Operation Tango in Salt Lake City (Pt. III)

(Disclaimer: Most of the photos contained here within are the property of Sir Caleb the Valorous and Lionhearted.)

Summary of Day Three - Brighton Mountain Resort

Sunday, January 9th. For whatever reason, I awoke on January the 9th, 2011 the same way I probably awoke on January 9th, 1987 - ridiculously early and full of energy. The biggest difference, I suppose, was that I wasn't eating a bowl of Lucky Charms while watching Mr. Wizard's World, or playing Pole Position on Atari. I leaped from the bed with unusual vigor, hastily dressed for breakfast, and glanced myself over in the mirror before greeting the brave new world. Despite how good I felt, I was shocked to see how haggard and beaten-down I looked, and suddenly realized why those ladies I had tried to make friendly conversation with at the ski lodge had looked at me with such repugnance and horror. Perhaps, I thought, I should keep my ski mask on next time?

I waltzed down the hall and into the cafeteria area, greeted the cafeteria lady, and sat down with Buttercup, who was seemed to be focusing his energies on the mastication of a waffle. Naturally, I was concerned about his knee after yesterday's tumultuous tumble, so I inquired about it. Much to my relief, he said it felt much better, enough so that he could even rejoin the ranks of The Old Squad in our grand expedition. As he was talking, though, another startling revelation dawned upon me. Perhaps, it was the mastication process itself - the elongation of the jaw and its subsequent closing and expansion of the cheeks - that finally made me realize he bore a striking resemblance to actor Dan Ackroyd, one of my childhood heroes due to his role in "Ghostbusters". I wasn't sure if he'd be pleased with this comparison, so I refrained from saying anything. But, let the noble reader judge for his or her self:


When The Old Squad had finished eradicating the remnants of their curds and whey, they bid farewell to the warmth and safety of the base camp and greeted the great outdoors, where a fresh layer of snow had fallen overnight. To ordinary men, this might pose a problem. But, the members of The Old Squad are far from ordinary. Snake-eyes, with his commanding voice, took charge and directed us all to our battle stations: Hammerclaw used a hammer and chisel to remove the ice from the windshield; King Cobra used small explosives to remove the massive snowdrifts blocking our exit from the parking lot; Snake-eyes and Stinger did combat rolls back and forth from the cars in a valiant effort to load the equipment; Buttercup wrestled a venomous colony of snow snakes; meanwhile, I did what I do best - forage the area for snacks and yummy treats, which I am proud to say that I discovered a large supply hidden in a nearby vending machine. And, just like that, we were off!

...through the snow-laden streets!


...over the mountainous terrain!


...where our entourage of vehicles finally arrived at Brighton Mountain Resort, or as we called it - "Checkpoint 143", at approximately 8:39 am MST. With the peak at a respectable elevation of 10,750 ft, it was more awe-inspiring than any mortal eye from Tennessee had ever witnessed:


A cold front had swept through overnight, which had caused the temperature to plummet to a staggering 3 degrees. This, of course, did not bode well for my fleece gloves, which I had foolishly neglected to dry out the previous night and, when exposed to the crisp 3 degree air, froze solid on my hands. I might at well have worn ice cubes on my hands. Or, maybe fishnets. Notwithstanding, King Cobra and Snake-eyes took no pity on me, for the word "weakness" is nowhere to be found in their vocabulary.

Being among the first to arrive, we were entitled with the privilege of carving up the virgin snow with gay abandon. And, The Old Squad wasted no time in spearheading the attack on the great mountain. A green line was quickly subjugated for a warm-up. A nameless blue line was effortlessly conquered. The rest of the day was spent scouring the black diamonds for Charlie. I was feeling better than ever, until King Cobra took me aside and pointed to the following peak and said, "Red Rooster, I need your help. Snake-eyes radioed in, reporting a possible Charlie sighting up there in the bowl. Follow me!":


The "bowl" that King Cobra referred to was the fabled double-black diamond named "The Widowmaker". I stood in awe at the base of the mountain, weighing the proposition on the balances of reason. The inner economist in me coldly calculated the risk-to-reward ratio of such an endeavor; while the inner savage barbarian in me urged me on; while the future father and husband in me pleaded more consideration. But, before I could reason or remonstrate with King Cobra, he was already on the ski lift! Gulp. I girded my loins, took the next available ski lift, and blindly followed him to dizzying heights, questioning my sanity and soundness of mind:



The time had come. This is where we separate the mice from the men, the wheat from the chaff. Without hesitation, Snake-eyes and Stinger zoomed down the precipitous precipice at terrifying speeds. Hammerclaw and King Cobra looked me. I looked at them. I looked downhill. Pairs of glowing eyes could be seen in the distant treeline - probably a pack of famished coyotes eagerly awaiting my demise. I lifted my eyes towards the heavens where buzzards circled overhead, cawing louder and louder as I inched my way closer to the edge. I glanced back at Hammerclaw and King Cobra. They nodded, as if to say, "The time for your great trial has come, Red Rooster. Go ahead. We'll follow close behind and pick up your skis and poles, and administer medical treatment if necessary." I nodded back, as if to ask, "Did you bring the smelling salts? Just in case?", to which they nodded back, as if to say, "Affirmative." I peered over the edge and involuntarily uttered an audible groan from the depths of my soul. And, down I went.

