"Haunted by Waters:" Riverboarding, Depression, and Loss

Note: Thanks to Georgia Franklin for patiently waiting for me to write down this story about her amazing husband, Mike.

Mike Franklin on the Gallatin River - First Time on a Riverboard

At the conclusion of A River Runs Through It, Norman Maclean writes:

Like many fly fishermen in western Montana where the summer days are almost Arctic in length, I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening. Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories and the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise. 


Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of those rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs. 


I am haunted by waters. 

If there is a more beautiful combination of words in the English language, no one from western Montana will admit it. I fell in love with the poetry of those words when I was a young man, but I could not grasp the wisdom in them until my own years began to pile on like a late winter snow.

My friend Mike Franklin could be described by his resume. He had an Ivy League mind, the drive of West Point, the courage of a paratrooper, the faith of a military chaplain, and the heart of a college counselor.  Mike was a big man with wild gray curls, an easy smile, with a deep voice touched by the South.

Our friendship was forged through common life experiences in West Point, rugby, the Army, our faith, a career in mental health, and personal battles with depression. Mike was always interested in knowing what tricks I used to manage my own depression to see if he could put them to use either to help his students or himself.

One afternoon, I mentioned to him how I use riverboarding to clear my mind and how Xsports4Vets has used the same model help veterans reintegrate to their communities. It seemed that the words had barely slipped from my mouth before Mike was calling me telling me he'd bought a riverboard, wetsuit, flotation gear, fins and catcher's leg shields. 

I took Mike for his first session on the Gallatin River soon after, then gave him directions towards a closer stretch of water at the Boulder River. I warned him to start after the town of Basin, because the stretch of water above that was a dicey Class IV. I'd had some brutal rides on its combination of serious hydraulic and obstacles.

A year later, Mike and I drove to the Boulder River for another run. I suggested that we put in after Basin. It was early in the season and I wasn't sure I was ready for a Class IV rapid. Mike teased me into going after the bigger water. In his defense, pestering me into a wilder stretch of river has never been the most difficult task. Within minutes, we geared up and splashed into the wild, dancing currents.

The river turned around the bend. I was floating about forty yards ahead of Mike. When the view opened up, I saw a downed pine tree stretching two thirds of the way across the river. Whitewater lingo describes a downed tree as a "strainer," an obstacle that lets the water through but will trap a person under the pressure of the raging river behind them.

I was just beyond the river's right bank and had to kick and paddle across the river in order to avoid the grasping branches. I made it almost all of the way, then spun my board off the edge of the tree top before it could catch.

I looked back up the river and yelled to warn Mike.  He came into view, saw the downed tree and begin scrambling to get across the river. Mike had a strong kick, but was too much of a novice to incorporate hand paddling to boost his speed. Mike made it to the center of the tree as the bow of his riverboard struck the wood. 

Mike's body whipped around until he was pinned flat against the straining tree. Mike struggled against the river's massive flow. He was losing strength fast. It was clear from his face that the current was beginning to pull him under.

I threw my board onto the bank and ran up toward Mike.  "Don't push against the water!"

Mike nodded that he'd heard me.  

I yelled again, "Let go of the board and roll slowly over the log!"

Mike's shoulder began to roll. I could see the rolling motion freeing his body from the powerful force of the strainer as he edged up the tree.  His shoulder slipped over the obstacle, followed by his hips and feet. Mike disappeared for a moment under the churning water, then reemerged among the rapids.  I stepped out into the water and reached out my hand.  Mike grasped it. 

I looked into his wide blue eyes. They radiated a clear will to live.  Mike had just faced the reality of death and every ounce of his being was happy to be alive.

PET Brain Scan from the National
Institute of  Mental Health

Six months later, I received a call that Mike's wife, Georgia, had returned home to find a suicide note. His depression had reemerged that summer and overwhelmed Mike with deep psychological pain. Mike's brain's neural circuits of grief, loss and suffering continued to fire regardless of his experiences and interactions with the outside world and the life that he loved. Our last conversation had been about trying to get him into cutting-edge treatments or research studies out of state or even out of country. Unfortunately, Mike was drowning and couldn't continue suffering while hoping for a miracle.

Sheriff Dutton's team found Mike's body amidst the pines on Stemple Pass above the headwaters of Norman Maclean's beloved Blackfoot River. In the years that followed, I've worked with some of the world's leading experts on depression. I know now that Mike had a version of depression that would not respond in the long-term to any kind of treatment, at least the kinds of treatment that were available in Montana in the fall of 2014. That depression lowered a dark curtain of internal pain over my friend's life that he could not roll over like that downed tree on the Boulder River.

