Month: January 2017

Honolulu, Hawaii 1984.
I arrived in Hawaii when I was twenty two years old. I had never been there before, and as anyone who has been there can tell you, it is very much like a different country, if not a different world. Not only were the plants and weather foreign to me, the ways of the people were too, and there is no example of this so telling as when they were faced with a shark.
The canal are a beautiful feat of engenering that drains Oahu of its rainwater into the ocean and makes the cities of Honolulu and Waikiki possible. The one I am concerned with here is the Nuuanu canal, where it passes under
street. It was early in the morning, and not many people about, except the elderly who were up each morning at sunrise, gathered at various spots for tai chi. I was crossing the bridge that spans the canal, and curious as ever, looked over the edge into the water.
This canal is made of concrete, and the walls very steep, and while it was a good twenty feet above I could easily make out the shape of a small hammer head shark swimming up the canal. It was smaller than any shark I had seen on tv, and I surely would have mistaken it for a fish, except for that unmistable hammer shaped head. It moved just as a shark does, gracefully swaying from side to side. I was amazed. I didn’t know anything about oceans and tides, but I did know that I did not except to see a shark in downtown Honolulu, especially a baby. Still not sure I could believe my eyes, I asked a passing local man if he would look and tell me if it was really a hammer head shark.
Shaiking his head he mutter that it was impossible that is it a chark, but even still he walked over and looked.
He took one short look – he bent over, looked, and then immediatly straightened up and ran away, telling me as he passed, that yes, it was a shark.
I stayed and watched it for awhile; it did not move very fast, and then began on my way again, but I did not get too far before I heard a few sirens in the distance. Hearing sirens in Honolulu is not rare; it is not that they have any more crime than anyone else, but the State of Hawaii spends a lot of resources protected tourists, so when 911 is called police, ambulance and fire truck are dispatched, no matter the reason. I was no longer surprised by the special treatment of tourists, but I was surprised this day when these emergency vehicles stopped on the bridge. I was instructed to back up and the bridge, all four lanes of traffic, was closed. Men in uniforms watched over each side into the canal, and one even shot into the water.
It turns out that most people who live and work around the ocean hate sharks. I know that “hate’ might seem like a strong word, but I believe that it is apt; the majority of people I met on the islands agree that sharks should be destroyed on sight. Some believe that sharks are manifestions of evil, as though they are demons of the water, set out to harm man. I was once told that sharks, like scorpions and centipedes, are manifestions of curses, and that we should take care when we wish another person harm, even in secret.
they are considered to be dangerous to fish and man, and no good for anything. Many believe that even the meat is cursed and won’t eat it.
Finally, although it could not have been more than fifteen minutes, a man with a rifle arrived at the scene – a sharpshooter, and he killed the small hammerhead shark with one shot. The police man who had shot earlier had done so only to stop the shark from traveling further up the canal.

Dallas, Texas, somewhere between 1981-83.
Just about everyone knows about donating blood, and most towns have periodic blood drives. But not many people know about selling blood. Not surprisingly, an large amount of medical procedures call for blood and the products that can be made from blood. One of these products is called Plasma and this plasma is used in a multitude of ways, and especially in the hemophyliac, or those with blood incapable of clotting. So in demand is this plasma that donations simply are not enough, so there are private clinics in all the large cities of this country willing to pay individuals bi-weekly for their donations.
I’m sure Dallas had multiple clinics of this sort; the one I would visit was a large open bay affair, with tables one would lie on while giving blood. There might have been thirty tables. I was familiar with the place, and always caught a ride with a friend when it was our day to go. This day was like the rest, we were in a good mood, since we were paid in cash, and we were already planning on where we would have lunch. Walking into the building, what happened next was so surprising that I turned and froze, though one of my companions and immediatly began to yell and protest. Just as soon as we had entered, two fully uniformed soldiers with rifles moved in front of the doors, snapping to attention in such a way that I actually heard a snapping from their heels. They were wearing green camouflaged fatigues, helmets, black boots and those huge rifles, and everything about there stance told us that we were not to try to leave.
Other soldiers approached from each direction and already one was talking to us in an authoritive voice, declaring that we did not have to give blood that day, but that, by law, we had to give a sample of blood. If we did not comply immediatly, we would be arrested. While that person explained, the other soldiers led us into the waiting area. My friend was still vocal, but much softer now, and speaking more to us than the authorities. It was all very surreal. Everyone had the same deer-in-the-headlight look as us, even the ones on the tables. My attention was taken my the suddenly movement of a man who panicked, and yelling, he ran from the wating room toward the door; he was tackled before he got half way. He was informed that he was being arrested, and he dissappeared into anotehr room, yelling the entire way.
In the waiting room there were more officials than those of us there to sell our plasma. There was no waiting, I was quickly led to a desk, and a man began to explain; a sample of my blood would be taken, then I would be asked a serious of questions and then he would explain why this was happening.
They pricked my finger with a lancet, and gathered a few drops of my blood. Then he asked the questions, and these are the ones I remember, though there were more: was I an intervenous drug user, had I been to Haiti in the last five years, and had I recently had sex with any bisexual men.I do remember that I answered “no” to all the questions, and then he explained that there was an illness that was growing in the United States and there was reason to believe that it was spread by blood. A hemophiliac had died with this illness and a recent plasma transfusion had come from this very clinic. They were trying to find the person, or people who had this virus. The man called it Aids, and none of us had ever heard of it. I do not know if they ever did find the Patient Zero of Dallas that they were looking for; the entire incident never even made it to the news.