(For the reader's knowledge, the definition of a double-black diamond is, "a trail intended only for the most experienced skiers with exceptionally steep slopes and other hazards such as narrow trails, exposure to wind, and the presence of obstacles such as steep drop-offs or trees.")


I descended the "The Widowmaker" as slowly as humanly possible, in an almost horizontal fashion. Side-to-side I went, stopping frequently to rest. Any remnant of deodorant that had steadfastly endured until now was quickly vanishing. But, there was no time to worry about offensive body odors under the present conditions. Life and death were at stake. Or, at least serious injury. Side-to-side I continued, steadily descending the deathtrap. It took some time, and may even be considered as evidence for the existence of modern day miracles, but somehow I eventually reached the bottom of "The Widowmaker" with all 206 bones in my body still intact. I couldn't believe it. I breathed a sigh of relief. The flock of buzzards overhead dispersed in disappointment. The coyotes howled their songs of discontent. Nature's predators would have to look elsewhere for an easy 185 lb lunch.

The Glaufenhiens continued to push me beyond my physical and mental limits, and by the end of the day, we had dominated countless black diamonds, two precarious double-black diamonds, moguls, and even a few jumps. We came. We saw. We conquered:


Day Three of Operation Tango, by leaps and bounds, proved to be my personal favorite. I find it intriguing how much our individual personalities are revealed on the slopes. Being one of cautious and timid disposition, it naturally follows that my approach to the slopes, or anything new for that matter, is cautious and timid. This circumspection remains until there is sufficient confidence in my abilities to outweigh the fear. On the other hand, the Glaufenheins tend to throw caution to the wayside and embrace danger with reckless abandon, unfazed by the effects of fear. They are cut from a different fabric, or perhaps, a different breed altogether?

After a long day of dominating the hills, The Old Squad dominated T-Kono's - a Japanese hibachi grill dinner. Count it!

Day Three Statistics:

Total number of wipe outs: 16

Number of black diamonds attempted: Numerous!

Number of double black diamonds attempted: 2

Cumulative total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 1

Most frequently used phrase: "Keep those smelling salts ready in hand, King Cobra."

Number of Charlie sightings: 0

Summary of Day Four - Back to the Jungle

Monday, January 10th. At breakfast that morning, Snake-eyes didn't say much to anybody. He had rearranged with his spoon, perhaps subconsciously, the letters of his Alpha-bit cereal to spell out words like "CHARLIE", and "NO SKUNKS", and "LIES LIES LIES ". He was visibly vexed, and his eyes looked bloodshot, perhaps due to a sleepless night. In fact, he was beginning to remind of me of Captain Ahab and his monomaniacal quest for the White Whale. Admittedly, it would be considerably difficult to ski with one false leg made of whalebone, or in our case, skunk bones; but, if there were one man who could pull it off, it would be Snake-eyes.

On the other side of the table, he had unfolded a map of Snowbird and was marking it with a pen. "Here!" he said, as he unsheathed his serrated jungle knife and thrust it into the map, puncturing the wooden table. "Sierra Bravo! That's where we're going, boys. Back to the jungle! Suit up and move out!" My eyes grew wide at those ominous words, uttered with such a tone of unwavering determination. I was secretly hoping we would return to Brighton, as Snowbird had been the site of so much pain, tears, and bloodshed. But, as they say, Snake-eyes knows best. I hastily polished off the remains of my morning repast and prepared for what would become the most adventurous day yet.

And so, to "Sierra Bravo" we returned. Or, as normal civilians called it, Snowbird. The sky was still hazy, obscuring the light of the sun. It was still bitterly cold. And, the frigid wind still howled, perhaps even louder than it did on Day Two. I could feel the cumulative effects of this bitterly cold wind upon my chapped and chaffed nose, lips and cheeks. The one redeeming factor was that there were no mysterious streaks of blood in the snow this time - and, in this, I took great comfort.


Snake-eyes was first in line at the ski lifts. He was bending down, sifting handfuls of snows through his fingers, like sand. "Charlie...", he muttered. At this, he gave the signal to rally around him - a high pitched whistle. The Old Squad, almost instinctively, rallied around him. The morning sun was breaking over the horizon behind him, almost creating a halo around his head.


