What Season Is It?

I don't shop much, so I may have been the only person in the Target store on Tuesday that was surprised to see aisles of Halloween merchandise already out. I checked the date: September 18th. Halloween, which I consider only a minor holiday, is over a month away, and the retailers are already reaching out with their claws of commerce. Does anyone really buy Halloween candy in September? No wonder the stuff the kids bring home so often tastes like tree bark. Are people really picking out their costumes, getting ready to carve their pumpkins and buying decorations for their house?

Having recovered from my surprise, I completely forgot about Halloween until this afternoon, when I was in Costco, and nearly fell over when I heard a familiar tune--Jingle Bells. I turned around and what to my wondering eyes should appear but an entire aisle devoted to Christmas products, complete with trees, decorations and Santa Claus. I would not have been more surprised if he had come down my home chimney.

This is way too early, and clearly Santa needs a calendar. I can thing of no better way to lose the Christmas spirit than to bludgeon it to death with over-exposure. If I worked at Costco and had to start listening to Christmas carols in September I would hate Christmas by Halloween. I would become Jewish, or Muslim, or Hindu. I would abdicate my vegetarianism so that I could eat reindeer. And I'd rip the masks off of every Santa Claus I'd see.

Is there any rational person who is buying Christmas stuff now? Used to be I could comfortably delay any feelings of guilt until Christmas Eve, something I learned from my dad. Now, in the middle of September, I feel selfish and remiss for gazing longingly at the plasma TV's instead of picking out Christmas gifts.

Welcome to the holiday season, and the winter/spring/summer/fall of my discontent.

Grumpy

I flew home from Dallas late last night. I was in a bad mood, mostly because I lost a contact lens in the airport and had checked my bag where I kept my spares. So everything was out of focus, making it hard to see or read.

And then it seemed like everything got worse. The guy in my row was coughing and wheezing--plus he was slovenly. And he acted like he owned the middle seat and the floor in front of it. Just rude and selfish. When we exited the airplane, some people had a hard time grasping the concept of taking turns and going by rows. What, first-time travelers? Then my pet peeve--everyone crowded around the baggage claim carousel, blocking the view of the few of us polite enough to step away. Don't people realize that it would be best for everyone if we just took a few steps back? These people really annoyed me--all of them!

In fact, I realized that I had become quite unhappy and somewhat stressed. I was looking at people as objects, and seeing how they were obstructing my path to comfort and satisfaction. I was in a misanthropic mood, and it was getting worse.

Eventually, I put in a new contact, got in my car, turned on the radio and started to feel better. I reflected on the frustration I was feeling, and realized it was mostly self-imposed. I guess that grumpy is as grumpy does. If you're looking for something to criticize, there's no shortage of material in this world. On the other hand, there's plenty of sunshine on the bright side, if you bother to look over there.

A Weekend in Bluff

Last night I drove home from Bluff, where I spent three days taking an American Canyoneering Association course from a local outfitter. Our group of six guys from Utah, California and New Mexico learned and practiced techniques for anchoring, belaying, pothole escapes and ascending in a few short canyons near Bluff.

Bluff is a small town in the southeast corner of the state, near the Four Corners area. It is on the San Juan River, across from a Navajo Indian reservation. About 250 people live there year-round, and the economy is dominated by ranching and tourism from the San Juan and Four Corners. It has a funky southwest Americana culture. Everyone knows everyone. We met at a little coffee shop that featured some very tasteful local art, lots of trendy chai and green tea drinks and serves a mean bowl of oatmeal. Down the highway there's the local cafe, which has been there for years, with a linoleum floor and hand-painted sign. I met the owner, a skinny 60-ish lady in blue jeans, whose lipstick extended a little too far about her face. Born and raised in Bluff, she makes her money serving lunch to a few locals and when the tourist buses stop for gas and ice cream.

I asked her what was good and she recommended a root beer float. It was quite tasty, but served in a plastic tumbler like the one my friend's mother used to serve Kool-Aid in when we were kids. (It's possible it was the same glass.) We talked about the town and tourists. A few locals came in and chatted, including an Indian family. Their little three-year-old said he was hungry and she gave him a cup of soft-serve ice cream on the house, which seemed kind of cool to me.

I was there during the annual fair, which is the big event of the year, and includes a rodeo and a pow-wow--to attract both the cowboys and Indians, I suppose. I drove through town on Saturday morning and everyone was getting their chairs set up for the parade, an event that I genuinely regret missing.

I wouldn't want to live in a town like Bluff. I value my privacy too much. But it was a slice of America that made for a great visit.

Timpanokee

Last weekend Merritt and I climbed Mt. Timpanogos, on the Timpanokee Trail. It was my first time up that side of the mountain. Sunday afternoon we hiked up most of the way, hastily setting up our tent in the meadow when the rain started to more than drizzle. After a well-deserved sandwich in the tent, the rain stopped, so we decided to explore with the little daylight we had left.