I grasp that reality and I've used it to help me understand Mike's passing and honor his memory, but my heart will always hold the image of Mike's wide blue eyes radiating a will to live. His neural circuits afire with adrenaline and fear. Pushing that crippling depression aside and setting him free among the seething waters of the Boulder River to fight to remain with his wife, friends, colleagues and the students of Carroll College that he so loved.

I am haunted by waters. 



Post Script Note: Dedicated researchers, clinicians and funders are making serious progress in the effort to find an answer to this deadly conditions. I've seen amazing strides over the past few years and I'm deeply thankful for the people who are pushing the boundaries to make it happen.

Gutsiest Con of All Time? The Swindle After King Herod's Death

Picture of King Herod from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Herod_the_Great

October 12, 2016

I came across this story in Flavius Josephus's Antiquities of the Jews while conducting research for a book. I've been chuckling at the audacity of this plan ever since and thought it ought to be shared online the enjoyment of people who aren't reading Jewish historians from 2,000 years ago.

To put the audacity and ridiculous courageousness of this scam in perspective, Publius Quinctilius Varus had recently crucified 2,000 Jewish men for sedition against the Roman Empire.

I added in a couple of parentheticals and paragraph spaces, but otherwise left Josephus's description as it was interpreted in Havercamp's translation.

Concerning a Spurious Alexander

When the affairs had been thus settled [after King Herod's death] by Caesar [Augustus], a certain young man, by birth a Jew, but brought up by a Roman freed man in the city Sidon, ingrafted himself in the kindred of Herod, by the resemblance of his countenance, which those that saw him attested to be that of Alexander son of Herod, who he [Herod] has slain; and this was an incitement to him to endeavor to obtain the government; so he took to him as an assistant, a man of his own country, (one that was well acquainted with the affairs of the palace, but on other accounts, an ill man, and one who nature made him capable of causing great disturbances to the public, and one that became a teacher of such a mischievous contrivance to the other,) and declared himself to be Alexander, and the son of Herod, but stolen away by one of those that were sent to slay him, who, in reality, slew other men in order to deceive the spectators, but saved both him and his brother Aristobulus.

Thus was the man elated, and able to impose on those that came to him; and when he was come to Crete, he made all the Jews that came to discourse  with him believe him [to be Alexander.] And when he had gotten much more money which had been presented to him there, he passed to Melos where he got much more money than he had before, out of their belief that he was of the royal family, and their hopes that he would recover his father's principality, and reward his benefactors: so he made haste to Rome, and was conducted thither by those strangers who entertained him. He was also fortunate, as, upon his landing at Dicearchia, to bring the Jews that were there also into the same delusion; and not only other people, but also all those that had been great with Herod, or had a kindness for him, joined themselves to this man as to their king. 

The cause of it was this, that men were glad of his pretences, which were seconded by the likeness of his countenance, which made those that had been acquainted with Alexander strongly to believe that he was no other but the very same person, which they also confirmed to others by oath; insomuch that when the report went out about him that he was coming to Rome, the whole multitude of the Jews that were there went out to meet him, ascribing it to divine Providence that he had so unexpectedly escaped, and being very joyful on account of his mother's family. 

And when he was come, he was carried in a royal litter through the streets, and all of the ornaments about him were such as kings are adorned withal; and this was at the expense for those that entertained him. The multitude also flocked about him greatly, and made mighty acclamations to him, and nothing was omitted which could be thought suitable to such as had been so unexpectedly preserved.

When this thing was told to Caeser he did not believe it, because Herod was not easily to be imposed upon in such affairs as were of great concern to him; yet, having some suspicion it might be so, he sent one Celadus, a freed man of his, and one that had conversed with the young men themselves , and bade him bring Alexander into his presence: so he brought him, being no more accurate in judging about him than the rest of the multitude. 

Yet did not he deceive Caeser; for although there were a resemblance between him and Alexander, yet was it not so exact as to impose on such as were prudent in discerning; for this spurious Alexander had his hands rough, by the labours he had been put to, and instead of that softness of body which the other had, and this as derived from his delicate and generous education, this man, for the contrary reason, had a rugged body. When, therefore, Caeser saw how the master and the scholar agreed on this lying story, and in a bold way of talking, he inquired about Aristobulus, and asked what became of him, who (it seems) was stolen away together with him, and for what reason it was that he did not come along with him, and endeavor to recover that dominion wich was due his high birth also? 

And when he said, That "he had been left in the isle of Crete, for fear of the dangers of the sea, that, in case any accident should come to himself, the posterity of Mariamne might not utterly perish, but that Aristobulus might survive, and punish those that laid such treacherous designs against them." 

And when he persevered in his affirmations, and the author of the imposture agreed in supporting it, Caeser took the young man by himself, and said to him, if thou wilt not impose upon me, thou shalt escape with thy life; tell me, then, who thou art, and who it was that had boldness enough to contrive such a cheat as this. For this contrivance is too considerable a piece of villainy to be undertaken by one of thy age." 

