• New Mexico was admitted as the 47th
  state.
• RMS Titanic sank to the bottom of the
  Atlantic Ocean.
• Democrat Woodrow Wilson beat Theodore
  Roosevelt and William H. Taft in
  the 28th presidential election.
• Roland Johnson was born.

“Who is Roland Johnson, and why is he so special?” you may ask. Well, I guess Roland Johnson’s birth isn’t such a big deal on the national scene, but he’s pretty special to the Free Camp Program. Roland is a camper I met a few years ago at a senior retreat sponsored by Lakewood Church of Christ from Baytown, Texas. This is truly one of my favorite groups, and I look forward to seeing this gang of senior citizens every fall when they hold their annual retreat at Linnet’s Wings. You may recall that I’ve written about this group a couple of times over the years. They are a fun-loving bunch with a lot of great stories to tell. For many, the retreat has become a bittersweet event, because they have lost spouses, friends, and loved ones over the past 20 years. In fact, they recently lost their group leader, Clint Prothro, who is one of the most servant-hearted and godly men that I’ve ever met.

There are some old timers in this bunch for sure, but when it comes to age, Roland has eclipsed them all. If you’ve done the math, then you’ve figured it out. You see, Mr. Johnson is 99 years old!

Let that sink in for a minute. I did a little research on great moments in American history that this man experienced. He spent his young adult years struggling through the Great Depression, and when Babe Ruth, “The Bambino,” called his shot during the 1932 World Series, Roland listened to it on the family radio. He was middle-aged when the Butt family purchased the camp property in 1954, and he was 57 when Neil Armstrong said, “that’s one small step for man… one giant leap for mankind!” When I think about it, I have to shake my head in amazement. This gentleman just spent four nights sleeping in a cabin on a 4-inch vinyl-covered foam mattress, and he can’t wait to come back next year!

Here’s a little more background on Roland:

•  He lost his bride on Valentine’s Day.
  They were married for 74 years!
• He served in the U.S. Cavalry and
  completed assignments from the
  Army in WW II, Japan, and Korea.
• After retiring from a 40-year career in
  the Army, he went on to become a
  preacher, but he did that for just 16 years!

Mr. Johnson plays a mean harmonica and knows about a thousand songs and hymns. He did an hour-long concert at this retreat. I don’t think I could play a harmonica for five minutes before keeling over from asphyxiation!

WOW!  What an inspiration—what a witness—what a life of service! I asked Roland what it was about this retreat that kept him coming back year after year, and without hesitation, he answered, “It’s peaceful here.” In Philippians 1:21, Paul states, “For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” For Roland Johnson, to live is Christ…and that includes camp! I’ve got to start thinking how we can honor a 100-year-old camper, as Roland has promised that he will be back. From the intense look in those blue eyes…I have no doubt he will.

Out here in the Canyon, we have several useful people. One who often comes to my rescue is Hugh Schneemann. He goes by “Hoochie,” and he is the quintessential useful person. It seems that no matter how hard I prepare for some menial task, by the time I get to the jobsite, I won’t have the right tool for the job. I could be dragging an Ace Hardware Store behind my truck, and I’ll still have to go back to the maintenance barn three times before I finally have the right tools! Hoochie, on the other hand, always has the perfect gadget to get the job done right in his truck and within arm’s reach. A typical radio conversation with Hoochie goes something like this:

John: “Hey, Hoochie, I’m over at Wind Song and I can’t get the nut on this basketball goal to break loose.”

Hoochie: “You need a cordless impact wrench . . . Hang on. I’ve got one in the truck.”

John: “Hoochie, I just sheared this bolt off with your cordless impact wrench, and I can’t get the nut back on!”

Hoochie: “No problem, I’ve got a tungsten carbide bolt threader in my truck—be there in a minute.”

John: “Hey Hoochie, I just high centered my truck over here at secondary dump, and I’m stuck!”

Hoochie: “I got a come-a-long in my truck—be there in a minute.”

