Daybreak to Dusk

Dedicated to Billy Armstrong...

The alarm sang and broke the morning silence. I slid from beneath the warm covers with a mumbling discontent. My feet touched the carpet. My eyes were awkwardly wide, and I could feel the blood begin to flow. Oddly, for four thirty in the morning, I did not feel tired. I was not quite sure what I felt, an urge to move, a restless desire, perhaps presentiment.

The bathroom floor was cold. I thought about days gone bye as warm yellow liquid sloshed about the porcelain bowl. I was careful not to drip. I wondered what I was doing awake at such an hour. I knew what I was going to do, but I still contemplate the reasons.

Ocassionally, I sit beside the river, transfixed by its savage and violent nature, yet it an instant it's ability to surrender itself to agreement, reconciliation, and harmony. Sometimes I shy away in misgiving, apprehension, and agitation. Inexplicably, there are other moments when I suddenly decide to commit myself to the flow of possibility and find myself hurtling through rock, water, and space, trying desperately to keep a long red piece of plastic pointed downstream.

I rolled into the parking lot. I opened the door. The leather interior was cracked, worn, and faded from the sun. The temperature was cold. The heat of my breath created a brief fog. I unstrapped my boat and gripped the textured red plastic. My fingertips were numb to the tip. The moon was full, and cast a bright white light on the cold dark waters of the canal. Bluegrass music played softly in the last shadow of night.

We crossed the canal. Each paddle stroke pierced the surface with delicate precision and artistic persuasion. We hopped out of our boats and shouldered them to the river bank. The wind created an eclectic collection of ripples. I could see the horizon line of the dam.

The river water poured in translucent sheets of fluid glass over the concrete face. Crafted by the hands of man to serve his immediate needs, the dam is no longer necessary, a brief reminder of the futile and impermanent nature of human perception. Our creations are beautiful and offensive in the same instant. Our inability to understand our own motivations is the suffering of our being. We struggle to connect, but cannot understand. True life is only felt, not explained.

I slid over the concrete face. My hands hit the surface of the water, clenched in the steely cold. We drifted toward the beginning of the great drop, the precipice where apparent realties collide with a more meaningful truth.

We clambered over the rocks and down to the brink. The moss covered the rocks in a deep green display of compassion, while the lichens slowly secreted acids breaking the rock into tinier and tinier pieces through scores of time. The water rushed in chaotic contractions, pillowing in piles of aerated white, followed by a moment of brief respite, and then simply disappearing over the edge, marked by a rising mist.

We sat in silence for twenty minutes, perched on the brink, on the edge of the known universe. Colors of pink and purple hues began to fill the sky, painted by unknown hands, in munificent candor. In simple moments time often blurs.

I walked atop the ancient grey rock. I walked toward my piece of red plastic. I climbed inside the shell and picked up my orange blades. I lined her up and let go.

Drifting toward the first squeeze, the pace quickened, the lump began to build, and my heart beat fast inside the cavity of my chest. I was through the crack and tracking toward the safety of still water.

Into the next squeeze, the water began to lash at the sides of my craft with wolfish desire. My orange blades swept to my right, and I kept her on line. Whisked into a giant wall of aerated white, I was tossed sideways into the jaws of its last line of defense. I swept my tattered orange blades to the left. I made it through.

I sat silent in the still black water above the final lip. The mist rose from below, but there was no sign of sanity. I clenched my teeth and began to set up my craft. I swept my blade left and turned her around. I waited as I drifted toward the left rock wall. I counted in my head. Hold the line. Hold the line. Pull! I swept forward with one great stroke, my blade pierced the rock lip, and I was tossed into space.

I landed safely below. I stared back, enveloped in a swirling white mist. The giant laughed in mischevious tones. The folly of my desire to understand left me in silent disbelief once again. I was left with only a vague feeling, a non descript notion of truth.

The morning sun shined. The leafless, paper white sycamores swayed in the wind. We are all looking for something. We all walk the line.

Maybe I am looking.
Maybe there is nothing.
Maybe I was simply being.

Purple Jesus

Once again, the week flew by in the blink of an eye. I spent some time climbing in the gym in an attempt to regain some finger strength, pulled a Tuesday night mission to drop the grease car off in Elkton, Maryland, and spent some quality time with my mountain bike. On Friday night, the real fun started as we began our search for the Purple Jesus.

