Author: Cam Torrens Page 3 of 4

Anatomy of a SAR Mission–Iowa Gulch

On September 14, 2022

Anatomy of a SAR Mission--Iowa Gulch

GULCH: a deep or precipitous cleft. Especially: one occupied by a torrent

After I retired from the Air Force, I found my niche in our local Search & Rescue unit. I was a tad concerned when I showed up—dangling from cliffs, setting splints, and river rescues aren’t really in my wheelhouse. But I figured I’ve done enough trotting/hiking/walking over the last five years to be of use carrying all the crap that’s required for the missions.

Turns out the number one asset I brought to the organization was not having a Mon-Fri job. Who knew?

I used my packhorse skills last week on a mission over in Iowa Gulch. The map below shows what was happening. Day 1 of Bighorn Sheep (Rifle) season. Three hunters took the Missouri Gulch trail up (see red line) above 13K’ and scoped out a herd. The next morning, they crested the ridge north of Missouri Mountain and bagged a sheep. The successful shooter had felt like ass all day and by the time they butchered their kill, he had puked forty times with blood spotting his vomit. They picked the first downhill stretch in the direction of their parked truck—Iowa Gulch (the marker between the red line and our SAR route blue line)—and called 911.

Three of us dispatched to the Missouri Gulch Trailhead, planning to hike west to Iowa Gulch and then up to the hunters with oxygen in case the helicopter with our team doctor failed to find a suitable landing site near the subjects. Over the next several hours, we watched the helo circle above, searching for both the hunters and a landing site. They spotted the subjects but couldn’t put the bird down. Eventually, the chopper landed on the Missouri Ridge at about 13K’ and our doc began hiking down the gulch.

We kept hiking up.

Our ground team left one member at about 10.3K to act as a visual and radio relay with our trailhead radio operator down on the road while myself and the other team member continued up the gulch. We rendezvoused with the subjects just above 11K at the same time our doctor caught up with them on his descent. It was dark. Doc evaluated the still-puking subject and gave him a choice: we spend the night on the mountain, then climb back up to the ridge in daylight for a helo extraction, or attempt a night-time descent. Funny how no one in trouble relishes the thought of going back uphill. The subject chose the descent.

My toting talents continued to be of use. After hooking our patient up to the oxygen. I carried the bottle and tubes and tucked in close behind the subject for the 4-hour descent. Of course, the alternative was to help the subject’s fellow hunters pack out 150lbs of sheep meat…baaaaa-d idea.

It was slow. Traction was an issue. Just when we thought we were out of the rocky gulch and had nothing but forest and a river in front of us, one hunter tripped over a bee’s nest. That took a while to straighten out and left a few welts. Forded a knee-high river around midnight and climbed up to the road and the ambulance, where the EMTs treated our sick subject and admired our bee stings.

Decent story with a good ending. No serious injuries. What the subjects didn’t realize is that in the Rockies, if your map doesn’t show a trail near the gulch you are considering, you shouldn’t use it for a climb or descent. Many of the gulches cliff-out with impassable waterfalls. These hunters got lucky, and the safer alternative would have been the shorter climb back to the established trail.

Under Where?

By Cam Torrens

On August 6, 2022

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

My kid (any of them): Papa, have you seen my water bottle?

Me (pointing): Yeah, it’s under there…

My kid: Under where?

Me (laughing): You said “underwear!”

My kid: (silence)

Underwear is funny.

Some might disagree, but they’re likely the same hi-falutin’ snobs who probably wouldn’t appreciate the humor found in the unexpected release of trapped gas.

We’ve got a hard drive around the house somewhere with a picture of my oldest boys when they were two and three with tighty-whities pulled over their heads as part of the superhero game they were playing. Always a good photo to pull up at Christmas—especially if they’ve brought home a girlfriend.

When I was four, I tried to smuggle Fig Newtons into my bedroom by hiding them in the back of my own tighty-whities. My dad wasn’t fooled by the strange droop in my drawers, and rather than multiple spankings, I only endured one swat and some smushing which rendered the cookies inedible. Got to stay up late for a second bath, though!

A few close calls in the venerable C-130 (4 Fans of Freedom, Hero of the Skies) where bad food in Africa, small arms fire in Afghanistan, and one specific Iraqi SAM in early March 2003 may or may not have resulted in underwear checks at the end of the mission.

These are the stories of youth and probably explain why those of us who haven’t quite grown up still laugh at them. But it doesn’t explain why my best underwear story happened in middle age.

It’s 2011 and I’m only six months away from a move to Beijing, China, to take a job in the US Embassy. In the lead up to this assignment, I spent over a year learning Mandarin Chinese, several months diving into Chinese culture and a couple of weeks learning social skills (I know. I know.) The Chinese course’s capstone event is a four-week language immersion in Beijing. Courses in the morning. Exploring Beijing in the afternoon. And the rest of the time living with a host family that speaks no English.

