People have been singing you to sleep since you were born. When I have the extraordinary opportunity to sing you to sleep, I sing some songs that the other lucky grown-ups don’t. Like, “If I had a Boat” by Lyle Lovett. You like that one a lot, and sing along.
You see, there’s this one couplet, where he’s talking about a theoretical daughter he might have…
Maybe one day she’ll take a fancy to picking, Cause when that bug bites you, you live with the sting.
“Picking,” as you’ll know by now, is what bluegrass musicians call just sitting around and playing music. “You wanna pick?” “Let’s pick one.”
And darned if you haven’t become a picker. The instrument that you picked to pick on doesn’t use a pick, though.
Fiddle
The first musical instrument you started taking lessons on was drums. You actually did pretty well with that, and in fact, I wrote a blog about you playing drums.
But after a few months, you said you wanted to give up drums. What you really wanted to play, you said, was fiddle. We were all a bit skeptical, but you continued on the fiddle theme for quite a while. Then the universe smiled on us all. Because I was playing in a band called Critical Grass, and the fiddle player in that band is an extraordinary woman named Leah Wollenberg. Well, Leah teaches fiddle at Manning Music in Berkeley, and they thought that Leah would be the perfect teacher for you.
They were right.
You and Leah immediately bonded over Harry Potter (I think she might be a Hufflepuff) and became really good friends. She’s also doing an amazing job of teaching you fiddle. And it seems like you’ve truly taken a fancy to picking – you are eager to pull out your fiddle when there’s an opportunity to play.
In fact, when we were up at Strawberry this year, you brought your fiddle, because pickers bring their instruments to Strawberry. So your dad and I got to sit and pick a few with you.
You’ve already outgrown one rental fiddle and are on your second (third?) one.
You and Leah keep learning more new tunes. You started with Boil Them Cabbage Down, because that’s what all of Manning’s students start with. Then Old Joe Clark. Cluck Old Hen, and we all got to sing along:
My old hen’s, a real good hen – she lays eggs for the railroad men. Sometimes one, sometimes two, sometimes enough for the whole damn crew. Cluck old hen, cluck and squaw – ain’t laid an egg since late last fall. Cluck old hen, cluck and sing – ain’t laid an egg since late last spring.
Leah taught you Elk River Blues, which I’d never heard, but is a beautiful tune. And now you’re starting on Soldier’s Joy.
Playing with the band
A few weeks ago, our band, Critical Grass, was going to be playing a gig at Gather in Berkeley. You’ve been to Gather plenty of times to see me and Uncle John play music, but you mostly ate french fries and crawled around the garden area on the patio.
But a couple of weeks before this gig, Leah asked you, “Do you want to come up and play a tune with us at Gather?”
Somewhat to our surprise, you said, “Sure.”
So on Saturday, September 7, 2024, you, your mom, Ana, and Great-Gran were all sitting at a table at Gather. You were probably eating french fries. Leah said into the microphone, “Okay, Elena, it’s your turn after this song, so get ready.”
Ana said, “Let’s get your fiddle out of its case.”
Nope. You took your fiddle case over to where the band had all their fiddle cases. You set it down right next to Leah’s fiddle case, and then opened it up. Because hey, when you’re with the band, you’re with the band, right?
After that – well, let’s roll the video…
I couldn’t have been more proud. And man, Leah, she was over the moon at how well you did.
After we finished Old Joe Clark, you went over to where your mom and Ana were sitting (they’d switched seats to be really close to the band when you played). You plopped down in your mom’s lap.
“How was it?”
“I’m still shaking.”
I get it – stuff like that can make a person nervous. But you did marvelously. In fact, you did better than you may have realized. At one point, Leah was playing the melody an octave below you. Maybe because she wasn’t exactly doubling you, you got a little off. This is what Leah told me:
“Gotta say the moment I felt proudest at Gather was when Elena got off while I was playing the melody an octave below. They stayed totally calm and got right back on within a few seconds. That’s some Real Musician stuff right there.“
Real Musician stuff. Nice.
Over a century of picking
Years ago, people didn’t have the Internet. Or TV. Maybe they had a radio, but in poorer parts of the country, they didn’t even have that. What they did have was a few musical instruments. And on a Friday or Saturday night, they’d sit on the porch, or in the back yard, depending on the weather. They’d play music, and people would dance.
And this past week, you got to be part of your first backyard picking. I mean, you’ve been around backyard (and living room and campsite) picking since before you can remember. Like, check this out. When you were just turned five:
In fact, you and a fiddle had gotten introduced to each other many years ago, at an instrument “petting zoo”:
Your mom said you started crying when you heard the bow pulled over the string. Which, any of us who have been around beginning fiddle players understand.
Interestingly, once you started studying with Leah, that didn’t happen. Somehow, almost from the first lesson, nice sounds came out of your fiddle.
But this was the first time you were part of the circle.
Picking in your back yard
It was a slightly delayed birthday party for me at your house, the day after you played at Gather. Your dad had set up chairs in a big circle in your backyard, and invited a bunch of our friends over. Everybody ate hot dogs and hamburgers, then it was time to pick.
You went to your parents’ room, and got your fiddle. You carried it to a chair in the circle, sat down, opened up your case, and waited. Good job you’re patient, because pickers can procrastinate. In fact, there’s a phrase that we use sometimes:
“Are we going to talk, or are we going to pick?”
And here I want to give a big shout-out to the pickers. Because once everybody sat down, we all looked at you, and somebody said, “What do you know?”
“Old Joe Clark.”
And so we played Old Joe Clark. And man, E-blast, you nailed it, playing along with everybody, just like you’d done the day before at Gather.
When we finished that, we played Boil Them Cabbage. And Cluck Old Hen. With the words.
There were 8-10 people up on your brand new deck, eating dessert and enjoying the music. After every tune, they’d cheer and applaud. Your great-grandmother, Liz, got to hear you in the middle of the picking circle!
Mary Schriner, a lovely woman and fiddle player who we’ve met only recently, said, “If you study at Manning, you might know Elk River Blues.”
“That’s a great tune,” I said, “But I don’t remember how it starts.”
“Me neither,” said Mary.
John the fiddle player said, “I’ve heard it before but…”
Then you said, “Oh wait. I think I might be able to start it.”
Sure enough, you played the first few notes, and everybody said, “Oh yeah!”
Next thing you know, we were playing Elk River Blues. Jeff, Uncle John, your dad, and I worked out the chords, and we played it through 3-4 times. It was so lovely, and everybody got to enjoy it all because you were able to remember the opening phrase and play it. Later, Ana said, “Can’t you just hear the river in that tune?”
“Yes, I can,” said you.
Just a few of us picking…
Elena, families and friends picking together is a tradition that goes back over 150 years. I’ve been picking since I was a teenager 50 years ago. In front rooms, back yards, camp sites, garages, and little country stores in the middle of nowhere in the Blue Ridge mountains.
I’ve picked with octogenarians and six-year olds.
This music, and any music like it, is magic. You don’t need a big old band, or amplifiers. You don’t need electricity, sheet music, or a conductor. You just need a handful of people and their instruments.
Sometimes there’s an audience (like at Gather, or the listeners on your deck this past Sunday). Maybe you’re picking in a camp site, and passersby stop to listen, because it makes them happy. But sometimes, it’s just a few of us picking.
There’s a huge fabric of people making music together. My uncle Harry (Hunter’s brother) used to pick in the side yard at the cabin with Wayne Henderson, the fellow who built Rose the guitar. Then Harry taught me my first bluegrass song on the guitar (“Love, please come home“) and bought me my first bluegrass album (Bill Monroe’s Uncle Pen). I taught your dad and Uncle John some tunes. Now you’re learning from your dad, and Uncle John, and me. And, of course, Leah. Mostly Leah.
We’re all threads in this fabric of music weavers, and now you’re a thread too. I am so blessed that our musical threads are intertwined. And I hope that somewhere down the road, you’ll be teaching Elk River Blues to your kid, or the nine-year-old next door who’s entranced by your fiddle.
‘Cause when that bug bites you, you live with the sting.
This all starts with my friend, Conrad Brunner, who I worked with at PokerStars, back in the early aughts. I will leave the initial description of Conrad to Victoria Coren-Mitchell, a grand dame of British journalism and TV. Vicky and Conrad played in home poker games together back in the day, and she remembered him when she wrote her poker memoir, For Richer, For Poorer:
But Conrad always says thank you. Conrad is awfully polite, very pukka. I think he might be related to an earl. He is easy-going and smiley, possessed of a genuinely optimistic temperament. God knows what he’s doing playing poker. Must have taken a wrong turn one day. He runs a charity tournament every Christmas, to raise money for a cancer hospital. He’s the nicest guy that ever comes here.
I mentioned him to a mutual colleague, who said, “What I remember about Conrad is that he always wore a sport coat.” Which was true, even when everybody else was in hoodies and trainers. I follow almost nobody on Facebook, but I continued to follow Conrad because, well, because Conrad was a breath of fresh air.