He spoke, and with each word, a puff of breath was could be seen in the cold crisp morning Utah air. "Gentlemen," he said in his powerful authoritative voice, "it's Day Four of Operation Tango. Your legs ache. You're exhausted. You can barely feel your fingers and toes. Your ration supplies of yummy snacks have rapidly dwindled to dangerously low levels. But! Is this not where The Old Squad thrives?! Did we not raid Raccoon Mountain under much more inauspicious conditions in 1997? Did we not search for and rescue Dean Chicowksi's runaway chicken under the unrelenting snowstorm of 1994? The finish line draweth nigh, my good men! Our glory dwelleth in yonder hills! Now," he said with ski poles uplifted towards the lofty mountain peaks, "follow me to the black diamonds, boys!"

There is something about Snake-eyes - he has always had a commanding presence about him, one that would inspire courage into even the weakest and most fickle of hearts. At these words, The Old Squad, filled with inspiration, released a battle cry so loud and stentorian, the mountains seemed to tremble and quake. "Long live Snake-eyes! And, long live The Old Squad!!", we cried with uplifted poles.

"To Johnson's Last Stand!", cried Snake-eyes. I found this name oddly coincidental, but this is where we spent the majority of the morning investigating:


Despite its ominous name, our treatment of "Johnson's Last Stand" can be described with two words: unbridled subjugation. Every square inch was scoured for any sign of Charlie.


Unbridled subjugation of mother nature, however, doesn't come without paying the price. Day Four of Operation Tango played host to many painful falls, two of which I remember most vividly:

1) Newton's First Law of Motion states, "Every object in a state of uniform motion tends to remain in that state of motion unless an external force is applied to it." I fell victim to this very "external force" Newton so eloquently described on a slope named "The Eviscerator". A well concealed tree root snagged my left ski, while zooming along at a moderately high rate of speed, sending me reeling airborne for about 10 ft. Thankfully, my already aching body landed in a mound of soft powdery snow.

2) Newton's Third Law of Motion states, "For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction." The action, in this case, was my right ski crossing over my left ski whilst trying to turn left at a moderate rate of speed on a moderate grade of hill. The reaction, in accordance with these immutable laws of physics, was me falling headlong onto the icy packed snow. This had happened dozens of times before, but never so hard. I could feel my cranium bounce off the icy snow, like a basketball, which was accompanied by an audible "crunch" in my neck. Needless to say, this was painful.

The Old Squad used every tactic and strategy in the book to hunt down Charlie. Buttercup even used his tried-and-true lure method, using this 2-inch long "snot-cicle" as bait:


But, to no avail! Despite another 8-hour exhaustive search under every stone, into every crevice, and over the entire face of the mountain - no signs of Charlie could be found!


By 4:00 pm, the sun was beginning to set over the horizon, and the resort was closing its doors. We had no choice but to call off the search, much to the chagrin of Snake-eyes. "Next year.." he kept muttering, "next year, Charlie." We had an 8:00 pm flight to catch, and there was no time to cry over spilled milk. We needed to return to Rocky Top. And, in a hurry.

Day Four Statistics

Total number of wipe outs: 24

Number of black diamonds attempted: Numerous!

Number of double black diamonds attempted: 7

Cumulative total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 3

Total tubes of chapstick lost: 1

Most frequently used phrase: "Total Subjugation"

Number of Charlie sightings: 0

Final Thoughts

What can we say? Operation Tango, that four day conquest of nature and inquiry into the veracity of a local Rocky Top rumor, was over. Had the battle been fought valiantly? Yes. Had there been physical injury? Unfortunately, yes. Buttercup, as we know, had injured his knee on Day Two. Day Four witnessed two more casualties: Stinger, while descending "The Bone Mangler", had tumbled down, resulting in three torn knee ligaments. And, King Cobra, while descending "The Line of Much Sorrow and Regret", had somehow overextended his left knee in a fall, and more embarrassingly, wet his pants in the process. Had there been any truth to the rumor about skunks seeking refuge in the Wasatch Mountains? Unfortunately, no. Even so, shall we categorically conclude that Operation Tango was an abysmal failure? Well, certain questions should be left for the reader to decide.

I would be remiss if I neglected to mention the fact that we had all worn the same clothes over the entirety of Operation Tango. At least, I did. Moreover, there had not been sufficient time or facility to shower after Day Four at Snowbird. One can imagine, as we convoyed from Snowbird to Salt Lake City International Airport to catch our 8:00 pm flight, how this myriad of odors from body and clothing would offend the nostrils and olfactory senses of anyone within a 5 foot radius. Some of us were not overly concerned about this. Others, however, expressed pity for whoever the poor passenger who would unknowingly be condemned to sit next to us on the flight.

I would also be remiss if I neglected to mention our extraordinary return flight. In the spirit of adventure and frugality, Snake-eyes thought it would be best to fly "standby". But, for brevity's sake, I will refrain from expounding further. If you wish to know the details, dear reader, take a trip down to the Rocky Top Café and look for a tall lanky man wearing a coonskin cap, deerskin moccasins, and gray sweatpants. That's me. They call me... "Red Rooster".