Albuquerque, New Mexico 1970.
I do not recall how old I was, at least eight years old, and perhaps no more than ten, since what I am about to relate can only happen to a small person. This was at the Albuquerque Zoo.
Albuquerque, New Mexico had every right to be proud of its zoo; at a mile elevation this city’s climate is literally a high desert. With an average annual rainfall of less than ten inches this park managed to safely share dozens of species, including monkeys, otters, zebra, and even penguins. There were lions and tigers and sun bears from China, and there were also a few giraffe.
The yard for the giraffe was large and the fence was especially high, but there was a way to get an unobstructed view of the long-necked creatures. Built against the fence was a wooden tower, with steps that led up to a viewing platform that brought the observer face to face with the African animals.
I ascended the tower with my family and I was so enchanted by the gentle faces of these enormous creatures that I did not notice when they climbed down. With four young children running around, I’m certain that my family thought that I would soon catch up, and that was my plan also, except for the adorable giraffe that was coming toward the tower looking very friendly. I was alone except for one man who had just climbed up. He came right up to the platform and I was reaching out with my arm, hoping to pet this animal. I was cooing and coaxing, standing on my toes and stretching my right arm out, within inches of rubbing that cute furry nose. And then the giraffe stepped forward and the tongue came out and I knew that it was going to lick me.
I was instantly appalled by the look of the tongue; it was long, extremely long, and it was an ugly blue, black color that didn’t seem healthy and I instinctually pulled my arm back, but it was too late – the tongue whipped out and instead of simply licking my arm, the long dark muscle acted like a rope, swinging around my wrist and then somehow…I still am not sure how…the tip of the tuonge manage to fold under.
The giraffe was just as surprised as I was and I am sure it was pure instinct that caused it to step back, almost exactly as I did. This movement did two things; the pulling tightened the strange knot around my wrist and the movement caused me to pitch forward, and over the railing of the wooden tower. I’m not sure when I started screaming, though I guess it was when I felt that hot tongue touch my skin, but regardless of how the man noticed the real danger I was in and when he reached out to grab me, he did save me from falling. The trouble though was that the giraffe did not stop leaning back, trying to free itself from me, and the man had himself braced in the tower. I flayed hysterically until I heard the man tell me to stay still or I would fall and then I did just that…I was very high in the air. But it was not easy. Yes, I was scared to be so high in the air but that fear was nothing, nothing at all compared to the revulsion I felt at having that dark, impossibly long tongue touching me.
I don’t know how long it took, just seconds I am sure, that the workers were in the enclosure with the giraffe. They lightly tapped the back of the legs of the tall beast, causing it to take small steps forward. It only took about three steps which gave its tongue enough slack that it released and I was free. The man behind me had been ready for this and and caught me, setting me on my feet. By this time my parents had returned and people all around were smiling at the close call while I held my arm out from by body, desperately looking for a bathroom where I could wash off the giraffe spit.