Then, when the war in Ukraine broke out Putin invaded Ukraine, Conrad Brunner and his family took a Ukrainian woman and her son into their home. Ms. Coren-Mitchell’s keen poker eye was also a fine judge of character.
One thing led to another, and then Conrad fell in with an organization called Pick-ups for Peace, made up of Scottish farmers. Mostly ex-military. Now, if you ever wanted to Get Shit Done, starting with a bunch of ex-military Scottish farmers sounds perfect.
“P4P” purchases used pick-ups – mostly 4×4’s. They fill them up with medical supplies, and then they drive them to Ukraine. They hand the entire package, pick-up and all, over to the Ukrainian military. So far, they’ve delivered 338 pick-ups, all packed with life-saving supplies.
They reckon that every pick-up saves at least one life.
[Post-convoy note: our convoy contained vehicle #400. The trucks just keep coming.]
In March of 2024, Conrad’s wife, Cecily, and a co-driver, Katie, collected donations, purchased and outfitted a 4×4, and drove it to Lviv, Ukraine.
In April, Conrad himself, and his co-driver, James, raised money to purchase a pick-up, loaded it up, and drove it to Lviv.
More than money
Over the past decade or so, I’ve decided that the way I best help change the world is send money to places where it can make a difference. I’ve been absurdly fortunate financially, and I can give far more than most. And I seem to be pretty good at making more money. So rather than canvass during elections or work on phone banks, I spend time trying to make more money, then send it to the most effective organizations. But I’m an old man now, and I’m feeling the need to get my hands dirtier. To put my boots on the ground. As I watched Conrad, and Cecily and all those ex-military Scottish farmers, I thought…
“I want to drive a 4×4 to Ukraine.”
It seemed like the most obvious thing in the world. I’m retired – I don’t owe my time to The Man. I don’t think it’s particularly dangerous, but…
I was out for a hike with my friend, Jennifer, whom I’ve known for over 20 years. I told her about Pick-ups For Peace, and my plan to drive one of these 4×4’s to Ukraine. She paused.
“Is it safe?”
“I mean, probably…”
Jennifer stopped me. “That’s not really the point, is it?”
No, that’s not really the point. Life makes no promises. The county in which we live, Alameda, in the San Francisco Bay Area, has a per capita freeway gun violence rate five times higher than Los Angeles County (per this report). Three days ago, a woman driving to her shift as an emergency services dispatcher for Alameda County was struck and killed by a drunk driver, less than a mile from our house.
I have a great life and would like to continue it for a good while longer. But if it’s going to be cut short, far better it be while driving a pick-up to Ukraine than driving home from the poker club.
The details
I’m confirmed for Pickup For Peace’s August convoy. In a stroke of unbelievable fortune, Conrad has volunteered to be my co-driver. Obviously I immediately accepted. Also, after some soul-searching, I decided to raise external funds (rather than pay for it out of my pocket). I am persuaded that inviting people to donate raises awareness. Hell, somebody might go from getting out their credit card to driving a truck. If I make one person do that, then the fundraising will have been well worth it.
You can donate to my trip here: [Post-convoy note. We went above and beyond our dollar target – something that still blows my mind. If you wish to donate, please do so directly to Pick-ups For Peace.]
If you donate at JustGiving (the link above) they’ll ask for a “generous” tip. There’s a small “custom tip” button next to the slider, feel free to adjust to something you consider fair. I considered $1.50 fair. If you want to send crypto, get in touch with me and we’ll work something out. I’ll be happy to take your crypto and make a credit card donation on your behalf.
Whether you send money or not, thank you for your support – every good thought you send my way is felt and deeply appreciated. Best, Lee
Monday, July 29, 2024
The money flowed in
The response I got to the fundraiser was absolutely overwhelming. Amounts large and small came in. Some of the small amounts were particularly overwhelming because they came from donors that I know aren’t awash in discretionary funds. People dug deep – I am humbled and honored by that.
Your truck, sir
During the intervening time, Conrad has done the heavy lifting. P4P had located the correct vehicle and purchased it. They also painted and did maintenance on it.
That’s Conrad and our Toyota HiLux truck. Think good thoughts for me driving a truck with (a) right-hand drive, and (b) a clutch. The good news is that I did both with relative ease when I was living in the Isle of Man, so it’s not as dramatic as it might sound.
Fill ‘er up
Conrad also took the truck to the supply depot somewhere in the south of England, where it was provisioned with medical supplies by Valentyna and her team. I’m being a bit vague about this for reasons that you can probably work out. If you can’t, read this article about Putin sending agents into the UK to poison a former Russian spy and his daughter. One thing that I can be specific about is a supply that is being distributed across some of the trucks in the convoy – body bags.
War is body bags
This request came into the convoy’s WhatsApp group:
So I’m no expert on war, but I know one thing: war is not the cool hip recruiting ads for the Army and Marines that you see on TV. They make war look like a video game, which is bullshit.
War is body bags, and our convoy is taking body bags to Ukraine.
Getting on an airplane
I’m flying to the UK in less than a week. I have a couple of days to get over jet lag and see some old PokerStars friends. Then Conrad and I throw our backpacks in the truck and head east. Your good wishes will mean the world to me.
Friday, August 2, 2024
The trip has begun
I won’t be providing specific details here – they’re not terribly important. My wife knows where I’ll be day by day, and I’ll be updating here whenever it seems interesting.
By the way, if you’re reading this, there’s a decent chance you have my contact info. If you don’t, reach me on the contact page and I’ll get back to you.
Tuesday, August 6, 2024
Load it up
I got to Conrad’s house today at 5:00pm. We hadn’t seen each other in ten (?) years. We spent about 30 seconds saying our hellos, then he, his son Isaac, and I started loading the truck.
I had to look it up to be sure – a “theatre pack” is a special package of clean “linen” to surround a surgical operating site. I know what a syringe is.
By 6:15p, the truck was all loaded.
I’m good at this
One of the most heartening comments I’ve gotten from a few people, whose opinion I value, is that this is my lane. So far, there have been a couple of spots where I thought, “My nature, and my experiences over the last 67 years, have made me well-suited to this gig.” Even something as mundane as figuring out how to release a ratchet strap – it’s some combination of physical problem solving ability with a persistence to continue at it until I unravel the issue.
I’d like to think that loading this truck up and getting it to Lviv is something for which I’m a natural choice. I’d also like to think that my dad, were he alive, would be proud of what I’m doing. He would have raised an eyebrow at my struggling with the ratchet strap, rather than finding a diagram or instructions, but all roads lead to the same destination.
Tight fit
Everything is in the truck. Almost. Our suitcases are not. I think there’s room for them in the back seat. There’s some chance I’ll have to jettison everything but the absolutely necessary, leave the rest of it at Conrad’s house, and come back to Brighton to pick it up on return. I hope that won’t be necessary, but I have complete clarity that if that’s what’s needed, then my suitcase, not a box of syringes, stays back.
[Post-convoy note: I ultimately strapped my suitcase under the tarp with the boxes. Then we had a tarp failure at 80 mph in Germany. We pulled over at the next service station – my initial assessment was that my suitcase was gone. I then saw it had shifted but not gone out. Fortunately, two of our fellow trucks were at the station, and one of them had room for the suitcase in the actual cab.]
Bound for France
We leave tomorrow. Think good thoughts for us. Those of you who know me from the poker world know that I don’t wish poker players good luck. I wish them good decisions – the luck will sort itself out one way or another. So wish us good decisions, good planning, and determination.
See you from the road somewhere. If the laptop makes the packing cut.
Wednesday, August 7, 2024
And they’re off
My suitcase went under the tarp in back and then everything fit. We left on schedule and had an easy trip to the Chunnel. British customs checked our passports, and waved us through. French customs checked our passports and waved us through. But then the French police wouldn’t give us no peace – they claimed that we were nasty persons.
Not exactly, but they did pull us over and ask what was in the truck. So we got out and told them. Then they went through our luggage, took a big knife and cut open a few boxes at random. At some point I described the events as them “tossing the truck.” Ever thereafter, that’s the phrase Conrad used to describe the delay.
We were both persuaded that the olive drab military spray paint job didn’t do us any favors in terms of getting pulled over.
They asked if the vehicle was staying in the Ukraine, and I thought,
“FML. This is where they impound the vehicle and the supplies and maybe us.”
They asked if it would be used for military purposes, and we said we didn’t know – we just left the stuff there.
After 25-30 minutes they sent us on our way, but the head guy said (in French) to 2-3 trainees in the group, “If I wanted to be a bastard, I could impound the truck.”
We repacked the truck in the most haphazard way imaginable –I told Conrad we could sort rainproofing later but I wanted a lot of gone between us and the sidearm-carrying gendarmes.
