Shadows on the Canyon Wall

By Mary Visker

Terry and Pam have been embroiled in heated competition since third grade. This summer they are returning to Lightning Mountain camp as staff members. They are both assistant unit leaders in the two outback units. Terry plans to hide her animosity for Pam by being totally involved with her girls in preparing for their two week backpacking advent

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gotham Books
• Release date: Feb 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887752068

Mary Visker

Mary Visker earned undergraduate and graduate degrees in education. At the age of tsixty, she received her third degree in nursing which allowed her to fulfill a lifelong dream of becoming a mission nurse for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Visker has two sons, five grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren.

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© 2023 Mary Visker. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by Gotham Books (February 1, 2023)

ISBN: 979-8-88775-205-1 (sc)

ISBN: 979-8-88775-206-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid.

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedicated to the memory of my dad who

Gifted me his love of adventure and the out-of-doors.

And to my mom who taught me the wonderful

Solace of sincere prayer.

CHAPTER 1

Determination is pouring out of every cell of my body as I talk to myself. I’ve got to beat her! I’ve made it to a tied score of duce third set with Miss Country Club. Now, just two more points and the poor little rich girl will lose her state tennis championship title.

Winning this match means more than any other I have ever played in my life. I must beat Pam! Taking a deep breath, I crouch into my receiving position about two feet behind the service line crowding the forehand side.

Pam toes the service line, looks at me, and calls out the score, Duce.

I watch her bounce the ball her habitual two times on the ground, then pause. Her arm reaches high to put the ball up for the serve, a little higher toss than usual, followed by the swing. The ball comes bulleting over the net, but my instinct tells me to let it go. I smile when I hear the line judge call, Fault.

I crowd the service line now and concentrate all my thoughts on the next serve. I almost think out loud. This one’s mine. Her second serve will be soft, and I’ll be able to put it anywhere I want. I’ll kill it.

The soft serve comes as I’d calculated, and I am on top of it instantly. I send it slicing down the line to Pam’s backhand and at the same time rush the net. It’s almost a put-a-way, but Pam manages to get her racket on it and sends it up in a shallow lob straight to the net. I smile from ear to ear as I wait for the ball. Pam makes no effort for a save as I send it smashing on an impossible angle out the side of the court.

The school coach said it didn’t matter who won this match. Either way, we bring the same points to our total team score. To me, it makes all the difference in the world. This win would be the culmination of years of hard work, and I’ll feel a step closer to being somebody. If a kid who couldn’t afford any lessons but just learned to play from the city recreation league can beat someone who belongs to the country club, has private lessons every day, and holds the state singles title, then this kid must be somebody. I rehearse this constant dream again as I walk, with a determination boiling inside, back to receive the last serve.

As Pam is about to begin her traditional windup, a voice from the first row of spectators right next to me splits my concentration. Come on Pam! Get your act together! You can’t let someone like her beat you! Send her back to the slums where she belongs! Pam’s dad is yelling at me five feet from where I’m standing.

Because all is settled for the serve, there is no noise to dull his message, and I can hear every syllable. Pam turns her head away from me and her parents. She takes a step away from the serving line catching a quick breath. Instant anger begins to swell in me as the words thunder over again in my mind. With anger boiling to the breaking point, I take my stance to receive. The serve comes but my swing is just a hair late, and the return goes wide. The score is back to duce.

My mind is frantic with a self-conversation. What have you done to yourself? You let them break your concentration, and then you let yourself get angry--the only thing that could beat you. You let Pam’s arrogant father inside your head. Put your mind back on the ball and get it over the net.

I try hard to force the concentration for the next serve, but as luck would have it, Pam tries one of her bullets. This time it goes in. A roar goes up from the crowd as I am aced. I go back to my mental conversation, Okay. It’s not over yet. Your anger is under control. Now put all your thoughts into getting the ball over the net. Keep your eye on the ball and get your weight forward. Be ready! Be ready!