Grease Car Update...

The mission to Elkton to drop the grease car off was a five hour ordeal. We left at nine o'clock at night and arrived in Elkton at eleven. RC Automotive is one of the only auto shops in the region experienced in grease system conversions. Randy, the head mechanic seemed like a nice guy on the phone, and I am confident he can solve the problem. We drove through dense fog on the way there, which made it difficult to find the shop. We dropped the key in the night box and left the car. The prognosis seems good, but Randy is having a difficult time diagnosing the problem. Hopefully, I can pick it up some time this week.

The Purple Jesus
The phone calls started going out on Thursday night and continued throughout the day on Friday. West Virginia, and western Maryland offered plenty of options, but temperatures were dropping fast with an approaching cold front. We hoped to catch a run on the Big Sandy and Top Yough. Ian, Curt, and Billy contemplated leaving early Friday afternoon and attempting to sneak a run in on the Top Yough at higher water, but decided they would run out of daylight. We decided to wait for John to get off of work, let traffic slow down, and leave around nine o'clock. Ian had to work on Saturday, so he was unable to join us. Curt, Billy, and John showed up at my apartment and we started loading boats.

We could not leave without the ceremonial dinosaur selection, now a tradition since our trip to Tucker County. We each picked our representative dinosaurs, threw our gear in the Jimmy, strapped our boats down, and hit the road. Curt rocked a sweet wool knit hat, handcrafted by grandma Warthog, John sipped on some hot Yerba, Billy gave a classic missing tooth smile, and I proceeded to take over the vast area of land known as the dashboard. On we rolled, putting a bit of road under our belts, but the Jimmy was soon hungry for fuel, so we made a quick pit stop in Gaithersburg. The search for Purple Jesus began.

Purple Jesus is a home brewed concoction of liquid fun, made in mass quantities, stored in large barrels, and dispensed with ease at large parties. We morphed this odd little name for a potent alcoholic brew, into a mythical character of epic proportions. He is the character of epic sojourns, medicine for the soul, the search for truth and destiny. He is the moment, the myth, the man, the legend, and we were on a mission to find him.

We scampered away from the gas station to gather a bit of brew for our camp trip. It was well below freezing in Garret County and there was two inches of snow on the ground. We knew we were in for a cold night. A good bedtime brew makes it a bit easier to fall asleep, but of course you must be sure to take a leak before you turn in for the evening. Wandering outside the tent because the one eyed tiger is getting restless is never a pleasant experience in the frigid cold.

We climbed back in the Jimmy and began to pull out of the gas station when we noticed a man with a red beard headed our way. He motioned like he wanted to speak with us, so we rolled down the window. He asked where we were headed, and we began a conversation about boating. It turned out he was from my hometown. He said he was at a crafts fair selling hats, and in an odd moment of realization, I knew exactly who he was. Though I had never met Ryan Williamson before, he was friends with one of my old girlfriends. Before he could say his name, I told him who he was and where he lived. He was suprised to say the least, and I explained who I was and how I knew about him. We talked for a bit, exchanged numbers, and parted ways in the cold dark night. We drove quietly, considering the anomalous reality in which we played a part. When considered, It is often unearthly, the seemingly connected purpose that lies beneath the random disorganized unfolding of life.

We headed toward Garret County. The air was cold and the sky was full of stars. Living near a large metropolitan area, you miss out on the simple pleasure of a completely dark, wide open night sky, speckled with tiny white lights. Important moments pass when staring into the dark depths of time and space, pondering your place in the world, and the illogicality of what we know. Two hours passed and we rumbled over a large steel bridge in the silent night air. Snow sifted through the air like flour when the wind blew through the trees. Our headlamps illuminated the fog of our breath and our boots sloshed through a cold wet blanket of white. The river flowed beneath us with steely energy and smiled with a wolfish grin. We had arrived.

We headed into the depths of crisp green rhodendenron. Laughter filled the glacial night with warmth and merriment. The trail meandered through the thicket of grizzled trees. Our hands grasped at their gnarled back so we might maintain some semblance of balance. The trail emerged onto flat grey rock. The river water tasted the shoreline in quiet satisfaction. We stopped moving and stared up into the sky. A fiery burst of light skipped across the black page in one last cosmic dance. Our eyes moved down to the tops of the trees and straight out into an abyss of open space. In the dark of night, perched high atop our precarious precipice of stone, as the polar night sky melted into the unceasing drift of river and time, the lastingness of singular moments was veraciously apparent.