We’re under the English Channel as we speak, sitting in the car, which is sitting on a car-train. First challenge level achieved.
If it’s 9:00pm, I must be in Köln
There’s really not much to say. We zipped across France, Belgium, and into Germany. Google Maps took excellent care of us at every turn, though to be fair, there weren’t that many of those.
We stopped for “lunch” at a service station in Belgium, where we filled up the diesel (74 EUR), and then ate in the Shell Cafe. Which is called the Shell Cafe because it’s in a Shell Station, so it’s everything you’d expect from that combination.
We made it to our hotel at 5:00pm, relaxed for a bit, and then had dinner right in the hotel restaurant. This enabled Conrad to get wiener schnitzel, and me to kick his ass at Open Face Chinese Poker, despite never having played the 2-7-in-the-middle variant. And yes, the deck picked me.
We’re having an early night tonight – we hit the hotel breakfast at 7:00am and then get on the road. I think it’s going to be a 12:00 hour day – 9.5 hours of driving and a couple of hours of leg-stretching. We spend the night in Poland tomorrow night, and then things get really serious.
This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco
Our WhatsApp group is filled with reports (and live location tracking) of the others in our group. Obviously, every one of them is a star. But what I don’t get is that many of them are taking side trips, either to historical sites (including some brave enough to visit Buchenwald), or scenic detours.
I don’t get this. If ever there was a “You had one job” situation, this is it. Every minute we’re out on the road, it’s another opportunity for Something to go Wrong. For instance, one team lost a tire in a fairly spectacular way.
That’s certainly not their fault, but it seems that taking on extra risk for side trips, even socially and personally important ones, isn’t keeping our eyes on the one goal each team has. That’s to deliver the truck and supplies to Lviv. Everything else can wait.
[Post-drop-off update: I need to note here a pair of our drivers who left on Sunday, planning a leisurely five-day drive to the rendezvous point in eastern Poland. Early in the trip, the vehicle all but stopped running, limiting them to 20 mph driving. Taking the “You had one job” mantra far beyond the call of duty, they limped across Europe, sleeping by the side of the road, living on the snacks they had brought, and getting temporary repairs when possible. Somehow, they kicked and dragged that truck to the Polish/Ukrainian border Friday night. The Ukrainian military will no doubt drop a new engine in it and then that truck will save lives. All because they refused to give up. They are absolute rock stars.]
This ain’t no foolin’ around.
Thanks for reading, and good night. See you in the morning.
Thursday, August 8, 2024
Get in the truck and drive until something makes you stop
Oh yeah, the driving. Piece of cake. We listened to a couple Nate Silver and Maria Konnikova “Risky Business” podcasts, and three episodes of the “Criminal” podcast. Both highly recommended. This isn’t a poker blog, but if you’re a poker content consumer (Conrad and I both are), Charlie Wilmoth’s “Third Man Walking” is a must-listen. Conrad and I basically nodded and agreed with everything he said throughout the episode we listened to.
Conrad also made the mistake of asking for a bluegrass sampler. I gave him “Ballad of Jed Clampett” (seemed like a good introduction to Scruggs banjo), then “Uncle Pen,” and “Old Train” – Tony Rice version. He told me how his mom, a professional classical violinist, fell in love with Jay Ungar, whose old-time fiddle playing became the soundtrack to Ken Burns’ Civil War documentary series. I knew of Jay Ungar through his work on Jerry Douglas’s Transatlantic Sessions albums.
Given that we were in that vein, I gave him a brief history of old-time music (old-time is not bluegrass is not old-time). If your mom’s a violin player, you’re probably a sucker for good fiddling, and Conrad was. I dropped Little Billy Wilson on him, and we just grinned at each other for the next five minutes.
The kilometers flew by and we stopped only when the fuel tank or our bladders demanded it.
I also want to give a special shout-out to T-Mobile, whose service has been absolutely rock solid from the UK to Ukraine. Generally the only way I knew we had crossed an international border was because my phone would ding with a text from T-Mobile saying, “Hi Lee! Welcome to Belgium. Free texts, 5 Gb of data per month, and $.25/minute for voice.” I rarely praise big multi-nationals, but T-Mobile’s service was integral to the success of our trip.
The Polish forest
The whole team spent the night at a hunting lodge in Poland – one of those places that time has forgotten. There was literally nothing memorable about it, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to get a decent night’s sleep and be on the road early the next morning.
Friday, August 9, 2024
And damned if we weren’t. Vince said breakfast at 6:30am, group photo at 7:00am, last truck off the grounds at 7:15am. I noted that Conrad and I were pulling out at 6:58am.
I should spend a moment on Vince G. He runs the show. He is relaxed and easygoing, right down to the shorts, no-peek socks, and leather moccasins. Sitting with a cappuccino and a cigarette, reading his phone, he looks like a well-to-do businessman taking a holiday but not quite able to escape the office. In fact, Vince is the nerve center of the P4P ground operation.
And children, I’ll tell you another thing: my one super-power is an uncanny ability to spot the smartest person in the room. When Vince G walks in, that title is spoken for.
Our destination was a store parking lot in eastern Poland, near the Ukrainian border. Apparently Conrad had it from Vince that we were supposed to be there at 12:00pm, 1:00pm latest, with a 2:00pm departure for the Ukrainian border.
I looked at Google Maps and said, “Conrad, it’s five and a half hours of driving from where we started, to that store. If we literally didn’t stop, which we can’t do, we’d be there at 12:30. And that’s assuming we hit no traffic, etc.”
Part of the problem here was James Martin. I got to visit briefly with him once we were in Lviv, and it’s clear that he has distilled the “You have one job” mantra down to its absolute essence. Within the WhatsApp group that the convoy had, we could see on a Google map where everybody was. And way out there in front, hours ahead of everybody else, was James Martin, and his driving partner, Patrick.
“Do you think,” I wondered, “That they’re not real people? Like – they’re NPCs created by Vince to exhort us to faster, more efficient driving?”
I am now persuaded that James and Patrick are real people. But I will lay odds that you won’t see them in the group picture that we took Friday morning at the Polish hunting lodge. Nope, I bet they were out at first light, hauling their truck east. Superstars.
We made it to the store parking lot around 1:30pm, which I thought was very respectable time. The lot filled with P4P vehicles was a beautiful sight – and there was light at the end of the tunnel.
Onto Ukraine
From there, it was a one-hour drive to the Ukrainian border, and Vince wanted us all together. They had an arrangement with the border authorities to get us to the front of the line as a group (this is how P4P rolls) so we couldn’t have any ringers in the pack.
It was a humbling, beautiful sight to see all the trucks finally rolling along together toward the border, but the best was yet to come.
The hour flew by and soon we were at the border crossing. As I’d later understand, first we had to clear Polish customs, then drive 10 meters to Ukrainian customs.
On the Polish side, the border guard checked our passports and had us flip back the tarp (Dad, I am now a godd*mn master of ratchet buckles now), but just a handful of minutes and we were through. Neither of us, at any point, saw a Polish border guard actually inspect our load. This was deeply appreciated, compared to the French guards tossing the vehicle.
Hurry up and wait
Ukrainian customs was a whole different matter. It wasn’t so much that they were inspecting the cargo as the paperwork. They took our passports and vehicle registration, and disappeared inside the building. So there we sat, in no-man’s land, without a shred of useful documentation, waiting to be allowed through.
Careful where you choose to pee
While we waited, one of our fellow drivers, Emily, told a story about her previous P4P run (yes, there are angels among us). She was sitting in this no-man’s land, without her passport, and needed to pee (finding good times to pee was always a bit of a struggle, especially if you were James Martin’s co-driver). Emily saw a big open gate with a restroom on the other side (pointing to it as she told the tale), so she did the obvious thing – she walked through the gate, went in the restroom, and peed. Then she came back out and saw that the gate was closed. And now there were armed Ukrainian border guards yelling “Що в біса ти там робиш?!?!” at her.
“So you were f*cked, right?”
“Very f*cked.”
Emily had literally crossed the border back into Poland. Without her passport. Some amount of chaos ensued, but the right people stepped in, and she was let back through the gate. Emily’s WhatsApp avatar now has the “International Incident Challenge” badge on it. And yet, she re-upped for another trip. What a rock star.
The Right People
When I say the “Right people” stepped in to rescue Emily, there are three specific names that come to mind – the aforementioned Vince, Iryna the Translator, and Oleg the Ukrainian lawyer.
Vince, as I said, is charge of the whole operation. He’s British, has a Ukrainian wife, and has various enterprises in Ukraine. When the war started, he threw everything he had into helping the Ukrainians.
Iryna manages a company in Lviv (I think that’s correct) but spends her “spare time” acting as a translator for P4P and similar organizations.
I think I spoke to Oleg for maybe a word or two, but man, I am glad we have him and his shoulder-bag on our side.