Operation Tango in Salt Lake City (Pt. II)

(Disclaimer: The photos contained here within are the property of Sir Caleb the Valiant and Magnanimous.)

Summary of Day One - Solitude Mountain Resort

We awoke on the foggy morn of January 7th, 2011 the day of our Lord, at approximately 6:30 am MST. Snake-eyes was up first and rallied the troops, just like old times. The continental breakfast provided by the base camp was promptly devoured, with only crumbs and the shredded remnants of orange and banana peels remaining. It was time to move out, and the reader must understand that in the Tennessee Militia and especially under the leadership of Snake-eyes, not a moment of time is ever wasted. We hustled out to our vehicles, waited impatiently for our windows to defrost, and finally proceeded to convoy to our first destination: "Solitude Mountain Resort", which we had codenamed "Sierra Oscar Lima India Tango Uniform Delta Echo" so that no one would know.

Leaving the safety of the basin, we followed a winding sinuous path still enshrouded in an eerie early morning fog.



Worry set in. And, just when we thought all was lost, the fog dissipated and there appeared on our right the fabled Solitude! Just like Snake-eyes predicted!


"Sierra Oscar Lima India Tango Uniform Delta Echo" is a mountain that boasts of a peak elevation of 10,035 ft, which was larger than any mountain I had ever personally been willing to do more than admire from afar. The Old Squad bravely dismounted their vehicles, dawned their equipment, filled their pockets with various snacks, and rallied around Snake-eyes for the mission briefing."Red Rooster and Buttercup", he said in his commanding voice, pointing in the distance, "you two hit the green slopes. Keep on the lookout for anything suspicious. Hammerclaw, Stinger, and King Cobra - follow me to the black diamonds! If anybody sees Charlie, radio for backup. Rendezvous at high noon in the lodge. Heads on a swivel, boys! Move out!" And, we did - Buttercup and I to the greens, and the rest of the Old Squad to the blacks. If the reader had not guessed already, "Charlie" was our militia lingo for skunks.

My skiing abilities can be described with the terms "woefully unskilled" or "utterly hopeless", and so I breathed a sigh of relief when Snake-eyes assigned me to the green, or beginner, slopes. So, with the unabated courage of lion and the stupefying ignorance of a goldfish, Buttercup and I headed out. It is much to my shame to say that, by lunchtime, I had wiped-out a grand total of 42 times and rolled downhill for an estimated total of 200 yards. Any iota of self-esteem and dignity I had was quickly shriveling away, as a spider web shrivels to the touch. According to my projections, the next four days would be filled with much pain, and perhaps even weeping and gnashing of teeth.



Enter the Joel - an old pal of Snake-eyes, a 20 year veteran in the Confederate Forces, former audiologist, skiing extraordinaire, and generally cool dude. He was the just the man for such a time, and it was just the time for such a man. Joel graciously took Buttercup and I under his wing and coached us along, step by step, fall after fall. 'Ere long, I could turn left! I could turn right! Behold, I could stop! By my own volition! After our conquest of the green slopes was complete, Joel, like a motherly blue-jay nudges her young chirping babes out of the comfort of the nest, nudged us out of the comfort of the greens and over to the formidable blue slopes. But, alas! With every descent, apprehensions and fears slowly melted away, giving way to courage and certitude. O death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory?

Lunchtime arrived, and we rendezvoused at the ski lodge. My stomach had transformed itself into a carnivorous abyss, only to be satiated by the finest herb-marinated chicken breast sandwich.


After lunch, Buttercup and Joel returned to the blue slopes, and I joined forces with King Cobra and Hammerclaw, perhaps foolishly. King Cobra, in his eternal wisdom, suggested we turn up the intensity and expand our search into the black diamonds. I heaved a heavy sigh of resignation and lifted my eyes to heaven. There was no convincing him otherwise, so I did the only thing I could do - follow him. Very closely.


We disembark the ski-lift, glide down to a flat crossroads area where various trails branch off, and approach the edge of a rather precipitous precipice. I waddled to the edge with great caution and peered over to a) survey the first black diamond I had ever seen, and b) evaluate the likelihood of my survival. The trail was just as I had imagined - littered with mangled ski poles, lost ski equipment half buried in the snow, and what appeared to be the remains of many skiers who have foolishly gone before me, all of which not bode well for my confidence. Not to mention my chances at survival. But, before I had time to reason or remonstrate with King Cobra, he had already zoomed halfway down the initial chute! I said a quick prayer, closed my eyes, and zoomed down in his tracks at an alarming rate of speed.

The next thing I remember, I was laying peacefully in a large mound of soft snow with both skis 20 ft uphill. I was relieved to discover no broken bones. I gathered myself, dusted my jacket off, spit out some snow, and commenced to trudge uphill to retrieve my skis. Trudging uphill in several feet of snow, I quickly discovered, was rather exhausting, perhaps due to the rarefied atmosphere at this elevation. Once you reach them, you must refasten your ski boots back into your skis, which becomes particularly difficult in deep snow because they sink deeper and deeper with each attempt. But, King Cobra!, forever abounding in patience!, waited downhill as I slowly and not-so-steadily made my descent, which would mark my first ever successful black diamond, if such can be said.