It's funny how dropping your packs to hike feels like such freedom after carrying them five miles up the mountain. We ran into another group camping--a father and two of his grown children, just cooking dinner. Merritt had read about some World War II bomber wreckage, and with a little careful looking we found several pieces, that had been scattered surprisingly far apart.

We also encountered a herd of about 18 mountain goats, who walked slowly along the ridge, and stopped to keep what appeared to be a vigil around the engine of the plane, like something out of 2001: A Space Odyssey, or perhaps The Gods Must Be Crazy.

We came prepared for a cold night, but the weather was surprisingly pleasant. The night was an oddly enchanting combination of rain, wind and moonlight. We left open the mosquito netting on both sides, which seemed to bring the elements closer, but not penetrating the confines of the tent, which we had set up bomb shelter style, fully staked with tight guy lines. Merritt and I both woke up many times throughout the night, each time pausing to appreciate the elements outside from the comfort of our shelter.

We wanted to get up by five in the morning, but neither one of us had a watch, and our phones couldn't hold their charges through the night. So we were quite literally in the dark about when it was time to leave. Finally, we awoke and saw a few headlamps on the trail and dashed out to hit the summit by sunrise, hiking by moonlight, which was just enough to get by. Turns out we got to the saddle by 5 o'clock, and hour before we wanted, meaning we'd gotten up around 4 a.m. After sitting sheltered from the cold wind, and admiring the view overlooking American Fork, we headed for the summit.

We were far from alone. It appears that seeing the sun rise on Timp is a Labor Day tradition for many BYU students. Once at the 11,700 foot peak, we were joined by a throng of young men and women enjoying a midnight hike the day before classes started. We found a private, quieter spot on the face and watched an unusual sunrise, with red streaks spearing cross-like through the intermittent cloud cover.

Then down the mountain, retracing the eight miles of trail down about 4000 vertical feet, and then into the car and back home in time for lunch. Timpanokee is a gorgeous trail with terrific vistas, pleasant meadows and a lovely little lake. And I'm guessing it is even more glorious in late June when the wildflowers are in bloom, or in a few more weeks when the autumn leaves put on their show. What a beautiful area I am blessed to live in, to have such wonders only an hour away. I delight in her bounties, and cherish each time I can get out to enjoy them.

Latin Night

We had a get-together at the house on Thursday night--friends that Rebecca had met in the Spanish Branch in Park City, and that I have come to know as well, despite my inability to speak Spanish, and their lack of confidence with English. But there were adults and teens, some Spanish-speaking and some bilingual, and a few of us English-only speakers, and somehow a good time was had by all. We sat around the table for what seemed like a couple of hours talking and laughing in Spanish and English, and with a little translating and some body language and a general joie de vivre, we managed to communicate quite well.

I like multi-cultural experiences, and I wish I had more of them. Every time I am able to glimpse the world from the perspective of another country I understand a little better why we can be so different, yet remain so very much the same.

Blades of Glory

One of our premises for ClearPlay reviews is based on homespun wisdom most of us learned from our mothers: If you don’t have anything good to say about a movie, don’t review it. This gave me pause when considering Blades of Glory, the only big DVD released this week. But for my mother’s sake, I’m going to try to see this glass half-full:

If Dumb and Dumber (a movie I loved) was too cerebral for your tastes, check out Blades of Glory.

If you’re a high school boy, and need new material to impress your friends in the locker room, you might watch Blades of Glory.

If you named your dog Ron Burgundy and your cat Napoleon, after classic Will Ferrell and Jon Heder roles, then you probably have to see Blades of Glory.

If you think movies with sloppy drunks, smelly crotches, toilet-paper licking, jockstrap sniffing, upchucking, and an endless stream of juvenile sex jokes really rock, then you're sure to enjoy Blades of Glory.

If you’re looking for a movie that even with ClearPlay’s best efforts, is still filled with often-stupid and sometimes funny but always disgusting and gross-out humor, then don’t miss Blades of Glory.

To illustrate my point: Sam just read this review on my computer. His reaction? “Hey, that sounds good.”

(Adapted from a ClearPlay review.)

Contrarian Learning

I read an interesting book recently--No Excuses: Concessions of a Serial Campaigner, by Robert Schrum. Schrum has been an active political consultant to Democratic candidates since he was a teenager volunteering for JFK. He is a dedicated, heart-felt liberal who has had long, close relationships with the likes of Ted Kennedy, Al Gore and John Kerry, in addition to major Democratic candidates from the past three decades.

The book was entertaining, enjoyable and educational. Importantly, it changed my thinking about Democrats in general, and certain Democrats in particular. Now I've never been opposed to most of the ideals of the Democratic party, and truth be told lean more to the left than to the right on most issues. But I've never liked any of the actual Democrats. But I liked Schrum (of course, he authored the book!) and over time I began to like Ted Kennedy quite a bit, and even John Kerry some.

It was a little disheartening to see the political process laid out so nakedly as a matter of branding and positioning--one marketing case after another. But it's the reality we live with and it isn't likely to change.