Accordingly, because he had no other way to take, he told Caeser the contrivance, and after what manner, and by whom it was laid together. So Caeser, upon observing the spurious Alexander to be a strong active man, and fit to work with his hands, that he might not break his promise to him, put him among those that were to row among the mariners; but slew him that induced him to do what he had done; for as for the people of Melos, he thought them sufficiently punished, in having thrown away so much of their money on this spurious Alexander. And such was the ignominous conclusion of this bold contrivance about the spurious Alexander. 

Shooting Star

Note: A poem written in memory of our friend Kent Reynolds after he passed away in the summer after his senior year.

By Matt Kuntz and Eric Bryson                                                                                

August 1994

I sat awake on the dock last week 

Watching the meteor shower. 

Enthralled by the beautiful comet’s death 

And all of its radiant power. 

Running across the darkened stage 

Spilling forth desire 

I wish I had more time to watch 

That little ball of fire 

For you filled my life with so much hope 

As you rushed on through the night. 

Your heart defined a blinding courage   

Even to your final flight. 

You were such a brilliant contrast 

Above the coal black pine 

I’ll always treasure your memory 

In this brighter heart of mine. 

Your fleeting path ‘cross the sky 

Was all to no avail 

Just a ship cast in the sea 

With a tattered, lonely sail. 

That ship set sail with the hand of God 

To make it through the night. 

But somewhere along that lonely path 

It lost its guiding light. 

Just like that ship, these rocks from the heavens 

Shoot forth with awesome power 

But shortly after, all that’s left  

Is the memory of the shower. 

****

We love ya, Jive Turkey, We will see you on the road home

Beetle Kill: The Azerbistani Model for Buying America's Politicians

NOTE: This story is fiction. It's dedicated to my Grandma Jeanne O'Neill for Mother's Day. The country of Azerbistan does not exist, but the threat is real.


A wise man once said, “An attorney’s specialty chooses him or her, not the other way around.” Or, maybe it wasn’t a wise man. It’s hard to tell with sayings like that. But, the saying does apply to Gelden Gibson. Gelden’s father Horace Gibson was a corporate structure and estate planning specialist of the highest degree, at least for Montana. There was a time in the early eighties when every agricultural tax write-off over a million dollars from Cut Bank to Ekalaka had been birthed by Horace Gibson’s typewriter. That was quite the statement, because many of those ranches were hundreds of miles closer to attorneys in Billings or Great Falls than Helena.

Gelden started his professional life as a dreamer. The dreams weren’t excessive. Gelden didn’t want to be a baseball player or a nuclear engineer. He couldn’t hit a ball outside the infield and didn’t have a knack for constructing things in the physical world. Gelden just didn’t want to be a corporate transaction attorney. However, he couldn’t deny the fact that he had a preternatural understanding of the specific understanding of complex corporate legal structures. The interface between clauses and documents sang to Gelden the same way that workings of the Universe sang to Einstein. The talents that are born in you are also really hard to avoid.

Gelden’s role as an associate attorney in his father’s law firm was an inevitable as a spring thaw on Canyon Ferry Lake. It may be delayed for a while, but there was never any real doubt it would happen. Gelden’s development of his client list had more to do with luck or some other random force that wasn’t necessarily positive.

Six years ago, Horace Gibson received a phone call from Azerbistan. The man on the other end of the phone said he’d met with Congressman Peters during his trip to the region. Congressman Peters said that Montana had the world’s “best” beef and the man from Azerbistan was interested in setting up a trading company to sell Montana beef throughout Azerbistan and neighboring countries. Horace Gibson had no interest in setting up international trading companies, so he sent the phone call down the hall to Gelden.

At the moment that phone rang, Gelden had never heard of the country of Azerbistan. He also didn’t know that Azerbistan was smack dab in the middle of the Caspian Sea and an oil boom of epic proportions. The Azerbistanis were developing a voracious appetite for thick t-bone steaks. Kemal, the industrious Azerbistani man on other end of the phone was ready to take advantage of that new market. Gelden would come to realize that there weren’t many markets that Kemal wasn’t ready to take advantage of.

Kemal’s industriousness and Azerbistan’s tenuous international security situation were the reasons Gelden was sitting in Chet’s Bar and Grill again at Big Sky Resort. Gelden always met potential donees at Big Sky. It fit in quite well with political travel schedules and it was easy to schedule a smokescreen fundraiser at one mansions encircling the resort to throw the scent off of anyone trying to follow the Azerbistani money.

