy and Sally for the photos)

While the Aliner is uniquely designed for just such weather, the picnic table sheltering our bags of gear and clothing was not.  Sally and I got soaked to the skin trying to consolidate the bags under the protection of the wildly flapping table cloth.  Our efforts were in vain, everything got wet.  Oh, and did I mention muddy?  The rain blew so hard that everything got coated with red sand too.  Guy slept serenely through it all in the back of the Pilot.

Using the intermittently available wireless internet connection, we tried to find a weather report that would give us hope of being able to ride at some point during the day.  We had saved the premier trail, the world famous Slickrock Trail, for today and the thought of going home without enjoying it was unthinkable. 

We vacillated between packing up and heading home and hanging out to see if the weather would lighten up.  I’ve been caught on Slickrock in a thunder storm and I truly believe it is the closest I’ve ever come to death; so in spite of Sally’s pleading, I was not going to venture out into the tempest.

We finally decided to pack up the trailer and prepare to head home but spend a few hours in town before leaving.  By the time we had everything loaded, there were patches of blue sky among the roiling clouds.  Hope catapulted into our formerly deflated breasts!  Even Guy’s breasts seemed to swell with hope.  Within minutes we were in our cycling clothes and on the way to the trail head.

Driving to the trailhead, I confided that this trail always gave me butterflies in my stomach thinking about riding it.  In fact my bowels were feeling downright queasy as we drove up the road to the trail.  After some consideration I came to the conclusion that it was merely the effects of the Moab water but the seeds of apprehension had been planted in the minds of my riding companions who were facing the challenges of this trail for the first time. 

All kidding aside, the most terrifying thing about The Slickrock Trail is the breathless agony of the quad-burning climbs.  The sandstone provides a perfect contact patch for the rubber tire, providing no excuse for a rider to lose traction and give up.  As long as one has lungs to gasp and legs to pump one can propel himself up incredibly steep inclines.  The danger lies only in the limits of one’s pain tolerance, strength and stamina.  While a tire will stick, a cleat embedded shoe may not.  The rider who is forced to abort his attempt before attaining the summit is in danger of sliding back down on parts not intended for that purpose.

Ironically, what most freaks out the inexperienced rider are the steep descents.  The same infallible traction that allows one to climb walls provides perfect control over the speed on the downhill.  As long as one keeps her weight equally balanced over her cranks, front tire and rear braking in unison, the speed of her descent can be controlled.

Slickrock begins with a gentle, confidence-building introduction then segues into a perfect phrase of pure downhill thrill.  Cresting a dome of asphalt-smooth sandstone the trail plunges down to what appears to be an abyss, but just before the rim of that abyss it turns sharply aside and funnels the rider into a small bowl, allowing one to take one breath of relief before turning sharply again down a narrow drainage.  If one were to follow that drainage to its conclusion it would surely be fatal, but the white dots marking the trail beckon to the rider to follow them along the wall of this bowl to a narrow ledge that widens into a comfortable track, before dropping steeply into yet another drainage.  And so it continues, wending its way up, down, over and around towering sandstone domes, each different in shape but each the same in their predictable traction.

Our map indicated that there was an alternate trail that would take us back to the trailhead a bit more quickly than the main trail, and since our legs were already tiring, we decided to try it.  Of course, it started out with a long, steep hike-a-bike climb.  We pushed our bikes to the top, then mounted and followed the white dots painted on the sandstone across a more level stretch.  The dots led around the side of a steep dome, the side of which was so steep that it required a leap of faith to believe that our tires would hold as we traversed it.  Just when my faith was growing weak the dots turned and lead straight down the face, dropping perhaps two hundred feet in a dozen heart beats.  My relief at facing the canyon below, rather than skirting it in an off camber balancing act, was short lived as my bike gathered speed, actually skidding on the sandstone.  I could see that my present trajectory ended in a sheer drop off and some course adjustment was urgently required.  In some part of my brain I heard Guy yell to veer left and at the same time I spotted the dotted line leading me safely away from the edge.  Looking back up to the top where Sally was just starting her descent, I could hardly believe that we could have ridden a bike down it so easily.

Happy to have Slickrock crossed off the Moab bucket list, we drove back to camp to shower and pick up the trailer.  One last side trip to explore the new pedestrian bridge and then we were headed home.

