Ko Klang

We paid the man seven baht as we boarded the longtail boat. Villagers from the island use the boats to buy groceries in Krabi town. One lady that stepped into the boat after us held two bags full of food, and another carried a basket. Next to us on the dock, another longtail had a small ramp folded down from the stern for men to load their motor bikes, to ferry across the river.

As we cast off, a dark-faced male with wavy black hair, collared t-shirt and sandals sat at the aft of the boat and controlled the prop. March is almost the hottest month of the year in Thailand and this day fulfilled expectations. A slight coolness in the breeze as we skimmed forward felt welcoming, as did the occasional drop of water splashed up as the boat pushed through the river.

I was curious as to what lied ahead. Ko Klang is not usually on the destination map of those headed to the Krabi Province in the southern depths of Thailand, some 400 miles south of Bangkok. Many of the island's 4,000 residents cross the river to engage in employment brought by tourism in Krabi town. After work, they return to their sleepy hamlet and see very few tourists, except those who wander off the beaten path, like ourselves.

Our ride across the river gave us a closer view of the port of the village than we had yet to see. Shanty houses came right to the water's edge, many of them on stilts and hovering over the river. Every edifice appeared to be constructed of wood, painted various colors; roofs were sometimes supplemented with corrugated metal sheets, and eaves extended well over the walls of the house. The waters here were a murky brown from the stir of activities around the pier. A man waded up to his chest as we approached the dock, which was nothing more than a wooden ramp whose lower end disappeared into the water. The interior of Ko Klang was still a mystery to us, as it was shielded by a jungle of trees.

As we touched with the dock, the man driving the prop jumped out and tied a rope from the boat to a post and wrapped it around snugly and fastened a knot. He helped us over the gunwale and we walked up the wooden ramp and through a wooden shade house where the people who sat on the benches all looked at us, knowing we were not one of them. A couple of men offered us rides on their mopeds, using very basic English. We declined, wanting to enjoy the journey on our feet.

There are no cars in Ko Klang. Only motor bikes, pedestrian traffic, and the tuk-tuk, which is a motor bike with a cart attached to the side. Cement paths throughout the village were smaller than a one-lane road, and traffic was sparse to say the least. It was normal to go five or ten minutes without a passerby.

Although Ko Klang is designated as an island, it isn't in the same mold as your other islands of Southern Thailand such as Phi Phi and Phuket. According to one local man, there is only one beach and it is too far away to walk and very trashy. Also, the island is not completely surrounded by ocean, but mostly rivers and inlets. The indigenous mangrove tree occupies about a third of the island, while the rest has been carved out by man and is used as dwelling and farmland, including many rice fields.

Upon leaving the pier and gradually coming upon the village by means of the pathway, there was a large sign with pictures and words to the drifting tourists like ourselves. So that there was no confusion, the sign stated bluntly that no alcohol, drugs, pigs, dogs, nor immodesty were allowed on the island. You see, Ko Klang, unlike much of the rest of Buddhist Thailand, is ninety-eight percent Muslim. This tends to reflect the influence of Malaysia, which isn't too far to the south. The people here (I believe) have a different look to them that slants away from the Asian appearance found in Bangkok. The women keep their heads covered with a hijab, and the men (with the exception of some working near the water) dress modestly with pants and shirt.

Most of the homes rested on stilts, probably a measure against a tsunami. Animals appeared to wander freely and snack on forage near the homes. We saw roosters, cats, goats, and what appeared to be a water buffalo tied to the post of a house. It is interesting that most of the homes had at least two or three bird cages dangling from the porch―I don't know the significance. Laundry was also left to dry alongside pots and pans used for cooking. We saw a sink used for washing dishes on one porch, with a PVC pipe running away to drain the water, obviously a sign of no indoor plumbing.

Some villagers would sell fruit or drinks from the front of their homes. Often this was a rather a humble person who spoke no English, with very few customers for the day. One lady stopped on her moped to sell us pineapple on a stick and a small bag of popcorn. She carried all her goods on a cart attached to the bike. She spoke little English, but left with a smile when we bought her goods.

