Maritime Bliss

Saturday we got the real deal. Rolling out to Buena Vista, Colo., we rafted about 15 miles on the Arkansas River, navigating Class III+ rapids (though the river is really low right now — about 1,200 cfm, our guide said).

I've never been rafting before, but three paddle strokes into the journey and I knew it would be a great time. Before launch, my boat's guide, Avery, a student at CSU, asked us who wanted to sit in the front. "We need some strong rowers in the front," she said. "And you'll also get really wet."

Me and Sgt. Pritchett volunteered for the front spots right away. Why not get the full experience of the river? Avery's premonition of getting wet proved very true. The 45-degree water poured over the bow QUITE often soaking me and Pritchett from the get-go.

We stopped for lunch about halfway through the trip, enjoying tasty sandwiches, chips and cookies. Before eating, the guides let us jump off a 30-foot rocky outcropping into the FRIGID river water. The jump was the easy part. The water temps the difficulty. From the 85+ degree air temperatures I vaulted off the top into the sub-50s flux.

I'm not sure what erratic beats my heart took when the temperature variation set in, but after surfacing, breathing became nearly impossible. Breaths came in short, uncontrollable gasps. Motor skills diminished, limb control slowed and debilitation mounted. I was shocked how spent I felt after swimming back the 20 endless feet to shore, battling the current and my own body.

"Hey Stuart, I missed your picture. You jumped too soon," said Jamie, a sax player who took pictures of everyone as they jumped. "You wanna do it again?" she asked casually.

"Sure," I said slowly, still panting lighty from the ordeal.

Thankfully the second time wasn't as bad, my body having forgiven me for the disturbing previous jump and becoming slightly more acclimated to the arctic waters.

Other excitements of the day included big horn sheep sightings, my guide twice falling out of the boat (if the guides fall out during a tour, they have to buy a 12-pack for the rest of the rafting staff to enjoy) and a person in my raft being ejected in some rapids (she hit some rocks but is ok).

It's been a long time since venturing to Buena Vista. I've forgotten how stunning the surrounding Collegiate Peaks are — 13 peaks over 13,800 feet and eight over 14,000.

Pictures can't pay them justice...you have to go.


Another rafting shot. I highly recommend the rafting experience. I didn't hear the forward paddle command given by our guide which is why everyone else is paddling in this picture and I'm just riding easy.


Mt. Princeton near Buena Vista, Colo. Evevation: 14,197 feet.




An old bus belonging to the rafting company that guided us. The Collegiate Peaks are in the distance.




Colorado Springs sunset.

Royally Gorgeous

The Royal Gorge Bridge, near Canon City, Colo.






Sgt. Stuart on the bridge. One passerby asked me if I was on vacation or actually on duty. "A little of both," I said.


Fellow bandees: Bryant, Josh, Stephanie and Chase.




1,054 feet to the bottom of the canyon. You can see the bridge's shadow across the expanse.


A shot through the bridge slats to the Arkansas River below where some rafters pass by.


Cars just get through how they can. Thankfully not many pass over because the whole bridge sways uneasily when they go past.


You can take the tram over to the other side instead of walking across the bridge.


I took the train to the bottom of the gorge. It takes about six minutes to get to the bottom on the 30 person transport.


Looking up from the canyon floor.


The venerable t-bone section. Lots of latent brass power here. Thankfully we got to wear sunglasses during the concert.



Another Ralstonesque shot with the bridge in the background.

______________________________

Friday morning saw us up and moving, driving northwest to the Royal Gorge for a concert (our first of the trip, actually). Friday marked the last day of the annual Ride the Rockies cycling tour. Starting in Cortez, Colo. this year, riders finished the 419 mile, 6-day trek in Canon City, Colo.

Their route to Canon City on Friday led them on Highway 50, crossing over the Royal Gorge Suspension Bridge. We showered them with stirring music just after they crossed the 1,054 ft. expanse over the Arkansas River (it's the tallest suspension bridge in the world, people). Two thousand riders participated in the tour so we had quite a crowd of bike enthusiasts who permeated the concert area.

A number of current and prior service military guys came up to us between songs, having just completed the bike tour themselves. They offered words of thanks and encouragement.

"Thanks for all you're doing for the country," a retired Air Force colonel offered. Another guy gave us compliments on our playing and said he'd been an Army bandsman in the mid-70s. He was a trumpet player though. Pshaw.

