I did this interview with Nate sitting in an empty room at the old Masquerade in 2014. One of the nicest people I’ve ever had a conversation with.

How would you describe Xibalba to someone who had never heard your music?
When we first started this band, half of us had been in a band called Time For Change, which was a very melodic 90’s metalcore-influenced band. We always wanted to do something heavy and a little more metal influenced. When we first started this band I was like “dude, I wanna sound like Disembodied. I wanna sound like bands like that.” We wanted to start something on the heavier side. If someone asked, I’d say we’re a bunch of hardcore kids that play in a really metal-influenced band.

Let’s get a little more in-depth about how it all came together.
Like I said, we all played in bands together and whatnot. The idea for the band started when I got out of high school in 2006. The band formed and put out a demo in 2007.

What’s the overall message behind Xibalba? Is there one?
When Xibalba first started and we released our demo Madre Mia that was a really dark time for me personally as far as things going on in my life. I read it back to myself and it’s like “holy shit—that’s a place I really don’t want to visit again,” and with Hasta La Muerte it’s all personal and angry, but with the new record that we’re writing I want to write some kind of message and feel to it. I hope when people read our lyrics they take it to heart and read it and not just make us some fucking band that’s heavy and people come out and beat each other up to. A lot of the shit’s personal, and to put it on a record and have people hear it is kinda scary. With the new stuff I’m in a better place in life, and I think that’ll show. I’ve been able to do a lot of shit because of this band, and I’m very grateful for that. I want to take these pissed off words and make a change with it.

Between releasing Madre Mia and Hasta La Muerte, how have things changed? Did you approach the last record any differently than you did the first?
The two guys who write most of our music, our drummer and our guitarist, are both very doom metal influenced, so it definitely got a little bit darker. It got a little bit more mature. I think that’s just natural for any band. It definitely got heavier. Lyrically, it was cool to have longer songs and darker tones to it because a lot of the lyrics I write are very dark. It’s cool to put a sound to the lyrics. I’m stoked on it.

Speaking of your lyrics, do you have a process for writing?
I kinda just write—write words, write verses. I kinda just always write stuff and then once we record the music that’s when I start piecing together the lyrics and putting it all together. I write the lyrics after the music is recorded.

Can you talk a little more about this new record? When can we look forward to that coming out?
Interview wise you’re the first person I’ve talked about this new record with. It’s called “Tierra de Libertad” which means “land of liberty.” My idea behind that is this: I’ve been able to do a lot with this band, and I’ve been able to travel, and I think a lot of people become so entitled and so proud about where they come from and whatnot. Like, I’m proud to be a Mexican-American that lives in the States, but I want to make it a point that no matter where you go, everyone is a human. My idea for “Tierra de Libertad” is that no matter where I go, no matter where, I cannot be denied of any land. That land belongs to me. No one can take that away from me because some fuckin’ asshole put some kind of ideals that take away from basic human rights. No matter where I go—that shit’s mine. As far as when it comes out, we’ve started pre-production and whatnot, and we’re hoping to get it out by late summer or early fall.

Any shout outs?
Well, I mean, Atlanta. Definitely Foundation. I fucking love that band. Criminal Instinct. My buddies band Fit For An Autopsy just moved here. Clenched Fist. All bands that are very supportive. It’s cool to see bands and people that care about their music.

I did this interview with Alex Russin of Cold World several years ago with the best intention of getting a zine done shortly after. Life had other plans. Rest in peace Sean Price.

For anyone who might not know, what is your name and what do you do in Cold World?I’m Alex Russin I play guitar and sing in Cold World.

What is the Cold World story? How did y’all get started?
Uhm, that’s a long time ago now. We started in like ’04, which is really weird to think about. We started… Nick, Dan, and I had been in a band when I was in, like, high school. It was called Magnum and I really liked Dan as a front man, and I really liked Nick as a drummer. In Wilkes Barre, it was a lot different than anywhere else at the time. I mean, things are a lot different now, so it’s kinda weird to look at it in the perspective, but looking at it through this lens it was, like, a lot more segregated. If you liked Underdog and Youth of Today, you didn’t like Life of Agony and Biohazard. It was, like, one or the other. I remember talking to Nick one day and we were like “we should do something that’s kinda right in the middle of all that stuff” because that’s what we liked, and that’s what we ended up doing. There isn’t like any singing, like “Biohazard-y” type vocals, but in the music you can hear it. You could really tell what we were trying to do with that part. The hip-hop thing was really Nick. Nick is really into hip-hop. We all really like it, but I don’t know anybody that knows as much about it as him. He just kinda wanted to bring it in, I thought it was cool, and we did it tastefully.

That’s funny you say that last part because that into what my next question was going to be. Cold World obviously has some hip-hop influence.
I’m not gonna say that we were the first people that found the correlation, I mean, obviously we weren’t. It’s been around a long time—the direct line between hardcore and hip-hop. There’s always been a ton of hardcore kids that were super into it, but you knew who you were. It was a thing within itself almost. We thought we could do it tastefully, in a way that was almost like icing on the cake instead of making it the backbone or something. Nick did that. He has a great ear for that sorta stuff.