I’m pretty sure that if I radioed Hoochie and told him that I had just cut my arm off, he would respond with, “Don’t worry, I’ve got a team of vascular surgeons in my truck. Put a tourniquet on it, and I’ll be there in a minute!” Except for me having to wait around all those minutes, Hoochie and I make a good team.

The Canyon tech team is made up entirely of useful people, but the problem with those guys is that they keep speaking in a foreign language that only useful people can translate. For example, I’ll be having a normal radio conversation about a broken freezer over at Echo Valley with the tech team. Things will be tracking along nicely, and everyone is on the same page. Then, all of a sudden, one of them will change languages and ask, “Is that relay switch a single pole single throw, or a single pole double throw?” At this point, I have to be careful how I respond. Obviously, I don’t have a clue what they’re talking about, but it would be embarrassing for me to reply with, “Uhh-what?” On the other hand, it also wouldn’t sound very professional to reply with my usual technical jargon: “Well, the little black gizmo is hooked up to that thingamabob on the bottom, and the doohickey on top is turned sideways.” Useful people also understand common vocabulary that you hear more often, yet still baffle people like me, such as the difference between watts, volts, and amps. People like me just don’t grasp these terms that easily. I tried to get Alan Blaha to explain it to me the other day, and he said, “Watts are a measure of the use of electrical power, and one watt is equal to one volt multiplied by one amp.” . . . Nope, still don’t get it!

It’s probably better if I leave the electrical work to useful people anyway. Electricity and people like me just don’t get along very well. For example, I tried to splice some Christmas tree lights in my living room last December and promptly set the carpet on fire! Then there was the time when I almost killed Willis Adair when I told him that the breaker was “thrown,” and that he could hook up the wires on a vent hood at the River House.

Guys like Willis, Alan, and Hoochie are representative of the many useful and talented people we have in the Canyon, and it is a privilege to work with them, although I do get a little tired of always having to wait a minute for one of them to come and fix my problem. In the end, I’ll probably go to my grave not knowing much about amps, volts, bits, and bytes, and to my way of thinking, that’s okay—it’s all part of that balance that I was talking about. Anyway, I have more important things to think about . . . like where is the orange hammer that I just put down right next to me two minutes ago, or how am I going to get that screw that I just dropped through the engine compartment of my truck?

“Hey, Hoochie, you got a minute?”

What is Outdoor Education?

• TEKS based cross-curricular experiences
• In-depth, hands-on learning opportunities for all
• Rich learning environment for English language learners
• Opportunities for increased self-esteem by overcoming safe challenges
• Practice problem solving and communicating as a valued group member
• Develop an appreciation for our role as stewards of the environment

…all in the heart of the beautiful Texas Hill Country at the Foundation Free Camps near Leakey, Texas

For more information on outdoor education camp opportunities at the Foundation Free camps, download our brochure or contact Erik Silvius, outdoor education coordinator, at 830-792-1225 or esilvius@fdnfreecamps.org.

My family’s morning ritual before the kids ship off to school is to watch a few minutes of a TV show called Pet Star. It’s sort of the domesticated pet version of Dancing with the Stars. Basically someone brings their pet like a dog or a parrot out on the stage, the pet does a few tricks, and then a panel of three celebrity judges rates them on a scale from 1-10. If my kids and I don’t agree with the judge’s score, we slander them with disparaging and ridiculing remarks. On one particular episode, my family watched in amazement as a pig named Mudslinger politely waved to the audience, picked up his toys, dribbled a soccer ball through some cones, and put away his scattered clothes. Actually, it was the rest of my family that was amazed. My impression, on the other hand, would be better described as alarm and panic, because I realized that pigs might actually be smarter and have more skills than my own children. Heck, based on the fact that I am regularly outsmarted by them, I have to honestly admit that. . . . You can see why I have issues with pigs.

Consider this example of the feral hog’s ability to solve problems: While hiking up Silver Creek with his golden retriever the other day, Alan Blaha, one of the Foundation’s operations staff, encountered a wild boar. The boar was initially startled and started to run up the creek bed. Naturally, the dog gave chase to the boar; however, while running, the boar did some rudimentary calculations in weights and measurements and determined that he outweighed the dog and Alan combined. Realizing the possible consequences of this mathematical solution, the boar did an “about face” and tested his hypothesis with an experiment in kinetic energy. Using the given of mass as potential energy, the boar applied the force of forward movement and arrived at the conclusion that he could send Alan and his dog back home rather quickly. You see what I mean? Pigs are going to rule the world!

