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Shavers fork revisted, again, and again (PG-13, salty language)
originally posted on the MCC's Paddle Prattle by Chipper Mefford

As whitewater archivest Mothra has written, so it was;

The Shavers Fork of the Cheat, yet again. This time we WERE going to make it all the way.

Twas the 30th of January, night of the full moon. Our ambitions were a bit more tame this time. Cheat Bridge to upper Bowden in 3 days, 2 nights. No problem.

We were more experienced this time, In very early April, two years before, we had set out to paddle from Cheat Bridge to Parsons in three days. We being Greg (bottle up and go!) Green, Jim (Ahh! my boats broken!) Snyder, and Chipper (lumpy duck farts) Mefford.

On that earlier trip, we had no water to speak of. Jim Snyder, -master of low flow boating (among other things)- expressed that this would be no issue as we surveyed the trickle of water at Parsons while setting the shuttle. A few days of white water hiking mixed with lumpy boating and broken boats and a winter storm had us bailing at Bemis, as Mothra stated, and finishing our shuttle with a major cab fare. It was an adventure, , , for another tell at another time.

But this time, we were set. Jim was paddling a major creeker of his own design, the most misunderstood boat of modern marketing, the Axess. Greg was bottled up to go in an oar rigged shredder, and I was trying out a new idea. The insulated winter kayak.

My logic was simple. Due to the excellent thermal conductivity of fresh water, my thought was to attempt to isolate or insulate the internal cavity of a kayak with 1/2" minicell, from the near-freezing water contacting the hull. In this way, having a happy little warm place in the world from which to survey the wonders of this delightful piece of the world known as the Shavers Fork.

My boat was an old T-Canyon. Refitted with foot pegs instead of that dreadful bulkhead, and fully lined with minicell. It was indeed a toasty place to sit. Very nice.

Of course, I had never paddled it loaded before, in fact I hadn't paddled a T-Canyon in over five years, that coupled with the fact that pretty much all my higher gradient boating over the few years prior to this trip had been in a thrillseeker had me launching at Cheat Bridge feeling a bit tippy. Not tipsy as I would have preferred.

Jim and I had to help each other carry our boats. Rigged as they were for multi-day winter camping, I'm pretty certain that the already heavy thick hulled T-Canyon was tipping the scales at well over a hundred lbs. Jims boat wasn't much better. But Jims boat sat deeper at the cockpit and had a wider beam.

Paddling down from Cheat Bridge, the t-canyon was riding deep, water line pretty much at the seam line, I tried to remember the loading chart for this boat, I think it said somewhere in the 120 kg for the upper range, I am pretty sure that with my bulk dressed for winter, and all the gear I was pushing closer to 135 kg, which was pretty admittedly overloading the boat. "Oh well," I thought; "This run really is pretty much a breeze, especially since we have a bit more water." And a bit more is all we had. I was grateful for that wonderfully tough prijon plastic as we bumped our way down towards the days goal of McGee Run Campground.

* * *

As a team, we are not all that good. The three of us have a tendancy to paddle at our own pace, and since I am by far the slowest and least experienced of the three, I tend to blunder on ahead with a vengance as much for fear of being left behind as anything.

Though we had more water than we had on our previous winter expedition, it really wasn't enough for the shredder. Greg was having a tough time. Here, in the heart of winter, Greg was pretty much stripped down to his waders and a wool shirt as he was constantly having to dismount his oar rig and drive the boat from one or the other tubes to get it through some of the shoals. He was working hard. My habit was to burst on ahead for 30 mins to an hour and then float until Jim came into sight and then blast off again. But with Greg having a tough time, I would wait with Jim until we had a visual on the Shredder then we both would blast off. Neither of us felt like disturbing Greg in his horrific reverie.

When we passed the first campground, we regrouped and discussed Greg taking out, and resetting the shuttle and such. It would have blown the day, but otherwise have been pretty painless. Besides, who was in a hurry? Weren't we on vacation? Greg wasn't having any of it, and was being just a wee bit petulant. And I don't blame him, he was having a really rough go. But go is what he wanted, so go is what we did.

The Shavers Fork runs pretty much north by northeast in general and pretty much every whichaway in specifics. That notwithstanding, in January the sun comes late to that notch in the mountains, doesn't tarry long, and goes fast. I hit the beach at McGee Run just a couple of minutes ahead of Jim, who had lingered for Gregs benefit. We got all the boats beached, and proceeded to pitch camp and gather firewood. Jim and I watched in awe as Greg erected his condominium like dwelling he had been able to carry on the shredder. Jim had a niftly little bivy sack tent thing and I, as always was packing my little black tarp I carry as an all purpose shelter.

