Quadwallups and Filaments (a short story)

Things weren’t all that strange, until Theodore Roosevelt showed up at my front door.

Things weren’t all that strange, until Theodore Roosevelt showed up at my front door.

Especially strange because he wore a Union uniform, like those of the civil war. Yet- I know this because I searched the answer on my phone before opening the door – Roosevelt was seven years old when the civil war ended.

“I say, good day chap!” He bellowed at me.

I strained to hear him, over the engines of fighter planes, explosions, and shouting military men who were trampling my front lawn.

“What’s going on?” I asked, standing in my sweats.

I’d fallen asleep early that evening and could have sworn dusk had been and gone before I closed my eyes. Now it was daylight, early morning from the angle of the sun.

“Quadwallups, lad! They’re taking over the city. I dare say. We’ve gotta fight back and I need your help!” He said, the glasses on his face glinted at me, and his large mustache twitched like a rabbit’s tail.

“Quad-whats? Are you sure you don’t have the wrong address?” I responded.

A large explosion shook the ground and shattered my ears.

“Sorry, son. You’ve got to speak up! Up, up, up!” He shouted kindly, waving a cigar the size of a sausage, then he took a few puffs.

“Sir! Sir! Quad-“ A soldier shouted from the front yard. But he was cut short when something insanely fast swooped down and took him away as he screamed. I didn’t want to admit what I thought I just saw.

However, the sight gave me pause. All the soldiers stomping around my lawn wore uniforms from nearly every major war throughout time, as if everyone got different memo’s on dress code.

“What the-?” I said to Roosevelt, who didn’t even turn to see the soldier.

“Quadwallups! I told you, I need your help! There’s no time for idle chit chat, my boy.” Roosevelt said, but he was so calm I couldn’t tell if he was serious.

I began to tremble, whether from the rumble of earth rending machines or bombs going off in the distance or the fact that I was terrified – I couldn’t be certain.

“I-I’m not exactly dressed for war.” I said uneasily.

We both looked down at my attire and I thought of how easily my velvety soft sweats, worn smooth from a decade as my favorites, would be disintegrated on a battlefield.

“I say, you look quite alright to me. Freedom of movement and such. But if you prefer to fall in line with the boys, I can make an arrangement.” Roosevelt turned, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and whistled loudly.

In a short moment, a six foot something, skinny as a fishing rod, soldier came running up to us, holding a parcel in his arms.

“Sir, you called, Sir.” The soldier stood straight, looming over the two of us, but he didn’t salute because his arms were occupied with the large box.

“Fine work son! Excellent timing. Hand the package to the General, if you would.”

To my surprise, the soldier handed me the package. His eyes met mine for a moment before he nodded and released its weight into my arms. The box was ungodly heavy and I nearly toppled into the entryway from its heft. After which, the soldier ran back out into the front yard, charging into battle.

“What”, I groaned, “is this?”

“Your uniform, son! Hurry along, there isn’t much time to waste! Quadwallups will destroy everything if we don’t act fast!”

I retreated into the hallway, closing the door a degree to shield as I changed but not all the way.

The cardboard box was held together with twine, tied neatly in a bow with a label attached to the end of a string, on which was scribbled ‘Pull here’.

I fumbled for a moment but managed to pull the knot loose, after which, the box unfolded on its own. I leapt back, afraid it was a bomb or Quadwallup trapped inside.

A coat rack grew from the center of the box like a plant until finally it stood gleaming in front of me, laden with a sparkling uniform.

On top, rested a full face helmet, shaped like a fish bowl. Below the helmet, hung a rubber suit, gloves and boots seamlessly attached. There was an air tank on the back, the kind divers use underwater.

I stood, unsure what to do next or even how to put it on, when Roosevelt hollered from the doorway.

“Hurry, Son! We haven’t got all day.”

At that, I grabbed the rubber suit, which to my surprise was very light.

A zippered slit ran up the right side and curved along the chest to the opposite side, allowing me to pull it on. The suit was suffocating against my skin and I immediately began to sweat, but it fit perfectly. Once zipped, I took the helmet from the rack and pulled it over my head. It attached securely to notches in the neck of the suit and, once connected, cool air flooded the chamber from the supplied oxygen.

