Two Brothers and a Motorcycle Michael Quinn

 Two Brothers and a Motorcycle

     I hated the ‘60s family photos taken with my younger brother Gary.  Only two years apart in age, Gary and I were forced by our parents to wear identical shirts and flash the same goofy, toothy smile.  OK, maybe we were responsible for the smiles, but our parents bought the clothes.  They desperately wanted us to be close, and the same picture taken every few years and then displayed somewhere in the house reflected that desire.  Gary and I had other ideas.

     We wanted to be ourselves.  Individuals.  And by the time we were both in high school, our parallel projects of individuation were well underway.  I wanted to be a scholar, a sixteen-year-old philosopher in the making.  A true descendant of Athens.  Gary was to be a Spartan athlete.  As far as we were concerned, those silly tandem photos could gather dust on our parents’ shelves.  We were each seeking a separate path to freedom.

     At sixteen, of course, the main path to freedom is paved with asphalt.  The open road.  I scraped up enough money to buy a cheap knockoff brand to the popular Honda motorcycle.  (There are many ways to date oneself once you get past a certain age, but one surefire method is to tell a young person that you can remember a time when “Honda” only meant motorcycles.)  I would ride my bike everywhere, sans helmet, sans leather jacket, sans goggles…sans any speck of common sense.  It was exhilarating.

     When I left for college, the now sixteen-year-old Gary inherited my precious bike.  But he put his own stamp on the riding experience.  Gary always wore a helmet, a thick leather jacket, and goggles.  As he was doing on that October day half a century ago when, at 6:00 in the morning on his way to water polo practice, he drove north on Sunkist Street in Anaheim and entered the intersection with Lincoln Avenue. 

     Gary doesn’t talk much about what happened then, but he did spill forth to that other guy in those photos wearing the same stupid shirt.  I remember the details as if I were there.  Gary entered the intersection on a green light, his motorcycle lights on to account for the pre-dawn semi-darkness.  That intersection today is developed, with setback apartment buildings on the corners, but 50 years ago there were still trees blocking his view to the east.

     Coming from the east, driving westbound on Lincoln Avenue, was a mother (a soon-to-be victim of a different, psychological trauma).  She was a nurse, dropping off her young daughter before going to work.  She was a good person and, in most respects, a good driver.  But she had one terrible driving flaw.  Whenever she chatted with her daughter, as she was doing as she approached Sunkist Street, she would turn to look at her.  It was the little girl who noticed the light changing from green to yellow to red and who screamed when she saw the little motorcycle enter the intersection from the left.  Her mother barely touched the brakes before the impact occurred.

     Gary doesn’t remember the impact.  He thinks it comes back to him sometimes in nightmares, but he’s not really sure.  His doctors said that, at the maximum point of contact, the metal of the car came close to touching the metal of the motorcycle, crushing and almost severing Gary’s right leg.  The perpendicular motions of the car and motorcycle threw him diagonally across the intersection, shredding his leather jacket as he shot along the asphalt on his chest.  He was abruptly stopped by the curb on the northwest corner, which cracked his helmet all along the top.  I believe Gary still keeps that helmet in his master closet.  I’m sure he always will.

     I remember receiving the call from our father.  There was none of the usual warmth and humor in his voice.  It sounded more like fear, which I found interesting because I had never heard that before.  I know “interesting” is a terrible adjective to use in this context, but it is accurate.  Eighteen-year-olds may be at the apex of their physical development, but they are usually embryos when it comes to empathy and sensitivity to pathos.  I certainly was.  

     I had to see Gary, mashed up and covered from head to foot, to begin to comprehend what had happened.  It took me years to understand, fully, how devastating was his rehabilitation, which meant the end of his in-person high school experience and all of his athletic hopes.  It took me even more years, and my own life experiences, to appreciate his resilience and his undying sense of gratitude toward the doctors who miraculously pieced his leg together, binding chips of bone that were in some cases smaller than a finger.

