2022

  1. Gridiron- No Good At Goodbyes

  2. Skinhead- Skinhead

  3. Mindforce- New Lords

  4. Fleshwater- We’re Not Here To Be Loved

  5. Terror- Pain Into Power

  6. Combust- Another Life

  7. Vein- This World Is Going To Ruin You

  8. Life’s Question- World Full Of…

  9. No Pressure- No Pressure

  10. SPICE- Viv

If there’s anything that Joben had plenty of, it was hammers. They lined the eaves of his small cabin in north Georgia’s most hellacious holler. His daddy couldn’t afford tools. The son of a moonshiner he was no stranger to raisin’ hell on Friday night and holy rollin’ Sunday morning— though admittedly he said the church goin’ was mostly just to meet girls. In 1943 he jumped off the back of an aircraft carrier a couple miles off the coast of New York ‘cause he’d “seen just about as much of the world as he wanted to the first go around.” When a city slick failed to make good on his debt, he laid in the bed of a truck and sawed him in two with a shotgun as he walked by. He killed two of his three wives. Buried one in the front yard. Beat both court cases after he was found out. By all accounts he was a mean old bastard that neither man nor beast wanted to get tangled up with— that is ‘til the cancer got ahold of ‘em. Few months later he died. 

Hope, Alaska is the kind of town that can be seen in its entirety by simply standing at one end of Main Street or the other. The view from both ends is spectacular—framed out by mountains. One might get the sense that they had never truly known the meaning of the word “majestic” until they had visited this quiet town on the Kenai Peninsula. There was a bar, a community center, a mercantile, and one or two homes.

I found myself at the bar, as I often do on such occasions, waiting for time to slip away while small beads of water slowly made their way down my pint glass and stained the dark, rich wood forming circular patterns that overlapped from picking it up and setting it back down again.

I hate waiting, but if I gotta I suppose a small bar in Hope is as good a place as any. 

There ain’t much of the old McCaysville left. Raymond’s dead, Papa’s Pizza burned down, Mayford’s changed ownership, and Theatre Time is selling off its inventory of VHS tapes in what seems like a permanent going out of business sale. The only thing that remains is the Conoco station, and if it ever goes the whole town’ll have to just call it quits.

But every night officer Gerald Flowers stands guard by the counter, and with tobacco juice drippin' from his mouth onto his uniform he plays scratch offs ‘cause there really ain’t much else to do ‘cept maybe run radar and harass drunks. Nothin’ ever stays the same. Nothin’ ever changes.

That is until one Sunday Gerald walked outta that gas station, sat down in his patrol car, stuck his service pistol in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. S’pose you can only play so many tickets before your luck runs out.

 “You mean to tell me you don’t change your own oil?” My coworker was looking at me like I was a city slick of the worst kind. It was a chilly September day in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and my routine maintenance light had just come on.  

 A quick trip to Wal-Mart, and we arrived back at the guide campground with several quarts of oil and a new filter. Mark crawled under the truck with a bucket and popped the plug on the oil pan while I tinkered around under the hood pretending to know more about engines than I really did. The entire process took fifteen minutes, and I saved about ten dollars.

 I thanked Mark for his help, and drove back to the lower parking lot. I had some phone calls to make, so I rolled my window down and killed the engine. All seemed right in my world until Mark came down the hill with something to say. “I hate to tell ya this bud, but I think we mighta drained your transmission fluid instead of your oil.” After a brief moment of silence, he continued. “I got to lookin’ at the stuff in the bucket, and its awful red to be oil, but don’t worry about it! We’ll take’er over to the bus garage in the morning, and I’m sure we can figure it out.”

 My next call was to the insurance company to make sure I had towing coverage. They assured me that I did and gave me the number to a local mechanics shop. I called and set up an appointment for the next day. With the light fading in the West, I decided there was nothing left to do but go join the rest of my coworkers on the porch and have a few drinks.

 I woke up early the next morning-- not because I had to, but because sleeping in the back of your truck denotes rising when the sun does. After some coffee and breakfast, I settled in with a book and waited to hear from the towing company. My insurance company called me at 11:00 and told me the tow truck would be there no later than 12:30.

 Around 4:15 I got a call from a number out of Beckley, West Virginia. It was my tow truck driver. “Hey man! I’m sorry buddy. We been slammed today. Hell, it was supposed to be my day off. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

 For the first time all day I was given an accurate time frame. Half an hour later this good ‘ol boy came careening into the parking lot damn near on two wheels. After skidding to a stop, he hopped outta the truck in a flurry of curse words and Mountain Dew cans. He was about my height, shirtless, and covered in grease. He was wearing torn up blue jeans and boots that had seen better days. Lots of folks would find this scene unsettling, but so far I was completely un-phased. I’d grown up with guys like this.