After roaming the outskirts of the village, not knowing the location of the center, we asked around to several people for the whereabouts of the mosque. We thought they would know what we were asking, but time after time, we got a blank look and a shake of the head. At length, one man understood our query and pointed just up the pathway to a low-lying building that hid behind the trees from our angle. This was the mosque.

I had expected the mosque to be somewhat grandiose. It was not. The simple cement structure had white walls and an ocean-blue onion dome on top, with peeling paint. Atop the dome, perched like a weather vane, was the crescent moon, symbol of the Muslim world. A motor bike parked in front, although we saw no one come in or out. I walked to a front portico, knowing I couldn't go inside, and observed the finely polished indigo tiles—by far the most exquisite feature outside the mosque. One lone sign near the entrance read something in Thai script that I didn't understand.

We arrived at a fish farm, which is an occasional stop for tourists who do boat tours from Krabi town. Access is gained via a backdoor inlet of the Krabi River, crawling through eerie mangrove forests, and docking next to the farm, completely circumventing the rest of the village. We were already familiar with this nook of Ko Klang from our boat ride the day before. We stopped here for about thirty minutes while a young Thai man pulled different exotic fish from wooden tanks for us to touch and take pictures.

Although it was the day before, I should mention something of the large mangrove forests that surround Ko Klang. We came through at low-tide when the roots of the trees stood up as if on tip-toes, and appeared almost as large spiders, the roots tangling with themselves as they drooped into the water. The branches above us created a canopy that blocked most of the sky. A trio of long-tailed macaques swung from one branch to another, proving very difficult to spot through the jumble of limbs. The water sat strangely still, and I half-expected something to lung from its depths and snap at us.

Immediately exiting the forest we came upon the fish farm, which consisted of several wooden huts, some on stilts and others floating on the water. Roofs thatched with palm leaves covered the huts, and some of these roofs had tires resting on top, supposedly to keep the fronds from blowing away. Although a “tourist stop” for some day-trippers, our small group of eight people were the only ones there at that moment. The buildings around the fish farm tended to be better kept than those elsewhere in the village, some with grass yards.

As we meandered to the fish farm from the mosque, it appeared exactly as it did the day before, still very quiet and not many people in view. We found a Muslim lady at a sink washing dishes.

Our purpose in revisiting this area was to find a bite to eat, as the day before left us no time for such an endeavor. We sat at the only restaurant we knew of, a shaded, open-air structure that floated on the water. I ordered salted fish curry, and Jenelle, fried rice. When the boy brought our food, I couldn't believe the size of the bowl and the saltiness of the fish. In addition to the strong flavor, I found the texture to be very woody, including very fibrous kaffir lime leaves. When we finished and had no more room within us, they brought out large wedges of watermelon. We ate what we could and spat the seeds into the water.

After our meal we walked back toward the pier, following a different route. We passed more of the same: shanty huts on stilts, roosters roaming the yard, and the occasional motor bike purring by. Oh how I wished that I wasn't a tourist and could walk inside a home to see how they really lived. We saw shoes placed near the threshold of a door, in typical Thai fashion in respect for the home, but what remained inside was a mystery to us. What of the smells, the food, the furniture, the religious emblems, and people?

We passed a worn-down dirt field with grass and trees growing around it. On each side was a small frame of a soccer goal, without net and very rusty. This was their playing field, the bare-minimum by most standards, but probably all they needed. Although no one was on it at this time, the weeds in the center were worn from being trampled upon and used.

Our wanderings of nearly four hours brought us back to the pier where we didn't have to wait long to catch a longtail back to Krabi town. By now the large sun had traveled directly above us, and the sweltering humidity took the edge off of any romantic notions of being in a tropical island village. As I embarked, I asked the boatman the price of crossing the river in his vessel.

“Twenty-five baht,” he said, in broken English.

The price had more than tripled. This was because there were fewer people to share the boat, he said. No importance either way. The boatman started his engine and slowly guided us away from Ko Klang. ♠ 

December 6

[The following was written on December 28, 2013. Although three years ago, the same emotions still grip me today.]

The sixth day of December used to mean something entirely different to me. It signified one of the busiest days of the year at work. It also hinted that December was moving quickly and Christmas would be here soon. It acted as a reminder, as well, that our anniversary was in one week, and I had better start thinking about it.

