Chronicles of Loong: A preface

Chronicles of Loong is a work of fiction /non-fiction. These stories may or may not have occurred, and the people may or may not be represented correctly. This is my attempt at fiction writing, as well as non fictional knowlege, an effort to tell the reader what it was like for the American soldier with my impressionistic form of writing. I am not a hero, I spent two tours there. And Loong was my nickname goven to me by the Vietnamese people. The rest is a compilation of what the feelings are, and how some of my friends reacted to certain situations.

"Loong", (pronounced like the name LOU with an ng at the end) is the oldest of all imperial dragons in ancient China. Until a month ago I always believed loong meant tiny or small, as I am short in stature. The revelation of it's history and meaning leaves me to wonder why I was called that. Although, through centuries the words meaning was seen in a different light. The little Dragon, became the little one. If there is anyone out there who knew me or a woman named Oanh who lived at nam muy hai, suk muy hai Din Tin Huong, Saigon (52/20 Din Tin Huong), I beg of you to contact me. I am in search of my Vietnamese friends. I have need to fill in some blank spots that have occurred over that period of time Apr 69-Jan 71.

B.G. Clark (Loong)
Email: CoRingRat@AOL.COM
13 December, 2006

Chronicles of Loong: Snoopy's Nose

Snoopy's Nose

The Mekong river meanders it's way through the Mekong Delta of South Viet Nam to the South China Sea. Its muddy waters are banked by triple canopy jungle. Its banks abound with wildlife, prey and predator. There are tiny villages of 6 or 7 thatched huts, and rice paddies are abundant.

My first flight along the Mekong was an eye opener for me. It was so beautiful, like a scene from the movie "South Pacific". I imagined all the animals and jungle trails beneath the triple canopied, jungled mass, and wondered what it would have been like to be born here. To know the ways of the jungle and the life of the peasants. We see them as extremely poor. They feel incredibly blessed with the bounty of their forests. The Southeastern Mekong has become a haven for the Viet Cong. We control it during the day. It is theirs at night. No platoon in their right mind would ever stroll the trails after dark. There is no electricity there, no street lights, no 7-11's. Just snakes, bugs, swamps, and Charlie, (our nickname for the Communist Viet Cong). From the advantage of a helicopter or plane, you can see the land take on a resemblance of the dog "Snoopy" with his bulbous nose. The nose is approximately 6 square miles of jungle surrounded by the muddy river. It is estimated that 11 of the 14 small villages in the area are communist sympathizers, storing rice, weapons, and medical assistance. It is considered to be the most hostile piece of real estate in the Mekong Delta. Like ants the supply trails lead out of "the nose" to places like Dong Tam, Soc Trang, and Can Tho supplying the communist soldiers. It is a "free-fire-zone with curfew". Anything on the river after 2200 is considered hostile. Nice place to visit, but you sure as hell don't want to spend any extended period of time there.

Just before entering the Group Headquarters I reached down and pulled up a handful of mud and rubbed it across the ass of my fatigues. It was a gift to the bald, pompous Colonel McIntire. He wouldn't see it on the chair until I left.

Colonel McIntire is about to retire, that needed to happen a long time ago. Man, this guy needs to be dead or at least DEROS back to the states. His own troops have attempted to frag him. Hell even the Army housed him off post in a safe area. The brass put up with him. He did good stuff on paper, but he couldn't lead a troop to the mess hall. Mister personality. A perfect example of one who has reached the level of their own incompetence.

His secretary is a cute little Vietnamese girl who speaks perfect English. She calls, he makes me wait. After about fifteen minutes I stand and say to her, "Tell him I'm going back to MACV." I wasn't three feet outside the door before his beet-red face was sputtering and cursing, "God Damn it! You can fuck'n wait like everyone else!" I stopped and just stared at him.

"Are you ready to see me?", I say.

He spouts a curt "yes" and turns on his heel.

This is going great. He knows he has no control over me, and he hates it. I enjoy our talks when I am in his AO. I bait the shit out of him and he falls in head first, hook-line-and-sinker. I have never worn my rank insignia. It is common knowledge that when you work close to the border such trappings are inappropriate.

There were two others in his office. I knew both of them. Randy, I had worked with before. He was a top shooter, and was "mission, mission, mission". This man did not give any quarter, there were no loose ends with him. Truthfully, I was a little scared of him myself. The other was "Joolz" the Colonel's Vietnamese interpreter. Joolz turned and his eyes burned into me. I had heard that he was "riding the fence" and had good friends on the other team. He had heard rumors of me taking out non-combatants for fun. I swear to you, I have never done that and never would. If I got the chance, that son-of-a-bitch was dead. I knew he was playing both sides. Every chance I got I messed with him, called him VC. His thoughts were on his forehead in big block letters, "You need to die, Loong." What? I'm a hell of a nice guy! I figured Joolz would fuck up soon enough and I'd get my chance, and I wouldn't make it easy.

The bald headed idiot was speaking and I caught a familiar word phrase "Snoopy's Nose". Shit, I thought, a guy could get killed there. The Colonels eyes bore into me. "So what do I call you, soldier?", he said sarcastically. "You need to get a haircut and clean up, boy."

That's all it took for me. "Look, Colonel, it is your job to brief me. Now do your fuck'n job or I go back to MACV and let the CG (Commanding General) know what an asshole you are."

He has no choice. He stares at the wall. I know he is building his composure. I can see the blood throbbing through the veins of his forehead. This man hates me, really bad. I was thinking about Nixon and figured that millions hated him, who cared if this pompous ass hates me?

A special forces captain enters the room. He is formal, professional, with pointer charts, and the whole nine yards. He is nervous being around the pompous ass that sits behind the impressive desk. He swallows hard and begins, "Three days ago an Army Sergeant First Class with the Fifth Special Forces Group was working a pacification program and was captured by four Viet Cong about a click outside of Dong Tam. They were last seen heading for Snoopy's Nose. We need him out. There are no "non Combatants" in the area. Use extreme prejudice. Anything that moves is the enemy. We want him or proof of his death. You will be taking two ARVN Scouts (Army of the Republic of South Viet Nam). They are seasoned soldiers and will not run in a firefight. It will be Randy, two scouts, and you. Joolz will accompany as an observer. When contact is made and the body confirmed or "person of interest" is in your custody, we will pound the shit out of that place with F-4's and an ARC LITE (B-52) mission so don't hang around. Your mission is simple, track, smack, and get the fuck out. Questions?"

"What's the problem with you guys, can't you go get him?", asked Randy.

The Captain is a little flustered, "We need this quiet, we need this fast. We fucked up and that's it. Your battle dress will be conical hats, white blouse, and black pajama bottoms with tire tread sandals. You will carry no identification and affiliate yourselves with no one. If you must engage, do it quietly. You won't get much sleep."

"OK if we leave at daybreak?"

"Yes"

"Where is our LZ?"

"Six clicks south of Dong Tam."

"How much time do we have?"

"You have three days. If you have him in sight and there is no way to extract him you will "terminate" the mission, is that understood?"

"Yes Sir" Randy says. He's an army sergeant, he has to respond appropriately.

My response was "yup".

Joolz pipes up and says, "I don't like him sir", pointing at me. The Colonel laughed. "You and half the world, Joolz!"

Calmly I responded, "Joolz, I probably shot at your mother yesterday, or maybe even got a piece of your little sisters ass." We were promptly dismissed, but not before I wiggled the mud on my ass onto the leather chair.

We had dinner on the Navy Barge in Bien Samoi (spelling may not be correct). The Navy always has the best food. After a good meal, a pack of Marlboros, and a half a fifth of Jim Beam I staggered off to the Bachelor Officers Quarters (BOQ) for some sleep. I have to get drunk to sleep, otherwise the mission will play itself out hundreds of time in my mind. Fuck, I have to be nuts to do what I do. But the JB helps.

I am awakened at dawn. I can smell the JP-4 of the turbine engines and hear the sound of them running up right outside the bunker. The five of us would depart in a UH-1 "Huey" and escorted by the Ah-1G attack helicopter that carried 17 lb warheads in it's rocket pods and a twenty millimeter cannon. The area would be "prepped" before we were inserted. I looked down at the dark green jungle zipping below us less that 300 feet away. Charlie can't get a lock on us that fast if we are this low. The Cobra is far above, like an eagle looking for a mouse waiting for the chance to pounce and kick some mouse ass.

Two clicks out of the LZ, the shit hit the fan. The ground fire was oppressive; our bird was taking hits. The pilot had guts of steel. He rolled us to the right and plopped us right into the middle of the zone, yelling, "Out, get out, now!"

Well, that was fun. The five of us run for the treeline as the cobra spits it's venom in all directions. As they depart the gunfire settles.

It is eary quiet, scary. "Looong!, hey Looong"" He drew out his pronunciation, the flat of the Mekong carries it far. "I am glad you are here my friend."

