Italy: Day 1 - The Flight Over

Our 5,500-mile, Missoula-to-Minneapolis-to-New York-to-Rome series of flights began well before sunrise with a 5 a.m. trip to the airport. The upside was each flight was on a plane that had individual video screens for each seat. And there was a good selection of movies and TV shows. I did catch a couple of fun movies. 

Among them was A Christmas Story Christmas, a 2022 sequel to the original 1983 Christmas Story classic. It featured most of the actors from the first movie - Ralphie, Flick, Scut Farkus and gang. I also watched Facing Nolan, a pretty cool documentary about baseball Hall of Famer Nolan Ryan as told by Ryan, his family members, teammates, coaches and those he faced. 

The other upside was the New York-Rome leg not only included the usual drink and small snack option but also a meal. I honestly can't remember the last time I was served a meal on a plane. It had probably been 30 years ago. Shoot, maybe it was when I returned home as a missionary back in 1983. It really wasn't anything to write home about but it smelled good, tasted okay and hey, we were hungry. I went with the four-cheese ravioli-veggies-lemon bar choice.  

The downside of flying to the other side of the world was well, it was an all-day/all-night flight. For a guy like me who really can't sleep on a plane (or car or anything where I can't lay down), no matter how tired I am, that meant getting little to no rest on each of the three flights.

The configuration of the plane thought was nice because our row was only two seats wide so it was just Lori and me. I was glad we didn't have to sit in the middle section of four seats that really seemed jammed together. Once I was too tired to watch anything, I just kept the flight tracker pulled up so when I did open my eyes, I could see where in the world we were.

 

Planning a Glorious, Yet Ironic Return to Italy #kiddingnotkidding

"We had a trip to Italy booked for last April that got wiped out because of COVID," lamented Ron. "I guess we'll try again next year."

"Let me know if you need a sidekick. #kiddingnotkidding," I responded via our Facebook message thread.

"You guys should come too!" Ron replied.

And that set the table for a return trip to a country and a people I love. It's a "return trip" because Ron Smith and I first met in Italy four decades earlier when we both served as missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. 

For those not familiar with how the mission process works, prospective missionaries go through a couple of interviews with church leadership and then fill out paperwork to let church headquarters know about a desire to serve. Then, the wait is on to receive notification where the missionary will be assigned for 18 months to two years, on their own dime. I received my mission call on April 8, 1982. 

Living in Italy, learning the language, working with the people, spreading the gospel, experiencing the culture, enjoying the scenic history and the food. Oh man, the food! 

It was a life-shaping experience, so to have the opportunity to return would be incredible. And to share it with Lori and Ron and April. What could be better?!

We shared emails, texts and phone calls to determine when to leave and where to visit. We divided up housing and transportation responsibilities, planned what to carry in our backpacks and purchased our airline tickets. 

It was getting real. And exciting! To give Lori a glimpse of what Italy would be like, I went to dig out a box of Italian memorabilia. After I pulled it out, I realized much of what I brought home wasn't there. Several picture books from the Puglia and Sicily weren't there. Neither were my Italian Bible, Book of Mormon, hymnal and some other things. I couldn't find them in the crawl space either. That's when I realized they did not survive our house fire five years earlier. Geez, another unrealized loss. Such a bummer! What I did find was an old calendar that showed I was transferred from Siracusa to Catania on April 12, 1983. Catania is where I met Ron, who had just arrived from the United States, and where we became missionary companions.  

1983 Zone Conference in Catania - Ron is sitting in the center of the front row with me on his right

Baptism Day for Fratello Rizzo

Ron and I party it up with the rest of the city's residents as Catania qualifies for Serie A, Italy's top soccer division

Ironically enough, despite not deliberately planning to do so, it turns out Lori and I would meet up with Ron and April in our shared Rome Airbnb on the afternoon of April 12, 2023, 40 years to the day when Ron and I first met in Italy. Bring it!

Here's to Huey

Writhing with building pain, his countenance and determination changed in a heartbeat. The fingers on his trembling left hand tightened, forming a fist. And in one motion he lashed out with bold aggressiveness for the first time in his picked-on life. He connected with the face of the bully. In one fell swoop, George McFly spun around Biff Tannen and laid him out with a solid left cross to the chops. Like all other onlookers at the drive-in theater that night, we hooted, hollered and laid on the horn. It was a glorious moment. As Biff laid passed out on the concrete, George confidently and triumphantly walked away with Loraine Baines latched to his arm, back inside to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance.