 “Hey man, I’m gonna crawl up under the truck. When I say so go pull that lever.” I walked over and examined the controls. “Ok! Pull the lever on the left! NO! NOT THAT ONE! THE OTHER ONE!” He meant the lever on the right.

 He spent several more minutes tinkering with straps and then crawled into the driver’s side. “Fuckin’ A. This was supposed to be my motherfuckin’ day off, and these cocksuckers called me into work. They don’t pay worth a shit. Want a cigarette?” Being a blue-collar worker myself, I couldn’t blame him for being angry. He put the truck in drive and took a left turn on Milroy Grose Road.

 Between the cigarette smoke, and his profane stream of consciousness, I never had the opportunity to tell him he was going the wrong way. It wasn’t until we were a quarter mile down the road that he realized the mistake. Without a word he stepped on the brake pedal and threw it into reverse. We had to navigate several sharp turns, and he didn’t slow down for any of them. I was wholly convinced we were going to slam into some poor person on their way home from the Dollar General. I was no longer comfortable with this guy’s demeanor, and for the first time I noticed how much he waved his hands around.

 We made it back to the highway without hitting anything, which, as far as I was concerned, was an act of God. He proceeded to make another wrong turn. This time I spoke up. “We need to go right,” I yelled. Halfway into the turn he cut the wheel hard and dipped the truck into the median of Highway 19. We wobbled back onto the pavement and were finally headed in the right direction.

 “Fuck it, I need to make a quick stop,” he said while passing the gas station. He swerved left cutting someone off in the process and gave them the finger out the window after the ensuing honk. Several minutes later he came back with an energy drink and a tall can of Mountain Dew. He started the engine, and for the first time since I’d gotten in the truck, he made a turn in the right direction.  

 As we started up a hill, I noticed that he was swerving ever so slightly back and forth in the lane. He noticed me notice and said, “I bet you’re wondering why I’m swerving like this.” I was dealing with a man who had a keen sense of observation. “One time I was behind a semi truck, and they was swerving up a hill like that and I says to myself—because I’m smart—I says to myself ‘that fella is swervin’ like that to keep good traction on the uphill,’ and so I swerve on the uphills.” He went on to tell me about the time he spent in prison, and all the valuable information he picked up on the inside.

 Half a mile later he noticed another tow truck parked at a volunteer fire station that happened to be down the road from the shop we were going to. He turned into the parking lot, rolled down the window, and asked the driver where he should drop the truck. Unable to find it in myself to be shocked, I watched on as the other driver gave him a confused look and said, “I don’t know man. I’m just waiting on another call.” Realizing that the fire station wasn’t our destination, he turned back onto the road without another word.

 After a brief and merciful silence, he launched into another tirade about his employer and said something that will go down as one of the most uncomfortable things ever said in my presence. Getting louder as he went on he exclaimed, “they wanna make me their ninety hour a week for two hundred dollar BITCH. I could suck your cock right now and make more money than that!”

 Get me the fuck outta here.

 We finally turned into the shop’s parking lot where he got out and started to unload my truck in the middle of the one lane entrance. My friend Christian was supposed to meet me there and give me a ride home, but so far there was no sign of him. “We can’t drop it right here,” I said. “We’ll block the entrance.” He got back in the truck and continued, “we’re allowed to accept tips, by the way. That’s how we make most of our money, kinda like you river guides.” He started filling out some paperwork.

Christian finally showed up.

 “Alright bud, if you could just sign right here I’d ‘preciate it, and I’d say your best bet is to leave the key on the tire. Ain’t no one gonna know you left it there ‘cept you and me.” “I appreciate your help,” I said as I started towards Christian’s car. “Well ain’tcha gonna leave your key,” he asked. I didn’t bother to reply as I opened the door and got in.

We drove down the road and pulled into a thrift store parking lot. We watched as the guy circled my truck a few times and looked in the windows. After several minutes, he left.

 We went back to guide camp, and I drank whiskey out of the bottle.

“Getting called up to the All-Star game, huh?”

I was standing in the parking lot of Southeastern Expeditions near Long, Creek, South Carolina talking about my upcoming move to West Virginia for several weeks.

The All-Star game being referred to was Gauley season. If you’re a river guide in the United States, you’ve inevitably heard of the “beast of the East.” Known for it’s scenic beauty and dangerous rapids, the Gauley River is the daydream of many a whitewater enthusiast.