At this point, I really wished there was a nearby mirror but I didn’t have the time to run to the bathroom. I looked down and realized the suit was form fitting, which made me uncomfortable when I saw the not quite complimenting bulge of my penis below.

“Ahh, splendid! You look quite fitting. Yes, striking I might add.” Roosevelt said when I arrived at the front door. He gave me a once over and again I felt uncomfortable.

“Here.” He placed an object the size and shape of a large flashlight in my hands.

“What’s this?” I asked, moving my thumb over button to test it.

“DON’T TOUCH THAT!” Roosevelt shouted and jumped to the side.

Frightened, I moved my thumb a great distance from the button.

“Sorry.” I apologized, not knowing why.

He wiped sweat from his brow.

“It’s a M-72. A Mallarky. It’s the finest Mallarky we have. Highly potent, deadly in fact. You’ll need this to fight the Quadwallups but you must not press that button until the time is right. Do you understand?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, you’ll get the hang of it soon. We must be off! Let’s get to it.”

With that, Roosevelt spun on his heels and walked off toward the front yard. I followed, hurrying to keep up with his pace.

The front lawn had been transformed from the peaceful place I once knew to a chaotic mess of soldiers and equipment. Many of them worked to set up sandbag walls at the edge of the road, others stood in tight circles overlooking maps. They wore WWII uniforms, civil war dress, current fatigues, or, strange as it sounds, fighting clothes from the revolutionary war. Machine guns, muskets, or revolvers slung from their shoulders or hung from their hips.

At the road, a tank rolled by, crunching the asphalt like graham crackers.

Overhead, propeller planes zoomed by, soon followed by air rending fighter jets. Explosions rocked the earth. People shouted. Guns clapped. None of it made any sense.

“What are you doing here?” I asked Roosevelt when we turned up the road behind the tank.

“Quadwallups! I already told you that, my boy.” He responded.

“I got that. I meant, what are you, Theodore Roosevelt, doing here?”

“Theo-who?” He shouted back at me.

“DUCK!” A soldier yelled from our side.

Just then, a whistle cut through the air, and Roosevelt tackled me flat to the road. A split second later, a missile sunk into my neighbors house and exploded. The structure went up in a showering plume of splinters.

“Theodore Roosevelt. You died almost a hundred years ago. Dead presidents don’t go walking around in a civil war uniforms in broad daylight.”

“You’re not making any sense, son.”

Clearly, I wasn’t the one making sense.

We turned down Maple street, going downhill now, headed for the city center. I looked up to see a swarm of planes and jets circling the skyscrapers, hovering and firing ammunition at something I couldn’t see. It looked like a vision out of the end of the world, in several different eras.

“You’re not Roosevelt, are you?” I shouted as jeeps screamed past us, turret gunners as stern as statues on top.

“Well, I wouldn’t quite say that. I am and I’m not at the same time, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

“Simple enough, I am the form of this man but I am not him.”

“Like a ghost?”

“No, not a ghost. Go ahead, give my arm a shove. You’ll see that I’m quite real.”

I shoved him. His form was solid. I shook my head and holstered the Mallarky in a sheath at my waist.

“Some would call me a concept. Though old and far in the past, I’m as solid as you are. Even more so, from what I’ve heard.” He adds.

“So you’re the REAL Theodore Roosevelt? This is crazy.”

“Call me what you like, it makes little difference to me. But, to label it crazy, is far from the truth. Simply speaking, I’m a Filament.”

“A filament? Like fiberglass?”

“Their are similarities, this is true. A Filament’s job is to hold things together, especially when something is in the business of tearing it apart. Normally, you wouldn’t see me. I’m quite good at being invisible but the state of affairs has forced my hand. Do you know what I’m getting at?” Roosevelt huffed.

“Quadwallups?” I asked.

Roosevelt nodded somberly.

An explosion hit, blocks away, everyone on the road swayed. We were in a caravan of tanks and infantrymen, headed through the industrial district, on course for downtown.

I began to notice that most of the soldiers paused a moment as they trotted past, nodding to Roosevelt and I. It made me realize that I was the only one wearing a suit like mine or carrying an M-72. A trickle of sweat ran down my temple. The soldiers were looking at me like I was their savior or secret weapon. The idea lodged like a softball in my throat.

