Ben Hayes... Firefighter?

As part of my ongoing effort to confuse and confound anyone that still reads this so called blog, I'm going to spring back to the present and report some the latest events of Skagway, Alaska. So instead of conjuring up old memories and report them in the order that they occurred, you'll have to bare with me as I discuss things that happened over the last couple of days.

Since my arrival here in Skagway, I have become part of the Skagway Volunteer Fire Department. With an average population of 850, Skagway can not afford nor does it need an entire crew of permanent full time firefighters. On the other hand, the nearest fire department to Skagway is two hours away by road... in Canada. So, there is certainly a need to have one on hand - especially when you consider the fact that Skagway is almost entirely made up of 100 year old wooden buildings. Like many small rural communities, Skagway has a volunteer fire department. Except for three full timers, the entire SVFD is made up of non-professional firefighters with other 9-5 jobs. The department is not only responsible for fighting fire, but more importantly emergency medical service as well as search and rescue. Needless to say, but without some dedicated and talented individuals, lives and property would be lost and things that most people take for granted such as someone responding to a 911 call might not occur. I mean could you imagine if you had a life threatening emergency and when you called 911 the response was, "Oh, I'm sorry, our only emergency medical technician is out of town this week... can you pick up your unconscious father and take him to the clinic yourself?" or "Well, we would like to put out your house fire, but there aren't enough professionals to operate the fire engine." We all expect to have a quick and effective response to an emergency, and thanks to volunteers, the citizens of Skagway always have just that - quick, effective response to emergencies. With this in mind the SVFD is always looking and always welcoming new volunteers. This is certainly the case during the summer season, when the town more than doubles in size due to the addition of hundreds of seasonal workers, many of which live in R.V.'s and tents (literally deathtraps in a fire). As a new arrival, I was interested in becoming part of the department and I was not alone. A couple of weeks ago the department held a kind of 'basic training' over a weekend for new volunteers which introduced basic skills and orientation of fire fighting. Among other things we learned how to operate power tools and hand tools, cut into cars, break windows, break down doors, set up and use a basic tactical hose lay, make and break connections to hydrants, and most importantly how to take down and care for the equipment. It was very well done. I was surprised at how skilled the volunteers were as well as their abundant patience and dedication. Before becoming full members, new volunteers must be voted in and serve a probationary period of six months. Eventually some of the new volunteers and I were given pagers so that we too could begin to help out during actual emergencies. And we didn't have to wait long.
At 9 am Saturday morning, I gathered at the fire hall with the other "probies" to learn about the SCBA - self contained breathing apparatus. SCBA is the equipment that supplies air - one of the most basic tools for firefighting. After learning about it, we suited up in bunker gear (the heavy duty pants, jacket, boots, and helmet) and proceeded on a hike - while wearing the SCBA. It was quite difficult, not to mention hot. The point was to show how much harder physical activity can be while wearing the gear, and that the 45 minutes of air in the air bottle never lasts 45 minutes (my bottle only lasted 29). Like all the training before, it was effective and succinct.

Later that evening, I was back home when my pager went off - someone had reported a burning vehicle! I froze for a split second - was this really happening? I was actually going to respond to a fire? After fumbling with my shoes, I jumped into my truck and raced the ten blocks to the fire hall. About a dozen people, both veterans and probies, were already there - most of them getting "bunkered up" and about to leave. One of the veterans yelled, "only veterans on 23!" meaning none of us new people were allowed to go on engine 23. Instead, we went in the ambulance.

By the time we arrived, police had already blocked off the street. Smoke was in the air, but I could not see anything on fire. The veterans on engine 23 had already made a connection with a nearby hydrant and deployed a hose line behind an older red building. I checked in with the chief, and was told to put on an SCBA from 23. After putting on the mask and gear, I followed the hose around behind the building and saw the burning car - it was an old VW bus. I had been on the scene for no more than two minutes, but the car was already largely extinguished. Flames still lept out of the rear engine compartment, but the remainder of the car, although blackened and smoking, was no longer engulfed. At this point, they were trying to open the doors and hatches and break the remaining windows to gain access to the interior. I was told to go back to 23 for tools. Let me tell you one thing, communication amid the cacophony of noise of the engine, flowing water (or in this case foam), fire and through the SCBA masks is nearly impossible. For the next several minutes, I went back and forth from the car to 23 fetching tools. The rear hatch was finally opened and foam poured onto the flaming engine. It went out, but as soon as the flow of foam abated, flame kicked up again. After another dousing of foam the fire finally ceased and we could see an open fuel line leaking a steady stream of gas. After tying the line off, we opened what doors we could and removed the contents of the car as the hose team continued to pour the foam into the interior of the blackened vehicle. After carefully picking through the car for any possible hot spots, we began break down and clean up. Although the car was a total loss, it was successfully extinguished before the fire had a chance to ignite the building or the fuel storage tank it was parked next to. It could easily have been much worse. The fire was quite an experience, but what surprised me the most was that the newest volunteers, like yours truly, had played a critical role in the effort. While I had only served a gopher, my presence did free up the senior guys to tackle more difficult tasks. About half of the fire responders where as new as me and we all had stuff to do. It was easy to see even with minimal training, new volunteers are important in a fire incident.