Over the years, I have tried many methods of hog removal, mostly resulting in futility. Hogs are nocturnal, and therefore you have to be willing to stay up late into the night if you want to catch them moving. Hunting them with spotlights doesn’t really work, because they can hear you coming and just scamper into cover long before you can see them. Trapping them works once in a while, but they have an uncanny ability to sense  danger, and they will typically eat every morsel of bait that you set out except for the bait in the trap. Night-vision goggles, motion-sensing cameras, laser-sighted weapons—I’ve tried them all. I even tried using our Fisher Price baby monitor over at Laity Lodge as a covert listening device. The idea was to place the monitor in the hog’s usual destructive path and sleep in a nearby cabin with the receiver on so I would be able to detect the hogs arrival time and catch them off guard.

After that attempt, Mrs. Butt asked me what was so special about staying up at night chasing after hogs? I tried to explain to her that it was the perfect example of survival of the fittest— pitting my senses, my wit, and my skills as a hunter against the most cunning beast in the wilds of the Texas Hill Country—the triumph of standing outside in my underwear, rifle in hand, over the carcass of a would-be destroyer of the planters in front of the Cody Center. I’ve never been able to tell if my explanation made any sense to her because, for some reason, she doesn’t talk to me anymore. Sadly, though, all of these attempts at reducing the hog population have largely been in vain.

However, it’s my latest experience in hog control that has confirmed my fears that hogs are threatening to eclipse man’s intelligence. Our latest practice in locating feral hogs has been the use of trained dogs. My friend James Reasoner from Kerrville is a master hog hunter, and he has a pack of dogs that are trained to locate and chase hogs out of their bedding areas and into the open. Keep in mind that these are not the kind of dogs that you want sitting next to you as you read by the fireplace. They’re actually closer in demeanor to timber wolves, and their aggressive pursuit is unnerving even to the biggest boars.

Recently, early one morning, the dogs had sniffed out a black boar about the size of my desk with tusks over 3” on the back side of the ranch. The fight was pretty evenly matched, but eventually, the dogs chased the boar over a mile through cactus, brush, and smack dab up against the edge of Circle Bluff which drops straight down 400 feet to the headwaters of the Frio River. As it just so happened on that particular morning, a group of fifth grade boys from Sterling City Elementary School were residing in cabin 2 of Comanche Outpost directly below the howling battle taking place above. They were just waking up for another exciting day of outdoor education when they heard the commotion, and naturally, being 5th graders, they ran down to the water’s edge to watch the show. In the meantime, our group of hunters had just caught up to the dogs and were trying to figure out what to do next when all of a sudden, and I’m sure I saw this, the boar winked and stepped off the edge!

No, I’m not kidding, this is a true story! Of course, to everyone who witnessed the event, it looked like the boar just fell off the cliff, but I know the truth. . . . That pig was trying to fly!

Even though it was a slight variation to the day’s outdoor educational curriculum, the boys unanimously agreed that watching a wild boar soar 400 feet into the river was the highlight of their experiential learning activity. Being from Sterling City where most boys are the sons of ranchers and farmers, I wasn’t too worried about any lasting psychological damage. The effect on me, however, was a little more significant.

When pigs fly— this phrase is a joke that always gets used in the context of impossibility, something that will never happen, but take this as a warning from a guy who knows because I’ve seen it! Well, I’ve almost seen it, and knowing pigs the way I do, it won’t be long before the joke’s on us!

My son was referring to an incident that happened during the summer and known by the Kerr family as “The epic Skunk Battle of Singing Hills.”  Most of the camp’s operations staff carry radios for daily communication, and it’s difficult to recall the exact radio conversation leading up to the episode, but here is how I remember it:

Mary Echols:  “Mary to Glenn.”
Glenn Echols:  “Go ahead, Mary.”
Mary Echols:  “We’ve got five skunks in the Cantina over here at Singing Hills!”
– long pause –
Glenn Echols:  “Glenn to John or William.”
– longer pause –
John and William:  “Yeah.”
Glenn Echols:  “If you guys aren’t busy, could you take care of that?”
– even longer pause–
John and William:  “Yeah.”