I arrive at my host family’s apartment late in the evening after getting snowed in at Chicago for an extra day. I’ve rehearsed my apologies in Chinese on the taxi ride into the city, but when I explain, Shushu (Uncle) just gives me a blank stare and

turns to his wife Ayi (Aunt) who returns the blank stare. They both start talking and my gut sinks as realize I must have got off in the wrong country. I arrived so proud of my 15-month progression in Mandarin, and I haven’t understood a word so far. And from the looks on my host family’s faces, the Chinese I am speaking is also unrecognizable.

Fortunately, Shushu has the universal translator stored under the sink. He pops the bottle open and we share a couple shots of erguotou, a sorghum-based liquor popular with Chinese workers—kind of like PBR, but with five times the alcohol content. By the time we hit the sack, I still don’t understand Shushu’s Chinese, and he doesn’t understand mine. But we’re communicating perfectly. Ayi just shakes her head.

Over the next few days, I’ll sort out the language issues in class. My instructors teach me how to understand the nuances of the Beijing accent, and at home with Shushu and Ayi, I begin to understand most of what they are saying. Mostly I nod my head, because they still give me that “deer in the headlights” look every time I open my mouth.

Shushu and Ayi live in tight quarters like most Chinese city dwellers. The table folds out from the wall, an alcove with a curtain serves as their bedroom (and a nursery for their granddaughter who spends the day with Ayi,) It’s clear they gave up their real bedroom—the only other room in the house—for my stay.

But wait—I failed to mention one more room. The bathroom measures approximately four feet wide and seven feet deep. Never have I seen so little space multipurposed in so many ways. The sink empties through a hose leading to a drain near the toilet. Above the toilet is the showerhead and the entire bathroom floor slopes toward this central drain. You shower by closing the lid of the toilet and standing with your feet on each side while spraying yourself. A washer dominates the rear of the bathroom, so close to the toilet you could switch the clothes to the dryer (if they had one) without getting up from the toilet. And criss-crossed on the ceiling are nylon lines with clothes hung up to dry. Everything is clean—but the tight quarters make me nervous. My first shower feels like bathing in a phone booth.

It’s day three at Shushu and Ayi’s house, and they are starting to nod when I speak to them. I told them I was going to shower, and they even pointed toward the bathroom. My language skills are improving! I’m sure the towel and soap in my hands has no bearing on their comprehension.

At the sink, I test the luke-warm water and decide to just shave my face rather than the patches of hair that stubbornly try to grow from my bald head. In and out is my bathroom strategy tonight. I lather up and after I rinse the shaving cream from my hand, I reach above me for my towel I’ve hung on one of the drying lines. As I pull, it catches on the rope and when I tug harder, the rope bows toward me like a rubber band, then springs back, causing the remaining drying clothes to jerk toward the ceiling.

I’m unsure whether the ensuing time period allowed me to utter “Oh, shit” or whether I just thought it—it’s hard to remember because time suddenly slowed. I stare at the ceiling as the clothes fall back on the line, but as soon as I let my breath out, one article of clothing slips off the line and falls. I drop my towel and reach up but cannot snag the white material before it falls between my arms and settles on the surface of the water in the toilet. I bend over and recognize (OK—obviously I don’t recognize…but there’s no way Shushu would wear these…) Ayi’s underwear.

My first instinct is to pull them out, wring the water, and hang them back up to dry—I mean, if my dog can drink out of my toilet at home, how dirty can the water be? I stare in the mirror, my heart pounding, and remind myself I’m a grown-up. The “pretend it never happened” strategy is not a grown-up move. I reach for the underwear, then stop. If I pull them out and take them to Ayi, I’m not sure my Chinese will adequately convey the gravity of the situation. She might just nod and say, “Yes, they haven’t dried yet. Please put them back.” And trade concerned glances with Shushu about the strange 老外laowai*.

I decide to man-up. After cleaning the shaving cream from my face and putting my shirt back on, I step out of the bathroom, turn the corner, and face Shushu and Ayi, who wear questioning looks on their faces. I take a deep breath, bow my head toward Ayi, and announce: 你的内裤掉了厕所Ni de neiku diaole cesuo **(Your panties fell toilet.) Ayi’s eyes widen, and she rises from the table and walks past me into the bathroom. I’m mortified. I follow behind her and watch as she looks in the toilet, cranes her head up to the nylon ropes on the ceiling, then fishes her underwear from the water. I hear Shushu laughing behind me and I don’t have to know much Mandarin to know Ayi’s telling him to shut up.

Fortunately, Ayi would never insult a guest, and our relationship quickly recovers from my initial buffoonery. I’ll always remember that day as a turning point, when I began communicating in another language.