With several respectable names on my resume, and resolved to see my dream of guiding in West Virginia come true, I submitted applications to several companies. One emailed me back fairly quickly. Their email politely told me not to hold my breath—they would be pulling Gauley guides from their full-time staff. Not one to be easily defeated, I waited for a response from the other companies.

One day in early August, I came back to the outpost to a missed call from a West Virginia area code. My mind racing, I called the number back. A man named Roger answered the phone. He told me that he had seen my application and wanted to formally offer me a job for Gauley season. I accepted without hesitation. He told me that I’d need to be there for opening weekend which gave me about three weeks to prepare.

The weeks leading up to my departure were filled with excitement and a healthy sense of trepidation. I knew that once I arrived I would have only a few days to prove myself worthy of guiding on such an infamous section of whitewater. I would begin training the day after I got there.

We put on early in the morning and did an all day trip. I was fortunate enough to get some stick time, and I felt fairly confident that I was making a good impression. By the time I made it back to the guide campground, I was exhausted. I didn’t feel like doing anything but curling up in my sleeping bag and passing out in the back of my truck, but some friends of mine from the Chattooga were in town, and I wanted to see them.

Less than enthusiastically I changed out of my river clothes, put on my chacos, and started driving towards their campsite in Summersville. Spotting their car in the campground they were at, I parked next to their site and started to climb out of the truck. As my left foot hit the ground, pain like a thousand pins and needles shot through it as I felt something trying to wriggle itself from underneath my Chacos.

I did what I imagine looked like a crude river dancing routine before turning on my headlamp to catch a glimpse of whatever had just bitten me. A fairly large copperhead was slithering quickly away toward the gravel parking area.

Dazed, I stood there for a moment before walking into the campsite and announcing my misfortune. In a drunken stupor, my friends looked at me with puzzled expressions. Finally, someone seemed to grasp what I had said and let out a hushed “no way.”

Beginning to feel a small sense of panic, I asked “who’s riding with me to the hospital?’ They all stared at me blankly. I quickly realized that, in true river guide fashion, none of them were sober enough to go with me. I couldn’t blame them.

As I raced down the gravel road towards town, I saw a ranger locking a gate and slammed on my brakes.

I hollered, “Hey buddy! A snake just bit me. What hospital should I be heading to?”

He gave me a look similar to the ones my friend had. “You jus—what now? Summersville Medical Center.”

At this point, I knew for certain that it wasn’t a “dry” bite. The wound was beginning to sting, and my foot was swelling. After parking my truck, I got out and started hobbling my way towards the entrance. The waiting room was empty. The receptionist gave me a cheerful “how may I help you?”

“A copperhead bit me.”

Blank stare. Come on, Susan.

Two minutes later I was in a different room with two nurses and a doctor drawing lines on my leg with a sharpie, stabbing me with needles, and saying things like “I think we have anti venom. Do you know if we have anti venom? I found the anti venom!”

Throughout this entire ordeal, I’d been fairly calm. It wasn’t until the nurses came in to administer the medicine that I began to panic. After starting the drip, they told me they would have to wait with me for several minutes. When I asked them why one of them replied “Some people have… ‘severe’ reactions.” It was my turn to give a blank stare. “Define severe.” “Death.” I started crying. I was a few hundred miles from my family, I had a swollen foot the size of a small melon, and the medicine they were giving me might kill me.  

After fifteen minutes it was determined I wasn’t dying, and the nurses left.  My foot was so swollen that it felt as if the skin was going to start ripping if it stretched any further.  A nurse came in with a vial of clear liquid. I assumed it was morphine, but I asked what it was anyways.

“Fentanyl.”

“You mean, like, the stuff that’s stronger than heroin?

“Yes.”

“Can’t I just have a hydrocodone or something?” She looked at me disapprovingly.

You would think that hospitals in a state ravaged by opiate addiction would prescribe milder medication when possible. No such luck. I was given a choice between taking the Fentanyl and going without. I conceded.

When I awoke the next morning, my mom was sitting across from me in the hospital room. Tears crept down my face as I thought back to the night before and how scared I’d been at the prospect of dying far away from my family. Perspective, y’all.

Determined not to let a swollen foot stop me from guiding, I started eating Motrin like candy, and a week later I took my first commercial trip as a Gauley guide.

I took five trips that season, which was a fair amount for a first year. I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty convinced that I got so much support from my coworkers because I was the poor kid that got bit by the snake his second day in town.

I suppose it all just goes to show that when life hands you lemons, or a copperhead, you’ve got to make lemonade—or go to the hospital. Whichever.

