Category: stories

This is a story I regularly tell people when I want to get a little sympathy for having a crazy upbringing.  My Dad was long in charge of scouting when I was growing up.  For some reason I always made the cut as to which of the kids got to go with my dad when he was taking scouts somewhere, typically camping.  I don’t recall Josh ever going, so I was the youngest boy on many of these outings.  While a lot of the camps were fun (I still remember Troy and Mike out-paddling all the other troops to win the Broken Paddle Award at one camp), one of the outings was brutal.  And, I don’t recall if it was with the scouts or not, but we did later go there with scouts.  I think this time may have been a preparatory hike to help my Dad remember the area, but the photos below suggest otherwise.

Anyway, we went hiking in the Uintahs.  I couldn’t have been more than 6, 7, or maybe 8 at the time.  Mark would have been two years older.  The hike in to the campsite was 10 miles.  I can manage 10 miles in a day hiking today just fine.  But when I was ~6, ugh, it was like the Bataan Death March (to me; obviously the Bataan Death March was much worse in reality).  I could also be conflating the two times we did this hike, but I distinctly recall on one of them that it was a very wet spring and the trail, which typically crossed a dry creek bed, instead crossed a field of mud about 2 feet deep.  I took two pairs of shoes on that trip; one of them is still buried deep within the mud field in the Uintahs.

Just as we arrived at the campsite, a hail storm blew in.  My Dad wanted to get a fire started, so he had us hold a tarp over the fire pit while he tried to start the fire.  As the youngest and shortest kid around, I obviously was holding the tarp the lowest.  A gust of wind blew through, lifting the center of the tarp up, and all the hail that had collected on the top of the tarp went down the lowest point, which was directly above my head — and down the back of my shirt and coat.  I got no sympathy, just yells of “Don’t let go!” and “Hold the tarp higher!”

Eventually the storm blew over and we started to get settled.  My remaining pair of shoes was soaking wet, so I put them on the wire rack near the fire to dry and went to bed.  Mark and I were sharing a tent (the one in the picture below):

Once we finally made it to bed, I didn’t feel well.  About midnight I had to get up to urinate.  And about 2:00 am I felt so bad I got up and vomited right outside the tent.  Mark heard it, then smelled it, then kicked me out of the tent.  I recall pleading with him to let me back in at 2:00 in the morning.  He finally relented (parental intervention may have been involved), but he didn’t want to have to smell the vomit I likely had all over me.

I eventually fell back asleep in my vomit covered clothes, and when I woke in the morning, I found that the soles of my shoes had melted onto the wire grill by the fire.  I had to pry them off the grill.

The positive twist to this story is that I was really at the bottom of the bottom when it comes to bad luck and things got better after that.  Here’s another photo from that trip where I’m feeling a little better (and Mark’s pretending to eat a raw fish):

I don’t recall why we were going to Park City, but I know that’s where we went.  It may have been for a game or just to meet up with some people Mark know, but what I do recall is that Mark borrowed my Dad’s Honda and then proceeded to fill it beyond full.  I’m sure there were two people in the passenger seat, and at least five or six in the backseat.  Tom Triplett and I rode in the trunk all the way to Park City.  So, in a car made to fit 5 people, we managed to squeeze in 10 of us.  I don’t even think what we did in Park City was worth the trip, but I do remember Mark being perfectly fine with Tom and I riding in the trunk!

This is another one of the activities that we did regularly, so I don’t have any real stories, per se, but I can describe what we would do.  I also don’t recall who all did this with us, but I’m pretty sure Mark Woolley, Tom Triplett, Murray Triplett, Mark, John Carter, and Todd Haws all did this at one point or another.   I will also admit that this was probably the most dangerous thing we ever did.

Not far from the overpass we frequented is a train bridge.  Here it is in Google Maps:

The bridge goes over the Weber River, and just below the bridge on the east side was a little beach that was often frequented by couples making out and other people looking for fun.  Often when we would get bored messing with cars on the freeway, or while doing that and we’d hear a train coming, we’d head to the train bridge for some excitement.  There were three activities we engaged in.  All of them were extremely dangerous.  I’ll start with the least dangerous, which is marked in red on the map.