All this has changed.

Last year, by the time the calendar changed from the fifth to the sixth―at midnight―my four kids and I were all standing on our front porch, looking up at the sky and watching the blinking red light of an airplane. Mom and Brittany were up there. We teased a little bit that Brittany would be our first kid to ride in an airplane―and she wouldn't even know it! Of course, the teasing was brief, because we all knew that her situation was critical, and we all worried.

I didn't attempt to fall asleep until two o'clock, when I received the phone call from Jenelle to inform me that they had arrived safely in Salt Lake City, and that Brittany had been delivered into the secure hands of the doctors at Primary Children's Hospital.

During the next hour, I tossed and turned, never sleeping. How could I sleep while my fourteen-year-old daughter laid in a coma.

At three o'clock, the phone rang again. Jenelle cried and wailed on the other end. Brittany wasn't going to make it. I was to pack everyone up and drive to Salt Lake immediately.

The four-hour drive to Primary Children's Hospital was the most surreal drive of my life. The sky, black; the freeway, empty; the kids, whimpering. Jenelle called three or four times during the drive, and each time I instantly pulled the vehicle to a stop on the shoulder of the road before I would run behind the Trailblazer, and answer the call. Every time, she only wanted to hear my voice, but every time, I worried that this would be the call, and I worried that the impact of the news on my body would collapse it and send me into paralysis.

At last, we arrived at the hospital, and there I found my daughter lying on a bed, motionless, with tubes attached all around her, and a screw coming from her head. She neither acknowledged me, nor opened an eye.

Family members from all parts of the state gathered there also, to say their goodbye's. More and more came throughout the morning. We said our goodbye's also, by holding her hand, kissing her forehead and crying on her cheek.

We had one final family prayer. We all knelt down around Brittany's bed, and I, as the mouthpiece for the family, gave thanks to God for the wonderful daughter we had been blessed to have during the last fourteen years. Then I pleaded with Him that we could somehow survive this painful blow and asked for His spirit to be abundantly upon us.

When the time came, the nurse unplugged the apparatus that helped her breath, and we all gathered around Brittany and grasped her living body one last time. I rested the side of my head on her chest and felt her breathing become fainter and fainter and finally disappear. With her final breath, it was as if one last, large bubble found a way to escape her lungs. Our baby was gone.

We left the hospital that day, and drove to the south end of the Salt Lake Valley to find a hotel. Our faces must have been quite a sight―eyes red and wild. The receptionist at the hotel didn't know what she was getting into. She asked why we were in town, and I responded to her that our daughter had been in the hospital.

“Is she doing alright?”

“No,” was my inevitable response. “She passed away this morning”

She gave us the room for free―the first in a long line of tender mercies.

One year later, and in a very different setting. The exact same thoughts are running through our minds. This year we are in California, having just left our hotel in Barstow. No snow. Warm Mojave air and palm trees.

We stopped at Walgreen's in Victorville. Jenelle forgot to bring a picture of Brittany, but she was able to find one on her laptop and send in an order to the one-hour lab. That was a relief! We would have kicked ourselves if we hadn't been able to fix that one. At Walgreen's we also picked up an 8 x 14 wooden picture frame.

Within an hour, the chaos and insanity of the southern California freeway system was well upon us. Clinching tight to the steering wheel left me with few resources in my brain to think of Brittany.

At approximately 11:25 am, I exited the 210 onto Fruit Street, a road that I felt was fitting for the apple-queen of our family. We turned left, then another left, and found ourselves parked, semi-secluded, inside a tiny cul-de-sac, along a brick wall, where the 210 surely rumbled along the other side. We turned off the vehicle and and listened to one last song, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, one of Brittany's favorites. Then we turned all music off for a moment of silence at 11:38, the exact minute that Brittany passed away. Jenelle stepped outside and found some beautiful pink flowers spilling over from someones yard. Brittany would have loved them, so she picked one.

Once again on the freeway, we made our way closer and closer to the chaos. The kids all awed in amazement at L.A.'s magnificent skyline. Soon, it wasn't a skyline at all, but we were directly beneath the buildings.