So is that link to hip-hop culture what ended up leading to the collaboration with Sean Price?
Kinda. That was actually our friend Max who lives in New York and runs Fun City Tattoos. He has this thing called the White Glove Group and he just wanted to put out wild ass stuff. That was kinda his thing.  We had no connection to Sean Price—we knew who Sean Price was, but we had no personal interaction with him on our own.

So it wasn’t like he was coming to y’alls shows or was friends with Nick or anything
No, no, no. The first time we met him was in the studio. It was a crazy experience. He was like, listening to it, and when the mosh part comes in in that song, he was just sitting there and he starts making this face and says “that part’s Satan.” He heard me singing and he was like “how do you do that” and this and that, and I was like “I don’t know man, you just do it.” He was like “I want you to sing and play on my next LP,” and I was like “yeah, definitely.” That was the last I heard of that. Then when we saw him at the video shoot, it was like he had never seen me in his life. I was like “What’s up? I’m Alex,” and he was like “Oh, what’s up? I’m Sean. Nice to meet you,” but I mean it’s cool. It was really cool. It was really fun to do.

If I could see Sean Price and Cold World do that song live, I’d leave the realm of the living. Was he weirded out by all these kids jumping around and whatnot?
Filming that video was one of the weirdest days of my life. He thought it was so crazy, like so cool. He had a decent amount of people that were with him. Like, maybe ten people that were with him. It was a packed show. He kinda stayed with the people that came with him and we stayed with our people. Apparently, it was originally supposed to be Trapped Under Ice and somebody else, but it fell apart.

I want to say that the last time I saw Cold World play, George from Blacklisted was doing vocals.
I haven’t actually been doing any touring with Cold World recently. Arthur who plays in War Hungry, he’s pretty much in Cold World. On that tour Dan, who lives in England and has a girlfriend and three kids, and they have, like a business and stuff—so he can only go away for X amount of time, so when he went home George met up and he filled in for him. I’ve known every member of Blacklisted for a long time now. I’ve known George for like fifteen years. Those guys are just, like, old friends who happen to be in a band that’s awesome.

That’s been a band I wanted to see for forever, but I’ve never seen them. I feel like I missed out on seeing a lot of bands because I don’t think they’ve really toured a lot since I started going to shows.
I was actually thinking about that the other day. I was getting sucked into like a YouTube cypher or something. No matter how old you are, unless you started going to shows in like, 1980, you are always going to have missed something. I’ve been going to shows since I was fourteen. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed. I still saw a lot of cool stuff.  

That’s a long time to be going to shows. What’s been your favorite era of hardcore or your favorite thing about it?
There’s like the cycles of everything. So, when I first started coming around, the biggest thing was the “youth crew revival” is what it was called, so bands and like Floorpunch, In My Eyes, and Ten Yard Fight. Those were, like, the big ones, then it was like the littler ones like Redemption 87—all that stuff. That was the huge thing, but it was a world unto itself in hardcore. I always liked that, but at the same time I loved Madball. Now, everything is much more together and I like that a lot, but the thing I miss about when I first started going to shows is the camaraderie. It’s not there anymore. I think that just has to do with the Internet.  It’s not like, you know, like the Internet ruined everything. It used to be like if I went away on a family trip and if I saw somebody in a Chain of Strength shirt I’d be like “hey, what’s up? how are you? it’s nice to meet you—” just talk to them. Now, you see somebody in a Chain of Strength shirt and you think “that person may have never heard a hardcore band in their life.” It’s also just, like, the Internet creates fake friendships. People are just less willing to go say “hi” to that person just because they’re wearing a hardcore shirt. I miss that dearly. It was harder to reach out to everybody, but it was so much tighter-knit because of it.

I totally get that, it’s almost like someone might actually snub their nose at you if you walked up and said “sick shirt man,”
I mean-- hardcore is huge now. They sold out the Electric Factory, which is like the biggest venue in Philadelphia. That never would have happened a few years ago. The biggest fest we used to have was Positive Numbers Fest, and that was in Wilkes Barre and it sold out at like 500, and we were like “holy shit.” So it’s just crazy that it has gotten to this point, which is cool, but it’s harder to make that instant connection. Every era has its moments. It’s cool. It’s bad. If anybody wants to read what I have to say listen to every band you can and who cares who likes what. If it sounds cool to you and it makes you wanna mosh, start a band, become a vegetarian, turn the record off and never listen to it again—who cares? That’s how you find out. Who cares what other people think about it?

I can’t say that I’ve met a whole lot of hardcore kids that went on to be lawyers.
Not many hardcore kids that are attorneys—more so than you would expect—but yeah. I get looked at very peculiarly sometimes. Especially by people who have known me a long time and who haven’t seen me in a few years. They’re like “what?” and I’m like “yeah man, I do estate planning.” It’s what I do. I love it. It’s a good job. 