We drove to St. George and stopped for the night.  We stayed at the Red Cliff Inn, an inexpensive, but comfortable motel right next to the freeway.  $60 included breakfast for three. 

No trip is complete without a stop at the Mad Greek in Baker, home of the world's largest thermometer.  For dessert we shared a quake shake (a chocolate shake with a shot of espresso) that got us the rest of the way home.

Sally liked the juxstaposition of our little rig parked next to the big rig in the parking lot at the Mad Greek. 

Day 3   Sunday  (Special thanks to Guy and Sally for the use of their photos)

I've reposted this because I added some of Sally's photos.

Sunday’s ride entailed a long shuttle out to the trailhead of the Porcupine Rim trail.  By transporting the bikes several thousand feet up, the riders could enjoy about 18 or 20 miles of almost nonstop downhill.  I volunteered to be a shuttle driver, forgoing the pleasure of the ride, not out of any over developed sense of altruism, but out of a need to give my sore parts a day to recover.  Despite the overall downhill nature of the trail, it is a punishing course that drops off about 1.2 million ledges.  Even when I was young and fit this trail beat me up.

The drive up was one of the most scenic in an area renowned for scenic drives.  Most of it was well graded and wide enough to pass other vehicles easily.  Near the top it grew steeper and narrowed down to one lane in places where it hugged the side of the cliff.  My passengers voiced no complaints as I wheeled the SUV around the blind turns, though the guys must have been nervous with a woman at the wheel.

 I confess I felt some envy as I watched my friends roll down the smooth, shaded singletrack until they disappeared in the piñon pines.  But I soon forgot any regrets as I turned back towards town, thinking of all the things I wanted to do before they got back to camp.

Moab has a wonderful bookstore called Back of Beyond, where they stock a collection of new and used books, many specifically about the Moab area.  I limited myself to two books, one new (an autographed book about Moab’s history), and one used, Reading Lolita in Tehran.  I could have happily spent the afternoon in one of the comfortable, leather easy chairs, but I caught myself dozing off and decided I’d better get groceries and head back to camp to make lunch for the hungry cyclists.

As luck would have it, they had already eaten by the time I got back.  They still had the energy left for a hike so we drove a couple of miles up the Colorado River road to the mouth of Negro Bill Canyon. 

I remember it having a less politically correct moniker back in the days when we first started riding in Moab but the canyon was less socially acceptable then too.  When we hiked its cool grottos back in the eighties there were no maintained trails, only the meandering tracks of the cattle who foraged there and those of the occasional hiker.

Today, there is a parking lot with permanent restrooms at the canyon mouth.  A well built trail, marked with numerous signs to keep the hiker on track (though the thickets of poison ivy on either side do more to encourage compliance), follows a clear, perennial stream up the canyon to its end (about 2.5 miles) where one is rewarded with an up close and personal  view of a large arch.    

It was the perfect place to escape the heat and the gusting winds of the valley and we lingered until dusk.

The wind continued to increase during the night, shaking the trailer and roaring through the cottonwoods that sheltered our campsite.  By dawn the warm, dry wind had turned bitterly cold and the roof of the trailer was pelted with rain and hail intermittently. 

Day 2

Saturday morning dawned hot and breezy and the prospect of another day in a parking lot propelled me into the resort office to beg for a better site.  The woman at the reception desk grudgingly gave me a site that had been vacated, initially telling me that it was reserved for someone who was coming in that day.  I suggested that she could put the newcomers in our hellish spot and she could think of no reasonable rebuttal, but she clearly wasn’t as happy a camper as I was.  I scampered back to deliver the good news to my companions.  Their enthusiasm for the move was tempered by the daunting task of moving all our gear. 

Sadly, we had not gotten the memo that laid out the time and meeting place of the ride scheduled for that day, and we were blithely eating our breakfast when Mark came by to see if we were almost ready to leave.  Knowing we had a good hour’s work ahead of us, moving the trailer and getting ready for the ride, we told him to tell the group not to wait for us.  We expected we would connect with them somewhere on the trail.

By the time we hit the trail it was nearly ninety degrees in the shade, and there wasn’t a spot of shade.  Jeeps were lined up along Kane Creek Road congregating for the assault of Amasaback, which was also our destination. 