The resort closed at 4 pm. The Old Squad returned to the base camp, neutralized the odorous effects of accumulated perspiration, and proceeded to downtown Salt Lake City, where we would devour basket upon basket of tortilla chips and salsa at the Red Iguana Mexican Restaurant. With appetites satisfied at last, we returned to base camp, relaxed in the hot tub, and finally retired to the quarters, depleted of energy.

Day One Statistics

Total number of wipe outs: 67

Number of black diamonds attempted: 1

Total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 0

Most frequently used phrase: "What a disaster."

Number of Charlie sightings: 0

Summary of Day Two - Snowbird Mountain Resort

Saturday, January 8th, 2011. It took a Herculean effort to move any part of my body the following morning. The legs, which felt like they had been beaten with steel rods, initially were not willing to cooperate with my mental commands. The hips, which had bore much of the brunt of the 67 falls, did likewise. The lower back, shoulders, and abdominal muscles felt as if they had been pelted with stones, and were not much more compliant. After minutes of rolling around, the overwhelming need to evacuate about a gallon of bodily fluids finally provided the catalyst needed to rouse myself from my supine state. I limped down to the cafeteria where everybody was engaged in the ravenous consumption of grains, fruits and dairy products, and did the same.

With The Old Squad having rested and refueled, we dashed out the door and leaped into our entourage of vehicles, buckled ourselves in accordance with Utah State Law, and prepared ourselves for another exciting day of expedition.



At 8 hours and 41 minutes ante meridiem, we arrived at the legendary "Snowbird Mountain Resort", which we promptly codenamed "Sierra November Oscar Whiskey Bravo India Romeo Delta", or just "Sierra Bravo" for short. Some called it "the jungle". And, rightfully so. It boasted of an elevation of 11,000 ft at its peak. Its terrain was rugged and untamed in comparison to Solitude, and lofty evergreens were scattered about its slopes, posing an added risk. The conditions at Snowbird were much less favorable than the previous day at Solitude. A thick fog enshrouded the mountains, reducing visibility to almost zero - a recipe for "collision city". A painful icy rain stung your cheeks and nose and any other exposed area, having the additional effect of making it seem insanely cold. It quickly became apparent that my few meager articles of clothing were powerless against the effects of the elements, all of which collectively gave me an ominous premonition that somebody, perhaps I, would not make it out of this resort unscathed. Or, alive.


Something else immediately struck me, however. Every few hundred yards, an inexplicable red streak, ranging from 2 to 3 feet in length, could be seen in the snow. Initially, I mistakenly thought these streaks to be direction markers of some sort. But, red? It didn't make sense, until I later came to discover that these streaks were not directional markers at all - but blood. Blood?? Indeed. The bloody remains of those who had probably overestimated their abilities and had paid the hefty toll. Pride, indeed, cometh before the fall.


And, my ominous premonition soon proved all too correct. Buttercup, Hammerclaw and I were once again assigned to conduct reconnaissance on the green slopes. I was waiting at the bottom of the hill for them when, lo and behold, here comes Buttercup like a giant moose of a man tumbling down the hill almost doing perfect cartwheels - skis and poles and toboggan were flung to the four corners of the earth. He finally rolled to a complete stop, covered in snow, where he lay still for a moment. Hammerclaw swiftly descended to his aid. I watched the scene unravel from afar, through the icy rain, as Buttercup made multiple attempts to stand up, but in vain. His right knee was out of commission.

We helped Buttercup back to the Snowbird Ski Lodge, where he would remain the rest of the livelong day. The collective mood was somber. I felt bad for Buttercup. After all, this could happen to anyone of us at anytime. I contemplated all this as I annihilated three New York sized slices of pizza and root beer, concluding that it would be wise to proceed with the utmost caution. But, for the readers understanding, the word "caution" is not in the Glaufenhein dictionary. Its very page had been ripped out, as Napoleon did with the word "impossible". King Cobra, who had slid down an icy black diamond face first and incurred a crude facial abrasion, insisted that this were a mere flesh wound and would not be deterred from the mission. My fickle heart was once again persuaded to join him in another perilous expedition.

As the afternoon progressed, the blue slopes became more and more comfortable. King Cobra, never one to remain in his comfort zone or allow others to remain in theirs, implored me to attempt another black diamond. (gulp). I did, and for the first time ever, did so without losing any equipment or articles of clothing! (hooray!) I learned a lesson that it is much easier said than applied, and that is: lean forward. Leaning forward when skiing seems counter-intuitive, especially when our natural response to fear is to lean backward. But the very act of leaning backwards is what causes us to lose balance and fall. Perhaps, I thought, this principle has greater implications in our lives when our fears tell us one thing and our knowledge tells us another? Once I grasped this paradoxical principle of skiing, the mental barriers began to melt away. Maybe, just maybe, I was ready to join Snake-eyes and Stinger on the fabled double black diamonds? Only time would tell...