Fuck!, "he's" here. Too many kills to count, in the city, in the jungles, everywhere. All we know is that he has been in the jungle since the age of ten, he is in his thirties now. He has been here since the French and we replaced the French. I call him a pleasure killer, he calls me Cong Ma (the ghost). We have never met. There is only one way he could know I was here, one fucking way. Joolz. I made a personal note: Joolz and I would have a drink when I got back, and the Colonel will need a new interpreter. I looked over my shoulder at Joolz, he was smiling. I should have shot him right there.

"Hey Asshole" I yelled.

"You want some of me, ghost?" he replied.

"Fuck you asshole." Aren't I the gentleman?

Silence, we needed to move. I didn't want to be around if he was doing the hunting. So we took a heading to flank into the nose area, away from the possibility of a confrontation. We both knew neither of us wanted a confrontation. He did his thing, I did mine. He just happened to be a lot better at it than me. We came within 1000 yards of each other once. I was picking small pieces of bullet schrapnel out of my upper right thigh for two months. I need to pee in the right places, assert myself like an alpha dog. Phan was his name and he would not kill me. He would parade me. I knew that he would make me suffer terribly if he got the chance.

As we pass through the jungle several things are apparent. The trails are well worn by many people passing over its surface. Here and there are campsites, flat areas and palm frond roofs. We are in Indian country. By 1400 the ARVN's have found the track. The cong had been lazy, eating their captive's C's and leaving trash. We could see where he had been tied to a banyon, there were traces of blood and small pieces of bamboo with blood. They had taken his boots and beat his feet. It made for slow travel.

By sunset we were in the middle of Indian country. The scouts were spooked and complained that they were only supposed to get us here and leave. Randy wanted to shoot them, I wanted to use them as bait, so we kept them around. We always joked about being Cowboys and Indians.

We decided to get two or three hours of rest. Yeah, like that's going to happen. I dozed and dreamed. I dreamed about Joolz. He was laughing at me. I awoke to the sound of distant laughter, pots clattering, the smell of fish and rice. I figured they were about a click away. A thousand yards is a long way in the jungle. He was there, I could feel him, their trophy. Randy was already up poking me with a canteen cup of warm coffee. A canteen held close to the belly can actually get warm enough to dissolve the coffee crystals from the C-rats. I was starting to freak, feeling an ambush, feeling like I was flanked.

Randy sat beside me and whispered, "I already took care of it." I was confused until I saw him drop three ears beside me in the dirt and say "Nobody heard nothin." He had taken out their OP's (observation posts). They wouldn't know it for a while.

"Three fuck'n ears? You brought me fucking ears?" Fucking ears!??? You weren't supposed to do that. Discuss it with Randy for me will you? He went on missions, he completed them well, he didn't take orders. Some said he was DIA, some super secret intelligence operation. I never asked and he never told. Randy was a loner. And he had that "thousand yard stare". That scary look that gives you the creeps when you imagine what his eyes have seen.

"Our man is less than a click away" Randy said. "Between him and us are three squads of VC, machine guns, mortars, and B-40 rocket launchers. I came upon 5 wire trips and two tiger cages. You want him sir?"

THWACK! One of our ARVNS slumped into the hillside, his head barely recognizable. We were on the ground and heading for cover in a fraction of a second. Phan, his style.

The "Bitch" was taken out of her sleeve. She gleamed in the low light under the canopy. I slipped back the bolt nearly silently and heard the thunk of the round move into the smooth breach. I moved to a slight rise and mounted the MK2 scope. Slowly I swept the jungle looking for the least bit of movement. At my 11 O'clock I saw it, a very small patch of white at about 75 yards. It was a hand holding the stock of an AK-47 tightly. He was kneeling in the bush. He would be on LP (listening post) and would have risked the shot to the ARVN as a matter of attrition. He was between us and our guy. The supersonic round took him in the head long before he ever heard the report of the weapon.

The four of us moved out, crouching. Randy was in the lead disarming the traps that would surely have killed us. I really liked Randy, but kept everything official. I never want to look at the horror inside his head. I have never been afraid of any man, but Randy gave me the wooglies!

About three hundred meters in Randy motioned us down and pointed off to our two O'clock position. I squinted. There were two VC laying beside each other, one manning a machine gun on a bipod and the other laying out ribbons of ammunition so the feed would be smooth. Randy placed his hands over his ears in a question, "quietly?". I nodded yes. He and the ARVN left their rifles and crawled through the jungle to meet the pair, some 80 yards or so away. For three hours Joolz and I lay in the underbrush, no longer seeing either of them. Then a small click of a bush and they were beside us.

Randy spoke first in a whisper. "Loong, it's bad. Our guy's one of the gunners, he's turned Indian."

"Bullshit" came from my lips. I knew instantly it had been the wrong thing to say. The flash suppressor of Randy's M-16 was under my chin.

"He's turned man, live with it!" No wonder the "extreme prejudice" shit came out of the Colonel's mouth. Decision time. We did a 9, 12, 3 fan. If you picture a clock you can see us, surrounding the pair. I was at the twelve O'clock position, the only means of escape. Twenty yards from them. Bipod attached. Shots are fired, one is dead, the other turns to the escape route. I see his face, his boonie cap, and his American features. I have been trained not to hesitate. Three rapid rounds punctured his mid-section. As he went to his knees in awe, the fourth round caught him in the throat, but not before my forearm opened up and the adrenaline caused the blood to flow quickly. Our other scout was dead, and Joolz, well Joolz was smiling again. Randy was in a rage, he jumped, grabbed Joolz by the neck with one hand and plunged his K-Bar deep into his gut, twisting it. I watched with open eyes, unbelieving eyes. Joolz' smile faded slowly, his last sight was of me folding a piece of gum into my mouth. So there we are, me and Randy. He had taken the dog tags off the target and made sure he was dead. Now it is just a matter of getting to the pick up zone.

Night had fallen and the rains came, drops as big as your thumb spattering on the broad leaves of the jungle. A good time to move. The turnaquet worked well on my forearm and the bleeding had stopped. Through the brush in front of us on the path was the sound of breaking branches and something moving fast. We crouched as two water buffalo stampeded by us. They can be pretty mean. I'm glad to have avoided that confrontation.

The "Z' was 100 yards ahead. We sat for and hour before activating our locater device so we could make sure the area was "friendly". At the sound of rotors we popped yellow smoke and F-4's screamed to our flanks with napalm and 20mm cannon fire. A bird dropped like a freaky dragonfly, doors open and gunners raking the flanks. The hundred yard run was full of adrenaline. But not a shot was fired. Randy and I jumped in the bird and "superchief" had the skids off the ground. Damn, I need a shower.

"I will ask you one more time, WHERE IS JOOLZ"? McIntire yelled.

Randy spoke up, you could hardly hear him. "He tripped a wire, man."

"SIR, GOD DAMN IT, YOU CALL ME SIR!" McIntire screamed.

"SIR, he's rotting in the fucking jungle, SIR!" (sarcastic as hell).

McIntire just slumped and rubbed his bald head. Randy stood up and threw the dog tags, three ears and Joolz' boonie cap onto the Colonel's desk. "Get out, you son of a bitch, get the fuck off my compound".

I wiggled my ass in the leather chair again, stood up and made my exit. Randy and I laughed and smoked all the way to the flight line. There has to be a bird headed north. I need a drink and some friendship. Saigon would be a relief. Ton Son Nhut was a friendly place.

Chronicles of Loong: Long Thanh

I am sitting on a rock outcrop, overlooking three thatched huts, not ten minutes walk from the Ho Chi Minh Trail. Everything seems normal, normal is bad. Twenty two fucking hours, the humidity is oppressive. I can't smoke or even take a dump. I am waiting for a squad of NVA (North Vietnamese Regulars), who are supposed to be escorting Major General Hue Quan Tu. My mission is to kill him. Funny, I am only three clicks from the Army Base Long Binh, the largest American Base in Southeast Asia, just east of Long Thanh, and not thirty miles from Saigon. My customized M-14 is a 7.62 tuned sniper weapon. An MK2 scope, 800 yards, one shot, one kill. I am fucking slimy, wet and cold, the morning mist is beginning to rise. The C-Rats peanut butter and crackers suck, but I am hungry. They were packed in 1952! Just 16 years ago.

I guess I should tell you, I am "Loong", (little one), long ago nicknamed by the NVA. They have never seen my face, only the report of the shot a split second after it plunked into it's target. Do I have a score? Yes. They say there is a bounty on my head. Hanoi Hannah says so anyway. Because of my stature I move easily among them. I am 5'4" and am 120 lbs soaking wet. The villagers love me, I bring them "Tide" in small boxes, wrigleys chewing gum, and cigarettes when I visit. It is time for me to tell the story.