I think it's good sometimes to read contrary political points of view. It forces you to deal with their arguments and positions. Too often we read and watch stuff that aims only to reinforce our firmly held beliefs, which I guess is what makes Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh so popular. But that's laughing at your own jokes.

Or Not to Be

I’m about to strongly recommend a movie that most of you aren’t going to want to watch. It won’t matter that the movie is adapted from perhaps the greatest literary work of all time. Nor that it has received critical acclaim and won numerous industry awards. Or even that it has a wonderfully eclectic all-star cast with actors you know and love. Most of you will still will not be interested.

But for those of you that have the slightest attraction to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Kenneth Branagh’s 1996 movie version, just out on DVD, is not to be missed. Set creatively in the 19th century, Branagh’s Hamlet is an unabridged four-hour spectacle with breathtaking sets, delightful costumes and a terrific score. Having worked the genre before in the excellent Much Ado About Nothing, Branagh’s cinematic liberties, such as enlightening flashbacks and lingering close-ups, somehow makes the production feel alive, energetic and contemporary.

The casting is fun and unusual, and not just for the liberal use of American actors. I wish I wouldn’t have known and could have been pleasantly surprised by the cast, which includes Kate Winslet, Julie Christie, Charlton Heston, Gerard Depardieu, Billy Crystal, Robin Williams, Sir John Gielgud, Judi Dench, Richard Attenborough and Rufus Sewell, plus Branagh’s own riveting performance as Hamlet.

(By the way, this is a textbook case for ClearPlay. Although most people won’t find Shakespeare’s sometimes coarse language offensive, the sex scenes are significantly more explicit than you would expect, and in fact would make watching the movie in schools a bit of a problem, a terribly wasted opportunity.)

But be warned: Even if you’re comfortable with English accents, the dialogue is often hard to follow, and even the uber-literary Lanee found the going tedious at times. My advice is to relax and not worry about it. If you don’t know the play, it wouldn’t hurt to do a little prior research to better follow the story. And you might want to stretch the 242 minutes over two nights. But if you’re not intimidated by Shakespeare or period pieces or Elizabethan language or four-hour movies, then give Hamlet a try.

To watch, or not to watch. That is the question.
Whether to ennoble your mind with four hours of the immortal Bard,
Or to take arms against Elizabethan culture,
and watch instead a Bruckheimer action flick.
To die. To sleep. No more.

Stupid is as Stupid Does

Was down in Zion last week with Angelica, Ryan, Lanee and our friends the Eldredges. We did Subway one day, and four of us went to Birch Hollow the next. We cut the trip short because flash floods made the canyons too dangerous.

I like to take beginners to Birch Hollow because it's a pretty easy technical canyon--well bolted, usually dry, never crowded (I've never seen another person in there) and has straight-forward raps. And I've done it a number of times before, so I guess I've gotten comfortable with it. Apparently, too comfortable.

The longest rap is 120', so I took a brand-new 200' 9mm static rope and an extra 100' rope to pull when needed. The first four raps were under 100' and only required one rope. Since we had a first-timer and a few novices, we generally double-stranded, which added friction and safety. Then we hit the 120', which I rigged with a biner-block to single strand, since the rope wasn't long enough to double. The three others went down first, and I secured the 100' pull rope to the first rope with a fisherman's knot, and tossed it over. That's when I did something very stupid and careless, because I was in a hurry (rain coming in the afternoon) and it was only Birch Hollow.

There's a little ledge on the face, so I thought maybe I'd clean up the rope, get rid of the block so it didn't catch on the pull-through afterwards, and go down double-strand. Seemed like a good idea at the time, until about 40 feet down Angelica asked me how I was planning on rappelling through the knot on the one side. Uh ... Oh yeah, that's why my plan was to go down single-strand. The last minute change created a small problem.

I have never passed a knot "live," i.e. in canyon conditions. But I have read about it and practiced the technique a bit in my backyard. The process is to secure yourself to the rope above, so you can take the pressure off your rappelling device, and unharness it and reattach below the knot, all the time held fast by a friction knot, such as a prusik. I've practiced prusiks before, but never had to actually use them to survive. I also had a spare ATC rappelling device on my harness, and hooked that in below the knot, but still had to free myself from my primary device, which required a good knot above.

Normally I take a few small cords that I know make good prusiks, but since this was only Birch Hollow, I had left these in the car. Same with the brand new Petzl ascenders I just bought, which would have done the trick in minutes. Instead, I had to try to use a sling to tie a prusik to my double-strand new rope and clip to my harness, and I couldn't get the knot to hold. I tried a second one with the same result.

I always carry some small Tri-Bloc ascenders, which are difficult to use, but will do in a pinch. Unfortunately, these had somehow gotten completely jammed together on the carabiner and I could not free them. I sent them down to the folks on the ground and they could not free them either. So they were useless.

Ryan, Angelica and Lanee were getting very worried. They heaped their packs on the ground below me to try to soften my potential 80-foot fall, should this happen, and were already making search and rescue plans. I was nervous too, but not panicky. I knew that if I could just slow things down, I would be able to get out of this, and that my risk level was low. But I also understood that another mistake could be tragic, and that the skies were darkening and heavy rains were coming soon and we did need to get out of the canyon.