Amasaback trail starts with a broken, stair step descent, so steep and jagged that only the foolhardy plunge over the edge without hesitation.  When we arrived, there was a jeep occupying the line we needed and he wasn’t moving.  The driver’s female companion was standing downhill voicing her opinion about his route choice, while the children (who were strapped in) and family dog watched in wonder as we nimbly skirted around them. 

The trail showed evidence of extremely heavy 4-wheel use.  Every rose-colored, sandstone ledge bore a tire-black track, and where there was loose material, soil and rock was churned up into an almost unrideable morass.  Amasaback had always been one of my favorite trails and I had bragged it up to Guy and Sally so it was disappointing to find it so degraded. 

Near the summit we found a trail marker guiding cyclists off the jeep-beaten track.  It meandered along the edge of a sandstone outcrop for a short distance and then jumped off a series of ledges to a nicely groomed trail into a shallow canyon.  We stopped at the junction of the Rockstacker trail and sat at an overview for a snack. 

Rockstacker was described on the map as an extremely technical trail with dangerous exposure. 

We watched as several young men rolled down the trail, intermittently disappearing from view as the trail followed the contours of the side of the cliff.  They reappeared a couple of hundred yards away where the trail turned straight down a very steep slope.  The first guy rode it carefully but smoothly; the second sailed down effortlessly, the third tried to brake and arrested his speed by sliding into a bush next to the trail.  A few minutes later, another group followed.  These fellows were not as proficient and promised to be more entertaining.  A couple of them got off and walked after seeing their friend bounce off his front wheel and sail superman style over the bars.  The aforementioned beleaguered bush captured his runaway bike. 

We continued on our trail out to a spectacular view of Poison Spider Mesa and the mighty Colorado.  Retracing our steps, we had to climb out of the canyon we had so gaily descended earlier.  The climb wasn’t so gay.  By the time we reached the main trail that descended the mesa my legs were toast. 

Sally thought these shots made our butts look big.

Again we encountered a pod of jeepers bunched up at a difficult transition,

but we were able to pick a good line around them and continued on our way, unimpeded.  When the trail crossed Kane Creek Sally and I immersed our parched bodies in its cool, restorative waters. 

It was so revitalizing that I momentarily forgot my rubber legs, my sore ass, my raw hands, and my pocketed camera.  I am hopeful that the legs, ass, and hands will heal, not quite as optimistic about the camera.

Back at camp, Guy collapsed.  He had run out of water, unbeknownst to Sally and me, and gotten a bit dehydrated.  We laid out an instant feast of fruit, cheese, fresh veggies, Gatorade, and other less nutritious snacks.  Within minutes we were back among the living and planning our next ride.

The rest of the day was occupied with camp chores, grocery shopping, showers, and naps.  By evening the breeze was turning gusty so we ate our bean, rice and cheese burritos inside.  We hung out at Jeff and Gail’s campsite for a while before turning in for a well deserved night’s rest.

We had left home after 7:00 in the evening, after Sally finished work.  We expected to drive until none of us could stay awake and then pull off and sleep for a few hours near the freeway.  As Sally had predicted, she was sleepy by nine and she curled up in the back to sleep.  Guy and I took turns driving through the night.  Neither of us wanted to stop because we were too excited to sleep anyway so we drove until dawn at which time Sally took over.

We exited the freeway at the Hanksville turnoff to stretch and Guy walked around the trailer to give things a cursory inspection.  “Judy, we have a problem”, I heard him say and my heart dropped.  We were about a hundred miles from anywhere, not a place I would choose to have a problem.

Our bike rack attached to the rear bumper, with two mountain bikes on it, was evidently, more weight than the bumper was designed to carry because the weld was separating at the frame and the bikes were dangling at an odd angle.  (I had emailed the Aliner manufacturer to ask if I could do this and they said “Sorry, no.” but being the risk taker that I am…) We set about rearranging gear and managed to put the two bikes inside the Pilot, and the rack fit inside the trailer.  Sally and I were suddenly aware of what  an invaluable asset Guy was to our group.