“Why am I the only one wearing one of these suits?” I asked nervously.

“We’ll get to that, my boy. Have you been debriefed yet?”


“I say, you’re quite good at repeating me.” He chuckled. “Simple yes or no works pretty well in my experience. Anyhow, we must get to the point of things, no time to dally around the hilt, if you get my meaning.”


The M-72 blinked blue and beeped. I looked down, worried I’d triggered it accidentally.

“Never mind that. It’s blue when you’re in Quadwallup territory. Until it’s steady red, theres no need for concern. As I was saying, we need to get you up to speed.”

He took a few quick puffs of his cigar before speaking again.

“This is a terrible inconvenience for you, I’m sure, but we needed your help. Normally, we don’t show ourselves to Filaments along the current timeline. We operate in the background, you see, like the inner workings of a clock or the guts of a television. Sure, you may know the product of our work quite well. So well, in fact, that you don’t notice it anymore. Just like you don’t question your watch if it’s in working order. Are you following?”

I nodded but I wasn’t certain.

“Well, Filaments are always at odds with Quadwallups. We’re at war, been that way since the dawn of the new age. Our battles are monitored by the conventions. There is a set of codes by which we are bound, otherwise the operation would fall into chaos. Complete and utter chaos. As I said, Filaments don’t usually show themselves but we had no choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Quadwallups organized a coup and jumped the timeline, to the present.”

“And that’s bad?”

“Very bad! Quadwallups are our opposing force, they are the opposite of structure. Continually trying to break up the Filaments. Quadwallups are what you might call the space between and, if too much space gets between Filaments, we fall apart. What happens if we fall apart? Chaos my, boy. Doom to our kind.”

He said the last part with a particular darkness.

“Since the Quadwallups jumped the timeline, there are too many of them in the present. They’re tearing apart the current Filaments, spreading them apart until they snap. The more the Filaments snap, the wider the hole gets. The wider the hole, the more Quadwallups flood in. It’s a vicious cycle, my boy. If we cant stop them, Quadwallups from every timeline since the dawn of the age will flood into the present. Do you know what happens then?” Roosevelt said, glancing at me.

“Chaos?” I muttered.

He shook his head.

“The end of the world.”

We were nearly the heart of the city, leaving the factories behind, and began walking under the shadows of skyscrapers. The roaring buzz of old fighter planes above, the groan of the tanks ahead, louder now and echoing against the buildings.

A screech, like someone dragging a nail on a chalkboard in front of a mammoth loudspeaker, shrieked in my ears. Following the sound was a pain that felt like my guts were being rearranged.

When I looked up, many of the soldiers writhed on the ground, some lay dead. I glanced at Roosevelt in terror.

“They’re breaking through our lines! Come with me!” He shouted.

We cut into an alley, it was empty except the two of us.

“Was that a Quadwallup?” I ask, panting.

“Yes, the bastards are getting stronger. We must act fact. I’m afraid it might be too late.”

We picked up our pace.

“You said the Quadwallups are the space between but I still don’t understand how they’re stronger than the Filaments. A void seems powerless to me.”

“You’ve got the right idea, lad. But I’m afraid the space between is often stronger than connection, especially when the Filaments are corroded. We try to correct things before they disintegrate altogether but sometimes we miss a spot or two and the connection snaps. The level of corrosion has sped to a rapid rate this age, like nothing I’ve seen before.”

We’d made two turns by this point, with each, we snaked closer to the city center. The report of canons thumped in my chest. We passed soldiers laying in the streets, screaming from their backs, or face down and silent.

“What can I do about this? I don’t see how I can stop something this powerful.” I said shakily.

“There’s a lot you can do, especially with the M-72 at your side. We’re all with you in this, battalions of Filaments are pouring in from across time for this battle. The Quadwallups have broken the code. It isn’t the first time it’s happened but, I dare say, it’s worse than I’ve ever seen.”

“You said the Filaments were corroded, does that mean they’ve defected to the Quadwallups?”

“No, it just means they’ve been weakened to the point their connection no longer has presence. As I said before, Filaments are like concepts but I should be more direct. Filaments are laws. The laws that have held true since the dawn of the new age. Similar to science and mathematics but those are only the studies and interpretation of these laws. The laws exist whether or not they are studied. Do you follow?”

