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747 cargo door

After six months of cogitation, planning, and speculation, Dad and I conclude that we should reconnoiter Australia if my harebrained concept of A2A, Inc. were to materialize. Hence, in February 1989, I am off to Sydney, sitting in business class. At the onset of our 90-minute layover in Honolulu, aware of the long flight ahead, I convince my flight attendant to allow me to remain onboard. Around midnight, several extra blankets and pillows augment my already reasonably comfortable perch. Having closed the shades on several nearby windows and bathed in the glow of the dim cabin lighting, I drift into a reasonably sound snooze. The air-conditioning hum and the baggage handlers’ activity bother me not.

Then BAM! Jolted by what feels like a small explosion in the space immediately beneath my seat, and now totally awake with adrenaline flowing, I peer through my window to determine the source of all this commotion. An extraordinarily large gathering of maintenance personnel ignominiously interrupts my respite by hammering away at the baggage door one level below. After 20 minutes of banging and clanging, passengers begin to reboard. A flight attendant confirms the problems they also had in LA to secure that door. Rest assured, it’s now OK.

The balance of the flight passes routinely. Once in Sydney, I prepare for my month-long stay by renting a car at the airport. My second order of business takes me to a McDonald’s. The Big Mac there will stick to my ribs pretty much the same as anywhere in the world. Oh and cool, I can even get a beer with it. I then head out to find the flat advertised as Lady Seeking Gentleman to Rent Room. Naturally, confused in the unfamiliar streets, I head into oncoming traffic. My internal time clock, enervation, the unaccustomed potency of that pint, plus darkness conspire to foster my reversion to that innate reaction: keep right.

Damn Yank resounds throughout the neighborhood.

Having narrowly escaped concrete altercations, I finally locate the woman’s apartment. We interview each other and I become a tenant the following evening. The next morning, Olga hands me a section of her newspaper. Wasn’t that your flight?

The front-page headline reads, Passengers Fall Into Pacific. The copy reports that my 747, on its subsequent flight from Honolulu to Auckland and Sydney two days hence, experienced a cargo door failure. The sudden, extreme pressure differential caused the floor to collapse, thereby sucking out nine people, including the man at ground zero who occupied my window seat, at about 7000 meters above the Pacific Ocean.₀

[Subscripts such as this _“0” identify corresponding URLs at larklemming.blogspot.com. Most of these links provide easy access to related info, but are not mandatory or necessarily the last word. I shall endeavor to update them periodically, as some will suffer a short shelf life. Page numbers, if any, will reference germane links discovered after going to press. Errata (if any!) will appear at ₆₉. Watch for additional links, videos, etc., at the bottom of that site. You may read and/or tender comments and suggestions regarding my enlightened material, and report defunct URL’s, at larklemmingblog.blogspot.com. Also, please feel free, heh-heh₇₄, to refer prospective readers looking for representative excerpts to authorhouse.com. Then enter my book as: the lark the lemming. You thus preserve this copy for yourself.]

Mt. Lady Washington

August of 69, Mrs. Brattin offers to fly me to the Rockies to join her and her family, labeling it as a graduation gift. I jump at the opportunity. Upon a late afternoon arrival at their cabin near Estes Park, I discover that practically the whole extended family has already made plans to get up at 3 the next morning, drive to the Longs Peak trailhead, and commence hiking with flashlights by 4:00. I’m game.

After the first 15 minutes, it becomes painfully obvious that somebody should have been more discriminating when selecting the participants. Everyone has come from the low altitude of Michigan. So, save for Mr. Brattin, 55, Rudy, 35, and myself, 22, incessant complaining ensues after only 10 minutes on the trail. I’m tired. Let’s rest. My feet hurt. What a predicament. With at least 12 hours of serious hiking ahead, we have these neophytes along. Selfishly and stupidly, I coax and coach the stragglers. No way they’ll make it to the top, I tell myself. Perhaps we can leave them at a base camp, while the three men attack the summit.

By noon, we break through the timberline at the base of Mount Lady Washington. The whiners decide it’s time for lunch. Longs Peak, at 14,259 feet, towers majestically over every other mountain near it. Most of the other tall peaks in the area manage a measly 12,000 feet. Mount Lady Washington rises to 13,281 and lies between us and Longs, totally obscuring it. It’s obvious that the laggards are done. End of trail. I tell Mr. B that I’ll scoot up the boulders toward the Lady for a ways. Don’t go too far. I waive okay. When I reach the edge of earshot, he yells up to me, That’s enough, come on back down.

