FAD 1: The Second Generation Chevrolet Astro AWD

It was probably 1986 when my dad purchased the first of two 80’s era, down-sized Buick Skylarks. Now don’t hang up or dismiss me—not yet! This is not a post to nominate the Skylark as a Fine Auto of Distinction. Because, it wasn’t—not by a long shot. In fact, it was that car and its sibling that caused me to appreciate the relative reliability of dad’s 1976 VW Karman Ghia, which repeatedly doubled as the family hauler while the shop rebuilt the Buicks.

Introducing: Fine Autos of Distinction ("FAD")

When I was about 12 years old, I realized that I had a budding interest in automobiles. About that time, I saved some of my paper route money and purchased my first magazine subscription to Car & Driver. For years, I subscribed to the magazine, and it became for me what sports were for other boys my age. I had my favorite brands and models. Every shoot-out or “comparo” took on the significance of key games between teams. Always patriotic, I spent a lot of time routing for American brands. Sadly, the late 80’s and early 90’s were not good times to pin one’s hopes on American automobile manufacturing. That was the age of the Chevrolet Corsica, the unforgiveable second generation of the Buick Roadmaster, and the Ford Tempo.

A Revisionist's History: Into The Wild

Years ago my father introduced me to Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer, a book that has since gained a lot of notoriety from an author I have since come to distrust. In the book, Krakauer recounts the demise of one Chris McClandess, a self-described “supertramp,” who jettisons gainful employment, family, and the conveniences of modern life to embrace the life of a recluse. As far as books go, Into the Wild was a good read insofar as the subject matter kept me completed riveted.

Today: My Secret Addiction

In spite of a Christian upbringing and the example of good parents, I have these proclivities, these tendencies. It’s no use denying it. On occasion I succumb to a weakness that would shame my parents. If the people with whom I work knew my dark secret, conditions in the office would become intolerable, and for good reason.

A Revisionist's History: Mission Trips on the Altiplano

Over the years a tradition seems to have sprung up among parents of missionaries. These parents often travel to the country or state in which their missionary served when the mission ends. Prior to returning to the United States, they tour the mission with their son or daughter. Once the parents have forked over the Georges to pilgrimage all the way to the field of service, it then becomes the privilege of the missionary to shepherd her wide-eyed parents through the areas in which she served.

Anyway, I’m not really as negative as all that. I believe most parents really do want to see the mission their children knew. Fortunately, most kids are more than willing to accommodate them.


I remember once, during my mission getting off a bus on a high windswept plateau in the Guatemalan Highlands. The setting sun slid slowly off the Western horizon without bothering to color the sky. At 10,000 to 12,000 feet, the wind has a tendency to picar the nose and cheeks—even in Central America. The scene was undeniably beautiful in an incomprehensibly lonely sort of way. I contemplated the thousands of miles that separated me from my home, shivered, and tried to burrow more deeply into my wool army-surplus jacket.

I don’t remember exactly why I was there or where I was going, but I will never forget what happened next. Just at that moment, at the end of the day and at what might have been mistaken for the end of the world, isolated and alone as we were there in the twilight, a 1996 Ford Taurus (a frightening car in and of itself, as far as looks are concerned) approached from the south, slowed, and turned off this isolated stretch of the Panamerican Highway onto the dirt road headed to San Bartolo.


A dozen questions crossed my mind in that instant, where did that car come from? Had someone driven it down from the States? I had NEVER seen a Ford Taurus in Guatemala. To this day, I’m not certain how that Ford got there. I’m not aware of single Ford dealer in the entire country.

The typical Chapín had little use for a full-size sedan of any make. And for good reason, the roads in Guatemala—if they may be termed such—would shred a Taurus in less time than it would take a new missionary to consider contracting dengue rather than spending two years in this raw, third-world country. Simply put, most American vehicles simply weren’t up to the rigors of Guatemalan life.

Anyway, there we stood lamely staring west, as this Taurus pulled up and stopped. One of the windows lowered and we found ourselves staring into faces of two very ordinary, middle-aged North Americans: American Gothic in a Ford Taurus rambling through the Guatemalan hinterland.

A recently-released “sister missionary” jumped out of the back and greeted one of the other missionaries in the group. Evidently, they had served in a different zone together. I gathered that she had convinced her parents to leave what I was guessing was a modest home in Utah and retrace her Guatemalan adventure. Glancing back into the front seat, I wondered how badly they really wanted to experience la pura vida. They seemed a little nervous, but eager enough.

Honestly, I was shocked and more than a little worried (and not just for the car). What they couldn’t have known, what I barely understood myself at the time, was that the hills that stretched off in every direction from our windswept intersection harbored more than its share of skeletons in the none-too-distant past.

They wouldn’t travel too much farther down the road on which we currently stood before they’d enter a wide expanse of rugged, remote hills devoid of pavement, electricity and in many locations, running water. The people of those hills not only didn’t speak English, they didn’t speak Spanish.

This people had been the primary target of government violence, kidnapping, mass murder, and no-doubt much worse during a 20-year civil war that had “ended” only two months previous. In fact, the village in which they planned to overnight had been the stage for some very serious mob violence and lynchings not even a month in the past.