I nod. We hopped over a sandbag wall and took a left.

“The laws must be heeded but this is in the hands of the Filaments of the present. This is where the Quadwallups do their best work, in the current age. Do you knit, son?”

“Knit?” I asked, confused.

“Yes, knit. Anyhow, imagine a kitting project, one that’s perpetually in construction. A sweater. A blanket. A scarf. Whatever suits you. Imagine the needles and thread at the helm, these are similar to the Filaments of the present. If you direct your eyes below the needles, you will see the Filaments and Quadwallups of the past, draping beneath. In most places there are orderly gaps where Quadwallups are contained. Yet, in others, there are distortions and holes, sometimes sweeping blank spaces. These are where Quadwallups have broken the code before but even then, many of these spaces have been patched over and concealed where they should have been left as a reminder. This is what Filaments of your age call history. You see, Quadwallups and Filaments are necessary because they are opposites and the code insists that opposites exist. It is only when Quadwallups get out of hands that things get messy. Bloody messy, I might add. Still with me, son?”

“I think so. What are we knitting?”

“A simple juxtaposition, son. We’re not knitting anything. This is the fabric of the universe we’re talking about.” Roosevelt huffs.

The guns became louder as we approached a wide city street, running perpendicular to the end of the alley. War machines flickered past, heading to the right.

“WHOA! WHOA! WHOA!” Roosevelt hollered as we emptied from the alley but it was too late.

I stumbled onto the sidewalk and bumped into a soldier. Only, when I looked up, I realized it was a young woman, holding a phone in her hand, wearing a pantsuit. She snorted and walked off, mumbling about me being a jerk.

It wasn’t long before someone else bumped into me. I looked around and realized I was in the middle of city center, it was a normal day, people walked around in droves, heading from coffee shops to offices, sidewalks to cabs. Horns honked, people yelled, a dog barked in the distance. Large screens attached to high-rises flashed the latest news headlines. DOW drops 700 points, the president denies collusion, violence in the east. The usual.

I glanced at myself in the reflection of a nearby window, I was no longer wearing the suit, just jeans and a simple hoodie.

Around me, people scurried by like a colony of ants, following the signal of a single consciousness. I looked to the alley where I’d left Roosevelt and scrambled back toward it. But, once in front of it, I saw that it wasn’t an alley, but street art that looked like an alley. In the center of the painting was a huge portrait of Theodore Roosevelt with a message bubble next to his face. Codswallop™, it read in the message bubble. In the lower corner of the painting was another inscription, Definition: No Nonsense Media.

Immediately, I reached for the place on my hip where I’d stowed the M-72. The only thing there was my phone, attached to the belt clip. When I pulled the phone up, the screen turned bright red, holding the color for three seconds, before it blinked dark. When I pressed the home button, the screen came to life, and the lock screen wallpaper was a photo I hadn’t seen in years.

A Letter Through Time


We’ve been together a long while now, some might say since the beginning of time. For us, at least.


We’ve been together a long while now, some might say since the beginning of time. For us, at least.

One day, if you stay true to yourself, your work will rise to the top of the charts. Idols will stand at your shoulders, rather than looming over you. Not that comparison or scales are means of true validation but this will be a reality, you will see.

There was a time you kept your imagination hidden or only voiced it in partial truth but those days are passing, aren’t they my friend?

Not unlike throwing a hail mary or an attempt at any distance, for that matter.

Without self belief, your work will fall short. Without granting yourself full wield of your imagination, your work will come out flat. Without dedication, you will never master the art.

These things you know, because, by this time, you are rising like a rocket borne for outer space. Do not forget these times.

Life will swell to the brim with busyness and, if you’re not careful, it will derail you. Don’t allow mediocrity to destroy you.

Sure, for anyone else, they can fill their days and nights with distraction and dependancy, but you are not mediocre and, because of this, you must fight harder, with every fiber of your being, to be otherwise.


The keeper of the mediocre is a jealous fellow, unlike any I’ve seen before. He will seduce you with all the pleasures at his disposal. Trust me, they are appealing, especially when you’ve yet to accept the level of life you’re meant to live.