The bridge seems like it was basically designed for people to climb it (maybe the engineers thought no one would be that stupid).  On the ends it sloped up at a relatively mild 30 to 35 degree incline and had large, protruding rivets that made it particularly easy to climb the ends of the bridge.  But, even easier, were the support columns holding up the upper trestles.  While they also had easy to grasp rivets, they were made up of X-shaped cross bars, which meant you could easily scale them.  Anyone not afraid of heights with just moderate climbing skills could scale the bridge and be on top of the trestle in about a minute.

The spot marked in red was actually a nice big crossbar that ran across the tracks.  It was about 4 to 5 feet tall and had thick ledges on the top and the bottom and long cross beams, making it easy to cross.  If you timed it just right, you could climb up the end of the bridge, move onto that crossbeam, and watch as the train approached.  And if the train’s interior light was on, you also got to see the face of the conductor as he initially freaked out, then honked his horn and did his best job to scold you for both scaring the crap out of him and being so stupid.  While standing on that cross piece, the train would run just a few feet below you.  While certainly dangerous, once you were up on the cross bar, you were relatively safe.  The riskiest part after the train had gone by was getting down.

The spot marked with yellow is actually a little deceptive because it did not entail climbing up on top of the trestle.  Along side the train tracks along the bridge was a walkway.  It was a couple feet wide, at most.  It could be used to easily cross the bridge when there was no train.  However, when there was a train, the train actually hung far enough over the side of the tracks that, if you were walking along the walkway, you’d be hit (and probably die).  But what you could do, if you were looking for a thrill, is lay down on the walkway before the train came.  The train was always three or so feet above the walkway.  So, if you laid down before the train got there, you could literally lay underneath the train as it whizzed past above you.  If you sat up, you were going to die.  If you made a wrong move, you were going to die.  You had to commit, and simply lay there, with thousands of tons of steel rolling over your prostrate body.  Yeah, that was dangerous.

But I’ve saved the best for last.  This was done in the spot indicated with the blue marker.  To do this you’d climb up to the top of the trestle.  As you can see from the map, at the top of the trestle are x-shaped cross beams.  Once you got on top of the bridge, you could sit on one of the cross beams and inch your way toward where they crossed.  These beams were also made up of x-shaped beams with about 1 foot gaps in them (at the wide end; like the picture above).  I can remember the first time I did this I climbed to the top of the bridge and, on the other side, were Todd Haws and John Carter.  I think Mark was in the red spot, getting ready for the train to come.  John and Todd had to coax me out to the center, then one of them, I think Todd, showed me how you did the next thing.  You would work your way around to the east side of the cross and face west, put your legs through the gaps in the X’s, then swing upside down.  It’s kind of hard to picture, but basically you would be hanging from the top of the bridge by your legs with your head facing the oncoming train.  Remember, I said that the red spot was a couple of feet above the train.  The top crossbeams were about 6 to 8 feet above the train.  So, when you would flip upside down, you’d be hanging a good 3 feet above the train.  There was always the risk that the train might have a slightly taller car that you couldn’t see that would hit you, but that’s unlikely as trains have to be very exact dimensions.  And, of course, there was the possibility of slipping and falling onto a train crossing under you at about 50 mph.  But we never did.

As far as I know, no one was ever hurt doing this, at least no one was when I was down there.  I’m certainly not going to recommend these activities as I’m still a bit surprised I did them myself.  But these were the kinds of things we were doing on the weekends when Mark and I were teenagers.

Mark never told me who, exactly, came up with the name or the idea, but he did introduce me to the “sport” he called “bedapping.”  Mark probably came up with the idea and the name – he was a bit nutty like that.

Bedapping is basically just another name for streaking, but there were goals involved: (1) don’t get caught, (2) don’t let anyone realize who you are, and (3) let your butt be seen.

The process was simple: First, wait until the sun went down – you always bedap at night to reduce the odds of you being identified.  Second, decide on your target.  Typically we did this at the overpass near my parents’ house in Mountain Green, UT, but Mark recounted doing this at the homes of girls in his high school class as well.  Third, go to your target location, take off all your clothes except your shoes and socks, and stash your clothes somewhere safe.  Fourth, figure out a way to be seen, but not identified, and run around naked for a while.

