Pages to Unfold, Stories to Be Told

Like a path through the woods whose entry point is hard to ascertain,  the first words of a story, likewise, can be difficult to find at times - or the easiest, depending on what state of mind you find yourself in.  I think we’re walking down the ‘difficult’ road today - but then, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?

It’s a brilliantly sunny day today.  The kind of day that relieves the monotony of Winter and makes you feel like getting out in the world and participating in something vigorous - like cross-country skiing or snow-shoeing - not that I would ever do either of those things - I’m not the outdoorsy type; at least - not anymore. 

Whatever your own proclivities may be, days like this always remind me of a friend I once had some 40 odd years ago.  In retrospect, I suppose one might have considered him your proverbial corn-fed, strapping young buck; the kind one encounters in a small town that relies, for the most part, on the land in order to sustain itself, be it located on the plains or nestled high up in the mountains - this tale unfolds in the latter, the Rockies, as a matter of fact.  Location aside, to me, he was always our local Hercules. 
He was big, strong, and likeable, with an easy laugh, a helping hand, and a kind word always at the ready for those who needed it; but not above a bit of mischief, if called upon to deliver it - not to mention a pair of mitts you'd like to have on your side in a brawl (and, swear to God, there were a few) - and as a result, his demeanor reflected that of a hard-working, gregarious youth, the kind that had the ability to draw people to him without so much as a simple glance in their direction - sheer magnetism, that's what it was, sheer magnetism.

For his part, he never seemed to notice; he was filled with a certain naïveté in all things personal and wasn't given to introspection, or any sort of self-inspection really - just a simple youth with that peculiar sense, found most often in the young, of invincible indestructibility and, as a result, a certain measure of recklessness; an acute combination that can be lethal.

Over the course of our friendship, I never knew him to ever back down from a dare.  Having been a witness, on more than one occasion, to events that would have dealt a deathly blow to other young men half his age, he would emerge, victorious - and somehow, it seemed at times, that he was indeed, indestructible - and more than a little reckless. 

 I remember one early Spring day a gang of us headed out to Baker's Bridge for a picnic, a locale well-frequented by us all.  Now,  Baker's Bridge, was a bridge that spanned the Rio De Las Animas Perdidas, 'The River of Lost Souls', whose name reflected nothing more than the honest truth about that river - it could entice you in, Lorelei-like, with its picture of calm on the surface but with undertows strong enough to pull a huge felled tree right underneath, not to be seen again for some good distance downstream, or it could display all its might right before your eyes, with white-capped rapids and churning whirlpools that made it clear you'd be a fool to go in. 

 The bridge itself spanned a point where the river's banks drew close together and cut a deep chasm through sheer rock walls which rose up some 30 feet on either side, literally shrinking the width of the river to a 2-car-span and chuting the water through it in a wild roaring torrent. On one side was a slight promontory and it was here where we'd often picnic, weather permitting. 
 This being early Spring, it was warm enough to be outside but not warm enough to venture into that swollen river, running high and muddy from the snow melt and cold enough to make a grown man cry. 
 And it's no lie that throughout my youthful years living there, more than one fool-hardy teenager had met his Maker trying to shoot the rapids under that bridge - it was a beautiful spot, but unforgiving.

We'd spent the early part of the day, gathering wood for the often used fire pit, which had been there as long as any of us could remember, and then those who felt like it went for a hike. 
 By 2:00pm pretty much everyone had returned, and hamburgers were cooking on the makeshift grill, the smell of which mingled with the scent of burning wood and pine forest, forming a heady mix. A guitar or two had been brought out and as we basked in the sun and the music, we drank beer and passed around the smoke - the perfect Rocky Mountain High.

Well, the day wore on, the food was consumed, and after a lull to digest, things started getting a bit boisterous, what with all the beer being downed. Of course, there was bound to be horseplay - you can't put a group of young men together, out in the country with smoke and beer and expect there's not going to be some sort of rough-housing, if for no other reason than to show off for the girls - and this is where things just got a little crazy. I still can't believe it happened. 


With all the beer, smoke, and testosterone, challenges were made and taken, like hands in a poker game, the ante ever-rising; These guys were like rams butting heads for dominance. It started out simply enough - arm wrestling and the like but then someone, I don't remember who, made 'the dare', as we called it ever after. 

