Thin, Red Line

I remembered a story from my childhood in St. Anthony, ID yesterday.

One day, while walking home from school, my friend, Chad, and I noticed a red streak that lead down the road. They were two thin, red lines that first started out dotted, but soon turned solid as we followed them for a few blocks.

Our normal walking route took us down East 4th North, crossing Bridge Street, past the Forest Service Building where my dad worked. Sometimes, when we would pass by his office window, he would bang loudly on it to get our attention. Once he did, he would squeeze the bulb on his Seymour Buns doll, causing the doll to drop his pants and greet us with a plastic butt. My friends would always tell me how funny my dad was, which surprised me because I can quote him saying, "I barely like my own kids, let alone other peoples'."

Once past the Forest Service building, that's where our red trail picked up. We walked along the church ball fields for a while and then crossed into the road, something that our mothers always told us not to do. When I saw the red lines, my imagination soared. What if they were blood streaks from a recent murder? I convinced Chad to follow them with me, he being a little hesitant.

We continued down 4th North, past 3rd East, then 4th, then 5th, then 6th. As we followed the trail, the red lines in the road got thicker. They rounded the corner to 7th East. That was my street!

We lived at the end of the road. The Henry's Fork of the Snake River was also at the end of the road. A perfect place to drop a body. We continued in hot pursuit, taking the role of half detectives, half blood hounds, going through all possibilities in our heads if we discovered a body.

At the end of the road, I could see my dad's 1970's blue Ford pick-up, Ol' Blue, in its usual parking spot, all the way at the end of the road, up against the red barricade that marked the dead end. The red trail continued on toward the river. We passed through the intersection of 7th East and 2nd North leaving no doubt that whose ever body the blood belonged to was well on it's way through town via a water route and heading on toward the slow moving current of the Snake River.

But then it stopped.

The red line traced along the right side of the road, right to the bed of my dad's truck. At first I was in denial, but then I reasoned that my dad must have been hunting that day and killed a deer. The blood easily could have leaked out of his white canvas bag that he usually wrapped his big game in. (By the way, my mom hates it when he washes it in the washer.) It was only late August, deer season didn't open until October and I could have sworn I saw him dressed in his olive drab uniform, wearing his gold name tag that scraped my face when I would give him a hug. My dad couldn't have gone hunting, but there was no way he was the culprit, either.

Then it dawned on me. No body was murdered... Yet.

My dad and brother had just finished painting the wood paneling on our house a nice, dark red and Chad and I had climbed into the back of his truck that weekend to play fisherman, or something. My dad had an old, magnetic CB antenna that we would stick to the side of his truck as our fishing pole. The shine on the truck had long since faded, so we didn't have to worry about scratching it. He kept the used paint in the back of his truck and I distinctly remembered taking the lid off, but I didn't remember putting it back on.

When my dad drove to work, I guess the paint stayed upright just fine, but for what ever reason, on the way home, it tipped leaving a nice red trail.

Chad explained that he needed to go home to do chores, which I knew was a lie. His lawn was never mowed, his room was never clean, and his basement smelled like mildew from water damage long ago. I stuck around to face the music. When my dad saw me, his face was as red as the paint. By the end of it, so was my butt.

My dad remembers better than I do the details of my punishment, because for me, I felt like I deserved it. He on the other hand, feels that he was a bit too harsh. But like a good father, he showed an increase of love and a lesson was learned. I would often follow that line home in the warmer Idaho months before the snow would cover the road and later, St. Anthony's high-quality, chip-seal method of paving. My dad sold Ol' Blue in 1997 as well, so the visual reminders have long since gone. When I would walk home with friends from school, I would tell them, "Yeah, that blood is from a murder that could have happened."

Slaves? In Alaska?

While driving up the pass, describing the construction of the White Pass and Yukon Route railway, completed in 1900, a conspiring passenger grudgingly suggested, "I bet they used slaves to build the railroad."

Instead of blatantly calling her an over-exaggerating idiot, I simply explained that there were enough people who came up here to find gold and didn't that they could be put to work on the railway.

I wanted to say:

A. This wasn't 1860

and

B. This railway wasn't transcontinental

They just keep on coming.