I was pondering that very thought the next morning while I ate breakfast when suddenly my beeper went off. Another fire call - smoke spotted from a building on 9th and State! This time I didn't hesitate. In a matter of seconds I was again in my truck headed towards the fire hall, but three blocks from the hall, I ran into a road block, a private citizen had positioned his car blocking the road. I parked my truck and jumped out and began running towards the fire hall. On my left I saw the building - smoke was pouring out of a broken window and I could see flames inside. I quickened my pace to a full out run. Engine 23 was pulling out of the fire hall as I arrived, seeing me, one of the guys yelled something at me - but I didn't understand what he was saying as the fire truck sped away. I quickly bunkered up and looked around but another probie and I were the only people left. There were three other fire engines but no one to drive them. Seconds later another call for help came over the pager (technically this made the fire a two alarm fire) meaning that more help was needed. Knowing that we were not qualified to drive a fire engine, I resolved to drive the department's Ford truck to the scene. As we approached the police roadblock, the police officer quickly removed road cones allowing me to drive closer. After jumping out, I could see that the guys on 23 had already connected to a hydrant and set not one but two hose lays. In fact one team was inside the building with the hose. Again I was told to put on an SCBA and stand by. Soon more guys arrived on another engine. A few minutes later and the fire was out. The building was not only saved, but the fire did not even have time to spread to other rooms (and other business). After the fire was out, I was sent into the building with two other guys with a heat sensitivity device to look for lingering hot spots. The destruction was staggering.

The burned office belonged to a company that ran back country tours of the area. Nearly all their office and hiking equipment was destroyed. The room was completely black and the floor was covered with blackened foam and puddles of melted misshapen plastic that had once been a copy machine and computers. There were overturned racks of burnt and melted shoes, backpacks, and other now unidentifiable gear. A shelf full of small canisters of cooking propane had exploded helping to fuel the fire. It was a stark reminder that modern technology for all its convenience, is as combustible as 100 year old wooden buildings if not more so.

I have been an official member of the Skagway Volunteer Fire Department for less than three weeks and I have already been part of two major fires. Although I am excited to have been able to help fight fire so soon after becoming a volunteer fire fighter, more importantly I am thankful that in both cases, no one was hurt.

That's me on the hose.

A couple of weeks later this article about volunteer firefighters, mentioning SVFD, appeared in Parade Magazine.

A Very Special Blog Edition: Rota

So, now that I am in Alaska - living in the last frontier and all - here is a post that is not only completely unrelated but somewhat old. Unfortunately, there were many things that happened over the past five months that were not immediately recounted on this blog. As time marched on, events, such as the one I attempt to remember bellow, continued to not only occur with surprising regularity, but ultimately became entrapped by sort of intercontinental time vacuum. Time itself was destroyed, vaporized, exterminated, stolen. I would go to sleep on a Monday and would wake up on Thursday - this would happen every week. One time I went out for lunch on a particularly beautiful day and when I finished my meal it was 2009. Recently, as I was preparing to post a new blog entry, I realized that unless I included some older adventures, they would be forgotten - perhaps lost forever. So to address this issue I will weave older adventures along side the more contemporary and future Alaskan adventures under the heading: "A Very Special Blog Edition." So, for your reading pleasure, here is the first Very Special Blog Edition - Rota.





About once a year the Guam Hashers take a trip to a remote tiny tropical island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean - lucky for them it is only about 76 miles (or a 15 minute flight) away. Rota, along with Saipan and Tinian, is part of the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands. Last November I went on the annual trip to Rota.



Rota is the smallest of the inhabited Mariana Islands, yet rises dramatically out of the sea, boasting the highest elevation of the entire island chain. Although 3,000 people call the tiny island home, Rota remains largely uninhabited. For the first and perhaps only time (until I visited Iwo Jima), I truly felt that I was on a tiny isolated island surrounded by a vast ocean.