06:44 Three NVA Regulars enter the village and set up an ambush, three sides of heavy machine guns and one side of rocket launchers and mortars. How silly they are, my scope sees it all. Villagers are awakened, they are to enter the rice pattys like a normal day. Through my scope I can see their fear. "Cong Ma" (the Ghost) Loong is near. Through my scope I see the villagers looking into the jungle nervously. They don't want the NVA there, they sure as hell don't want to meet Loong.

07:14 Two NVA enter the village and head strait for the chieftain's hut. I see them leave moments later and search every hut in the little compound. The villagers are on their knees their hands in the steeple prayer position, they are begging for their lives and swearing allegiance to the north and Ho Chi Minh. I can see movement to the east. Silently I squeeze the bipod around the barrel of the M-14, and watch with shallow breath.

07:17 Five men enter the open end of the village, four with rifles, loaded down with grenades, smoke, radios, and water. The fifth, it was the fifth, was wearing an officers pistol and pith helmet. Walking regally, in the midst of the four. My finger is in the trigger guard, the butt firmly against my shoulder. The little man's chest in my cross hairs. "Thwack", and in a split second, I am moving through the jungle. I am on my way to Long Binh. The round was true, his chest had blossomed red through my scope. I knew they were giving chase, but I also knew my path. Two clicks (kilometers) away there would be an ambush set up waiting on them.

10:05 I present my ID to eat in the mess hall of a Brigade headquarters. I am starved. While I eat, a Major comes to my table with coffee. "Hey little man, how's it going?" "Stuff's happening over the hill, " I reply. "The Command is aware of that." He hands me a pack of Marlboros, "see you around". I finish my meal and sit outside on a bunker inhaling deeply on my cigarette. I knew I had to report to the flight section. I guess there is a bird going to Can Tho, and I need to be on it. The message had been Written in grease pencil on my cigarette celophane, how cloak and dagger. I had been to Can Tho many times and always thought the Commander there was an asshole. I loved to pull his chain. A two day beard, muddy fatigues (now called BDU's or Battle Dress Uniforms), and in need of a haircut. Fuck him, I wore no rank, no name tag, and no insignia. I was assigned to JUSMAGMACV/G2 (Joint United States Military Advisory Group, Military Assistance Command, Viet Nam/Intelligence). He had tried to complain about me, him being a Colonel and all, but it went nowhere. Carrying my weapon in a sniper's sheath I stuck my thumb out and within minutes was at the flight section where a U-21 was being run up on the tarmac. The U-21 is a civilian Queen Air, fast and comfortable. Twenty seven minutes later we were on final approach to CanTho. The U-21 taxied slowly to the north end of the runway where asshole had his Group Headquarters. Hello Can Tho!

SOLACE

A Work of Fiction
K.D. Clark

… The mountains beckon to me much the same as the sirens’ song lures mariners unto the rocks. Their bewitching beauty would surely lead to my destruction. …

Chas was a loner. That is not to say he was lonely. He was not. He was merely the type to find his peace, his love, and the beauty within his life - in his own psyche and in Nature. He did not relish the company of other children. He had little interest in their trivial goings-on. He cared little about his sister or his parents. He found them to be unimportant in his grand scheme of things. He did have one love though. His true passion was the mountains.

This love began when he was but a small lad of nine or ten. He had the good fortune of visiting the majestic Rocky Mountains with his family one early autumn. The frost had already laid claim to the evenings, but the days…

… Oh God, those days. …

He would wander through the trees; not knowing where the faint but definite, long used, wild paths would lead. He had no need to care either. While under the shadow of the leaves, a chill might creep over him. But the golden leaves were falling fast those days and there were more sunny spots than shade. The sun at that altitude could "sear to the bone" if allowed to rest in one spot for any length of time. Clear, clean, crisp mountain air, air with a conquering yet demure aroma – and piercing, provocative, perfect mountain sun. The combination of these two opposing moods formed the optimal atmosphere, an atmosphere conducive to introspection.

… It was in a small clearing of the underbrush that I found it. I found MYSELF lying there. …

Beneath him was the crackle of fallen leaves, a crisp golden blanket under which teem another unseen world of insects, worms and the like.

… They are not my enemies. …

Above him was the rustle of turning leaves – golder by the minute – and the whining, creaking branches of Aspen as they fulfilled their destiny to forever pay for not quaking at the sight of God’s might. Birds fluttered from branch to branch searching for food or just socializing with their friends. His place, his special place seemed to be a stopover in their migration south, a place to meet up with others from years past and rest up for the final leg of their long journey to winter warmth.

In his reverie, he must have drifted off for a short nap. His next awareness was a faint rustle of leaves somewhere over his right shoulder several yards above where he lay. His eyes opened and spied the most beautiful Mule Deer doe and yearling he had ever seen actually the first he had ever experienced in the wild. They were nibbling on the last of a berry bush, which he could not identify from his inverted viewpoint. He lay motionless, mesmerized by their beauty and thankful the slight breeze was following the pathway down the side of the mountain. He relished this moment. He savored the sight for as long as his youth would allow. His neck ached from the strain of gazing up and over his head. He ventured to roll over so as to gain an upright sighting; however, the racket of the downed leaves caused the two to start and bolt from the clearing. He cursed himself for his hasty moves but could not help gasping for breath, feeling his heart palpitate with joy at his treasure, a personal treasure which could not be explained nor experienced by any other being.

… TREASURE, a perfect word to describe the "mountain experience", for the mountains will give up their wealth to those who desire fame and fortune or their wealth can be hoarded and stored away within ourselves in reserve for soothing future pain and sorrow when only memories are available. …

Year after year, he longed for his day of escape, his gateway from the hustle-bustle of the crowded, stifling, oppressive city. His day of liberation which allowed him time. Time for more intense exploration of his retreat with each year’s maturity. And year after year the day came. Each new visit to his haven only served to broaden his love for and communion with the pristine innocence of Nature.

Early in Chas’ sixteenth year, his father met with a violent industrial accident and was hospitalized for months. It was one of those unfortunate, senseless accidents that occur when least expected or deserved. The family missed their yearly pilgrimage to the Rockies. Instead, they spent every spare moment at St. Joseph’s Memorial Hospital caring for their patriarch. Or at Our Lady of Pastoral Comfort …

… Our Lady of Perpetual Guilt …

… Chapel praying for a speedy recovery. Chas’ mother prayed for her strong dynamic husband to recover so he could return to his role as provider and lover and all would be as before. Chas prayed for a precipitous extrication from this hideous crisis so he could return to his private hideaway. Children are too honest at times. Chas wished no ill will for his father. He surely wanted the family to return to normalcy, doing regular family activities again. But he was a child and children are not maliciously selfish, they are merely self-preserving and the most important aspect of his life was the time he spent alone in his world of beauty and love …

… No arguing, no school work, no timetables, no hospitals …

… the perfect world of all encompassing protection of his mountain reality.

God, in his infinite wisdom, did not answer their prayers. After nearly four months of intense treatment Chas’ father lapsed into a coma and was lost to this world within two days.

… I miss him. I have missed him every day since. …

Chas chastised himself for an unknown agonizing period of time for not praying for the best interests of his father, thinking it could only have been the fault of a small, selfish child that his father should expire in his prime. Only years later would he come to appreciate the gifts God has given and understand that even when it seems He has taken something away … in fact, He has given again. Sometimes knowledge, sometimes maturity, and always strength from pain.

Many years passed before Chas was able to visit the mountains again. School, college and a short tour in Viet Nam kept him from them. There were mountains in Viet Nam. But those were harsh mountains. Unfriendly, stifling, malodorous, crowded, entwined with massive and minuscule vines and teemed with every beast imaginable just waiting for the kill. There was no peace to be found there. The angry howls and constant chatter of the monkey population coupled with the ever-present war-reality overshadowed the small amounts of beauty, which could be found in the morning mist and abundant flora. There was too much of everything there; too many animals, too many snakes, too many scents, too many bullets.

… These are my enemies, but my worst enemy - too much time. …

At the same time, there was not enough of anything there. There was not enough silence for introspection, not enough room for the abundant flora to fall to the ground and deteriorate without causing a stench, not enough peace and love to allow those poor souls to take time to understand the plight of their fellow man.

… It is in a small clearing of the underbrush that I lost it. The IT of which I am speaking is what use to be my left leg. I have been pinned down nearly three hours in a firefight. I am scared out of my wits. When I realize it is clear, I find I am separated from what is left of my platoon. Most of them had not made it. The few who had survived had scurried off through the tangled jungle for more secure cover. I am attempting to make it back to some semblance of civilization when I feel more than hear the faint click. …

Chas’ reaction was too late. He had already begun to release the trip. Millions of thoughts and emotions flashed through his mind, as he was catapulted up and over. He had not been far from his comrades the whole time. They had been unaware of each other’s presence. A scout from among the stragglers of his platoon was sent to investigate the explosion. Chas was med-evaced to 93rd Evacuation Hospital in Long Binh as soon as a chopper was cleared to land.

