Braden Waller
Multimodal Narration
It
seemed like such a great plan to relocate ourselves to the nearby mountains for
the final year of our education. After living in Boulder for two years, the
tranquility came across as rather endearing to my roommates and I. And so for three months we slept soundly to the
trickles of the gentle creek that ran beside our house, and we stood proud on
our mountain deck immersed in the songs of the hummingbirds. And for three
months we grew as shepherds and guardians of the neighboring lands of the
national forest. After a few months, we somehow became partially
blinded in our seclusion and unfortunately never concerned ourselves with any
of the logistical problems with the property, such as the 200 yd. steep narrow
driveway along a canyon wall. We were content. And then it rained a bit.
I awoke
on a casual Thursday school morning to find that our pleasant little creek had
intriguingly become a 50 foot gaping river. My roommates and I all shared a similar
reaction.
Not really
knowing what to do, and still not fully grasping the gravity of the situation,
I decided to shoot some aesthetically pleasing, exceedingly cliché slow motion HD
footage of the new flowing water next to my house. One of my roommates informed
me to have a look at our driveway. It was then that I understood that we were completely stuck in our
dearly beloved mountain home.
We were
marooned for six days without some of the bare essentials, but although clean
water seemed scarce, beer was not in short supply. For the days we lingered
around the house combating a ruthless enemy; boredom. Nights we remained in
isolation listening to the rhythm of the pitter patter on the cool shingles
above.
Events
livened up a bit on the third day when our 500 gallon propane tank collapsed
over an eroded cliff edge. The propane spewed out of the valve in a swirling
icy mist, a cool steam across the meadow. The gas disgorged such as a witch’s
frothy cauldron. And so I squired my roommate Hiroki with
the umbrella into certain death. Then he shut off the valve.
The close
pounding of the chopper blades on the sixth day felt like the end of a
glorified war movie, or Jurassic Park. Shortly after, the five-minute
helicopter ride into Boulder was gratifying and shocking. I first realized that
water damage and Godzilla’s aftermath are remarkably similar. Then came my
final realization. I was homeless.
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