Boys Weekend

We are all here in the US. I hesitate to say that we are safe and sound as we have now experienced an injury to virtually everyone in the family. There are a couple of us who have escaped the injury virus so to speak, but I would say that it's those who live life sitting on the couch eating bon bons and watching soaps. Not that I'm pointing fingers or labeling anyone in the family. That would just be uncool and so not me.

My injury happened while up at 'boys weekend' last week, shortly after I returned. It's aptly named Boys Weekend, as we end up doing things that only boys would do. I think real men would probably do something like shoot big guns at clay things flying through the air, or pull 12-pound tuna from the freshwater lake, or take their dirt bikes and blaze a trail the size of the part in my hair from the 7th grade. We however, were not real men (7-kids notwithstanding) as Catherine consistently reminds me after these types of activities. The trip consisted of three of my boys - Calvin, Conrad and Eli - my father, my two brothers in law (Eric and Leon), Leon's boy Treyson, and then one of my best friends Brett and two of his boys. On the first night we climbed up the side of the mountain until we found a huge rock slide. We then did our part in expanding the slide by rolling big and bigger rocks downhill. Dad is fortunate he wasn't trying to climb behind us, because otherwise I fear he would have been the first casualty. As it was, he wisely stayed in camp listening to what he thought was distant thunder and crashing lighting (it was actually the rocks splitting apart trees and other natural resources that I'm sure are under some sort of federally protected environmental law). There was some nicks and cuts from that, but for the most part that night we emerged as very satisfied boys.

The second day was the day of our hike to an upper lake (Yellow Lake - and it's yellow because of the sunshine glinting off of it, not for other boy-like activities that most of us learned our first day in Scouts). My boys wanted to go fishing, but one of the first things they asked was how we were supposed to catch any fish without Uncle Greg (he was on some girls weekend or something). Greg is another one of my best friends who is part man part fish. He could catch a fish out of a dry riverbed with simply a paper clip and twine. He has achieved legendary stature with my boys after pulling out some 75 trout a couple of years ago in about 17 minutes. I'm sure it was some kind of state record, particularly when you understand that he used flies, worms, eggs, grasshoppers, lady bugs, fauna, hot dogs, plastic bags, trash from the backpacks and small children as bait. It's amazing. Well, since he wasn't there, the boys had to 'settle' for Grandpa, who did in fact help them catch a few fish, proving that even the Ancient of Days can handle a pole now and again.

While up there, we also traditionally have our Glacier Challenge. This challenge consists of finding out who is stupid enough to swim the farthest out into this small glacier lake before realizing that they can't breathe, they can't feel any part of their body, and no one is going to come in and save them. At that point, they desperately attempt to return to show stumbling the last few feet before they collapse in a shivering heap of flesh, blubbering out strange words that I'm sure hearken back to the Adamic language and demand faith from those present to interpret. It's a defining moment to test one's manhood (er, or boyhood I guess). Doing this feat then allows you to mock others to lack the courage and the manliness (I'm going with manliness) to do this. One of Brett's sons decided to up the ante by doing a little swimming of his own. We had been riding him pretty hard, so he took the challenge and did a great job. However, at that point, he had now brought himself level to men of the party. Such a thought is unacceptable to those of us who exercise our patriarchal authority in righteousness and rigor. How can we expect to govern uprightly when our boys have reached our level in the Glacier Challenge. Short answer is that we couldn't, somehow, we had to reach beyond, to extend ourselves, and to once again, put the boys in their place.

Across the small lake, in the shadow of the mountain, the glacier extends out into the lake. It was decided that we take a giant leap forward for fathers everywhere by separating the wheat from the chaff, the boys from the men. We would walk barefoot onto the glacier, then jump from the glacier onto the ice shelf protruding out into the lake, and then swim from there to shore. In a sense, it was our own personal triathlon consisting of running, jumping and swimming, all barefoot, bare chested and in the snow and ice. This is the moment that all men wait for, all we needed was our womenfolk there to witness this epic event, then they would realize that they needn't look for those so called Fabio's with the flaming locks and muscular build, they had them already and they are pasty-white, fat and balding.

We proceeded to prepare ourselves through a ritual of mocking, slapping and nervous chitter as we stripped to our shorts. Then, as if in slow-motion with the Chariots of Fire theme playing in the background we began our Odyssey. We took off across the glacier, running for what seemed eternity. The sun was glistening off the icy tundra, and with each footstep snow sprayed and showered in all directions casting a prism of light upon us. Finally after what seemed hours, but could have been mere seconds, we were staring off a precipice onto the ice ledge. We could have been at the Grand Canyon as the distance seemed treacherous. We hesitated, fearing that perhaps we had overstepped, we had misjudged our abilities, but with a fierce some war chant that must have chilled the mighty Mimbreno Apache (if any are left), I jumped. Arms were flailing as I anticipated going right through the ice and into the icy water shortening our triathlon to a biathlon. When I landed onto the ice ledge, I realized too late that it was a thick and heavy ice, not a slushy and soft one. However, due to my miscalculation, my ankle rolled and a sharp pain flashed up through my body. I thought I was a goner as I rolled in agony and waited for my dear family members to come to my aid. I lay writhering in obvious pain, and I looked up to see my concerned family jumping onto the ledge to care for me. Alas, they streaked right by me and ran shrieking to the edge of the ice where they jumped into the water and headed for shore. It was then I realized that blood is not thicker than ice.

I managed to clear my head from the pain (all good triathletes can do that) and gimp to the edge as well. I lamely floundered like some sort of disjointed robot, and flung myself into the lake. The second shock to my system in such a short time sucked every bit of breath out of me and I struggled back to the surface. The pain in my ankle was forgotten as I realized I was in water that was colder than it had ever been. I finally understand Almanzo's chittering from the episode of Little House when he was put in a bathtub and packed in ice (although he at least had Laura looking out for him, I was abandoned by all I thought held me dear). I tried to block out the chill as I steeled myself to swim to the distant shore. I could barely make out the figures of Eric and Brett already clambering onto the shore. They seemed like ants so distant were they. I put my head down and focused on stroke after stroke, trying to breath, but realizing I was going on pure fumes at this point.

At the point of utter exhaustion and pain, I finally made shore. I looked for the waiting arms of my family to help me up and give me that shoulder to lean on to take some of the weight off my screaming and swollen ankle and to provide some brotherly warmth to my prune like and shrunken body. Instead, all I got was a, "Dude, that was cold."

Such is the agony and ecstasy of Boys Weekend.