I should mention here that during that last long pause, William and I frantically tried to think of something really important to be doing that would render our services uninterruptible. However, neither of us are quick thinkers, and so we headed over to the Singing Hills campsite. Sure enough, five baby skunks had crawled under the Cantina door during the night to investigate some enticing smells. The “Cantina” is one of Laity Lodge Youth Camp’s snack shops and is famously known around the Canyon for selling everything from soft drinks to candy. Apparently, the baby skunks had decided that Icee drink residue, Snickers bars, and Eskimo Pies would make nice “perks” in a new home and had decided to stay permanently.

Whoever coined the phrase “for every job, there is a perfect tool” obviously never thought of this particular scenario, and as William and I contemplated the situation, we finally decided to try a fisherman’s landing net to trap the skunks. The problem was that several of the skunks had taken up residence behind a refrigerator, making the job of catching them even more difficult.

Eventually, William suggested a game plan. “One of us should tip the refrigerator up so that the other can try and catch them.” He said. “I’ll yell real loud so they’ll look at me and won’t notice when you reach under and trap ’em with the net, and then . . .”

“I don’t like that plan,” I said. “Let’s have a couple of cold ones and think this over a bit.”

However, as we helped ourselves to an Icee drink and a candy bar, we decided that my idea of shooting the skunks with my .45 inside the Cantina would probably violate several health and safety codes and that we should try William’s idea.

“How come I can’t tip the refrigerator up and you try and catch ‘em?” I asked.

“Because I have a master’s degree from Rice University, and it’s my idea, so I get to choose who gets to do what,” he replied.

I stifled my rebuttal of why a person who possessed a master’s degree from Rice University would even be in this situation, which is a testimony to my disarming and good-natured personality. 

As it just so happened, there was some heated discussion in the staff break room earlier in the week. The debated subject was the potency and capacity of a baby skunk’s spray. Some of the staff contended that skunks couldn’t spray until they had matured. However, one of the grounds crew, Cassi Salazar, had assured us that baby skunks could, in fact, spray, and since the Salazar house is the domestic version of “the wild kingdom” where many untamed animals have been adopted, we had no reason to doubt her wisdom. Armed with this knowledge, we tossed off the last of our Icees, grabbed the landing net, put on our game faces and said, “Let’s do it!”

The ensuing battle would be hard to describe. There was lots of screeching and scurrying which was comical, to say the least, because I had never seen someone holding a master’s degree from Rice University screech, much less scurry. Every time William would get the refrigerator tipped up, the skunks, who seemed to possess a level of intelligence higher than the national skunk average, would just run over behind the soft drink machine. All of this while the two of us yelled unencouraging words at each other and charged through waves of nostril-searing stench, blindly waving our landing net! At one point, the skunks went on the offensive (no pun intended) and decided to charge us. In my frenzied attempt to retreat, I had to use William as a ladder so I could climb out the Cantina serving window.

Eventually, we caught the little stink bombs in a trash can and hauled them off to the other side of the ranch to let them go. William did get a slight charge of spray on his shirt which had to be condemned, and it was a few days before the Cantina was able to reopen for business.

Hopefully, the little guys found a new home and didn’t get eaten by a coyote or a bobcat. Then again, to my way of thinking, that’s not an entirely unpleasant thought! More than likely, they survived—because, as my son pointed out, “our skunks ain’t dumb.”

 
Greetings from the Canyon to all friends of the Foundations for Laity Renewal. By way of introduction, my family and I live on the camp property near Leakey. My main responsibility is to direct the Free Camp Program, which was envisioned and created by the Butt family over fifty years ago and hosts over 21,000 campers annually. To many of those guests, I am known as “Camper John,” and one of my passions is to tell stories. As a full-time resident for nearly six years, I have many to tell. Some of my stories are meant for humor, some are inspirational, and some are just the warm and fuzzy type, but all are intended to share the flavor of life in the Canyon and to leave you with a grin or maybe even a chuckle.

