Change of pace

Last night over drinks it finally hit me. We were talking of our past lives, our lives when we were youngsters.

Part I.

I brushed with potential loss about 10 years ago in a near flash flood experience. I was hiking in a slot canyon in Utah with my aunt, uncle, cousins, mom and dad when a storm hit. I could reach out and touch the each side of canyon with my fingertips, and looking up, could see a sliver of blue a couple hundred feet above.

The "flash" in flash flood is not an overstatement. What was a dry canyon when we hiked in became polka dotted within seconds. We broke into a run, the canyon floor was soaked and the water was running within minutes. Waterfalls off the walls. Rocks falling. The falls were so powerful you could barely run through them. My mom lost her shoes. My dad picked them up.

The canyon didn't open up before it hit the water of the lake, and our array of inadequate floatation devices were still waiting for us. But we couldn't paddle through the falls. Our canoe sank instantly. Paddles and life jackets everywhere. We were swimming.

My dad was in the back of the pack, waiting for a distant cousin, who apparently didn't realize the desperation of the situation, my mom near the front panicking, searching the walls for a way out.

I was somewhere in the front, trying to calm my mom, watching my other not-so-desert-experienced cousin panic. There is a switch in my brain that automatically gets flipped in situations like this. I turn into all business and no panic. Exit situation ASAP. Panic later. Appreciate the power of what was happening. Notice that this might just be the most beautiful thing i will EVER see. might also be the last.

Other thoughts going through my head:

I can't live without my dad, he should ditch the cousin and RUN, then SWIM

Grab life jacket for yourself

I can't live without my dad, he should ditch the cousin and RUN, then SWIM

Grab life jacket for young cousin

Survey situation to make sure everyone else is okay

Keep swimming out of canyon, no, SWIM LIKE HELL OUT OF CANYON

I can't live without my dad, he should ditch the cousin and RUN, then SWIM

We heard our rescue boat coming after us, the roar echoing off the walls. I knew they wouldn't be able to see us. We made for the walls of the canyon, and tried to scream, but knew they wouldn't hear us. Pictures of us making it out of the canyon, but hit by the propellers of our rescue boat, flying through my head. I hugged the wall closer, and screamed louder.

The boat collected us. We flew out of the canyon and back to our houseboat. Sand imbedded in my scalp from the waterfalls and stones peeling off the walls. Bruises everywhere. My dad had a gash in his leg. "Ditch her and RUN, you have to make it out" flying through my head, repeating itself over and over and over again in my head.

That night I had a meltdown.

I often think about what it would have been like, how my life would have changed, and every day I am thankful that we all made it through.

Part II.

My deepest fear in my life is loosing my dad. I've met two people in Eugene, whom have had similar relationships with their dads, and have experienced loss. It wasn't until last night that it hit me in full. Jenn's blog, which I stumbled on this morning, brought it home.

My Eugene partner in crime and a few friends went out for drinks last night. We've had many a conversation about our families, and how we love them, but what struck me was said partner in crime's description of how the way of life on the farm changed after her father passed away. The hogs, which were the pride, livelihood and identity of the family, were sold. The cattle were eventually sold. Other family members farm the crops. Everything about the everyday changed in his absence.

My other good friend has carried on the work of her father, traveling the world in his spirit. She has somehow found a way to work with him and through the pain of the loss of a most wonderful person.

The connection in both cases still seems to be there, the power of the relationship seems not to have changed. And I can only hope to be so strong, and still feel so connected should I ever have to face my deepest fear.