Day Two's expedition came to a close and I felt better than ever. We convoyed back to base camp, laid siege to our soiled bodies with soap and sponge, and then laid siege to Bucca de Beppo's for our evening nourishment. With bellies full of sustenance and bodies devoid of energy, we once again retired to our quarters. For tomorrow, Snake-eyes announced, we would scour the hills of Brighton for signs of Charlie.

Day Two Statistics

Total number of wipe outs: 29

Number of black diamonds attempted: 4

Total number of injuries incurred by The Old Squad: 1

Most frequently used word: "Pain." (and variations thereof)

Number of Charlie sightings: 0

(To be continued...)

Operation Tango in Salt Lake City (Pt. I)

(Disclaimer: The following account is loosely based on a true story.)

It was roughly three fortnights ago when the local mail courier rapped upon my door and handed me a sealed envelope. It was stamped "Confidential" in bright red letters on the back. I thanked the courier, locked the door, closed the window blinds, turned off the lights, and opened up the envelope under a flickering candlelight. It was a telegram from my old friend Snake-eyes, the contents of which were the following:


"Red Rooster". It was an alias I hadn't heard in years, maybe decades. It was a codename from my days back in the Tennessee Militia, and only a handful of living souls had knowledge of it. One of these souls was the legendary Snake-eyes, my squad leader and old pal from the covert operations team. Back in our prime, we were considered the best of the best, the crème de la crème. Now, we were both normal civilians leading mundane civilian lives. He went into the skunk pellet trading business and was doing quite well, and I? I became a student at UT by day, and a moonshiner by night. I hadn't heard from him, or the other squad members, in ages.

I read through the message, which was written in a modified Morse code to ensure its confidentiality. After some brief cordial remarks, Snake-eyes briefly explains how he had heard a rumor down at the Rocky Top Cafe about an inexplicable sudden surge in the skunk population out in Salt Lake City, and how he thought it were a heaven-sent opportunity to expand his skunk pellet business, or in his exact words, "put some spunk in the skunk [pellet trading business]". The rumor sounded odd to me, as do most rumors down at the Rocky Top Cafe, but Snake-eyes argued that it was worth investigating. The mission, he went on, would be dubbed "Operation Tango", and would consist of deploying to Salt Lake City on January 6th, conducting a thorough reconnaissance of the area for four days, and returning on January 11th. Simple enough. But, as I decoded the last line of the message, I cringed. It said, "The rumor is that the skunks have taken refuge in the ski slopes, particularly the double black diamonds. This means that the reconnaissance must be conducted on skis."

There are certain words that, when read or heard, strike terror deep into even the bravest of hearts and serve to keep one mindful of one's mortality. For me, that word is comprised of three letters - an "s", a "k", and an "i". At this one word, I shuddered violently and bit my mustache. Memories from the night of December 23rd, 2009 - my humiliating first attempt at skiing - suddenly flashed through my mind. I had foolishly been lured into going to Yong-Pyong, Korea, one of Korea's premiere skiing resorts, by friends Luke Elie and Maude Yang. At one moment, I had boldly stood atop the beginner slopes, only to be cast down headlong the next. With every tumultuous tumble, I paid dearly. Mother nature had exacted payment of her hefty tuition fees, and appeared to prefer them be paid in full, upfront. My terror grew even greater when I imagined the double black diamonds in the Rocky Mountains, which made the beginner slopes in Korea appear as mere molehills in comparison. Dreadful visions flashed across my mind and fears tugged at my heart strings as I paced to-and-fro, telegram in hand, as the wooden floor creaked under my nervous steps and the candlelight cast its menacing shadows upon the wall. I could feel my heartbeat hasten as I began to comprehend the full magnitude of this mission. Mortified, my knees became weak, and lo! did my feeble frame swoon!

I awoke the next morning on the cold kitchen floor, but the crumpled telegram had somehow remained in hand. It was dark, for the window remained closed and the candle had all but melted. It took me a moment to gather myself. I opened the windows, took some fresh air and a light repast to regain my strength and, as I did, pondered the eternal question, "What shall I do?". The noble reader may agree that the things which in the evening look dark and obscure appear but too clearly in the light of the morning. Perhaps, I thought, I had lived in the shadows of my past failures long enough? Perhaps, this was Providence granting me a chance at redemption? I knew what must be done. With steadfast resolution, I took up pen in trembling hand and wrote - first a confirmation telegram to Snake-eyes, second my will and last testament.