By the time this issue of Connections gets into your hands, spring will have sprung. However, as I write these words, we are still in the clutches of Old Man Winter, and cabin fever threatens. On these cold and gray days, I often think how nice it would be to meet one of you at the coffee machine and participate in witty social banter; but alas, I’m stuck out here in the middle of nowhere arguing with Hugh over the correct species of ducks that we noticed in the river the other day. Hugh is the Foundation’s Assistant Director of Camp Operations, and he thinks the ducks are Common American Coots, but they aren’t. They’re White-Winged Scoters. My Illustrated Field Guide to Birds of Texas points out that Scoters have a white patch on their wings and that they are often mistaken as “coots”—so there! Sometimes Hugh mistakenly identifies me as “an old coot,” but I know it’s just his depressive winter state of mind. However, warmer days are right around the corner, and it won’t be long before the Cypress trees sprout new needles and the mountain laurels bloom with purple blossoms, making the Canyon smell like grape Kool-Aid. The season’s end means lots of changes to the Free Camp program as well. As the mercury slowly creeps up the temperature gauge, the number of guests coming for retreats also increases.

Speaking of retreats, I was on the way to Linnet’s Wings the other night to fix an electrical breaker. It was getting late, and I must have been a little sleepy. As I puttered up the road across the river from Black Bluff, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. All of a sudden, something dark (almost black) “walked” across the road in front of me. I only caught a glimpse of it since it was just beyond the reaches of my headlights, but it was definitely primate and not human! As I passed the spot where this “thing” had disappeared into the trees, I became acutely aware of a foul stench in the air. Was I dreaming or had I just witnessed a myth, a living, breathing missing link in the evolutionary chain? Let’s just come right out and say it. . . . Had I just seen a Sasquatch!!?

Now, I have always chuckled to myself at the gullibility of some folks. How could they be duped into actually falling for such a hoax? But by the time I had reached Linnet’s Wings, I was making a pretty good argument for the existence of the Sasquatch species.

It turns out, however, that the youth group camping at Linnet’s Wings was playing a nighttime version of “Mission: Impossible,” and what I had thought of as a legitimate sighting was simply their youth pastor taking the game way too seriously. When I got the breaker fixed and the lights on, I noticed a whole herd of Sasquatches running around in black attire complete with dark face paint! Even though I was a little shaken, I truly love to see this kind of creativity with our Free Camp groups. They are building memories that will last a lifetime. Through fun and laughter, they are creating opportunities for people to encounter God, and that is what this place is all about.

By the way, the foul stench turned out to be a bottle of fox urine cover scent in my truck that I use when hunting. I guess I had inadvertently knocked it over in my excitement during “the sighting.” Anybody have a bottle of Febreze?

Here are some national highlights from the year 1912;

• New Mexico was admitted as the 47^th state.
• RMS Titanic sank to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
• Democrat Woodrow Wilson beat Theodore Roosevelt and William H. Taft in the 28^th presidential election.
• Roland Johnson was born.

“Who is Roland Johnson, and why is he so special?” you may ask.  Well, I guess Roland Johnson’s birth isn’t such a big deal on the national scene, but he’s pretty special to me.  Roland is a camper that I met a few years ago with Lakewood Church of Christ from Baytown, Texas.  This is truly one of my favorite groups in the Free Camp Program, and I look forward to seeing this gang of senior citizens every fall when they hold their annual retreat at Linnet’s Wings.  You may recall that I’ve written about this group a couple of times over the years.  They are a fun-loving bunch with a lot of great stories to tell.  For many, the retreat has become a bittersweet event because they have lost spouses, friends, and loved ones over the last 15 years.  There are some old timers in this bunch for sure, but when it comes to age, Roland eclipses them all.  If you’ve done the math, then you’ve figured it out.  You see,  Mr. Johnson is 97 years old! 