I pulled up the tied rope and cut a three foot section off the bottom and tried that as a prusik, but it was even worse. Finally, I tried another friction knot with a sling and ... it held. By this time I was sweating profusely and my leg was falling asleep and I looked down at my harness to see five 'biners clipped in from the prusiks and the rap devices and it looked like the electrical cords in back of my computer. It was difficult to see clearly, and harder yet to focus, but eventually I unhooked everything, and slid down the rope safe, sound and relieved.

Naturally, I've thought about this quite a bit. There were a number of other escape approaches I could have taken. But the real lesson learned is that I was careless and stupid, taking Birch Hollow for granted. But 120 feet is deadly no matter where it is, and I would have been smart to take my ascenders and my prusik cords, and smarter yet to think through the rap before I rigged in double-stranded.

I think life is like that. We don't often start with big mistakes. We make little ones, in areas that don't concern us much. And that's what gets us into trouble. Now I have a little more respect for the Birch Hollows in my life.

Why I Blog

I have been keeping up this blog for a year, and the other day someone asked me the obvious question: Why? There are several reasons, I suppose. Mainly, it is a creative outlet, an opportunity for self-expression. Even the lowliest amateur pianist enjoys sitting down to play now and then. The closet artist paints or draws. And so many of us, no matter how bad our voices, have been caught singing in the shower. Writing is a way for me to release a little creative energy.

And I am a little embarrassed to admit it, but I also consider this an opportunity to practice my writing. Naturally, this suggests that I have higher aspirations, and hope to ply my craft in more public venues. That is true, and while I toil silently on screenplays and poems and the occasional letter, the blog is a constant reminder, an obligation to practice, a duty that tracked and a box that is checked. And maybe someday that novel will begin to take shape. Or maybe not.

The blog is also a way to formulate my thoughts on subjects, and to share these with family and a few close friends. And perhaps that's a little vain, but no more so than the dying art of literate conversation. And perhaps, after I have breathed my last breath, a folder or a website with my ramblings will be read by one of my grandchildren, and we will get reacquainted then.

One year and running. Log on. Slog on. Blog on.

My Minnesota

Just returned from a 10-day trip to Minnesota, spent almost entirely at Rebecca's family cabin on Whiteface, where there was no Internet, computer or cable TV, and my cell phone dropped calls almost as fast as I could pick them up. It was actually a wonderful break to be away from the trappings of technology, which gave certain parts of my mind a rest, and caused other slumbering corners to awake and wander unfettered.

Absent of technology, my time was spent creating memories, of which there were many--kayaking on the Brule River with a bald eagle circling 100 feet overhead, playing bocce ball on the Lake Superior beach, talking politics with Tim, waterskiing on glass just before dark, the stunning red sunsets at Whiteface, a new generation on the tire swing, Layla swimming and eating mud, hot saunas at night followed by a cooling swim (often sans swimsuit), touch football, endless card games, two delightfully mindless detective novels, reuniting with aunts, uncles and cousins, having breakfast with my long-lost childhood best friend, deer and chipmunks and beaver dams and enough food to add five pounds to my aging frame.

Even the road trip was enjoyable, listening to Cat Stevens, Edwin McCain, Carly Simon, Jack Johnson, Barenaked Ladies, John Mayer, Robert Cray, Aimee Mann, Delbert Mclinton, Cannonball Adderly, Frank Sinatra and much more from my iPod. After wistfully passing through Des Moines, unsuccessfully looking for a motel in Council Bluffs, Omaha and Lincoln, and finally finding a vacancy in Kearny at 2:30 a.m. Listening critically to the "Don't Know Much about American History" mp3 audiobook. Memorizing a John Donne poem. Driving countless miles of freeway--an asphalt invitation to think and think and think some more.

There is certainly an allure to trips to more exotic locations--scuba diving and rain forests, or medieval castles and great museums. But I think there will always be room in my life for vacations made simple, filled with good company and days easy and relaxed, where memories refresh like lake water in the night and satisfy like fresh raspberry pie.

Prison Time

Today I visited the Utah State Prison in Draper, going with my friend Barry, who has been helping there for seven years. There were a dozen or so volunteers that joined us, almost all of them weekly regulars, holding church services for two groups of inmates--a "Diagnostic" group and one composed of sexual predators.

Barry tells me that some people get uncomfortable in the environment, but I didn't feel awkward at all. The Diagnostic group was first, dressed in orange jumpsuits. These men are in a holding pattern for a maximum of 90 days, generally waiting to be sentenced. For some of them, it's their first time in prison, and a period of great anxiety as their life crumbles before them. They are in for crimes of all sorts, such as murder, armed robbery, rape and tax evasion.