And underwear is still funny.

*non-Asian foreigner

**It was only after I returned to the US and told this story to my Chinese instructor that she reminded me I forgot to use the directional word “进jin (in)” in my sentence. I’m sure Ayi was quite unsure what actually “fell” in the bathroom until she entered.

Virtue Signaling: Dog Poop and Economic Sanctions

By Cam Torrens

On July 9, 2022

In Blog, Ruminating

When you think you have something important to say, it’s best to define your terms. I made this next one up.

FPUP = “Faking Picking Up Poop.”

Before you accuse me of swirling into the cesspool of scatological humor, hear me out. I’ve got a story to tell and a point to make.

Here we go. I live six miles outside a remote Colorado town nestled against the Rocky Mountains. A homeowner’s association (HOA) runs our neighborhood, armed with the associated covenants and bylaws to ensure that just in case the federal, state, or county government do not provide enough guidance in our lives, the HOA can help tighten things up. Hmmm. I digress…

Regardless, as in any community, when I walk my dog, I’m expected to clean up after my dog. Even though we’re out here in the boondocks and our community is all gravel roads, I’m OK with this rule. It’s a common courtesy to my neighbors who enjoy roaming about our neighborhood as much as I do.

Here’s the rub. Half the time I walk my dog, she’s got the same issue I do after a three-hour airplane flight. Things ain’t moving so good on the inside and movements that are supposed to be regular become, well…irregular. So my dog strikes the dooty-ful pose like she’s dropping a load but then comes up short.

It’s a fake poop.

I don’t hold that against her and that’s not the problem. The problem is me. All the neighborhood houses sit on 3- to 5-acre plots. Just far enough from the road for my neighbors to see I’m walking next to a dog pooping in front of their house, but too far away to shake their heads and say, “Oh dear. That dog needs more fiber in her diet.”

So what do I do? I whip out a plastic bag with the panache of a proctologist wielding a surgical glove, bend over, and fake like I’m picking up poop. Analyzing the proximity of the closest house, I’ll often wrap the bag around a small rock to lend the bag a believable amount of heft, before flipping it inside out and tying it off.

FPUP. Faking picking up poop. Actually, it should probably be FPUFP—Faking picking up fake poop.

Why? What compels me to do this?

Must be a DNA thing. Or maybe my personality. I’ll likely never know because I’m a thrifty kind of guy who carefully uses my City Market grocery points at Shell and Loaf & Jug to lower the cost of filling my gas tank, and I’m not about to pay an analyst to tell me why my brain works this way.

Here’s my best guess: I want my neighbors to think I’m the type of guy who picks up after his dog—even though my dog isn’t actually pooping.

The last time this happened, I leaned over and zeroed in on a nice rock for my bag when my back suddenly gave out. You think it’s bad when you hurt yourself putting on your socks. Imagine the shame of injuring yourself while virtue signaling.

How far will we go to make it appear like we’re doing the right thing? Even when we’re not. Even if it hurts?

Our recent sanctions on Russia might help answer that question. We want the world to know that we are not the type of nation that will tolerate Russia’s invasion of sovereign Ukraine and are doing something about it.

But sanctioning a country to change their behavior has a poor historical track record. Sanctions rarely work and often delay progress toward a diplomatic solution (Cuba.) There are examples of successful sanctions, but they are usually accompanied by a credible threat of military force (Iraq, Serbia)—a threat (understandably) missing in the response to nuclear Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. Finally, if sanction regimes are not unilaterally imposed, they can backfire and harm the countries applying them (US/EU fuel prices rise while India and China help Russia profit through oil purchases.)

With sanctions, we are faking like we are doing something and hurting ourselves.

Military intervention would be a more effective use of power, but I don’t favor that option. The invasion does not directly affect our national interests, Ukraine is not a formal ally (no US-Ukraine defense treaty) and Russia has nuclear weapons. Don’t get me wrong—the assault on Ukraine’s sovereignty is wrong in every sense of the word. I’m simply suggesting military intervention is not a reasonable choice.

Here’s what I support—the continued supply of US weapons and associated training. If my neighbor was fired from his or her job, I probably wouldn’t boycott their employer and encourage everyone else to do the same. Instead, I would find out what my neighbor needed and help them get it. The Javelin missile provided by the US proved so effective, that a picture of Mary Magdalene cradling one to her chest dominates social media. The recently introduced High Mobility Rocket Artillery System (HIMARS—a much more powerful acronym than the one I made up about dog poop) strikes enough fear in the Russians that they are spreading false reports of its destruction.

I also support the use of the diplomatic and informational instruments of power. They are often as ineffective as sanctions, but at least they signal our stance to the rest of the world, and we don’t harm ourselves through their use.