It was the summer of 1985. My buddies and I joined millions around the country by watching the movie “Back to the Future,” the first of a three-part trilogy. At the five-minute mark of the opening scene, Marty McFly finds out he’s late for school and hops on his skateboard to the first notes of the jamming, newly released song “Power of Love,” by Huey Lewis and the News. Two minutes later, Marty and his band, The Pinheads, are on stage at a tryout in front of several teachers. Their song is an amped-up version of “Power of Love.” What pushes the scene over the top is a stoic-faced Huey Lewis, wearing a brown plaid jacket and serving as one of the judges, sits thoroughly unimpressed. He glances at his colleagues on either side, picks up a megaphone and says to the band, “Hold it fellas! I’m afraid you’re just too darn loud. Next please.”

The power of love is a curious thing

Make a one man weep, make another man sing

Change a hawk to a little white dove

More than a feeling that's the power of love

---

Tougher than diamonds, rich like cream

Stronger and harder than a bad girl's dream

Make a bad one good make a wrong one right

Power of love that keeps you home at night
---

You don't need money, don't take fame

Don't need no credit card to ride this train

It's strong and it's sudden and it's cruel sometimes

But it might just save your life

That's the power of love

That's the power of love
---

First time you feel it, it might make you sad

Next time you feel it it might make you mad

But you'll be glad baby when you've found

That's the power makes the world go'round
---

And it don't take money, don't take fame

Don't need no credit card to ride this train

It's strong and it's sudden it can be cruel sometimes

But it might just save your life
---

They say that all in love is fair

Yeah, but you don't care

But you'll know what to do

When it gets hold of you

And with a little help from above

You feel the power of love

You feel the power of love

Can you feel it?

Hmmm
---

It don't take money and it don't take fame

Don't need no credit card to ride this train

Tougher than diamonds and stronger than steel

You won't feel nothin' till you feel

You feel the power, just feel the power of love

That's the power, that's the power of love

You feel the power of love

You feel the power of love

Feel the power of love

“The Power of Love” skyrocketed to the top of the U.S. Billboard Hot 100 chart, becoming a number-one hit for Huey Lewis and the News. It was also nominated for an Academy Award for Best Original Song, losing out (somehow) to “Say You, Say Me” by Lionel Richie. And the video is pretty sweet too, although I’ve got to admit my favorite Huey song and video is "Do You Believe in Love."

Photo credit: Chrysalis

At that point in his career, Huey Lewis was already a household name thanks to his band’s “Sports” album, released in 1983. Everybody owned it. I mean, who didn’t? I certainly did. The band’s third album, it hit number-one on the Billboard 200 in 1984 during its 160-week run. It included four top-ten hits, performed well around the world and earned the platinum distinction seven times over. Yep, Huey Lewis and the News were one of America’s most popular bands and owned the 1980s.

Fast forward to more than two decades later. I began working as an anchor/reporter for CBS affiliate KPAX-TV in Missoula, Montana, in January 2003. Working in television over a 24-year career gave me the opportunity to meet many people I most surely never would have had the chance to meet otherwise. From Wilt Chamberlain, George Brett and Derrick Thomas to Barak Obama and Russ Limbaugh, it was quite a run. Little did I know that I would not only eventually meet Huey Lewis and even be invited to his house but that he would later fulfill my personal heartfelt request to drive the greater part of an hour to the TV studio to help a struggling coworker .

A long-time public access dispute gurgled to a head surrounding a 16-mile stretch of water through the Bitterroot Valley called the Mitchell Slough. Was it a private ditch or was it a natural waterway subject to public access for fishing, hunting and other recreational activity? That was the question. The Bitterroot Conservation District ruled it was a ditch. A local court agreed – twice. The issue got pushed to the Montana Supreme Court that turned the tables with a ruling that it was a natural waterway subject to public access. That put sportsmen and the state at odds with farmers and other landowners. One of those landowners was Huey Lewis, who has property split in two by the slough.

As the newsroom staffer who focused on issues related to the outdoors, natural resources and the environment, I started digging into the details of the case. There were just so many tentacles to it that I started making calls and conducting interviews with those on all sides. As a result, I produced a two-part series called Behind the Barb Wire that highlighted the impact of the court’s decision on farmers, sportsmen and women, and landowners. It you watch it (by clicking on the previous link), you’ll see at the very end of the second report that I referenced a chat I had with Huey Lewis. What I didn’t spell out, because it wasn’t pertinent to the overall story, were the details of our interaction. But it was pretty darn cool.