It will not get easier with time, I’m afraid.

Mediocrity is a sore loser and will dive out from the alleys just to trip you in spite, no matter how far from him you run. Stay vigilant. Others depend on you.

It saddens me to imagine the world without you, now that I’ve seen your impact.

Inspect your weaknesses with care, with empathy, and reinforce them, lest your structure crumble at its foundation.

Say I love you more than you think necessary, some have left you behind earlier than you would have guessed. Be kind. Be selfless, as much as you can. Seek understanding, be slow to speak.

I’ll see you in awhile. I’m so proud of you.

Until then, lace up your running shoes, the race begins.

– The Future

Incident in Alaska

Within a matter of seconds, a trip, whose base purpose was enjoyment, turned to terror, confusion, and, potentially, my own mortality.

I thought I did this for fun, until I fell in a cascading slope of granite boulders, in the Talkeetna Mountains, pulled myself up, bloody, and realized just how easily my life could end here before I had time to realize it happened.

One year and six weeks previous to that day, I was driving a Subaru Outback up a knobby, unkempt dirt road which catapulted myself and a crew of three other young men to the foot of the same mountains, just bellow Hatcher Pass, east of Palmer, Alaska.

It was the final days of my first trip to Alaska. The front end of the trip spent in the backcountry of Denali National Park, a three night backpacking excursion, which sapped the energy from most of us. June in Alaska is capricious, the weather fluctuates between kindly and demoralizing. Our trip began in the rain and ended in sunshine, but neither were constants for long. As one man told us, if you’ve come to Alaska, you’d better get used to wet feet, but Denali presented us with challenges deeper than soaked shoes. We were faced with navigation to our own discretion, trails don’t exist in this park, or in most of Alaska for that matter. The challenging terrain, bushwhacking, river crossings, and ridges laden with late season snow. Not to mention flaring tempers, made worse by exhaustion.

After three nights in Denali, the four of us knew each other better than we would have in a year of friendship in an urban environment. It was an opportunity to witness each others fears, strengths, weaknesses, diplomacy, and leadership. We were all on equal ground, for each of us, it was our first visit to what some call the Last Frontier, and, luckily, we exited with more respect for each other but also a growing dissent, due to the imbalance in what we desired from this trip.

That day, in the Subaru, we were debating whether to book an airbnb or find some other accommodations for the night. Sunlight filtered through the adjacent valley as I edged the car from Hatcher Pass road to Archangel road. The conversation made me uneasy. We were more than prepared to camp anywhere and we’d stayed in an airbnb the night before. I wanted to sleep in the mountains, that’s what I’d come to Alaska for in the first place.

However, I’d planned the front end of the trip, the rest of the trip was supposed to have been planned by one of the other guys in the group but, after exiting Denali, thus ending the portion of the trip I’d planned, we’d come to understand that the other planner had not done any planning at all. The back end of our trip was one big question mark.

Let me say that I don’t mind question marks. Question marks are fantastic. Question marks mean there’s an answer out there and, in this case, almost an unlimited supply of them. Question marks are great when traveling solo, as couples, or with vast amounts of time to travel. Question marks just aren’t great when you have three days left on a trip with four guys who have zero knowledge of the area in which they’re traveling, when most of it’s wilderness. Question marks are especially bad when half of a four man crew has reached their limit of camping and the other half is just getting started, considering we only had one rental car.

As the banter continued, no conclusion was concluded upon and we drove further down Archangel road, deeper into what I now know as Archangel Valley.

I lost touch with the debate as I watched the dark gray mountains and deep, tundra covered valley unravel in front of us. These mountains rose up like gigantic teeth, jagged spires, with boulders the size of small cars draping down to their bases. On all sides we were surrounded. Ahead, it looked as if the horizon had been clipped like paper from patterned scissors at craft hour, deep radial valleys rising to a single sharp point, repeating in all directions. Behind the front range, were mountains of equal and striking drama, layering the depth of the scene like the waves of a stormy sea. The sight pulled the air from my lungs.

At the end of the road, which was blocked by a rusty ranch gate, I stopped the car, opened the door, and ran down a boot path into the adjacent valley, leaving the guys and the car behind.