The second group was composed entirely of sexual predators, which have to be separated from the other inmates for their own protection. (Apparently, they are at the bottom of the prison pecking order, with murderers being at the top.) There was a look to some of these men that is unique and a little eerie at first. I have seen it before, in a friend I met a few years ago who was a sex addict. And I saw it in a few others when I attended a 12-step class with him one time. But after a few minutes, I was able to get past that, and look at these men with no judgmental feelings.

These are men who have been brought down by the consequences of their decisions. They have been humbled, doing time for years or even decades. What esteem they may have once had is hanging by a thread. It was good to be there with them and shake their hands and say a few words. I felt like my smile and handshake did more good today than a year's worth of normal Sunday services. And as I looked each one in the eye, I could with all honesty grab their hands, smile and tell them how glad I was to be with them today.

For nearly all of these men, the first step in their downfall was pornography, which is an insidious and all too accessible evil. Now not everyone that falls prey to pornography becomes a sexual predator; like not everyone that uses drugs becomes an addict. But some do, and it's hard to tell where your personal path will lead when that first step is taken. For these men, it led to a destruction of their lives, and most had lost their families, their jobs, their reputations and nearly all their hope.

The notions of repentance and forgiveness, which many of us think about abstractly, take on profound importance in their lives. And the gentle, spiritual feelings of love and acceptance are sought after and cherished.

The branch choir sang Come Come Ye Saints, I suppose in honor of Pioneer Day this week. And I wondered what was passing through their minds as they sang the words:

Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard?
'Tis not so; all is right.
... Gird up your loins; fresh courage take;
Our God will never us forsake;
And soon we'll have this tale to tell-
All is well! all is well!

As the doors locked shut behind me, I felt enriched by the experience. I'm grateful so many inmates came out, and that I had a chance to join them today. In fact, I can't think of a better way to spend a Sunday.

Empty and Full

I taught a lesson today that centered on seeking wealth, giving what we can, etc. So during church, when I probably should have been listening more intently, I wrote this simple poem. It's a little out of season, but the imagery came to me and so I followed my smidgeon of inspiration down the trail to this rough-hewn and clumsy verse.


EMPTY AND FULL

It was snowing, made worse by the cold blowing wind,
But the store had a big Christmas sale,
So the shoppers rushed in, past the Santa in front
Who was holding a bell and a pail.

The old woman moved very slowly.
And each step she took threatened to fail.
But she tilted her head when she heard the bell ring
And she stopped and looked down at the pail.

Then she opened her handbag and took off her gloves
And her fingers, cold, withered and frail,
Unsteadily opened her coin purse
And then emptied it into the pail.

I'll never forget her example;
And I hope that I'll ever avail,
When I'm hurrying through life and I hear the bells ring,
That I stop and put alms in the pail.

For if I have much then I have much to give,
And when weighed on eternity's scale
My life can be valued not by what I've earned
But by how much I've left in the pail.

Rules of 24

Since Sam and I are bachelors while Rebecca and Lanee are in Guatemala, we've been doing manly things, like playing baseball, eating ice cream and watching three episodes of 24 Season Three every night. Now I've seen (and previously written about) the other two seasons of 24, but this time through it's becoming clear to me that the world of CTU is governed by certain immutable laws:

1. Jack Bauer is always in control. Even when he's hurt, it doesn't get in the way of him doing his job. Saving the world is always his first priority.

2. Jack tries to give up his life to save the world at least once every day, but Jack Bauer cannot be killed.

3. The 24-hour day cannot end unless Jack Bauer personally kills at least 10 bad guys. There is no maximum limit to how many bad guys Jack Bauer can kill in one day.

4. Everyone in the series gets their own look, which they developed after watching Zoolander. Jack's is straight-on and blank, revealing nothing. David Palmer's will burn a hole through you. Michelle always looks up, like she's afraid to be caught. Tony Almeda looks down and sideways, sort of irritated. Kim darts inquisitively. Shari Palmer is wide-eyed and can't be trusted. Every main character gets to give their look with an extreme close-up at least five times per episode.

5. Everyone talks by cell phone, which is the preferred means of communication for CTU personnel. No one is allowed to text message, play solitaire or download funky ring tones.

6. To end a cell conversation, you cannot say "good-bye," "so long," "see you later" or any other traditional form of closure. Usually, the conversation ends abruptly when one party snaps their phone shut. Even if you are talking to your mother, you can just quit talking at any time and turn off your phone.

7. The laws of physics in LA traffic are temporarily suspended whenever someone from CTU must drive somewhere. This is necessary because it is the only way Jack Bauer can go anywhere in LA and still have time to save the world in one day. Same with air travel. A flight from Mexico to LA on a military transport plane takes only five minutes, which is not even enough time for a decent beverage service.

8. Jack Bauer can fire any weapon without studying it. He just picks it up, aims and shoots, and never misses. He could kill you with a boomerang without even practicing.

9. Jack Bauer can also fly any aircraft without even checking the glovebox for the instruction manual.

10. Chloe is the best techie in the world. She is faster than all the engineers I have ever worked with combined. If she was working on my company's website, she could install a new database system during the commercials.