We took the Friday evening puddle jump out of Guam, rented a car and drove to the capitol of Rota, Song Song Village. 'Song Song' is a Chamorro word meaning village so in effect the place is called "Village Village." As we drove toward the hotel in the dwindling twilight I noted two unusual things - the almost complete absence of streetlights and everyone of the few people we passed gave us a big wave. Rota is know for its friendly people which is personified by waving at anything and anyone. It was so pervasive that I would not be surprised if there was some sort of local statute that made a failure to wave a jailable offense. Despite the evident hospitality, when we arrived at the hotel - no one was there to check us in. After an extensive search of the village, we found someone to check us in - but I'm still not sure if she actually worked there.



After checking in, we walked over to Song Song's bustling restaurant district - there were three "restaurants" one of which also served as a livestock feed store and gentleman's club. Like all business establishments in the Mariana Islands, each restaurant was equipped with karaoke. Needless to say, I had very low expectations for the culinary arts practiced on Rota. Nevertheless, the most surprising thing about Rota was the outstanding food - seriously. We tried out Rota's pizza place - I had the blackened shishimi pizza (outstanding) - and would visit it again many more times over the weekend. After visiting every bar on Rota (all three of them) we called it a night and went to bed.

The next day we drove around the island. We first stopped at the bird sanctuary. Unlike Guam, Rota actually has birds - birds native to Guam. The bird sanctuary is one of the last protected areas on the islands. Next we went to the ancient latte stone quarry. Before Europeans messed everything up, the Chamorro people would construct houses atop stone pillars called latte stones
Some of them were quite large.


Next we decided to go for a swim in the crystal clear water Pacific and unlike Guam, there was no garbage strewn across the beach.


Finally, after a brief sojourn back at the hotel, came the Rota hash. It was fantastic. We began at the top of the 1,600 foot peak of the island and raced down the steep slopes through thick jungle. Immediately we came across large heaps of crushed and broken blue glass - the remnants of Japanese sake bottles. Unlike the other Mariana Islands of Guam, Tinian, and most famously Saipan, Rota was not attacked by U.S. forces during World War II. Instead the Japanese garrison of Rota was allowed to languish unsupplied for nearly a year and a half with only the occasional bombing raid to break the tedium and near starvation. The garrison finally surrendered after Japan surrendered in September 1945. The most remarkable feature of Rota are the largely intact Japanese fortifications and bunkers located throughout the island. The trail continued but I was surprised at terrain differences between Rota and Guam. The ground surface of Guam is largely covered with soil providing for an easy running experience. The ground of Rota, however, is covered with jagged razor sharp limestone rock - once coral reef. Making matters worse was the generous growth of thorn bushes throughout (Guam also has few thorn bushes). With this in mind, the terrain of Rota was certainly more painful. After climbing down through the jagged rocks for a while we emerged at a vista overlooking Song Song Village just as the sun was making its final approach bellow the horizon.


After a break to savor the view, we again ran through the jungle and much to my excitement, into a Japanese bunker. The bunker was tastefully lit with tea candles courtesy of the hares. It was awesome. The bunker was long and included several different tunnels - a very impressive accomplishment. Those guys must have had a lot of free time.


The trail finally ended at an abandoned water park. The celebration was somewhat excessive, but then again when is the next time we are going to be in Rota? Perhaps a year for some, perhaps never again for others...

The next morning we again awoke to yet another beautiful day.


Again we ventured out to see some of Rota that we had missed. Lucky for me we came across this Japanese coastal defense gun. It was in near mint condition and still pivots with only a light push. Note the red tape - if it is pushed all the way out it blocks half the road in front of it.

Next we explored the large Japanese command bunker complex - fantastic. Afterwards, we boarded the evening flight back to Guam. Rota was by far the most beautiful island in Mariana Islands. Its small, friendly, and trash averse population are truly stewards of Rota's resources. Yet despite the beauty and historic remains, I probably could not live there very long. It is very small and there is nothing there in terms of many modern conveniences and establishments. Like I said at the beginning - Rota was the first time that I truly felt that I was actually on a small island in the middle of the Pacific.

The Last Frontier?

I was getting ready for work one morning back in February and as I was walking out the door when the phone rang. For a split second I debated if I should even answer the phone, but I did. It was a call from Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park (KLGO) in Skagway, Alaska (www.nps.gov/klgo).