     One thing I have never done is spend even one second wondering what would have happened to me had I been on the bike that day.  Given what a dope I was, the answer is clear.  Gary would be writing today about the older brother who passed away so tragically, fifty years ago.  We are both lucky, me that I avoided such a bleak alternative, and Gary that he grew and learned from his terrible experience to become the wonderful husband, father, and man that he is.  

     He says the accident, or rather his recovery from the accident, directed him to find a purpose in life.  A good purpose he found, ministering to people as a Catholic deacon.  He also ended up becoming a dual citizen of both Athens and Sparta, pursuing interests in religious studies and always taking on such physical challenges as he can muster.

     

     There is perhaps one other byproduct of that October day.  We are still individuals, Gary and I, but we each keep one of those silly tandem photos in our own homes now.  I think we’re both OK with our parents finally getting their wish.                                      

       

   

Near Death by Brian Brown

 

                                                          Near Death

     She had been gone about five months. After a two year battle with cancer and an ugly  death that had traumatized the three of us  my wife of 36 years was gone. Our two grown children and myself were all shuffling forward;  functioning, dazed, quiet, and damaged. We lived apart from each other, any comfort that could be garnered by physical proximity was not available. 

     A routine developed; I didn’t do it, it just happened. Work in the morning, go home around noon, lay on the couch and weep for a bit, and then on to the next thing. I was overwhelmed with the details and minutia of running a small business, legal matters, employees, personal grief, and the prospect of having to live out my own  earthly stay alone. I was slowly being buried, sinking  into the gooey, cold, dark mud of loss and depression. I could see no end for me other than as an old man alone, living out my days in isolation in this lonely desert canyon. What might be the chances of one day meeting a suitable companion? Of an attractive, intelligent woman driving down that dirt road and finding me? About the same as being hit by a meteor, I decided. 

    One day while making the short 3 minute drive from the business to my house a random thought occurred to me. Just a little muse in my brain, nothing to take too seriously. It said,  “ I wonder how bad it would hurt to put a gun in your mouth and pull the trigger? ”  Just wondering.      Hell, I had been an athlete in high school and college, and had endured the pain of those practices hours a day for years, voluntarily. My life of physical work on this farm had dropped a normal number of accidents and mishaps in my lap, and some of them had been quite painful. I could do the pain, if there was any. 

     It could only last for an instant, right? What would it be like? A moment of extraordinary pain?  A jolting electrical pulse? A flash of blinding light? Hmmm. I remembered what I knew about the construction of the brain. A lot of the instantaneous, lights - out mechanisms were located at the top of the brain stem, I recalled. One would have to consider the angle of the barrel to be sure to include those.  What would it be like?  No one knows, and those who do aren’t talking. And then a brief consideration of the mess it would leave behind, on all levels. I pulled into the garage and it went away, pushed aside by the more immediate consideration of what to do for lunch. 

    A few minutes later as I made a sandwich in the absolute silence of my new existence, A big clanging alarm went off in my head. It said , WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT??  I stopped with the sandwich and stood there. What had that been? Was I really thinking about THAT? No, I didn’t think so. It had just been a sort of… curiosity. Just wondering. Maybe just feeling too sorry for myself. Just an indulgent, random moment of pity and drama. However to best describe it, it had the feel of an incomplete visit. 

    You are in trouble boy, I realized.  You need to do something, or you need to get some help. But you need to do something, or that unasked for little curiosity might come back to pursue that idea further. As I stood there with a knife in one hand and a half sliced tomato  in the other, I considered all of this. I was not suicidal, I knew that. But I wasn’t ok either, and I now realized that with a new clarity. 

    In the remote location where I have spent all of my married life it is difficult to get things done. If you need oil changed, or junk hauled away, or a tree cut down, you have to figure it out and do it yourself. There simply aren’t any other options out here. As an old miner once told me, you  just have to put your head down and your ass up and go to work. Maybe this was going to be like that. Maybe I would have to figure it out for myself.  