Right. I haven’t come all this way, using up my precious one-week vacation, to be thwarted by the optimistic misjudgment that encouraged those weenie hikers to accompany us. I yell back, I’m just gonna scramble up to the top. I’ll be back in half an hour. Of course, I know it will require at least two hours. They could head back if they want. I would still catch up with them before they got to the trailhead. Rudy yells an ominous threat. I keep climbing. They send the women and children back down the trail and start up after me. Although 400 yards as the crow flies separates us, I feel their consternation via their venomous body language. They are really pissed.

I press on.

Approaching the summit, it appears as though I will in fact make it back in under two hours. Then I encounter the biggest wind of my life. Fortunately, it strikes at a right angle. The gargantuan force supports me standing at a 45-degree slant with my arms at my side. Unable to walk upright and still make headway, I drop to my hands and knees and crawl the last 75 yards. At the top, to effect my signing of the hiker’s log without becoming airborne, I must lie flat, spread-eagled.

Several factors coalesce. I have become exhausted, doing all that crawling above 13,000 feet. Keenly aware of Rudy’s and Mr. B’s wrath, I decide to pursue a shortcut by heading directly toward them. This has the advantage of immediately putting me in the lee of the wind blast. I’ll be able to stand up, albeit in unchartered territory.

Bounding from boulder to boulder, I swiftly descend, plummeting three to four feet each leap. My small backpack offers no encumbrance. Making great time, I gloat and then… oh shit!

The boulders on which I cavort average 20 to 40 feet in diameter. They’re sorta stacked up against each other on the steep eastern slope of the Lady. That last jump sent me across a three-foot gap and down four feet. Oopsie. I now find myself at the top of a 30-foot mass, which stands by itself. No more boulders lie conveniently below. Moreover, I am unable to fly back up from whence I came. Sporting no rope or pitons, my ass is grass.

Not particularly wanting to freeze to death atop that boulder, I fatalistically assess my options. After several futile minutes, I spot a diminutive fault meandering diagonally downward to a small unseen chunk that probably supports the huge one I’m on. It’s the only logical choice. Gingerly creeping off the edge of my perch, I jettison my knapsack and gloves, being of no use to me now. Handholds are far and few. I must be able to feel every nook and cranny, not a particular problem initially, because I’m more horizontal than vertical. As I circumvent my boulder, I lose about a meter of altitude for every three traversed. Then I realize that my fault wanes. Pancaked against the big rock, with each foot splayed 90 degrees, I come to the point of no return. I send my right leg exploring as I dangle from minuscule finger-holds. Nothing but a slippery vertical face. My freezing hands begin to lose their grip. If I fall now, it’s only about a 12-foot drop. Marginally survivable. However, I would surely break bones, lose consciousness, and die from exposure. No smooth surface awaits down there. The recovery effort would find me a bit stiff the next day.

My chances might be better, I reason (not that anything is considered rational under these circumstances) if instead of haphazardly cascading down the boulder’s face and then contemplating an unknown instant of impact, suppose I were to release voluntarily, push off with one hand, thereby optimistically rotating my position so that I would observe and therefore negotiate my crash into unforeseen rubble. This means that I will consciously direct the precise moment of my probable demise, instead of merely waiting until I can hold on no more. Let’s hear it for self-determinism.

Neither option is my idea of a good time.

Then one last what the fuck occurs to me. The crack on which I stand has petered out. That previous exploratory recon performed by my right foot confirmed this. But suppose it continues again, just beyond my reach. Beyond the investigative stage, with death imminent, I really have nothing to lose. I could attempt to swing my body toward the right and extend my foot to land on a portion of the fault that may or may not exist. That small fantasy buttressing-boulder might linger just around the bend.

So (A), if I do encounter some sort of temporary foothold, I’ll allow my right knee to compress slightly, then I’ll push off with my right leg, springing as it were, to gain some additional distance in my effort to reach that unseen but anticipated boulder, and thrust with my right hand to rotate my torso to land on it head-on. (That run-on sentence is the least of my worries.)

Alternatively (B), if my right foot happens to encounter nothing substantial? Oh well. At least I am making the effort, and additionally, will still be rotating my body in preparation for impact.