We spent two hours in Chinatown. Jenelle bought a wooden Eiffel Tower inside a shop. The wooden kit mingled with incense burners, fans, Chinese toys, and other Asian merchandise.

Before checking into our hotel in Santa Monica, we stopped at the grocery store, Vons. Parking was tight, but not as tight as the space inside of our vehicle after we left the store with fifteen helium balloons―fourteen teal and one purple. Fourteen to represent every year that we had her with us, and one purple to signify the one that we didn't. The balloons spread out across the second and third row of seating inside the Trailblazer. No way to see behind me. Jordan's voice was my mirror.

We made it to our hotel, which just happened to be across only two roads from the beach. After checking in, many bystanders witnessed a family of six, all in white t-shirts, carrying fifteen helium balloons along a cross-walk and over the bridge that led to Santa Monica Pier.

I must say, that before we crossed the bridge, we were stopped in awe as we watched a street performer perform the song, Tears in Heaven, which is the same song that we played for the balloon release at Brittany's funeral. We hadn't heard the song since then, so what were the odds?

Once at the beach, Jenelle began arranging us for a family photo. We held the balloons and positioned ourselves in an aesthetically pleasing manner. From the backpack, Jenelle pulled out a newly framed picture of Brittany, to be held by one of our kids on the front row. We set the camera on a tripod, and after a few intense moments of forcing everyone to hold still and to smile, a pleasant-looking family portrait was taken. We all appear to be happy, but to the mindful observer, it has to be noted that we are in agony, because we know that one of our children is not really there, but only in image, as we hold a photo of her inside an 8 x 10 frame.

Then came time to release the balloons. No music. Only the sound of crashing waves upon the sand. The wind was our enemy that evening. Not only did it confuse all the strings into knots, but by the time we cut them loose and handed them to the kids to release, the wind sent our balloons eastward in a fury, giving us little time to ponder their flight through the air.

This was a beach that Brittany loved, so it only felt appropriate that we return and remember her. And that is what we did,―remember her. ♠

Double Rainbow

Prologue

Yesterday, after a long hike hauling my gun, camera, and pack, I was relieved to finally arrive at my vehicle and pull the weight from off my back. After a quick bowl of granola I put the cooler and jug of water back into the Trailblazer, got inside and drove away. Inadvertently, I left my camouflaged backpack near the stand of trees next to the road.

Twenty miles later, after traveling down a slick and muddy road, I discovered my mistake.

Hesitant to return on the treacherous road with an impending storm, I continued my route to home and decided to return at first sunlight to pick it up. After all, very few people traveled that particular road, and most of them, I would guess, were honest folk.

My backpack had much of what I used to function during the hunt: water bottles, a sandwich, deer bags, bone saw, granola bars, flashlight, first-aid kit, camouflaged poncho, sweat shirt, a point and shoot camera, and phone.

Same place, next day

It is six-thirty in the morning and we have been traveling since five. I am with my sixteen-year-old daughter, Kaitlyn, and we have traveled almost sixty miles up the mountain, in hopes of being the first people here.

The headlights beam ahead on the road as we wend up the final hill toward our destination. Fallen aspen leaves litter the damp pathway. As we crest the final hill, I am relieved to know we are the first ones here. But my heart sinks as I scan the ground where I parked last night. No backpack!

“It's not here,” I tell Kaitlyn as I grab a flashlight and get out of the vehicle. With a small shaft of light I examine the ground again for any sign of my property. ¡Nada!

Knowing there is nothing else I can do for now, we gather the gun and everything we need to hunt.

Just like déjá vu, as we walk up the hillside, we spot two raghorn bulls on the skyline. One of them was there yesterday morning, but now I am excited that Kaitlyn can see them too. We stop and watch for a minute, but then continue our walk to the lookout point.

We nestle down next to a small pine tree and Kaitlyn rests the muzzleloader on her lap. The forecast said that this morning would have a zero percent chance of rain. Already, I can see a fierce pack of thunderclouds headed our direction.

Although we spot no deer in our little clearing, the gradual building of the sunrise catches our attention. The first object to turn orange are two puffy clouds just ahead, floating over the valley. In another minute, the thunderclouds that are headed our way change from dark gray to vibrant pink.