I know–hot button topic for my blog that’s supposed to be fun. But those long walks with the dog get you thinking. So bring it on…what’s your opinion?

Pachinko

By Cam Torrens

On June 6, 2022

In Blog, Book Reviews, Fiction, Reading

BY MIN JIN LEE

“Living every day in the presence of those who refuse to acknowledge your humanity takes great courage.”

Book recommendations come my way from a variety of sources. Friends, my writing group, the library newsletter, and even the entity that seems to know me best—Amazon—all contribute to a growing list of books that are “must” reads. But the best book I read this spring wasn’t pushed my direction.

I click-baited my way to it.

My daily Colorado Sun newsfeed gently suggested I check out the opening title sequence to a new show on Apple+, Pachinko. Bypassing the major news events of the day, I went straight to YouTube and watched the cast dancing to Let’s Live for Today by The Grass Roots. Immediately hooked, I parasited my way into my daughter’s Apple+ account to watch the first episode. Normally, English language dubbed over a Japanese/Korean script wouldn’t be my schtick–but there was something about this story…

Back in the day, whenever I mentioned a good movie to my high school drama teacher (who also served as the English teacher, ASB advisor, and about half the other positions in the school,) Ms Lewis would remind me “the book beats the movie every time.” Ms. Lewis was rarely wrong.

Min Jin Lee’s second book, Pachinko, earned her a National Book Award finalist spot in 2017. The story follows Sunja, a young woman born in Japanese-occupied Korea, as she escapes the stigma of an illegitimate child by emigrating to Japan and raising her family in Ikaino, the Korean section of Osaka. Spanning nearly 70 years, Lee deftly weaves a compelling family saga through the Asia’s 20th century rise to modernity.

Although I was lured in by colorful TV stars dancing in a Pachinko parlor, it turns out that was just glitz for the big screen. The book’s plot—things that happen to a family over decades—kept me hooked. It was a familiar concept, like Larry and Sally Morgan in Wallace Stegner’s Crossing to Safety; or Danny and Maeve Conroy in Ann Patchett’s The Dutch House. I find the journey of a family familiar and Dickensian.

But I’m also wary of comfort reads. It’s important to push outside comfort zones and I’ve been guilty of diving into a series at the expense of broadening my horizons (no thanks to you Wyoming cowboy authors, CJ Box and Craig Johnson.) I’m familiar with Asian culture after living two years in Seoul, Korea and three years in Beijing, China. But saying I understand the Asian mindset is like a foreigner splitting five years between New York and Los Angeles and returning home claiming to completely understand Americans. Nope.

Min Jin Lee opened my eyes to the plight of the zainichi (Koreans living in Japan,) and the workings of the yakuza (Japanese and Korean gangsters,)—topics I knew nothing about. Her book settled me in an unfamiliar but intriguing world—like discovering Orville Peck’s music or Avogado6’s art—and I liked it.

The stoicism Lee describes throughout her novel was not a surprise. I’ve read and watched enough Chinese authors and directors (Ha Jin’s Waiting; Zhang Yimou’s To Live) to recognize that a hero in an Asian drama is one living a life of quiet desperation, bound by tradition, authoritarianism, or—in Pachinko’s setting—discrimination. These are not stories that conclude with “Mai Tais and Yahtzee”—instead the journey is the story.

Given the choice of thumbing the remote over to Apple+ of checking out the book, I recommend the latter. But not before you watch that opening title sequence—one more time!

A Small, Small World

By Cam Torrens

On May 9, 2022

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

There is nothing more cliché than Disney’s song “It’s a Small World” *

The parlor game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, probably made the actor more famous than fighting sand worms or getting his shoelace caught on a tractor.

But isn’t coincidence amazing? It’s like an affirmation that the impossible is actually…possible.

1989. I am stationed in Zweibrucken, Germany flying the mighty C-23A twin-engine Sherpa, a plane also known during its brief seven-year Air Force tenure as “the slowest, ugliest plane in our fleet.” I’ve just graduated from flight school and moved from a shared apartment with a twin mattress on the floor and a giant Orca pool toy hanging from my ceiling. I’m confident I’ll decorate my new abode in Germany differently, now that I’m an Air Force officer and a qualified pilot.

But single occupancy apartments are scarce in the villages surrounding our base near the French border. I end up living on the second floor of an old farmhouse in the 500-person village of Rosenkopf, about five miles east of the base. The first floor has been modified—the foundation split into a series of stalls for the pigs my landlord raises. The smell of dank hay and the livestock reminds me of the couple years we lived on a farm in Oregon along the Columbia Gorge. Good memories.

I bring a couple of my squadron mates over to check out my new digs the day after I move in. I ask if they smell the hay. I see them look at each other before one of them, a blond-haired Captain who’s been in the squadron for two years already, speaks up. “It smells like shit.”

