I had the sad task of driving 300 miles (one way) from my mountainside home to attend the passing of one of my best friends who had been stricken with incurable cancer. He fought a losing battle with this disease for over five years, and had the very best doctors trying treatments beyond the ordinary radiation and chemotherapy; and he suffered with strange symptoms resulting from experimental/ research drugs. All to no avail. My destination was the home of a very close friend (Craig) who had moved Al (the victim) into his home and cared for him diligently throughout the five-year ordeal. What prompted my rush to St. George,Utah, was a late night call from Craig; who said, “Al is now in the terminal stage, and he will be dead in a few days.”
“I’m on my way. I’ll call Rip (another close friend who is a professional musician) and tell him the bad news.”
“Why don’t you come down in the morning. He’s all doped up, and I don’t want you to hit a deer or something else in your headlights, the way you drive”.
“O.K.”, I sighed, “I’ll leave about 5:00 AM. What’s the air temperature in St. George?”
“Well, it topped out at 105 degrees this afternoon, but it will be 111 tomorrow, according to the forecaster.”
“No problem, I’ll see you around 9:00 in the morning. Is Al coherent?”
“He fades in and out, depending on how much Morphine he’s taken. You can probably talk to him and be understood, but don’t expect much in the way of a reply.”
“Okay; See you in the morning.” I hung up and called Rip. Rip said he would hurry down as fast as he could reschedule stuff, and that he would bring his guitar (he’s an excellent musician).
From different backgrounds and age groups, we were part of a tight knit band of brothers, mostly musicians and artists called “The Loose Trucking Company.” As a group, we had explored the hidden reaches of the Colorado Plateau ‘slickrock’ country, and skied the wild peaks of the Wasatch Mountains. We have been getting together to go exploring for over forty years.
I arrived in the toasty heat of the early morning in St. George. Craig ushered me into his home, which was located beside a long fairway of one of the famous golf courses in the area.
“How is he doing?” I asked.
“He’s downstairs. He’s in full hospice care now and he didn’t take any heavy jolts of the pain killers so he could talk with you.”
I followed Crag down to the lower level of house, where Al was setup in what seemed to be a hospital room complete with a hospital bed, wheelchair, oxygen machine, hospital supplies, etc. Al was lying on the bed with tubes for a catheter and other stuff emerging from the bed sheets. He was so thin and gaunt that I hardly recognized him, and as I peered intently at his face, his eyes fluttered open and he saw me staring down at him. His lips quivered a little beneath his mustache, and then slowly broke into a smile. “It’s good to see you, Cox; thanks for coming.” he whispered.
I won’t bore the reader with our weepy conversation. I reminded him of the good times we had shared, skiing, hiking, backpacking in the wilderness and so forth. Several women came by while I was visiting with him, and they kissed him goodby tenderly. A little later Rip showed up, talked a bit privately with Al, and then got out his guitar and played a full concert for Al as if he were in a big auditorium. The sweet and complex music filled the room for over two hours. Al had Craig prop him up in bed, and he watched Rip play attentively. Craig’s father, who now lives with him since his wife passed away, came downstairs to listen to the beautiful cords of the guitar. When Rip took a short break, Al motioned me over to his bedside, and croaked in his feeble voice, “You know, Cox, it’s pretty weird listening to your own funeral music…”
In spite of all of his pain, and all that he had been through, he joked around with me once more, because that was Al. The next morning, I drove across the Nevada border and went into a casino where they got me drunk, took all my money, and kicked me to the curb. They weren’t having anything to do with a crying old man slouched over a video poker machine; it was bad for business.
Left to right: Dave, Craig, Al, & Cox golfing in St. George. Rip is not in this image
My sincere condolences on your loss. Saying goodbye to a friend or loved one is a tough thing; but I believe it’s not goodbye forever.
The departure of your friend, Al, has left some grief down here on Earth, but has also brought much rejoicing in Heaven.