Do people every give you attitude for having other stuff going on? Like accuse you of “dropping out?”
My friends will bust on me a little bit. I was at my parents house tonight because my brother is in town, and Hoodrack was there and he was busting my balls in a way only a friend can bust your balls, but everyone understands. I put in a decent amount of time and I go to a show whenever I can. I have a kid, a job, and a wife. I have two kids under two. I’ll never be done with it. When you’re in it for this long, it’s different. I still go to shows, and I feel just as at home as anywhere else. No one can ever accuse me of dropping out. People drop out. I’ve seen it happen so many times. I don’t have anything to prove to anybody. I’m a dad and a lawyer, but I’m still a hardcore kid.

It’s weird having responsibilities. I feel like my biggest fear being a teacher is that one day I’ll land on one of my students at a hardcore show.
Every hardcore kid I know that’s a teacher has seen at least one student at a show and the kid’s like awe struck.

It’s crazy to think about. Some of the best times in my life have been in a car with my best friends. Like, following Foundation up the East Coast. Going to see them in NYC. I had never even been up there before. It was definitely different.
Going all over the place, and seeing how different things are, but even that’s changed since the Internet. It’s become less dissimilar and more similar.

One of the things I actually love about hardcore is how diverse it really is. I mean, you have bands like Xibalba, and then you’ve got Title Fight. I like how a bunch of stuff is included.
You know what? I was thinking about it the one day, and I always, people try to give Title Fight shit. Like, “you’re not a hardcore band.” “You sound like Cursive or The Strokes or something.” Here’s the thing. We can all agree that Supertouch is a hardcore band. Supertouch doesn’t sound anything like what you would say “A” is for a hardcore band. Whether “A” is the Cro-Mags, or “A” is Youth of Today, or “A” is Gang Green. We can all agree that Supertouch is a hardcore band. Why? Because they’re hardcore kids. That’s their ethics. However, we are also going to agree that Slipknot isn’t a hardcore band, but Slipknot actually sounds like a lot of hardcore bands in the 90’s. They could have been on like, Victory in ’94. Why aren’t they a hardcore band? Because they’re not hardcore kids. Title Fight goes out on tour, and they bring Dead End Path. They’ll bring whoever because that’s what they do. If we can’t define it by that then what can define it by? You can’t tell me Give and Xibalba are hardcore bands if we’re only defining it by music. It’s more than that. It’s what comes out of you—as a person.

Yeah, I’ve seen plenty of comments about Xibalba. “Xibalba is a metal band…” or whatever.
Yeah, and Nate is booking— books— I don’t know how many shows every year. He books that big show that’s a toy drive for needy kids during Christmas. If Hardcore is supposed to be one thing more than anything else, it’s that we’re supposed to be a little more aware. We’re supposed to be a little more enlightened. That defines them way more than any LP they’ll every put out does, and I think they put out great LP’s.

I super appreciate you taking the time to do this man. When I tried to do the interview with Expire, I did it through email and the dude just totally blew it off and gave me one-sentence answers.
You gotta do it like this, ‘cause it’s a conversation. I hate doing email interviews.

Interview with Scott Vogel of Terror from the early in the Covid pandemic.

How’s life for you in the age of COVID? What’s been helpful in keeping you upbeat during the pandemic?
Trying my best to maintain. The world seems so off balance and troubled right now. It’s hard to stay positive and at peace, but it has been nice at the same time to not be in the mad scramble of constant tour and travel, and I have grounded myself and found some time to reflect and try to push myself forward.

When did the idea of the StickTight.LA page and the Garagecast come about? What was the vision behind that when it was conceptualized, and what’s the feedback from the community been like?
Terror has so much stuff we have done though the years, and this total pause was the perfect time to bring light to some of the things we had forgotten or tucked away while always rushing to the next move.  The garagecast is just a way for us to still be a unit, and hopefully stay connected with the people that count on us when times get hard and they need an escape. It’s all just very natural and fun for us to stay involved and keep the Terror spirit alive.

I would imagine a lot of kids are feeling the stress of this pandemic as it’s taken away a key component of the thing that we all love. What would you say to hardcore kids in 2020 that are struggling to adapt to life without shows and the community that goes along with it?
With so much technology at all of our finger tips now is the time to create. Do a zine, write some lyrics, or just dig and find new bands or old bands, and just keep your mind sharp and filled with things that make you happy. At the same time get out and jog or ride your bike, and stay up to date on current events and stay safe and informed.

To piggyback off that last question, what would you tell a kid that’s just now discovering hardcore during the pandemic? What would be your advice to them? What’s something you wish you’d known, or that you wish others around you had known when you first discovered punk and hardcore music?
I would say navigate your own path that you feel fits you and you feel inside. Don’t look for the path that others have taken or the path that seems like you are supposed to take. Hardcore means so many different things to so many people. And that’s great. Find your way that makes you feel alive and true to yourself.