As a guy who worked for The Man for 40 years, I’ve been around a lot of organizations. I’ve seen good ones, great ones, and awful ones. P4P is a Swiss Ukrainian watch. Every single person I dealt with across the organization was focused, efficient, and competent. After experiencing the team first-hand, I felt I’d made an excellent investment of my time and money.
Anyway, Conrad and I were some of the very last ones to get our passports back. I don’t know how Conrad felt, but as long as I could see Vince, Irina, and Oleg in my field of view, I had absolutely no concerns.
There was a guy in jeans and a t-shirt who was the Willie Wonka of the whole situation. He was the person who would ultimately show up with your passports, and a piece of paper the size of a credit card, that had a stamp on it.
Vince: “When they give you that piece of paper, do not lose it. You will drive 100 meters and hand it to a guard with an automatic weapon. They will let you through. Without that piece of paper, you will not go through.”
Conrad was driving, so I had to hold the piece of paper. No pressure.
Just a few meters past the piece of paper hand-off, all the trucks were lined up beside the road, waiting for the last of us. Finally the last few came in, and a Ukrainian police car pulled in to act as the back of the convoy.
We drove another 100 meters and there was a blue and yellow sign, with one word on it:
Ukraine
I got a chill down my spine. This was actually happening. But the chills were just beginning, because another few hundred meters ahead:
They had blocked traffic coming toward the border, and many people had gotten out of their vehicles to wave and cheer at us.
I am rarely lost for words, but both at the time, and at this moment as I write, I cannot express the emotions I was feeling. I know I said to Conrad,
“This made it all worthwhile.”
Headed into town
It was a 70-minute drive to Lviv city center, and Vince had warned us that people would try to cut into the convoy. We had been told to stop for nothing, including red lights. Conrad had a harrowing tale from his previous trip of narrowly missing a young woman pedestrian who had crossed through the middle of the convoy.
Somehow, none of that happened this time. I was worried exactly zero because we had the address of the town hall where we were supposed to meet and Google Maps (“Hello Lee, welcome to Ukraine…”) had it locked and loaded. But it was an undeniable rush to be in the middle of an actual convoy.
Halfway into town, the Universe gave us a big double thumbs-up too:
We made it to the Lviv town hall with zero issues – and I’ll admit your adrenaline pumps when you’re running red light after red light. Clearly the traffic skids had been greased – there were cars pulled onto the shoulder going in the opposite direction.
Mission accomplished
It was all a bit anti-climatic. We pulled into the parking lot in front of the “town hall.” A few people were standing around guiding us into parking places, and Conrad backed the truck in with me outside, giving guidance.
Conrad turned off the engine, and a wave of relief and joy came over me. At that moment, I didn’t care about anything else: we had one job – and we’d done it.
People stood around and took some pictures, but I just wanted to be in the moment – to look at over three dozen vehicles and see the happiness of not only our fellow drivers, but locals who were attracted to all the commotion. Most of the trucks, including ours, had been painted a drab olive green before the trip, so there could be no mistaking their purpose.
Random people walked up to us and gave us a thumbs-up, or said thank you.
Our orders were to get our personal belongings out of the truck, leave the keys in the ignition, and be on our way. I threw our remaining snacks in the front seat. I had kept my computer backpack with me, and thought I should find the truck with my suitcase in it. Turns out it had already been loaded into a small bus that was going to the hotel, so I’d be apart from it for a bit longer – never had I cared less about the possibility of losing my luggage.
Some trip veterans said that the hotel was a 500-meter walk through the center of town, and wouldn’t that be more fun? I mean, is that even a question? Conrad had already been caught up in another group, so some multi-trip vets took me in and we had a glorious stroll to the hotel.
They ultimately realized they weren’t fully sure where the hotel was, but I fired up Google Maps – it and T-Mobile got us there easily. On the way, we passed by a blind busker expertly playing a lute-like instrument, and singing beautifully in Ukrainian. It was as if Doc Watson had come back, and decided to settle in Lviv, rather than Boone. If you know me, you know that I had to stop and take it in – my little group was so gracious about letting me spend a few precious minutes there. I put a €10 note in his jar, and on we went.
Decompression
The little bus was unloading as we arrived at our hotel, and I saw my suitcase come out of the back just as I walked up.
The Leopolis (think “Lion City”) Hotel is less than 20 years old, and thoroughly modern and luxurious in every respect. A young woman was standing at the entrance issuing room keys to everybody, and within a couple of minutes, I was settling into my excellent room, overlooking a bustling square in the city.
They told us on the WhatsApp group that there were sandwiches waiting for us in the hotel bar, and I realized that I hadn’t really eaten since our 6:30am breakfast. It was going on 4:00pm, and yeah, I could eat a sandwich.
The rest of the evening was socializing and hanging out. There are some great stories of friendship, community, and experience from our 36 hours in Lviv, and I may write those down sometime. Mostly so I’ll remember them.
But I want this narrative to be about us taking the truck to Lviv, and why we did it.
Saturday, August 10th, 2024
Cemetery
We got up for a great buffet breakfast, and the bus left at 9:00am for the cemetery. Ocsana, our tour guide, talked a little bit on the 15-minute drive, and then we went around a corner…
We all got out of the bus, and Ocsana began telling us about the cemetery, its history and so on. She is a fine guide and was doing a great job, but I couldn’t listen any longer.
I had to walk up into that field and hear what they had to tell me.
There were one or more photos on every grave, making it all the more heart-rending. At some graves, there were mothers and/or widows. Most were in black track suits, and were meticulously tending to the flowers, electric candles, and other decorations.
The ages ranged from sub-20 to 60’s, centered around mid-30’s I’d say. My younger son is 37.
Stalin once said, “When one person dies, it’s a tragedy; when a million people die, it’s a statistic.” But you need to hear some statistics:
The 2023 population of Ukraine was 36 million, down about 15% from the 2021 population.
From an August 2023 Congressional report (exactly a year ago): “In just a year and a half, Ukraine’s military deaths have already surpassed the number of American troops who died during the nearly two decades U.S. units were in Vietnam (roughly 58,000).”
For context, the U.S. population in 1970 (the height of the Vietnam war) was 200 million. The current population of Ukraine is 36 million.
The official number of civilian deaths in Ukraine is 11,500 – everybody agrees that the actual number is much higher.
In short, the unspeakable sadness and misery before us represented a tiny fraction of the total, spread over a country with a tenth the population of the United States.
A stanza from a Stephen Stills song came into my mind, and hasn’t left since…
I think I see a valley, covered in bones in blue. All the brave soldiers that cannot get older Been asking after you.
They tell us that they figure every truck saves at least one life. If the truck that Conrad and I drove over saves one life… if it’s one less grave in that field, one less widow (or widower) and mother tending to flowers and candles, then I am content.
Ocsana said we’d be there 10-15 minutes. We were there for half an hour, and they had to drag the group away. As I walked out, I passed by a handful of new graves that hadn’t been “fixed up.” But the headstones were there, fresh from the past week or two. The last thing I passed was a new, empty grave, still being dug.
We next visited a memorial to the “Heavenly Hundred” – the people who died in the uprising of 2014. This was the push by the Ukrainian people to align with Europe, rather than Russia. Ocsana argued that that uprising ultimately led to Putin’s invading in 2022 – if the Ukrainian people could overthrow a corrupt dictator and align with free Europe, what was to stop the Russian people from doing the same?
Handing over the trucks
At 11:00 that morning, we had a little ceremony to hand over the trucks to the military. As we’d been alerted, all the cargo had been removed within hours of the trucks arriving, but the vehicles themselves were still there.
Some of the Ukrainian soldiers were there, and I’ll admit, I was in awe. These men are risking, in many cases giving, their lives for the independence of their nation. And not in some theoretical indirect sense. I am a child of the Vietnam War – do not try to sell me a narrative that our involvement there informed American freedom.
But these men, in their camo pants, and olive shirts – they are the only thing that stands between Ukraine and subjugation to an unspeakable dictator and despot.
A few people gave short speeches. In the group, there were three Americans, though I’m the only one who lives in the States these days. They asked me to give a little speech on behalf of the American contingent. I don’t remember much of what I said, though a handful of people came to tell me I’d done well.
I do remember saying that right now, it didn’t seem that the U.S. Congress could pass a law stating that the sky is blue. But somehow, they came together and passed aid to Ukraine. I paused, and the other two Americans, Tim and Doug, in unison, finished the thought for me: “We only wish it could be more.”
Then we took more pictures. They wanted a group photo of all the drivers. I knelt down in the front to make getting all of us in-frame easier. Then I was suddenly aware of 2-3 Ukrainian soldiers who had knelt down next to me for the photo op.
When the photo op was over, we would head back to the hotel, where they had a nice lunch for us. Then we’d wander around the city, maybe find a cappuccino in one of the many sidewalk cafes.
Those soldiers, they’d get in our trucks, and drive them straight into Hell.