All of my winter gear is black. All my cold weather boating gear was black until recently when I aquired one of them top notch goretex dry suits which wasn't available in all black. All black for winter gear to me makes all the sense in the world. It absorbs the radient heat from the dodgy sunlight, it absorbs the radient heat from a small fire, it just simply works better. Of course it disappears like a shadow on a snowy day. So maybe it isn't the best in a survival situation. But we weren't in a survival situation, we were on vacation.

I should mention that these two men whose company I was sharing are two of the surviving folks that go back to the early days of modern river running. In their own ways, they have contributed greatly to the skills and knowlege that we now take for granted. It is folks like them, and folks like those they have buried that have helped us hone our understanding of this so-called "sport". Between the two of them, there are more river days in more places with more techniques than, well, I don't even know. Suffice to say, this was an experienced group, except me perhaps. I've run some rivers, climbed some rocks, poked about in some caves, jumped out of some airplanes, hiked a few trails, that sort of thing in the days since boyscouting where I learned *EVERYTHING*, but not like these fellows.

All that aside, Greg preferrs my cooking to his, and I like to cook, so I got to work on dinner. Jim was working on his own cooking for his upcomming solo trips on the Shavers Fork/Cheat so he had his own kitchen. In short, we were way over packed. Each of us, was pretty much set up for a multi-day winter bivouac. Though Greg wasn't cooking, he was still carrying an immense amount of food and fuel. Shredder, ya gotta love 'em.

After dinner at the fire, again we discussed hiking Greg out and recovering either of the shuttle vehicles and bailing the shredder at this point. From McGee run, things get steeper and faster. Greg was convinced, -rightly we all agreed- that when the river steepened up, it would channelise more and he'd have an easier time of it. So we decieded to head off in the morning again as a group.

Having lightly cooked all my black gear by the fire, I was certain to have dry stuff to get into in the morning, and I made my way off to my leanto and sleeping bag. I guess it was around 8pm. It had already been dark for hours.

That night was very still, the gentle noise from the Shavers Fork sounded the world like whispering voices, the true river people they are called, I fell asleep trying to understand what they were saying, but there words are not for us.

Early in the wee hours I woke up and lifted a corner of my leanto to see if any snow had fallen. Kinda like christmas, I love it when I get suprised by snow. The blue moon was stunningly bright, for a moment I thought everything was indeed blanketed with snow. But no, twas just the painted light of the second full moon in January. I drank in as much as my eyes could hold in the bitter cold and went back to sleep.

I've always wondered how long one can actually stay in a sleeping bag. My best was 20 hours on Old Rag in a storm back in 74. I was up before light after just about 9 hours. Couldn't hold it anymore. Greg had apparently been watching for movement because he was up soon thereafter. Jim is usually the first up. Kicked the fire to life and got coffee going. I started striking camp immediately.

I wanted another solo day like I had once had on the Shavers Fork a couple of years prior where I got off ahead of Greg and Jim and had one of the most beautiful days of my life. On that trip a winter storm suprised us with 8" of powder in the morning, a clear sky and crystal curtains of iridescent light as the wind blew the snow from it's perches in the branches into the sun over the crystalline water. Once you get a headfull of that stuff, it's worse than crack and you want more. Anything that looks like it might be something like it will push you like a monkey on yer back. But I wasn't quick enough, the others struck pretty quickly as well.

When it came time to load the shredder, we again tossed around the idea of bailing, but Greg was ready to bottle up and go, so go did.

I made my first judgemental error that morning in dressing for the river. My usual winter boating garb is a mt surf drytop over sockfooted neoprene chest waders. My logic being that dry is better than wet and that combination keeps me dry. More to the point it keeps me little toes toasty. And with toasty toes, I can face more than I can when I am whimpering. I folded up the waders and stowed them in favor of lighter mt surf pants and polypro and booties instead of my usual felt soled boots.

I also pogied up. This is something I hardly ever do. Most folks don't know it, but with a good wooden paddle, hand protection is not nearly as needed as the wood holds the heat from your hands and insulates as well. On a prior lower Shavers Fork trip with air temps in the teens, I paddled barehanded with thick rings of ice about two inches from my warm hands. Of course, I wasn't heading into the same style whitewater that I was that morning. So pogies it was.