The wind picked up and the rush of Fair Angel creek met my ears. I stood for a long time, staring at the mountains, the creek, and the valley where it flooded out toward the Little Susitna. In the distance, the sun shone warmly against the bright green mountains but, over us, storm clouds were building.

Few moments in my life have I felt the sensation of synchronicity, where, for an instant, life feels like it’s clicking along tracks which where laid before my first breath. It was in that moment, that I knew this mountain range held something for me, something I still don’t understand.

That night, we camped near the spot I’d run to from the car. Though the others found the location appealing, none of them voiced an experience quite like mine, and I knew I was alone. There was something else I felt, that I’d arrived at the beginning of a journey, would retrace my steps soon, and the secret these mountains held would be revealed in time, or one step at a time, not all at once.

My next trip to Alaska brought me deeper into those mountains, the Talkeetna Range. On a fair August day, five others and myself packed our backpacks at the edge of Archangel road, not far from where I’d camped a year previous. We were preparing for a five night, hut to hut, mountain traverse that had yet to be completed by anyone else.

At interval, I glanced to the valley which I’d felt the spark to visit these mountains, but the moment had passed, I no longer sensed it’s whisper. Still, I knew I was brought here for a reason and understood that those sparks are not unlike the glimmer of a lover’s eyes from across a room, the beginning of a relationship, and I intended to find out where it led.

Packed, ready, and humming with nervous chatter, we hurried up Reed Creek and soon ascended toward Glacier Pass, drifting past ruins of old mining buildings and equipment, long forgotten. Crunching over what was left of a snowfield before hopping through a rise of boulders, we reached the pass and I saw for the first time what lay beyond the initial curtain of mountains.

In front of me stretched a wide basin and the flat sheet of the Snowbird glacier, guarded on the opposite side by stubby peaks and a sweeping ridge line. Gray clouds, flecked gold in the fading light, hovered not far from the tips of the mountains. Beyond the initial set of ridges, it seemed that rows of jagged peaks continued forever toward the horizon.

We stumbled and slipped our way down a steep, rock studded snowfield to the top of the glacier. Donning our crampons, we crossed the glacier and continued to the foot of a steep, loose climb of sharp granite boulders. At the top of which we would find Snowbird hut but it wasn’t visible from our vantage.

It was halfway up this boulder field that I began to question every notion I’d had, leading up to this point in my life.

Elated from the dramatic landscape I’d covered in the past few hours and excited to find the first of the five huts we’d stay at during our trip, I made crucial errors and miscalculations in my ascent of the final obstacle.

I hadn’t taken the thirty seconds to stow my crampons after exiting the glacier, a single cleat dangled from either hand. Because of this, my trekking pole was parallel to the ground, secured in my fist, and useless. I was hurrying, confident on my feet, even in boulder fields, and quickly hopped upward to catch the three companions ahead of me. It was also nearing the end of the day, we’d closed in on our destination, and, even insurance companies will tell you, most accidents occur within five miles of home. Complacency is the doom of the wise.

Before I knew what was happening, a large boulder under my foot tipped down under my weight, and the next thing I heard was the pop of my skull against granite. After which, the world turned dark.

I’ve never been knocked unconscious, even though I played hockey for many years and dared my life against many unadvisable acts in my youth. This time was no different, I was coherent. I could feel my knees against the rocks, my hands against the boulders, as I lifted myself from the fall. I scrambled to touch my face and grope for damage that would warrant the sudden change in my eyesight. The whole time my mind screamed, fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck.

I’m not sure why the mind defaults to vulgarity when faced with trauma, but mine does, it’s also really fantastic at graphically depicting all the possible outcomes after incident. I was almost certain I’d gone blind, split my skull, fractured a disc in my neck, and was doomed to bleed out without seeing a single thing again.

It’s also worth noting that I am not prone to drama, in fact I detest over dramatization, because I see the world mechanically, and if everything has a purpose and function, when something goes wrong, there is a cause, a solution, or, if nothing else, it must be discarded. I hold dearly my own life but I don’t count myself special or gifted beyond the snare of an early or sudden death.