11. Jack Bauer always gets to make the plan, which works great until someone else screws it up, so he has to make a new plan every hour. Jack Bauer can think of a really good plan in about seven seconds.

12. CTU is always dimly lit. It's modeled after the batcave. Alfred may appear in a later episode.

13. Every season represents one of the worst possible days imaginable for everyone in the show. So far, the day is not even over and (spoiler coming) Michelle's husband is shot, she has an argument with him, she gets chewed out at work, she kills an unarmed civilian, she is exposed to a deadly virus and she is caught by the bad guy's henchman, who almost pokes her eye out. But she's still having a better day than the president.

14. The main bad guy is always really, really smart. It always takes Jack Bauer almost 24 hours to catch him.

15. No one ever sleeps. You can call anyone at 3 a.m. and they will be up, and not at all surprised that you called.

16. CTU agents never eat. They are not allowed to bring in pizza or Chinese food, even when pulling an all-nighter. Jack Bauer is way too tough to eat.

17. Everything always happens either just in time or one minute too late. Eventually, the world is always saved just in time.

18. There must be at least one big surprise during the 24-hour period. Either someone you thought was good turns out to be bad, or vice versa. And you can never tell by their looks, even with five or more extreme close-ups.

19. CTU agents are so tough, they can even keep doing their jobs after they have been shot, tortured, on heroin withdrawals or exposed to deadly viruses. They do not even get time off if they are planning to die later in the show.

20. At 10 seconds before every hour things look so bleak that you must be ready to abandon all hope. If you can hold on until the next episode, Jack Bauer will come up with a new plan and you can breathe more easily for 59 minutes.

21. Employees experiencing violent deaths at the CTU headquarters does not appear to affect productivity. It seems likely that these employees were not really necessary in the first place, another example of wasteful government spending. Further, no one seems to know the people who get killed. It's possible they were never really CTU employees at all. Maybe they were temps from Kelly Services. (If you ever get a call for a temporary job at CTU, DO NOT TAKE IT! You will almost certainly get killed. Only take a job as a main character, and even that is no picnic.)

22. It always sucks to be Jack Bauer's boss. He's hard to manage. And plus, you're probably going to die.

23. It sucks worse to be the president. He never has any fun and he has bad luck with women.

24. But it sucks the most to be the main bad guy and know that once the season starts, in 24 hours Jack Bauer will get you and you will be toast.

Once

Rebecca and I caught the indie musical film Once the other night at the Broadway Theatre. Set in Dublin, Once is a warm, funny and charmingly platonic romance about a street musician and a Czech immigrant who meet, make music, become friends and recognize that they could easily fall in love, but ... he has never gotten over the love of his life, who is in London, and she left her husband in the Czech Republic to make a better life for their young daughter.

The guy (neither one is ever named) is played by Glen Hansard, a singer and guitarist for the successful band Frames in Ireland. Director John Carney was previously in the band as well, before leaving to become a movie maker, and Markéta Irglová, who plays the girl, recently recorded an album with Hansard. So the music was real and terrific. After big budget biopics with actors mimicking musicians (see Walk the Line, Ray) it's rather refreshing to see and hear real musicians taking a crack at acting.

Once may have lagged in places, but its low budget and inexperienced cast gave the film a raw and gritty realism, brimming with genuine emotions that covered the spectrum from curiosity, admiration, respect, lust, joy, embarrassment, awkwardness and anticipation. Carney tells a story of intersecting lives; about dreams, realities and regrets; about what might have been and what already is; and about perspective, consideration, responsibility and choices.

It was one of those movies that I enjoy more over time, and that I have thought back to again and again since watching it. It is refreshing to see two people connect, without the need for a storybook ending. And I prefer to see passion simmer on the screen and not boil over. I wish this kind of thing happened more than Once.

Daddy-Daughters

Last weekend we had a Daddy-Daughter canyoneering excursion. Angelica, Lanee and I spent two days in Cedar Mesa, and navigated both Fry Canyon and Gravel Canyon. Fry is a short but delightful canyon, with winding turns and narrow slots. It took us only four hours, but it was enough to make us weary and ready for a night under a beautiful star-filled sky. Gravel Canyon was a more challenging day, and included some difficult route-finding, extraordinary bouldering, ad hoc raps into the entry canyon, floating disconnects, frigid swims in groady water and a tough and uncertain canyon exit.

Overall, not the stuff for the weak-kneed or faint of heart. So I was very proud of my girls, who were brave, tireless and unwavering. And throughout the trip, there was plenty of laughter which made all the discomforts of a searingly hot summer hike pass like a gentle breeze. It is good to have strong and energetic daughters made of hardy stuff, and better yet when they make pleasant traveling companions. I do love adventure, but love it best with my kids, and feel far more blessed by their company than they are by mine.