I can't even think with gloves on, much less walk, much less paddle. Pogies seem to work okay though. However, I am not used to them, and this played out poorly in the miles that followed.

My overloaded T-Canyon handled something like a swamped squirt boat that can't do a pivot turn. I was busy relearning how to paddle on this stretch of river. Relearning the old ways, the ways of the back-ferry, the ways of the Grumann. For that is what the T-Canyon was acting like more than anything else.

As the river steepened, I found myself really wishing it would slow down a little, so I started taking lines I really couldn't make work. Like through the stubble that would slow the boat down. Once that heavy boat started down a line, down that line it went. I was able to side slip it, like the boats of yesteryear, and able to back-ferry some, but to dodge and weave was out of the question. And the Shavers Fork was asking that question. Many times over.

After an hour or so, I started to notice that I was pretty much out of control. This became pretty evident a few minutes after I had attempted to change lines at the entrance to a rapid by back surfing a pillow to get to river right, missed my line and dropped heavily stern first across two ice covered rocks, on an upstream broach, hull down to the current leaning on my paddle jammed on the bottom.

Trying to wiggle a hundred plus pound pinned boat just wasn't working, and after a couple of minutes of this, I was given to ponder how I got there. Interrupting my reverie was Jim sliding past on the proper line river left, yelling for me to drop off the pin backwards. Insofar as I was unable to see what was behind me, and dropping off backwards was going to put me on a line I was unwilling to do frontwards, I derided his advice. He exclaimed from the pool below that if I didn't want to drop off backwards I was just going to have to stay there. I shoved off to stern and ran the drop in reverse "reacting to my environment" (panicking) and landed in the pool.

Jim thought it was a good time for me to have a smoke and wait for Greg. I concurred. We then discussed the possibility that we were in stretch where Jim had broken the hull of his boat on a previous trip, and we had build a fire, warmed the hull, and gaff taped it all back together. It was a dodgy repair. Jim also made mention that the pin I had chosen was definitly listing towards to "Not good" side of the scale. Something about submerged skirt upstream pins, skirt implosion, blah blah. Yeah, whatever. I confessed that perhaps an impartial third party observer might also draw this conclusion, as that same third party impartial observer might have witnessed someone dressed like me, in a boat that looked like mine, on this same strech of river screaming "No! no! no!" as that someone missed an eddy or two above a blind drop and ran 'em backwards", but that I was really okay, and we were good to go.

Warning signs, sitting in a pool with a fantasically more experenced companion who doesn't smoke, suggesting that you smoke, and having difficulty cracking your ice caked pogies from your dry top so you can pop your iced skirt to get at your smokes. And having that same companion allude that you might be making some dodgy judgement calls.

Greg caught up and we beached. We started a fire in an old flood snag that was sheltered from the wind and bitter cold and got coffee going. Greg was really having a tough time, but bearing up under it like the true boatman he really is. I imagined Gregs gene pool going back to the loggers who made drives on this strech of river years ago. He's a genuine tough guy. I could see Greg wrestling logs in blowing snow. It was something.

I was snapped back from my visions by folks yelling at me and giving me quizzical looks.

"Naw, we're good." We bottled up and went.

I developed a new method of getting down some of these low water rapids. The method involved running into ice coated rocks, tearing one hand loose from a pogie, throwing ones body onto the ice and sort of smearing ones way down the rapid. This was working great. It was a bit odd though, because every time I did this, I could hear someone nearby whimpering and sniveling and saying "Oh god!ohgodohgod!" until it was over. Wierd.

By this time, I was trying to follow Jims lines. Jim has this ability to shoot on down the river without paddling, just making a touch now and then to correct the already perfect line. It's very strange. It's almost like he has been running whitewater almost daily for over 3 decades and knows exactly how to extract the most amount of travel for the least amount of work. It's also pretty damned annoying when you *know* you have the faster boat and you are working your butt off to fail to keep up.

A couple of miles later I came shooting out of the current and got caught by the eddy and spun off my line and watched Jim take the main current hard to the wall on river left. As he dodged the typical Cheat River Rock that Waits in the Center of the Exit, he backendered mildly. I wanted nothing of it. Knowing my boats' propensity for going hard in the direction of initial travel (wherever it damned well pleased) once it had some momentum, I elected to run the slide to the center. Jim was watching as that reliable and tough prijon hull slid down the bedrock right to the brink of the shelf, where it caught a little tiny lip, spinning the boat neatly sideways and depositing the pilot neatly deck down off a 2 foot or so ledge into an undercut hydralic and slip from sight.