But I love it. The house. The village. There’s only one other American family in the town and only a handful of German families with any English skills. A great opportunity to learn the language.

Six months later and I’m best friends with the elderly German couple two houses up the hill. The husband, a bed-ridden World War II vet who spent most of the war as a POW in America, and his gregarious non-English speaking wife who makes it her personal mission to feed me. Two of their three daughters also live in the old farmhouse and before long, I’m spending holidays with them—an amateur Thanksgiving effort on my part, and them folding me into a memorable Christmas picnic in the woods with sleds, schnapps, and sausage. We become good friends.

That spring, I’m sitting next to the husband’s bed and he’s helping me through a conversation in German while we both drink beer. With each gulp of Parkbrau, I feel my German language skills improving. He’s describing his third daughter—the one who lives in the US—and her family. She had married a GI some twenty years before and she and her husband and grown boys live in northern Idaho. I switch to English.

“I used to live close to there—a little town west of there in Washington called Kettle Falls.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this. I was in 7th grade when I lived there, and the population was less than 1,500. I don’t remember a stoplight.

My friend’s eyes flash. “That’s where they lived before. In Kettle Falls!”

I shake my head. “Are you sure? It’s a very small town.”

“Yes, Kettle Falls. When did you live there?”

I do some mental math. “Around 1976.”

“That’s when my daughter and her family were there. They lived there for about five years.” He calls for his wife and rattles off our discovery in German. I understand enough to recognize he’s asked her to go get a picture.

She comes back and thrusts the picture in front of me. Her husband is staring at my face over the back of the photograph to see if I recognize his daughter.

I’ve never seen their daughter or her husband in my life. They’re posed for a family picture with their two boys sitting in front of them. I stare closer.

“That’s Chase and Del…Sanborn,” I stab at the photo with my finger. “From Boy Scouts!”

I hear a “Mein Gott” behind me from my friend’s wife and he utters something—also in German—I don’t understand. I explain to them that their
grandsons and I went on camp-outs together, built snow caves, and cooked with Dutch ovens. I leave out the stories of lighting farts, a stolen Playboy, and a wedgie gone bad. Because I’m a mature Air Force officer now…and I don’t know how to say “wedgie” in German.

They insist I call their grandkids on the phone right away until we calculate the time difference and realize it’s midnight in Idaho. The next morning, I’m back at their house and they are holding the phone to my ear. Del, the younger of the brothers, is on the line and we both marvel at the odds that I’m standing in his grandparents’ house. We catch up on each other’s lives. After ten minutes, we run out of things to talk about, and I hand the phone back to his grandmother. We’ve never spoken since.

But it’s a story that I’ve never tired of telling. Ask a hundred random Germans if they’ve heard of the farming village of Rosenkopf and ninety-nine will say “nein.” (did I just do an English-German homonymic alliteration? Is that a thing?) Ask a hundred Americans what state has a town named Kettle Falls and ninety-nine will have no idea. But there I stood, in a German farmer’s kitchen on the phone with his grandchildren, my childhood Boy Scout buddies.

Impossible? Obviously not.

God. Fate. Karma. You believe in what you believe, and I’ll stick with my beliefs. But I think we can agree it’s a small world out there. And all things are possible.

* “It’s a Small World” is also the third most annoying family road trip song behind “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” and “This Is the Song That Never Ends…”

Home Alone? (gasp)

By Cam Torrens

On April 5, 2022

In Blog, Ruminating

Home Alone? (gasp)

At what age did your parents let you stay alone in the house? I’m not talking overnight, but from the time school let out until your folks got home. I’m betting it was under the age of 10.

I can’t pinpoint my exact age, but I have vivid fifth-grade memories of unsupervised walks home from school with my 8-year-old and 7-year-old sisters and plopping down in front of the TV until the adults finished work. Enough time to take in Gilligan’s Island, The Brady Bunch, or Bonanza. Enough time to raid the freezer for an afternoon microwave invention (we weren’t allowed to use the stove.) And just enough time to have my sisters in tears through various types of psychological terror (I saw Mom & Dad give your Barbies to Goodwill) and dry-eyed before the car pulled into the driveway (Oh, look! Here are your Barbies in the back of the closet.)

Was it a different era? Was this afternoon independence a phenomenon occurring after I walked to and from school barefoot… uphill both ways? Or do some elementary school kids out there still enjoy this bit of unsupervised bliss? I think it still happens. It’s just not something people discuss.

And this article from the Colorado Sun reveals why they aren’t talking about it. In Colorado, they’ve just updated laws “to clarify that a child is not neglected when allowed to participate in reasonably independent and safe activities. Those include walking to and from school, playing outside or staying home alone.”