One Hundred Dollars on the table for anyone man enough to dive into the river from the cliff. Now, myself, I think it was a set up; I think they all pretty much knew that not a single one of them would take that dare - except for one - and they were counting on it; that he'd take the bait and make the leap, though in my heart of hearts, I don't believe any of them really meant it.  It took a bit of cajoling and lots of taunting, and name-calling but 3 quarters of an hour later and with a bit more beer and smoke in him, this fellow stands up like some young Hercules, all 6'3" of him and broad as a barn, and says, "I'll do it". 


Well, you could have heard a pine needle drop if it weren't for the dreadful sound of rushing water coming from behind him. 

 There was some very uncomfortable low, nervous laughter from a couple of the guys as with lowered-eyes they sneaked glances at one and other.  The girls, on the other hand, were having none of it, and though they tried desperately to dissuade him, you could see the steely flash of determination in his eyes - he would not be swayed. 

 Swiftly and with no sense of self-consciousness, he kicked off his boots, pulled off his shirt, unbuckled his belt and slipping his jeans down, stepped out of them - a finer specimen of the male form I had never seen - and, I might add, haven't seen since.

By this time, a jittery panic began jumping from one to the other of us like static electricity, just tickling the backs of our necks, and  jiggling our guts, as it became all too apparent the dare was morphing into something much more serious.   I mean, we knew what the river could do and this was supposed to be a joke, a dare that was now going too far. I think we kinda hoped he was just bluffing, getting our goat and that he'd start laughing any minute.
 But the young God seemed untouched by any concern whatsoever; it was like he had a shield and suit of armour, a force field, as it were, which no simple plea could penetrate.

We watched, dumbstruck, as he turned and walked away from us towards the edge of the cliff, his wide back tapering to his waist, straight and muscled, with not the slightest appearance of tension anywhere and with nary a glance back.  
He stood still but a moment, then bent his knees, and sprang up into the air and over the edge, hands coming together above his head as his feet left the earth - for an instant, an arc in the air - then he was gone - just like that.

Well, needless to say, we were all stunned; near paralyzed with fear. There was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach and I could hear a collective moan from the others. I looked from one to another and I can tell you for a fact; faces that white?  You don't find on the living. 
 Almost as one we rose up and raced to the edge of the cliff but there was nothing to see; just a churning mess of water made red by the clay and sediment, but no sign of a bobbing head, no sign of anything - just the roar of water and a huge feeling of shock, panic, and disbelief.  Frantically, repeatedly we shouted his name but it just died away in the air and the sound of rushing water - and no response came back to us - ever.

I cannot remember the exact events immediately following this; time seemed to telescope in and out, growing faster and slower as the day wore on. I know we searched downriver as far as we could go, but the terrain made it impossible for us to get right down to the river's edge. Not that it would have done any good - you just don't survive a jump like that into water like that. 
 By late afternoon, the sun was setting and somehow we got the fire out and packed away the foodstuffs and the guitars in silence; his pathetic pile of crumpled clothes just sat there - I think we were all hoping beyond hope that he'd come loping over the ridge and put them on saving us from the sad task of having to gather them up, reverently, and return them to his family - it was like the life that had inhabited them just hours ago was still hovering and none of us could bring ourselves to pick them up, for that would make the event far too real and break the spell, the magic thinking that he might yet return and put them on.  
Eventually, the task fell to me, and as I bent and picked them up,  I felt a weight, like that of Atlas, placed upon my shoulders - but I was no God nor Titan - and so I wept under the crushing burden.  It was now left to us to head back into town and of course, tell the police what had occurred.

We'd gone a mile or two down the road, I'm not sure how far, really, when up ahead, standing on the right side of the road was the strangest and most welcome sight I'd ever seen in my entire life - damned if it wasn't our Hercules, just as big as life, standing there in his underwear and socks, big ole grin on his face, and his thumb stuck out, hitching a ride.

Now, I've been surprised from time to time in my life but I can tell you with utter certainty, seeing the surely dead just as surely risen was not just a surprise, but a downright miracle.

To this day, I still sometimes wonder if 'our Hercules' mightn't have just descended, God-like, from Olympus to walk among us for a time. It's a mystery - and sometimes things are better left that way.