West of the Air Force Academy, Colorado 1984.
Late spring and early summer in Colorado must be one of the best and most beautiful places for hiking that I have ever run across. The air was still crisp, but most of the snow was melting and the creeks were full of pure, clear water. We had started at sunrise with enough rations to last us both for a day. This was not uncommon for us; we would choose a direction and hike for about five hours, then turn around and get back before night fall. This day we had chosen to follow a creek.
If this creek had a name, we never knew it, but it was a healthy waterway, and at about seven feet across it was rushing at its fullest with ice cold snow melt.
We took our time, looking at the wild flowers and birds, steadily ascending in elevation as we climbed further into the incredible Rocky Mountains. The forest was thin here, with a lot of scrub sage bushes, and the ever present boulders that make up this mountain range. We happily made our way with no sign of humanity for a few hours, covering maybe five miles of terrain. And then we came to the fence.
We had seen it in the distance because it was on top of a hill, so it was not until we actually reached the great span of chain-link that we realized that we were cut off from the stream we were just following. The silver fence was enormous…at least eight feet tall, and maybe even ten, and it stretched to our left and right, dissappearing into the trees. I think we must have stood there for a good minute, staring uncomprehensively in front of us. It was so unexpected that we could not even suggest a possible reason for it. We walked a ways to the left, always looking for a sign on the fence, or what might lay on the other side of it, but the forest and bushes and creek simply continued. We went to the right, again hoping to spot some identifying sign as to the owner or reason, and we were relieved to find ourselves at the outside corner of the enormous enclosure. The fence stretched upward, in the direction we had been headed, running parallel with the creek which we could see to our left. We had planned to hike out for five hours, and we still had time, so we decided to keep going; we began to follow the fence.
Walking along side the chain-link barrier was actually easier on us, since the machinery that had erected the fence and created a path, so we made even better time than before. It seemed we must certainly have gone a mile with this fence with no road to meet it, no gate to allow entry and no sign to identify it. This only made us want to continue. We had been gaining elevation rapidly at the start of this day, but now the hills were spreading out and the creeks little water falls were less and less. We came to a rise that flatten out to a valley off to the left and to our suprise the creek turned suddenly to meet it, disappearing into the woods. And yet the fence kept going.
We couldn’t believe it…we felt defeated. This day had begun as one of hiking for its own sake, to see what we would see and with this fence it had become something different; finding the fences owner had become a goal, a test even, and a mystery to solve. It could not have been easy to build such a structure, and it much have cost a small fortune; the only people I have seen to build such barriers were the military, and there was no reason to expect to find them here, but then there was no reason to expect to find this fence here. We were mad and frustrated and running out of time. We knew that we would have no choice but to turn around soon or risk a night in the mountains, but we could not stand the idea of leaving without knowing the reason for the fence. We decided to climb, in hopes that we woud be able to have a better view.
I’m no professional climber, but I have hiked my share of various terrains and the Rocky Mountains are tricky to climb. They are literally rocky, and much of this rock is loose. So it took our remaining hour just to make it to the top of our look out, but huffing and puffing, we were rewarding the vista we had hoped; not only couold we see the creek continue on it path, we also clearly saw the owner of the fence, since we were looking at one of its great white buildings as it straddled the creek. The name was proudly written in huge letters on the side of the structure: Coors Beer.
I still cannot imagine why Coors felt the need for such a huge fence and while trying to find this place on a map, the brewery’s website shows only one plant, and that is up by Denver.
The discovery made us smile in spite of ourselves; it seemed to us that the creek had been taken hostage by the beer maker, but then, Coors’ whole campaing has always been Rocky Mountain Spring Water and hey, they were living up to it!

I subtitled this book “true tales” because that are true. That being said, I want to admit now and for all time, that I do not claim to have a perfect memory. As you can see by reading these pages, most of these events happened suddenly – some experiences lasting only a few moments, so it would be miraculous if all the details were perfect. I have tried to be as precise as possible and I have used modern research tools (the internet) to verify what I could in my stories, and yet I sometimes cannot seem to resolve some details. For instance, in the tale “The Pecans”, I checked the historical weather data for Austin, Texas during Thanksgiving of 19893. Records show that the weather was normal for that time. But 10 days later in December there was a sudden drop from 41 degrees one day to 10 degrees the next. 10 degrees is certainly what Mike and I experienced at Lady Bird Park. So does that mean that our time with the pecan trees came before the park? That would have put us ten days longer on that road then I would have thought. Still, the important part of the story was the frozen ground that we slept on, the mysterious pecan trees, and Mike, and that was just as I have related.
As for MIke…I am not even trying to recall people’s names. But if I did accidently get it right, congratualtions.
If you are one of the people in these stories, Hello! Please feel free to contact me, schold me, correct me. I am open to all corrections. And if you remember some more extraordinary stories that we have shared in the past, let me know…we’ll write another book!
Sincerely, Bridget Carrie Davis

These are some of my stories.
They span a wide range of subjects; some are almost magical to me while some are absolutly serious. What they have in common is they are my experiences, each of which I find extraordinary in one way or another.
Ever since I was young I have enjoyed reading about other people’s experiences, from all different time periords and playces of the world. We all have stories that are worth remembering, and maybe even sharing. Here are a few of mine