Wait just a darn minute. It was illegal in my state to have my kids do these things? They couldn’t walk home from school alone, play outside alone, or stay at home alone?

Not exactly.

But what was happening was a massive public affairs campaign highlighting the child abuse hotline and encouraging people to make calls when they saw something that didn’t look right. And over 80% of the time, the calls ended up being about kids being left alone. Guess what parents were the targets of most of the calls? Homeschoolers letting their kids play alone outside during school hours, parents of color, and low-income parents who couldn’t afford to have their kids in paid after-school activities.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all about effective initiatives to put child abusers behind bars. That’s where they belong. But I’m of the opinion the pendulum has swung just a little too far to the “overprotective” side with our kids. Or in this case, when it comes to passing judgment on other parents.

Something’s wrong with a system where you have to write laws to tell you what you can do. Normally, these statutes highlight what’s illegal.

In the Air Force, we used to be jealous of Navy pilots because their regulations (unlike ours) only told them what they couldn’t do. 1.6.3.1 Thou shalt not buzz the tower, was crystal clear. But any naval aviator worth his salt knew that meant everything else was fair game. Thus, the inevitable newspaper article, Bothell High Grad Buzzes Alumni Football Game With Navy F-18. “I didn’t buzz the tower,” the pilot would protest.

When you have to start writing laws telling people what they are allowed to do, it implies that you’ve covered everything they aren’t allowed to do. And that’s just not true. We still have 31 states that don’t have laws against leaving an infant in a car unattended. It’s still legal to drive a tank on a public road (if you have the right mirrors,) own a flamethrower, and flip off cops. I’m not calling for more regulation, but if you’ve got to meet your rule quotas, we don’t need you telling us we’re authorized to let our kids play unsupervised on the local playground. Write something prohibiting all the “wrong” things and let us figure out the “right” things to do.

Just saying.

Note For Reader: I actually believe the government is “here to help.” Things just go awry in execution. If you’re interested in learning more about the decision to leave your kids at home alone, read this useful pamphlet from Health & Human Services!

Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine

By Cam Torrens

On March 1, 2022

In Blog, Book Reviews, Nonfiction, Reading

BY anne applebaum

Non sequitur: a statement (such as a response) that does not follow logically from or is not clearly related to anything previously said.

I used a non sequitur several weeks ago. Not that I would have self-identified my error through the use of the Latin term—wouldn’t want to pile pretentiousness on top of ignorance, right?

The topic was Ukraine and the potential Russian invasion and the appropriate international response. I believe my input to the dilemma was something along the lines of, ‘not that I condone Putin’s actions, but it’s worth considering Ukraine, as a country, has only existed for 30 years. Sure, there is a long history of Ukrainian culture, but the reality is that Russians have lived in eastern Ukraine for much longer than the country has survived as an independent nation-state.’

I guess I threw out my remark to show an inkling of knowledge about Ukraine and Russia. Who knows, maybe it worked because I didn’t get much of a reply from the person to whom I was talking. But something felt off about my comment. It might have been factually true, but it was neither insightful nor relevant.

So, I did what I always do when I realize I’m behind the power curve on an issue. I hit the books.

I started with Tim Judah’s In Wartime: Stories from Ukraine, a 2016 book of interviews and descriptions from pro-Ukrainians following the 2014 Maidan Revolution and pro-Russian rebels manning fortifications in eastern Ukraine. Judah traveled the corners of the country pulling tales and opinions from everyday people on the streets while giving his unfamiliar readers a geography and history lesson (I’d never heard of Bessarabia in Ukraine’s southwest—600K people speaking primarily Russian but ethnically Bulgarian, Moldovan, Albanian, Gagauz and Roma. You travel through the country of Moldova just to get to this part of Ukraine.) I finished the book knowing much more about modern Ukraine than I did before.

In February, I took a seminar on Putin’s Russia and listened to a lecture by the Foreign Policy Association on Russia as a nuclear state in decline. The presentation was online and recorded and presented on the day Russian forces invaded Ukraine. Suddenly, many of the discussion questions were obsolete.

But the mother lode of Ukraine background proved to be Anne Applebaum’s Red Famine: Stalin’s War on Ukraine. As the title suggests, the book focuses on the 1932-33 Ukraine famine—or in Ukrainian, the Holodomor. Pulling from primary sources, including diaries and recordings, the description of the tragedy is heart-wrenching and serves as both a reminder of man’s capacity for cruelty and a harbinger of future atrocities in the impending World War.

I recommend the book, not solely for Applebaum’s characterization of Stalin’s reasoning (collectivize the farms to increase grain exports and finance his economic plans, mobilize poor peasants against richer peasants—kulaks—to provide scapegoats in crisis) or his execution (refuse to lower grain quotas during the famine, take food from farmers’ homes, bar starving peasants from entering cities in search of food, relocate Russians to the eastern Ukraine to make up for the 13% of the population who were deported or starved to death,) but also for the excellent history she provides of Ukraine before and after Russia’s February Revolution of 1917. She wraps up the book with an epilogue summarizing the period from the famine to modern day Ukraine.