The park surprised me when they called a week earlier. The earlier call was an inquiry to see if I was still interested in a job I had applied for months before and to be honest at the time of the call I could not remember what type of position I had even applied for. Since I began working for the NPS, I have applied to countless jobs and the jobs I have been lucky enough to land, while amazing gigs, have been seasonal or temporary in nature. The coveted and highly competitive permanent park service jobs always seemed to elude me. So even though I was uncertain about the specific job, I was certain that I had no chance of getting it for that very reason – it was permanent. As I was till struggling to remember the job or even applying for the job, Reed, the administrative officer at KLGO, asked if I would be willing to do an interview right then and there. So I thought, what the hell and went for it.

It was a completely different type of job interview in that I was totally unprepared yet somehow comfortable, at ease, and oddly confident. It was as if my utter lack of faith that I was even remotely competitive for the position released my normal nervous and unsure - though mostly prepared -interview style and instead my loose and confident answers transcended the expected responses. For instance,

"No. I don't have any substantial experience in government requisitions and procurement, but do you know what I do have experience in? Gettin' things done."

and

"No I don't have much to tell you about my experience with PMIS, AFS, IDEAS, FFS, UAA, and those other acronyms that you just said, but I can tell you that I support the use of acronyms and have substantial experience using acronyms on a daily basis such as USA, TV, NBC, GM, UK, DVD, and many others."

Needless to say, after this out of the ordinary "interview" I assumed that I would definitely be blacklisted from ever working at KLGO - maybe even all of Alaska - and never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would get a call back. But that's exactly what happened a week later as I was walking out the door to go to work. Not only did I get a call back, I was offered the job.

My immediate reaction was disbelief and confusion. Is this some kind of joke? What kind of place is this to hire me? I had no answer. I asked for two days to think it over but I only got 24 hours.

After weighing the pros and cons and calling several people for advice - I had still not made up my mind. It was perhaps the most difficult decision that I have ever made. My 24 hours ticked by, but I still could not figure out what I was going to do. Reluctantly, I picked up the phone dialed KLGO to give them my answer and as the phone rang, I finally decided.

A Post Long Overdue

If you are one of the half dozen or so people that check this blog every month or so, then I owe you a sincere apology. I can’t believe that it has been so long since I have written. I assure you, however, that I did not fail to write due to lack of suitable subject matter. On the contrary, since my hiatus many events have transpired, adventures experienced, and travels traversed. In a brief summary of highlights (and future blog entries), I have visited the island of Rota, taken a trip back to the states including an extensive inspection of Northern Arizona in general of the Grand Canyon in particular, briefly stopped at home in Tennessee, and most recently accepted a new job at Klondike Gold Rush National Historical Park in Skagway, Alaska (I leave Guam on March 20). So despite the ample material, I am taking the time to write about an even more recent event while it remains fresh on my mind – last Saturday’s hash (February 21).

In many respects and apart from my job, hashing has become the singular and defining activity of my Guam adventure. After telling my latest hash episode to my coworkers, I felt compelled to also share the tale with my minute and most likely dwindling blog audience. So here goes…

I have been hashing now for eleven months and over this time I have seen much of Guam. I have been constantly challenged by daunting and dangerous trails, slogged through thick jungle, swift rivers and gelatinous mud pits, climbed innumerous hills and mountains, tripped over countless vines, roots, rocks, and brown tree snakes, and been cut by swordgrass on my legs, arms and face hundreds of times and somehow loved every minute of it – especially in retrospect. Yet despite nearly a year of challenges met and vested, last Saturday was the most daunting and demanding of any hash thus far.

Sometimes hashes have themes and last Saturday was the Mardi Gra hash. Most themed hashes are either easy or go through a population centers in order to cause a scene as well as to embarrass the hashers who are unlucky enough to be recognized. As a consequence, I did not expect the hash be particularly difficult or of note, save for the theme itself. Boy was I in for a surprise. To make matters worse, in my state of mind with my impending move to another continent, I forgot to bring my flashlight (which I usually forget unless warned before the hash) but more importantly I forgot my knee brace (My need for a knee brace will be explained in the future blog post about the Grand Canyon).

But not to worry, I thought, because this is a theme hash and it will be easy! After our initial meeting in Hagatna, we were given directions to the box down south near Sella Bay – the most beautiful area of Guam. After our arrival, I though back to the last hash that I ran in this area. It was probably back in June or July and it was long and many people did not finish before dark. We even started in the same place along route 4. Despite this memory, I remained unfazed, but decided to tie an old shirt around my knee in an attempt to somehow support the knee similar to a brace. Yes, I realize how ridiculous this sounds now and no, of course it did not help, but I seriously believe that the illusion of a knee brace was somehow comforting.