    And I did; after mulling it  over I concluded that the problem was simple. I don’t do well alone. Ok, how do we solve this problem? A solution isn’t going to come to me, so I am going to have to go out and find one.  Maybe some college courses, or join a monthly club or group of some kind. In the mean time,  keep moving, one step at a time, one day at a time. Do the dishes, the laundry, vacuum occasionally, tend the yard, breathe in, breathe out, repeat as necessary. 

     A few months later I made a decision to seek companionship, which led a to a single, brief and somewhat comical adventure in Internet dating. Note; do not let a bunch of liquored up high school buddies make up your dating profile. They lie. Eventually a chance encounter with a woman we  had been vaguely acquainted with would lead to a friendship, and then a relationship, and a way forward. At some it became clear that I had come through the storm. I was changed, altered, but then that is what the storm is about. 

     That little, niggling curiosity never reappeared. Had I been near to Death? Probably not mine, but I had still been too near to hers. I had put my face up to the window of a very dark room, a room no one should ever enter. My life long habit of momentum instead of inertia had served me well. The interplay of our physical lives and our emotional state had shoved me forward enough to never reconsider a second look into that window. That room is gone now. 

 Forest tubs
-- rickiT

It was a sunny summer day in the forest.

Peppermint Creek was a rushing playful sparkle.

It cut through trees, fern and boulders.

The water was so clear that schools of river trout could be seen.

Jays and warblers harmonized to the syncopating creek.

Paula and I were dressed in shorts and sun shirts.

We wore tennis shoes with no socks.

The sun baked through the filter of tree tops.

Our step was light along the creek side trail.

We came from up stream where the rock slide is.

The slide is a flat slippery granite boulder which had flung us down a long slope into a shallow pool at the bottom of a hill.

Remember Slip and Slides?

The rock slide is better.

We must have ridden the slide a dozen times.

We were dry now and no one was on the trail.

The forest was ours.

The creek had been rapids for the last twenty minutes but was starting to slow.

A squirrel ran up to us, begged on hind legs, then scurried away, tail flitting behind him.

We giggled at paradise.

Around a bend in the trail the creek suddenly poured into a perfectly round 20 foot diameter depression in the rock.

The water in the hole swirled around.

Down creek the water spilled into another slightly larger hole.

The swirling water was a little slower in this second hole.

At the down stream end the water poured into a third smaller hole.

The swirling of the third hole was ferocious.

The water leaped out of the last hole and cascaded down a craggy waterfall.

The waterfall roared.

A rainbow across the bottom of the waterfall was a false promise.

We retraced our steps to the first hole.

“It looks like a Jacuzzi,” I said.

“They are forest tubs,” said Paula.

It was now mid day and I was hot.

Sweat coated my body.

The tub sure looked good.

“I’m going to jump in,” I said.

“I don’t think so. Are you sure?” Paula’s brow furrowed.

“Yep. Hold my towel.”

We still had our towels from the rock slide.

I jumped in.

The water was cool and invigorating.

The tub was deep, maybe 10’ or so.

The swirling current pulled me along the perimeter of the tub in a steady circle.

I looked up at Paula.

She looked worried.

“Come on out,” she said.

I noticed the banks of the tub looked steeper from inside than they had from the outside.

I reached up to pull myself out and I could not reach the edge.

My hands slipped along the smooth interior of the tub as the current dragged me around.

I’m not a great swimmer so my frustration built quickly.

“I can’t get out of this one.”

“I’m going to go into the next tub,” I said, maybe a little louder than I meant.

When the spillway came around I grabbed an adjacent boulder and scooted over the smooth mouth into the second pool.

Here the water was calmer, but the banks were still steep and tall.

At least I could hold onto a rock outcropping and rest from swimming. 

I reached up to grab the edge but it was beyond my reach.