The Old Squad Reunites

January 6th, 2011. Alas, the predestined day arrived! I was rudely awoken by my alarm clock, hastily ate the remains of a bag of Captain Crunch, tidied up my house with blinding speed, packed all the items that were deemed necessary, and rushed off to the McGhee-Tyson Airport with luggage in hand to catch the 2:17 pm flight. Lo and behold, the whole squad was there! Reunited just like old times! (Of course, with the exception of "Gunner" and "Rabbit", who had both been arrested after dueling in the Cracker Barrel parking lot after one accused the other of making an illegal move in a checkers match) Hooray!

There was Snake-eyes, in the flesh!


Civilian name: Josiah Glaufenhien

Codename: "Snake-eyes"

Skiing style: Dexterous and dangerous

Description: Heavy munitions expert. Capable of mass destruction. World renowned in hand-to-hand combat. Exfoliates regularly.




There was the rest of the old squad!

Civilian name: Caleb Glaufenhein

Codename: "King Cobra"

Skiing style: Smooth as silk

Description: Demolition expert. World renowned axe thrower. Able to uproot small trees with bare hands. Able to smash things.





Civilian name: Bryan Horlings

Codename: "Stinger"

Skiing style: Suave and savvy

Description: Logistical mastermind. Trained to open canned goods with teeth (if required). Has a knack for interior decorating and color coordinating.





Civilian name: Jason Kisner

Codename: "Hammerclaw"

Skiing style: Seasoned and skillful

Description: Radio Communications Expert. Also pretty good at playing horseshoes and other fun games.





Civilian name: Rick Moore

Codename: "Buttercup"

Skiing style: Moose in roller skates

Description: Master of creating diversions and acting as decoys to enemy fire. Possesses the strength of a thousand thighs.




And, of course, me! The sixth man!

Civilian name: Erik Johnson

Codename: "Red Rooster"

Skiing style: N/A

Description: Expert in gathering and foraging. Trained to consume an unbelievable quantity of food at an an unbelievably slow pace. Also, able to de-ice ski-lift chairs after meals.




Yes, sir. The legendary Tennessee Militia's finest covert operations team, reunited once again! And, it felt so good. We boarded the plane and reached Salt Lake City in the evening. We checked in at base camp, which was codenamed "Super 8 Motel", set up perimeter defenses, and got some shut eye.

Salt Lake City

January 7th, 2011. We awoke bright and early, just like the old days. Snake-eyes rallied the troops for breakfast, which was provided by base camp in the form of a buffet. Over the meal, we reminisced about old times in the militia. Story after story was told and told again and commented on. Spirits were buoyant and laughter abounded. Once chow time was over, the ever vigilant Snake-eyes gave the order to head out. So, we did.

As we convoyed to our first mysterious destination, one could see the daylight breaking over the horizon. It had illuminated everything that the previous night had so well concealed. Beautiful snow-covered evergreens lined the road and towered over us.


Rugged mountains loomed in the distance, serving to remind me of the perils inherent in our imminently impending mission. Who could fathom what hazards lie ahead? (gulp)


The Old Squad had been through thick and thin together, but who knows? Many a good men have traveled from afar to ski these Rocky Mountains, never to return. Perhaps.... The Old Squad's greatest trial was yet to come?


(To be continued....)

Questions from Readers

Today's question comes from Myrtle, my neighbor, who writes:

Mr. Johnson, it was a pleasure speaking with you at Ralph's Grocery last week. I meant to ask you - oh, Professor Snugglepuss, quit fighting with Sir Snuffle Muffins! Mischievous little kittens! I apologize, Mr. Johnson. The kittens have been quite naughty these past few days, perhaps on account of a different brand of milk. Momma Myrtle loves her kittens, but sometimes, she doesn't know what she's gonna do with all twelve of them. Speaking of kittens, thank you for picking up that kitty litter for me - it was a lifesaver. Brother Whiskers was beginning to get restless. Anyways, I meant to ask you while we were talking at Ralph's Grocery - what is your favorite ferocious animal? - Your neighbor, Myrtle P.

Thank you for your thoughtful question, Myrtle. I would have to say a wolverine. Why? Maybe because it reminds me of my best friend. Allow me to explain.

As we've discussed before, Ms. Peterson, probably in Ralph's Grocery or at the Rocky Top Cafe, my older sister, Andrea, is undoubtedly my best friend. But, things weren't always this rosy, you know. Twenty years ago, my sister was not someone I considered to be morally upright or a “good” person. She was certainly no Mother Teresa type figure, nor was she someone I would nominate for the Nobel Peace Prize. Rather, she was my sworn enemy, a formidable foe which shared the same roof as I, someone with whom many battles had been fought, and campaigns had been waged. Perhaps, a little like Sir Snuffle Muffins and Professor Snugglepuss?