**UPDATE** on my beard

As of April 27, 2009 I have not allowed a razor to touch the more parts of my face. As of now, it hangs about an inch off of my chin. Two and a half more months to go.

People who don't like my beard getting out of hand:
Mom and Dad
Bishop
Most girls in Utah

People who do like my beard getting out of hand:
Alaskans
Most guys (They give me props because I am doing something they wish they dared do)
Passengers (Because of the jokes I make about it)
Most girls from Utah in Alaska

Enjoy!

A Biker With a Biker's Attitude

It is in most peoples' interest to take "been there, done that" pictures while on vacation. One of the most requested or anticipated stops along the Klondike Highway is the Yukon sign. Only one of our tours goes past the sign and usually multiple buses from various companies are stopped there taking pictures in front of the sign.

More often than not, bus drivers will let their passengers off and give them a free for all as the guests crowd the sign to take pictures. People are always getting into other people's pictures. To help the process along, drivers will draw a line in the dirt on either side of the sign about 10 feet in front and have their passengers stand on the lines. The driver can then take a picture on his side of the sign, while another driver takes pictures on the other side. The cross angle prevents strangers from getting in other people's pictures.

The Yukon sign is always a headache as far as stopping goes and most drivers dread taking the time to get the photos. However, we do it anyway in hopes that the passengers will pay out in tips in the end. In my few years of experience, I have learned that most drivers will stop at the sign on the way up, so I usually hit it on the way back to avoid the crowds.

Last Monday, I was taking a group to enjoy a morning and afternoon in the Yukon. As I dropped down the hill just south of the Yukon border, I could see that the sign was free. This isn't normal when heading north, but I was ahead of the pack and decided to stop. Just as I was pulling into the turnout, I noticed some bikers (not motorcyclists) occupying the space around the sign. One was propping his bike up against the sign, while others had already gotten themselves situated in the shade of it.

I came to a stop, set the brakes of my bus, and told my passengers to hang tight while I talked to theses guys. While under the assumption that most bikers are "earthy" types and respectful to most people, I approached them and asked them if they wouldn't mind moving out of the way. I said, "I don't mean to be a jerk, but do you guys mind moving your bikes? There are a lot of people on my bus who would like to take a picture."

"Well, I hope they don't mind having my bike in their picture," one of them said.

"I don't give a s__t, I ain't moving." another one said, while stuffing his face with a sandwich. "I'll stay out of the picture, but I am staying here."

I responded by telling them to use common courtesy.

"Well, tell your friend down the road to use common courtesy when we stop and ask for a cup of coffee. They wouldn't serve us, because we weren't part of a tour," sandwich man argued.

"That has nothing to do with me," I said. "I don't even know what you're talking about."

"Well, we're not moving," he insisted.

I just smiled and walked away. I got back on my bus and faced 39 curious passengers. They were watching the confrontation and were eager to hear about it. It wasn't hard to get them to rally against the bikers, because they wanted their sign picture. I pulled out and opened my door telling them to have a nice day. Knowing that another bus was behind me, within radio contact, I called the driver.

"Justin, are you stopping at the Yukon sign?" I asked.

"I planned on it," he responded.

"Will you do me a favor? Drive as fast as you can into the turnout and slam on the brakes?"

"O.K...?"

My intent was to have him kick up a lot of dust to cover the bikers. Luckily he didn't. He approached the sign as usual. Before he could stop, the biker who was the most outspoken walked up to Justin's bus and said, "Hey, I think I just offended one of your other drivers and I am really sorry. I am an old man, I just pedaled through a 30 M.P.H. headwind, and he just caught me at a bad time. Tell him I am sorry."

Confused, Justin unloaded his passengers and took their pictures in front of the sign as usual. I guess he saw my 39 passengers, weeping. Not really, but something gave him a change of heart.

At the end of the day, the bikers finally made it to Skagway. Just as Justin was coming to my house to fill out paperwork, they group of three rode by. The same biker stopped Justin again, making sure Justin would tell me that he was sorry.

O.K. So this story was more of a heart-warmer than it was humorous and it wasn't that heart-warming anyway.