After working a bit to track down his phone number, I called Huey. He was cordial and said he did not want to go on camera. Instead, he invited me to drive to his home to talk about the issue in person. Even though I had driven down the road where he lives a number of times previously to visit friends in the same area, I had never noticed his home back off the road among some trees. It was a nice house. Actually a beautiful large house, but not a monstrous mansion like some may expect. After pulling up, he invited me in and we sat and talked in his kitchen. If I remember correctly, Huey had previously lived somewhere in and around San Francisco but also had this home, which he made his full-time residence a number of years earlier. Then he suggested we go outside and check out the slough, first-hand.

Once out front, he walked toward a four-wheeler and said, “Okay, act like my girlfriend. Hop on the back and I’ll drive you around.”

So there I was, straddling the same seat and riding across some 350 acres with the guy who belted out, “That’s the Power of Love!” from my early 20s. Kind of surreal but downright cool. He drove me over to different sections of the slough and showed me work he carried out to both restore structure and remove silt from the waterway. He spoke about stream restoration, fish habitat, collaborating with farmers and fellow landowners, allowing friends to hunt his property and doing what was best for the resource.

I don’t recall how long I spent with Huey -it had to be at least an hour or 90 minutes- but I do recall walking off the property thinking, “This is a guy who cares about the land and cares about fish and wildlife.”

Even though the legal case had been decided, the repercussions continued to percolate and Mitchell Slough remained a dicey topic. I had also interviewed locals who continued to speak out against the landowners. I got word about a gathering at a private business not even a mile from Huey’s property to talk more about it in a press conference setting. Since it was so close to his place, I reached out to Huey to ask him what he knew about it. He’d not heard a thing. I showed up with my camera gear along with a reporter from the local newspaper. The proponents were seated behind a table at the front of the room. As we got closer to the time the meeting was to begin, the room began to fill with more than a dozen men and women wearing flannel, overalls, work boots, jeans and caps. These were the landowners who got word about the meeting and wanted their side of the story to be heard as well.

As I stood there pulling out my tripod, setting up my camera and getting prepared with a pen and notepad in hand, I did so with my back to the commotion behind me. Then I felt a strong poke in the back. I turned around and yep, there was Huey with a wiry smile on his face. He then stepped back into the throng of fellow landowners.

The proponents were surprised by the turnout of those on the other side of the issue but pressed forward talking about their arguments. Each time they made a point, landowners countered. All in all, it was quite informational and entertaining, especially for a press conference. At one point, one of the landowners said something like, “Look, we’re just regular Montanans. We are working the land and scraping by to make a living. None of us are rich.”

“I’m rich,” a voice chuckled from the back of the room. It was Huey. Having said that, it was him and very few other landowners who had pockets deep enough to pay for the annual dredging (as mentioned in my two-part news series) that brought water to the Mitchell Slough. Anyway, his comment made me chuckle inside.

After the gathering ended, I was in the parking lot and Huey came over to chat. We talked about what had been said and how it went over with proponents and landowners alike. Then I had a thought in mind so I blurted it out: “Would you be open to letting me bring a camera to one of your concerts, have full access to you and your bandmates and tell the story of what amounts to a small business man whose been successful at his business for decades now?”

“Why would I want to do that?” he responded.

“You don’t have to. But it would be a cool story to tell, especially when so many people here in western Montana basically know you as the ‘rich’ guy involved in a public access dispute,” I countered.

“I’d have to think about it,” he said.

"Okay, let me know what you think," I said.

Then I packed up my things and we both left.

I don’t remember how long it was –perhaps later that same week or a couple of weeks later –that I received a phone call. It was Huey. “I thought about it. Let’s do it. You can have full access. Pick a date and location and let me know.”

BAM! Man, I was excited! I could see it now. I’d do a two-part series that we could promote in the upcoming TV sweeps period. Part one would focus on Huey, the businessman. Part two would be kind of a behind the scenes look at this rock n roll legend with interviews with him, his fellow band members, support staff, fans and others. I’d actually be up on stage circulating among the band as they played live music. It was going to be epic and we’d get a ton of eyes on this special report.