Paula reached down toward me, but our hands were still a foot apart.

Even if we had a rope the sides of the tub were slippery and too steep.

Oh my.

“The bank of the next pool is less steep,” Paula said. Her customary confidence was gone from her voice.

I remembered what lay beyond and it was not survivable.

The spillway came around and I went for it.

I was now in a whirlpool.

The current whipped me around.

The bottom was below my feet.

The edge was just beyond my hands.

As the spillway came around it was all I could do to push past it.

Paula was desparate.

“Should I go for help?”

“Too far. I won’t last.”

Paula looked down at her hands, still holding the towels.

“THAT’S IT!” she exclaimed.

Quickly she tied the two towels together.

She tied one end to a belt loop on her shorts.

She braced herself on a boulder near the edge and threw down the towel.

As I came around I grabbed at the towel and missed.

Around I whirled pushing past the spillway.

On the next approach I grasped the towel.

Summoning all my remaining strength I pulled myself hand over hand out of the tub.

I fell into Paula’s lap trembling.

She held me tight and made small sounds.

After a while we stood up.

I looked down into the tub and its swirling whirlpool.

The birds were still singing with the creek.

The wind in the trees was rhythm for the song.

The rainbow at the bottom of the fall was still lying. 

Twice, Face Down in the Dirt Mark Farenbaugh

 Twice, Face Down in the Dirt  – Mark Farenbaugh

Part 1

  

     After high school, the parents moved us further south in lower California, from Orange to San Diego County.  That meant that I had to abandon my main source of income, the lawn route I had built up during high school. I had no money to afford going to college, so I took the next available job offer, that of working in construction.  I soon discovered that I had a talent for working on big dirt-moving heavy equipment.  Not afraid of new ventures, I took advantage of an offer from an old family friend, and it worked out well.  Moving dirt paid much better than a lawn route.  

     But, upon entering that field of work, I quickly realized how dangerous the heavy equipment environment could get.  No worries, I was basically fearless and didn’t really care about the unknown. 

     All I was focused on, at the time, was to get a job and move out of the house. Independence is what I craved. 

     After a few years, I was in-demand and could choose the company I wanted to work with.  I was especially skilled at finish grade work, but there were times when the owners would send me to special jobs: rebuilding fallen sloops, finishing house pads in isolated areas, reading construction blueprints and guiding others.  

     In some cases, I was asked to do the work other operators just wouldn’t do.  

     Routinely, the next “dirt” job was announced with an early morning call from the boss. 

The call directed me to a place east of Lemon Grove in San Diego County.  I was to await the arrival of a bulldozer.  

     In this case, it was a Caterpillar D-9H, the largest and most powerful made at that time.  It weighed over 50 tons and had an engine powerful enough to move it.  

     To transport equipment that large, the the bulldozer was put on large, low profile, trailers commonly called ‘low boys’. 

     My boss arrived the same time that the CAT did.  

     “Holy shit,” I thought, “That is a huge monster.”  I had mostly been driving the slightly smaller D-8.  But, I was usually game for anything.  The CAT control levers were standardized.

     As the truck driver was off-loading it, my boss gave me instructions for the day.  We were standing on a 20-acre piece of land that had eucalyptus trees all over it.  The boss said I was to push over every tree and that the “low boy” would return at 6:00pm. 

     Not an easy task. A couple of the trees were on a steep slope that led down to a dirt drop off of about 10 feet, to the short back yard of an abandoned house.  Some of the other trees were the largest I had ever seen; a challenge for the D-9, even with its size and power.  

     The future for the land was to build a small tract of houses.  All the trees had to be removed.

     I had no problem with pushing trees over, but when it comes to eucalyptus it’s super dangerous.  They are very heavily ladened with water and the branches can snap loose with any heavy movement. 

    “By the way,” my boss said, “don’t lose a track doing this.  If you hear a track pin come loose, stop and check it, then try to park the dozer on a level spot so we can repair it.”  