Gelden sipped his coffee and looked out the window towards tram that was taking tourists up to the summit of Lone Mountain. In mid-summer, the snow was gone; but Gelden imagined it was a beautiful view. His wife Brenda had been up there several times, but Gelden didn’t do well with heights.

Gelden’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Brenda, “What time do you think you’ll be back?

“Pretty late,” Gelden responded.

Gelden looked up a picture on the wall of Chet Huntley, the news anchor that founded Big Sky. Huntley was on horseback with the mountains surrounding the resort behind him. Gelden had seen the picture dozens of times, but this time looked past the news anchor. The pine trees in the background were a combination of green and red. The green ones were living. The red ones had been killed by pine beetles.

“Beetle kill,” Gelden murmured to himself.

The picture had been taken four decades ago during the last major beetle kill outbreak. The Rocky Mountain West was going through another beetle kill with over a million acres of dead trees in Montana alone. The beetles weren’t invasive or otherwise out of place. They were native to the Rockies and usually lived in relative peace, but every couple of decades something would change slightly in the environment - the rules that governed the ecological system of the forest - and they would go on a rampage. An army of small insects turning vibrant forests into lifeless tinderboxes waiting for a spark or a lightning strike.

A tall man with perfect hair walked into the restaurant. Gelden waived him over.

“Congressman Shifferd, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Gelden.”

“Call me Jack,” the congressman responded.

“Of course, I trust that your flight went well.”

Shifferd nodded. The men mumbled through a small talk about Shifferd’s trip from Oklahoma and the beauty of Montana as the waiter poured a coffee.

Gelden moved towards business. “As you’re aware, I am the founder of the America First Political Action Committee. In the past three years, America First has quietly become the largest donor to American politicians of both parties.”

Congressman Shifferd nodded. “I received a sizable donation from you in my last campaign and I’m truly thankful for it.”

“That was not a sizable donation, at least not by our metrics. We start everyone off with a small payment, but you’ve proven yourself well in your first term. If properly positioned, you could have a long and favorable career on the Hill.”

“I’m glad that you were pleased. Hopefully my constituents feel the same way.”

Gelden’s phone vibrated again. He ignored it and continued.

“I think that we can help that process,” Gelden said. "I am willing to commit America First to be your largest donor with an investment that will effectively double your campaign resources.”

“Double?”

“Yes, but I’m not against tripling if you need it. America First will transfer them to a public relations firm that your campaign is already working with to ensure that the messaging is consistent.”

Congressman Shifferd glanced over his shoulder. “Is it, uhh…”

“Yes, it’s entirely legal. The funds originate in Azerbistan and are transferred into a holding company based in the British Virgin Islands. The holding company is the sole owner of several corporations based in Montana. Those corporations have full legal rights as citizens to influence American elections through distributing funds.”

Shiffered looked nervous. “What do your friends in Azerbistan want from me?”

“They expect your support in Congress for Azerbistan’s territorial integrity. Azerbistan is a relatively small island with a lot of oil and powerful neighbors. Russia, Iran, Azerbijan, Turkmenistan and Kazakhastan each claim to have some historical interests to Azerbistan and the surrounding water.”

“And if I don’t offer this support.”

“Then, we will dramatically increase funding for your opponent.

“Increase?”

“Yes, we’re funding her too. Azerbistan’s interests are bipartisan. We are willing to work with whoever will work with us. Basically, that means everybody.”

“That’s a big statement. How much money are you honestly willing to spend?”

“Azerbistan earns roughly six billion dollars a year on its oil reserves. It is willing to spend approximately one third of that on defense. The Azerbistanis did the math and realized that they could either purchase a small fleet of America’s F-35 fighter planes for that price or invest heavily in winning American allies.”

Congressman Shifferd’s eyes widened. “Two billion dollars is enough to buy the American presidency and both houses of Congress. No one other political donors even in that ballpark.”

Gelden nodded. “Not yet. But, no one else has stakes that are quite this obvious. Azerbistan needs support against its potentially hostile neighbors. With the recent changes in American campaign finance laws, the Azerbistanis would be foolish to do anything else with their defense dollars.”

“Are any countries other than Azerbistan in this game?”

Gelden shrugged his shoulders. “It’s hard to tell. I’m sure the Russian and Chinese are dabbling in American campaign finance, but I don’t think anyone else has realized the opportunity quite to the level that Azerbistan does.“

Gelden’s phone buzzed again. “Excuse me. It’s beginning to sound important.”

Shifferd nodded in bewilderment. Not used to someone else stopping interrupting his conversations.

Gelden picked it up and glanced at the phone. It was a message from the office. A dark-house Presidential candidate from Florida wanted to meet at Big Sky tomorrow morning. She was beginning to make national waves with and needed to go back to the Azerbistani well for more cash.

“I guess I’d better get a room,” Gelden muttered.