I know with the rerelease of Keepers of the Faith you’ve been vocal on your Instagram and social media about how special that record was to make and release. Is it your favorite Terror album?
It’s a very important one for sure.  I don’t know, some days Lowest of the Low might be my favorite. Other days, One With the Underdogs. But when all is said and done KOTF was more than music. It’s was a mini movement within our scene that was real and pretty beautiful.

What was the catalyst for the new Buried Alive record? How’s it been resurrecting an old project, and are there any plans for Buried Alive to tour or do shows after live music is a reality again?
Reconnecting with people in the band I hadn’t talked to in many years was the true catalyst and will be the most important aspect to me—no  matter what does or does not happen. The future is wide open so who knows. Anything could happen, but at the same time I would not be surprised if you don’t get much more Buried Alive in any form.   

With all the political turmoil going on in the world today, what responsibility, in your opinion, do hardcore kids have to get out there and participate in social justice movements and the democratic process?
I don’t wanna push or pressure anyone to do anything. I do think you should sharpen your mind and become aware, and if you feel compelled become active to whatever capacity suits you. The world is ugly as hell right now and to ignore that would be kinda thoughtless and naïve, so I encourage all to seek truth and work for a fair and free world for all.

What current bands/records are you stoked about right now?
The new Westside Gunn is great, Buffalo Style!!!!  Da Cloth’s fixtape is really good. Looking forward to the next Hatebreed LP. Ways Away is really cool, but to be honest my ears are on podcast land most of the time.

What’s next for Terror post-COVID? What are the tour plans once y’all are able to get back out on the road again?
I’ve learned this year to not make plans—in my personal life and with the band. I am trying to stress less and let the pieces fall where they may and when the time is right Terror will be ready to strike.

What’s one thing worth ranting and/or being stoked about in hardcore today?
Seeing so many HC kids in July give their all to protest the death of George Floyd was inspiring for sure. Hardcore is so much more then moshing and hard breakdowns.

Funniest tour story?
When Frank 3 Guns wrote GG Allin on the bathroom wall of a hostile in Australia in his own beautiful poop. That was pretty good.

SV

2022

1. Gridiron- No Good At Goodbyes

2. Skinhead- Skinhead

3. Mindforce- New Lords

4. Fleshwater- We’re Not Here To Be Loved

5. Terror- Pain Into Power

6. Combust- Another Life

7. Vein- This World Is Going To Ruin You

8. Life’s Question- World Full Of…

9. No Pressure- No Pressure

10. SPICE- Viv

If there’s anything that Joben had plenty of, it was hammers. They lined the eaves of his small cabin in north Georgia’s most hellacious holler. His daddy couldn’t afford tools. The son of a moonshiner he was no stranger to raisin’ hell on Friday night and holy rollin’ Sunday morning— though admittedly he said the church goin’ was mostly just to meet girls. In 1943 he jumped off the back of an aircraft carrier a couple miles off the coast of New York ‘cause he’d “seen just about as much of the world as he wanted to the first go around.” When a city slick failed to make good on his debt, he laid in the bed of a truck and sawed him in two with a shotgun as he walked by. He killed two of his three wives. Buried one in the front yard. Beat both court cases after he was found out. By all accounts he was a mean old bastard that neither man nor beast wanted to get tangled up with— that is ‘til the cancer got ahold of ‘em. Few months later he died. 

The return.

Hope, Alaska is the kind of town that can be seen in its entirety by simply standing at one end of Main Street or the other. The view from both ends is spectacular—framed out by mountains. One might get the sense that they had never truly known the meaning of the word “majestic” until they had visited this quiet town on the Kenai Peninsula. There was a bar, a community center, a mercantile, and one or two homes.

I found myself at the bar, as I often do on such occasions, waiting for time to slip away while small beads of water slowly made their way down my pint glass and stained the dark, rich wood forming circular patterns that overlapped from picking it up and setting it back down again.

I hate waiting, but if I gotta I suppose a small bar in Hope is as good a place as any. 

There ain’t much of the old McCaysville left. Raymond’s dead, Papa’s Pizza burned down, Mayford’s changed ownership, and Theatre Time is selling off its inventory of VHS tapes in what seems like a permanent going out of business sale. The only thing that remains is the Conoco station, and if it ever goes the whole town’ll have to just call it quits.

But every night officer Gerald Flowers stands guard by the counter, and with tobacco juice drippin' from his mouth onto his uniform he plays scratch offs ‘cause there really ain’t much else to do ‘cept maybe run radar and harass drunks. Nothin’ ever stays the same. Nothin’ ever changes.

That is until one Sunday Gerald walked outta that gas station, sat down in his patrol car, stuck his service pistol in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. S’pose you can only play so many tickets before your luck runs out.

@emiliesinead

 “You mean to tell me you don’t change your own oil?” My coworker was looking at me like I was a city slick of the worst kind. It was a chilly September day in Fayetteville, West Virginia, and my routine maintenance light had just come on.  