I looked over the schedule and found the perfect location. Huey Lewis and the News had signed a deal to play a series of state fairs across the country as part of their national tour. One stop was the Eastern Idaho State Fair in Blackfoot, Idaho. It was only 330 miles away and a mere 55 miles from Rexburg, where I could stay with my brother’s family. I also asked my brother if he would tag along as my grip. He was in!

The week of the concert came and the newsroom was abuzz. With plans in place, I was ready to go. Just two days before hitting the road, my general manager came over from next door and said straight out, “Mark, you can’t go.” I asked why. He just said “no” and that was that. No explanation – nothing. Needless to say, I was pretty upset. My co-anchor was upset. The news director was upset. The entire newsroom was upset. A terrific opportunity to headline the next ratings period with a dynamite and easily promotable two-part special report about one of America’s best-known musicians and his band was out the window.

Disappointment aside, I still heard from Huey periodically. I got word about the dredging of the Mitchell Slough, took my camera and got some video. Sure enough, the heavy machinery dug what amounted to a ditch from the edge of the Bitterroot River more than a quarter mile to the mouth of the slough, which allowed water to reach the headgates.

Then Michael Jackson unexpected passed away in 2009. As the shocked entertainment world speculated at what happened and reacted, we had a direct pipeline to someone who performed with him. Huey was part of the massive blockbuster of a fundraising video "We Are the World" (go to 2:48 mark) years earlier, organized, in part, by Michael Jackson. I gave Huey a call and did a brief phone interview about him that we broadcast on the news that night. Huey expressed sadness and admiration for both the person and performer Jackson was.

In the late summer of 2010, I received a small package in the mail at work. I opened it up and it was a CD. Not only was it a CD, but it was a prerelease promotional copy of Soulsville, the first album released by Huey Lewis and the News in almost a decade. It was cool to get a copy of new music before it went public. I gave him a quick buzz and expressed thanks.

About this same time, my co-anchor Jill was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was a trying time for her and the entire newsroom. She slogged through radiation treatments, lost her hair and dealt with health challenges and other issues. What could I do? How could I cheer her up? Then it dawned on me – ask Huey if he could swing by for a surprise visit. I gave him a call and we set up a date when he was home on break from touring.

I was pretty excited when the day came. I couldn’t wait to see her face after learning Huey was coming just to see her. Unfortunately, when Huey checked in at the office next door, the receptionist called Jill to tell him he was there. Jill flew out the door without me even knowing it. Oh well, the surprise was gone but that really didn’t matter. I went next door and, with Jill, brought him back to the newsroom. That’s when I informed Jill that Huey was here just to meet and spend some time with her.

"What? Me?

"Yes Jill, Huey's here to see you!"

She was flabbergasted. The rest of the newsroom was more than surprised when we walked in because I hadn’t told anyone. Huey spent the next two to three hours talking to Jill and the rest of us. He shared tales of life on the road, posed for photos and just plain made us all laugh and laugh. We were about an hour away from the start of our early newscast when he announced he had to leave. As he did, Huey walked up to Jill, leaned in and kissed her right on the lips, said goodbye to all of us and walked out the door. Jill was speechless and giddy. It was so, so great!

To this day, I feel indebted to Huey. Other than saying “thank you," how could I express enough gratitude for what he did to help lift Jill’s spirits? Now, I know that Huey loves flyfishing. I had a  Bitterroot River flyfishing trip, guided by a friend of mine, gifted to me. I thought, “This is it – the perfect payback opportunity.” The fishing outing already had a preset date. I gave Huey a call but unfortunately, he did not get home from on tour until the night of my fishing trip. Dang it!

Maybe I’ll never get the chance to pay him back. I do drop him a text or email every year on his birthday to wish him well. And every year he responds with a “thank you” text or email in return.

Fast forward to just this past summer. My wife was out with a friend at a gym and guess who was there? Yep, it was Huey. Lori couldn’t wait to call me and tell me about it. She posted about it as well.

So, thank you Huey Lewis. Thanks for your music. Thanks for sharing your talent and abilities. And thank you for your kind unselfishness. THAT’S THE POWER OF LOVE!

Back in the Game

Man oh man, being back on the softball field again is the best! The thing is I didn't think I'd ever be able to play again. Sharp pain and subsequent right shoulder surgery pulled me off both the basketball court and softball diamond and landed me in the operating room in 2020. 