Post Script: Three long-cherished outdoor companions may have taken their last hike. First, my Nalgene bottle cracked when dropped in a pack on a downclimb. It was the first one I owned, a plain white opaque model that was Nalgene's only choice before their marketing department discovered translucent plastic in vibrant colors. Also, my North Face shorts, which have lived long past any reasonably expected life span, and have survived countless days in sandstone canyons, the harshest test of all for pants. And finally, my Escalante cap is falling apart. The band long disappeared, and its red dye weathered, it somehow it always felt like it belonged in canyon country. I have become curiously attached to these inanimate items, not for their style or utility, but simply because we have been together so many times as we explored the back-country. Losing them reminds me that I am wearing out as well, and one day will make my final trip, either because I have cracked suddenly like the Nalgene or, as the shorts and cap, declined gradually, a fading casualty of heavy mileage and rugged terrain.

Fathers Day

One of the salubrious effects of holidays is that they sometimes cause us to ponder those things that matter most but are not timely and often ignored. So it was last Sunday, that in my quiet moments I reflected on my fathers. I thought most about my adopted father, I supposed because I spent my formative years in his company.

It was an interesting start to the relationship, because I chose to make him my father. Being adopted at such a late age (11) I had veto rights. But I had spent enough years in foster homes and orphanages and the like that the idea of permanently joining a family was so appealing that I was not inclined to be picky about such relatively trivial matters as culture, attitudes and interests.

As a result, I found myself a son to Fred Aho, who I then thought could not possibly be more unlike me than any man I had met. I loved sports, while his athletic interests were strictly limited to bowling and occasionally volleyball at church picnics and family reunions. I remember getting him a baseball glove as a gift, hoping it would inspire him to take up the game. It was a first baseman's mitt, which seemed appropriate for someone of his girth. Alas, our few efforts at playing catch ended in frustration (mine) as I'd have to dig in the hedges for all the balls that he had missed. He had given it the college try, but I was still disappointed and unfulfilled.

We were unlike in almost every other way. He was quiet, soft-spoken and unassuming, and I was loud, obnoxious and keenly intent on being the center of attention. He adored food, for which I could care less. His idea of a great Saturday night was visiting relatives at their farm and taking a sauna. I would have preferred activities that generated a little more adrenaline.

To the best of my recollection, we had only two things in common--playing cards and The Tonight Show. Even as a kid I was a night owl, and we used to stay up and watch Johnny Carson almost every night. It started at 10:30, and he rarely made it through the entire show (whereas I rarely missed any of it). It was the one shared ritual in our lives, neither one of us saying a word, him playing solitaire and me looking over a sports magazine. In retrospect, it was a rather meager form of bonding, but we were together and it was, I presumed, what fathers and sons did.

Dad also taught me to play cards--double-solitaire, spades, diamonds, rummy, cribbage and even bridge. Mom was a terrible card player, which used to frustrate him to no end. She just didn't see the point in it, and winning the game was never an important object for her. Further, she never grasped the strategic elements of the games. So their early efforts at social bridge were quickly aborted in favor of a longer marriage. I, on the other hand, loved playing cards with Dad, and he was always up for a game. We were competitive, but never bitterly so. I was neither upset when he won (because of his added experience and wisdom) nor surprised when I did (since even then I suffered from delusions of grandeur). So we played often, and when I would get bored and do something else, he would switch to solitaire, which I believe consumed at least 50% of the discretionary hours in the last 20 years of his life.

Despite our difference, I learned a lot from Dad, and wish I had learned more. He was always willing to work, and we spent many hours together in the garden. From him I learned how to plant and cultivate and weed. We would pick up aged manure from the country and mix it with soil when planting the tomatoes. Together we would pick rocks and turn soil. Every spring I had to till the garden, which only became fun after we got a gasoline-powered rototiller. And it wasn't just our yard that got our attention--we also mowed and trimmed and gardened at the church, and for widows and sick neighbors and others. I never enjoyed it at all, and did my best to get out of the responsibility, but he would have none of my excuses and so yard work become a habit. To my surprise, as an adult I have come to enjoy gardening in all its forms.

My dad was as honest as the day is long. He was humble and submissive. He was a great example to me, and though I may have been blessed with many talents that he lacked, I will labor all my days to match his examples of patience, charity and industry--traits that now, in the back half of my life, I view best over infinite horizons.

Zion Fatal

There were three deaths this week in Zion National Park. The first was a canyoneer from California in Heaps Canyon. Heaps is one of the most challenging canyons in Zion. The deceased had a lot of canyon experience in Utah and elsewhere, and was with two other experienced canyoneers. But Heaps makes for a long day, and they didn't get to the final rappel into one of the Emerald Pools until 10:30 at night. It was cold and dark, and they were all fatigued. The first two dropped safely, but going last, a rigging error caused him to fall 200 feet to his death.

The other two both occurred on Angel's Landing, a non-technical climb that is popular with more mainstream visitors, but involves some knife-edge precipices that require holding on to a guide chain to maintain control. Both deaths were the result of falls, one caused by a heart attack.

I have been in a canyoneering discussion group on the web, where there have been hundreds of emails offering condolences, analyzing the incident and gathering what might be learned from the experience. There has been a profound sense of shared tragedy, as if we have lost one of our own, and many have been left to contemplate our own mortality, and the risks we take descending these canyons armed with rope and hardware and our own devices.