“Are we having another round?” I looked across the table at my two friends expectantly. We were having some after work margaritas, and discussing the finer points of locker room gossip at the ski resort we all work at. We were already a couple of margaritas in and contemplating going night skiing. “I got this round,” my buddy said.

After finishing our last drink, we made our way to the locker room to get changed, where I struggled to get my boots on. “Maybe night skiing isn’t the greatest idea,” I thought to myself.

Within seconds of making my first turn I knew that I was a little too buzzed to be on my snowboard. The snow had been baking in the higher than normal temps all day, and had now become a sheet of solid ice after freezing when the temps dropped in the evening.  Between my state of mind and the conditions, I was struggling. I was glad we were the only ones night skiing. Everyone else had been smart enough to stay home.

I’m sure it was a sight to see: the loud “skkkkshhhhhhhh” sounds of my edges on the ice, arms flailing to try to keep from sliding out, the “ope ope ope’s” as I almost ate it turn after turn. I finally made it to the bottom of a run I usually fly down about ten minutes later.

I spotted a ski patrol friend of mine. “Hey Mandy! Wanna ride up with us?” Would she notice we weren’t exactly sober?

As we neared the top of the lift, Mandy asked if we wanted to hang out in the ski patrol cabin for a second and meet a few of her friends. “Come in and say hello!” It was nearing time for last chair, but we decided to visit for a few minutes and get warm.

After some banter and a few quick words on safety, my buddy, with a mischievous look in his eye, suggested that we duck the rope and head down a non-lighted run to the bottom. “Are we allowed to do that?” I looked over at my friend Mandy. Her and Dan looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “We don’t know anything about it.”

I 'd only ever snowboarded on the lighted runs at night. As I started to strap in, Roberto looked back and me and said “watch out for moose.”

I knew that there was a family of moose that hung out on the north side of the resort along one of the cat tracks, but I wasn’t very excited at the idea of colliding with one half blind in the dark and being subsequently stomped to death while childhood memories of Rocky and Bullwinkle flashed before my eyes.

Resolved to see this adventure through to the end, I turned, ducked the rope, and started making my way down the lead in to the run. I thought I heard someone yelling.

As we neared the horizon line that marked the beginning of our descent down the steep pitch, the lights from the town appeared and spread out before me in a dazzling display against the night sky.

I stood for several moments at the top taking it all in. I was no longer conscious of how cold I was, or that I was still buzzed and probably making some pretty reckless decisions. I was completely lost in what I was looking at.

I reluctantly took my eyes from the view I had been so transfixed by to look down the run for the first time. Moguls. The feel good moment was over. 

It hadn't occurred to us that the snowcats hadn’t started grooming operations for the evening.

I was still a little buzzed, it was dark, I was probably going to get trampled to death by a moose at any moment, and I was running a black diamond that consisted of nothing but ice and moguls. How I made it down that run in one piece is still a mystery to me, but as the run began to flatten out a little bit, I relaxed and started cruising down the run-out.

As I rounded the corner I realized that there was a fence across the run. In all of our drunken banter and shenanigans we had forgotten that there had been a race earlier that day and they had fenced off the bottom part of the run we were on. My only option to avoid the fence was to cut to the right up the bank and run under the tracks of the mountain coaster.

Just as I was about to cut under the coaster and back onto the run, my board found some ice and I was suddenly lying on my back in the snow. I chuckled to myself as I started to get up. I looked over at the fence next to me that separated the racecourse from the other runs and realized that someone in a uniform was standing on the other side.

“Let me see some passes now!”

Normally, I try to be fairly respectful of the rules of the workplace, but losing my pass wasn’t something I was willing to risk with this guy. From my side of the fence I looked at him and simply replied “hell no, boy.”

 I don’t think I’ve ever gone faster. I undid my bindings as fast as I could at the base and spotted Roberto.

“Just go. Just go. Just go,” he said. We giggled our way to the locker room and changed as quickly as we could. We hoped that if someone were looking that they wouldn’t recognize us in our normal clothes. Mandy appeared as we sat at the bus stop and offered to give us a ride home. We all had a good laugh about it. No longer paranoid about getting caught my mind drifted back to the view from the top.

I slept well that night.

My coworkers and I at our weekly margarita night. Thoughts as blurry as the picture.

My coworkers and I at our weekly margarita night. Thoughts as blurry as the picture.

I made it onto the bank just in time to watch my kayak lodge itself firmly into “Right Crack”

“FUCK! NOOOOOOOOO. NOOOOOOOO. DAMMIT.”