 A quick trip to Wal-Mart, and we arrived back at the guide campground with several quarts of oil and a new filter. Mark crawled under the truck with a bucket and popped the plug on the oil pan while I tinkered around under the hood pretending to know more about engines than I really did. The entire process took fifteen minutes, and I saved about ten dollars.

 I thanked Mark for his help, and drove back to the lower parking lot. I had some phone calls to make, so I rolled my window down and killed the engine. All seemed right in my world until Mark came down the hill with something to say. “I hate to tell ya this bud, but I think we mighta drained your transmission fluid instead of your oil.” After a brief moment of silence, he continued. “I got to lookin’ at the stuff in the bucket, and its awful red to be oil, but don’t worry about it! We’ll take’er over to the bus garage in the morning, and I’m sure we can figure it out.”

 My next call was to the insurance company to make sure I had towing coverage. They assured me that I did and gave me the number to a local mechanics shop. I called and set up an appointment for the next day. With the light fading in the West, I decided there was nothing left to do but go join the rest of my coworkers on the porch and have a few drinks.

 I woke up early the next morning-- not because I had to, but because sleeping in the back of your truck denotes rising when the sun does. After some coffee and breakfast, I settled in with a book and waited to hear from the towing company. My insurance company called me at 11:00 and told me the tow truck would be there no later than 12:30.

 Around 4:15 I got a call from a number out of Beckley, West Virginia. It was my tow truck driver. “Hey man! I’m sorry buddy. We been slammed today. Hell, it was supposed to be my day off. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

 For the first time all day I was given an accurate time frame. Half an hour later this good ‘ol boy came careening into the parking lot damn near on two wheels. After skidding to a stop, he hopped outta the truck in a flurry of curse words and Mountain Dew cans. He was about my height, shirtless, and covered in grease. He was wearing torn up blue jeans and boots that had seen better days. Lots of folks would find this scene unsettling, but so far I was completely un-phased. I’d grown up with guys like this.

 “Hey man, I’m gonna crawl up under the truck. When I say so go pull that lever.” I walked over and examined the controls. “Ok! Pull the lever on the left! NO! NOT THAT ONE! THE OTHER ONE!” He meant the lever on the right.

 He spent several more minutes tinkering with straps and then crawled into the driver’s side. “Fuckin’ A. This was supposed to be my motherfuckin’ day off, and these cocksuckers called me into work. They don’t pay worth a shit. Want a cigarette?” Being a blue-collar worker myself, I couldn’t blame him for being angry. He put the truck in drive and took a left turn on Milroy Grose Road.

 Between the cigarette smoke, and his profane stream of consciousness, I never had the opportunity to tell him he was going the wrong way. It wasn’t until we were a quarter mile down the road that he realized the mistake. Without a word he stepped on the brake pedal and threw it into reverse. We had to navigate several sharp turns, and he didn’t slow down for any of them. I was wholly convinced we were going to slam into some poor person on their way home from the Dollar General. I was no longer comfortable with this guy’s demeanor, and for the first time I noticed how much he waved his hands around.

 We made it back to the highway without hitting anything, which, as far as I was concerned, was an act of God. He proceeded to make another wrong turn. This time I spoke up. “We need to go right,” I yelled. Halfway into the turn he cut the wheel hard and dipped the truck into the median of Highway 19. We wobbled back onto the pavement and were finally headed in the right direction.

 “Fuck it, I need to make a quick stop,” he said while passing the gas station. He swerved left cutting someone off in the process and gave them the finger out the window after the ensuing honk. Several minutes later he came back with an energy drink and a tall can of Mountain Dew. He started the engine, and for the first time since I’d gotten in the truck, he made a turn in the right direction.  

 As we started up a hill, I noticed that he was swerving ever so slightly back and forth in the lane. He noticed me notice and said, “I bet you’re wondering why I’m swerving like this.” I was dealing with a man who had a keen sense of observation. “One time I was behind a semi truck, and they was swerving up a hill like that and I says to myself—because I’m smart—I says to myself ‘that fella is swervin’ like that to keep good traction on the uphill,’ and so I swerve on the uphills.” He went on to tell me about the time he spent in prison, and all the valuable information he picked up on the inside.

 Half a mile later he noticed another tow truck parked at a volunteer fire station that happened to be down the road from the shop we were going to. He turned into the parking lot, rolled down the window, and asked the driver where he should drop the truck. Unable to find it in myself to be shocked, I watched on as the other driver gave him a confused look and said, “I don’t know man. I’m just waiting on another call.” Realizing that the fire station wasn’t our destination, he turned back onto the road without another word.

 After a brief and merciful silence, he launched into another tirade about his employer and said something that will go down as one of the most uncomfortable things ever said in my presence. Getting louder as he went on he exclaimed, “they wanna make me their ninety hour a week for two hundred dollar BITCH. I could suck your cock right now and make more money than that!”

 Get me the fuck outta here.