Reflection
I am sure that the reflections will continue and morph for the rest of my life. I remember when Ed Bradley, the legendary 60 Minutes correspondent, passed away, his long-time colleague, Andy Rooney, said, “I won’t live long enough to stop missing Ed Bradley.”
I won’t live long enough to forget what I experienced this past week.
Young people
Most of the drivers in our group were older. This makes sense – we elder folk generally have the money and time to do something like this. But we had a handful of young people in their early 20’s. Kids using their school break or precious early career vacations to do something truly amazing. Harriet, who drove with her dad, Andrew – she turns 18 next month.
I went out of my way to tell them how proud I was of them, and how they’d set a terribly high bar for the rest of their lives. If they go up from there, there’s no telling what they might do for the world.
Heroes
Some of my friends have very generously and graciously said that I’m a hero for doing this. I try hard to accept compliments as given – it’s a pet peeve of mine when people pooh-pooh away a genuine compliment. But allow me a bit of nuance here…
Standing out there on the cobblestones in front of the town hall, I shook hands with heroes, and got to take pictures with heroes. Out in that infinitely sad field on the edge of town, I looked into the smiling eyes of heroes, in pictures, mounted on their graves.
Maybe David Bowie was right, and we can be heroes, just for one day. But some words – some words you want to reserve for select occasions. I have now seen and touched real heroes – I’ll never use that word lightly again.
Another trip
Will I go back?
I don’t know. My life seems to have infinite possibilities and permutations, even as I claim to be “retired.” So I’m unwilling to say that yes, I will go on another P4P convoy.
Would I go back?
In a heartbeat. I met some truly extraordinary people – the goodwill and desire to serve was palpable in every single driver I met. From the kids on break from university, to the retired couples who used it as a great excuse to get out of the house. From the ones who took side trips (including to Auschwitz and Buchenwald) to the James Martins, who set land speed records for crossing the European continent. Every one of them meant to Do Good, and did so with a matter-of-factness and humility that made me deeply proud to be included in their group.
Me, maybe I don’t want to be labeled a “hero,” but yeah, I Did Good. I think the best thing I ever did was, when Lisa and I first got married, I kept coming back, no matter how much her sons, David and John, tried to push me away. The therapist, she said, “You have one job: show up.”
“That’s pretty straightforward.”
At the time, I didn’t understand why she chuckled at me.
But I’m a simple man, and I could follow one-job instructions. So I showed up, and yes, it was a lot harder than I expected it was going to be. But I did it.
Last week, Conrad and me, we had one job, and we did it. I guess I’m just a one-job guy. And that one job – driving a truck full of medical supplies to Ukraine – that’s probably the second best thing I ever did.
What can you do?
Don’t stop reading.
Pass it along. Look up in the address bar of your browser. There’s the address for the blog entry you’re reading right now. Pick the right three people and send a link along to them. Tell them it’s an instant cure for doom-scrolling.
Send money. If you have the funds and are interested, you can always donate to Pick-ups for Peace. Look, there are hundreds – thousands of organizations out there Doing Good in the world, and they can all use your help. But none of us can help every one, and we have to choose. What I can say is that of all the organizations I’ve ever given to, I feel as good or better about this one than any other I’ve ever supported.
Make America do the Right Thing. Donald Trump, as President of the United States, literally withheld aid from Ukraine, to extort Ukrainian President Zelensky into doing an investigation into Hunter Biden. Let’s be very clear, the blood of those young Ukrainian heroes is on Trump’s hands. If he is elected again, he will no doubt spurn Ukraine’s needs so he can curry favor with his idol Vladimir Putin. And he will have to answer some day for even more Ukrainian deaths.
His vice-presidential pick, JD Vance, quoted in this Politico report, said, “I gotta be honest with you, I don’t really care what happens to Ukraine one way or another.” I encourage you to read the full Politico report – Ukraine is not all roses and rainbows. And they are at a huge disadvantage on multiple military fronts. Sure, they need trucks, but what they really need are anti-aircraft missiles and F-35s.
Get involved in the election. You can be very sure that a Harris administration will give much more aid to Ukraine than a second Trump administration. There are a hundred good reasons to vote for Kamala Harris instead of Donald Trump, but this is one of the better ones. Simply put: do you believe that, if Putin takes control of Ukraine, he’ll stop there?
Become an informed voter, and do what you can where it makes a difference. This election is going to come down to Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Michigan (though omg Georgia and North Carolina may be in play now). Be smart about where you put your money and time – let’s make this a relative landslide.
Go on a convoy
Wait, what?
Go back and look at that group picture. Housewives, retired people, university kids. The entire spectrum came together to do something extraordinary.
Remember my story about the pair of drivers whose vehicle died right out of the starting gate? Yeah, here’s the rest of the story: those drivers were two women who had met in high school, fifty years ago. Those tough-as-nails grandmothers refused to be beaten by a recalcitrant truck. Now, somewhere down the road, one or more Ukrainian soldiers are going home to their families because of those two rock stars.
So please don’t tell me you can’t do it. Drop a letter to Georgia ([email protected]) and tell her I sent you. Then start packing.
All the brave soldiers that cannot grow older Been asking after you.
“Autonomy” is a big word, and a big idea. It means that you get to decide what you’re going to do. When you’re a baby, you have zero autonomy because you’re helpless. You need people to feed, clothe, and generally care for you.
As you get older, you become more and more “autonomous” – you can make your own decisions. Like at a certain age, you started having opinions about which clothes you wanted (and didn’t want) to wear. Because your parents are cool, they pretty much let you choose your clothes. And suddenly we all got a better understanding of who you were, because of clothes you chose.
Like most kids, you’ve gotten more autonomy with each passing month and year, but man, Strawberry this year – it was a big jump.
You were jumping out of your skin with anticipation for Strawberry this year. Last year was your first year there, and you thought it was the bomb. This year, your BFF Ayla was going to be there and that was definitely what you were most excited about.
Setting up camp
Your dad and I arrived Wednesday and got camp all set up. He did the really important work of finding “real estate” – a place for us to set up camp. He found an amazing spot near the parking lot, and just a few feet from the amphitheater where all the kid activities are.
Thursday, you and Ana drove up together, and got stuck in awful traffic. Ana said you were super chill about the whole thing, but man, when you got out the car, you came running…
“Aby! I’m at Strawberry!”
Yes, you were. While we sat around eating dinner, I told you about the “Find My Way Home” game I’d created. The fun thing is that now that you can read, I could just hand you the piece of paper, and watch you take it in…
“Aby, what’s a FAQ?”
You thought that was pretty cool, particularly as it dawned on you that you were going to be navigating around Strawberry on your own, with Ayla.
See, Strawberry is held at the Nevada Fairgrounds in Grass Valley, California. It’s a pretty big place, and I wanted you and Ayla to feel that you could find your way to and from the music meadow, or other activities, without needing a grown-up along.
It’s also a way to be sure that if you get lost, you can get un-lost. Strawberry is the perfect place to do this. It’s an enclosed, gate-protected place, there are staff people all over, and if you got lost, there was a sea of tie-dye-wearing grown-ups, any one of whom would ensure you got back home.
Challenge #1
Friday afternoon, after Ayla, her mom, and your mom arrived, we did the first challenge. You, Ayla, and I walked to Gate #5, which is the main entrance way from the parking lot into the area where the music is. It was a straight shot along the back of the parking lot from Gate #5 back to our camp.
Ayla said, “It will be easy to find our way home from here.”
“Yeah,” you said, “No problem.”
“You’re not supposed to say that!”
You both got it immediately.
“Oh, we think we can find our way home from here.”
So I turned you two loose, and off you went. I hung back to be sure I wasn’t in the way, and even took a detour so I got back to camp a little bit later.
“We got back without getting lost, Aby. Do we get $2 each?”
You sure did.
But it wasn’t the money that was making you and Ayla smile. Those were the smiles of confidence and autonomy. For one of the first times in your life, you and Ayla were going somewhere without a grown-up accompanying you. With your own smarts, sense of direction, and good sense to take care of you.
You had every reason to smile.
Camping out
You and Ayla set up Ayla’s tent in a little island between our family camp and the amphitheater. You decorated it, including a map of Strawberry hanging from the ceiling. You went to the arts and crafts area, and made a sign to hang at your camp:
Y’all never slept in the tent, but it was your place. A place you could go to get away from the grown-ups if you wanted to. More autonomy.
Challenge #2
We were all down at the music meadow. You guys were sitting in the wagon together, and I got to thinking that this was probably the last season that you’d both fit in it together.
I asked you both if you wanted to do another “Find My Way Home” challenge.
“Yes!”
“Okay. This will be a five dollar challenge. Make your way back to camp, and then come back here. Bring something back from camp to prove that you got there. Oh, and you have a 20-minute time limit.”
I thought it would be a good idea to have a time limit, mostly to encourage y’all not to wander around and get distracted.