I made it onto the bank just in time to watch my kayak lodge itself firmly into “Right Crack” on Section IV of the Wild and Scenic Chattooga River—a section of whitewater as notorious for its ability to take the unwary from the land of the living as it is for its raw, natural beauty.

It was late in the afternoon on a cold February day, and there I stood in midst of the infamous “Five Falls” of the Chattooga River without a kayak or any means of navigating the long paddle out on Lake Tugaloo.

“Fuck. What should I do?” My friend Jake stood next to me soberly observing the scene. The stern of my kayak was barely visible above the surface after pinning itself between a rock and whatever debris was invisible underneath the turbulent water. “It looks like it’s stuck pretty good,” he commented as I stood helplessly looking at my only viable means of transportation across the lake.

After several attempts to get a carabiner attached to the grab loop of my kayak it was decided that rescue efforts were futile, and I would have to hike out. “There’s a trail somewhere below the Five Falls that leads to a road, but I’m not sure where it is,” my friend commented.

The water was high and I had taken a rather violent beating in the bottom hydraulic of a notorious, and aptly named, rapid called “Corkscrew.”

The water was high and I had taken a rather violent beating in the bottom hydraulic of a notorious, and aptly named, rapid called “Corkscrew.” I held on for as long as I could as the water thrashed me about before I was too exhausted and had to wet exit from my kayak. Left with no other option, I made my way down the bank as Jake and Stephen ran the final two drops of the Five Falls. I eventually reached a sandbar which contained a sign for a trailhead that I assumed was the aforementioned way out. “Y’all take my phone and keys. When you get to the take out, drive until you find service and figure out where the trail is going to dump me out. I’ll meet you there. If I’m not at the trailhead, drive down the road until you find me walking.”

I watched them disappear into the fading sunlight across the lake before starting down the trailhead. I moved at a light jog. My dry suit was keeping me warm enough, but I was concerned about hiking out in the dark. Do bears hibernate this far south? After several minutes of hiking, the trail dead-ended, and I was standing at the base of a waterfall. My heart sank. I ran as quickly as I could back to the beach. I was going to be “that guy.” I had no water, no means to make a fire, and I was going to have to wait there to be rescued by the Forest Service. I surveyed my surroundings for another means of escape. Finding nothing, I angrily sat down on the beach and waited.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a flat spot in the hillside off to my right. Hope surging in my chest, I jumped up and ran over to discover a trail I hadn’t seen before. Without any hesitation I took off at a run carrying my paddle in hand. It was some time later when I began to make out a black rectangular shape in the darkness that I assumed was a trailhead sign. It was. Relieved, I sat down at the base of a large pine tree and waited.

Nothing.

No car engines, no light from nearby houses, and no sign of my friends. I decided to walk down the road in an attempt to stay warm and keep my mind occupied.

I hiked for what seemed like hours before I realized that I was getting nowhere closer to rescue or civilization. Visions of Ned Beatty danced in my mind. "Deliverance" had been filmed on this river. I turned around and walked back the other direction. At some point I must have passed the trailhead again, but I was too consumed by the silence of the South Carolina wilderness to notice. I was lost, and I was very scared.

I reached a fork in the road.

Exhausted, angry, and thoroughly confused I threw down my gear in the middle of the road. I cursed quietly to myself. I couldn’t mentally afford to take another wrong turn. As far as I could tell, I was way back in the South Carolina woods without any means of navigation. After weighing my options, I decided to lay my paddle in one fork and the rest of my gear in the other. I figured that my dry suit would keep me warm enough even if I had to spend the night out in the cold. If a car came along, my gear in the middle of the road should be enough to tip off the driver that something was amiss.

No sooner had I sat down with my back against a tree than I heard the “yip yip yip” of a coyote on the prowl. Fear gripped me as I waited to hear it again. Moments passed by and there it was, but this time it sounded different. It was closer. I stood up and let out a shrill “yeeeeeeeeeeeeee yeeee!.” What I had first thought to be a coyote I quickly realized was the call of my friends. Seconds later, my call was returned. I grabbed my paddle and gear and ran in the direction of the sound. A hundred yards later I was standing on a paved road. Both forks lead to the same place. I laughed audibly. I had given up on hope just as my salvation was imminent.

Light glowed on the South Carolina pines. Moments later, my car appeared out of the darkness and relief spread over me like the warmth from a first sip of bourbon.

I threw my gear inside and sat down in the front seat tired and cold. Jake grinned at me from the driver’s side. It would take me a while to live this one down.

How many times have I given up when I shouldn’t have?

 

 

See the video below for the rescue effort: