Shenanigans.

...Can't have college without 'em!

1.)  Our stairwell hosted a Kool-Aid Party two nights ago, and we made a pact that no one could go to sleep until both 50-gallon garbage cans full of Kool-Aid were gone.  At 1 AM, with only two gallons of grape left, Big Mike and I devised a plan... we snuck into our RA's (resident advisor's) room and poured it into the reservoir of his toilet, so that when he flushed the next morning, his bowl was filled with sweet-smelling grape Kool-Aid.

2.)  In desperate need of more furniture for our room, Cameron, Mike and I drove to the local Good Will Outlet Store and bargained a hideous-looking armchair off them for $11.  The only catch was the fact that we came in a Jetta... with no ropes.  So we tossed it upside-down on top of his car and we all stuck an arm out the window and held on for dear life as we drove the 5 miles back to campus.

3.)  About five minutes ago, we were all sitting bored in the living room trying to think of what to do.  Now we're throwing knives at the opposite wall, trying to get them to stick.

Oh, college.

Arriving.

I live in the Ghetto.  I don't own a car, but even the people in the dorms on the other end of campus have started calling me "the motorcycle guy."  I'm in The Brotherhood.  I just got back from a midnight Slurpee run to 7-11 with about 600 other freshmen.

College.  I live in a place where the rules and regulations are made up on the spot by me and three other dudes.  We don' have a TV but we have five computers between the four of us.  We have a huge banner depicting Bob Marley playing the guitar hanging above Mike's guitars and to the side of my drums.

Our resident advisor, Nick, has dreadlocks held back by a bandana who speaks into a bullhorn 90% if the time and says things like, "do that again and you'll get booshed in the nuts."  Our first assignment in the Ghetto is to buy a classy jacket from a local thrift store to make the ladies attracted to us.

Oh, and I picked a winner as far as dorms go... ours is the Ghetto stairwell, a group steeped in legend and greatness.  For instance, we host GDP's (Ghetto Dance Parties) for the entire student body and usually have a turnout well into the hundreds.  On top of that, the Ghetto composes the Brotherhood, a historically tight group of guys who are real with each other and bent on discovering God's will.

Here's an excerpt or two from the "Ghetto Dictionary," which was given to us on the first day:

Boosh- A term expressing any sort of high impact from one object to another.

Dome Piece- Any area of the head, including forehead, facial area or skull.

Holla- An expression of extreme joy, often following a given statement or proposition.

Good stuff, lemme tell you.  It's been a blast so far, and the future looks good as well.

-Daniel

Leaving.

We left Reno at about 7 in the morning.  I had one last thing to do before starting towards the Utah/Nevada border.  40 minutes later saw me walking calmly away from the Budget rental truck, across the grassy field behind Aaron's house.  I had a DVD and a picture clutched in my hand, blue sweatpants on, and my "Si, Se Habla Old Norse" t-shirt.

I walked up to his door, positioned both items in full view, straightened up, rang he doorbell, and ran.

I kinda feel like I didn't stop running until three hours ago.

Nevada passed in a familiar blur - I've driven or ridden out past Ely a fair amount of times.  As we cruised along the main street, we passed by the ancient Hotel Nevada.  A waiter sat out front, dressed in her uniform, smoking a cigarette.  She looked up at us as we passed by, a face seemingly dulled by complacency and boredom.  Waiting for someone to take her out of this town, I thought as I looked at her and her at me.  I got a shiver down my spine.

We turned sharply and dipped south toward Las Vegas.  A sky packed full of thick clouds made the small cab of the truck bearably cool.  Another sharp turn pointed the hood towards Utah... towards Colorado.  Towards my UNR.  But we spent the night in Cedar City, more than 400 miles from Dayton.

Today we got another early start, rolling north on the I-15 before 8.  After a brief breakfast stop in Beaver, Utah, and we were merging onto the I-70.  The first 100 miles or so of Colorado were a disappointment.  I guess a little bit of thinking would have alleviated this, being as it's rare that landscape changes with state borders.  As it was, we continued on through the rolling desert.

Jagged bits of rock glared out at us occasionally, framed by equally angry red dirt.  Large cliffs eyed us down from a distance on either side and the road belched heat up from beneath.  The air vents in the cab battled the fury of the desert, but without the aide of air conditioning, they didn't stand much chance.

The colorado River came to the rescue after the first hour and a half.  It brought more clouds, a breeze, and most importantly, elevation.  The interstate took to mimicking the rushing waters, tracing it higher and higher into the Rockies.

Our bulky truck began to struggle against gravity more and more as the miles slipped by, clawing at our speedometer slowly but surely.  I began to look at the GPS more often as the elevation rose.  191 miles.  186 miles.  167.  134.  I gave it up after a while and tried to sleep.

A grumbling sentence or two from my dad woke me up an hour down the road.  I focused ahead to see, seriously, miles of stopped traffic.  I looked to see the westbound lanes still cruising along, then turned slowly to face forward again.  Miles.  Speaking of which, I glanced at the GPS.  52.4.

"No way," I muttered.

"They're re-paving the Eisenhower Tunnel," Dad explained.

"No way."

Two and a half hours later saw us about 5 miles up the road.  Gaysauce.

We arrived in Denver at about 7:45 and checked in here at the Days Inn.  Since then we've made a quick run to Target and watched the Beach Volleyball finals (go USA!)  We'll wake up tomorrow and head down the road for check-in at CCU.  Then who knows what.

I'll keep you up to date.  

I'm here.

Thoughts On Leaving.

I was running with Mr. Anderson once in early February on the road that goes by the Dayton rodeo area.  It was freezing cold outside and there we were, chugging along down that deserted, snow-covered street.  The sun was already on it's descent, still relentlessly flooding the Dayton Valley with cold light.  The sky was a crisp, unforgiving shade of frigid blue which caused our breath to surge out in streams of visible vapor as we jogged on.

It was silent - a wintery kind of silent that reminds me of somewhere way up north where you can go and listen to glaciers slither over the earth.  The only sounds trespassing on the still air were the pounding of our feet and the hissing of our breath.  Still about two miles from our turnaround point, I was in a resigned state of mind, thoughts bouncing aimlessly through my head the way they always do on long runs.

Mr. Anderson's voice disrupted the pattern of noises.  "So you're really going to give up all that money just to go out of state for college?"  He inquired.  It was his sort-of-a-challenge-but-not-really voice, a voice that anyone who took his calculus class would recognize.

He was picking up the conversation from a few minutes ago... the conversation during which he told me I had no room to complain about "achievement" scholarships asking for my parents' salaries, since I had decided to attend a much more expensive out of state school.

"Yeah," I answered shortly.  I knew that arguing would only lead to another conversational stalemate.  I wondered why he seemed to work towards those so often.

"I mean, it's that important that you leave now, and not just wait four years to get out of here?"

"Pretty much," I continued in my trend of few words.

"That's ridiculous."  A classic Mr. Anderson... he's rarely afraid to speak his mind.

"I guess," I replied, "I mean it's not like I just threw a dart at a map and said, 'I'm going to college there,' you know?  I have my reasons for leaving."

"Oh yeah?"  it was his turn to be brief.

"Yeah."  I could have left it there.  I really could have.  But I decided to humor him.  "I was born in Carson City, you know?  And I've been in Dayton since kindergarten. I just can't imagine going to college, the thing I've been working towards this whole time, at a place 50 miles from here."

"That's it?  You just want to leave?"

"That's part of it, yeah."

"What else?"

"Well, CCU offers some majors I'm really interested it."

"Like what?"

"English with an emphasis on creative writing, first off - "

"Every college in America will offer that," he interrupted.  I kept going.

"Business Administration is another possibility.  And Biblical Studies."

"Mmm-hmm.  Well so far the only valid reason you have is the Christian thing."

"Alright."  I was back on the defensive.