We quickly took off and I hung back at a slow jog – not wanting to cause further damage or discomfort to my knee. The pack quickly found the first beer check. A beer check is a stop along the trail with cold beer or another suitable beverage. Most people ran on without stopping, but I lingered for some time while slowly sipping a beer and chatting with the few people that bothered to stop. From my high elevation, it was kind of fun to watch the pack run down the hills toward the jungle like so many ants. After the beer, I continued on the trail, again in a slow jog. Somehow, thanks to a deceptive trail mark I was back in the middle of the pack in between the extremely fast and extremely slow runners. Heading down a ridge and into a river valley, I picked up my pace and was soon joined by several others. After some time in the river, the trail exited the water and after a steady climb emerged onto a ridge line that extended into the ocean. I paused at the abrupt termination of the ridge to take in the incredible view. From the cliff top I could see down the coast for miles in either direction. To the south were Sella and Citi Bays and in the distance Cabras Island. These areas, despite their amazing beauty, remain untouched by development and their relative natural and unblemished status serves as the foundation of their splendor.

But don’t be fooled, I wasn’t thinking this at the time it was more like – pant pant pant “Whoa, sweet view” pant pant pant.

Soon we descended the near vertical cliff face to the beach below and continued on in a circuit of Sella Bay. In the middle of the bay I was astonished to discover one of the few Spanish bridges built in the late 1500s. Although there is clearly no work to protect or stabilize it and it is covered in vegetation, the bridge remains remarkably well preserved and clearly identifiable. Abandoned and largely unknown by the population of Guam, the bridge’s remote location – inaccessible by road – surely has helped to preserve it. Of course the Guam hashers decided that it would be a suitable location for a beer check. But, since bringing beer to the bridge in a large quantity was a logistical impossibility, shots of liquorish and apple schnapps were offered instead. Again, I paused to climb atop the bridge and marveled at its size and sturdiness (and to have a shot). I wondered how many people had crossed this bridge over its nearly 500 years of existence. As I pondered, the hasher at the bridge with me remarked, “I can’t believe those dumb Spaniards built this bridge out in the middle of nowhere.” I laughed and said, “Yeah that’s probably why their empire collapsed, they were always building bridges to nowhere. Must have been a pork barrel project or something.”

We moved on, but the small cohort that I was with proceeded at a faster pace and soon I was alone. After meandering along the entire bay, the trail shot up again onto another steep ridge. The climb was exhausting. Once at the top, I again could see several people ahead of me down in another valley some distance below. Again I paused to rest and briefly watch the sun as it began to set in the Western horizon. I was still unbothered by any time concerns. Now very alone, I continued on down into the valley. For the first time, the trail entered thick canopy jungle with extensive vines that grabbed at my body like grappling hooks. My pace slowed considerably. Soon I was again knee deep in river, but I began to worry as the daylight grew increasingly scarce. By this time fatigue was setting in and in a big way. Of course I was already extremely tired, but for some reason I was even more exhausted than usual before it dawned on me: I forgot to eat lunch. Crap – now that is something I almost never forget. The immediate psychological impact of this realization made my fatigue much worse. Suddenly the trail presented a choice: the Turkey or Eagle split. I had to choose which way to go – to the left on the eagle trail or to the right on the turkey trial. As you can probably guess, the eagle is intended to be much more difficult than the turkey. Usually I take the eagle trail, but due to my fatigue, the lateness of the day, and my knee situation, I wimped out and took the turkey. Much to my chagrin, the turkey trail immediately left the river through a tiny but long erosion ditch topped with dense root systems. After crawling and cursing for an interminable period of time, the ditch ended, but the trail continued straight up a steep ridge. I had to stop several times to rest along the climb. After I finally reached the top I stopped and looked back down into the valley I was just in. The sun was now fully set and I could not see anyone ahead of me. This worried me somewhat. I looked back toward the ridge that I had stopped at after walking around Sella Bay and saw several tiny people very far behind me. “Wow,” I remarked out loud to myself, “they’re not making it in before dark.” Then I though about myself, I still was not sure how much longer the trail was to last and I had perhaps only twenty more minutes of navigable light remaining. Perhaps I wasn’t going to make it in before dark either…

For about five minutes I continued to follow the trail along the ridge top as it headed away from the ocean and toward route 4 which I could make out in the distance then I stopped again. It was now too dark to see.

Make no mistake, I have been on trail after dark many times before, but in all the other times I was either with a group of people with flashlights, or I had remembered to bring my own. In this situation I was alone without a flashlight there was no moon and it was cloudy.