This eventually developed into a rather dangerous game that we played at the overpass. Here’s how it worked.  One of the faster guys would be positioned almost at the very top of the off-ramp of I-84.  Every 15 to 20 feet down the off-ramp another naked boy would be stationed all the way down to the cattle guard just south of the actual overpass.  The naked boy at the top of the off-ramp would start running when they saw a car signal that it was going to exit.  The rest of the naked boys couldn’t run until that first boy passed their position.  The goal was to outrun the car driving down the off-ramp and make it under the overpass where you could hide behind the pillars as the car passed.  If you were able to hide behind the pillars, you could remain anonymous and all the drivers of the cars would see was naked butts fleeing down the off-ramp.  Here’s a map with some markers to illustrate (this is the actual location, by the way):

I recall one night when Mark and several of his friends teamed up with myself and several of my friends to play the bedapping game.  We probably had 10 to 15 guys playing.  Mark, who was always daring, would typically be the guy at the very top.  It helped that he was super fast.  I, on the other hand, was never very fast, so I was typically near the end of the off-ramp.  We probably ran down the ramp 10 times that night, but one of those sticks out.  It was pretty typical for cars to slow way down and idle down the off-ramp and through the overpass, probably to avoid seeing anything more than naked butts.  One of the cars that idled through the off-ramp that night must have had its interior lights on because I was able to clearly make out the face of Robert Poll, who was, at the time, the Stake President (for my non-Mormon friends, that’s a position pretty high up in the Mormon hierarchy).  I remember quite clearly his beet-red face peering out the window as though he were trying to identify the naked butts climbing all over the underside of the overpass, scrambling to not be identified.  I believe we succeeded as no one was ever called in to his office on account of what we did.

I’d love to know if someone out there was on the receiving end of one of Mark’s (or my) bedapping games; I can’t imagine what it would be like to have your headlights suddenly pick up one naked butt running away from you, then two, then three.. then a dozen.  Now I think it would be hilarious, but I’m sure not everyone would see it that way.

My sister-in-law asked me quite a while ago to write down some stories I remember of my brother Mark who passed away last year.  I made a list of stories for her back when she asked but am just now finding the time to write down some of the stories.  Here is the first in what will likely be a series of stories about my brother.  Oh, and just to be on the safe side, these stories are how I remember these events; others may disagree with how things happened.  These are all from a very long time ago, so there may be some errors in my memory.

In the Dog House

I don’t recall exactly what age we were, but I was probably close to 8 or 10, which means Mark would have been around 10 to 12.  I also don’t recall exactly what possessed us to do what we did, but I do remember what it was we did.  We were playing in our parents’ backyard with matches.  If I’m not mistaken, Wenn Chaston was also there.  Mark had the matches and would reward Wenn and I with a match for every piece of paper or bunch of flammable, dry weeds we found that we could light on fire.  Since Mark made the hunt for tinder competitive, Wenn and I began searching for bigger and bigger objects we could burn.  At some point one of us, I don’t remember who, ended up finding the neighbor’s dog house.  At the time I believe it was the Dixon’s who lived in the house next door to my parents.  They had a dog, but the dog stayed inside, so the dog house was derelict.  We gathered some of our tinder, carried it to the dog house, and proceeded to stack it in and around the dog house to insure it burned.

Lighting a dog house on fire probably wouldn’t be a huge issue, except for the fact that the dog house was in storage under the Dixon’s wooden deck and was backed right up next to their wood-shingled home!

I’m a bit fuzzy on what happened next, but I seem to recall some hesitation in lighting it on fire, but then it was lit, probably by Mark.  I’m also fuzzy as to when we ran, whether it was before or after the fire engine showed up, but it didn’t take them long.  Someone must have seen the smoke billowing out from under the deck as the fire engine arrived quickly and the fire was put out before it did any real damage to the deck or the house.

I have a very vivid memory of walking toward the front yard of the Dixon’s house between our house and their house and seeing the fire engine parked on the road.

The next thing I remember is my mother screaming at Mark and I, followed by a pretty vicious lashing with a belt.

We never played that game with matches ever again (though I do think Nate Williams lit the field opposite his house on fire that same summer or the summer after; neither Mark or I were involved).