-

Look, here's the deal.  I cannot wait to get out of Nevada.  I've said it a million times, I'm sure.  However, it's a double edged sword.  I am dreading leaving everyone I know.  I honestly can't imagine a math class without Hans, a lunch run to Taco Bell without John, or an english class without "the gang" around to complain about terrible books.  I'm going to hate having to figure out the comings and goings of a completely foreign place, and quite frankly I'm not too thrilled about confining my conversations with my good friends to iChats or Myspace messages.

But the allure to step out of the house and swing my hardest, to join in the dance that is life on my own, to go to a place where I will need, more than ever before, the guidance of God... the allure to go... rises in me like a tumultuous noise, covering up all my doubts and concerns.

-

I was talking to my dad earlier over dinner.  There are rumors floating around that my brother is looking at getting married soon.  I mentioned that it's a trip to think about Jake being married.  My dad said he has seen it coming for a while.

"Oh yeah?"  I responded to his statement.  I mean, Jake and Kristin have been dating forever, but I guess marriage never crossed my mind.

"Yup.  Life is very predictable.  We don't like to admit it, but it really is," he said.

Life is very predictable?

-

My mom has this thing she says a lot nowadays.  I'll complain about all my hard earned money going to tuition and the little bit left over being divided between gas, motorcycle insurance, and an occasional dinner with friends.

"Welcome to life," she'll say.

It's like her new go-to saying.  Gas prices really high?  Welcome to life.  Miss hanging out with friends because you had to work overtime?  Welcome to life.  Lose your iPod headphones?

Welcome to life.

-

I don't know a lot about life... I'll be the first to admit that.  I'm not sure how to become a millionaire, I don't know how to sew, and I'm not too great at writing poems.  But I do know some things... a lot more than I think people want to believe.

For example, I know that whether you believe in God or not, He calls everyone to something different.  Can you imagine if the apostle Paul had stayed close to home after becoming a Christian?  And yet, what if Martin Luther King Jr. had left America immediately after graduating?  People hear me talking about leaving and I get the feeling that they think I'm insinuating that if you stay here, you're wasting your life.  That's far from the truth.  It's just that I feel if I stay here, I'd be wasting my life... or at least my life's full potential.

I also know that I am not going to live a life that is "very predictable" or all about just getting through.  My life is not going to be about paying bills and buying a nice car, or about working all the time to support my own agenda.

My life is going to be a life of living for the will of the One who created me.  And trust me when I say that He does not write predictable stories.

Thanks for reading.

-Daniel

Another Day In The Office.

I love my job.

It took me a while to come to this conclusion, but I recently decided that I love it.  Which is a good thing too, because I plan on coming back next season.  And I hear it promotes less killing sprees if you like going to work.

You see, although I am technically on a "fire crew," we're in a tough spot.  We're the newly-established "Incline Handcrew," or just "Crew 3."  As the second name might have alluded to, there is also a Crew 2 and a Crew 1.  These crews (1 and 2) are what's called Type-1 IA crews, meaning they're qualified to Initial Attack a fire... that is, be the first on scene and be trusted to not let it turn into another Angora.

Crew 3 is what's called a Type-2 IA Crew, or as the jerks on crews 1 and 2 call us, a "fuels crew."  This means that we can go on fires, but we're almost never allowed to Initial Attack.  When we aren't on a fire, we do Project Work, where we're basically a crew-for-hire for any business/private group who wants their establishment to be made fire-ready.  We still use all the tools for fire fighting, but we use them to clear out dead trees, excessive brush, and other fuels that would be disastrous if fire did sweep through.

Up until Wednesday, we hadn't seen any fire whatsoever.  We had been called in on a few fires around the lake, but they were already out and so we just secured the line and made sure everything was cold.

But then Wednesday we were called in at 5am to go out to a fire in northern Nevada next to a town called Doyle.  We showed up in time to relieve Crew 1, who had been laying hot line (line directly on the fire's edge) all night.  When we showed up, everything was out.  That's how desert fires usually are... they rip in the day and then are put out by the cold temperatures and higher humidities of the night.