No, these clear-faced Americans knew nothing about that. But then, the hand of God often shelters the good, naïve, and even—on occasion—the reckless alike. I had certainly been the receiving end of that principle.

The concept of the mission trip must have been fairly entrenched by the time I wrapped up my two-year stint in Guatemala because dad sua sponte broached the issue in a letter I received a few months before coming home. At the time, he offered me the choice of a mountain bike or a mission trip. For someone who was ready to leave Guate far behind, this seemed like a great deal. I took the bike and counted myself lucky.

Today: a mile or two in another man's shoes

Earlier in the evening Rachael mentioned that a man had been seen finishing Seattle’s Rock and Roll marathon bespattered with his own waste, the kind of waste my sister Amy would refer to as “the Rhea.” I guess at one point the poor unfortunate was seen attempting to remove the filth using a stick—all that with 28,000 onlookers. How’s that for sobering?

Ever the object of irony, I laughed a full-throated, belly laugh of true delight when Rachael related the account to me. “Poor sap!” I guffawed. “Can you imagine?? A stick. Oh that’s too much!” Then I grabbed my bike helmet and jauntily sauntered out the door.

I had promised to go for a mountain bike ride with my neighbor DJ Sweeney. DJ drives an immaculately maintained Ford F-350 of the super duty variety. The rear chrome bumper bears a sticker that reads: “I’m only speeding because I have to poop.” The signs were everywhere to those with eyes to see.

Seeing the sticker for the thousandth time, I chuckled in a smarmy, self-satisfied sort of way and marched up to the door. DJ opened the door slowly. “Oh man, you’re home?” He said with mild surprise. “I knocked on your door twice tonight. I won’t be able to make it.”

That was fine by me. What I really needed tonight was a run, not another bike ride. So I coasted across the street, hung my beloved Stumpy back up on the wall and slipped into my Saucony’s. After a short stop in the bathroom to clear the lower GI, I forced myself out onto the trail.

Heading east on the pipeline trail, the first three miles were hard fought. Around the three and a half mile mark, I felt myself hitting my stride and with it came the ever present hubris. At about this same time, I crossed the Cedar River heading North and then turned westward and home on the north side of the river.

The pain first struck about a quarter of a mile from the bridge—at the absolute farthest point of my run. I knew the feeling well and instantly it shattered, not only my confidence, but my pace as well. My stride, once steady and long (as long as midget legs can make it), came now in short prancing steps in an effort to minimize the jostling to my innards. Gone was all consideration of form.

The farther I ran, the more intense the pressure became. I began to look around for a cover, someplace I could duck and—as we euphemistically say—“equalize the pressure.” Nothing. The brush, while characteristically dense in Western Washington, was not deep enough to afford cover from passing runners. With buttocks firmly clenched, I forced myself to shuffle another quarter mile to a bend in the trail, a silent prayer on my lips with every step.

When I rounded the bend, my eyes caught sight of a walker, not a runner or a cyclist, a walker. A duck into the trees now would appear only too conspicuous. If only he would walk a littler FASTER! With grim determination I strode on. Behind a forced smile, I belted out a suspiciously enthusiastic “howdy,” then put as much distance between us as possible before seeking another escape route.

Escape materialized only a hundred feet further down the trail. A narrow, little-used path wound into the surrounding dense underbrush bending slightly toward a backwater bend in the river north of the trail. Here the bush filled in thickly around the bases of the trees.

Panting now, I hunted desperately for a clearing in the undergrowth wide enough for the blast zone. But my search met with disappointment time and again. Finally, milliseconds before discharge, I acknowledged my hopeless condition, and resorted to the narrow path itself.

You’ll excuse me for not delving into the sordid details of what came next. To think of it now, causes me to shudder involuntarily. Suffice it to say, I learned that mosses (particularly isothecium stoloniferum and selaginella oregano “Oregon Spikemoss”) work far better for mopping up than vine maple leaves.



It bears noting, however, that neither solution will prevent against chafing, not by a long stretch. And trust me, I know of what I speak. The pain. Is. Real.

I wish I could say that one attack was all it took to atone for my hubris. And yet, only two short miles down the trail, disaster struck a second time. When “the urge” struck this time around, I didn’t even have time to find a secluded bush. Fortunately, divine providence smiled on me and granted me a full five minutes of solitude on an otherwise busy section of the Cedar River Trail.

When I finally stumbled up the walk to the front door, I remembered that luckless runner with the stick. In a small way, I believe I came to know him and understand his suffering during my eventful run. Regardless, I learned first hand that night that it’s true what they say about not judging a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes, especially when they're filled with "the Rhea."

Today: In Honor of the Doctor

Old Stevinsky, the closet academic, the John Denver croonin', lichen-lovin', Spanish-speakin', hermano de la valle de Utah, just defended his Ph.D dissertation. The man's a doctor. Holy Smokes. Here's a little video capturing our last significant lichen finding on site at Black Butte in Eastern Oregon. You've made us all experts in the field, Sir Leavitt. Here's to many blissful years in the search of Lichen truth!