In those moments of darkness after the fall, I glimpsed into the instant nature of the end. It’s nebulous, drifting around our atmosphere like a vulture we cant see, waiting for the time to strike, and, in my own mind, I’d graced myself with the notion I’d have the opportunity to revisit the highlights of my life and say I love you’s before the lights clicked out. What I came to understand that day, is that death wears many faces, strikes at will, and has no courtesies. We are only guaranteed ceremony once it’s too late.

When I rose to my knees and touched my face, feeling for blood and gashing crevices, my fingers found a foreign material, and it took me a second to realize it was my Buff.

A Buff is a stretchy band of synthetic material in the shape of a tube. Handy things. Worn as a sweat band, neck warmer, dust mask, and balaclava. Used as a rag, a shield against sizzling pots, or, unfortunately, sacrificed if rations of toilet paper are depleted. In this case, I’d been wearing it as a sweat band.

Soon, I understood that the collision had shifted my Buff over my eyes, and my loss of sight was quickly remedied and, when I pulled it off my head, the light flooded back to me. I’ve honestly never been so happy to see boulders in all my life. But my happiness was short lived as blood began to drip down my nose and over my eyebrows, warning of damage that wasn’t as easily resolved.

Two of my friends, who were below me on the boulder field and didn’t see my fall, soon caught up, helped me to the hut, cleaned, and dressed my cuts. Looking back, the damage was negligible. I’d skinned the bridge of my nose to the bone, scraped and cut my forehead, one of these cuts in the shape of a lightning bolt, as well as minor abrasions above my eyebrow. The damage, however, was deeper internally than it was on the surface.

The fall made me question the reason I come to places like Alaska and why this particular section of mountains call to me, even as I write this to you. Because leisure and enjoyment aren’t strong enough justifications in the face of injury or possible death. Though we do many dangerous things that bring a thrill, rush becomes addiction, and drives us further to find that sensation which dives deeper into the cracks of our humanity the more we chase it. But what seduced me to begin with?

As adrenaline wore off, I felt a well rising in my chest, something I couldn’t control, though I tried. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I walked from snowbird hut and found a boulder at the edge of a cliff, facing north toward Bartholf creek valley.

Evening settled in and bruise colored clouds hung flat overtop. The valley, three thousand feet below the peaks which bordered it, was dressed in violent shades of blue, and extended for several miles ahead. The single stripe of the creek rushed through its center, far beyond the reach of my ears.

At the sight of the empty space, careless of my presence, my chest convulsed, and my eyes turned into faucets. Though I’d escaped the most dramatic personal accident of my career as an outdoorsman, with wounds that would heal, I’d shattered my innocence, crossing a barrier in myself, and understood the weight of my decision to venture across environments as unforgiving as those found in Alaska. I was no longer an amateur. With that understanding came a responsibility for self and for the rest of my crew, that I’d yet to grasp.

It also presented a decision. To allow danger to hinder my steps, force me back to safety, or to use this incident as an opportunity to learn. I chose the latter. Not in response to ego but for the irrevocable truth that not once in my life have I felt as close to the essence of existence, as I do when I’m in the heart of the mountains. Though lurking danger can immediately snuff life’s flame, in environs such as this, I never forget the thump, beating madly at times, within my chest. I realized that these trips were not about fun but rather, to beat back the current of life which sweeps us away, unaware of time passing, before we are catapulted into the great void beyond its wake.

Dirt Road Elegy

I watched, frozen, as he tumbled through the air, whipped his body onto the unforgiving earth, and snapped his skull against the clay. His head bounced.

The truck lurched over potholes, rattling my teeth, notching my seatbelt tighter, reminding me I had to pee, as I gripped the overhead handle. Alders and brush scraped the side of the door, hissing metallically against the paint. I glanced nervously at the side mirror and watched as dust billowed up in an angry column behind us, lit by the taillights in predawn.

Ahead, the road bent and disappeared around the corner. The speedometer hovered at forty, the driver’s eyes were steady. Cold sweat tickled the back of my neck and the fingertips of my right hand were white. I shifted in the passenger seat.

Gravel skidded under the tires as he braked for the corner. No one was coming in the other direction, as I had feared, but that mattered little to me.

“Hey dude, slow down. The trailhead’s not going anywhere.” I call to the driver. My twenty-seven year old companion, the driver, glances at me in annoyance but, after explaining my reasoning, he levels off to a conservative speed.