I -on the otherhand- it appeared, was actually in that boat when it happened, and was quite suprised.

It's those moments of clarity, ya know? Those moments when direct purpose becomes ones whole being. I missed the brace in the airation dropping into the hole, and sunk upsidedown into pure white noise, very pure white light and stunningly brillant white cold. I pondered how much I really appreciated this somewhat alien environment that usually only comes in dreams while my body was off on another tangent entirely. My upper body was wailing away looking for that instinctual, reflexive roll setup, on either side or stern and simply not finding it stuffed under that shelf. Not a lot of room there. Then body, mind and soul came together in an satorial fashion and ripping through pogies and punching out of the boat became all I was about. And so I did.

I popped to the surface fully grounded in what I was on about, gently bobbing down the length of the pool. I extended a thumbs-up with my free hand, other hand clutching my paddle and clearly called out "I'm Fine! Get my boat!" and began scissor kicking towards the riprap on river right.

Jim, on the other hand, saw something completely different. He saw this really strange icy black chunk with a pink blob for a face and green metalflake hair rise from the crystal water, gesticulate at him rudely and mutter "mlug flar, gruppy croat!"

He took the only rational course of action. It was obvious that his boating companion had fallen afoul of some deeply evil winter spirit that could be capable of any horrific treachery. So he drove my boat to the bank where should I return someday I could recover it.

He says different, but I was there. He says I very slowly crawled from the water, took posession of my boat and sat down and started emptying my ankle cuffs wordlessly. I remember clearly having a spirited conversation about what a beautiful day it was. How great it was to "Just be out" and such. Or part of me remembers that. The other part remembers him back paddling in horror as if some denizen of ice was getting ready to jump on his boat, capsizing him, ending it all in a flurry of drowning cold.

I pay no attention to the other part.

My judgement call to dress light and not for waterproofness had finally bore fruit. I was freezing as I tried to hump that hundred pound, now swamped monster onto it's tail to drain it through that silly little drain plug. I was wet. Really wet. I considered changing right there, but I thought I saw Greg slide by and thought that it might be a good idea to bottle up and go. So I did.

Back in the saddle again, this time genuinely convinced that I was in over my head. I kind of came to my senses, and deceided to quit goofing around and just get down the river. A couple of bends later, The river flattenend out a bit and headed toward a horizen line. The obvious line was to my left, river left, so I started setting up for it. Then I saw a couple of boaters, one kayaker and one oar rigged shredder on the bank on river right.

They were gesturing at me to come over and join them. Seemed like nice folks, not like the phantoms I'd left behind upstream. So I abandoned my line and ferried on over.

I didn't mention that I was headed for far left line over High Falls to my companions on the beach. Didn't feel it was worthy of comment. In retrospect, I would have seen it before I was commited. If I commited before I knew what I was in for, well, I'd certainly run drops like that before. But I couldn't member running 20' drops with a ledge in the middle that a boater who can't boof his LeadSled (as the boat was now called) and has a propensity for hitting ledges, turning sideways and dropping off deck first probably shouldn't run. At any rate, I wouldn't be seriously injured, and I had enough gear that I could probably make it shore, set up a camp, sleep for about a week, and hunt and fish and trap my way to spring. All wasn't lost. Besides, I wouldn't really go over. It's so shallow there, I'd just punch out in a few inches of water, and in my waders and felt soled boots, I'd have no trouble walking across the slick bedrock. Only I wasn't wearing my felts and waders, oh well, whatever.

We held a summit at the top of the drop. Seems there was a message. Yes a message. They all saw it. Spelled out clearly on a flat boulder in tiny pebbles.

See U in Bemis

JS

There were fresh foot prints all around. Someone with the initals JS was planning on seeing us in Bemis, a mere 6 miles away. It was about 1PM, we could make Bemis before nightfall was the concensus.

Jim Stuart had showed up.

Jim Stuart, the surreal C boater of deep fame. Jim Stuart would have a car at Bemis, Jim Stuart would save us. Jim Stuart who just yesterday must have flown in from Paris and had mentioned that if he could make the trip he'd xcountry ski in from Bemis and meet us at High Falls draggin his boat.

But there was no snow.

Besides, who gets off a plane from Paris, jumps into a car and heads off into the highlands of the Cheat watershed when there is no snow and a winter storm on the way to freeze on some miserable creek? Jim Stuart, that's who!