Ten minutes later, I get a call from your dad.
“Um, I need to give Elena eye drops. But they say that the timer is running and they can’t stay to get eyedrops. Could we pause the timer?”
I laughed so hard. “Sure, we can pause the timer.”
I went somewhere, and when I came back, you and Ayla were in the cart again.
“Aby, you owe us $5!”
Since I’d gotten a call from your dad, I was pretty sure y’all had made it back to camp. I paid up immediately, and you immediately found uses for those $5 bills…
Note the tails
Raptor attention
Saturday morning, there was a raptor demonstration, including Roja the red-tailed hawk, at a little stage near the music meadow. You, Ayla, Rasta, Josie, and Ace all wanted to go to it.
Josie is 12, Rasta is 6, and everybody else is in between. Josie is an extremely responsible girl. I don’t remember how it all happened but the five of you set off to see Roja.
After a while, I looked around camp. There sat eight adults, having adult conversations.
“Wait. Do you realize what’s happening?”
“No kids,” giggled Josie’s mom.
Now Rasta, he’s six, and he can be a handful sometimes. There was some worry that he might be a couple of handfuls for you all. So I volunteered to wander down there and make sure everything was cool.
I quietly made my way up to the area where they were having the raptor show, saw what I needed to see, then slipped around to take a picture.
Raptors are the coolest. Except for Rasta, Ace, Ayla, Elena, and Josie
After the show was over, and you all had gotten up to get a closer look at Roja, I said you should probably head on home.
“Okay.”
And off you went. I hung back – I didn’t want you to feel like you were being followed.
But I stayed close enough to make sure that particularly Rasta didn’t go left when you went right. I was being silly…
You all ended up on the dirt path that follows the creek – a straight shot back to our camp. Rasta was hanging back, because he had six-year-old reasons you didn’t. Then I heard a girl’s voice from further ahead, “C’mon Rasta!”
And he did.
The biggest challenge
On Saturday afternoon, y’all told me you wanted one more big challenge.
“A big challenge?”
“Yeah.”
First, we walked down to the command post, where they had a big stack of camp maps. I wanted to be sure you had a map with you, because both of you are perfectly capable of using a map.
I explained the “Find My Way Home” challenge to the staffer there, and then we had a conversation.
“What if you get lost, I mean really lost?”
“We’ll find a worker person.”
“Okay, good first idea. And what will you ask them?”
Ayla: “How to get to the music meadow.” Elena: “How to get to Gate #5.”
Your noggins had worked out that you couldn’t ask where your family’s camp was, but if you got to either the music meadow or Gate #5, you’d know the way home from there.
Excellent thinking, E-blast.
I walked you to the farthest reach of the campground I could find. So far that I made it a $7 challenge. And then I told you that you had to start off in a direction opposite from the way we had come.
“No time limit, okay Aby?”
“No time limit. Go see the campground.”
The pink arrow is our camp. The blue arrow is where I dropped you and Ayla
When I got back to camp, you found me pretty quickly.
“We didn’t get lost or anything.”
Of course, the next step will be to get lost on purpose – go somewhere that you have no idea where you are. My mom, Peggy, had a t-shirt that said,
“Not all who wander are lost.”
I expect you have some great wandering ahead of you, and if you get lost, well, you know how to find your way home.
Home
Autonomy means a lot of things. It means you can wander off if you want to. But we all have to recharge our batteries. And there’s no better place to recharge your batteries than your home base.
So get out there, and put that autonomy to use. See, learn, explore, investigate, and even occasionally get lost. But just be very sure of this: your parents, Ana, me, Uncle John, Grandmother – all the people who love you – will always be there to hear the stories, put bandages on the wounds, and help get the batteries recharged for the next challenge.
So there I was at the Lansing, North Carolina farmer’s market, buying tomatoes from the nice Rose Mountain Farm lady.
Before the farmer’s market people set up their pop-ups
“Where are y’all located?”
“We’re up Big Horse Creek Road.”
“I’m headed up there this afternoon to go fishing.”
“That’s the main reason that anybody goes up there. Do you go for the meditation, or to catch fish?”
Well, let me think about that for a moment. It was 27 years ago that I first tried fly-fishing, thanks to my dear departed cousin Dean C. Jones. Once you’ve had a trout take a dry fly off the top the water, man, you’re way more hooked than the fish is.
But I’m not a studied fly fisherman. I don’t read the books, watch the training videos, take the classes, any of it. Because the truth is that it really is a meditation for me. A few days earlier, I was chatting with the fellow at the Old Orchard Creek General Store and Café, and told him that I was headed out to go fishing.
“I hope you catch some.”
“If I’m standing in a trout stream on a day like this, and I’m not blissfully happy, then that’s on me.”
“Well, that’s right.”
I find myself settled just looking at this picture. Imagine actually being there.
So I was tempted to tell the lady that it’s all about the meditation. But then I had an interesting thought, and relayed it to her:
“The more I meditate, the more fish I seem to catch.”
In the last year or two, I’ve started to have some real success catching fish. On this current trip, I’ve caught a handful of trout in Little Horse Creek, right here in front of my AirBnB.
I don’t stop to take pictures, but I promised my AirBnB hosts one pic. He went right back in.
This is significant because N.C. Wildlife doesn’t stock Little Horse Creek. They do stock Big Horse Creek, of which Little Horse Creek is a tributary. Some fish make it up there, but fewer than in the stocked streams. And maybe they get a tad smarter after being up there a while. So I’m particularly proud of myself for catching fish in a stream they don’t stock.
Here’s the thing: when I go out for a few hours of fly fishing, I’d like to catch one trout. The difference between getting skunked and catching one beautiful fish is enormous. After that, my cup overfloweth. But on this trip, and the last couple, I seem to catch 6-8 fish every day. That’s after years of thinking that if I caught two fish, it was an extra special day.
October 14th, 2023
I headed up to the northern end of Big Horse Creek, to the catch-and-release section. From there to the Virginia state line, you can’t keep any fish. I never keep any anyway, but it’s particularly beautiful and fishy water.
I also have a theory that the fish are a bit smarter. A lot of people in this county fish for dinner, so the stocked fish go from stream to pan. But in this stretch, they get put back. Where maybe they learn their lesson and don’t bite at every single buggy-looking thing that floats over.
I dunno if that’s true or not, but I sure had a tougher time getting strikes than when I was down on the lower part of the creek. Still, I managed to land three rainbows and one beautiful brown.
Around 5:30pm, it was getting dark-ish, and there was a light rain falling. I had determined I was going to have to scale a fairly steep hill up to Big Horse Creek Road to return to my car (it’s just a whole lot easier than clambering back downstream to my entry point).
I was pretty proud of myself for catching four fish in the “tough” section of the stream. And darn proud for climbing out of that canyon back up to the road without too much exertion. All that walking and jogging pays off.
Then a thing happened. I stood up at the top of the hill, and looked down the road, back to the car. Saw this:
I wanted to find the Rose Mountain Farm lady, and tell her I’d been mistaken when we chatted that afternoon. The correct answer is, “Yes ma’am – it’s all about the meditation.”
P.S. On most browsers, you can right-click on any image and open the image in a new tab. No picture will properly convey the beauty of the scene that awaited me when I reached the top of the hill. But you’ll do your heart good by filling your screen with that for a minute and just taking it in.
My dad’s parents, Hunter (senior) and Mattie, grew up in a tiny little community called “Helton,” in northwest North Carolina, just a few minutes from the Virginia state line. They ended up moving to Charlotte, and that’s where my dad grew up. But in 1951, they bought some land and built a summer home (“the cabin”) in the community where they’d grown up.
They would spend as much time up there as they could, during the summers. My parents visited them there, even before I was born. So I was going to “the cabin” in a stroller.
As I got older, Helton and the cabin was my favorite place in the world. At first, it was just the creek to play in, the sound of the water rushing over the dam, and the seeming endless forest that surrounded us.
I got a bit older, and became obsessed with fishing in Helton Creek. At first it was just chubs and other “rough” fish. But after I caught my first trout, well, I was hooked.
The years passed, and I went to Helton whenever I could. I’ve got 6-7 generations of ancestors buried in the family cemetery behind the white house across the creek from the cabin, going back to the early 1800’s. I call them my “friendly ghosts,” and they make me feel welcome and happy whenever I’m back there.
So when you were born, I always had a dream of taking you to the cabin, and introducing you to Helton Creek. I also wanted my friendly ghosts to get a look at you, and see what an extraordinary grandchild I had gotten in the inimitable E-blast.
Some years ago, Ana and I ended up owning half of the cabin, but because we lived in California, it was really hard for us to look after it. Fortunately, in 2020, we were able to sell it to my cousin, Greg Pool, who lives in the Greensboro, NC area. Greg and his family moved into the cabin during Covid, Greg taught from there, and his kids (Liam, Avery, and Lily) went to Zoom school there.