This book opened my eyes. How can you discuss a country’s history of sovereignty if they’ve never been given a chance? Ukraine sits at the crossroads between Europe and Asia, the second largest country on the European continent with some of the least defensible borders. Ukrainian culture reached its peak over a thousand years ago, before being invaded by the Mongols, dominated by the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth and taken over by the Soviets.

The international community won’t tolerate Italy reclaiming Great Britain just because they used to be part of the Roman Empire. They won’t put up with Great Britain trying to force India back into the British Empire. The list goes on—and I recognize there’s probably another fancy Latin phrase that describes a logic fallacy in my argument.

So, two points:

Ukraine deserves to have its sovereignty supported (for all of you asking about the military option…that’s a different essay for a different day)

Check out Applebaum’s book from your local library or buy it. Especially if you need a refresher (or a primer, in my case) on Ukraine history.

Note: Amazon links are for reference only. Recommend using your local library!

The Candy Bomber’s Final Mission–Colonel Gail S. Halvorsen

By Cam Torrens

On February 17, 2022

In Blog, Uncategorized

President Reagan described our democracy as a “shining city on the hill”—a beacon of hope for struggling nations. That the best way to promote our values is to demonstrate them every day for all to see.

Yesterday, our country lost our longest living ambassador of love, compassion, and kindness. Air Force Colonel (retired) Gail Halvorsen, also known as The Candy Bomber, passed away at age 101.

Halverson is best known for his initiative during the Berlin Airlift of 1948-49, officially known as Operation Vittles. After talking to some despondent Berlin children, Lieutenant Halvorsen advised them to stick close to the runway the next time he flew into Tempelhof Airport. After signaling with a rock of his wings (the children would later nickname him “Uncle Wiggly Wings”,) he dropped small packets of chocolate and other candy out the doors of the plane before landing. The children were ecstatic, the Germans grateful, and thus was born Operation Little Vittles.

After the airlift, Col Halvorsen continued a successful Air Force career—including a stint as the commander of Tempelhof Airport—and retired in 1974. That might have been the end of his official career, but he never stopped representing our country as a humanitarian hero. Besides returning to Berlin multiple times for candy drop reenactments, Halvorsen performed candy drops in Bosnia-Herzegovina, Albania, Japan, Guam, and Iraq.

While the candy he delivered may have been symbolic, his commitment was not. I flew with Col Halvorsen at 18,000 feet over war-torn Bosnia in 1994 during the Balkan wars. We both wore flak vests inside our armored aircraft and used supplemental oxygen for the high-altitude airdrop. While our Air Force never lost a C-130 during these airdrops, the flashes of gunfire on the ground made it clear that Col Halvorsen was delivering his message in a combat zone.

I remember being amazed at this 74-year-old man energetically immersing himself in the mission—as fit as an airman half his age—and thinking how fortunate I was to meet this kind of hero near the end of his life. Little did I know, Col Halvorsen would continue this kind of work for the next 27 years.

I think President Reagan was telling our nation it’s less important what you say your country stands for and more important to do the things that represent your country’s values.

Colonel Gail Halvorsen had that figured out a long time ago.

Here’s a toast…

Routine Maintenance

By Cam Torrens

On January 8, 2022

In Blog, Ruminating

Routine Maintenance

I have no idea why I’ve settled on 4:52 as my wake-up time. It was even earlier back in my Air Force days (and my go-to-sleep time was much later.) I did a lot of burning the candle at both ends back then and didn’t carry the respect for a good seven-plus hours of sleep that I do now. So why am I getting up before 5 am?

Because I got things to do! If you read my blog post after COVID Year 1, then you recognize I’m a counter. I like to keep track of things in my little day planner (books read, miles run, hot tub usage, etc.) You know—important things. Add them up at the end of the year, put them in a spreadsheet, and then hide them on my computer so no one calls me out for being weird.

But it’s not just counting. I like a routine, too. Probably sounds funny from a guy who spent 30 years in the military, moving every 1-2 years, and deploying overseas regularly in between assignments. It was hard to keep a consistent routine, but I always gave it my best shot, especially with working out and reading.

It’s not like routines are odd—they’ve been around forever and plenty of the “big names” are fans. The Stoic philosopher, Seneca, said,

“Life without design is erratic.”

A couple of decades later, Epictetus noted,

“Progress is not achieved by luck or accident but by working on yourself daily.”