For the first time in my hashing career, I was going to have to be rescued. Being rescued on a hash is not unusual; in fact someone requires a rescue on most trails. Learning from the mistakes of others, I knew what to do. If you are out after dark do the following:

Stay on the trail, near a mark if possible
Don’t move, stay where you are and wait
Don’t panic someone will come for you eventually

So all I had to do was wait for the rescue effort to come get me, which in previous instances often took several hours. In the mean time, while I sat and waited I reflected on the past eleven months. Eventually, I saw a bright light on the ridge several miles to the East of me. It was the ceremonial bonfire at the end of the hash, also known as the “on home.” I was shocked at how far away I was from the end. Apparently, the turkey trail, instead of negotiating the steep ravine and large waterfall up to the ridge opposite me, went on the comparatively less steep ridge I was on then must connect to the road and over to the next ridge for the on home. I looked down into the ravine and saw at least a dozen lights spread along the valley floor.

Occasionally, if the wind was blowing in the right direction, I could hear loud voices from the on home. After about forty minutes, I noticed a light from the ridge I was on coming toward me. I yelled at the light and eventually I got a response. The light yelled back to me, “Come toward the light!” I asked myself, does this moron actually expect me to walk in the pitch black along a steep ridge? I quickly yelled back, “No!” and then added in a lower volume, “dumbass.” The light continued to move in and out of vision but was not getting any closer. Somewhat perplexed as to the intention of the guy carrying the light I asked, “Are you even on trail?!” but got no response. Soon I heard a screech and then the light shouted, “Shit! I almost fell off a cliff.” Finally, fed up with watching this light continue to move without any progress, I began to slowly attempt to move toward my so-called rescuer. Almost immediately I tripped and slid down the ridge in the wrong direction. I decided it was probably not a good idea to continue further.

A few minutes later I was found. The hare (one of the guys that set the trail) helped me back up. Initially I expected him to take me back to the road which was some distance – perhaps a mile away, but instead he gave me a flashlight and said “go towards the road.” I asked him which way the trail went to which he replied, “I have no idea where the trail is.” Somewhat bemused, I asked “Didn’t you set this trail?” to which he responded, “Well, yeah, but I’m not real familiar with this part - didn’t set this part my co-hare did.” “Awesome” I responded.

The hare took off in the opposite direction and I began my careful walk “toward the road.” The light was somewhat dim, so I could only see a few feet in front of me. This prevented me from being able to see far enough to plan my route. As a consequence, my route went on a zig-zag trajectory and eventually I encountered a wall or enormous ten foot tall sword grass. Sword grass of this height and thickness is nearly impossible to penetrate. It is extremely energy and time consuming as well as painful to force your way through thick sword grass. I pondered my options. From what little I could see, the most direct route to the road went through this sword grass down a ridge and up another slope and while I could attempt to go around the area, there was no way to be sure that any other route would be better. I looked around for a while but finally gave up and plunged in.

Five minutes later I was utterly exhausted and deep inside the impenetrable maze of sharp sword grass when the unthinkable happened – the flashlight died. I was instantly plunged into complete and utter darkness. For half a second, I expected a group of friends to jump out and yell “surprise!” There was no way that this was happening. I quietly muttered, “No way” and then I released a long tirade of increasingly loud expletives. Now I was WAY off trail, deep inside ten foot tall sword grass, no idea which direction I’m facing and without any source of light and no one knew where I was. I said to myself, “How the hell am I going to get out of this one?” After pausing a moment to collect myself, I attempted to continue on in the darkness. I lost count of how many times I stopped to rest. The physical act of forcing through sword grass is grueling and I was already spent. On the other hand I was getting totally shredded and poked from the sharp serrated edges of the tortuous devil grass. Eventually, I found a slight break in the grass. I put my arm on a tiny tree and leaned forward in an attempt to pull my foot free of the grass. All of a sudden the tree collapsed and I fell head long into a deep dark hole. It wasn’t until the fraction of a second that I was in free fall, that I realized what was happening. I landed on my side and laid there for a moment to collect myself. I was relieved that I was not injured beyond bruises, but then I stood up. I was inside an erosion ditch that was about five feet wide and at least twelve feet deep with sides that actually sloped closer together towards the top. “You have got to be kidding me,” I said out loud somehow amazed at how my situation continued to deteriorate. I felt around but could not reach the top of the ditch. I thought seriously about spending the night in hole, but finally resolved to escape. After several attempts, I managed to find a root that didn’t immediately come loose when I pulled on it. Using the root as a pull and the collapsed tree as a stool, I managed to launch myself far enough to grab a handful of sword grass at the top. Using every ounce of strength left, I ungracefully extricated myself from the hole and collapsed in a heap. I rested and probably dozed off before I was awoken by the sudden onset of rain. The rain renewed my determination to escape. I continued the effort of forcing through the impossible sword grass in complete darkness and after a while I realized I had just gone in a circle. Frustrated and demoralized, I sat down to wallow momentarily in self pity. Perhaps I am doomed to sleep out here tonight, I thought. Then I noticed a strange looking tunnel through the grass – a pig trail! I followed the pig trail on my hands and knees for some distance before it came to an abrupt end, but when I finally managed to clear enough grass to stand up, I could see a faint light – a street light! Several minutes later, I emerged onto the street, overjoyed that I had made it out.