We pulled into Moab in time to get breakfast and then check into our campground. The campsite assigned to us was a gravel driveway with no shade.  I was disappointed since the web site for the resort had boasted shaded sites with grass picnic areas.  The day was unseasonably hot, and with no place to escape the sun, we were pretty uncomfortable.  We set up our camp and then set off for the Klondike Bluffs trailhead with Jeff and Rob.  We were expecting to meet the rest of our group there but only Steve showed up.  Evidently, Jimmy, Brian, Colleen, and Mark had missed the exit for the 70 and wound up going half way to Provo before they realized their mistake. 

Klondike Bluffs trail is a nice entry level ride, ideal for riders new to slick rock to develop their confidence.  Sally was relieved to hear we had something easy on the agenda since she was feeling some trepidation about riding Moab’s world class trails.  The view of Arches National Park at the end of the trail was our reward for having ridden this rather tame trail.

Back at camp everyone was introduced to each other.  I had never met Rob, a strapping, handsome fellow, who stood about 6’4”, and looked imposingly fit;  Brian, a boyish forty something, was compact and muscular as was his friend, Jimmy.  Colleen’s husband, Mark, towered over all of them leading Sally to comment repeatedly on the size of our male members.

The entire group met at the Moab Brewery for dinner, including Steve’s daughter, who had driven in from Aspen.  Our waiter handled our table of twelve capably and the food was remarkably good.  Everyone seemed to find the brewery's beer to be perfectly acceptable too.

Greetings from Moab, Utah! 

Moab is probably the number one destination, worldwide, for serious mountain bikers.  I haven't been here in about ten years but there was a time when I made it an annual event.  Things have definitely changed for this "mean, ugly little town".  Poor old Edward Abbey must be absolutely spinning in his grave.

Some of the changes are improvements, some not.  Jeep trails that we rode in the 90s are now crawling with 4-wheel drive monster machines that churn up sand and rocks as they claw their way up boulders shoulder high.  They leave a blackened track, lubricated with the oil dripping from their wounded underbellies.  Moab has always been an off road destination but the shear number of drivers, with enough disposable income to buy toys capable of these feats, has grown exponentially. 

Fortunately, new singletrack trails have been created exclusively for mountain bikers.  These trails are even more challenging, and rewarding, than the old "roads" that were originally created during the uranium exploration days.  My old favorite, Amasaback, is in tough condition from excessive use, but if one is persistent, and  can avoid colliding with a jeep convoy, and attains the top of the mesa, the reward is a rolling, rollicking, slickrock trail out to a beautiful little pothole arch and a view of Poison Spider Mesa and the Colorado River. 

We were entertained on our ascent by a group of four wheelers who were having some difficulty navigating a fairly treacherous section of slickrock.  In a line of about a dozen vehicles, the fourth guy from the front got himself into a pickle.  We watched, with barely contained mirth, as he spun and fumed, teetering on three wheels.  It's hard not to feel just a little smug when we can outpace motorized vehicles on the ascent.  It goes without saying, however I can't help saying it, we blow their doors off on the descent. 

Sadly, I have no pictures to post at this time because the temperature was in the nineties when we did this ride and when I came to Kane Creek, I laid down in the stream, forgetting that my (or rather Mike's) camera was in my pocket.  Not being designed for underwater use, it gave up the ghost.  Sally has some photos that I can post when I get them from her camera and I should be able to access mine with a card reader when I get home. 

Until then, I'll try to keep you posted on all the fun.

A friend of mine is teaching in China for a few months and I received an email from him tonight that was very interesting.  I wanted to send it to ElevenStones but couldn't figure out how to do it so I'm posting it here, hoping he finds it. 

If you find the following interesting, I suggest you peruse ElevenStones' archives to read about his adventures in China.  It's well worth the effort to find it.  If memory serves, it's somewhere around March 2010.

This from my friend:

Hi  all,   

I have been rather disconnected due to an accident recently and  just thought I would update you all. 

I was teaching a course at Wuhan University for 2 months when I fell and broke my hip.  It was an interesting experience, finding myself sitting on the sidewalk at night in the rain completely immobilized.  It was a simple fall, sort like just sitting down on a curb after slipping on a wet curb.  The passersby all wanted to help but few had any English.  But a family came  by with a teenage daughter who spoke English.  I had the business card of the professor who was my sponsor.  So she called my sponsor, who in  20 minutes descended like an angel from heaven to rescue me.  An ambulance had arrived already but spoke no English and the driver needed payment in advance of loading anyone in the ambulance.  I wasn't carrying that kind of money.  Prof. Yu, my sponsor came prepared and we got loaded into the ambulance by passersby.  You will notice this becomes a bit of theme, since at every junction who ever happened to be standing around helped out.