Leap forward a couple of thousand years and I think author Annie Dillard says it best,

“How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. What we do with this hour, and that one, is what we are doing. A schedule defends from chaos and whim. It is a net for catching days…”

These days, I have the time and stability for a routine—and I’ve become slightly obsessed with it.

Breaks in my routine annoy me.

There in lies the crux of the problem. I think those long-dead philosophers were right about the importance of designing a life, developing key habits, and incremental improvements. But they were giving advice on how to be better, not how to live better. It’s easy to look forward on a chessboard and try to figure out your next move, but you have to remember your opponent gets a move as well. In other words, life happens to you (rather than “for” you) and if you constantly shirk from external events in order to check off your “to-do” list, then guess what?

You’re not living life.

This truth surfaced for me when four of our children returned for the holidays from college and work and joined the remaining four of us still hanging around the homestead. As I looked at the list of planned family activities (not me! I didn’t make the schedule…) my first thought was “Oh man, I’m not going to get my run done on this day. And there’s no way I’m getting any of the rest of my ‘stuff’ done on that day.” And just as I felt that twinge of annoyance, another thought struck me. It went something like this: “You are a frikkin’ idiot. Your kids traveled from the corners of the country to celebrate a holiday that is all about life, you won’t see them again for months, and you’re worried about making “X’s” in your day planner?” If I’d been standing in front of a mirror, I wouldn’t have met my own eyes.

I’m sure you all learned this lesson long ago, but thanks for letting me share life’s personal reminder to me. Do not underestimate the power of routines. They are an incredible tool to help you be better (and another opportunity for your kids to make fun about you getting older and set in your ways.)

But if you want to live better, you need to embrace the unexpected opportunities that will inevitably slam into your plans for the day. Use the routine when life is routine. Chuck it when you see a chance to get out there and LIVE.

*Note: after I posted this blog, I marked it off with an “X” in my planner

Klara Meets Cloud Cuckoo Land

By Cam Torrens

On December 23, 2021

In Blog, Book Reviews, Fiction, Reading

BY Kazuo Ishiguro and Anthony Doerr

No, the title above is not an actual book. I just finished reading Klara Meets the Sun by Kazuo Ishiguro and Cloud Cuckoo Land by Anthony Doerr.

Not my usual genre—both these authors are writers of literature, as opposed to my go-to authors of mystery, crime, and suspense. But these two had already lured me in years ago—Ishiguro with his Remains of the Day (Booker Prize) and Never Let Me Go; Doerr with All the Light We Cannot See (Pulitzer Prize) and his collection of short stories, The Shell Collector. Ishiguro writes concise prose, able to say so much with just the right words. Doerr turns poetry into paragraphs even I can enjoy!

Imagine my surprise as I turned to literature this month and found both these books included a glimpse into the future, far enough forward that you could accuse the authors of dabbling in science fiction.

Klara and the Sun reveals a world where Alexa and Siri are no longer voice helpers, but Artificial Friends that walk, talk, and think—sentient, in fact. Ishiguro neglects setting and science (we readers aren’t sure where the story takes place or how the science works) in favor of character and existentialism. It works…and proves a page-turner comes in many forms.

Doerr’s Cloud Cuckoo Land deftly hops between characters from the 1453 siege of Constantinople, present day Lakeport, Idaho (based on one of my top-5 “I want to retire there” locations—McCall, ID), and a spaceship bound for a new “Earth” in 2146, all tied together by an inextricable attraction to an ancient Greek story of a utopia in the skies.

Wait. That sentence above was long and awkward and doesn’t inspire a lot of enthusiasm to read the book, right? Trust me. Anthony Doerr can make the long read fast and he leaves out the awkward. He’s a masterful storyteller and Cloud Cuckoo Land is just plain fun, in that special way a “story with a meaning” can be.

So, which to read first? If you’re feeling like a realist this week and are interested less about optimism than about pondering our future, start with Klara Meets the Sun. It’s a short (but engaging) read and you’ll spend more time thinking about Ishiguro’s characterizations of mankind’s future priorities than you did reading the book. My favorite quote, however, shows what doesn’t change:

“I suppose I’m saying [she] and I will always be together at some level, some deeper one, even if we go out there and don’t see each other any more. I can’t speak for her. But once I’m out there, I know I’ll always keep searching for someone just like her.”

But if it’s hope and idealism you seek, even in the face of a virus that won’t go away and an uncertain climate, then turn to Anthony Doerr’s Cloud Cuckoo Land. Like Ishiguro, he pokes at what’s existentially important in a declining world:

“But as he reconstructs Zeno’s translation, he realizes that the truth is infinitely more complicated, that we are all beautiful even as we are all part of the problem, and that to be part of the problem is to be human.”

Both books are beautifully written by talented authors. You’ll find as much joy in thinking about what you just read as you did hoping the books wouldn’t end.