By the second, this sunrise is building and growing and mutating until it fills the entire sky with blazing colors! Kaitlyn and I are in awe at the magnitude of the spectacle. We are at 9,000 feet in elevation, surrounded alpine slopes and golden quaking aspen, and now, the sky is radiating like a wildfire.

As my camera is currently MIA, I am grateful that Kaitlyn has her phone, and she anxiously uses it to capture a few pics.

As the sunrise reaches its apex, a stiff breeze kicks in and we feel a drop or two of rain. Anxious to look-over another nearby hill, I signal to Kaitlyn that we get up and move along.

Back up the hillside we move, using agile movements over strewn rocks and broken branches that speck the ground. We move closer to our next observation point, but by now, the rain is beginning to come in pelts. We glance the hillside and see that there are no obvious animals and quickly decide it is time to turn around.

As we change directions, we look to the sky and spot a quickly forming rainbow that appears to be growing from the mountain. Before our eyes, the colors of the bow become as vibrant as any color can be, and then, a second rainbow forms above the first. The double rainbow, anchored to the ground on both ends, grows in the middle until it is completely linked.

Our hats, our hair, our coats are becoming drenched, but we don't want to go because this is one of the most amazing things we have ever seen. Not only do we feel on top of the world because of our high vantage point, but now with the rainbow, we feel as if we are in heaven!

Even the hills around us, covered with tawny-colored wild grass and wind-swept trees, are radiating a golden hue. The sky everywhere is a swath of pink.

Kaitlyn wants her picture with the rainbow, so we stop in the wet wind to get a shot.

They say in some eastern beliefs, that a double rainbow is a sign of good fortune. Sometimes it can be regarded as a good sign, as if heaven is smiling upon you.

We put the phone up, tuck our heads, and make a brisk walk back down the long rocky hill to the vehicle.

Epilogue

It has been almost two months since I left my backpack on the mountain. Every day, for a month after that, I hoped to get a phone call from someone who made the find. It was easy, right? My phone is in the pouch, with no password, no blocks. Just turn it on, call about anyone in my contacts, especially those with names like 'Mom' and 'Dad'! I even sent myself a text: “To the person who found my backpack, please call my wife's phone at this number . . .” Still—nothing!

Where is my double rainbow? Where is my sign of good luck? Where are all the answers to prayers that I have sent to heaven? One thought that kept reoccurring in my mind was the Buddhist concept of attachment. On this earth, we tend to grasp, or “attach” ourselves to all sorts of worldly possessions that in the long-run, don't matter. I don't pretend to understand the concept fully, but I can relate in a Christian context that there are really very few things that we carry with us to the next life—and a backpack isn't one of them!

So, I've got my wonderful family, and a beautiful world to live in. I enjoy health and freedom. I feel a connection and a faith with my Maker. I am at peace with most people I know, and although I'm not perfect, I feel blessed in many ways. This is my double rainbow. ♠

Haunting Memories From Park City

Usually, I am not the type of person to live with regrets. Life is unpredictable and we win some and we lose some. We do our best and life keeps going.

But there is one day several years ago that still haunts me. I cringe to think of it and hesitate to write about it. Perhaps it will make someone think twice about the moments they have.

We spent the night with my sister-in-law in Provo, Utah, sleeping on couches and floor, or whatever tiny space we could find. We left the next morning before they got out of bed. I was surprised they hadn't woken up yet as it was already 9:30. Knowing what I know now, I think we would have woken them up. That is a regret, but not the one I refer to.

Thanksgiving was the day before, having spent it at my brother's home in Springville. Thinking back, now four years later, I know that Brittany sat near me, and that she had been sick and weak. My uncle Steve was there also, and he and my dad debated politics. The two of them look at life very differently and don't get along. It doesn't help that Steve is a Democrat. My grandpa sat in his wheelchair the entire time, often in front of the television, although his eyes couldn't make out the picture. When he spoke it was difficult to understand because of the softness of his voice. Although all of her cousins were there and playing in the backyard, Brittany stayed low-key. She just didn't have the energy.