In these battles and campaigns, she was usually victorious because A) her strength was overwhelming, like that of a grizzly bear, B) she was more aggressive than an hornet who's hive had been provoked and it's sole duty was to take exact vengeance on the perpetrator, and C) she possessed a vast arsenal of weapons at her disposal – she could push, she could punch, she could pinch. She had mastered the Indian burn, as well as the psychological warfare - she could blackmail me for something I didn’t do – not vacuuming the corners and edges of my room, for example. The pushing, punching, and pinching, I could handle. The Indian burn and the blackmailing, these too, I could handle. But the most effective, the most potent, and the most persuasive weapon in this arsenal were her razor sharp claws. They held a remarkable resemblance to that of a ferocious wolverine, only painted with deceptively pretty colors. These claws struck terror deep into my heart and served as a constant reminder of my mortality here on earth. Powerful deterrents against any sudden inclinations of an offensive attack, they were. My main line of defense against these claws was to assume the fetal position, or what I referred to as the "turtle defense", where the object was to protect all the vital areas of my body. If this line of defense was breached, my last resort was prayer. I would pray Psalm 23: “Yay, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff, they comfort me.” I had memorized that much in Sunday school, but always floundered on the next part, so I would just create my own lines: “And... I thank Thee that... she haveth not this rod.... nor this staff. Because, she probably would not… useth them to comfort me like Thou wouldst.” And, it's true. Given the opportunity, she most likely wouldn't have.

But, alas! One day, a pivotal change took place - my greatest foe would become my greatest ally. I remember it like it were yesterday. I was in the sixth grade, my sister in the eighth. She and I were on the school bus riding home one fine autumn day. The bus reached our stop, my sister and I both got up, and squeezed down the crowded aisle of yelling screaming barbaric hordes of school children. All of a sudden, I sensed this dark premonition, this disturbance in the force. A leg had been imperceptibly thrust in front of mine, causing me to stumble and fall, backpack and all, down the aisle of the school bus, provoking the laughter of many of the surrounding children. It was the leg of who else, but Jeremy McMillen, the school bus bully.

Jeremy McMillen picked on everybody – he was an equal opportunity bully - but lately, I seemed to be his favorite target. His expertise in spitwad shooting was unparalleled, as he had proven over the course of that week, not to mention the numerous paper wads he had launched at me with alarming accuracy, or how he had flicked my ears from behind until they were blood red. But, everybody has a threshold, Myrtle, and that day, I reached it. My blood boiled. I leaped up and pounced on Jeremy, administering every ounce of pain my small frame could possibly administer. The other children on the bus seemed pleased with the spectacle. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”, I could hear them chanting in unison as I swung furiously at any undefended region of his body. My sudden rebound from the aisle-way must have overwhelmed him, or at least, he didn't seem to expect anything like this at all. I could hardly believe it! Me, the hero of the day, unbridled, throwing fists of fury at the school bus bully! And everything was going so well! Until somehow, Jeremy got me into a headlock.

Historical records have indicated that the moment one finds themselves in a headlock is the moment the tables turn out of his/her favor. Further research indicates that, at this point, the chances of one getting one's face pounded tend to increase exponentially. I don't know about you, Myrtle, but I have never enjoyed being in headlocks - not in a box, not with a fox, not in a train, not in a plane, and especially not on this school bus. But, there I was, beginning to regret my reckless retaliation against such a formidable opponent. Perhaps, I should've turned the other cheek, I thought, or followed the path of least resistance. I'm not sure if I actually thought these thoughts at that moment, or not. To be honest, I was somewhat preoccupied with trying to escape from his powerful clutches, which made it difficult to evaluate the moral implications of my actions. All looked lost, when suddenly! I felt these two hands – like the hands of an angel – grab me by my waist, extricate me from this precarious position, and push me to safety. They were the hands of who else, but my sister - those same hands that I had suffered dearly under for so many years. Perhaps, she was driven by jealousy when she saw that someone else besides her got to have all the fun with me? I don’t know. But, I’ll never forget - she grabbed Jeremy's collar, and administered the worst pounding I've ever witnessed up until that time. It was like watching two massive forces of evil collide, with the lesser of two evils prevailing. She had rescued me, in seemingly effortless fashion, from experiencing the public humiliation of falling prey to the hands of a school bus bully. And, from that day onward, it was like a truce had been called and the Treaty of Versailles had been signed and sealed. Sure, we had the occasional fight afterward, but from that day, I looked at her, this ferocious wolverine with her razor sharp claws, differently. Still with fearful trepidation and trembling, of course, but now with more reverence, more respect and more pride.

How all this applies to your mischievous kittens, I cannot say. But, I can say this: gold may make a man wealthy, but only friends can make a man rich. And, today, Myrtle, I am rich because I have great friends, the best of which is my sister. She's the mother of four beautiful children. She's the wife of wonderful husband. She is studying to become a nurse, and will undoubtedly be an excellent one. She's someone who continues to inspire me. And, yes, though she may have been a ferocious wolverine at one time, she is still my sister, and remains my best friend.

I think this is why I would choose the wolverine as my favorite ferocious animal. Does that answer your question? And, hey - you're welcome for the kitty litter. Anytime.

- Your friendly neighbor, Erik