     I walked with him toward the tractor.  “Is everything okay with it?” I asked.  

     “Sure,” he said, “except one small thing.  The neutral position needs adjustment, so be sure it’s really in neutral before getting off when the engine is running.  Use the safety lever.”

     “What about the house?” I asked, “am I to knock it down, as well?”

     “Nope, you can leave it alone.  The owners are thinking of moving it, but I doubt that it’s possible since the house pad is too small to maneuver it off in one piece.”

     “Oh, and another thing.  I suggest you try to get those trees off that steep slope, first. Then go after all the lower trees.  And, good luck with that tower-of-babel.”  He was referring to the one huge eucalyptus tree in the center of the parcel of land.

      With the boss heading back to his truck, and the low-boy pulling out, I climbed onto the D-9.  “Shit, this is a big tractor,” I thought again.

      I dreaded going after the trees on the hill. First, because I hadn’t been on one of this more powerful and newer D-9.  Second, because I needed to get a feel for the “friction” levers.   

     Turning a continuous-track dozer is accomplished by pulling one of the friction levers, to release the clutch on one side, and then applying the brake on the same side.  To turn left, pull the left lever toward yourself, and then push the left brake. That allows the right tract to continue moving and the result is a left turn.  Simple. After a while, it ‘s automatic.  And it better be if you want to survive as an operator.  

     However, the speed of the engine is controlled by a ‘decelerator’ pedal.  Pushing down on it reduces fuel to the engine. It’s a convenient feature, which reduces leg fatigue by not having to push the pedal all day long.  Simple once you get used to it.

     I knocked down a couple trees on my way to the long and steep slope where the old house was located.  No problem for this huge beast.  I knew it was a matter of easing up to the tree, making contact, then start pushing. The higher the blade, the more the leverage.

     Obviously, the house pad was cut into the middle of the hill many years before, to get a good view. 

     I choose to crawl up the hill slope on the right side of the house, then cut across diagonally up the slope behind the house.  As I started passing the house, I could see there was about a 10-foot vertical drop down to the short back yard. It was all loose dirt; something that wouldn’t get approved in present day construction permitting.  The house had to be some fifty-plus years old. 

     I had to make sure I was well above that drop off, since it wouldn’t take even 5 feet to topple the dozer, if I were to fall off it sideways.  

     As I passed the house, I realized that the steep hill was covered with 3-foot-tall weeds and lots of large rocks. Like, 2-foot-large rocks.  There was no way to see what type of terrain or other obstacles were in front of me.  

     “No problem,” I thought.  “I’ll just lower the huge dozer blade in front and skim the ground as I go. The large rocks will roll toward the left and down the slope.”  And they did.

     I continued traveling in a diagonal direction up the hill, toward the two trees I needed to knock down, which meant the left side of the bulldozer was on the downhill side.  

     It seemed that the distance from the house pad to the trees was about 70 feet.  

     

     Pushing the decelerator, I stopped the dozer to get a look at where I was on the hill and how to get down from it.  Something I always did.  One has to know how to get down from a hill when operating heavy equipment.  

     From my position, I estimated that the two trees were exactly above the house.  Once I pushed them over, I would turn downward, keeping the left side of the dozer toward the bottom of the hill and proceed to the other side of the house.  No problem.  A simple and good plan.

       I took my foot off the decelerator and proceeded upward.  Rocks were rolling to the left.

My approach was good. The tumbleweeds were being pushed together and eventually rolling left, as well.  

    Then it happened.

    When I was within 15 feet of the trees, the right side of the wide blade flipped upright a large rock, which went under the right track.  I didn’t see it in time.  

    The right track lurched upward.  

I could feel a sudden surge of adrenaline. “No,” I yelled out loud.

I was suddenly as scared I could ever be; shit-level scared.  

This kind of tractor is not designed to be on a severe slope and has a max-tilt angle of about 45 degrees. 