Needless to say, event (A) prevails. I make it down to where Mr. B and Rudy rest. They’re prepared to throw in the towel. The wind is too much for them. That I’m still alive probably attenuates their bile towards me. We catch up to the women and children. At the trailhead, a ranger admonishes us to not hike, citing a freak meteorological condition which brings eddies of the jet stream to nearly unprecedented low altitudes. That evening, the Denver Eyewitness News confirms a weather report of winds in excess of 160 mph that day on the higher peaks.

Mt. Evans

Later that week, Mrs. B, upon hearing my woeful tale of failure to make it to the top of a Fourteener, suggests we drive up 14,264 foot Mt. Evans. No kidding, there’s a paved road to the summit. Mrs. B, bless her heart, proficiently placates often.

I have a score to settle with Evans. Eight years earlier, Dad and I traveled much of US 40 in that Beetle, as our family moved from California to Michigan. 40 went right past the road to Mt. Evans. However, it was mid-June. That side road was still closed, due to an especially long and wet winter which produced heaps of lingering snow. Major disappointment. Now at the end of the decade, I shan’t be thwarted again.

Off we go on my last day of vacation to reestablish respectability. My lowlander mindset holds that no accomplishment accrues if I do not make it to the top of at least one of these 14’ers. As we approach the sheer face of Evans, I arrive at a gnawing realization: nobody’s coming or going on this road. Minutes later, the weight of this observation materializes. A heavy chain crosses the road, suspended between two stout posts. There’s no way around the barrier, nor are we able to drive underneath it. Believe me, I try. I whine and cuss and pout. The chain remains steadfast, unmoved by my theatrics.

Have I mentioned the coolness of Mrs. B? She suggests that we drive back to Denver to borrow her friend’s son’s bicycle. Down mountain we go, locate house, no one home, no boy’s bike, do find girl’s bike with 24-inch balloon tires and coaster brake. Back up mountain with bike dangling from trunk. Back to the chain by mid-afternoon. The clear morning skies yield to a solid gray undulating mass. I remain undaunted. The air is still. Nothing will obstruct my mission now.

I struggle for a short distance. However, as the grade increases, I’m forced to get off the one-speed bike and push. It’s no big deal, since a tailwind magically materializes. In fact, for the last 500 vertical feet, I unzip my jacket and, with fists in pockets, spread it open to take advantage of a substantial updraft, which increases quite suddenly. There I go, hands off the handlebars, peddling like mad, sailing UP the mountainside. Ain’t this the cat’s meow.

As I reach the parking lot near the top, this glee transforms into trepidation. Magnificent swirling giant snowflakes beat me to my destination. Their direction is actually somewhat vertical. They fall up the mountain. I’m not initially aware of this dangerous phenomenon for three reasons (in other words, I have my excuses). First, they’re coming at me from behind, not blasting me in the face. Second, they don’t fall. They appear static, with the exception of those flakes flowing by right next to me. It’s not my normal experience of a severe snowstorm. Third, having such a good time harnessing nature so efficiently as it were, I sorta overlook the gravity of it all.

Convenient rationalizations, eh?

Anyway, I make it to the top. Okay, not the absolute summit. There’s that trail which covers the last 150 vertical feet. Then discretion is the better part of valor logic steps up. I’m above 14,000, at least. I hop off the bike, leave my mark, zip up my jacket, and head on down.

Thing is, now the gale works against me. Those beautiful enormous flakes crash into my eyes. Only requiring them for driving, I left my glasses in the car. In spite of the steep roadway, I must still peddle. Snow accumulates everywhere, as the jagged rocks of the mountain slope impede the horizontal journey of those crystallized droplets. Within minutes, at least six inches of white stuff blankets everything except the asphalt, having retained the warmth of the sun beaming through clear skies earlier in the day. It’s only wet. But even that is provisional. As temperatures plummet precipitously, I reckon my nice clear roadway will soon become a sheet of ice. More labor peddling down the mountain, than up. Arriving at that point about 500 vertical feet below the summit, where that updraft initially offered such advantage, I allow myself a figurative sigh of relief. The ground has almost no snow on it. The wind has abated. Whew. That was close. Now I can coast the rest of the way down.

Then BAM! I’m hit in the back by a force at least as great as that which I have just experienced on the uphill leg. I am still headed in the same direction, but the wind has reversed. Now I must literally stand on the coaster brake pedal. When I come to a switchback, I’m obliged to decelerate even more. But the brake has faded. Negotiating the turn at speed, on wet pavement no less, I steer to the far right to permit the widest arc. I put the bike into an ungodly heel. As I clip the apex, the old balloon tires give up the ghost. Down I go, traveling faster than I can run.