By the time I finally got to the on-home, the festivities were long over, but many people still remained out in the jungle. It was definitely a memorable hash, but not one that I would ever want to relive.

Fear and Loathing on the Island of Broken Cars

Wow. It has been quite a while since I’ve posted on the old blog. A lot has happened since September, perhaps too much to record in a narrative format. Instead I will use a quick and dirty bullet point approach. Here goes:

Car Issues:

• As of last post, car was broken and needed a new computer box
  
• Found a used computer box at a junk yard for $125
  
• Had it installed on the car… but it didn’t work
  
• Junk yard refused to take it back
  
• Found guy who repairs computer boxes
  
• Paid guy $400 to fix my junk yard computer box
  
• Computer box guy took 2 weeks to fix computer box
  
• Forced to rent a car for a week
  
• After nearly a month and $900 in expenses, my car runs again
  
• Named car “Howley Carabao” in both disgust and reluctant admiration in it's stubborn refusal to run

Work Stuff

• Work is very busy… increasing demand for ranging
  
• Get to go to Grand Canyon National Park in December for training
  
• Taking a week off after training to visit the Tennessee (Dec 13-21)
  
• Back in time to celebrate Christmas on the beach

Other stuff:

• Thesis work continues… bleh
  
• Interest in thesis topic evaporates
  
• Aversion to thesis topic and Civil War in general increases
  
• Guam’s rainy season has ended, yet it continues to rain everyday but there is more wind and a greater chance for super typhoons
  
• Lived through 2 more earthquakes – last one was a 5.2
  
• Visited Talofofo Falls Park… it was hilarious (I’ll explain in a future post)

Greatest thing that’s happened in many years:

• Barack Obama elected President of the United States of America
• Hope increases
  

The Car Saga Continues... Damn it.

I hate to interrupt my self enforced thesis sabbatical, but I must utilize my blog to lament my seemingly inescapable curse (a.k.a. vent and bitch). Unfortunately the never ending car saga continues to plague my miserable life. Just when I finally sold my last Guam Bomb after four months of searching for a buyer and breathed a long overdue sigh of relief, hopeful that my car troubles were perhaps finally over, that after purchasing three cars I had finally found an economical and DEPENDABLE method of transportation... but no. My third car car is dead and I am again forced to scramble to find a quick solution... with minimal financial resources.

It all started on Monday. It was my day off. After preparing for a series of errands, I slid gracefully into the driver's seat of my 1993 Toyota Corolla DX Waggon, put the key into the ignition and started the engine. As the car idled, I thoughtfully selected a suitable compact disk and inserted it into the player. At that moment the car died, yet I remained completely unfazed. It was not uncommon for the car to stall during idle, especially when it was cold or raining. But, much to my frustration, it would not start again. Although I was frustrated, I was still largely unconcerned. It must be the battery, I thought. I had not used the car in nearly three days and the battery probably lost its charge somehow. I went back inside and waited for Robert to get home from work.

Once Robert arrived, he pulled his car next to mine for a jump. It had no effect, the car would attempt to start like before, but stubbornly refused to turn over. Umm... Now we have a problem. But wait, I thought, the car is almost out of gas and has been setting at an acute angle for days, perhaps if we only push the car onto level ground, it will start. We tried in vain to push the car up the incline, to no avail. Next, at my request, Robert tried to push the carolla with his jeep. As you can imagine, this insane attempt to push my car not only ended in failure, but added further damage to the front bumper and headlight of my carolla. Luckily, Robert's jeep was unscathed. Next we ventured down the road into Talofofo Village proper to investigate the availability of rope. I found a $7 tow rope made of cheap nylon next to an ancient set of pantyhose and Drano. After racing back home, we strapped the rope to our cars and much to my surprise, pulled my car onto a level part of the lawn. It still refused to start. Crap. Now I have to pay to have this piece of shit car towed down from Talofofo to a repair shop. I expressed my growing anger to Robert, who suggested a bold and perhaps rash plan of action. He offered to use my new rope and pull my corolla down to Agat - a distance of almost 15 miles over hills, valleys and hairpin curves. What an insanely idiotic foolhardy idea - not to mention dangerous and totally illegal!!! It could not only result in a hefty fine, but serious damage to both of our cars. I quickly agreed.