Carlsbad Caverns, New Mexico, 1979.
I was with a large group, here to tour these amazing caverns. Before we had even loaded the vehicles we had scanned brochures; we had only one day and no one could see all the caverns in that small amount of time. In addition to plotting a route, we also knew that it was important to dress appropriately, just as layered clothing, and shoes with good tread. Year round these caves are at a relative humidity of 100% and that makes things slippery, including the paths themselves. Everyone had the proper gear, including me…except that the only shoes I had at the moment with good tread were a pair of boots that, for reasons lost to the ages, I did not want to wear. I can’t remember what shoe I wore instead, but I do recall very clearly that I knew I was flouting the advice on the brochure, but I figured that I would be able to deal with what ever repercussions, if any, might occur.
One must go to Carlsbad Cavern in order to understand its scope – besides the miles of tunnels and caves that extended in all directions, deep underground, there is also a main chamber that is so huge it reaches five under feet below the entrance. The Park is superbly constructed for humans to take part of the natural beauty with paths and soft lighting and even an elevator. This day we were doing as most people do, walking down the main chamber with the plan to take the elevator back to the surface. This path spirals along the outside of the immense cavern, slowly making its way to the bottom. The limestone formations are breathtaking, and one cannot turn without seeing a stalagmite risiing from the caverns floors or the magnificent stalagtites that hung from the ceilings, glistening in the glowing lights. We were informed that it takes hundreds, even thousands of years for these formations to grow, as the do so through the water that seeped from the surface, drop by drop, slowing coating them with layers, like an onion. This made them always wet and little soft on the outside.
The very moment we left the Park’s building and began our decent, I knew that I had made a mistake with my choice of shoes. The path was not so slippery that I would fall, like ice, but slick enough that I used handrails when they were provided, just to be sure; this soon made it that I was the last in the group, and even falling a little behind.
We had made our way far enough down that no light from the entrance could be seen, but there were various colored lights shining everywhere from hidden locations, providing a constant glow. The group was so far ahead of me that I could no longer hear the narration of the tour leader, and this was beginning to upset me. I really wanted to hear every word, but here I was shuffling along, grabbing at handrails. And then the path did three things that all led to why I am writing about this day; the path suddenly grew much steeper, it turned sharply to the right and there was no handrail, except right at the turn. Why wasn’t there a hand rail on this portion, I will never know, but even still I might have been alright, except that I watched as the tour turned to the right and went completly out of view. Now I could not even hear the sound of the leader’s voice! I believe that this caused me to move a little faster than I normally would have under these slick conditions and I moved forward. And then I began to slide.
As I mentioned, there was a railing at the end of this piece of the path, where it turned sharply to the right; I knew that beyond that railing was the main cavern…we had been looking at it for some time now, and a drop of hundreds of feet. The railing was metal, and they were all in good shape, and I knew that it was strong. But as I freely slid toward it, for I was out of control at this point, I could see that the railing was only waist high…I felt sure that as soon as I hit it I would simply flip over it, most likely to my death.
The slide seem to take forever, like it was filmed in slow motion. Of course I planned to grab the metal bar, but it was just as slippery as everything else in the cave, and I was moving pretty fast now so I seriously thought I might not make it. I found out later that I didn’t even scream – maybe because I was concentrating so hard on that hand railing, the only thing between me and certain death. I don’t think I have ever looked at anything that hard before or since. I felt when I hit the metal and I could feel myself continuing forward…until I wasn’t. I had completly stopped.
I could not see…something cold was covering my face. I could feel the railing against me, so I knew I had not fallen. I tried to pull my head away from whatever was holding it and was met with resistance, which scared me and I doubled my efforts. Bracing on the railing I pushed back and with a weird sucking sound I was able to step backward, though my glasses were taken from me. I think it might have taken a good five seconds for my brain to acknowledge what it was looking at; a gorgeous, huge stalagtite reached from the ceiling far above. It was suspended just beyond the railing about a half of a foot and as i looked at my glasses embedded into the soft limestone I realized that this formation had stopped my fall. I had never even seen it, so focused I was on grabbing the handrail. I could have easlily missed it…a few inches to the left or right and I would not have touched it at all, but I had touched it, with my face.
Of course we had been told not to touch the formations. Not only did touching them change them forever, it was against federal law. So,joyous that I was alive after all, but horrified at what I had done to this innocent, perhaps ancient structure, I hastily extracted my glasses, also with that same sucking noise, and surveyed the damage. Sure enough, the exact shape of my glasses and nose and chin could be seen…it was obviously a human face! For a heart beat I considered attempting to rub out the damning print…the thing’s outter edge had the consistancy of cold, watery clay…I could attest to that personally. But I couldn’t; I felt that I had done more than my share of damage to the great mother earth. I carefully made my way downward, back to my group, working the while to remove the stalagtite’s goo from my face and eyeglasses, which is not as easy as it might sounds. It was like paste, drying with my body’s heat and making it all the harder to remove, but I certainly could not find it within me to complain. I knew that stalagtite saved my life.
I’ve always wondered if my face print is still there, or if the Park’s service “repaired” the damage, since it was so clearly the print of a face.

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