 We finally turned into the shop’s parking lot where he got out and started to unload my truck in the middle of the one lane entrance. My friend Christian was supposed to meet me there and give me a ride home, but so far there was no sign of him. “We can’t drop it right here,” I said. “We’ll block the entrance.” He got back in the truck and continued, “we’re allowed to accept tips, by the way. That’s how we make most of our money, kinda like you river guides.” He started filling out some paperwork.

Christian finally showed up.

 “Alright bud, if you could just sign right here I’d ‘preciate it, and I’d say your best bet is to leave the key on the tire. Ain’t no one gonna know you left it there ‘cept you and me.” “I appreciate your help,” I said as I started towards Christian’s car. “Well ain’tcha gonna leave your key,” he asked. I didn’t bother to reply as I opened the door and got in.

We drove down the road and pulled into a thrift store parking lot. We watched as the guy circled my truck a few times and looked in the windows. After several minutes, he left.

 We went back to guide camp, and I drank whiskey out of the bottle.

“Getting called up to the All-Star game, huh?”

I was standing in the parking lot of Southeastern Expeditions near Long, Creek, South Carolina talking about my upcoming move to West Virginia for several weeks.

The All-Star game being referred to was Gauley season. If you’re a river guide in the United States, you’ve inevitably heard of the “beast of the East.” Known for it’s scenic beauty and dangerous rapids, the Gauley River is the daydream of many a whitewater enthusiast.

With several respectable names on my resume, and resolved to see my dream of guiding in West Virginia come true, I submitted applications to several companies. One emailed me back fairly quickly. Their email politely told me not to hold my breath—they would be pulling Gauley guides from their full-time staff. Not one to be easily defeated, I waited for a response from the other companies.

One day in early August, I came back to the outpost to a missed call from a West Virginia area code. My mind racing, I called the number back. A man named Roger answered the phone. He told me that he had seen my application and wanted to formally offer me a job for Gauley season. I accepted without hesitation. He told me that I’d need to be there for opening weekend which gave me about three weeks to prepare.

The weeks leading up to my departure were filled with excitement and a healthy sense of trepidation. I knew that once I arrived I would have only a few days to prove myself worthy of guiding on such an infamous section of whitewater. I would begin training the day after I got there.

We put on early in the morning and did an all day trip. I was fortunate enough to get some stick time, and I felt fairly confident that I was making a good impression. By the time I made it back to the guide campground, I was exhausted. I didn’t feel like doing anything but curling up in my sleeping bag and passing out in the back of my truck, but some friends of mine from the Chattooga were in town, and I wanted to see them.

Less than enthusiastically I changed out of my river clothes, put on my chacos, and started driving towards their campsite in Summersville. Spotting their car in the campground they were at, I parked next to their site and started to climb out of the truck. As my left foot hit the ground, pain like a thousand pins and needles shot through it as I felt something trying to wriggle itself from underneath my Chacos.

I did what I imagine looked like a crude river dancing routine before turning on my headlamp to catch a glimpse of whatever had just bitten me. A fairly large copperhead was slithering quickly away toward the gravel parking area.

Dazed, I stood there for a moment before walking into the campsite and announcing my misfortune. In a drunken stupor, my friends looked at me with puzzled expressions. Finally, someone seemed to grasp what I had said and let out a hushed “no way.”

Beginning to feel a small sense of panic, I asked “who’s riding with me to the hospital?’ They all stared at me blankly. I quickly realized that, in true river guide fashion, none of them were sober enough to go with me. I couldn’t blame them.

As I raced down the gravel road towards town, I saw a ranger locking a gate and slammed on my brakes.

I hollered, “Hey buddy! A snake just bit me. What hospital should I be heading to?”

He gave me a look similar to the ones my friend had. “You jus—what now? Summersville Medical Center.”

At this point, I knew for certain that it wasn’t a “dry” bite. The wound was beginning to sting, and my foot was swelling. After parking my truck, I got out and started hobbling my way towards the entrance. The waiting room was empty. The receptionist gave me a cheerful “how may I help you?”

“A copperhead bit me.”

Blank stare. Come on, Susan.

Two minutes later I was in a different room with two nurses and a doctor drawing lines on my leg with a sharpie, stabbing me with needles, and saying things like “I think we have anti venom. Do you know if we have anti venom? I found the anti venom!”

Throughout this entire ordeal, I’d been fairly calm. It wasn’t until the nurses came in to administer the medicine that I began to panic. After starting the drip, they told me they would have to wait with me for several minutes. When I asked them why one of them replied “Some people have… ‘severe’ reactions.” It was my turn to give a blank stare. “Define severe.” “Death.” I started crying. I was a few hundred miles from my family, I had a swollen foot the size of a small melon, and the medicine they were giving me might kill me.  

After fifteen minutes it was determined I wasn’t dying, and the nurses left.  My foot was so swollen that it felt as if the skin was going to start ripping if it stretched any further.  A nurse came in with a vial of clear liquid. I assumed it was morphine, but I asked what it was anyways.

“Fentanyl.”

“You mean, like, the stuff that’s stronger than heroin?

“Yes.”