So we were assigned a typical Crew 3 task... coldtrailing.  This means we broke into groups of 4 or 5 and worked along the line, checking everything within 10 feet of the black* to make sure it was cold and not a threat to be re-kindled.  My group consisted of Drew, Seals, Footie,** and myself.  At about 11am, Seals pointed to a ridge about a mile and a half away.  Some Pinion Juniper (those big, scrub-type bushed all over Nevada) had caught on fire from the still-hot ashes beneath it coupled with the scorching desert heat and a good breeze.  Since we hadn't been ordered any differently, we went back to coldtrailing.

About 10 minutes later, the Tactical Commander (who was up near the ridge,) called for a detachment from Crew 3 to come help the air support by putting in some hand line.  Footie, being the coolest guy ever, immediately volunteered our team for it.  We hiked up the hill for about 30 minutes and arrived at the fresh-burned black super psyched.

It was a letdown.  The helicopter and retardant drops had already contained the flames, which had then burnt out.  Slightly bummed, we were ordered to continue coldtrailing in the newly-burned areas.

Less than an hour later, however, a gust of wind kicked up.  I was watching my area of black to make sure nothing sparked up when suddenly I heard someone call sharply, "Kenneston!"  I turned around to see another Pinion Juniper torching about 30 yards downhill.  I ran to Footie, Seals and Drew.  Seals was already starting up his chainsaw and Drew was putting his tool away so he could swamp.***

About 15 feet away from the 30-foot high flames, the heat was still agonizing.  I had to angle my face away so it didn't hurt so much.  Footie was ordering Seals and Drew to kick it into gear as another Pinion caught from the first and went up.  The heat intensified.

"Kenneston, anchor on those rocks and start putting in check line!"  Footie called over his shoulder.  I didn't need to be told twice.  I sprinted to the large rocks to our right and began scraping all fuels away from the rapidly spreading flames.  My job with "check line" was to break up the continuity of the ground fuels, so I hacked at sagebrush and scraped away cheatgrass as I made my way across the hill, stomach feeling sick from the exertion and the heat.  It was a curious sensation to look up at the flames and feel the sweat on my face start to evaporate.  I tried not to look up too much.

Seals and Drew were busy attacking nearby Junipers to try and stop the torching, and Footie joined me to battle the ground-level flames.  It wasn't enough.  I could tell after about a minute that we weren't going to catch it... it was spreading ridiculously quick, but across the hill since the wind was going downslope, countering fire's natural tendency to go uphill.  It was going to outrun us.

Suddenly Footie tugged on my shoulder to pull me away from our line.  I became aware of a tumultuous noise as he did so, and no sooner had I stepped back than 800 gallons of water fell from the chopper above us and created about 50 feet of "wet line."   Sweet!  But this only made sure the fire wouldn't come up towards us... it was still able to spread across the slope.

Footie and I ran to the end of the wet line.  As we approached, I saw a guy in a white helmet leaning on a Pulaski.****

"You guys want some help?"  He asked calmly.

"Yeah man, hop in!"  Footie called back.

"Hot line!"  The guy yelled over his shoulder.  About 5 other guys in white helmets came out of the Juniper behind him and joined Footie and I cutting line.  A white-helmet sawyer came to Seal's aid as another water drop hit downhill from us.

(The white-helmet guys turned out to be the Silver State Hotshots, who are pretty much the best Hotshot Crew on the west coast.  Footie filled me in later.)

With their help, we cornered the fire and it burnt out.  As soon as we pulled back, I whipped out my camera and got some pictures of a water drop and the still roaring flames.

And then it was over.  The flames vanished, to be replaced by smoke.  We immediately secured the perimeter to prevent any further blow-ups and then continued coldtrailing for the remaining four hours.

I think it was sometime during dinner that night back at camp that the realization hit me.  In between bites of slow-cooked steak and hot mashed potatoes, I thought aloud to Torrez sitting across from me, "I love my job."

-Daniel

P.S. I'm applying for crew 1 and 2 next year, per my Crew Supervisor's suggestion.

*The black is whatever's been burned already.

**Footie is our Foreman and quite possibly one of the coolest dudes ever.  He pretty much invented firefighting.

***This means he throws anything the saw cuts as far away as possible from the flames.

****It's a half-axe/half-hoe