He lay in a lonely hospital bed, surrounded by countless others in various states of disrepair. During this time he had nothing to do but contemplate the possibilities of his future. Chas had studied and planned to be a forester. His life was to be fulfilled by caring for the one place on this cold Earth where he felt whole. Would that all be for naught? Would his beloved mountains be too much for him to master in his condition? He wandered aimlessly throughout his mind, a place in which he should have been safe and secure. He searched for answers where there were none. Stage after stage passed - fear, self-pity, anger, understanding, determination, and acceptance.

During this period of horror, he was shuffled from Long Binh to Tokyo where he was treated for three months or so and finally transferred to Houston VA hospital for therapy and rehabilitation. After nine months of intense physical and psychological therapy he was released. A new man. A real man. A strong man. Part of his anatomy may have been artificial; however, it was his and he was determined to make it a functioning portion of his real self.

After his release from the VA hospital, he had a mission to find himself. Yet he was unsure. He held up, almost hid out, at his mother’s house for a while, but he was not there. He attempted looking for work, but his heart was not in it. He visited every old haunt he could bring to mind … the whole time avoiding the one true locale, which would allow him to get a handle on and pigeonhole his feelings, to come to terms with himself.

… I walk. I walk and look. I walk and look and drink in the glorious mountain air. Sweet, clean, purifying air. I learned at the VA hospital that the medical community had begun using total oxygen atmospheres for speedy regeneration of severely burned flesh. In much the same manner this mountain air serves to cleanse and heal my emotional as well as physical wounds. I am safe now, safe here. …

The leaves were as green as the eyes of a hefty tomcat during that early spring day. The first pasque flowers were peeking out of the pine needles. A gentle breeze was blowing and raising a roar among the tops of the Ponderosas that reminded Chas of a large appreciative audience. He was finally home and all was well with the world.

He had packed judiciously for his journey. Tramping through the jungles of Viet Nam had given him the expertise to stow all the essentials and avoid any unnecessary weight or volume. He planned to backpack from Blackhawk to Durango. The distance between the two is barely 250 miles - as the crow flies. However, over hill and dale as Chas would be trekking would take him over Front Range gravel, through thick stands of Ponderosa Pines, up to delicate Alpine meadows, and across the Continental Divide at five different points before finally winding out of the San Juan Mountains.

Four months should be sufficient time to allow for this essential commune with Nature and still fix his arrival well before the first snows became dangerous in this unpredictable land. The first evening he found himself in a shallow valley graced with a babbling brook. Several large boulders jutted out from the side of the mountain. These would offer protection from the early evening winds. He assured himself this would be an ideal site for his first night’s bivouac. He loosed his camouflaged shelter tarp and fashioned a fine example of a home.

… This home will serve me well without disturbing such a pristine setting. …

In this home he placed his mummy bag and his pack and ventured out into the woods in search of firewood. Wood is plentiful in the forest; however, his forestry education taught him that he only wanted downed wood - wood which would not violate the natural design of this hallowed domain. His mind wandered as he roamed the area. How long it had been since his first mountain experience. He savored the memories of sights, smells, sounds, and feelings long misplaced deep within the realms of his heart and mind.

… MMM, trees…paths…leaves…branches…birds…animals. It is in a small clearing where I find it. I find myself - MY TRUE SELF. …

He found the free, consummate self he had always known existed somewhere. He gave in to an uncontainable torrent of emotions and sobbed helplessly, totally exposed to alien personal sensations. Pleasure and sorrow joined and poured out uncontrollably to his exhaustion. Exhaustion won out and sleep was the only salve available.

A noise, a movement, a rustling on the ridge below prompted him to stir. There they were. A Mulie doe and fawn. Save for the few months lacking in age of the youngster, it could have been an exact replica of the two he had savored fifteen years prior. He lay there and drank in their beauty - not wanting this moment to end, yet fully aware that nothing lasts forever.

Stealthily he inched toward the two in hopes of becoming one with this vision of Nature. They heard him not. He had been trained well to move through the terrain without a sound so as to fool his enemies.

… These are not my enemies - they are my family, MY TRUE FAMILY. …

Short gasps of breath and the palpitations within his heart proved out his joy at this personally treasured moment. Reminiscence drenched his very being and dizzily filled him with pure ecstasy.

… GASP!!! …

Chas glanced at his chest and absorbed the sight with awe. He thought at first his mind had surely loosed its trip. He felt pinned and yet suspended. He could not feel the sensation of falling, yet he did fall. The crack of leaves beneath him caused the two deer to bolt and flee and served only to magnify the tear in his chest.

A young boy, not more than nine or ten, rushed to his side. The boy had been hunting with his new compound bow. He had been hiding behind the large boulders above Chas’ camouflaged home. He had not seen Chas. He had been intent on bringing down one of the two deer. Chas had been trained well to move through the terrain without being noticed - too well.

… A boy is standing over me. I will be fine. Well, no, he is below me. I am, or my bloodied body is, there for him to look down upon with fear and wonder. I am, or my consciousness is, here to look down upon the scene with wonder and praise. …

… Now I understand. Now I can take with me - forever - this perfect world of all encompassing protection - my mountain reality. I can appreciate the gifts God has given. I know this boy too will learn - as I - the truths of life. You see, even when it seems He has taken something away … in fact, He has given again. Sometimes knowledge, sometimes maturity, and always strength from pain. …

Sacred Ground

Today, the Great Grandchildren of the Northern Ute Nation have returned to Florissant, to dance in the shadows of the great mother TAVA (Pikes Peak). I am privileged to be able to join them in their worship. These are the ancestors of Chipita, considered one of the greatest beauties of the Ute, and wife of Ouray; and Manitou, a peace loving chief, for which Manitou Springs was named after, along with the children of Ouray, the Chief of Chiefs of the Northern Ute. I am humbled to be in the presence of such great people, such tradition, and love. Their respect of their traditional home is obvious. For thousands of years their ancestors have walked the wooded paths that I walk today. They walked with unsoled moccasins, to feel the vibration of mother earth. They were the first to aquire horses from the spaniards and regarded them as large magical dogs. This allowed them to hunt buffalo and swift animals, as well as being used as beasts of burden for the noamdic tribe. They planted rarely, sometimes trading for food goods. They found pottery inadequate and relied upon tightly woven baskets to carry their loads.

The "Shining Mountains", (Rockies) were their home, and the State of Utah was named for them. During the 1870's treaty after treaty was broken, taking away the shining mountains as their ancestral home. The Utes were restricted to reservations. The Utes did not reject miners taking metals from their mountains, but asked that no settlements be made. This was the beginning of the tribe's demise in their sacred land. Apparently the "immigrants" felt that they owned wherever they travelled, and defended those areas with firearms. From 1870-1890 Ute land was taken through "treaties", which were broken prior to the ink being dry.

Deep in the ponderosa pines, away from the highway, with just the sounds of birds and small animals scurrying in the brush, I can feel it. I can look over the landscape of the peak, Indian Creek, Crystal Peak, and Wilkerson Pass to the west. I have a great view of TAVA and I daydream and imagine their campsites in the distance. There are no visable signs, the Ute tread lightly upon the land, and took only what was needed. Being nomadic, they would hunt an area for a period of time, then move onto others to allow the land to replentish. They were natural conservationists, respecting mother earth, and thanking the creator for their bounty.

Just think, no electric bills, no polution, no rent, no noisy dirt bikes tearing up the delicate plants that survive in the decomposed granite. All that you need to eat or drink is there, free. Disease was rare, and children played in the forest unaware of fear or danger. The world has certainly changed. And not for the better. Their dances bring sorrow now. Sorrow of a lost place in time. And yet, they still dance, and praise mother earth.

Taking Responsibility

Several years ago, flying by myself in a tiny Grumman Tiger, I had passed over an extensive lonely forest that seemed to go on forever. In a moment of stark reality, I realized that I would have no one to blame if I made a critical mistake in judgment, and certainly the laws of physics would not listen to my excuses. There are so many things to think about in the cockpit, to know where you are at all times, to have alternate landing spots along the way. To calculate fuel properly, and maintain VOR, LORAN, or ADF contact. What would my life be like if I always had to take full responsibility?

Was it the rabbit hole that caused me to twist my ankle, or was it my inattention? Were the thorns on that bush responsible for the cuts on my calves and shins? Perhaps it is the bears fault that I lost the back window of my car, even though I left a box of donuts in there.

I wonder how many people would quit smoking if they were told that they were fully, financially responsible for any smoking related illnesses? How wierd a world it would be if we all took responsibility.

