I was recently asked about how I handle the situation when things go wrong on a high mountain. Because I tend to think in analogies, the true story of an experience I had as a child came to mind. I took the time several years ago to write this story out, so really I'm cheating a bit by inserting it here. But this account reveals the answer to that inquiry, as well as the answer's origins, so I could not pass it up.
The Bees
I remember how good it felt to be five years old and digging up the side of a dirt hill. Though I've since time mucked about in the dirt on various occasions for various causes, at no time have I known the gratification that use to come from digging in the dirt purely the sake of digging in the dirt. And so I was an eager accomplice when Denny Pearl came to our door that August day in 1968. After telling me what he had in mind, Denny asked my mother if I could come out to play in the field. She consented, no doubt reasoning that two five-year-olds couldn't get into much trouble just playing in the field behind our house, even if one of them was Denny Pearl. But Denny, at the tender age of five, had already learned the art of half-truths. Having stolen his father's shovel and hidden it behind our garage, Denny didn't plan on just playing in the field. We were going to move some dirt.
Skipping out the front door with coat half on, I followed Denny around the back of our garage where he retrieved the suspect shovel. We crossed the field to the dirt bank and, after a brief discussion of the merits of digging in one place versus another, lashed into the dry sandy soil with a sense of purpose. The heavy shovel blade carved into the hillside creating a caving effect whereby large walls of dirt would tumble at our feet, raising a dust cloud that we imagined looking something like a forest fire. Denny took off his coat and fanned it in the dust trying to send smoke signals to some distant tribe of Digging in the Dirt Indians. We climbed up the dirt bank and jumped off into the pile we had made. In the fashion of five-year-olds everywhere we were then swept up by the More Is Better philosophy and set about making a still larger dirt pile. It was this same thinking that led to the notion that two shovels might move more dirt than one, and thus I sped off across the field to steal my dad's shovel.
I didn't get far. Perhaps thirty yards away I tripped and fell to the ground, landing hard on my elbows. As I did, the surface gave way beneath them, caving in an underground nest of yellow jackets. For their part, the hornets weren't pleased with this, and I was swiftly and summarily swarmed. I never saw the hornets. The first sting hit my forehead and as I reached up, smarting from the pain, others followed. My eyes clenched shut, I clawed at my own face and spun about miserably. I remember the incessant white noise of their collective buzzing all around me. The pain was everywhere at once. Bees were going up my pant legs. Bees were in my hair. Bees climbed inside my jacket and as I tried to take it off bees jammed in the zipper (this I would cite for years to come as reason number one why I shouldn't have to put on a jacket before going out to play). I screamed and thrashed wildly at the air. I ran in dusty circles hoping I was headed for home. I thought I had a problem.
But my problems were just beginning. At this point Denny Pearl realized what was going on and, stricken with heroism, resolved to rescue me. And while his intentions were good, Denny's five-year-old logic was fouled. I don't say this because Denny would be entering a fracas with angry bees that might well sting him. By and large most five-year-olds haven't got the sense God gave a dung beetle when it comes to self-preservation. I say Denny's logic was fouled because his rescue plan involved smashing the bees with his father's shovel.
whampf! I felt the shovelhead strike flat across my shoulder blades. I went down hard in the dust. Fighting to my hands and knees, I stood while beating my own head furiously as the bees, now tangled in my hair, seemed be working there with particular enthusiasm. “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!" was about all I could manage to scream. I suppose Denny thought I was talking to the bees.
Kong! The shovel connected hard with my hip and down I went. Again and again I struggled to my feet only to be beaten back into the dust by Denny and that shovel. I suppose it was a good thing the bees finally turned on Denny because had they not he might have beaten me to death. Looking back now it occurs to me that this would be the first time I came to know a friend as an enemy and an enemy as a friend. Some lessons we learn young. I understand the Chinese use the same written symbol to represent both crisis and opportunity. Who knows, maybe Confucius was swarmed too.
Somewhere in the moments that followed, the bees grew tired and bored with stinging Denny and me. Really, there couldn't have been much sport in it. I ran home, where my mother met me at the front door with a hairbrush in her hand. Though she clearly knew something was wrong, it was not readily apparent what it was. I was screaming and crying, speaking only the language of a wounded creature. Noting a bee in my hair she swatted it away with a flick of the brush. Then she saw another, and another, and many many more all writhing about in an impossible tangle of hair and insect. Horrified, she began beating my head with the hairbrush. Of this I did not complain, glad for having traded down from the shovel. Instead, I clutched desperately at my chest. The bees that had crawled up my coat were still having at me. My Mother moved the zipper only a short distance before it became further jammed with bees. Grasping the collar opening with both hands she then ripped open my jacket, releasing a small cloud of Bees.
In rapid succession I was thrown into the shower, taken to the doctor, given a shot of something, smeared with an unpleasant ointment, and fed ice cream in quantities that clearly indicated my Mother had been as scared as I had. In the final tally I was stung eighty-seven times, and for his trouble Denny was stung one hundred and eleven.
The other day I tried to look Denny up. I imagined that he would be a Microsoft Licensing Agent not far from his hometown of Kirkland, Washington. Or maybe, I thought, Denny is still digging in the dirt, running a construction company of his own. Glancing at recent headlines, it occurred to me that Denny might even be in law enforcement somewhere in California. In the end I wasn't able to find Denny, but in some strange way this was both a disappointment and a comfort.