After it was dark, and round-two of leftovers, we drove to Provo where we stayed at Jenelle's sister. Drew and Teresa didn't even get home until late and only saw us for a few minutes that night. They had only been married about a year, and lived in a cold apartment on the second story, with a view of the mountain tops from the balcony outside their door. Dishes stacked high from around the sink, and new-born Jackson took most of their time. When they brought him home that evening, we met him for the first time, wrapped up in soft baby blankets to keep him warm from the brisk November air. Sometimes, people only meet each other once, and tonight was one of those nights.

We left the next morning after eating cereal, and made a stop at Bridal Veil Falls. I should have thought this one through a little better, but when we hiked the paved trail to the base of the falls, a large sludge of ice formed along the declivity, and what would be an impressive cascade during spring and summer was instead a bitter disappointment. Wind blew, and still being in the shade, the kids were more miserable than impressed.

Back at the vehicle, we drove to an upper viewpoint and I got the picture I was looking for. Everyone else stayed inside.

When we passed Deer Creek Reservoir, I stopped again and stepped outside to get a picture of the water with a slightly skiffed Mount Timpanogos in the background. It is interesting—and I continue to make this same mistake today—that during our entire road trip, I persistently concerned myself with my own agenda: photos, nostalgia, a break from work etc., etc. Not once did I cherish the moment with those I loved most—the people sitting in the seats just behind me!

We passed though Heber City (home of Cael Sanderson), and looked out the window at the arms of Jordanelle Reservoir. Now, rising on the hills at our left, was our next destination, Park City.

Part of our reason for stopping here was nostalgia, and the other, curiosity. I spent six years of my life just 39 miles down the freeway in Henefer. At that time (I was eight years old) Park City wasn't much more than a ghost town, an old mining town gone bust. It hadn't been discovered by the Robert Redfords and the mega-millionaires, who eventually resurrected the town and turned it into a ritzy resort.

My memories from age eight were a bit foggy, so now I was determined to experience the town as an adult. It was a curiosity.

But even as an adult—now four years later—I can't remember that day as well as I'd like to. We parked just outside the main town and chose to walk the streets. There weren't many roads in the historical section of Park City, most of them set on a hill and somewhat steep. We walked on Main Street and noted with interest the freshly painted façades of the shops, and the old, yet touristy new design of the buildings. There was almost a European feel to the place, maybe from the narrow streets and close-quarters of the buildings. We saw a lady walk down the sidewalk with a large fur scarf around her neck, adding an air of snootiness to the mix.

We went inside a few of the shops, but everything was priced well out of our range. One store in particular that I remember  was a gallery of paintings and photographs. I especially admired the landscape photos, and took note of how they were composed, and of the lighting. As I remember, Brittany liked the gallery also. I thought she would. She was the artist in the family and could out-doodle anyone. I don't recall if we looked at pictures together, or if I pointed out a favorite to her, of if I pulled her to my side and gave her a hug. I don't remember. But what I do recollect is that she became exhausted from walking around and sat down on a bench just downstairs from the gallery.

We didn't devote too much time to Park City, as we still had to drive all the way to Mantua to spend a couple days with Jenelle's parents. It was November after all, and the sun doesn't stay up very long.

On our final stroll up Main Street, on the way back to our car, we passed a multi-colored statue of a moose. The moose wore a cowboy hat, as well as a saddle blanket and lip stick. Jenelle became so excited upon seeing the animal that we had to stop and get a picture. I took six photos, including one of Jenelle kissing the beast. I stood back on the sidewalk while the rest of the family gathered around to pose with the moose.

As I snapped away, I paused briefly so a group of pedestrians could pass by. “Would you like me to take the picture for you so you can stand in also?” one of them asked. I thought, and hesitated, and considered that it was just a silly moose, and that my being in the picture didn't really matter. “No, thank you,” I responded. And he went on his way.

That was my regret. That was the moment that still haunts me to this day. That was the incident that pricks my heart like a dull knife.

After two weeks of progressively becoming sicker, my daughter, Brittany, passed away on December 6^th. That silly picture in front of the moose would have been our last family portrait as an entire family. Without that, the last time we all posed together in front of a camera was about two years earlier.