Thank you virtualsky, for your kind words.:)
I have attached an email msg. from Awesome; one of the founders of the “Loose Truckers”:
12:20 PM
How sad! The loss of a beloved brother. I weep for the loss of Al, and for the loss of all the friends who have predeceased us….so many now. Some days the sorrow almost cannot be borne. The words of our culture describe “courageous battle” and “heroic struggle” against the Foe, the Enemy, the Emissaries of Death (all the various lethal diseases). And yet it is our life (hopefully our good life) which is remembered.
When I last saw Al, Saturday the 23rd of October, 2010 (St. George, at the Cornonada Inn where I was staying for a night on the way to SLC with my daughter Rachel, who was a most welcome traveling companion) he’d just finished his first complete “round” of (radiation, I think) therapy and was his most Wonderful Self….and actually still smoking cigarettes, (Bidis if I recall correctly). I talked with him a couple of times in the last 24 months, but there was no mention of a worsening condition on his part, we only discussed Pat Berman’s cancer diagnosis. Good grief! First Ashley, then Al, and I don’t know how Pat is doing….at least not yet….but Holy Mackerel! Oh, the sorrow.
Several years ago I read a non-fiction story that was, in part, about a Vietnamese man in a “rehabilitation” camp at the end of the Vietnam war. Every morning the prisoners would use the latrine that emptied directly into the river by the camp, where there were dozens and dozens of carp. In the evenings dinner was carp-vegetable soup. After dinner, there would always be an announcement for a few people to “come to the office” (so to speak). Those people were taken off into the jungle and executed. There was no order to the sequence, just that every evening after dark, after the meal, came the announcement.That image has stayed with me, because I could see that I too am one of the people who are all waiting to be called. And in the MEAN-time, Life Goes On.
Al Berman, Craig Cornell, Richard Bringhurst, Rob Brewer, Dennis Gray, Keith Golden, Peter Kemp, Wendy Romney, Brad Timpson, John Holmes, Craig Pederson…who was on the trip to the Virgin Narrows with Doug Wayman when the phrase “Loose Truckin’ Company” was first used to describe the whirlwind backpacking trip they were on with massive quantities of LSD and almost no food. Loose Truckers all, and also all dead now.
And how many have I forgotten? It is obvious that the Loose Truckin’ Ladies are holding up much better than the men.
Oh, Al…I sure miss you! I miss your easy-going and enduring friendship. You magical prankster. There we all were, A.D. Gray, Me, Al, and Pat Silver (as she was known then) “down in the desert” in July of 1974 in Escalante Canyon, down by the confluence of Coyote Gulch. In the evening, shortly after dinner, A.D. was going on about how wonderful it would be to have a cherry popsicle there in the desert. We all nattered on about how such a treat might be brought to the desert canyon on a back-pack trip, leaning toward dry-ice, and Styrofoam concoctions to keep the popsicles frozen…then A.D. (aka “The Dink”) said, “or, we could just send up a red star cluster” (meaning a red distress flair signaling our Urgent Need for Cherry Popsicles!) With that Al said something like, “Yeah, let’s do that” and he brought forth from his backpack a military distress flair! which he promptly assembled for use and, BAM, pounded that thing down on the hard sand of the beach at the water’s edge, and Whoosh! it took off into the night sky to the open-mouthed wonder of me, Pat and A.D. as we watched it shoot up into the heavens and “Pop” itself into a parachute-floating intensely bright red flair. Whoooaaaa…..duuuude, we were all like totally Gob Smacked! Totally Entranced. It was a most memorable and perfect moment of Loose-Truckers-In-The-Desert (brought to us by the inimitable Al Berman).
How can the world have the audacity to go on living without Al being in it too? I say, Thank you Al, for sharing your life, your humor and your good grace with me, and with us all who knew and loved you.
Peace Brother.
Thank You So Much
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I’m very grateful , Thanks so much
You’re welcome, Lovelorn_2; thanks for the visit!:)
Thanks for your sympathy, virtualsky. I apologize for being so tardy in responding to your comments……..:)