The experience has affected me, and I have a healthier respect for the canyons, with perhaps a twinge of fear. And I have committed to get more training, to be more cautious and in the future to enter canyons better prepared for surprises, problems and unexpected contingencies.

I don't want a risk-free life, and I enjoy the adrenaline rush of experiences that challenge and even frighten me. But to meet these challenges, I prefer to rely on planning and preparation every bit as much as courage and confidence.

Let's Make a Deal

I participated in a mediation meeting on Tuesday for some personal litigation. It's a funny little lawyer dance that, when well choreographed, can almost substitute for entertainment, given the rather limited range of the legal aesthetic.

At the center is the Mediator, generally a former lawyer with gray-haired credibility and the demeanor of a friendly uncle. He is hired by both sides and his job is to get the two parties to settle. (I asked ours if he "kept score," and he somewhat reluctantly admitted he did. I'm guessing he can compute his batting average quicker than a rookie outfielder standing on first base.) To be successful, a Mediator must be a master of both legal reasoning and litigant psychology. His prospects are significantly enhanced if each side thinks he favors its cause.

After starting with a little background, establishing a rapport, and giving a short-hand assessment of our case, he split us up in separate rooms and proceeded to move back and forth, shuttling offers and counter-offers, always coupled with friendly counsel, sage advice and "inside information," leading almost inexorably to a settlement. After a few of these dosey-dos, each side moving gradually together, we arrived somewhere near the middle, signed a few papers, pledged not to kiss and tell, and went home, relieved if not completely satisfied.

I like the idea of mediation. It skirts the courts and seeks agreement in a contentious environment. And it seems to me that in a world of perfect information--each side being rational and appropriately assessing the risks--you should almost always find a place to settle. It's simply more efficient--you avoid the time and legal expense of a trial. So I was happy to reach an agreement, but happier yet that this somewhat homespun system really worked, that we had managed to avoid the waste and formality and contentiousness of endless litigation.

I think a Mediator would be useful in other parts of life. Like maybe for Congress, or for families with teenagers, or perhaps in the Middle East. I've always had an idealist streak in me, but now that I've seen The Middle, I think it is a good place to meet.

Escalante

Just returned from a long weekend in Escalante with Merritt, Sam and Dave Jarvi. Second Annual Canyons for Guys Memorial Day Weekend, and hopefully many more to come. Arrived late Thursday night after driving about 50 miles of the lonely and desolate Hole-in-the-Rock road by moonlight. Found a spot to lay out our bags and enjoyed an extraordinary star-filled night.

Friday we hiked Llewelyn, a friendly little canyon with plenty of clamboring, a nerve-wracking climb out (OK, for climbers it's easy, but even a 5.2 on an exposed pitch with hiking shoes gets my heart beating), and a torturous, seemingly endless up-and-down traverse back to the trailhead. Found a cool little half-pipe that reminded us of The Subway, and a nifty slide into a pool at the end, which made for a refreshing swim before the climb out.

We were bushed Friday night so opted to sleep on the mesa, leaving a long day in and out of Neon Canyon for Saturday. Neon is a stunningly beautiful canyon, with a gorgeous approach hike all the way in. Once at the Escalante River, we had to climb back up to enter the canyon from the top. It's a canyoneer's dream, with plenty of interesting challenges, cold swims, narrow chimneys, potbelly caverns, meandering climbs, ravens-at-guard, keeper potholes and a transcendent rappel through a hole through the rock and into Golden Cathedral. There we were met by the Sirens of Neon, who beckoned us with the promise of real food. We were undeterred, and pressed forward, with Merritt battling deer flies and Dave and Sam taking an unplanned detour up-river, but all finally arriving on top.

The next day was almost as good, starting at Upper Calf Creek Falls and walking in the river to the Lower Falls, where we set up a rappel and dropped 165 feet into the waterfall, which at times felt as if a torrential force was pounding on your head. It was a glorious rap, and we felt all the more manly by the crowd of swimmers and hikers who had come up from the campground and gathered to applaud our derring-do and photograph our exploits. Met a librarian from Salt Lake City who kindly gave us a ride to our car, thinking wistfully about the lack of adventure in his life, I think.

Decided that Egypt 3 wasn't right for Monday, so on a lark we packed up and drove to Bryce Canyon and hiked about six miles, which was extraordinarily, mystically, magically, enticingly beautiful. We got an early start, before the crowds hit, and got back on top for lunch and the long drive home.

And every day I was thinking of how beautiful this land is and what a joy it is to venture into it, and how different it is climb into its hidden places while the masses park, point and click. I would like to share my discoveries with more of the world. But the sacrifice required is a higher price than most are willing to pay. I am secretly glad for that, so these canyons can remain wild and remote and I can still find solitude there, nestled in my bag with the howl of coyotes in the distance, resting my head on a rolled-up sweatshirt and gazing wondrously at the Milky Way above.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." --Henry David Thoreau, Walden.