We sat quietly for quite a while, until our fingers and toes were numb, and noses singed with the sting of winter's breath. We rambled back up the trail, crunching the crust of ice and snow beneath our boots. John's green truck appeared lonely in the midst of the such a wintry scene. The hinges on the truck doors squeaked as we climbed inside. The engine rattled to a start. The fan belt began to whine. John threw the truck into reverse and we rolled over the steel bridge, the river roaring below. We drove to Snaggy Mountain campground. There was no one else around. The sound of truck tires on gravel filled the woods with a momentary intrusion of noise. The radio played lazily in the background. Deep into the woods we found our campsite.

The cold air quickly filled the cab as we opened the doors. We immediately grabbed our gear and began constructing our tents. Within a few minutes we were inside the warm womb of our sleeping bags. I lit my camp stove and simmered a can of ravioli. It was late, and I was filled with hunger. The savory smell of sauce and pasta filled the tent air. I ate with content and gratitude. I drifted into a peaceful sleep. Perhaps, for a brief moment, we had all found just that, our moment.

Morning arrived. We climbined out of our bags and into the snow and ice. We deconstructed our tents and threw our gear in the truck. We were meeting our friend Scott at eight o'clock. He woke up early and drove. In the parking lot at the put-in, we stumbled upon John Greer, an old time friend of John's. Greer taught John to paddle when he was in high school on the Haw River in North Carolina. John swam and rode through most of the river on top of his boat. Many years later, John is an accomplished paddler with a lot of river experience under his belt. He paddles with confidence and decisive determination. He had not seen Greer in years, and was suprised to find out that he recently moved to the D.C. area. I cooked a can of chicken noodle soup for breakfast, as we pulled boats off the truck, and organized our gear.

We set up shuttled and dragged our boats down the trail to the river. The water level had dropped since the night before. We paddled around to warm our bodies up and then proceeded to head down to Swallow Falls, the precipice above which stood the night before.

We found a cold we dog in the parking lot while we putting our gear on. We did not know his name at the time, but he appeared to have spent the night outside and did not have a collar on. We figured he lived close by, and he did not seem too distressed, so we left him alone. He was a big yellow lab. His eyes were blood shot and he looked like he partied through the night. He followed us down to the river and disappeared.

We got out to scout Swallow Falls, a large medium angled slide around one hundred yards long, ending in a tricky hole at the bottom. Scott ran first. I set up to take some pictures and video. Everyone had decent lines, most a bit too far right, but they worked out fine. Everyone was through besides me and Billy. I was about to get back in my boat when I looked up to see the big yellow lab fall into the river above the falls. He was swept downstream and disappeared inthe chaotic tumult of whitewater. The guys at the bottom attempted to push him ashore, but it was nearly impossible in their boats. The dog was swept through the next chute and was lucky enough to catch an eddy. They pulled him ashore and took him back to the car, so he could get warm. We decided we would have to figure out what to do with the dog when we were finished with the river.

The rest of the run was great. Swallowtail falls is a great eight foot boof. The rest of the river is continuous with great boofs and boulder garden style rapids. We passed Muddy Creek Falls and talked about one day running a few of the slides below when it was a bit warmer. The next big rapid was Suckhole. The giant sieve was full of wood, but there was a fairly large log in one of the runout channels. Everyone enjoyed some good lines.

Several rapids later, I made a mistake, and found myself pinned sideways on a rock. It was not a real big deal, but I had my paddle with pogies, soI could not use my hands to push off of it quickly. I finally rocked myself free but was off balance and did a face plant into the rock behind me, flipped upside down without my paddle. I pulled my skirt and swam. the water was frigid and took my breath away. I swam to shore. My hands were a bit cold, but I was fine. I hopped back into my boat and proceeded to take in the full force of slander in jest. I of course, was now required to drink a booty full of beer.

I decided to opt out of the next few laps because I was cold and wanted to get warm in the truck. We wandered back to the put-in where we found the dog in good spirits in Greer's car. They drove to the general store to see if anyone knew who owned him. Apparently, the dog's name was Jake and he lived right up the road. He also had a reputation for brash and dare devilish behavior. While the guys did another lap, I returned Jake to his home up the road. I had to coerce him out of the warm cab, but he finally agreed and went and laid down on his big dog bed on the front porch.