At the hospital there were two of Prof. Yu's students waiting.  They and a passerby helped me into the x-ray room.  I was x-rayed with  4 people standing around the x-ray table, helping and watching.  No one had to leave the room.   Same thing with the move to the hospital room, which was in another building, through the parking lot and in the rain, being moved by whom-ever happened to be standing around.

The hospital ,room was small with 3 beds, the other 2 occupied by amputees, one of whom was smoking. Once again I was moved by those standing around from the gurney to the bed, a very painful experience when done by non-professionals.   Since the hospital does not provide food or any non-medical care, it requires the family of any non-mobile patient have some family member stay in the room 24 hours a day.  If the family can not provide this help you can hire someone from outside the hospital to provide it.  They are not medically trained but can go out of hospital to a restaurant to buy food, help you go to the toilet, wash you, etc.    The first night the grad students sat up with me all night. then the university offered to hire someone.   They hired a person who was tending the smoker, so at night we were 5 sleeping in the room, 3 patients, and 2 others sleeping on small cots they (not the hospital) provided.  The hospital put me in traction and said that surgery could be done after a weeks wait.  I was x-rayed again in the room while the other patients and their visitors all watched on.   The room had no privacy curtains, so everyone could see everything that went on.  Since the other 2 patients were essentially botched surgeries, I wasn't too optimistic about my surgery.   The doctor was scary, very stern, never a smile, he always looked angry.

The upside of all this was that Prof. Yu arranged for all my students (40) to come to the hospital room to do their assigned class presentations. They came is small groups, so morning afternoon and evening, they were trooping into my room to do about a 5 or 10 minute presentation in English.  It was awesome, I never had better students in my life.  They came just to talk too, I really felt loved by the students.  I became some thing of a celebrity being the only foreigner in the hospital. I was actually having fun. 

About this time my wife arrived in Wuhan, another angel arriving from the sky. She was in contact with the insurance company. The hospital had refused to schedule surgery until she arrived, they needed some family member to take charge and sign for responsibility.  The insurance company decided Wuhan was too risky for surgery and decided to fly me to Hong Kong.  I couldn't figure out how they would get me in an airline seat.  They didn't, they sent a doctor and a nurse from Shanghai, who packed me up like sausage in an inflatable sandwich and took me to the airport where a private jet was waiting,  In a few hours with no security or customs that I could see, we were in HK at the Hong Kong Baptist Hospital.  Wow, what a difference.  Everything was clean and efficient with a real hospital bed that could be raised or lowered, etc .  The staff all spoke English and were so nice.  It was like being in a very nice hotel with better service then a hotel would give.  Except for food, the hospitals still don't provide food here.  But my wife didn't need to stay with me all night and she could choose from number of restaurants for food.  Things were looking up.  Surgery was scheduled and performed.    The doctor was nice and very efficient.  He explained everything in detail to both my wife and me.  Finally physiotheerpy began and I made rapid progress.  Today finally, I was released and am staying at the home of a relative of my wife, a very nice place with internet access.

I should be going back to Wuhan in a few days to finish teaching my course and back to the US on May 7.  Not sure if I will be driving or not by then but I would love to attend the next meeting, perhaps if I could get a lift from someone.

Fortunately, my friend is an experienced traveler, and so, was not unduly panicked by this adventure.  I can't wait to hear more of his story when he returns.

Life goes along the same and then suddenly it's different.  That's how Mike put it. 

When someone is healthy and active we don't consider that he, like all of us, is mortal.  Death slaps us up side the head like a drunk step father when it takes someone who, only yesterday, was making plans to lay a new floor for his daughter.

Today, he is the unnamed pilot (pending notification of next of kin) of the Cherokee Piper who crashed at 7:19 A.M. in the hills near Beaumont. 

His son is left stunned, wondering how he will fill those shoes.  Because someone must.  Someone has to step forward to assume the responsibilities that his vital, energetic dad took care of, until today. 

Life is different today.