We took the accolades in stride, showing respect to those offering them, but it always gets me thinking when people give the band a lot of praise. Are we fighting? Nope. Are we physically contributing to the Army of One? In a sense.

Then I realize it's not about us as individuals necessarily. It's about the bigger picture and how we make people feel about what we represent. I guess I'm ok with taking the compliments. I may not deserve them like others do, but ultimately it's not about the band.

Unfortunately, my braces are wreaking havoc on my tromboning abilities. Anything in the mid-range (from first-line B-flat to the octave above) and I'm WORTHLESS. Flubbed attacks, growling tone. It's like being at Irving Middle School in the 6th grade band again. Pretty depressing. And the lovely sores developing in my mouth from the mouthpiece-to-braces contact are especially brilliant. I want to offer my solemn apologies to those I've possibly criticized over the years for their inept playing abilities as a result of their braces. Sorry. I just didn't know.

But the Royal Gorge is amazing. The bridge is somewhat rickety, swaying a good bit and buckling under the weight of passing cars. Sort of eerie. I saw some people being escorted across by family members, obviously VERY afraid to be traipsing the bridge's wooden slats stationed some 1,000 feet above the canyon floor.

I took the train to the bottom of the gorge to scout around down there and to get pics of the bridge above. I couldn't get very good pics of the bridge in perspective with the canyon floor. It's too flippin high. It just looks like a little matchstick casually laid over a petty, six-inch crack. The photographer's plight.

I also saw some boy scouts there visiting from Texas. I chatted with them a bit, their curiosity and excitement refreshing. Reminded me of my days in troops 777 and 792 when I too would don the tan cloth and red neckerchief of the BSA. You can't beat a good scouting trip.

A scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent. I still got it...

All in all an entertaining day. I'm thankful I can see stuff like the gorge and play for interested people. And get paid too.

Colorado pics

Rolling up Pike's Peak with the band commander, Mr. Bennett in his Corvette. I wasn't really paying attention to what he said at this moment.


From the base of Pike's Peak you drive 19 miles to the summit. The elevation changes from about 6,500 feet to 14,110 at the top. For the runners, you can participate in the annual Pike's Peak Marathon, running UP the entire mountain and back DOWN again. I think that would be painful.




Typically I come back from trips with ZERO pictures of myself. Or at least none on my own camera. So I thought I'd do better and actually come home with some of ME. So far so good. At the top I noticed my resting heart rate was about 74 bpm. 12-14 beats faster than it is in Oklahoma. Sheesh. The bod's not used to the altitude.


Good times with snowballs on top of P.P. Kind of odd throwing around frozen water in June.


The narcissistic Aron Ralston shot. Now I just need a prosthetic arm and to climb all of Colorado's 14'ers alone — in the winter.


You can also ride the train to the top. Pretty cool if it weren't 30 bucks. I'll just ride in Corvettes thank you.


Some of the bandees enjoying dinner in Manitou Springs, a quaint town at the base of Pike's Peak. From left: Bryant, Gayle, Joe, Elisa, Jamie, Mr. Bennett (he gets a title cause he's the commander, and he's old) and Josh.


Sunset over the frontline of the Rockies.

Colorado -- take one

NOTICE

Due to crappy dial-up internet connections, the posting of photos will temporarily be interrupted. Please check back soon for further photo documentation of the Colorado experiences. Sorry for the inconvenience.

Thanks,

JDS

I rolled up to Colorado Springs ("The Springs" to the locals) on Saturday, launching my two weeks of army annual training. The drive was uneventful apart from alluring signs in west Kansas promising "the plains' largest barn," and the "six-legged steer." Oh yeah the "world's largest prairie dog" was especially enticing as well.

So far it's looking to be a pretty bodacious two weeks. Sunday we had the day off and a number of us drove up nearby Pike's Peak for some scenic stimuli. And there was plenty to go around.

I rode with Mr. Bennett, the band commander. He drives an '03, 50th anniversary edition 'Vette. It's alright. It's got a glass top that we removed for the drive up to the mountain's 14,000+ elevation. A good idea, but unfortunately we forgot the sunscreen. I now have a moderately burned forehead.

I watched the temperature gauge drop as we ascended. From 91 degrees at the bottom to 48 degrees on top. With a wind chill. A wonderful and refreshing experience to be uncomfortably cold in the northern hemisphere in the month of June. Can't exactly get that feeling in Okiehoma.

