By Erik Brihagen

I have a crazy idea and I scream as much on this seventh raging night of as many windless days in a row. I look toward my dispirited comrades seated around an old, weathered picnic table, scarred with initials and dates of nuclear days past. The lantern on the table, though slung by sandbags, shudders in the gusts, barely holding its own against a full and bright summer moon.

"MIDNIGHT RIDE!"

Redford looks up from the table-carvings, an eyebrow raised. Otto, from here, and Mo, from there, thumb wrestle for international honors. Denny is off somewhere, doing whatever Denny does.

"Come on guys, think about it", I holler over the howling gale, "The full moon, the wide open river. Not another soul in sight."

Dead silence, no response, nothing, and I don't get it. Every day past, all day, we raged on and on about the epic moments we hoped to spend shredding the river into silvery ribbons. And every night past, all night, we raised toast after toast to a raging wind that rose with the moon to bite the heels of those sweltering, windless days, a wind that cooled and rekindled our desiccated spirits that had been wrung dry by the breathless heat. And now they're dumbstruck?!

"MIDNIGHT RIDE, MIDNIGHT RIDE!" I chant rhythmically, pounding both fists on the table.

"Shred, give it a rest, aye," shouts Mo.

"But this is our last chance," I scream, "We can't go home without a taste of it!"

"We're not in Kansas anymore, man," Otto growls, "This is the big time."

"But if we all… "

"Face it, ol' buddy," shouts Redford, "if you were gonna do it, you'd have done it by now."

"Here, Here," the others chant in unison.

Undaunted, I throw out my arms and chest toward the raging night sky and scream, "Just look at it, man! The full moon, the wide open river, not another soul in … "

KABLAAAM! A thunderous gust slams our campsite and wailing groans of twisting trunks and snap-crackles of warping limbs erupt around us as cool, stinging spray explodes through the hell-bent trees at the river's edge.

"Look out, aye!" screams Mo, as a sudden rain of shattered twigs shoots down around us.

"Under the table," Redford hollers, "Quick!"

"Whooeeee," chides Otto, grinning snidely and laughing as he slides off the bench and down, "We sure as HELL ain't in Kansas anymore."

I grit my teeth in defiance and leap to the top of the table, bobbing and weaving through a second wave of small branches and scraps. I cop a stiff-shouldered lean against this freight train of liquid smoke and begin to stamp my feet, hard, in a rhythmic march just inches from the heads of my bunkered fellows. I begin, again, "Mid-night-ride, mid-night-ride, mid-night… ."

"Look out for the trees, aye, look out for the…."

"MIDNIGHT RIDE, MIDNIGHT RIDE," I chant louder and louder as I throw my fisted arms up and into the maddening wind.

"Shredman, dude, partake in a cold one," lofts a voice from behind, barely audible against the throttling testimony of the river gods.

"Denny!" I start to turn, "Tell 'em, man, they're missin' it, they’re missin’ the whole… ."

KAARRAAACK! A splintering explosion from the river’s edge and from the corner of my eye, and then only for an instant, I see a dark, menacing shape as tall and wide as the sky rake across the waning moon and… .

"Dude, look out!"

THHHWWWAAACK! My head explodes, my eyes glaze, my legs fall out from under me and I float … slowly … down … down … down … and I see the lantern pull from its mooring and cartwheel toward Idaho … and I see, too, the moon, once clear and crisp, grow dim, as if this thick wall of wind were capable of peeling light from the face of the earth.

A field of black and a distant hiss … then … shapes of light, fat and round, glide by like wax bubbles in a lava lamp … floating, a soft blur. The hiss accelerates, maddens. I focus and the lights sharpen and flicker, smaller now, a midnight sky on fire.

I hear distant, echoing voices calling my name. I try to turn my head and suddenly my entire body, strangely fluid, is flipped to its side by a wave of undulating desert floor. The hiss explodes to a blast of wind and the voices are gone. In front of me now I see a thousand small tornadoes adorned with desert debris swirling in and out the empty underside of a table of thick, dark planks, grey and weathered, heavy as the sky itself.

KAAAWHOOOMP! A dark shape smashes onto the table and the timbers arc downward, sizzling with splinters. Another wave and I flip face up and … THERE! … in full-dress neoprene, helmet, harness and all, squared off with the eye of the wind and leaning hard to weather, is Denny. He glances teasingly my way for only an instant and, suddenly, he hurls himself up and into the raging gale, screaming with all his might, "KARAAANGAFOOOOT!"

For one dreamy moment, Denny is suspended in mid-air, a ghostly silhouette of neoprene and moxie. I reach out to Denny but in a whirlwind he is gone. Suddenly, the ground beneath me begins to flow and I am swept in a torrent to the river's edge where I see the raging wind screaming through the river valley, parsing the moonlight into streams and shadows across broad shoulders and beamy chests of marching, liquid mountains. I hear an ecstatic howl above the charging westerly. There, cloaked in thick, rich moonlight, is Denny, tucked, sheeted, and floating hard, two masts high on an angel's wing. He is face to the moon, smiling big and bouyant, teeth glowing like white-hot chicklets. "KARRANGAFOOOOT!" he screams defiantly, chest out, head back, pumping hard, rising even higher on some invisible wedge of wind.

Starboard to weather I float, stunned. I can’t take my eyes from Denny and for one dreamy moment he glows whiter than the moon and brighter.

"Waaalk the taaalk, duuuude, walk it now," his voice echoes into the roaring wind and compresses to a distant hiss. Suddenly, my fisted arms shoot up into the raging sky and time thickens, slows, and my forearms turn a steely ripple, my knuckles whiten against the strain.