Children come to expect that they will come into a windfall of dollars when their parents pass. Do they ever think about their responsibility of this? Their investment? What have they invested in their futures? Is it a handout? Did they somehow earn something just by being born? Would they feed you after you have fed them? Would they make you comfortable when sick? Would they ask if there is something you need? Ask them. Sometimes I wish I had nothing... living from check to check. Would I feel guilty about having nothing to leave them? Probably. I wonder if the reciprocity is there.

What if a drunken driver surrendered his liscense forever, knowing fully that he was intoxicated behind the wheel? And didn't bitch because he got caught?

What a wierd world it would be. We could eradicate diabetes or at least have a measure of control if we listened and lived a healthy life, and simply took responsibility and acted upon it.

I guess people are too wrapped up in their own stuff to think about others. It is a tough world. Some fault me for my giving nature. They skoff at the money I spend to feed the wild animals around our home, and help with a philanthropic endeavor.

Straight up? They can kiss my ass. I have never been one to mince words. To my disadvantage, at times, I have not backed down. I don't have enough to make a change in the world, to make even a ripple in the needs of those oppressed. Given the opportunity, I would have. Oh to have learned this so many years ago. My path through life would have been less visable, I would have tread ever so lightly upon the earth. Leaving no trace of my passing. The ignorance of my past haunts me at times.

I look at things differently now, not throught the haze of life's hard work and endeavors, but through the eyes of an older man slowly walking to my end. I have given up outbursts in favor of thinking inward, giving each challenge analysis. It is serving me well. Choosing to take responsibility in my world has given me great freedom, health, and wisdom.

Rocky Clark------ 3 September, 2006

Reality of the Unseen

Tucked into the small streams of the Rocky Mountains are thousands of beaver dams. The Beaver is prolific here and does well, especially in the national forest. The beaver is the North American's largest rodent. Hunted for decades near the Canadian border and in the Rockies, they have survived and thrive today in America's wetlands. These are the things that I teach my grandchildren as we hike. The important things in life. The unseen realities that surround us. For the next few entries I will share some of the beauty of my home. After living around the world for forty years, I have found the place that I will never leave.

Each day begins with a walk out the back door and the few steps into Pike National Forest. My eyes are open although the trails are so familiar to me. On a typical day I see Beaver, Muskrat, Blue Herron, Canadian Geese, Cotton tails, Mule Deer, Red Tail Hawks, Eagles, Hebert (A-Bear) squirrels, I could go on and on. The forest is teeming with life. Unlike the cement cities I have lived in. Our hiking guests sometimes see it all, sometimes see nothing. I am saddened by their selective blindness. As for me, the incredible diversity of my world facinates me. So bear with me (bear, lol), as I look around me and attempt to share with you, through my eyes, the wonders that surround me.

Friends forever touch your heart

These are my dear friends Tony and Cynde Condon. We met about six years ago when our Golden Retreivers crossed paths. Since that time we have hiked a thousand miles or more with Dancer, Buck and Hannah.

What wonderful times we have had. About every two or three months we would try different restaurants around the Springs, some good, some very bad! Cynde and I would drink a couple of glasses of Merlot and be laughing and giggling all through dinner. She hardly ever drank, but I guess she felt some freedom around us and would let go a little. She is a bright and beautiful woman, married to a wonderful loving man. One year ago in May, Cynde was diagnosed with cancer. Our hearts were heavy. How could this happen to our vibrant, loving friend? Cynde has fought the fight with surgery, chemo and other research drugs. In just the past 6 weeks, her cancer went from a one inch tumor, to the spread into her bones and liver. She is in constant pain.

Cynde has brought light into our lives, her brilliance could illuminate a room, her kindness boundless.

It brings me great saddness that my friend is so ill, that her time, in all probability is short, and that my friend Tony is so very depressed. We talk a lot, not nearly enough. His road is hard, he dodges the ruts as best he can, perhaps too well. He is not in denial, but has intellectualized somewhat, it eases the pain.

Today we walked through the woods and talked, Karen ahead of us with the dogs and another friend. Saddness has covered me like a thick blanket. I am angry and hurt. At the same time I recognize that the universe is random in it's expression.

Cynde's body will die, but Cynde will live on through us.

12 June, 2006 Tony came up and walked with us yesterday. He appreciates the outdoors like we do. Cynde is feeling better this week and is scheduled for a scan this morning to see if the cancer has progressed or receded. Tony says she is nauseas most of the time and just doesn't feel like eating. Her pain is constant, but with a new cocktail of pain medication it appears to be helping.

We gave him a framed copy of the picture that you see. The picture of a healthy Cynde. His eyes teared, and I could feel his thanks. I think he cries alone. I think he needs to cry in front of another to reach the depths of his sadness.

Cynde is in my heart today. I am praying, asking the Universe to intercede for her. Tony is completely dedicated, so much in love with her. I just don't understand, are things really just random? Can we somehow bring blessings and healings? Has intercession ever made things change? I guess I have flashes that allow me to briefly fantasize that I may ask intersession from the Universe. But my inner mind doubts. I feel helpless.

July 4th, 2006- Cynde is on my mind today. It is unshakable. I talked to Tony earlier in the week. He says she is feeling stronger, has good and bad days. It is what he does not say that weighs heavily upon me. I send my blessings to the universe, palms held upward. I guestion more than ask. Like the rest of the world, I cannot comprehend the selection process. I can only ask why, and ask for positive change, and a return to health for my dear friend.

July 8, 2006- Cynde died this morning at 5 AM with her husband and friends at her side. Karen and I were gone for the weekend and did not hear until this morning, (Sunday), on the same morning that we were to attend a memorial for another friend who recently passed. Our hearts are heavy. Tony's heart is broken. Our dear friend has made passage to the greatest of life's mystery. I ask for the blessing of the Universe to lead, guide, and direct my friend to happiness and peace. She was a blessing in our lives.

I am going to close out this part of my blog with some material that I read just recently that seems so appropriate:

Gone From My Sight

by

Henry Van Dyke

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side, spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and moves to the open sea. She is an object of beauty and strength. I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, "There, she is gone".

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast, hull and spar as she was when she left my side. And she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is within me~~not in her.

And, at just the moment when someone says, "There she is gone," there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that, is dying

Oanh

After much consideration, and conversations with my wife, we feel that it would be remiss to not talk about my first love. It happened so unexpectedly at such a critical juncture in my life. The relationship enabled me to understand some of the Vietnamese culture, how they felt about the war, and what their dreams are. So this story is for Oanh. She is out there somewhere, and I hope that one day either she or someone she knows will read this. About once a week I got to Saigon for a layover between missions. Oanh was a girl who worked in a shop cleaning and taking care of inventory. The first time I saw her I was amazed. She was a young woman with poise, who was respectful and kind, with a wide eyed wonderment about Americans. I started talking with her at the shop after a few times visiting, and asked her to dinner. She said no several times before finally giving in. Dinner was exceptional, and the three wheeled carraige ride to where she stayed with several other women was a wonderful experience. Later she was to tell me that a villa, next door in the Din Tin Huong section of Saigon was for rent. A month later I had a little place to go in Saigon when I was there. Oanh moved in with me and our love affair began.

For 18 months I was in Saigon as much as I could be. My mission was such that I travelled extensively throughout Southeast Asia, with Saigon as my transportation hub. Oanh and I would visit holy sites, got to movies, dinners, and just be together. A young soldier stuggling to learn Vietnamese and a young woman learning English, neither needed in the dark of night. She was a passionate, lovely young woman. A woman who taught me about the philosophy of the people, the peasants and the wealthy. I was sitting in a bar one night buying drinks for a young man who spoke only Vietnamese, I was just babbling away with my limited knowlege of the language when Oanh came in to get me. "Loong", she said, "he is VC (Viet Cong), he is telling about killing Americans." To put it lightly I was pretty damn scared. I left five dollars (a huge sum) on the table and told him all the drinks were on me. I shook his hand, and left. It was the first time that I realized that to the people, the war was far beyond them. It did not matter who won, Vietnam would remain the same. Communists and non communists lived in the same homes, and visited the same places.

I am ashamed of how it ended. I walked away without a word. A kiss goodbye in the early morning fog. She did not know that she would never see me again. I had no choice, the Army had changed the mission and I was one of a few that now did not have a job. I left $600 in the apartment, more than the average Vietnamese made in a year. No note, no goodbyes. I turned my back and walked away. I am deeply ashamed of myself, and today I ask for forgiveness.

I have the wonderful memories, and the touch of her heart upon mine. I have hoped for decades that she found a wonderful man and had great children. I know I caused heartache, and for that I apologise. It is my greatest hope that she is the wonderful woman that I knew, and that somehow, I touched her heart and was a positive influence upon her life.