When friends ask me what caused the tears in my shoulder, I tell the the same thing: "Throwing too many guys out at first base over too many years."

I thought surgery would solve my physical issues and restore me to what I was. But even after the doctor repaired multiple tears in my labrum and months of rehab with two different physical therapists, the pain persisted. Painkiller shots didn't make a difference either. A full series of x-rays then revealed I had arthritis inside my right shoulder joint. There would be no more throwing over the top like I had since I started playing in the Wichita more than 40 years earlier. 

-----

I grew up watching my Dad play softball. And he could really, really play! Dad was a switch hitter. I remember one game when he jacked a home run batting right-handed. The next time up, he pivoted around to the other side of the plate to bat left-handed. (Actually, he did that quite often.) I heard somebody on the other team make some kind of cat call about it. Dad then hit a base-clearing bomb over the right fielder's head. Yeah, Dad was a heck of a player. And he was a pitcher. And not only a pitcher, but was a surprisingly good fielder. I only say that because of the glove he used - a four-fingered, pro design Spalding with a Jerry Lumpe (1956-1967 in the major leagues) signature in its palm (see photo below). To this day, it fits my hand as well as an oversized garden glove. It's just not very big. But dad knew how to use it. He would knock down line drives or hard ground balls and gun down runners at first base.  

I played a couple years of little league baseball when I was in third and fourth grade but started playing softball in the Wichita men's city league when I was 15. I was a little guy - maybe 5-feet 8-inches or so and probably not weighing more than 125 pounds. But I could slap the ball and run pretty fast. I saved up some money from my part-time job, went to the store and bought a glove of my own. It wasn't name brand or anything but it was a "Mark Holyoak Pro Player" model, thanks to our wood-burning set. It served me well for several decades before I passed it on to my son, Jace, who used it until it basically fell apart after a 40-year life. 

In 1981, I got a letter while attending Ricks College. My teenage buddies back home picked me as our softball coach. When I got home, I signed up our team to play in the same city league division that the men from our church had played in for years. I was our oldest player at the age of 18 and our youngest was 14. 

We got off to a 3-0 start on the season but when we played the men from our church, we seemed to be psyched out. Maybe it's because we had always been their backups. Then in church that Sunday, the father of one of the men's players was at the podium and said something like, "Well, I guess the seniors (top and bottom in photo below) showed the juniors how to play ball last night. 

When the rematch rolled around, it was our tenth game of the season. We were 4-5 overall but this was the big one. We were mad and wanted revenge. I was 0-for-4 at the plate but caught three line drives and threw out five others guys from third base. The juniors were clinging to a 4-3 lead in the bottom of the seventh inning. With two outs, they had runners at first and third and their power hitter at the plate. He hit a one-hop shot right at me. I shoveled it in and threw him out. We were jumping around and yelling while the seniors had their heads down. It was glorious! The next day, John Bazzelle happened to be speaking in church and told the congregation how the rematch went down. Ah yeah!

We went on to win three of our final five games including a victory over a team that was unbeaten at 11-0 and an 8-7 season-finale victory against a team with a cocky, loud-mouthed shortstop who was talking it up with us all game long. That win denied his team of advancing to the state tournament. 

That's our team in the middle photo. Top row - left to right: Dean Orr, John McCurdy, Larry Hooper, Matt Merrill, John Bazzelle and Jeff Voran. Bottom row kneeling - left to right: Doug Corbett, Scott Hooper, Vaughn Swink, me and Darren Swink. 

A final record of 8-6 for a bunch of teenagers playing in a men's league - not bad. Not bad at all.

I continued to play softball throughout my college years and, of course, each summer when I was back home in Kansas. That included a trip to the state tournament in Hutchinson, Kansas, which was pretty cool because they had scoreboards and a public address announcer that announced your name and position each time you went to the plate, as well as several church tournaments including one in Lincoln, Nebraska.

When I started my career in broadcast journalism, I played a few seasons here and there but it was difficult because I worked second shift and was often shooting games or stories in the evening. However, when I transitioned from television sports to television news and moved to Montana, I suddenly had a dependable dinner break. And that opened the door for a full-time return to the softball field. 

In 2003, our newly-hired weather guy, Russ Thomas, wanted to put a softball team together so several of us started recruiting friends and friends of friends. He landed an annual sponsorship from Taco Johns and we began a successful run over the next 15 years of highly competitive and even dominating  softball including several trips to the state tournament. I have man fond memories of these teams. Among them, I got to play a couple of seasons with Jace - one before his mission to Australia and one when he returned home. But most of all, there's nothing like playing with good teammates who are good guys and good players.