     I was close to that 45 degrees and could feel it!  The only thing preventing a quick rollover was the large side arm connecting the frame to the blade.

     The right track was in the air.  The left track was on its own left edge, making an unnerving screeching metal sound. 

     Then, the dozer started to overturn!

 “F……!” I screamed.  

     Without thinking, I pulled hard on the left friction lever which put the left track in neutral and I started moving quickly in reverse!  

     At the same time, the large rock under the right track must have moved again, because as I was moving backward, the dozer was pushed into a hard-left spin.  A

 violent left. 

     Bang ! 

The dozer’s right track landed on the hard ground, but it was still in drive.  More left spin! 

In a split second, I was facing downhill.  

     In another second, the dozer was swinging more to the left and the right track was suddenly on the downhill side.  The view of the house disappeared into my right peripheral vision as the CAT continued its leftward turn.

     My right foot was nowhere near the decelerator to slow the engine!  All the jerky movements kept me off balance.

     The right track kept crawling. The leftward momentum continued......shit……

I was nearly completing a full 360 and was pointing uphill, again.

    “But how?!” my mind was racing, “Dozers don’t turn this fast!”

Shit.   I was on a slab of granite!  Less traction!  And, I was sliding!

    Instinct reactions put the dozer in reverse.  Right friction, right brake!    Right track locked.  Left track in reverse!

The dozer fell backward faster.    

     “I had to get the dozer pointed back downhill in order to survive the fall off the backyard drop off!” I thought. 

     I could see the house, again, to my left….and I was still sliding toward it!  In my reflexes to turn the CAT around, I had lost awareness of how close I was.  

     “In a few seconds, I am going to flip this thing over!” my inner brain was in a panic. 

 Left friction, left brake, transmission in drive!

“Keep turning you bastard!”  I said loudly.

    Still at full throttle, the blade continued to the left.  

Instinctively, I lowered the blade.

     I was running out of dirt under me.  The 10 foot drop off to the pad was right there!  Shit.  Too close for me to stop!  

     Finally, the CAT was nearly facing downhill. 

     Fifty tons of iron speeding toward the drop off and the house below!  My mind prepared for a death roll.

 The large blade cut into the ground about 7 feet before the drop off.  The tracks stiffened but did not slow down.

     A wave of dirt and rock went flying. 

By pure luck, or the dozer’s angel, the dirt in front of the blade filled the bottom of the drop off and made a small, but usable, ramp!   

     In a second, the huge beast crossed the 10 feet distance to the house and went crashing into the living room.

     BAMM !

     The blade disappeared into the house.  The front of the dozer followed it.  

I pulled the left friction, smashed down on the left brake, and pressed down on the decelerator.  Full stop. 

      “Damn,” I said, “I can’t believe I didn’t roll this bitch,” and breathed in a lung full of dust and started coughing….. 

     “Now what?” I whispered to myself.  

     I looked back at the notch I had carved through the top of the drop off.  Then, I looked up the hill at the trees, and at all the scars the dozer had made coming down.  

     I had to get back up there.  

I put the dozer into reverse and started backing out of the house.  I pulled the right friction and brake, lifted the blade, and backed away from the house in a reverse right.  

     Then, I heard that dreadful screech and snap that a track link makes when the track pin comes loose.  Shit.

     I quickly released the right friction and stopped the dozer. I was nearly on a flat surface. I needed to confirm if a track was coming loose.  Since I was turning right in reverse, it had to be the left one.  The moving track.  

     I put the dozer into neutral and set the shift guard.  

     I got off the running dozer and started my inspection of the outside track links.  All was good on the outside.  It had to be an inner pin of the track.  That meant crawling under the dozer.

     I got under the ripper bar in the rear of the dozer, took off my hard hat, and started crawling on my belly.  Normally, there is plenty of room, but there was a lot of dirt to navigate over.  

     I made my way about eight feet under the dozer, close to the left track. I couldn’t see any track pin out of place.  