“Can’t I just have a hydrocodone or something?” She looked at me disapprovingly.

You would think that hospitals in a state ravaged by opiate addiction would prescribe milder medication when possible. No such luck. I was given a choice between taking the Fentanyl and going without. I conceded.

When I awoke the next morning, my mom was sitting across from me in the hospital room. Tears crept down my face as I thought back to the night before and how scared I’d been at the prospect of dying far away from my family. Perspective, y’all.

Determined not to let a swollen foot stop me from guiding, I started eating Motrin like candy, and a week later I took my first commercial trip as a Gauley guide.

I took five trips that season, which was a fair amount for a first year. I can’t say for sure, but I’m pretty convinced that I got so much support from my coworkers because I was the poor kid that got bit by the snake his second day in town.

I suppose it all just goes to show that when life hands you lemons, or a copperhead, you’ve got to make lemonade—or go to the hospital. Whichever.

“Are we having another round?” I looked across the table at my two friends expectantly. We were having some after work margaritas, and discussing the finer points of locker room gossip at the ski resort we all work at. We were already a couple of margaritas in and contemplating going night skiing. “I got this round,” my buddy said.

After finishing our last drink, we made our way to the locker room to get changed, where I struggled to get my boots on. “Maybe night skiing isn’t the greatest idea,” I thought to myself.

Within seconds of making my first turn I knew that I was a little too buzzed to be on my snowboard. The snow had been baking in the higher than normal temps all day, and had now become a sheet of solid ice after freezing when the temps dropped in the evening.  Between my state of mind and the conditions, I was struggling. I was glad we were the only ones night skiing. Everyone else had been smart enough to stay home.

I’m sure it was a sight to see: the loud “skkkkshhhhhhhh” sounds of my edges on the ice, arms flailing to try to keep from sliding out, the “ope ope ope’s” as I almost ate it turn after turn. I finally made it to the bottom of a run I usually fly down about ten minutes later.

I spotted a ski patrol friend of mine. “Hey Mandy! Wanna ride up with us?” Would she notice we weren’t exactly sober?

As we neared the top of the lift, Mandy asked if we wanted to hang out in the ski patrol cabin for a second and meet a few of her friends. “Come in and say hello!” It was nearing time for last chair, but we decided to visit for a few minutes and get warm.

After some banter and a few quick words on safety, my buddy, with a mischievous look in his eye, suggested that we duck the rope and head down a non-lighted run to the bottom. “Are we allowed to do that?” I looked over at my friend Mandy. Her and Dan looked at each other and shrugged. “Sure,” she said. “We don’t know anything about it.”

I 'd only ever snowboarded on the lighted runs at night. As I started to strap in, Roberto looked back and me and said “watch out for moose.”

I knew that there was a family of moose that hung out on the north side of the resort along one of the cat tracks, but I wasn’t very excited at the idea of colliding with one half blind in the dark and being subsequently stomped to death while childhood memories of Rocky and Bullwinkle flashed before my eyes.

Resolved to see this adventure through to the end, I turned, ducked the rope, and started making my way down the lead in to the run. I thought I heard someone yelling.

As we neared the horizon line that marked the beginning of our descent down the steep pitch, the lights from the town appeared and spread out before me in a dazzling display against the night sky.

I stood for several moments at the top taking it all in. I was no longer conscious of how cold I was, or that I was still buzzed and probably making some pretty reckless decisions. I was completely lost in what I was looking at.

I reluctantly took my eyes from the view I had been so transfixed by to look down the run for the first time. Moguls. The feel good moment was over. 

It hadn't occurred to us that the snowcats hadn’t started grooming operations for the evening.

I was still a little buzzed, it was dark, I was probably going to get trampled to death by a moose at any moment, and I was running a black diamond that consisted of nothing but ice and moguls. How I made it down that run in one piece is still a mystery to me, but as the run began to flatten out a little bit, I relaxed and started cruising down the run-out.

As I rounded the corner I realized that there was a fence across the run. In all of our drunken banter and shenanigans we had forgotten that there had been a race earlier that day and they had fenced off the bottom part of the run we were on. My only option to avoid the fence was to cut to the right up the bank and run under the tracks of the mountain coaster.

Just as I was about to cut under the coaster and back onto the run, my board found some ice and I was suddenly lying on my back in the snow. I chuckled to myself as I started to get up. I looked over at the fence next to me that separated the racecourse from the other runs and realized that someone in a uniform was standing on the other side.

“Let me see some passes now!”

Normally, I try to be fairly respectful of the rules of the workplace, but losing my pass wasn’t something I was willing to risk with this guy. From my side of the fence I looked at him and simply replied “hell no, boy.”

 I don’t think I’ve ever gone faster. I undid my bindings as fast as I could at the base and spotted Roberto.

“Just go. Just go. Just go,” he said. We giggled our way to the locker room and changed as quickly as we could. We hoped that if someone were looking that they wouldn’t recognize us in our normal clothes. Mandy appeared as we sat at the bus stop and offered to give us a ride home. We all had a good laugh about it. No longer paranoid about getting caught my mind drifted back to the view from the top.