Russ Thomas - teammates in 2003 and still teammates in 2022

Taco Johns founders: Travis Munden, Me, Russ & Jay Allen

That one time I tried to stretch a single into a double but got gunned down at second

Father-son teammates

With my buddy Devin Huntley

Awarding the Three Wolf Moon Player of the Game to Tony on the left with Nick on the right

Over our last three seasons, we finished with an overall record of 40-4 including three first-place finishes. 

Back to 2022. Since my long-time team, Taco Johns, disbanded before COVID-19 shut down the 2020 season and shortened the 2021 season, I didn't have a team to play for anyway. However, I received an invitation to play but I couldn't throw the ball with any kind of force and without a jolt of pain so I declined to play in '21. A longtime teammate and former co-worker, Russ Thomas, reached out before the 2022 season and asked me to give it a go. 

"Sure, I'll show up to a practice," I promised Russ. "We'll see if I can still swing the bat and go from there."

Well, I never made it to a practice due to crummy weather and conflicting schedules. And I knew my shoulder wouldn't let me play in the outfield or make any long throws across the infield. So, I showed up for the first game of the season with no real expectations. Our manager, Matt, put me in at catcher. It felt so, so good to jog back onto the field with teammates.

I also pitched a few innings and played a couple more at first base. I didn't have to make any overhand throws. And at the plate? Matt put me at the bottom of the order, which is exactly where I'd put an old guy who hadn't played a game in three years. How did it go? Just a bit of a surprise - good, solid swings, hard ground balls and line drives in the gaps. It was a 4-for-4 night in a season-opening victory.  

My first at-bat in three years

As I drove home, I was just tickled. I thought, "Mark, you can still do this. You can be productive. You can still swing the bat. You can play where your shoulder allows you to play. And, most importantly, you can contribute and help your team win!"

I didn't know most of the guys on the team but the others, I certainly did. They were the leftovers of the old Taco Johns team - Russ, Mitch, fast Russ, Jay, Scott and me. All great guys. All older guys (not as old as me, except for Jay) but all good guys and good players who know how to win.  

As the season got going, I continued to be a bit surprised. I consistently kept hitting for a high average like I hadn't in years. No deep drives to the fence or anything like that but looping line drives, seeing-eye ground ball singles to all fields and occasional extra-base hits. 

I guess Matt liked what he saw because three games in, he had me batting second in the lineup where I stayed the rest of the year. Our leadoff guy was speedy. He'd get on base. Then I'd follow with base hit and we'd both come in to score as we hit the meat of the lineup. I ended up batting about .700 on the season.

Here comes the pitch...(with my granddaughter Lexi cheering me on)

...there it goes...

...base hit into center field

On the field, Matt asked me to start the third game or so on the mound and kept me there as pitcher for much of the rest of the season. I really never pitched until about five years ago. Maybe it's just an "old man" kind of expectation, I really don't know. But I like it! It's fun having the ball in your hand on every play when on defense. We had one game about a third of the way through the season where the other team must have hit the ball at me like 12-15 times in one game. It was crazy! Ground balls, line drives, pop ups, dribblers, you name it. We even turned a double play. 

Back on the mound for a beautiful Montana summer evening of softball

Now, throwing the ball to first base was anything but graceful. I was sort of slinging it sidearm or underhanded - just however I could get it over there as quick as I could to get the runner out without causing too much shoulder pain.

I don't know where we finished in the standings - probably third or fourth or so but my understanding was it was a good improvement over the year before. It was such a great, great time!

So what's next? After all, I turn 60 years of age this offseason. Mic drop and walk away? Heck no! This old guy is playing basketball in the winter months and lifting weights (where my shoulder allows) to gear up for next season. After all, we've got more games to play and more games to win! 

Taking off the cleats for the final time in 2022. Bring on 2023!

"Girls Camp" Isn't Just for Girls

It's always fun when you discover something you've always known, but now you're actually a part of it. My wife, Lori, has a leadership position working with the older girls in our church (the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints). Anyway, because of that she is involved in all of the girls' activities, and I often get to go along too.

