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. ♠