Let that sink in for a minute.  When I think about it, I have to shake my head in amazement.  This gentleman just spent four nights sleeping in a cabin on a 4-inch vinyl-covered foam mattress, and he can’t wait to come back next year! 

Here’s a little more background on Roland:

• He lost his bride on Valentine’s Day of this year.  They were married for 74 years!
• He fought in WWII and Korea!
• After retiring from a career in the military in 1962 (2 years before I was born), he then became a preacher.  But he just did that for 30 years!
• He plays a mean harmonica and knows about a thousand songs and hymns.  He gave a two-hour concert at this year’s retreat.  I don’t think I could play a harmonica for five minutes before keeling over from asphyxiation!

WOW!  What an inspiration.  What a witness.  What a life of service.  What a privilege to meet this man.  Don’t want to get too optimistic here, but we need to start thinking about how to honor a free camper who is 100!  Wouldn’t that be great?

P.S.  The next time someone gripes at me that the mattresses aren’t very comfortable, I’m going to have Roland give them a call. 

Can you believe summer is almost over?  You know what that means?  Football, hunting, cool weather, football, kids back in school, and football!  The Foundation Free Camp summer schedule is almost over too, and the rapid pace of the Canyon will start to gradually return to a more peaceful tempo.  I always have mixed emotions this time of year.  Even though the slower pace is nice, my family will be sorry to see the Youth Camp pull up their tents and move out, but I know they are tired and a little bedraggled.

We had an interesting group at Linnet’s Wings this past week.  Jim Ned Valley Church of Christ from Tuscola pulled off an amazing retreat.  My family had a couple of meals with them, and you would never meet a more lovable group of servant leaders.  For you University of Texas fans, Tuscola is the home of Colt McCoy, and I learned a valuable lesson: don’t ever wear an A&M shirt when giving an orientation to this group.  They can be a little rough on Aggie fans! Any way, during the orientation, I noticed a quiet guy in the back of the crowd that had an intriguing look.  I decided that I just had to meet this fellow and find out his story.  After visiting with him, I had to share his tale with my Foundation friends.

Zechariah Manyok Biar, one of the members of Jim Ned Valley Church of Christ, was actually one of the “lost boys of Sudan.”  Some of you may recall this horrific story during the Sudanese Civil Wars that happened from 1983 until 2005.  During this war, dubbed by many as the most bloody and brutal war of the 20th century, thousands of children were orphaned and separated from their families when government troops attacked villages killing many of the inhabitants.  Many children escaped into the jungles, but orphaned and with no support, they had to make epic journeys lasting sometimes years across the borders to international relief camps in Kenya.  Girls were often raped, killed, or taken as slaves to the north, and therefore, most of the survivors were boys, and they were termed “the lost boys of Sudan.”  Zechariah was one of these.

Zechariah literally walked across the Sahara Desert, and by the grace of God, he survived disease, starvation, thirst, and exposure.  It was also by the grace of God that he became a Christian through the witness of his brother with whom he was reunited after the wars.  Zechariah is now a graduate student at Abilene Christian University where he has acquired a Master of Arts in Christian Ministry and a Master of Science in Social Work.  One might think that he would want to apply his education anywhere but Sudan where he was so traumatized, but not so.  He plans to return to that war-torn country, where he will use his gifts to create opportunities for people to encounter God for the transformation of our world.  Sound familiar? 

I take great delight in knowing that people like Zechariah and his fellow members of Jim Ned Valley Church of Christ partner with the Foundation to bring about renewal.  Don’t you?

My “pat” answer when people ask why I left a career in teaching 8th graders is that “I wanted a change of scenery.” Actually, the truth is that my doctor advised me to find a less stressful environment where I would be less prone to sudden outbursts of rage, and the camping industry seemed to be a serene and tranquil environment. I am happy to report that in the last three years, my facial tick has almost subsided, and I haven’t had a single “episode” as my wife refers to them. I still try to avoid 8th graders, and William graciously handles any job-related activity that involves communicating with campers around the age 13. Yes, I have finally reached an even keel with no noticeable adverse side effects. I have finally reached an even keel with no noticeable adverse side effects. Which is why I found it odd, in my guarded state of mind, that I came to my senses and found myself dangling from a cliff 50 feet above the river!