B.G. Clark, 9 May, 2006

Christmas 1969

The weather isn’t so bad, my clothes still stick to me in the heavy humidity and scorching sun, but there is a slight breeze that lends comfort in the back of the “deuce and a half.” Things had been quiet; our company equipment was shining, waiting for change. We had taken the deuce from the slick section and loaded it with a couple cases of
C-rations and some of the “goody” packages sent from the homes of our guys. The mess hall even threw in a big box of frozen chicken. We have toilet paper and Tide washing soap, and double mint chewing gum.

I was asked by the Commander to ride as “shotgun”. We weaved in and out of the jungle on our way to Long Thanh on a skinny jungle trail. We were headed just north and west of Saigon. The area was known for the “bad guys”, and we were well armed, but we weren’t bothered. We also had two “shotguns” in the tarp covered bed. As the tiny village came into sight, the children, barefoot and barely clothed, ran to intercept us. We continued to the walled and gated compound of the village orphanage, where the nuns in their black and white tattered clothing, allowed us entrance.

We were just in time for lunch. There were small loaves of bread, (the crunchy part was a cooked bug), a small bowl of rice, and cloudy water for each child.

We placed an apple at each setting, with a few nuts and assorted pieces of candy, cookies, and gum. Before the meal the orphanage stood surrounding us in a large room. They began to sing a song of thanks and prayers of blessing. There were four of us, and four of the oldest children took our hands and led us separate ways. I was taken to the nursery, little babies everywhere, crying, being fanned by palm fronds from the nuns. My escort, a little girl maybe 9 yrs old pointed to an infant with one leg. “Baby hurt” she said to me. My heart dropped. We walked further into the hut where the sickest of children were. She never said a thing, she watched me look. It seemed a long time I stood there with her little hand in mine. Bandages were being changed, wounds were being cleaned, and last rights were being said. I knew that if I diverted my eyes I would have to deal with the reality. I was overwhelmed, almost fearful of the understanding running to meet me.

We all met back in the “great room” of the hut, where the children were seated for lunch. We were escorted to our chairs. As we ate with the children, the sergeant that had organized the trip was unloading the C-Rations, Chicken and washing soap. The children stared at us, giggled
and laughed, speaking rapidly in Vietnamese. And then came the dance that we had to learn before we left. Small circles of 6 or eight, singing and touching their foreheads as they bowed and moved in rhythm. As the sergeant came past me he said, “I only have three dollars, but I am leaving them two.” I knew what he meant, I reached into my fatigues and found six dollars, and as I passed through the doors and was given a warm goodbye and the deepest of thanks by Sister Superior, I palmed her three dollars, and the two other guys left her a bit. As we drove away, smiling sisters holding little children smiled at us and lowered their heads. The bow of the head is significant in their culture, it is a sign of great thanks or respect.

I had learned a very powerful lesson. To give to be giving, not for status or position in some organization of many names, and different interpretations, that’s what it is about. It is about not wanting anything back, no promises of streets of gold, not giving thought to “your cup runneth over”.

I needed to remember, to remember the frightened eyes, the vacancy of impending death, and the inability to focus through the pain. How can I possibly do, what I know I will have to do?

I am a soldier, and I will balance with compassion. I don’t “hate” the enemy. I have met him many times in different circumstances and situations. There have been times when I have shared my C-rations with a prisoner, and lit his cigarette for him, his hands tied behind his back. I was not popular with some of the soldiers. But I had rank, so most of it was never directed at me. Whenever I had the chance I talked to guys about how I felt, and the things I have seen, and wondered how it has changed me.

When you come up on a wounded enemy, he is frightened, he has grievous injuries, he feels death is near. Will you taunt him? Kick him, call him a “gook”? Can a heart be that cold? Who taught us to hate? And, why did we buy into it? I feel truly used, a blind patriot. My own people, Americans were hating me. They Called us baby killers. And today, 35 yrs passed, I deeply apologize to those who knew better, and marched the marches. And the deepest of apologies to the peoples of Viet Nam.

Laurice and Eloise, c. 1942

The picture above is of my parents, Eloise Mae Smith, and Laurice Gilbert Clark. I believe the date to be 1942, and the place to be Milton, New Hampshire, where my mother's father lived. My father would have been 36, and and my mother , 19. They were to be married sometime in 1944. Their lives were not easy, as both had limited education, nor profitable skills other than farmwork. They were little prepared for marraige or children. Sandra Lee was born on 10 May, 1944. Bruce Gilbert 18 February, 1949, and William Frederick 4 July 1956. We were not a close family, I cannot remmeber being hugged, cuddled, or even told that I was a good kid. My life revolved around the surrounding woodlands or our little shack. I found peace and solace there. I think it is where I first learned to meditate. When you are dirt poor, you dream big, and you dream a lot. Day dreaming creates a "what if" scenario that allows us to "peek" into thoughts and feelings that may never come to pass. Although, it is a preparatory glance. There were so many dreams that I look back upon and say "I sure am glad that one didn't come true!"

I wonder about the dreams of my parents. Was there a feeling of hopelessness? Environmentally deprived, with family histories of poverty, did they dare dream? I remember my youth and my thoughts of being nobody, no chance of anything but back breaking poverty. How incredibly sad it must have been for them wtih three children and living on government subsidy. My dad was up before the sun and wasn't back until it had set. It was not a 40 hour week, it was 6 days a week driving truck and an extra job on Sundays delivering papers to retail stores. My mother drank a lot, I remember walking into the house one time, I must have been seven or eight yrs old. She was crying, a bottle of beer in one hand and 4 bottles left in a six pack by her chair. I asked what was wrong. She told me that we were unable to pay the rent, ($6.00 a week). I was so confused, I knew the six pack was $1.00 becausse I had gone to the store and got it for her. And we couldn't pay the rent? I asked about that and problably took the beating of my life. How dare I question her? I was to mind my own business. Of course the beating didn't take place right then, it happened late that night, I was awakened by the force of the belt. I could only bite my pillow. I am not complaining, my mother was overwhelmed by our poverty, and her psychological issues. I guess I was the ventillation kid. The others didn't get it like I did. My brother remembers very little as she died when he was 8, and my sister left home at 15. She did not see the daily downward spiral of my mothers life. My father just survived, signing over his check every month, $400.00. He never complained he just trudged on as if it was the way things were supposed to be.

I am 57 now, and the memories are not fading. In fact, they are becoming more vivid to me. I think what is most profound is that I can review my memories, and actually look into the minds of the players, even my own. There are so many ways I could have made things better, but I too was "behind my eyes", I could not see past my destitution and hoplessness. I was rebellious in my anger. Walking straight and steadfast, making my own way. Sandy was gone, and Bill was the baby. And me? I didn't exist. I could have done better. I should have supported my family, somehow. I could have changed it all. I would leave my life today just to be there again, and to make things right. I was estranged. An unwanted visitor in my home. That came across loud and clear to me. Someone could have said, " You can leave anytime." and it would not have surprised me. All of us are responsible for that. I was part of the mix. I own that.

I could have changed it all.

The First Pasque

There are those that can trek the world and see nothing, pessimistically, and there are those that can walk around the block and see all the wonderment and diversity of our home planet. B. G. Clark



This morning we saw our first Pasque. The pasque is a member of the buttercup family and is the first flower to bloom at altitude in the Spring. We are always surprized to see them for the first time, it brings smiles to our faces and a promise of warmer weather. The beaver are really active, the Rocky Mountain Bluebirds are staking their claims on the houses that we have for them, the Canadian Geese have arrived as have the Mallards, our beautiful home is inundated with wildlife. I can hardly keep the dogs out of the lake. It's still a little too cold for them as yet, but should it be a little warmer this week, they will get their first swim prior to their daily hike. This has been a rough week, but the sight of the pasque has brought my spirits high. I could have never believed that I would one day live where I dreamed of.

A tribute to the Northern Ute Tribe

An Ancestral Prayer Tree

The Northern Utes had several trails that led to TAVA, "Pikes Peak", the mountain, sacred as it was considered the birthplace of the people. Along these trails they would take a young ponderosa pine and bend it, tying it with deer hide, marking the way to the mountian. Their small bands on pilgrimage to the mountain would stop at each tree to eat and pray, sending blessings to their ancesters. And asking for little. This particular tree has a smooth twisted trunk, worn smooth by the many hands passing over it's surface. I would guess the tree to be at least two hundred years old. It is very strange, and perhaps just a figment of my imagination, but when I touch the tree where the hands were rubbed, it could be the coldest day of the year, and that area feels warm. I too have asked for blessings, that I believe I have received. Some may laugh, some may snort or tsk at my individual pilgrimage. I own it, I accept it, and to me, the tree remains as a symbol of the pure hearts of the Ute.