I slept well that night.

My coworkers and I at our weekly margarita night. Thoughts as blurry as the picture.

I made it onto the bank just in time to watch my kayak lodge itself firmly into “Right Crack”

“FUCK! NOOOOOOOOO. NOOOOOOOO. DAMMIT.”

I made it onto the bank just in time to watch my kayak lodge itself firmly into “Right Crack” on Section IV of the Wild and Scenic Chattooga River—a section of whitewater as notorious for its ability to take the unwary from the land of the living as it is for its raw, natural beauty.

It was late in the afternoon on a cold February day, and there I stood in midst of the infamous “Five Falls” of the Chattooga River without a kayak or any means of navigating the long paddle out on Lake Tugaloo.

“Fuck. What should I do?” My friend Jake stood next to me soberly observing the scene. The stern of my kayak was barely visible above the surface after pinning itself between a rock and whatever debris was invisible underneath the turbulent water. “It looks like it’s stuck pretty good,” he commented as I stood helplessly looking at my only viable means of transportation across the lake.

After several attempts to get a carabiner attached to the grab loop of my kayak it was decided that rescue efforts were futile, and I would have to hike out. “There’s a trail somewhere below the Five Falls that leads to a road, but I’m not sure where it is,” my friend commented.

The water was high and I had taken a rather violent beating in the bottom hydraulic of a notorious, and aptly named, rapid called “Corkscrew.”

The water was high and I had taken a rather violent beating in the bottom hydraulic of a notorious, and aptly named, rapid called “Corkscrew.” I held on for as long as I could as the water thrashed me about before I was too exhausted and had to wet exit from my kayak. Left with no other option, I made my way down the bank as Jake and Stephen ran the final two drops of the Five Falls. I eventually reached a sandbar which contained a sign for a trailhead that I assumed was the aforementioned way out. “Y’all take my phone and keys. When you get to the take out, drive until you find service and figure out where the trail is going to dump me out. I’ll meet you there. If I’m not at the trailhead, drive down the road until you find me walking.”

I watched them disappear into the fading sunlight across the lake before starting down the trailhead. I moved at a light jog. My dry suit was keeping me warm enough, but I was concerned about hiking out in the dark. Do bears hibernate this far south? After several minutes of hiking, the trail dead-ended, and I was standing at the base of a waterfall. My heart sank. I ran as quickly as I could back to the beach. I was going to be “that guy.” I had no water, no means to make a fire, and I was going to have to wait there to be rescued by the Forest Service. I surveyed my surroundings for another means of escape. Finding nothing, I angrily sat down on the beach and waited.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a flat spot in the hillside off to my right. Hope surging in my chest, I jumped up and ran over to discover a trail I hadn’t seen before. Without any hesitation I took off at a run carrying my paddle in hand. It was some time later when I began to make out a black rectangular shape in the darkness that I assumed was a trailhead sign. It was. Relieved, I sat down at the base of a large pine tree and waited.

Nothing.

No car engines, no light from nearby houses, and no sign of my friends. I decided to walk down the road in an attempt to stay warm and keep my mind occupied.

I hiked for what seemed like hours before I realized that I was getting nowhere closer to rescue or civilization. Visions of Ned Beatty danced in my mind. "Deliverance" had been filmed on this river. I turned around and walked back the other direction. At some point I must have passed the trailhead again, but I was too consumed by the silence of the South Carolina wilderness to notice. I was lost, and I was very scared.

I reached a fork in the road.

Exhausted, angry, and thoroughly confused I threw down my gear in the middle of the road. I cursed quietly to myself. I couldn’t mentally afford to take another wrong turn. As far as I could tell, I was way back in the South Carolina woods without any means of navigation. After weighing my options, I decided to lay my paddle in one fork and the rest of my gear in the other. I figured that my dry suit would keep me warm enough even if I had to spend the night out in the cold. If a car came along, my gear in the middle of the road should be enough to tip off the driver that something was amiss.

No sooner had I sat down with my back against a tree than I heard the “yip yip yip” of a coyote on the prowl. Fear gripped me as I waited to hear it again. Moments passed by and there it was, but this time it sounded different. It was closer. I stood up and let out a shrill “yeeeeeeeeeeeeee yeeee!.” What I had first thought to be a coyote I quickly realized was the call of my friends. Seconds later, my call was returned. I grabbed my paddle and gear and ran in the direction of the sound. A hundred yards later I was standing on a paved road. Both forks lead to the same place. I laughed audibly. I had given up on hope just as my salvation was imminent.

Light glowed on the South Carolina pines. Moments later, my car appeared out of the darkness and relief spread over me like the warmth from a first sip of bourbon.

I threw my gear inside and sat down in the front seat tired and cold. Jake grinned at me from the driver’s side. It would take me a while to live this one down.

How many times have I given up when I shouldn’t have?

See the video below for the rescue effort: