The wonderment of it all can only be imagined.
Our tiny rock, powered by a relatively small sun.
We share it with innumerable insects, reptiles,
animals of all sorts, sea life, and fowl.

We’re the intelligent ones, or so it’s been said,
though perhaps that’s imagined also. We think nature’s
creatures are our subordinates, yet they don’t tote guns,
start wars, or pollute, steal, discriminate, cheat,
or practice cruelty the way we “smart ones” do.

Animals may kill to eat, but we for a thousand reasons or
maybe none. Imagine what we might learn from nature’s world,
or from a different life form I can easily imagine, light years
away under a foreign sun, these exemplary souls of peace and
harmony. My mind resonates with thoughts these beings learned all
the lessons we ignored, stretching psyches to total intelligence.
We’re partially there, not almost, but imagine the possibility.

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Ancient in years, he lay alone
in his rickety bed clutching his only pillow
which, like him, was stained and creased from
time’s cruel assault. He knew his remaining days
were waning, the constant clock ticking them away,
but loneliness and age robbed any concern.

Sinking his head into the crusty pillow, sleep
conquered the old man in no time, the dream following
close behind, capturing his psyche, holding his
mind at ransom. Swiftly, the dream carried him
off to see the world even with eyes tightly
shut, his sleepy unawareness transformed to
conscious thought without his awakening.

In minutes he saw what he had never seen in all his
abundant years: people of all colors, creeds, and religions
living side by side in peace and harmony. He saw
nothing remained of war, hunger, disease, or crime
but bitter memories. Awake now, he refocused on
reality, indifferent once again his days were few.

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Without a hint, Bach soon lashed out with fury,
his up tempo allegro sending her speeding, now
spinning, jumping, twisting, her arms and legs
seemingly connected as they moved in harmonious
agreement. The music slowed once more, now dark
and melancholy, and she skated easily, relaxed,
catching her breath in preparation for Bach’s
torrid, unrestrained finale.

Moments later, she hastened again, more so
than before, her mind and body in total command
of an array of balletic movements, ending with an
abrupt stop, a plume of icy spray behind her.
Thunderous applause and tossed bouquets filled the air,
mixed with shouts of “Bravo!”. Witness to such perfection,
delivered by such a small child, I wiped away a tear.
“Bravo!” I yelled, “Bravo!”

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We ambled on down the midway, deciding to see a couple
of sideshow freaks, their makeup so obviously phony
I laughed tears from my eyes, while lovable but gullible Ann
studied them in earnest awe. So many things to see and do.
Exhibits, rides and games, competitions, animals big and small,
attractions galore.

I dipped into my pockets for the evening’s much
advertised concert, after which Ann wanted to
check out the pig judging finals. I agreed, saying
we better grab a coney island first because seeing
pork will make me hungry. Her turn to laugh, she did,
spreading the cotton candy wide
on her cute little face.

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After minutes – was it an hour? – watery
eyes glanced sideways at my friend Don,
both of us grinning like six year olds
blowing out candles on a birthday cake.
Our fourth attempt. Our first conquest.

Shivering, my steamy breath formulated
a question I could answer, “Just how high
is Mt. Hood, Don?” Without hesitation,
Don rolled a cloud of steam back, “Eleven
thousand, two hundred thirty-seven feet,
eight and three-quarter inches.”
We laughed and laughed, me wondering all
the while if the extra inches were true.

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It was December 17, 1903, and the boys from Ohio weren’t
listening, in favor of spending time at the beach with
the flying machine they optimistically named “The Flyer”.
Turning the self-made propeller on the self-built engine,
the machine coughed, sputtered, then bellowed, ready now
for a third attempt to imitate a bird, to shed it’s bondage
to the earth.

Wilbur Wright at the controls, it lifted into the air,
bouncing up and down to a height of 10 feet before kicking up
sand some 12 seconds later and 120 feet distant. When news
reached his saloon, Al softened a bit, saying he was glad
the boy’s folly had given them a little fun, but nothing more
will ever come of it. “Hear, Hear” came the chorus, holding out
glasses as Al circled the room pouring another round.

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Our waiter had told us he was 136 feet in the air,
causing me to remember the time I chickened out
when challenged to attempt the high dive at our
community pool. The “clavadista” waited patiently
for just the right turquoise wave, needing it to
avoid broken bones, or worse, when his body
struck the shallow inlet so far below.

Leaping now, he sailed through the air with courage, 
focused, arms spread wide, gracefully flying bird-like
into the blue Pacific. As watching boats honked horns
in merry appreciation, I turned toward my wife.
“Comparatively speaking” I said, “my commission
only sales job really isn’t that risky is it?”

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After all, at age 14 you were the town’s only real
celebrity, better known and definitely better liked
than cranky old Mayor Clark.

Your brother Jim wanted to be your agent he said,
holding the stool for your friend Alice who, wobbling back
and forth, finally tacked up your picture from the 8th
grade recital. The three of you stood staring, half
afraid the photo pirouette would spin you off the wall.

What a debut you had! Collectively, the entire town
envisioned ballet performances in New York, LA, Paris
and London. Collectively, the entire town closed
it’s eyes and dreamed of thundering applause and
bouquets thrown in air. But alas, you didn’t stay 14,
and when older, you couldn’t stay clean and sober.

You could have been somebody, you know that girl?