We loaded up our gear when the guys were done with their third lap and proceeded to head home. We stopped at the Banana Leaf, a great Thai restaurant near Cumberland, to eat. We unanimously chose hot curry with tofu. We felt guilty about dining on a can of Spam that I fried at the take-out. Spam is crazy tasty.

Curt drove, while the rest of us slept. We were in for a long night out on the town. Shannon and Jen met us at my apartment. The girls got ready while I put away gear. The guys showed up around nine o'clock and we played a few games before we hit the town. Oddly, Steven and Curt went to high school together in Roanoke. Curt informed us his true name was 'dirty' Steve. We visited two locales, the Reef, and the venerable institution of Chief Ikes.

We danced the night away at Chief Ikes. Billy sweated a lot again, Curt sweated Billy, and John took his shirt off to show his muscles. Jen liked his muscles. Shannon was happy, but then she was sad. Steve smiled and said everything little thing was gonna' be all right. I fell asleep on a big speaker blasting some serious bass. Billy and I proceeded to get lost in the upper realms of Chief Ikes. Some dude bought Shannon a drink for her birthday. Jen's bra popped out again. John put his shirt back on. Steve spoke spanish to an Armenian girl. Shannon helped a girl make it to McDonalds because that is what good people do. Curt tried to convince the bouncer to start recycling at Chief Ikes. The bouncer genuinely liked the idea. Billy and Curt got lost. The rest of us got a cab home. We all went to bed.

Colder Waters

After two full weekends on the road, we all elected to stay local for a change. It was an easy decision, because the only whitewater around was at Great Falls. We headed out on Saturday afternoon. John and I ate a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs, bagels, orange juice, and hot yerba mate. I convinced John to try a little special hot sauce. He coughed and winced in pain.


We headed to the river to meet Billy, Curt, and Ian. On our way in, Scott Anderson decided to turn around and join us for another session. He informed us a first timer swam out of Horseshoe this morning and received a good beatdown. As we headed toward Pummel, we could tell the water level was a bit higher than expected. The gauge read 2.75, but the river was clearly on the rise.

There was plenty of water going over Pummel and the landing was super soft. The middle line was open. Billy fired it up with a huge twisting boof, landing upside down and rolling up. Pencil Sharpener was full of flow, and I was suprised by the power of the bottom hole. The eddy lines were strong. I elected to hop out and give Horseshoe a look and watched the rest of the gang roll through. The Horse was hungry, and its jaws nipped and pulled at those who did not hit their lines with distinction. All were able to free themselves from the clenched teeth of imminent disaster, and the look of relief was was clearly stretched across their faces.


We did a few laps off Pummel and then headed down to the Fishladder to hike back up. I decided to give the last slide a low water run. I bounced my way down and headed for the eddy on river left, but ran out of speed and was thrust toward the narrow exit slot sideways and pinned. I leaned into the rock and pulled my skirt. I did not want to flip upside down and gouge my face on concrete rebarb. Just as I was nearly free, my boat popped loose and continued through the small chute. I hand paddled into the eddy with one foot in my boat and one foot out, laughing at the absurdity of the moment.

It was a great day. A bit cloudy, but the sun popped through from time to time. It was good to get out on the Falls after a two week absence out on the road.

Green River

Billy punched the gas as we headed toward Charlottesville to pick up the grease car. Before we left, we were careful to select a plastic dinosaur to represent each of us for good luck. Billy lost his dinosaur twenty minutes later. I was visibily upset. We stopped at Wawa in Fredericksburg to buy hummus, apples, and yogurt. We ate our food with joy and talked about the trip. We arrived at the grease car to find it in good condition. We filtered a measely two gallons of grease from a Chinese food restaraunt in a back alley behind the auto shop. The mechanic assured us the grease car was operational, but we quickly found out he was full of nothing but a pack of lies and false promises as we sputtered to a stop at a traffic light. We scrabmled to get the car going, but she stubbornly refused. Finally, we threw her into park and she started right up. We continued our trip toward Lexington to rendeazous with the John and Curt.

We consolidated our gear into the grease car, bought a pizza, and a tent from Wal-Mart. We never used the tent, and returned it on Sunday night. Wal-mart is a great place to rent gear for the weekend. They also sell lingerie that is suggestive and revealing.