Let me tell you a little about Girls Camp. It's a three to five-day "girls only" campout for those turning 12 years of age during the year to those who just graduated from high school. That's right, only girls and adult female leaders, however they usually ask a couple of men to serve as security and do other things to help out. I was asked to go along in 2021 and after that experience, I said "I'm definitely in for next year too."

The girls, their leaders and a photo bomber (to the left)

We just got home from the 2022 camp up Petty Creek in western Montana. Camp leaders referred to 2022 camp as "Plan B" because rising river levels left the planned campsite under about a foot and a half of water so they made a last-minute decision and we ended up on private property in an absolutely beautiful setting in the mountains surrounded by the Lolo National Forest. Leaders and girls alike rolled with the punches and had a great time. 

We had three great meals a day served under a large tent, slept in small tents and the girls took part in a wide array of activities including orienteering, bear identification and safety (I was asked to lead that one), fire building, first aid, herbs and edibles, devotionals, camp songs, flag ceremonies, polar plunges, rock painting, hair tinsel, personalized lantern bags, volleyball, glow stick night games and other activities. 

Lori and I accompanied two of the four groups up in the mountains to a small spring-fed waterfall that shot out of the rock. It was a short hike - only a little over a mile - but it was a little rugged, which everyone seemed to like. First we walked through a nice grassy meadow and then headed through thick brush, crossed the stream several times, made our way across a rock scramble of loose flagstones of all shapes and sizes, and then had to climb single file to hike across a steep rock face and then drop into where we got a nice view of the waterfall. Even though it was 90 degrees that day, the temperatures were really cool by the spring. And the water was oh so wonderfully cold and delicious!

We started in a meadow...

...ascended to the high country...

...and made it to the waterfall...

...where more photo-bombing took place.

Cornhole showdown

While there were a lot of activities, our job (Adam Smith, Ronan Stake president, and I) was just to wander around in the background. Although when we were publicly challenged three different times to cornhole showdowns in front of the entire camp that cheered against us, we pulled out three hard-fought victories. 

I also brought along my fly rod so when one of the leaders said, "Okay Mark, time to create your own personal lantern bag," I took that as a cue to grab my fishing pole, thrash through the streamside brush and hop in the creek. The water was really cold since it's snowmelt runoff but the fish cooperated. I ended up catching seven of them in an hour or so even though number-eight, the largest of the batch, spit out my fly and got away.

Camp cornhole kings

Right after I got back, one of the camp leaders asked if I'd get some bird's eye view photos of the campsite for the property's owner. "A bird's eye view?" I asked. "From how high up?" "Yeah, climb up the mountain and get some good photos, okay?" Because of the heights of the ponderosa trees in the forest, then meant a bit of a hike to get high enough above them that I could get a view of most of the camp, or at least the portion where we all camped. The rock facing was pretty steep but that made it kind of like climbing a ladder in spots so getting up was much quicker than getting down. But once up there, the view of the entire little valley was pretty spectacular.

A bird's eye view of Girls Camp 2022

Where I took the photo

The best part of everything was getting to know these fun, quality young women. They're all just so wonderful in their own ways. I even met a cousin with the same last name and with a name like Holyoak, that just doesn't happen. Apparently they just moved here a little while back and something like her great, great, great, great grandfather and my great, great, great grandfather were brothers. How about that?!

So my third girls camp experience was such a good time. And of course, it rained the last night there so everything was soaked.

Girls camp experience number-two took place in August 2021 on the banks of the Flathead River near the National Bison Range in Moiese. It was hot, hot, hot and fun, fun, fun. 

This time, Lori and I borrowed our son-in-law's camper that sat in the back of his pickup. And this time, I was the only adult male for most of camp. One night while we were sleeping, we got a knock on the door at about 1 or 2 o'clock in the morning: "Mark, Mark, we need you to come out. We think there's a bear in the camp," they whispered with a sense of urgency. This was a 50-50 proposition. Chances are it was a black bear but we were camping in grizzly bear territory too so I hoped for the former. Out of the tent, I shined my flashlight into the tents and across the river. And then I heard it. It came from across the river and sounded kind of like a mew. I recognized it immediately. It was a cow elk. In fact, from the noise across the river, I could tell it was a herd of elk. "Are you sure that's an elk? How do you know?" I just laughed since I work at the Rocky Mountain Elk Foundation and I'd just gotten home a couple of days earlier from the RMEF World Elk Calling Championships, plus I'm a hunter. I told them I had a pretty good idea what an elk sounded like. I walked throughout camp, assured them everything was okay and we all went back to bed.