There are several silver linings to all of this. While in a pre-helmet era, I still benefit from the several heavy layers of winter clothing protecting my upper body. I fall to the left side of the bike, somehow more natural than the alternative, a flip-over to the right, perhaps because this is the side where I’ve been accustomed to mounting bikes (and horses). After I’ve slid across the roadway, I expect to get chewed up by the sharp rubble and boulders that comprise the mountain’s steep slope. There’s no shoulder.

But wait. A grinding sound. It feels as though I’m sliding on a bed of coarse marbles. I find myself careening through one of the two observation turnouts on this road. I come to rest only a few feet short of a small cliff and serious disfigurement. I stand up, right my bicycle, and behold the maelstrom charging down the mountainside. A barrage of snow rapidly presses toward my position. The switchback now points me to face that wall of white. I literally jump on the bike and start peddling like the madman I am. As I approach the next switchback, three to four inches have already accumulated on the surface. No high-speed turn here. Not a problem, because I’m headed into the blast. When I slowly negotiate the turn, I find myself in the same predicament. Only now it’s worse. I have to go way slower, because of the snow and the icy roadway underneath. Yet I must not tarry, as the white stuff rapidly accrues. I experience no difficulty with brake fade; it’s locked. I deal with the steep icy slope for a quarter mile with this fixed rear wheel, as a powerful airstream accelerates my advancement. It’s all I can do to maintain stability. I plan the next hairpin well in advance. I’ll need to lay the bike down before the turn, due to the slick roadway. I cannot afford conservatism, because the storm ever still bears down. Time is of the essence. I’ll say two nice things about all that powder snow. Falling on it doesn’t hurt much. Plus it really does slow down a flailing guy holding onto a bike on its side.

I repeat this formula and eventually arrive at the chain and Mrs. B. The first several miles of our trip back to Denver entail driving in a severe whiteout. She muses that this wind must relate to the same weather phenomenon that plagued me on the Lady a few days earlier. I validate her suspicion. (Years later, it occurred to me: Mrs. B was subtly ribbing me. That high altitude vortex almost killed you, yet you returned for more?) We drop off the bike, none the worse for wear. Still nobody home.

The Rockies do it again, with the ol’ late-summer blizzard surprise. Henceforth, I shall stay away from these bad boys in Colorado.

Yeah, sure.

Volcano

As we approach the Mamalahoa Highway (Hawai‘i Belt Road), heading back to Kona and perched on super-thin ice, I get Josie to acquiesce with respect to driving to the national park. Since I have the annual pass, it would be a shame to be this close and not use it. OK, she says. We will only look for a few minutes, no más. It’s already late. We won’t be getting back to our hotel until midnight as it is.

Once inside the park’s general store, Josie gives some indication that she might even join me on the hike to see the “streaming” hot lava. We need to buy flashlights, because by the time we get there, darkness will have fallen. Then she recants. Never done that before! She’s not going and there’s no way she will sit around waiting for me. If you want to get married, you must leave with me now.

Hmmmm. Let’s see. Marry Josie v be up close and personal to observe the 1500 ^oF glowing gushing guts of the earth at night. Hmmmm. Having dealt with a multitude of her previous ultimatums, I know how to posit my position. I’ll walk for half an hour, then return. The round-trip drive will take another hour. I’ll be back in under two. You can have a nice dinner at the Volcano Inn.

She grudgingly accepts, then admonishes: Don’t do anything foolish.

Hordes of vehicles jam the parking area at the trailhead. The overflow stretches nearly a mile along the roadside. I will have to spend that much more time on foot to reach my destination. I take a half dozen big swigs of water (with time being of the essence, my only encumbrance should be my video camera, not a water bottle) and begin jogging. This presents no particular challenge at sea level, accustomed as I am to hiking at higher elevations. Glancing up the mountainside, I spot the apparently tiny but bright flow. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. After ten minutes, I arrive at the trailhead proper.

It’s pitch black by now, with no moon. A myriad of hiker flashlights dart about. The dark long-since-cooled lava flow upon which I walk reveals nothing of its undulations. Nevertheless, I proceed thanks to my trusty AA torch, which sufficiently illuminates small rubber reflectors secured to the center of the well-worn trail about every 30 to 50 meters. Knowing I’m in hot water, I walk at full tilt. This is gonna take way longer than expected.