Life goes on. You can't dwell on mistakes of the past. Please cherish those moments you have and the people you love most. Don't take life for granted. ♠

Camping, the Old Fashion Way

I am saddened when I go on the mountain and see so many people spending the night in a camp trailer or fifth wheel. Whatever happened to the olden days when one slept in a tent, or even better, under the stars? I understand that a trailer has more conveniences such as a toilet, kitchen sink, table, generator, color television, soft bed. Most people don't even build a fire anymore. They just cook on a propane stove. Why not just stay home in the first place? In a camp trailer, you are oblivious to the sound, smell, and touch of the outdoor senses.

Some of my fondest memories come from camping beneath the stars. While in high school, the night before the archery hunt, my friend and I drove in his old black pickup truck to the top of Blue Mountain near the skyline trail at about 10,000 feet in elevation. We had no tent, nor any camp trailer, but instead, we rolled out sleeping bags into the bed of his truck and watched the innumerable stars that painted the sky. It was the most stars I had ever seen in my life. I don't know if it was because we were so high in elevation, or because we were so far away from any other dimming source, but there were millions upon millions. No clouds obstructed our view. Swarms of illuminated pin holes from east to west and north to south, not only above us, but also below us as we sat parked high upon a mountain slope. Flanking our sides were silhouettes of the coniferous forest, its pungent scent still fresh in the crisp air.

Nighttime is filled with many sounds. That of a cricket or cicada can be very nostalgic. The quivering of aspen leaves when the breeze picks up or the rumbling water of a gurgling stream are very soothing. Popping and crackling of the final embers before they die out always rouse me from my sleep to glance at the fire pit, but I always return to close my eyes, relishing the moment that is all mine at the moment.

My favorite sounds, however, come from animals who roam the outskirts of our campsite. This is always a bonus to any nighttime experience. A pack of coyotes howling on the hillside are enough to keep one awake, hoping that they will not come down and ransack the camp.

During the rut, when I go on the mountain to get pictures of elk, I particularly enjoy sleeping in the back of my truck and listening to the bugles that come during the night. Usually, two bulls will be roaring back and forth as they wander through the trees. I get excited when one of them gets relatively close to the truck, probably completely oblivious to my existence. I pop my head up, squint through the darkness, scan for anything that could be an elk, usually not see anything, but still be happy that one is so close.

I remember one night as a youngster, my brother and I camped out at Westwater. The creek is only a couple feet wide.  Walt and I created an artificial island in one section so that the stream forked right around our fire and little camping area, and then coalesced back into one body of water. It was in this place that we slept under the stars, the stream roiling just feet away from our ears, the embers of the fire burning down, and leaves on the cottonwood trees flapping lightly. Something stirred that caused me to sit upright in my sleeping bag. There, about a sticks-throw away, in the willows were two red eyes. They glared at me as I stared at them. I listened intently for any movement, but heard none, and soon the glowing oculi faded into the night. ♠

Tuk-tuk

After leaving our hotel only ten minutes ago, we are once again lost. It is hot, sticky, and our feet are heavy and sore. Night has fallen and a whirl of cars purr around us. Bangkok's web of streets has baffled us again. I'm sure I could find a streetlamp, pull out a map, and retrace our steps, but we are just too exhausted.

We flag down a tuk-tuk and he careens to the side of the road with a large giddy smile on his face. “Hello, my friend! Where are you going?”

Like fools we climb into the small taxi, relieved to be off our feet, and fail to negotiate a price before taking off. “Chinatown,” I command.

I know we're close, and an honest tuk-tuk driver should only charge 50 Baht, but I'm sure this one will charge at least a hundred. “How much do you want to pay me?” he asks.

“What ever you'd like,” I respond, surprised at myself for talking more foolishness.

“200 Baht,” he quickly replies. That's crazy you blood-sucking scam artist!

“But, I have a proposal,” he rattles off in broken English. “I have a friend who owns a clothing store. I take you to his store and you go in and pretend like you're interested. You don't have to buy anything. After five or ten minutes you leave. He gives me free fuel. Then I take you to Chinatown for only 100 Baht. You help me and I help you.”

Oh, boy. What have we gotten ourselves into? Jenelle and I agree to the shady proposition, and in an instant the driver makes a right-hand turn and we are racing through unknown streets and might as well be traveling to Timbuktu.