     “Good.  I can keep working,” I thought.  

Suddenly, the tracks stiffened as the transmission slipped into reverse!  Damn! The motor was in idle, but it has lots of torque and the tractor started moving backward. No!   I got scared shitless, immediately.

      I pushed at the dirt, trying to move backward fast enough to outrun the tractor.  It was a narrow escape path, between moving track and dirt.  

     “I am crawling fast,” I thought.  But, my brain screamed, “Crawl faster!”

     I had to keep my left foot and leg from getting too close to the reversing track.  

If even my pants got under the track, I wouldn’t be able to get free and the blade would crush me.  

     The track links normally make a horrendous screeching noise, but I had never been that close to a moving track and under a powerful diesel CAT motor. It was screaming loud! 

     Although, it probably took ten seconds to crawl out, it felt like an eternity!  I finally got back far enough to get to my knees and perform a tuck-and-roll to the left.  

     I was free!

     The tractor kept moving backward.

     When I got to my feet, I realized that there was no obstacle behind the tractor that would stop it.  I had to risk climbing aboard the moving track and getting into the cabin.  

     My adrenaline was pumping so much that I had to take a moment to do this right.  A bad approach to a moving track could mean a broken leg, or worse.  There were plenty of stories.

    I stepped up on the blade arm and jumped onto the moving left track, then grabbed the huge roll cage and climbed onto the chair. It was a quick couple of seconds.  Done.  The beast was subdued.  

     “I can’t believe I got away with all that,” I said to myself.  Whew.   

“I’ll never do that again.” 

Part 2

Years later…..

 

     I had been aware that the “sand boxes” of the Mideast were full of sights and smells that would surprise the most worldly of travelers.  I had already been in Saudi Arabia as a young military officer and had a good sampling of the Arab’s chaotic government and old culture. 

     To me, they were always just surviving. Everything  was primitive or simple. I expected it all to be the same.  Everyone watching sand grow old and living a quiet life.  So, I volunteered to return.

     As a Captain in the Air Force, I was on loan to the United Nations Truce Supervision Organization (UNTSO), which was headquartered in Jerusalem.  It had outpost commands in Cairo and Jordan. The UN was there as a result of the many wars that occurred many years earlier. 

     My first six-month assignment was in Cairo. Their mission was simple, patrol the Sinai of Egypt and observe-and-report any possible aggression, or the need for rescue.

    HQ Cairo has six different observation posts (OP) and each of them have four or five routes to patrol.  Usually, nothing special happens.  But when it does, the colonels-in-charge usually send a “Yank” and a Brit or Scandinavian or Russian, to get things back to normal operations.  I don’t know why.  

     During the week stay in the Sinai, one officer stays at the OP and the other conducts the patrol.  The hardest part is normally the task of cooking dinner at the end of the day.  Then, the two officers switch roles.  

     Each route has its reporting points to keep it safe and nicely operational. 

     In the Sinai, there is not much to see.

    The most challenging of the patrols are in the south of the Sinai.  The main reason for this is the terrain. The worst part is patrolling in the ‘wadis’, the usually dry river beds that crisscross the southern Sinai desert.

     However, there is another reason patrolling in the wadis is bad.

     Most know the history.  After the Arabs attacked Israel in 1967, there was a violent and famous 6-day war, after which the Israelis occupied the Sinai.  Subsequently, there were lots and lots of defense equipment used to occupy this foreign-held territory between Egypt proper and Israel. 

     My mission on the first day, was to patrol a specific wadi.  I was given more than the usual period of time between reporting points to complete it, as there had been a lot of rainfall and flash floods.  Many of the identifiable landmarks could be swept away or covered. I was to take good notes on this route.

     “This is not my first rodeo with the desert,” I said to myself.  “I have plenty of water, a topographical map, and a drawing showing the distances to the check-in points and some identifiable landmarks.”  So, I thought. 

