The “Shortcut” to Bowl & Pitcher

Note: This story is being republished in memory of Craig Peterson. July 14, 1956 – April 15, 2019.

“This,” Craig asked, “is your shortcut?”

I admit now as I reviewed the precipitous grade, I may have misjudged its abruptness. To be truthful, the 200-foot drop was so steep; some might even call it a cliff.

            In the spring of 1968 it had been months since we had explored our favorite getaway, Riverside State Park. On a Saturday morning, following an endless winter, we packed peanut butter sandwiches and set out for a day of fun. Our sixth-grade year nearly over, we were anxious to hike every trail, climb every rock and hang out on the suspension bridge. Naturally, we would clamber down into the “bowl”—a basaltic formation resembling a bowl on its side, created by the turbulent waters of the Spokane River.

From our neighborhood in northwest Spokane it was a four mile bike ride down to Bowl and Pitcher via the Rifle Road and Aubrey L. White Parkway.  But I convinced Craig I had found a way that would abbreviate our trek by about half.

He followed me as I rode my black Schwinn three-speed. We traversed down West Wellesley Avenue through the gates of Fairmount Memorial Park, a cemetery perched on a bluff above Riverside State Park. Once in the cemetery, I led Craig to the rim beside the Sunset Mausoleum, a modern structure with enormous windows affording a panoramic view of the Spokane River to all its dearly departed residents. We came to a three foot tall stone wall where I showed him the “trail” down the hill.

At this point I realized I may have miscalculated the danger of attempting this perilous route. But I found myself a little offended by Craig’s lack of trust in my leadership. This was my best friend, Craig. No matter what crazy scheme I came up with, I could always count on him to be my collaborative partner.

 Like when I imagined it would be great fun to sprint down from the peak of the garage, leap a three-foot span to the shed roof, and vault out into the yard. A makeshift trampoline waited below in the form of an inflated tractor tire inner tube. This, in turn, launched us ten to fifteen feet skyward, and we landed feet first on the lawn tumbling to complete safety. My friends and I performed this stunt frequently and numerous times (whenever my parents weren’t home) and nobody was ever hospitalized—as far as I can remember.

 But Craig and I always got the most air.

This and many other quixotic episodes padded our résumés. So Craig’s reluctance surprised me.

As Craig stared downward with a “let this cup pass from me” expression, I knew I had to reassure him.

“Use your brakes,” I said. “Squeeze them. Hard.”

Craig grasped his brakes.

“You see? Your wheels won’t even turn.  You can go down as slow as you want.”

Craig operated his calipers again, staring down, contemplating. “You go first.”

Whether he feared for life and limb, or was more concerned about scratching his yellow Stingray with the banana seat, I don’t know.

Nevertheless, like every sixth-grader in 1968, I rather fancied myself to be the next Evel Knievel. If Evel could jump over sixteen cars with his motorcycle, I reasoned, getting down this hill unscathed should be chicken soup. So with a glance toward Craig that said “Watch and learn,” I heaved my three-speed over the short wall and then climbed over myself. Taking a deep breath, I stood beside my bicycle, being careful to tightly squeeze the calipers before I swung my leg over the back and climbed on.

My downward plunge began.

I realized almost immediately I had underestimated Newton’s Law of Gravity compared to Randy’s Theory of Bicycle Handbrakes. As I hurtled uncontrollably down the hill I leaned back as far as I could on my steed like The Man from Snowy River. To a bystander, I may have looked like a contestant training for the Omak Stampede Suicide Race. Part of the problem was that due to the unevenness of the path set before me, my tires were in contact with terra firma only about twenty-five percent of the time. You might even say I wasn’t so much riding my bike, as I was piloting it.

Through severe turbulence.

About halfway down—as I approached terminal velocity—I realized I was about to die, so I bailed from the bike, which did little to impede my momentum. I never once thought about how convenient it would be to expire right there at the cemetery and all, I was too busy acquiring countless bumps, scrapes, and contusions as I slid past jagged rocks and exposed roots, creating my own personal avalanche.  On the way, I did some inadvertent rock collecting, as some of the slide amassed in my cut-offs and t-shirt, and my flesh became encrusted with coarse silica the consistency of twenty-four grit garnet sandpaper.  Just before I reached the base, I somehow managed to get my feet in front of me, giving the illusion of a semi-controlled slide.

At the bottom of the incline stood a five-foot tall retaining wall, keeping the embankment from spilling onto the road below. The Civilian Conservation Corps built it along with many other structures in Riverside State Park during the depression. My Uncle Ray had been in the CCC’s and may very well have helped build this very bulwark. Suddenly appreciative of his handiwork, I managed to dig my heels into the top tier of the retaining wall, preventing me from face planting onto the pavement of Aubrey L. White Parkway.

My bike was not so lucky. Like an Olympic ski jumper, it sailed over the wall and crashed unceremoniously near the far shoulder of the road, bending the crank shaft, and mangling the front wheel and fender.

I couldn’t let Craig see it as a major setback, so with as much aplomb as possible I scrambled down the wall and retrieved my bike before it could be further mutilated by a passing car. I then gazed up in the distance to my slack-jawed accomplice, who yelled down, “Are you okay?”

“Fine!” I lied. “Your turn!”

From even a couple hundred feet away it was clear Craig wasn’t anxious to follow my intrepid example. He stared down, motionless.

I tried to encourage him by yelling up to him, “You can do it!” Craig glanced around. Maybe he hoped a more desirable route would suddenly appear, or perhaps he expected a cemetery employee to rescue him. Talk him off the ledge, so to speak.

I could tell by his inaction I had to resort to my ace in the hole. “C’mon, don’t be a chicken!”

To a sixth-grade boy, the aversion to being called a chicken is an even more powerful force than his will to live.

Craig reluctantly lifted his Stingray over the wall and then followed. To his credit, Craig did not mount his bike; instead, he laid his bicycle on its side and then sat down beside it. Holding his bike awkwardly with his left hand, he scooched down the embankment on his butt like a dog with a glandular problem.  Dragging his bike beside him, he reached the bottom at last.

I confess his way was safer, but mine was faster. And more epic.

Undaunted by our hazardous exploit, we ditched our bikes in the nearby woods and spent the day reconnoitering Bowl and Pitcher on foot. I didn’t have as much fun as usual, because I knew at the end of the day I would have to walk my mutilated bike home. Being a good friend, Craig didn’t make me walk alone.

I don’t remember how I explained the condition of my bike to my parents, but I can assure you it had little resemblance to the truth.

***

Farewell, my friend Craig! But not forever. It was you that stood by me through the good times and the bad, and you stood by me again as my best man. You followed my lead even when you knew better. I shall miss you until we can be together again.

Your adventure has just begun.