We waited until the cover of darkness - about 9:30 and began our trek. We tied the nylon rope to our frames (not the bumpers) and took off. Robert drove his jeep wrangler while I rode in my unresponsive corolla, but before we began Robert gave me a quick and dirty tutorial on pulling cars. "Try to keep the rope taught at all times. OK? Let's go." As we drove through Talofofo, with people pointing and staring, I quickly realized that this towing business was going to be far more difficult than I initially realized. Robert would only slow to a crawl at stop signs, and of course I had no control to stop or go, I was primarily concerned with making sure I didn't slam into Robert's jeep a mere three feet in front of me. Soon we were out of Talofofo and into the deep hills, and sharp curves of the 11 miles of "Cross Island Road" to Agat. It was sheer terror. My heart raced and I hunched over the wheel in a death grip, sweat poured from my brow in puddles. As we navigated the turns and steep descents, the only periods of relief were the slow laborious ascent up hills. Finally, after about 45 minutes, and what felt like eons, we were in Agat. Phew. At the end of our journey, as we waited at a stand still to turn into a service center, I heard the horrible sound of a car screeching to a sudden halt behind me. I closed my eyes and prepared for the inevitable crash, but it did not come. I looked behind me and saw the car only a few inches from mine. Then we began to move into the parking lot. WE MADE IT! What an adventure. On the ride back home I realized, looking down at my still trembling hands, I was in desperate need of a tall bourbon.

The next day, I returned to my car. It was at a gas station with an attached lube and tire shop. I kindly asked the mechanic to examine the car and call me with an estimate. I returned with Robert at lunch. He suggested that I purchase new plugs, wires, distributor cap, and rotor (a tune up) for him to install. I purchased the items at a nearby Napa ($187) and returned. After another few hours, he called me with some bad news. The tune up had no effect on the car. It still refused to start. The mechanic confessed that he had a suspicion that the problem was electrical in nature and he did not have the tools nor the expertise to diagnose or fix the problem. Crap. The mechanic refused pay, but I gave him twenty dollars anyway and after calling almost every tow service on island, I found the best deal for a real tow to yet another mechanic. I met the tow guy an hour later and followed him in Robert's jeep to Pacific Tyre

By this point the Pacific Tyre mechanics new me by name. I had been in and out of that place at least a dozen times since I got my first car back in March and I had recently purchased new tires for my corolla after one of the tires had a severe tread separation occur. "It's me again," I greeted the guy at the front desk. "I'm concerned you're not getting enough business, so I thought I would bring you my car to look at again." After a few laughs, they took a look at my car. I watched as they bypassed the car's computer using a paperclip to connect two fuses. It immediately started and ran. "Awesome!" I nearly yelled. I spoke to soon. I continued to watch as they pulled the car's computer out from underneath the dash. The computer, or the ECU (Engine Control Unit) manages the car's air-fuel ratio and fuel injectors to ensure the best fuel economy and lowest emission of carbon monoxide. If you ask me, it only exists to create tremendous anger and disgust.

After they pulled the computer out, the mechanic asked me to smell it. Much to my horror, it had an overwhelming smell of burnt plastic. They opened the computer's metal case to reveal the circuit board - almost a third of it was blackened and burnt, it was totally fried. "So how much does a new one of these cost?" I hesitantly asked. "Over $1,000 new, but you probably can't find one on island." The mechanic, seeing my utter shock continued, "there might be a used one in a junk yard, but this waggon is different than most corollas so you will probably have to order it on ebay."

So now I am frantically searching ebay and the interweb for a model 7A-FE computer box (ECU) for a 1993 Toyota corolla dx wagon.

Well, at least I am consistent - every car I have purchased on Guam is a piece of shit. I wish I had paid the $3,000 to ship my truck over here.

The Great Guamanian Car Saga Part IV: The End?

So I finally sold my Cadillac on Saturday. Whew, what a relief. And I only lost $400. Awesome? I bought that damn car an drove it for two weeks then it sat broke down for over four months. Now maybe I can afford to take a trip somewhere... Perhaps Manila, Chuk, or Bali, maybe Hong Kong, or Palau, or Tokyo. Or maybe not.

Actually, dear readers, I will be taking a hiatus from the blog for a long while. If you are dying for a post I might throw up a chapter of my thesis (which I will be working on diligently until it is done). No really, I will.

Seriously.