Once I’d met the Pool family, I wanted you to meet those cousins too – they’re pretty cool people.
Elena goes to the mountains
This year, your parents were kind enough to let us arrange a visit to the mountains for you and your dad. Ana joined us too, so we had a group of four of us, staying at a house in a place called “Fee’s Branch Road,” about five minutes from the cabin.
I flew in a couple of days before everybody else, got the AirBnB opened up, and groceries in the refrigerator. Then I drove down to the Charlotte airport and picked you two up. It was time to head up to the mountains!
It was about a 2.5 hour drive up to the AirBnB from the airport. You played on your tablet most of the trip, but as we got to the mountains, you rolled down your window. “There’s so much to smell!” Yes, a lot to smell up there.
Fishing
That evening, we outside and fished in the pond right next to the house. It was full of very stupid largemouth bass.
You didn’t catch any fish that evening, because we didn’t have any worms, but you got a couple of strikes, which was super cool.
The next day, Ana was going to be coming in from Charlotte in her own rental car, so you, your dad, and I had the morning and early afternoon to ourselves. We drove down into West Jefferson, the nearest real town. We needed a few grocery things, water shoes, and worms!
We got you the coolest water shoes ever, and then went to a store where your dad could get some local beers. This is you and me sitting outside that store.
We also found you an excellent ice cream cone of “orange dreamsicle.” Then we went to Wal-Mart. We split into two teams: Team Hot Sauce (David), and Team Worms (you and me). We found our worms immediately:
I think we won the contest.
Then we drove back up to the house, and pretty quickly headed back to the pond. We put a worm on a hook, and pretty soon, you had hooked your first fish – a largemouth bass! You got it to the shore, but you wanted me to hold it while you got the hook out. We did that one just fine.
The second one you caught, you couldn’t get the hook out, so you asked me to get the hook out of it. I was working on the hook, when I felt a hand up on my shoulder. It was you reaching up to grab the hemostat that sits in a magnetic clip on the strap of my fishing bag. You wanted the hook out of the fish, and the critter back in the water right now. I was so proud of you. Pretty quick, I had the hook out (we had squished down the barb of the hook) and the bass was back in the pond.
“Thanks buddy!” you said. My heart leapt with joy.
Ana arrives
Ana arrived that afternoon, after flying out from California. She got lost on the road that runs by our AirBnB, so we were sitting on the porch, talking to her on the phone, and could see her car going back and forth past our driveway. “No Ana, turn around and go back 100 feet!” you said.
Ana finally found her way to the house.
The Pools and the cabin
Our next day was a play date with our cousins, the Pool family. We got to the cabin, and I asked Avery if she could give you a tour. Y’all were out the door and gone. We visited with the Pools a little, and ate some lunch, but then it was creek time!
You and Avery Pool looking for crawdads. You found plenty.
I cannot express how much it meant to me to see you playing in Helton Creek. I played in that same creek, that same place, 60 years ago when I was a kid. And 60 years before that, my grandmother, Mattie Perkins, played in the same creek, in the same place – I’ve seen an old picture of her standing in it with her sister, Clara. That was in the early 1900’s – over 100 years ago. I don’t know this for a fact, but it’s quite possible that her grandmother played in that creek.
Just like my grandmother and her cousins, 110 years ago.
You had such a blast playing in the water, as I knew you would. It was especially fun because the Pool’s dog, Figment, thinks of Helton Creek as his own private swimming pool.
Elena Haupert and Figment Pool living their best lives
After that, we all sat on the bridge and just “visited.” Well, you stayed there for a little while to see if your dad would catch a trout (he did) but then you and Avery disappeared to go explore.
Blueberries
The next day was blueberry picking with the Pools. We drove out to Old Orchard Creek blueberry farm…
If I was a bear, I’d just live here.
We ended up with so many blueberries that we froze them. Then after you left, I made blueberry jam. I still have a few jars of it at our house in San Leandro.
Swimming hole
The next day was your last up in the mountains. The four of us had a quiet morning, and then went to the “swimming hole” on Helton Creek. For two hours, we did nothing – and everything – in the creek. Your dad decided to send a giant log floating down the creek, and spent 20 minutes maneuvering it into position so it would float.
But mostly we just waded around enjoying being in the creek on a warm summer day. At some point, I found a crawdad with just one claw. I lifted it out of the water so you could see it. It was a female, and she was covered with eggs on her underbelly. This blew your mind. You looked at her for a few seconds, then said we had to get her back in the water.
I put her under a rock, and then for the next minute or two, you stood right next to the rock to be sure none of us stepped on her.
Somehow, two hours flew by and we never noticed.
Time to go
The next day, we all drove back to Charlotte. You and your dad flew back to California, while Lisa and I drove up to Asheville to visit a friend.
Elena, I don’t know if you’ll remember much of this trip, but that picture of you playing in Helton Creek is the wallpaper on my computer. And the image is stored in my heart forever.
And somewhere, those old friendly ghosts, my grandmother among them, are smiling. “You got a good ‘un there, Lee,” they’re saying.
Elena plays the drums in her garage on Warwick Ave in San Leandro
Dear Elena,
I don’t know how long you’ve been taking drum lessons – maybe six months? You’ve tried a lot of things as a kid – softball, soccer, karate… the usual kinds of things that kids try. And none of them ever really caught on. But when asked about musical pursuits, you kept saying you wanted to play drums. And that was a recurring theme.
So we coordinated with your parents, and started taking you to weekly drum lessons. They’re in this weird building in a weird part of Oakland, at a place called the Oakland Drum School. But it really looks like a warehouse that’s been turned into a warren of small offices and shops, where noises (e.g. drumming) won’t bother people.
Of course, this is unimportant to you, as it should be – it is simply the place where you go to learn drums.
And boy, do you learn drums! I’ve gotten to go to many of your lessons, while your mom and Ana have been to some too. And we all agree – you’re good at drums. You and your friend Emmett Schultz both study at the Oakland Drum School, and they were going to have a recital in May. Then sadly, your drum teacher got sick and they had to cancel the recital. So your mom and Emmett’s mom decided they’d have a mini-recital for you two, at your house. Here’s what happened:
You got in there, overcame your nervousness about playing in front of people, and crushed Seven Nation Army. Everybody cheered.
And you’ve just stuck with it and continued to grow. You found a couple of tunes by Imagine Dragons: Alone and Thunder. You brought those to your teacher, he worked out the drum patterns in them, and you’ve been working on those two songs with them.
Which brings me to today, June 14th, 2023. It was the second half of your 45-minute lesson, and you and Travis were working on Thunder. He was on one kit, and you were on the other, both of you playing along with the recording. I had my eyes down and I was just listening to you both rocking along.
Then I looked up and at you, and my heart about exploded.
You weren’t looking at your teacher, Travis. You weren’t looking at me. You weren’t really looking anywhere.
No, Elena, you were in that place that musicians go when they’re just making music. What you were seeing was the music itself – a vibrant ephemeral thing, and you were part of it. I know what it’s like to be in that place, and when you’re there, you don’t want to leave. And in that moment, I wished that Alone by Imagine Dragons would never end, so you could stay in that magical bubble with the music.
It ended, of course – it always does. Musicians, they’re always looking for ways to get back to that place. Jimmy Buffett, the person who wrote the song Chansons pour les petits Enfants, has another song called Something so Feminine About a Mandolin. I sing it for you sometimes when it’s bed-time on sleepover Fridays. One of the lines is:
When I get older, and I have a daughter I’ll teach her to sing, and play her my songs. And I’ll tell her some stories I can barely remember And hope that she will sing along.
And maybe one day she’ll take a fancy to picking… ‘Cause when that bug bites you, you live with the sting…
He’s telling his future daughter that if she ever learns to play an instrument, she’ll be “stuck” doing it her whole life.
Now, Elena, I saw you in that magic bubble with the music. You’re one of us now – the ones that think it sure would be fine to be back in that bubble one more time.
As we were leaving the lesson today, you said, to nobody in particular, “That was fun.” It’s not my place to say what you meant by that, but in my world, you meant, “That little while – when it was just me and the music all together – that was fun.”
The music is calling to you, Elena – I can tell that you hear it calling. You go on now, and follow.
My granddaughter, Elena, has a problem with swimming pools. Specifically, exiting them. I mean, she’s eight years old, so it’s not like we expect to tell her, “You have ten more minutes in the pool” and have her jump out ten minutes later. This is simply a way of setting expectations to mitigate the systemic shock when she does actually have to finally get out. For real.
We give her 2-3 warnings, then say, “Okay, you have to get out now.” But somehow she’s always across the pool and/or underwater, so she can’t hear us. So it usually takes five minutes from the point where she’s told to get out of the pool for her to actually climb out. Whatever.
Which brings me to the dive I did today at Atlantis Dumaguete in the Philippines. It was a beautiful reef/muck dive, about which I’ll say more later. This is about ending the dive.