     Luckily, I had strong skills in reading maps.  I found the handwritten maps to be of little use, because whoever did them never quite added up the miles correctly.  The distances were almost always in error.  But that sums up the United Nations, so to speak.

     The vehicles for patrolling are all four-wheel-drive.  This day, I had one of the better jeeps.  It had an excellent balance for sand or rock.  I loved driving it, except for the creaky noises it made.  It was an older vehicle.

     At about two hours into my route, I was getting used to driving in the wadi’s river sand. I was using up a lot of gas, but I had enough. Nothing to worry about.  

     The wadi had steep sides and was mostly dry sand.  And, it was a bit narrower than others. That bothered me, as radio contact was nil. Except at the reporting points on the handwritten map.

    “If I break down here,” I thought.  “I am going to be in a lot of hurt.”

     I had to keep stopping to see if the milage I was seeing on the odometer was what was written on the drawing.  So far none of the identifiable landmarks were present.  

     “Or maybe I went up the wrong wadi.”  

     “No way am I lost,” I said to myself.  “No way.”

     I drove another five miles, searching to see the opening in the steep walls, on the right.  The map showed only one, and only a few miles north of where I last took my bearings off the topographic map.  I knew I had to get back to the East.  I had been driving north forever, it seemed.

     Then, I saw the narrow opening of a wadi branching off to the right.

     “Victory!” I said to the map.  “I am not lost.”  

“I knew it,” and eagerly drove about 200 yards into the new wadi, then decided to stop to note the miles and correct the map.

     “No way!  Shit. No way!”  I started to perspire in panic.

Looking at the hand-drawn map, I realized that I was in a mine field. An old one, but the stories I heard were not just stories. 

     “Don’t stray off the path,” the seasoned guys said. “We lost an observer a year ago to a mine.”

     But there was no path, here.

     I got out my binoculars and looked around.  Maybe the map was wrong.

At each corner of the area I was parked in, were stacks of mines.  The map was right. 

     When the Israelis pulled out, they de-mined the Sinai as best they could.  

     I couldn’t just keep driving.  The water that rushed through this narrow area could have carried mines anywhere.  I had to get out and look.  

    But how?  Look for what?

I took a deep breath of air and climbed slowly out of the old Jeep.  As the Jeep door creaked, I couldn’t help thinking that the noise could set off a mine.  Crazy.

     “What was I going to do?”  I thought, “poke the ground with a knife, like in the movies?”  Nuts!

     I decided to get down on my stomach and use the binoculars in an attempt to find any fuses on the surface of the sand.

    I knew that the fuse on old mines is normally a couple inches higher that the mine disc.  

     “But why wouldn’t they have removed all of them?” I asked myself.

“Stay on the path.”  Shit.

      I was scared.  Even if I survived with a slight injury, I would be long dead before anyone came looking for me. 

     After searching for about 10 minutes in the scorching sun, I decided to walk forward to what should be the end of the mine field.

     At about twenty feet, I lost my nerve and got down on my stomach, again. 

Another ten minutes passed.  Nothing.  

     I was getting thirsty.  It was nerves.

     I got back up and continued walking.  Only when I got to the perimeter of the mine field, could I calm down a little. 

     “Damn this….,” I thought. My heart was pounding.  I was safe.  But, without water and a map, I won’t make it to the OP. I had to get back to the vehicle.

     I walked back slowly, staying in the foot prints I had just made.  My legs were slightly shaking. 

    When I got to the Jeep, I froze in horror.

    There was my footprint on the disc of a partially buried mine!  How did I miss that!  I could also see that I had laid down, right next to it!

     I swallowed air.

When I looked closer, I could see that the fuse was removed.  Shit.

    There was nothing I could do to make this better. I accepted my fate.  I didn’t even bother dusting off.  I slowly got into the Jeep and drove down the center of the wadi.  

     “Stay on the path.”

“I will never do that again,” I said to myself.