Portions of the following were written the day after the tragic loss of Christopher Wilson.
Unfortunately, my inexperience with computers, combined with the lack of response to my requests for further information from the Daily Press, made getting the column printed impossible. I shall, however, "endeavor to persevere."
Well Craig, we've been robbed. A promising life has been taken from us.
According to the published report, the death was ruled "accidental." It also states, "alcohol may have been a contributing factor." We now know that alcohol was involved, so by my definition "accidental" has no worth.
The paper also states that Christopher may have helped the accused contributor pay for the alcohol. If he did, and did so in front of the store clerk, then the clerk should also be guilty for our loss. (Editor's note: Christopher Wilson was not inside the liquor store during the alcohol purchase.)
The time for news releases and radio sound bytes is over. The mere mention of a "Social Host Ordinance" jumps on the chest of common sense. We have the laws to prosecute charged parties, adding another surely will be like giving gas to an ambulance chaser.
We must stand as a whole community and see that the rule of law is brought to bear on any and all participants. A standard for justice must be met and continue to be met. Indifference to our loss guarantees you a sack full of guilt and your own moment wandering through purgatory.
Plan B's plan b
Throughout the years, Moffat county has been recognized in numerous record books for its monster mule deer. One of the biggest I was ever part of taking was by the bridge at Juniper Hot Springs by Doug Urie and his little brother.
Doug had stopped just below a short rise north of the bridge to wait on Mr. Tardy (yours truly). As Doug slept inside the truck, his brother stepped off the road and wandered into a patch of sagebrush. As he was straightening up, he noticed movement in the river below, and realized his brand new Monkey Ward binoculars were still in the truck with his sleeping brother.
Not being the dedicated hunters his brother and I were, he decided to use "Plan B."
"Plan B" was simple, as most Plan B's are (why Plan B's have never been Plan A's, I'm not sure. It must be depressing, though, always a B, never the A). As Doug's brother did his best to sneak back through the brush, he tried getting Doug's attention with short loud whistles. This part of "Plan B" was failing miserably, and he was running out of cover and patience with his sleeping beauty brother.
It was time for Plan B's "plan b."
WARNING: This plan should only be attempted by frustrated young men, with strong right arms - "plan b" was to fling a softball-sized rock and aim for the bed of his sleeping brother's truck.
Yes, the rock did land directly in the bed of Doug's truck, and, yes, Doug did wake up. I wasn't right there when the awakening occurred, and since each brother had his own version of what happened, I'll let you figure out what you would have done.
However, somewhere in their discussion, Doug's brother pointed out the old Moss Back trotting up the Juniper Springs Road. In those days, there were two men you couldn't out shoot: my brother, Roy, and his trusty shot gun (ask him about the time he shot his new Jeep) and Doug Urie. Doug owned the ugliest hunk of junk .300 Magnum you'll ever see, but oh my gosh, when he pulled it up, it became a work of art never to be duplicated. He drove a tack through the heart of that mule deer at 432 yards (we lasered it four years ago.)
When Mr. Tardy (myself) drove up, the two of them were trying to load him in the back of the truck. It took three of us to get that bad dog up and in.
Doug never measured the height or width of that old muley; he did, however, take a picture of the antlers sticking up on each side of the bed of his 1946 Dodge pickup truck. After he cut the antlers off, he parked in front of All Season Sports and told the best huntin' lies ever.
Until next time
There I was, surrounded on the right by the entitled people, and I said to myself, "Self," I said ('cause that's what I call myself when I'm talking to myself), "on the bright side, the elections are over. May God have mercy on the result."
Thank you for your time.