We continued our journey into the depths of the western Virginia wilderness. We spent the night at John's parent's place, outside of Speedwell, Virginia. Speedwell is a unique town, with a tradition of stock car racing and fried squirrels. It was dark when we arrived, and dark when we departed. The air was cold, and the anticipation was buildling.


We settled into our cold gear with hostility and regret on Saturday morning. We were offered roles in an upcoming adventure show on the Discovery channel, but we wholeheartedly declined the offer, and suggested more beautiful boaters who might be interested. We just wanted to sneak a run in on the legendary Green.

We slogged down the trail toward the put in. There was no water. It was cold. We sat and waited until Duke Power decided to release some flow. I became a bit cold and decided to scrape down through some rocks into a little pool, so I could paddle around a bit and warm up. The water arrived shortly after, and a huge cluster of boats floated downstream. Everyone was running into each other trying to make it downstream before the race started. We made it about as far as 'Go Left and Die'. At that point we decided to walk down to 'Gorilla' and watch the rest of the race.

We saw plenty of good lines and plenty of bad lines at 'Gorilla'. We watched as one racer went off backwards and upside down. Luckily, he popped through the 'speedtrap' unharmed. I was impressed by the size and risk involved with running 'Gorilla'. The guys decided to continue on to the take-out, while I elected a steep portage out of the canyon. Folks looked at me and declared me crazy, insisting the hike out was way too steep to do with a boat. I forged ahead, and soon found myself clinging to a rope on a hillside of loose dirt, ducking, dodging, and getting poked in the eye by thick rhodedendron. The canyon was extremely steep, the trail was tight, and the footing was tenuous at best. I am not sure what possessed me to hike out. I just did not feel like boating anymore that day, but in all honesty, I mourned my decision as I trudged toward the road. I found some company when I reached the top of the steep part, and we chatted on the way back, taking my focus away from the fact that I knew my legs were about to cramp in a bad way. Eventually, they pushed ahead. My pace was much slower with my boat in tow. It was quite some time since I had seen the crew, and just as I imagined someone might wander down the trail looking for my sweaty remains, I looked up and saw John walking toward me. He offered to carry my boat, but I insisted on carrying it myself. At this point, it was a personal challenge to finish unassisted. I thought about starting a new kind of race, a portage race out of the canyon. My body was weak and I felt absolutely empty. The tree line finally broke and I threw my boat into the road. We strapped it on top of the car and I was happy to drink some water and heave a few potato chips into my mouth to get some salt back into my system. Unfortunately, it was too little too late and my legs began to sieze in violent muscle contractions. There is a lot of pain involved with muscle cramps, and in order to get rid of them you must punch and massage the muscle out of contraction, being sure to swear violently in the process.

We partied into the night at the Liquidlogic house and saw friends from around the country who took part in the race. Jason Hale threw some free gear off the deck, and I caught a new throwbag and Lunch Video Magazine disc. We clawed our way through the dark woods back to the grease car. We were in a desperate search for food and headed toward a pizza joint near the highway. We piled our plates high with pizza, salad, tater tots, and a thick lathering of ranch dressing. We all agreed it was the most delicious food we ever placed into our mouths. After our meal, Billy decided to take a nap on the floor.

We followed Will Selle back to his house in the mountains. He was generous and offered us a place to crash in his basement. John kept telling us we were almost there, and then we would drive ten more minutes. After fifty minutes or so, we finally made it back to Will's house and a heated room to rest our heads.

We woke up in the morning, gathered up our gear and headed toward the river. I was looking forward to seeing the rest of it. My favorite rapid is 'Groove Tube' a twenty foot slide, into a curling wave and a fifteen foot boof. Passing through the 'Tube' is a complete white out and the landing catches you by surprise.

The drive back went much quicker than expected. We split up the drive time and had some great conversation. We periodically had to open the car doors to air the cab out. All of us were generating smells that were quite intolerable.

Bananas Delight

There's nothing like a festive autumn romp through the highlands of West Virginia. We impatiently watched the rain drip from the sky for two solid days and anticipated a number of options for a weekend full of great paddling. With our sights set on Nelson County, we were disappointed to check the gauges early Saturday morning to find that nothing was running. Our next bet was Tucker County, West Virginia, home of the Blackwater River, wild women, deep gorges, late night fights, costume parties, and of course, purple fiddles. We loaded up our boats and hit the road.