I said I was spent, and although I really had a hard time suggesting it, I recommended splitting up the group. I would drag my boat and anything else that needed to go up to the railroad grade and hike the grade into Bemis. Jim and Greg would continue on the water.

This idea was met with some resistance. It's not good to split up the group. This is how accidents happen. How many stories have we all read where the tragedy begins with; ", , then we decided to split up."

I was somewhat adamant and eventually the group relented. It was clear that I was doing so poorly in the II-III+ish section, that the III-IV-IV+ish section would just kick my butt. Maybe tomorrow, but certainly not this afternoon. Jim, the calmer head always, tabled the concept that we bag it and camp right there at High Falls and make decisions after we were fed and rested. He was right of course, but the bait of Jim Stuart in Bemis, waiting for us was too much. I helped them portage the shredder off the drop and saw them off.

Poor judgement call #12, I had enough rope to rig tackle to haul my boat up the rail road grade. I had the knowlege, the equipment, the skill and the time. I didn't even think of it. I quickly shed my river duds, changed into lightweight shore clothes and began dragging the now-wet Leadsled to the railgrade. I just about broke a gut doing it. I arrived at the grade sweating profusly in the harsh wind.

I quickly rigged a dragging harness out of my throw rope, got the length and drag angle tweaked (boyscouts again) and set off down the grade at a quicktime march.

The grade then was pretty much totally derelect. The bank erosion was undercutting the grade and on some of the turns the rail hung out over empty space that fell straight to the river. I stopped at one and tossed a stone and counted. 4 seconds. You figgure it. The river was falling away fast. I looked for my companions and could see no one.

A couple of miles and I came to the bridges. One bridge heads off over to the eastern slopes of Cheat Mountain. Not my concern. The next bridge however, stood between me and Bemis. No kidding.

The years of neglect had certainly taken their toll here. Easily 50 ft of bank had eroded away from the trestle proper. Leaving a gap of the same size where the track hung out over empty space, the ties supported by thin air. Many of the ties had already fallen away and could be seen a 1 to 2 second stones drop down on the talus. However, fortunately, or unfortuately, depending on your point of view. There were still enough ties left to walk to the trestle.

I paused for a moment, felt my resolve desolve, and stepped forward while I still had a little nerve left. One step, dragging the boat, which of course, was catching and snapping a bit, challenging my footing. Another step, then another. Then I was officially committed. I was more than halfway, "Jeeze," I thought, "This is getting to look like a bad movie" "Were I directing this sequence, I'd have a tie let go under our hero, or antiheros feet, have him fall a short distance to certain manglement, only to be caught short by his field expedient harness. Leaving him dangling, helpless, while his sled slips closer and closer to the edge."

"Bah," I though out loud, "that's the thing about bad movies, once the loading line approches 90 degrees, the foward movement ceases as it is balanced by the downward pull. The force it would require to raise the rear of the Leadsled over center to make it fall from that tiny fulcrum would be huge! The hero would hang there until his strength failed and he suffocated."

Another step, and another and I was on the trestle. The far side was pretty much the same, but folks had laid lumber across the ties to facilitate access to the trestle. Good enough for me.

After getting my load to the Bemis side of the trestle. I was quite litterally shaking with fear. I can't recall having ever been this raw in my adult life. I've worked as a tower jack, I've built those huge stages you all have seen down on the Mall for the 4th of July. I've danced over rock with over thousand feet of vertical exposure. I can't be this shaken up. I walked back out onto the trestle unburdened. Looking down would have made me puke were there anything to puke.

I bottled up and went.

Another couple of miles, I still couldn't see my companions. It was getting later, on towards 4 pm. The daylight would fail soon. Off to the west, the storm was certainly on it's way. I was a complete mess. "Wait! Aren't I on vacation? Aren't I having fun?"

A few hundred yards later I stopped on the outside of a curve where I had a good view of the river below. I could probably see about half a mile total. I dropped the ropes and sat down on the outside rail, letting my feet dangle over the empty space where the grade had given itself up to the river. I pulled the Leadsled up close, hearing the water that was still in the boat slosh around ("damn, how much water am i carrying around? There outta be a law") got a water bottle out, dug about my clothes for a cigarette and my lighter, had a drink, lit up and flat chilled out.

I considered my surroundings. The telegraph poles were totally devoid of insulators. Had they all been shot off? Or had the denizens of Bemis and Glady shimmied up those poles over the years on a dare and brought home those trophys to impress the future maternal parents of their progeny?