People are strange creatures. Perfectly loving and intelligent beings, who see my flashlight as we converge, feel compelled to shine theirs in my eyes. Perhaps they want to certify that I do, in fact, possess ocular organs. Bright light assaults my dilated pupils as they attempt to accommodate the darkness. The net effect disables my vision. Putting up my forearm to block their intrusive beams effectively elicits, Uh, sorry. However, the blind factor prevails. I deal with this by giving these folks a wide berth. This works just fine. About half the time, I’m not really on the trail, but if I shine my light toward several reflectors ahead just so, I’m able to reliably predict its general direction.

Occasionally, I find myself behind a small rise, unable to discern much of anything. This obliges me to find higher ground in order to reacquire the course of the beaten path. All the while, I keep an eye on the looming glow of the lava up yonder.

Then boom. My right leg crashes through a weak spot in the recently hardened crust. I fall up to my knee and curse my stupidity. I wear shorts, of course, so the outside of my calf now sports a plethora of deep scratches oozing blood. My Red Badge of Courage. I vow to stay on the trail. Surely no pitfalls there.

But way more traffic. Close to 9 pm, several hundred hikers continue to descend this 1½-mile section. More flashlights to my strained eyes. Great hordes approach at six abreast, presenting negotiation challenges. Fifteen minutes later, I come upon an eleven-wide group, ascending no less. They move only slightly slower than I. However, so behind the timetable promised Josie, perhaps I should simply muster an excuse me and break through their ranks. But nooooo. Not wanting to disturb their fine unity, I alter my course to get around their right flank. I begin to overtake the end woman...

Momentary zero gravity. My arms shoot over my head. My face strikes the lava surface; glasses shatter. Instantaneously, my feet hit something solid. It seems as though I’ve slid down a steep slope. The woman asks if she can help. I tell her sheepishly that I’m ok. I attempt to crawl back up the slope, but keep sliding down. Two men extend their arms to me. I assure them I can get up on my own. Then they insolently grab both of my hands, with which I’ve futilely clawed the lava rock around me, and hoist me out of my hole.

Yep. I have not slipped downhill, but rather have fallen into a pit, at the bottom of which lies red-hot lava. A small ledge about seven feet down broke my plunge. Had I not landed on it, I would have been in hot soup, consumed by a molten mass of volcanic matter. I recover my glasses, which strangely aren’t broken, only mangled. They may very likely have saved my eyes, though.

Phooey (or a facsimile, thereof). Can I still make it to the open lava flows? Ten more minutes of hiking will get me to the first viewing area. I realize I’m dripping blood all over, I have no water with me, and I’m beginning to feel woozy. I pause to video tape my unachieved objective (in a wobbly 18x zoom mode) and head back to the car.

Now when people aim their lights toward me, illuminating profuse scrapes and blood, it’s more a matter of total embarrassment. A concerned ranger at the trailhead, responding to my dreadful appearance, attempts to prevent me from continuing on to my car.

I manage to drive back to the only inn allowed in the park, walk up to registration, and inquire about a room. Blood spatters everywhere. The clerk nearly faints. Her boss scurries about, producing towels to wipe the floor of my effusing essence and to forestall further flow. Josie spots me and remarks bitterly, I knew it, I knew it.

Gee thanks, dear.

We book the one available room. I step into the shower and begin to pass out from seeing all the bright red pouring into the drain. Josie calls the EMT. In our room, they check my vitals, remove the larger chunks of lava, apply bandages, and insist that I take their ambulance to the hospital in town. I tell them I’m fine. No need.

The next morning, we plant me in the emergency room of Hilo Hospital. We wait forever. Duh. ER. What else is new? When I begin to faint, they admit me immediately and pour in the meds as they dig out more lava._68.2 The tech who works on me for over four hours says he drives his 4x4, sometimes weekly, to the top of Mauna Kea to get away from it all. He also competes in world-class ocean canoe racing.

We arrive at our hotel late that evening. For the balance of our stay, we receive the royal treatment. The staff tells us that, exactly one year earlier, a gentleman guest had fallen into the lava from that same trail. His body was never recovered, having become warm puree.

The next day, my body recovers sufficiently to get hitched in a bandaged ceremony.

Traipse through Perspicuity

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