William and I got a radio call from Alan one afternoon and were informed that some campers over at Echo Valley had spotted a lamb which was trapped on the cliffs across the river from the Ranch House. We headed over to investigate the situation and found that, sure enough, a wild mouflan lamb had become separated from its mother and had wandered into a crevice where it couldn’t climb out. We could see and hear the lamb’s mother who was bawling about a hundred feet above, and the lamb’s desperate bleating was barely more audible than a cricket. Rudy and Juan, who had heard the radio chatter and had come over to offer their help, judged the lamb to be less than 2 weeks old.

After surveying the situation, it was determined that one of us was going to have to cross the river, climb up to the lamb, catch it, and lift it up over a precipice where it could then return to its mother, and that I should be really careful when climbing over the wet slippery spots! Alan, who is always ready for adventure, volunteered for the mission, and we grabbed a canoe, paddled across the river, and began our assault on the face of the cliff.

If you have ever sat on the porch of the Echo Valley Ranch House, casually sipping a cup of “joe,” and wondered how difficult it would be to climb the bluffs across the river, you can stop wondering. I would liken the experience to negotiating the face of K2 in the Himalayas where 1 out of 3 climbers don’t return. It’s hard to ignore that statistic, especially when I could hear Rudy ask William if he had the phone number for Critical Air! An expert on falling, William reminded us that the water was only a couple of feet deep and if we lost our hold on the cliff, he advised us to land “belly buster” in the water so as not to hit the bedrock too hard. I doubted the sincerity of this wisdom, however, because the three of them were laughing so hard that Juan fell off the tailgate of his truck.

As we nudged rocks into thin air, I began to contemplate some serious questions. It’s amazing how clearly a man can think when he is clinging to a bluff in raw terror. Here is a brief summary of those thoughts:

Why am I here? Is this not the perfect example of the human race interfering with natural selection and the law of survival of the fittest? Am I about to prove the counterpart of that law? Isn’t the Mouflan sheep population too high anyway? Who hired William?

In the meantime, Alan, who apparently was raised by mountain goats, had gone ahead of me and scared the lamb back in my direction. The lamb managed to cover the area that had taken me 10 minutes to climb in about 3 seconds, and as the distance between us closed rapidly, I heard Rudy, Juan, William, and a bunch of 8th graders shouting at me to get ready! It quickly became obvious that the sure-footed little beast was unaware of my presence, but when it got close enough for me to grab it, I found that the only part of my body that wasn’t occupied in clinging to the cliff was my tongue! I could tell that the lamb was more than a little surprised to find a 225-pound man sticking his tongue out at him, and instead of turning back toward Alan, it jumped over me and took the path of least resistance down to our canoe. When Rudy asked why I didn’t grab it, I suppressed the urge to cross the river and remove his arms, and asked Alan if he had any other ideas.

As it turned out, the lamb had once again cornered itself in a bowl formed by the cliff, and short of steeling our canoe, it was once again trapped. After another unsuccessful but entertaining attempt at vertical shepherding, we finally cornered the little sucker down at the water’s edge. Alan positioned himself in the middle of the only possible escape route, and I grabbed the canoe, paddled over to the other side of the lamb, and pushed him toward our trap.

It worked! The lamb ran straight into Alan who grabbed it and tied its legs together. As we canoed triumphantly back to the safe side of the river, we were greeted by a mass of cheering 8th graders. I must admit that I was humbled by their esteem as they rushed toward us in an obvious gesture of praise as though we were heroes. It turned out, however, that they only wanted to touch the lamb.

“What’s the matter with your face?” a girl asked.

“It’s a facial tic! What does it look like?” I replied.

Eventually, we released the lamb on a higher section of the bluff behind the River House where it returned safely to its mother. As mother and child were reunited, I was reminded of a verse from the Prophet Isaiah, who wrote, “All of us like sheep have gone astray. Each of us has turned to his own way; But the Lord has caused the iniquity of us all to fall on Him” (53:6).

You think David ever tried vertical shepherding? No wonder he was so brave!