For most of us, gravel, clay, dirt, or sandstone roads connect us to the places we hold dear like National forest or parks, state land, BLM, rental cabins, or, as it was for me in my younger years, home.

The majority of my young life was spent on twenty acres of land just northeast of Pisgah mountain in Pend Oreille County, Washington. It’s an area that lacks development beyond the highway, a two lane thoroughfare, and many roads peter out into gravel or clay before long. Mine did. It was a wide gray road that bled into lumpy, weaving clay, which narrowed the further it fled from the highway, the closer it came to home.

I didn’t always love this road. To be honest, at times, I hated it. Muddy and slick in spring. As hard as concrete, jarring pot holes, brake ripples, and storming with dust in summer. In fall, it turned to mud again. Winter was a combination of snow, ice, and slush, depending on the weather, which often fluctuated from 34 to -14 degrees.

Like a wavering cell connection at the edge of service, the road flickered between functional and unbearable. In it’s own way, it was like a fickle prison, sometimes the lock left unclasped, and I sped along it’s distance with haste, just in case the road might deny me passage.

Many years later, it’s different. As soon as my tires leave the pavement, I slow down. Let me tell you why.

Because of the time I raced down that road on my mountain bike, hit a rock, and went flying into the ditch. A bloody gash in my knee and scraped hands were my medal. Soon after my wreck, a neighbor fled hurriedly by in his truck. I counted myself lucky, it could have been worse. I tied my shirt around my leg to slow the bleeding, as I walked the last quarter mile home, leaving my bike behind. The scar still shines from my kneecap.

For the first time my dad let me drive his truck and I oversteered, taking us up a sharp embankment before he grabbed the wheel, from the passenger seat, and directed us back to safety. I stopped the car and he took over. We’d only made it a hundred feet down our driveway.

My initial attempt at driving in the snow, in our purple f-250 single cab, nicknamed Barney, was a rescue mission to pull my dad’s car out of a snow drift, nearly a mile away. When I arrived, there was another car stopped in-between his car and I. As I slowed the truck, I realized I’d been too harsh, the brakes locked and tires slid. To my horror, the momentum pulled me down the shallow hill and, eventually, crushing the car’s bumper ahead of me.

My brother Ben and I sat on the tailgate as my mother drove Barney, our f-250, out the drive, toward another entrance in our property to gather firewood. We dangled our feet and watched as the clay road, baked solid from the summer sun, flew away underneath us. A bump in the road, a poorly timed shift, and Barney lurched forward. I rocked back instinctively and held on. Ben was not as fortunate. He flew off the tailgate, at twenty miles an hour. I watched, frozen, as he tumbled through the air, whipped his body onto the unforgiving earth, and snapped his skull against the clay. His head bounced.

Frantically, I pounded the side of the truck. My mother was unaware. As I rushed up to my brother, I watched as he tried to get up, then crumpled to the ground like a lifeless doll. But he survived.

I drive slow for every time I snuck home when it was much too late, cigarettes and beer on my breath. I cradle the brake for the time I spent twenty eight hours in jail, bailed by a coworker, and walked, ashamed, the last two miles of that clay road to my parents home without my car, which was impounded. My dad didn’t speak to me for a week, a small price for my recklessness.

For the time my brother called me after he’d fallen asleep and crashed in a ditch, not far from home. I helped pulled his truck back to the pavement, just thankful he was alive. I slow down for each time I’ve nearly been hit by a kid driving too fast on a dirt road, a kid that reminds me of myself. Because everyone makes mistakes, usually because we’re in a hurry.

Many of you have memories of your own, what a dirt road means to you. Maybe it’s freedom, maybe it’s restriction. These roads take us where few intend to go, that’s why they’ve yet to be converted to asphalt, and there’s a spirit of independence, duty, and responsibility that comes with the territory. These byways are not meant for running because they venture to places where time moves slow, a scarce commodity in today’s world. It’s a privilege to have such access into recreation areas and we should treat them as such. For every pothole and rumble strip, each wave from a stranger in an oncoming car, and every memory we’ve gained and those we’ve yet to create, we owe it to others, to ourselves, to ease off the accelerator, absorb the beauty these roads give us, and arrive safely. Maybe then, we won’t miss what we came here for.