We’d been out for a perfectly reasonable, actually generous, length dive, and had come back under the boat. Our group consisted of Lisa, me, and another Lisa (hereinafter “Smiley”, for avoidance of confusion).
It was our last muck dive of the trip, and we were sitting on seagrass in about 12 feet of water, 15 feet from the boat. The sun was beaming down and a cloud of tiny silver fish were playing in the first couple of feet of water above us. The sunlight glittered off their bodies as they moved as a mercurial whole, a sci-fi scene of a luminous alien.
Our divemaster, KF, was hanging on the bottom of the swim ladder, looking at us, wondering why we weren’t coming over, since the other group had gone up. Or maybe he knew.
Anyway, in that moment, I channeled my inner Elena Catherine, looked at Smiley, crossed my arms, squeezed my eyes shut, and shook my head vigorously from side to side.
The international dive sign for, “Nope, not going up.”
Then I turned, faced Lisa, and did the same thing. Elena, had she been there, would have understood and supported my position. She would wholeheartedly agree that going up, when we had plenty of air, and this magical fairyland setting, would be dumb.
But then I saw that neither Lisa was buying it. Silly grown-ups.
So I actually did a generous thing. I was last to come up on the previous dive, so I put on my big boy pants, kicked over to the ladder and the awaiting divemaster, and went up.
Giving the two Lisas a couple more minutes with the seagrass, sun, and tiny silver fish.
If you’re a diver and find yourself on the Big Island of Hawai’i (which is probably not a coincidence) you owe it to yourself to do some shore diving. There is obviously plenty of great boat diving, and I can highly recommend Jack’s Diving Locker for that. But there’s something special about finding your own way to an awesome dive site. You get the experience all to yourself and your buddy(ies). If you want to be lazy about getting in the water, do so. Or if you’re a speed demon, you’re in the water before the boat divers have made it out of the harbor.
And I promise you that the shore diving is every bit as good as most of the boat dives you’ll do. Yeah, you gotta walk/crawl over lava. But for my money, it’s well worth it. Let me tell you about Puako 120. Puako is a little town 40 miles north of Kailua-Kona, immediately north of the Mauna Lani resort. It’s got a road, shockingly called “Puako Road,” that runs from Highway 19 down to the beach. All along it are glorious beach dives. This one is about “120” – you park at the utility pole labeled “120.”
If only all dive sites were so well labeled.
One great thing about Jack’s Diving Locker: they give out maps of the awesome shore dives. Here’s the Puako map:
Half a dozen great dive sites along one road.
Lisa and I left the Hale Kona Kai condo before 7:00am and were parked around 7:45.
First thing about diving Puako: be sure to mark your exit point. When you’re out in the ocean, everything looks the same. We hung a big orange/white striped beach towel off a tree on the shore.
The entry at Puako is the only bit of drama in the entire experience. There is slippery lava that you have to walk/craw over to reach the sandy bottom or deep enough that you can swim. I highly recommend going at high tide so you get deeper quicker.
The other recommendation: wear heavy booties, both for lava and urchin protection, meaning strapped, rather than full-foot, fins. Carry your fins in, and walk holding hands (three points of support) over the lava. I’m making it sound worse than it is – don’t let me put you off. Just be properly prepared, plan and time your entry right, and Bob’s your uncle.
There are mooring buoys all over the area. We took aim at the “middle” one, a heading of 15° off the beach. If you’re an old beach diver like Lisa and I are, the swim isn’t that daunting. And on a pretty Sunday morning in August, it’s downright enjoyable. Roll on your back (saves air for the underwater bit), kick slow and take your time.
We got almost to the buoy, when I looked down and saw a drop-off to about 40′ directly below us. “Look what I found.” I took a compass reading on our towel – sure enough, 195° – math is cool.
We found a sand bottom in 20′ at the edge of the drop-off, and went down there to adjust straps, clear masks, etc. Then we tumbled over and went down toward the sand. There is a gentle slope down to maybe 100′ – we hung around 50-60′. “Left or right?” I asked Lisa. Shrug. Shore dives are so fun. I picked left (westward) and we started cruising along the slope, enjoying the finger coral. Less than five minutes after we descended, this guy swam past us.
I didn’t take this picture, but it looked just like this.
I turned to see if Lisa was watching – her eyes were smiling ear to ear, so yeah. He came back 3-4 times. Lisa later said she saw him head up into the shallows. But it was fun to have him around for a little while.
Here’s the thing about drop-offs – I’m always turning to look out that way, because something amazing can swim past. Unlike the nature specials and Shark Week, the critters don’t have a swelling soundtrack to announce their arrival. I’ve always wondered how many astonishing sights I’ve missed because I was concentrating on something on the shoreward side. This wasn’t astonishing, but it was definitely way cool:
Whitetip reef shark. T. obesus
She was swimming parallel to us along the sand bottom, 40′ below us. If she was aware of us, she didn’t indicate it – she just passed us at a leisurely pace and disappeared into the gloom.
I should note that there were a bazillion reef fish of every sort. The outer slope reefs had clouds of anthias covering them. The big critters were fun, for sure. But even without them, the usual reef suspects made the dive delightful.
We continued on until we came to a weird topographic feature. As I mentioned above, there was a sand bottom at about 40′ below us to the right. But suddenly that sand bottom dropped off into the abyss in the direction we were going. And the slope that we were paralleling also dropped down into that same deep blue. It was beautiful. And freaky. We had to stop for a couple of minutes and just dig that particular junction.
Then it seemed like time to head back to slightly shallower water, so we headed up the slope. By sheer accident we ran smack into the mooring buoy one west of the one where we’d descended. I looked up and discovered that there was a boat attached to it, which explained the prop sounds we’d heard earlier in the dive.
My recollection of previous dives at Puako (a decade prior) was amazing topography, with canyons, arches, and towers of coral. I’d been missing that during the first part of the dive, and thought maybe I’d misremembered.
We just had to get to the right place. As we came up into 30-40′ of water near the second buoy, the canyons and arches appeared. I took a scientific wild-ass guess on the direction back toward our original buoy and we headed that way.
But we were careful to zig in and out toward shore to get the full joy of the terrain. Towers of coral. Archways that you could swim through, were they not full of big fish that you’d disturb. Dead-end canyons that looked like something out of a bizarre underwater cowboy western.
It was in one of those canyons that I had a memory of our friend Celeste Fowler. Man. We lost Celeste to cancer in 2004, and here 18 years on, it still stings. She was the most amazing diver, and just a magical spirit. Somehow I’d had the privilege of doing a dive with her at Puako – just the two of us. We were in one of those canyons, and Celeste was scanning her light under a ledge, when she waved me over. There was a whitetip shark sleeping on the sand under the ledge. We spent a few minutes enjoying that treat, then turned to head out. The canyon opened up in front of us, leading toward the drop-off – the view was stunning.
Celeste reached out and we held hands for a little while as we swam down the canyon. I hope that memory stays with me forever. Dives at Puako will help me keep it.
After meandering back in the general direction of home, Lisa and I thought it was time to think about finding the actual exit point. We found a sand patch, and I indicated that I was going to go up, get a proper compass reading, and come back down. But looking up, I saw a green sea turtle swimming over. It was surrounded by a dozen small jacks that were using its shell as a parasite cleaning station. One by one, the fish swam up to the turtle and wiped their sides against its shell, presumably to wipe parasites off themselves. Whether this has any benefit for the turtle, who knows?
They weren’t helping the turtle. Just scratching their own backs.
After that show was over, I went on up to the surface to get a compass reading. Miraculously, we were close to smack on the path that we’d taken out at the beginning of the dive (I’m just not that good at navigation) – home was at 200°.
We stayed underwater as far as possible because (a) it’s more fun, (b) you see more, and (c) it’s easier kicking underwater. Ultimately, we were at about 6′, so I gave up and ascended, much to Lisa’s annoyance.
We kicked on in, made our way across the lava, fins in hand, and got back to the shore. 65 minutes underwater, every one awesome.
Standing at the car, Lisa said, “That was great. Now let’s get lunch at Harbor House, then drive down to Two Step, and go snorkeling.” Gotta get full value for your last day in Kona.
Random shore diving note
Over the years, I’ve tended to weight myself more heavily than the textbooks suggest. Even the textbooks have gotten better about adding weight since my early training days in the 1980’s, because it’s important to be able to comfortably stay at your 15-20′ safety stop, even with an aluminum 80 cu. ft. tank that has added 3-5 lb. of buoyancy since it was full. But what the textbooks don’t talk about is the convenience and safety of being able to stay submerged at 15′, or 10′, or even 5′ on your return from a shore dive.
Experiment with a couple of extra pounds. I don’t think you’ll notice the difference at depth, but you’ll be glad that you’re able to still enjoy the dive as you swim back at a depth of 10′ toward the shore at Puako.