At the top we threw some snowballs. I accidentally landed one through the sunroof of a fellow bandsman's Lincoln. I was aiming for the windshield. An innocent gesture. It splatted on the backseat leather. Whups.

It's interesting how much geography has a bearing on my emotional state. In many ways I feel more content in a location like this. I'm overly thankful for the life of blessings I have (and don't deserve) in Oklahoma. But there's something unshakable about this Centennial State that is especially meaningful to me.

Maybe it's just the six-point beer...

All in all a delightful trip thus far. It's good furthering relationships with my fellow bandees as well. There are some new people in the group and it's been enjoyable getting to know them more.

It's early to bed tonight. We have 6 a.m. PT formation in the morning. Pshaw. What is this, the army?

85 minutes of rubbish, 8 of glory

Sam and I hit up Coaches Thursday for some Copa Mundial action. Not much happened until into the 80th minutes as Wayne Rooney's magical appearance off the bench stirred England to put up two licks against Trinidad.


The lanky, sometimes coordinated, 12-foot Peter Crouch finally headered one in off a setup by Beckam, changing the momentum for the better.


Then the Brits managed goal two in the three minutes of final stoppage, completing Sam's projected spread of 2-0. Unfortunately, in Coaches, in the early p.m., nobody much cared that the rest of the world was watching the match. The PGA tour droned just adjacent to the football match on the Coaches big screens. This country's priorities are out of whack.

Donating Memories

This week I've been cleaning out my closet at the parents' house. There are loads of old clothes I've not worn in ages. Today I took a payload of boxed wearables to the Goodwill. Among the pile of old threads I found my pair of Pride marching shoes, from the good ol' days — my freshman and sophomore years (seems like a LONG time ago).

Those shoes carried me through a lot. I glide-stepped my way across Owen Field numerous times, feeling the squishy soles impact the sacred grass. Those kicks kissed the turf of the Cotton Bowl, the Rose Bowl and the Sugar Bowl, and eight-to-fived 6 miles in the Tournament of Roses parade. Lots of good memories in those puppies.

Look closely on the soles and you can still see the faint remains of horse manure — a gift from the 'Roses parade...it was a virtual minefield.

Los Sobrinos

My bro rolled up to N-town this weekend for some free, grandmotherly babysitting of his children and general relaxation. He and I sat on the roof and smoked some Backwoods.
Carson played in the mud left over from the huge hole project (see previous post) and Josh just kind of hung out and made lots of noises — the usual. Good times.








Cold water...

Asundry

Some plumbing guys came this week to replace a portion of the neighbor's sewer line. Unfortunately, part of it ran through our yard so they had to dig a nine-foot hole on our side of the fence. Today they filled it in after fixing the pipes.

I was out getting some photo documentation of the event and Bobby offered me a spot behind the sticks of the backhoe. "Wanna try it out?" he offered casually. Apparently he lets his 8-year-old run the thing.

"Sure," I said.

"It's just like a video game," Bobby assured me once I was strapped in.

Quite fun. The controls are really responsive and sensitive. I didn't help out the hole-filling effort greatly, but I think I look pretty cool behind the controls, no?




Last night I finished the last of my personal momento from Puerto Rico. The fruity, 70-proof liquid went down with nary a buzz (though with a slight shudder).

Anybody up for another trip?



This week marks my one-year cell phone anniversary. Pretty amazing really. This time last year I was just breaching the cellular communications world. So far I'd say my wireless experience has been positive. I feel I'm more connected with folks and the convenience factor is a definite.

Still, I find answering the thing quite toilsome at times. Not really sure why.

If you call me though, please leave a message. It's more meaningful I think. Thanks.

You'll notice the scratches on the phone's face. Those are from my bike wreck in May. Ouch. Fortunately the device is quite durable too.

memorial

I had drill this weekend — the usual band bit. We ventured northeast to Claremore, Okla., playing for a ceremony at Rogers State University.

Afterward, I made a special visit to the town's cemetery, where my grandpa Harley is buried. Walking around a bit, I found plot 35, and the intended marble headstone. I was 13 years old the last time I put eyes on it.

Memories scrolled in my mind. I see Harley sitting, relaxed in a chair while reading Zane Grey westerns. I smell and taste fresh peanut brittle — fruits of his confectioner hands. I feel him give me a hug and hear him say "don't do anything I wouldn't do" as we say goodbye after a visit.

The visit took only 20 minutes, but proved peaceful and poignant. A simple truth reached me. My grandpa was a strong Christian man, faithful and honest.

We will speak again.