A single, solitary crow. Doing barrel rolls down below. Not another living creature in sight. Why? What is she on about? Just having fun on this murderous wind?

It was January 31 2000. The last waning blue moon of the Millenium. (Yes, I am one of those). A little after 4 pm. Winter storm comming in. Not a single flake of snow on the ground. It was my birthday. I drank in the cold and wind and desolation. Happy birthday to me. It's good to be alive. No kidding.

* * *

A little while later in the gloaming, I saw Jim on the river. I hollared to him as loud as I could, but he was too far to hear. I picked up my pace. I thought I could see the bridge at Bemis. Then I thought I saw Greg a ways back behind the now dissapeared Jim. I broke into as much of a run as I could. I absolutely *HAD* to meet them at the bridge, There is NO WAY they could have navigated that stretch on the water faster than I hiked it.

On the outskirts of the hamlet of Bemis, there was an obvious trail dropping off the grade through a back yard. A cheaters short cut. I took it.

I cut through the hamlet and came out on the main road out of breath a few yards from the Bridge.

Jim had beaten me, but not by much. He was in conversation with fellow in a pickup truck. It was almost dark.

Jim sez this fellow will give one of us a ride to Bowden. I volunteer. I drop my sled by the side of the road and hop in the back of the truck. Off we go.

I am wet with sweat, I can't belive the cold.

The fellow stops at a house up the hollar, asks one of the kids to go in and fetch his momma so she can go for a ride. Kid comes back and heralds that momma has declined. Off we go to Glady, down the mountain to Alpenia.

By this time I am just about numb. What in the world was I thinking? I was wet, now I am completely frozen. This is nutz! Ride in the back of a pickup dressed in polypro in the dead of winter? Jeeze!

Onto the 4 lane, exit onto old 33, down to the bridge. There sits my trusty blue trooper. The True Blooper. I fetch the keys from behind the spare and am magically transported back to Bemis in the wink of an eye. Very strange. I always suspected that troopers had special powers.

Somehow we manage to get both kayaks onto the racks fully loaded. We break down the shredder and stow the rowing frame up top, and get all of Gregs gear loaded by folding down one seat.

Then we're on the shuttle. There has been no sign of Jim Stuart. Jim Snyder, after helping Greg land and unload had walked down to the bar and inquired.

Up to Glady and take a right, that's right, a right. Up through Widell, the back way to Cheat Bridge. Coon hunters out tonight, waning moon. Careful driving. Deer jump into the headlights, Greg produces a firearm like a magic trick! A true predator that fellow.

Back at the put in, change the load. The wind is howling now. Phenominal cold. Jim keeps hollaring; "Wait, Wait!" and digs deep into his boat and produces a little box. "Whuz thaa?" I stammer in the cold. "Birthday cake!" he hollars back into the wind. "Happy birthday!" We three, who have yet again braved the Winter Shavers Fork snatch at the cake like the hungry rodents we are. We bottle up and go.

Blue angle style back down 250 through Huttonsville onto 219 up to the Burger King in Elkins for rendezvous. We walk into the family dining establishment about 10 pm looking like hammered crap. Or at least they do. I'm sure I look fine, although they keep pointing at my head and laughing.

A fine healthy meal of cheezeburgers and fries, plenty of nutritious coke, some quality time in a warm public restroom, and we all feel great.

Wonder what happened to Jim Stuart. Well, that mystery was not to be revealed. We all made our goodbyes, them towards Preston Co and beyond, me back up 33 headed east. Back towards the horror.

* * *

Next week at the Old Brogue in Great Falls, Jim Stuart revealed many mysteries. Some are for another time, as they are another story. But for this story;

There was some kind of vortex or time storm in Bemis that night. As we know it was not yet dark when I hopped into that truck, Jim Stuart had been on the bridge until dark. As best as we were able to piece the time line together, Jim Stuart and our company had crossed paths at least 3 times that evening. Very strange.

But that wasn't all. There was a reason there were no glass insulators left on the Shavers Fork. Until that day, January 31 2000. There had been two. Jim Stuart himself had shinnied out on a pole that was falling over and recovered the last remaining glass insulators from the Shavers Fork.

That night he presented me with my precious, my birthday present. The Last Glass.

The End

Chipper Mefford

Last Glass Productions,

August WV.

Epilogue;

The insulated boat really does work.

Rule #4;

Safety is a product of Good Judgement.



Good Judgement is a product of Experience



Experience is a product of Poor Judgement

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