Tuk-tuk in Ayutthaya

Five minutes later, we pull up to a tailor shop. Bangkok is famous for its cheap tailored suits. Although the idea has crossed my mind, a brand new suit just isn't in the budget for this trip.

We walk inside and are immediately ushered into a back room by a swarthy-skinned young man wearing a Rolex watch, à la mode gray slacks, a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and glasses that make him look like Elvis.

He begins to pull out fabric and we play along and I choose a light black color that I think would look well on me. We lie to him and say we are from Canada. I try on a couple of suit jackets and he determines that the second one looks perfect on me. I look at myself in the mirror and admit that a new suit would be nice, but right now we are just trying to figure out how to get out.

“How much,” I ask, genuinely curious, but still playing along. He punches some numbers onto a calculator and hands it to me to examine: 11,000 Baht. Quickly, I divide it by thirty-three, then erase it so he won't catch that I am converting to U.S. Dollars.

“Not bad,” I say. “Are you guys open tomorrow?”

“Yes, but fifty percent off is only tonight.”

Jenelle quickly chimes in: “That looks really tempting, but we would have to go back to the hotel where his brother is. His brother is in charge of the expense account. We don't have any money right now.”

He gives an incredulous look and says, “But fifty percent off is only tonight.”

Soon, we are able to weasel our way out of the tailor shop, and to our delight, the tuk-tuk driver is there waiting for us. Once again, we whiz off into the night, going who-knows-where.

Have you ever played pin the tail on the donkey, where they blind-fold you and spin you round and round and round? That's how it feels as we ride in the back of this tuk-tuk, hot and humid air blowing on our face, trusting a stranger who could drop us off anywhere in Bangkok.

After some high-speed traveling, our driver makes a turn, and suddenly there is a cluster of neon signs in Chinese script and packs of street stalls all along the sidewalks. I know where we are. We are on Yaowarat Road.

Yaowarat Road

The tuk-tuk is the official tourist taxi of Bangkok, Thailand. They are everywhere. They line the streets vying for business, and any time a tourist walks by you can hear a chorus of: “Tuk-tuk? Tuk-tuk?”

A different "model" of tuk-tuk in Southern Thailand.

This three-wheeled motorized contraption is the Thai version of the rickshaw. The name is onomatopoeic, imitating the sound that an engine makes. They may be used for any purpose, but in Bangkok they are largely used as a taxi. 

There are a few things that the visitor should know about the tuk-tuks and their drivers. First of all, they are all businessmen and are ultimately looking after their own pocket book. It is wise to negotiate a price before you commit to ride. If they know you are going to a large tourist destination like the Grand Palace or a Muy Thai fight, they will likely charge you much more. Also, if you are American, they will automatically believe you have deep pockets. Beware!

Around some of the famous attractions such as Wat Pho and the Grand Palace, they will hang out and tell tourists that the place is closed for the day. They do this in hope to lure you into a ride to somewhere else.

In spite of the warnings, taking a tuk-tuk ride is a must while you are in Bangkok. They are convenient and still relatively cheap. And best of all, it is just like a ride at Disneyland! An open-aired spin through the city with someone who barely speaks English to an unsure destination, is truly an adventure that no one should miss.

A villager uses a tuk-tuk on the southern island of Ko Klang.

The tuk-tuk experience varies in other areas of the country. In Southern Thailand, we learned that they had a different “model” that was a motorcycle with a cart attached to the side. Although we saw it used to transport people from time to time, it was certainly not a major form of taxi. The people primarily used it to carry goods and to give friends a ride. Sometimes they would use it as a vending cart and either sell food as they drove, or would park it at a market and set up shop.

Have you ever wondered what it's like to ride a tuk-tuk? Below is a video that I put together combining two trips—one from Wat Saket to the Grand Palace, and then a second on to Chinatown (not the same trip described above).

If you pay attention, there are many points of interest that you will see while cruising through Bangkok. Look for Wat Rajnadda, a pink taxi, Democracy Square, a picture of the king, other tuk-tuks, Grand Palace, road construction, 7-eleven, Kentucky Fried Chicken, tourist with a cowboy hat, Chinese lanterns . . . 

Enjoy! ♠