We stopped at a gas station to fill up and I noticed a colorful pack of plastic dinosaurs on a dusty shelf. I decided they must be mine, and along with a delicious breakfast sandwich, left the gas station with a huge smile on my face. I proceeded to set the dinosaurs up on the dash board and create mock dinosaur wars including varying types of natural disasters, such as tsunamis and meteor strikes. We all laughed at the expense of the dinosaur's general malaise.

We passed Seneca Rocks and the excitement grew. We rolled into Davis, and passed by another group of boaters who also decided to temporarily transplant themselves from a large metropolitan area. They seemed a bit disinterested in our arrival, so we bid a quick farewell and headed toward the North Fork of the Blackwater. Our visual inspection yielded lots of rocks and pain. While we hiked, Billy got hit in the balls by a large stick he did not see coming.

We decided to head toward Red Creek, a wilderness run, riddled with naked bears and wandering moose. Most people do not realize the large abundance of moose in the highlands of West Virginia, but I assure you they are there. One time, I was taking a poop in a thicket of rhodedendron and I looked up to find a fierce looking four legged ungulate staring me down. I smiled and politely asked him to leave me alone. Luckily, he was an agreeable moose and sauntered off in simple satisfaction.

The turning fall foliage created a beautiful mosaic of color as we headed toward Dolly Sods and Red Creek. We found a roadside map in Dolly Sods wilderness, which indicated we were a long way from the put in, which required a long hike down to the riverbed. We bagged our plans for Red Creek and headed back toward Blackwater Canyon with the intent to do a high water run on the Lower Blackwater.

We geared up in the cold weather. Our breaths were clearly visible. The hike down was steep and unforgiving. At one point, I slipped and dropped my boat and watched it careen through the trees at breakneck speed. Luckily there were no one below. I had to take several poops before we put on the river. Billy and John had to poop a lot too.

The first mile of the Lower Blackwater was fanstastic. The level was around 600 cfs. The first rapid is known as Krakatoa, and consists of a huge pourover hole followed by another of lesser importance, but equal character. We all made it through without consequence. The next rapid was another huge pourover hole. We continued down through some technical class five boulder gardens before the river began to let up.

On our way back we passed a few folks who let us in on some inside information. The Hackensaw Boys, a bluegrass band from my hometown in Charlottesville, Virginia, was playing at a local joint, the Purple Fiddle. In a glorious moment of life, we drove speedily back toward Davis, and the darkness on the edge of town, where we pitched a twenty year old green Eureka tent with duct tape on most of the seams.

Hungry, we headed back into Davis to find food. We tried Syrianis Cafe, but it was packed, so we headed straight to the Purple Fiddle and got some grub there. We settled in, checked some gauge levels and waited for the beloved Hackensaw Boys. Our vision began to develop a bit of a haze, while the Boys ripped through set after set of sweet bluegrass. John met a few ladies, Curt tried, and Billy just sweated a lot. We laughed in merriment and our wonderful behavior landed us an invitation to a local halloween party. We were not in costume.

The local costume party was a creative affair. Cat woman was dressed in a tight black suit, and there was one particulary scantily clad witch who seemed to like our love for shenanigans and the Irish. We danced into the night. Billy put on a dazzling display of theatrical style dance movements that had the ladies wondering just what was in those tight pants.

We made our exit in style, and wobbled off to our vehicle. We had a short drive to our campsite. The night was far from over. In an erotic affair of brotherly love, Billy and Curt began to argue. Curt was sassy and definant, so Billy began to slap him in the face. John was troubled. We stopped the car when we arrived at the campsite. Billy and Curt fell out into a muddy cold cauldron and began to wrestle. We are not sure who won the tightly contested match, but neither had clothes to wear in the morning. They bonded and repaired their relationship with a shopping spree to the Dollar General, where they purchased the latest fashions in blue jeans and camoflauge pants.

We headed toward the Lower Blackwater for another run. All was well and we were generally hungover. We traveled home through the Dolly Sods and contemplated our existence while staring into an abyss of moutains from atop Bear Rocks. Billy and Curt insisted the rocks were sandstone, but God knows they are really granite.

On the way home, I was enamored with a pastry I had never before seen in my life on Earth, the Banana Delight, from Hostess. This concoction of chemical and emotional romance melted in my palette with zen like perfection. None of my companions were equally impressed, but they are simply less evolved. Until next time...