"KARRANGAFOOOoooo …," I mouth in silent scream, chest out, head back … and I am pulled to a place far above the river into a sky frozen thick with stars … and from here I see the swells marching beneath crests of wispy plumage that leap and dance in the heart of every hurricane. From here, light spills like milk across the living river.

"Pull baaack, dude, rake it baaaaa …" echoes Denny’s voice, fading into midnight’s wind as he sails into a leeward valley.

Suddenly, I find myself at the helm of a glistening fiberglass buzzbomb, my hands wrapped in steely grip around the boom. I rake back hard and float down gently into a valley of wet shimmering light. My fin cuts deep into the face of the river and I bury my rail, slicing an arcing trail to windward up and toward a beaming summer moon.

In front of me and in a brilliant burst of light, Denny appears and rakes hard to launch off a leeward lip. He tucks tight and spins. His melting rig laces the sky with circles of flame round two, three, four, five rotations. He lands on the crest of a swell, perched, for one still moment, a wildfire on the leading edge of a running mountain. Suddenly, he throws a smile and freefalls, disappearing into a leeward valley.

"Hoooeeee!" I scream as I hammer left and chisel right, pulling G's that would compress the patience of Job. I chase over one swell and the next, trying to join my friend. But I turn and there above me and far, far to windward is Denny, rocketing upward, streaking wakelessly through an airy mass of cool, silvery light.

"You're doin' it, man, YOU ARE DOIN' IT," he screams, looking down, grinning. Suddenly, he throws himself from his rig and vanishes, helmet, harness and all, into the brilliant face of the moon. His rig explodes into a thousand blurry droplets of spray that race toward me like glitter in a gale. I close my eyes, but only for a moment … and Denny is gone. Then, for what seems like hours, and in tribute to my friend, I race alone across crest and through trough, slicing, arcing and rising on my own invisible wedge of wind.

Now the stars begin to fade and a feint light whispers from leeward. The swells begin to soften and the once pelting spray rolls in a gentle curl from the lips of sleepy giants. My rig flutters in one moment and stills the next as the wall of wind recedes toward the mouth of the river. The silvery ribbons once cast from the moon flee from a thousand orange flickers across a river now flatter and wide. The trees at the river’s edge slow their dance as they shake from their limbs the sweat of the evening’s rush. I fall gently from a plane and immerse into the cool, morning river. My rig dissolves from my hands like cotton candy in the rain as a slow and gentle wave pushes me up and onto the tree-lined shore. There, a thick, warm fog emerges from the undergrowth and folds me into itself and the shoreline fades slowly into a soft blur. Darkness.

A feeling of warmth washes across one side of my face. I pinch my eyes hard and open them slowly. A familiar voice fades in, "Hey Denny, he’s comin’ around. I’ll get a fresh rag."

A soft, cool light infuses everything around me, and I focus slowly to see a faded remnant of a moon, now pale and barely visible against a washed, baby-blue morning sky. I moan softly, relieved to see something familiar. Suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, pops Denny’s round, bearded face, a grin from ear to ear. "Hey Shredman, dude, you gonna join the living or what?" he chuckles.

I pinch my eyes again and see Redford standing above Denny. Redford kneels down and places a cool, moist rag on my forehead. Never mind that it smells like stale beer, I guess it’s all they have.

"You’ll need a bigger hat to fit that bump," Redford comments. They both laugh as a light breeze trickles through the campsite.

Then I remember the night. I sit up quickly and the rag catapults into the dust. "I’ve never seen anything like it before," I blurt out, "and I was there and … ." Until then I didn’t even notice the throbbing pain in my head. "Ooooohh," I groan as I grasp my head tightly in my hands.

"Denny’s been with you all night and that’s all you can say?" Redford says shaking his head. He turns and walks to the back of his canopied truck and disappears inside. The curtains in the canopy sling shut against the brightening morning light.

I take a deep breath and the throbbing wanes. "Oh man," I groan and turn to Denny, "The last thing I remember was standing on the table and then … ." I turn to look at the table. "Holy … what in the hell happened?" I exclaim, rising slowly to stand and face a picnic table nearly smashed in half by a tree, "Is THAT what…."

"… airmailed you into the river?" Denny says, laughing.

"What about the others? Was anyone hurt?" I ask.

"Nah. Couple scrapes, maybe, that’s all," Denny says, amused, "But you! You put on a righteous show."

I look hard at Denny. He looks back, a twinkle in his eye. "And you were there, too, man," I burst out excitedly, ignoring the pain in my head, "Come on, admit it, just admit it, the wide open river, not another soul in…." The pain becomes overwhelming and I stop. It is then that I notice that Denny is dressed, neck to toe, in full-dress leathers, black as midnight. "What’s this all about?" I groan through my clenched teeth.

"Gotta go," Denny says, all perky and smiling, as he jumps onto his jet-black and chrome, suicide-shift Harley.

"But Denny, what about last night? Was it real? Man you just gotta tell me about last …." Suddenly Denny leaps up and jams down on the kickstart and his bike lights up in a tremendous roar. "But your rig," I scream, "What about you’re …."

"You know what happened!" he hollers, stoking his bike to a ground-shaking fury.

"But…." I am cut off by a huge grin and a cloud of dust as Denny spins off and up the dirt road leading to the highway. I stand there, stunned, like a bird dog at an air show. He rounds the third switchback, back-dropped now in baby-blue, and throws one arm up and into the morning sky. For one dreamy moment, Denny is suspended, a monument of leather and throttling chrome. He glances down at me from the corner of his eye, smiling big and bouyant.