My Dearest Sister

I have absolutley no idea how to begin, or ever to put into order the things I want and need to say. So I will say it like this, If there was a sainthood for kindness, caring, dedication, generosity, and loyalty, my sister would be the recipient. My mother died early when my brother was nine and I was 16. My father, I think, probably, was truly unable to parent, or keep a household. This put my sister Sandy into action. Her home was open for my brother and I. Sandy didn't have any money, and had two children at the time. At 17 yrs old, my sister now had responsibilities for four. Sandy never blinked. She was married to one of the hardest working, dedicated men that I have ever known. I will never measure up to Cliff, he is more of a man than I can ever hope to be. Many of todays values that I am blessed with, have come from him. I cannot thank him enough for being a great man to my sister, and to his children, and to me. Sandy didn't have an easy life, right from the beginning her parents were incapable of showing emotion or any kind of love. But she was a fighter, my sister would FIGHT if the occasion called for it. She was not afraid, she had survived a tough infancy and early childhood. One would not dare insult one of us kids in front of my sister. It would inevitably bring a finger to the face, and a warning. I admire my sister so much. For over sixty years she has made the tough choices, and waded through the troubled times to raise six great kids, and now many wonderful grand children. To the world, like all of us, she is just a spec on the landscape. To me my sister is an incredilby compassionate human being. I wish we lived closer to each other. She came to visit "Solace" and stayed for a week. I treasure the time we spent on the deck in the early morning and late evening, just us, sometimes not even speaking. What a life it has been. What a privilege to have her and her husband to lead, guide and direct me in becoming who I am. May the Universe continue to ingratiate her.

Quotes and Notes

All aspens are one aspen. It is amazing to drive through miles of Aspen in the Rockies and understand that one tree started it all. It is a community, giving saftety and homes to wildlife, sharing it's beauty through human eyes. As the leaves turn to gold in the fall, it is all but overwhelming to sit beneath a full stand of trees. It gives the intensity of being in the cup of all that is right in the universe.

Over the years I have collected a number of quotes from friends, politicians, my wife, mother-in-law, and my writings. I wanted to share some of these with you in the hopes that you too will find wisdom in their words. There are things that I want to say, that I want to share with my grandchildren, in the hopes that one day they will read these words and know a little bit about me. To hear some of my thoughts as I feel them. I am not a philosopher nor do I pretend to be. I just want to put the words down as eloquently as I possibly can. B.G. Clark

"Some say mankind was created from nothingness. I believe we are created from all things, we live our lives to experience everything, and when we die, we once again join with everything. Matter may disintegrate, energy is forever."
K. D. Clark 3/17/06

The Universe always says yes.
Sandy Lawson, March 18, 2006
A dear, dear friend

The planet is an organism, and like any other, it is subject to virus. We are the virus of this organism, and we are sure to destroy it.
B.G.Clark

To be able to express oneself is one thing. To be able to express it to the world, accurately, taking into consideration the psychological set of the target reader is an awesome gift.
B.G.Clark 16 February, 2006 in a letter to Emily

"I am here, because you are here. My impact upon you, be it positive or negative, may have impact upon another, who may do great things."
B. G. Clark 2005

"When I go inside (my head), I see designs, designs of things that are not here yet."
Thomas G. Betancourt, grandson age 11
June 2, 2005

Sometimes watching brings me sadness, sometimes discovery. Whichever, I am forced to look at it, and meditate upon it. At times there are answers, not always palatable to me.

B.G. Clark, "looking inside from out"

You got to realize....... I don't think that deep, I don't even want to think about thinking that deep. Betty McDonald (my mother in law) Feb 2005

On a ride through the beautiful changing aspens of the high country, our family was talking about world news and current events. My wife asked her mother what she would like to tell the President of the United States if she had the opportunity to speak with him. Her response was quick, and from the hip. Something she is quite well known for. "I'd say Dub, (George W Bush), The time has come to pull your head out of your ass, and our troops out of Iraq!"

It is the private times in my mind, with my eyes closed, that I see all things. B.G.Clark in a letter to Emily, a family friend.

It is hard to be a happy person if you are not a decent person. Jerry Springer, January 23, 2006

"How long will it take you to realize that you cannot understand life unless you spend some time there?" B.G. Clark on therapeutic intervention

"One of the many measures of success is to live wherever you want to live."
B.G. Clark

"I don't want to deal with reality, I just want to bitch . "
B.G. Clark August 23, 2005

Those who will give up liberties for the assurance of safety deserve neither liberty or safety. Benjamin Franklin

"Of course people don't want war. But... voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of their leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism, and for exposing the country to greater danger." Hermann Goebbels, Minister of Propaganda, The Nazi Party, 1939

Our lives are better left to chance, I could have missed the pain, but I'd have had to miss the dance...... "The Dance" Garth Brooks A reflection of the greatness of love and it's loss.

Hot Chocolate is not just a chocolate bar in a cup. Thomas G. Betancourt, Grandson, age 12, May 29th, 2006

So this is what you get. You send a young man or woman to war, force them into killing or being killed, and this is what you get. Decades later it is a festering sore. If it does not change one's life profoundly and grow exponencially, then he or she is asleep while awake.
B.G. Clark, March 29, 2006 on the effects of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

"They told you that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. What they did not tell you is that it is best seen with the eyes closed. What you look like isn't important. What is important is who you are inside and the choices you are making in your life." Tiana Tozer-1992 Paralympic silver and 1996 bronze medalist, women's wheelchair basketball.

In a conversation about taking my grandson Tommy shopping for his birthday, he asked innocently: "So what do I do Grandpa? Do I just shop until I max out your credit card?"

All of us feel pain. We feel rejected, ashamed, loss of a loved one, hurt from others, and a million other reasons. Some of that pain we choose to manufacture, by giving power and permission for others to hurt us. Without our permission, we cannot be hurt. Choose wisely your pain, decide it's depth and hurt, through growth. B.G. Clark on Marraige and Family Counseling.

Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather a skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming "Wow! What a ride!"

I was blown away by so many great professors and teachers. It seemed as if I had been blind. Looking on the inside, into a mirror that does not exist. Probably for the first time seeing myself. The inside has no mirror, yet it reflects upon every bit of you, it is the reflection that you have been, and the reality that you are looking for, Insight. This was an awesome time, great men have called it "The Awakening." It is an incredibly insightful journey that you are beginning. A personal path that only you can walk. All the sensory input is set aside, you are within yourself. And your brain is like the galaxy, with billions and billions of answers. How exciting my life had suddenly become. B.G. Clark on the concept of cognitive-dissonance, and it’s understanding.

What does it take to respect another's culture? Does it take some sort of cognitive adaptation on our part? An effort to sit and listen, to sit and learn perhaps. So how different are they? Although they are the same, their experience in our world is quite different. Our reality has no other option than to be who we are and, comfortable in being there. There is always the opportunity to blend, to agree to disagree on many levels. Respect. I do not understand the need to discount those who are different than we are. B.G. Clark

"Genious has no personality." Albert Einstein

Speaking on his thoughts about the simplicity of relativity, Einstein said, (paraphrasing), "If you spend and hour and a glass of wine with a beautiful woman, it appears to be but only a rapid moment, spend the same amount of time under the scortching sun of the desert, with no water, and it seems an eternity."

I am a soldier, and I will balance my mission with compassion. I don’t “hate” the enemy. I have met him many times in different circumstances and situations. There have been times when I have shared my C-rations with a prisoner, and lit his cigarette for him, his hands tied behind his back. I was not popular with some of the soldiers. But I had rank, so most of it was never directed at me. Whenever I had the chance I talked to guys about how I felt, and the things I have seen, and wondered how it had changed me.

When you come up on a wounded enemy, he is frightened, he has grievous injuries, he feels death is near. Will you taunt him? Kick him, call him a “gook”? Can a heart be that cold? Who taught us to hate? And, why did we buy into it? I feel truly used, a blind patriot. My own people, Americans are hating me. They Call us baby killers. A letter home, Christmas 1969

And today, 35 yrs passed, I deeply apologize to those who knew better, and marched the marches. And my deepest of apologies to the peoples of Viet Nam. B.G. Clark

"Even after all this time the sun never says to the earth,'you owe me.' look what happens with a love like that. It lights the whole world."~hafiz

"There is a difference between being a pacifist and a victim, there is a difference in being armed and dangerous. I consider myself to be an armed pacifist." Speaking on the issue of carrying a concealed weapon. K.D. Clark 17 March 2oo6

While having a conversation with Karen about freedom, and true liberty she made the following observations:

"Dogs never think about holding their farts, and further, have no concept of why they should." This applies to humanity itself, Rapists, Criminals, Spouse abuse, Robberies, simple rudeness. If only we could get beyond the animal instincts of our primitive brains and genetic memories, we might have a better world. It all comes down to holding your farts, and having some self discipline.

There is a wall to my right, to my left is the biggest of the three, my center is yielding. Situation, Excellent, I am prepared to attack. B.G. Clark, speaking on the importance of being a non victim.

It is not wise to laugh in the presence of a Mesmerist, they are easily offended and most dangerous in their subtleness. We live surrounded by hypnogogic reasoning. B.G.Clark on the importance of cognitive living.

When you find yourself trapped in a cage with a tiger, you quickly learn in which direction to stroke its fur. Chinese Proverb

The majesty of the mountains preserve the heritage of our beginnings. They enhance the beauty of my present and inspire my future. Near the sacred peak of Tava everything reveals it's most essential meaning, it's interdependency of all nature. B.G Clark~~~ on the allure of nature.

As long as an enemy's apprearance is familiar, his victory is assured. An assumption could really ruin your day. B.G. Clark on the principles of not being a victim.

The Way I See It

The good life is the middle way, between: Ambition and Compassion, action and reflection, company and solitude, hedonism and abstinence, passion and judgement, a cup of coffee and a glass of wine.

Jay McInerney, Author, The Good Life

There is a moment just before my hand touches the honey pot that is much more enjoyable than the actual taste of honey on my lips, and I don't know what that moment is called.

-----Winnie the Pooh

That, is "anticipation" -----Christopher Robbins

I find it very difficult to understand the person who travels a hundred or even a thousand miles to admire our pristine mountains and it's wildlife, while proceeding to litter it with garbage, bottles, and beer cans. B.G. Clark

Your mind lives a completely different reality and exhistance, then your perceived reality of the world. K.D.Clark

I used to walk around thinking about how people were so messed up. Over the years I have come to realize that it is not them. They are all just part of my bag of pet peeves. B.G. Clark

The Hindu religion believes that human beings are the dreams of Gods, but through scientific exploration we have come to believe that Gods are the dreams of man.---Carl Sagan



One day, a great, great, great, grandchild will read the words that came from his bloods brain, living in antiquity. (on a note to my daughter about the importance and value that our decendence will place upon our words)


Age is simply this: It is our celluar evolution fueled by our Sedentary, alcohol, smoking, non exercise lifestyle. B.G. Clark

I'm sure the funeral was a trying experience for you, and your family as well. One can never be prepared, even with notice, isn't that true? We thought they would live forever. Why did they leave us now when they have so much value? So much more to teach and be observed? If my last day was today, my music teacher Jon would say, yesterday I taught him about the rabbit bushes in his yard and how to properly trim ponderosa pines and aspen. And I would be a happy man. We are saddened by the loss, and fail to see the life of memories and learning's given. I think we cry for ourselves and not celebrate the fruit of their life that still grows in the minds of the youth. They will live forever.

B.G. Clark to Emily in condolences to her grandfather, June 21,2007

It is not difficult to become depressed. Life's trauma brings acute dperession that can hang on for days or months. Yet at times depression can be present without any connection to an event. At those times you are in mourning for who and what you are. B.G. Clark on the one year anniversary of my friend Cynde's death.

People come into your life for a reason, a season or a lifetime. When you know which one it is, you will know what to do for that person.When someone is in your life for a REASON, it is usually to meet a need you have expressed.They have come to assist you through a difficulty, to provide you with guidance and support, to aid you physically, emotionally or spiritually. They may seem like a godsend and they are. They are there for the reason you need them to be. Then, without any wrongdoing on your part or at an inconvenient time, this person will say or do something to bring the relationship to an end. Sometimes they die. Sometimes they walk away. Sometimes they act up and force you to take a stand. What we must realize is that our need has been met, our desire fulfilled, their work is done.

Some people come into your life for a SEASON, because your turn has come to share, grow or learn.They bring you an experience of peace or make you laugh.
They may teach you something you have never done. They usually give you an unbelievable amount of joy. Believe it, it is real. But only for a season.

LIFETIME relationships teach you lifetime lessons, things you must build upon in order to have a solid emotional foundation. Your job is to accept the lesson, love the person and put what you have learned to use in all other relationships and areas of your life. It is said that love is blind! but friendship is clairvoyant.

Thank you for being a part of my life, whether you were a reason, a season or a lifetime.

Anonymous, July, 2007

Respect the little chipmunk. He is a survivor, he walks the same path of the great grizzly bear and faces the same peril. B.G.Clark

This morning I watched as a little cotton tail rabbit raced and played tag with a black tufted squirrel. The antics went on and on. A bear visited last night, he left a huge pile by our field. And you look at me and say I am poor? The masses are hypnotized by the overwhelming sensory input of the world. As a race, we have become desinsitized to what is actually real in our lives, what is and has been here since the beginning of time. Things that last. A plethora of species on a unique planet that at one time provided for all. Lending itself to newness, encouraging species adaptation, and a balance of life. Tell me, when is the last time you just sat and looked in wonder at a bug or a flower? If you have not, it is you that is poor my freind. We have become reactors. Our days are filled with reations to the deluge of sensory input. If I may give any advice, I will say this: If at all possible, make it a point to make someones day. Compliment their hat, their eyes, or their service to you. Anything. Hold the door for a mom and her baby. Kiss the sweet face of an animal and see if you don't feel the return of affection. Damn, come alert! Being lonely for me is walking with a person who is blind to all of this. Their conversations are forever and always about things that mean little to me, that they hold as baggage from a past transgression. B.G. Clark August 12, 2007

You have spoken to my heart. I see our troops in Iraq, Afghanistan, being threatened by Iran, and martial law imposed by Pakistan. I see a foolish attempt at economic blackmail that has lasted over 40 yrs in Cuba, and diplomatic relationships in far more repressive nations. I see our world dying before our very eyes, and pray that I will die before it does. I too am saddened. My only enlightenment is that I understand that this has probably happened before, millions of years ago prior to recorded history. Like any other organism the world will die and renew itself. In our time it is millions, perhaps billions of years, yet in cosmic time is it but the blink of an eye. Humanity will not survive it's killing of the earth, extinction in inevitable.

And then.... the little birds brush me as they fly by in a peanut butter frenzy to be the first, and my squirrels chatter with me begging for peanuts. The mule deer watch silently as I pass by, without fear, and I can feel them, actually feel them inside me. Freedom from thought, worry, now that is true freedom.

I am sorry, you have found me on a soap box this morning. saddened and angered at the world's plight. I want to smoke a big cigar (I don't smoke), drink a large snifter of Maker's Mark Whiskey, sit on a rock and say fuck it, just fuck it. I am much to sensitive to my surroundings.

In the early years it was about me. My little bubble, and all the things that affected ME. I guess I have walked a few miles. Those things are still important, but less so than the sadness that I feel for this planet. How insignificant I am in the true sense of time and place.

And this too shall pass, right? Bear with me, and allow my sorrow for now.

B.G.Clark, a letter written 6 November, 2007

My Dearest Friends,

You NEVER know when you are looking into the face of God. When I look into the eyes of a large Doe that frequents our property, I think about this. When I feed the chick-a-dees and watch the nut-hatchers come so close, I think of this. I think of this most when I look into the unknown sadness of children's eyes, or the eyes of those who are forced into subservience. I have throughout my life taken the side of those who stand alone. I can be moved into flashed anger by the disrespect of others toward those who fear to strike back. Very early in my life I was the little boy with the books. A special person took my hand and became my guide.

On September 7th of this year he died (Russell Newell, Dover, NH). I had visited briefly last year, and knew the end was near. I made sure he knew about the impact he had on my life, and allowed him memories that weren't exactly as they were. At his passing, I felt a brief sense of being alone in the world, without course. Then I remember who I am, and where I have been, and the impact that I have had on others. Some good some, not so good. My promise to this world is that I will do far more good than bad. That I will never judge those by the color of their skin, their education, or social standing. That I will, when I can do the right thing without rescuing them, lead, guide and direct in a patient manner.

Today you have touched my heart.

Rocky, written in a letter to my dear freinds Skip and JoAnn Coyne

In the 1920's, a new woman was born. She smoked, drank, danced and voted. She cut her hiar, wore make-up and went to petting parties. She was giddy and took risks. She was a Flapper.. OH Dah'lin!

The time has come, there is a fork in the road, we must become enlightened or face extinction.

There are no coincidences, it is our maker tapping us on the shoulder, being anonymous.

No matter where you go, there you are..... ("Rocky it took me years to understand that.").

Throughout this cold or whatever it is, I have become prone to almost lucid dreaming in a thrashing, sleepless, rapid experience of mixed subjects and emotions. Somehow I feel that it is a passage. Something that everyone does, reflections, picking up the tossed off baggage and looking at it a bit, being ashamed, afraid, depressed, sorry, a plethora of feelings. I find myself asking myself for forgiveness, and wanting a fresh start (to history?). I wonder if everyone does this, is it a bus stop in our lives?

"Free at last, Free at last, Thank God Almighty, I am free at last."

Free from whom? Myself?