Like the 2022 version, the 2021 camp was a great time as well. In addition to a bunch of activities, the girls and leaders navigated a mud obstacle course. They were all a grimy, mucky mess. I was stationed toward the end of the course behind one of those large agricultural sprinklers so, of course, I manned it like a water cannon and soaked any and all girls that came within range. From there, the girls loaded onto a flatbed trailer attached to a tractor and I drove them through fields of crops to the edge of the Flathead River so they could jump in, rinse off and swim their way downstream to camp. 

Mud obstacle course = conquered!

Heading upstream on the beautiful Flathead River

One morning, I got up early and paddled my paddleboard upstream about a half mile or so to an island in the river for some early morning fishing. I wasn't there very long but it was so peaceful, fun and yes, successful. On one of my first couple of casts I hooked a smaller fish. As it got closer to me, I could tell it wasn't a trout. In fact, I couldn't tell what it was until I pulled it out of the water. It was a smallmouth bass - the first bass I'd caught since my teenage days back in Kansas. Then on the next cast I pulled in a 20-inch rainbow. Man, it was a nice, big, pretty fish. 

The highlighted activity was a 10-mile raft float on the Flathead. We piled into trucks and cars and headed upriver. Each raft held eight to 10 girls and a couple of leaders. They pumped up their rafts and one by one, launched into the river. I was asked to be the mobile security guy so I floated along on my paddleboard which was perfect since I could float downstream or pivot and paddle upstream if needed for whatever situation. One of the rafts did get stuck on a rock for a few minutes so we had everyone move to a part of the raft not on the rock. Then they all rocked and bounced as I pushed with both feet. Eventually they popped off of it and were on their way. We pulled off about halfway through the float and ate sack lunches. Back on the river, more girls jumped into the water as temperatures heated up. I was getting steamy too but never had to leave my paddleboard. They were all tethered to their rafts so they would float alongside them. I couldn't afford to have my paddleboard float away so instead of jumping in, I made my way alongside several of them, yelled "Attack!" and started splashing them with water by slapping my paddle on the river. All of them were armed with water soaker guns and they just punished me with water. I'd yell, "Ha missed! Missed again! You're all awful shots!" Of course I was doused with water that felt oh so good. And somewhat surprisingly, even though the river was large and deep in places, the water was really, really warm. Anyway, I carried out several attacks along the way and got wonderfully soaked each time.

The 2021 crew. (Yeah, they clean up well.)

My first girls camp experience was 42 years earlier as a 17-year-old just out of high school and, no I was not invited. A group of us teenage guys decided to hit the drive-in theater while the girls, a few of which we were dating, were at girls camp near Augusta, Kansas. My buddy John got the family van and a whole bunch of us piled in for the all-night Pink Panther movie-a-thon at the local drive-in theater. After watching a couple of them and eating a bunch of burgers and junk food, it was around 1 a.m. or so. That’s when we came up with the idea to crash girls camp. The goal was to somehow find the girls we knew, hide in the bushes and jump out and scare the brains out of them. After sneaking around for a while, we still couldn’t find our girls but at one point a group of other girls found us as we hid in high grass. The beams from their flashlights were right on three of us. Then they said, “There’s some men!” and ran off. About an hour later I asked John if he had his keys to the van. He said he left them in the ignition because he thought we would make a quick getaway. As we started back to the van, we saw a car drive close to us so we dove into a ditch. After the driver left, we snuck up to the van but it was locked. We’d been caught so we stood out in the open and the camp leaders came and balled us out. 

The head lady wanted to call the bishop (my dad at the time) at 2:30 a.m. and tell him to come get us. She and her husband treated us like we committed some sort of terrible crime or something. The lady’s husband made us write down our names, ages and other information. They said we needed to apologize to church leaders, write a letter, do all-night labor and other stuff. The only thing that kept us from getting killed was a man from our church unit who had been one my youth leaders when I was younger. He knew we were good kids and calmed down the camp leaders. They determined our punishment was we had to tell the bishop what we’d done. I thought that was really unfair because my dad was our bishop. What about the other guys telling their parents, too? We drove back to Wichita and crashed in John’s living room. Later that day, all the guys came over to my house. Dad talked to us a little and agreed with us that the whole thing got blown out of proportion.

So I guess I'm a bit of a girls camp veteran. Can't wait for 2023!