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Apophis has morphed, now a near earth object, a 220 foot wide
asteroid demon with a one in 5,500 chance to impact our planet
in 2036, only 29 short years away, taking untold millions of lives
while wrapping the planet in a cloud of murky dust. Laugh not at
the odds, rather consider that the potential consequences are just
too great, too serious to not be taken seriously, the tiniest
risk unacceptable. Consider also many have won the lottery jackpot
at odds of millions to one, making 5,500 sound a small number.

If 29 years seems a long warning period, scientists and
governments worldwide know it’s not, working at this moment, day
and night, planning, calculating, searching for the most certain
way to destroy the demon asteroid, to annihilate the evil snake
in 21st century guise. Apophis has returned. Let us pray mankind
not go the way of the dinosaurs 65 million years past.

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Two days earlier, having gladly paid a company that
organized this life risking opportunity, they had flown,
eager and excited, to La Paz, Bolivia, in South America,
just north of the Tropic of Capricorn. The big day having
finally arrived, the group was up before sunrise, nine
men and three women, to climb aboard the bus to La
Cumbre, a mountain pass almost 16,000 feet, more than
three miles, above sea level.

All in their 20’s and 30’s and all brave souls, they
were still human and therefore not totally intrepid,
each stifling undisclosed fear and anxiety as they listened,
solemn and intent, while the excursion’s leader offered
safety tips and riding instructions. In effect, his words
are a “How To” for cycling what the Spanish refer to as
“El Camino de la Muerte”, literal translation “Death Road”,
and living to tell about it.

It’s a bit of a misnomer to call the stretch before them a road,
it’s little more than a narrow ledge, often no wider than
a single car, carved into a mountainside in the Andes
Mountains. The alternative to the menacing name “Death Road”,
“The World’s Most Dangerous Road” is no more comforting,
so no one in the group scoffs when the leader
draws out a small flask of brandy to offer a blessing of
sorts to Pachamama, Bolivia’s earth goddess, hoping to
earn her favors as they challenge the ledge before them on
mountain bikes. Taking a swig, he pours a splash on the road,
and the twelve follow suit thinking, “Hey, how can it hurt?”.

Straddling their bikes they push off, beginning a journey of
sixty miles in which they will drop from nearly 16,000 feet
above sea level to 5,000 feet, traveling through thick clouds
and dense fog over a muddy, slimly, slippery road pelted with
driving rain, hopefully ending in the lush subtropical jungle on
the banks of the Amazon.

The twelve have been briefed that the first fifteen miles
are paved, and grateful for that, they start out gently enough,
getting used to the terrain, even to a bit of traffic as a few
trucks and cars creep by with a couple of inches to spare.

This first leg of the excursion is all downhill which doesn’t
mean it’s easy, it takes concentration, especially when cornering,
and the words from their briefing ring loud in every ear, “If you
don’t go ’round the corner, you go off the cliff.”

Of course, all had done their homework prior to paying their
fee, all aware that in one year 300 persons in cars, buses
and trucks, as well as eleven mountain bikers, had met their
maker by plunging off the sheer side of the cliff. Only the easy
part was behind them now as the group paused, at the end of the
paved section, gasping for breath in the razor thin air and
allowing four laggards to catch up. When they did, the leader’s
talk remains as ominous as before, “No more pavement left,
and for the next three miles you’ll be pedaling mostly uphill”.

Muscles screaming, begging, praying for oxygen, they inch
along this length of upward hill, through thick clouds,
with visibility next to zero. Their path is rutted, wet,
muddy, slimy, strewn with rocks big as a fist, but they’re
thankful the heavy haze has obscured from view the deadly
drop on the left. At long last, and not a moment too soon,
they reach the end of the uphill trek. The leader calls for a
brief rest period after delivering good news for a change,
telling the group the remainder of the trip is all downhill.

They bump and roll downward, cornering carefully, deliberately,
knowing that one mistake could be their last. Two bikers slip
and slide, struck by a mild mud and rock fall from the cliff, but
fortunately the slimy muck they fall into cushions, actually
protects them, from harm to body or bike. Helped up and on
their way again, all twelve, thirteen including the leader from
the organizing company, soon pass a large rock jutting out
from the side of the cliff. Several cyclists whoop and yell, finding
they’re able to do that audibly enough to be heard in the heavier
air. They had been told during the last rest stop the rock roughly
marks the final one-third of the ride. Only twenty miles to go.

Almost magically the clouds begin to lift, revealing the spectacular
scenery for the first time, and they peek from the corner of their eyes
as they ride on, unable to resist at least a glance at the sheer beauty
of the abundant jungle still so far below. But with about eighteen miles
to go, they know to quickly refocus total vision on the road ahead,
having no wish to become part of the scenery themselves, not before
the road takes them there anyway.

As if taking on the cyclists on cue, the sun finally peeks through the single
remaining cloud, within moments emerging into clear view with brightly
shining splendor. Coasting gently now, the group rolls past the green jungle
and the tiny farms and shacks that dot it. The road is dry, the rain has
stopped, the incline is nearly flat, and it’s so much easier now.

They reach the end of the “World’s Most Dangerous Road”, all safely,
and their exuberance knows no bounds. The adrenaline addicts have had
more than their fill. “Absolutely stunning!” screams one. “I’m so glad it’s over,
I loved it!” yells another as they assemble for group pictures, wide smiles
everywhere.

Tomorrow they’ll fly back to their respective countries and homes, packing
full bragging rights along with the luggage. Things just won’t be the same
around the old water cooler when they return to work on Monday.

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