As the serve comes, this time I am ready and put it back into play. The return is soft and not placed with a winner’s determination. Pam sends the ball back easily. An endurance point seems to be underway as I put the ball over the net, hoping Pam will make a mistake. Without the put-away shot, I find Pam to be a solid wall who returns everything. I just can’t pull the aggressiveness back; I am too afraid I’ll make the final mistake. The fear almost paralyzes me. After ten or eleven returns, back and forth, my concentration thins. My thoughts move back to the comments, You can’t let someone like that beat you! On the next return, I hit the ball into the net, and Pam wins the match.

The roar of victory goes up from the crowd. Friends, teammates, and unknown bystanders rush onto the court to congratulate Pam. I think winners always have an instant popularity boom no matter how close the competition is. I watch Pam as she accepts the hugs of congratulations for a few moments. I know I should turn toward the net for the ritual winner-loser handshake.

I am still standing in the spot where I hit the last ball, trying to control the tears and the anger bringing the tears. My brother, Tom, is now standing beside me with his arm around my shoulder, and my recreation coach has just entered the court on his way to me. I deliberate on which direction I should go. With all my heart, I want to run as fast and as far away as possible. Then with no words, I turn with fast determined steps to the net. They might have cheated me out of the match, but they are not going to chase me off the court. I reach the net before Pam and stiffly extend my hand. She gets there, takes my hand, smiles, and waits for the congratulations. Instead, we both hear the voice of Pam’s dad, Terry! You played an awesome match.

I glare at Pam, then at her father, turn, and walk away. I move quickly, a half run - half walk to my things on the sideline bench. Gathering them into an awkward pile in my arms, I head for the car. I’m almost out of the fence into the parking lot when my brother catches up with me. Terry, that’s the best tennis I have ever seen you play. You almost had her. If you hadn’t choked a little right there at the end, the match would have been yours.

I want to yell or scream or something. But all I can do is let the tears run down my face, swallow hard on the lump in my throat, and walk faster. Tom is still right beside me, Terry, what are you running away from? You played a super match. You can be proud of the whole thing. Aren’t you going to stay and get your trophy?

I still say nothing. I’m not going to stay here and take second place when Pam doesn’t even think I am worth playing. Determination begins to swell out of my anger. I will never take second place to Pam again.

Still trying to keep up with me and talk at the same time, Tom tries again. Pam is the best player I’ve seen for a long time. She beats anything you practice against down at the park, including the boys. You two should be practicing together; you’d both be much better players if you would. Your school coach was telling me about the National Armature Championships next fall. He said if you two would team up and play doubles, you would stand a chance of placing.

Tom’s words finally get through to me. I stop dead still, turn, stare at him, and say with slow, angry, determination, I will beat her if it’s the last thing I do, and I will N-E-V-E-R, never help her win anything. Do you understand? Nothing! Without another word, I walk even faster to the car.

CHAPTER 2

Terry, are you up yet? I let you pretend to be sick Friday after the match, but you’re going to school today.

I almost knock Tom over as I bolt out of my bedroom door with both arms full of schoolbooks and posters. See, I’m ready, and I’m out the door. What are you waiting for?

I can feel my dark-haired, six-foot-two brother following me down the hall and through the kitchen trying to catch my arm. I’m balancing books and opening the door when he finally catches hold of me.

Not so fast. You still have half an hour. You haven’t had breakfast, and we haven’t had family prayer yet. What’s the big rush? You never go this early.

I explain as I pull Tom out the door, Some things are more important than food. I’ve got to be ready for American Problems, and I still have information to pick up from the health teacher. I stack my pile in the back seat and open the passenger door to the front seat. I hesitate, then run for the house calling back over my shoulder, Get the car warmed up, I forgot my note cards.

When I return, Tom has the car started and is shaking his head. Terry, sometimes I don’t understand you. Friday I couldn’t get you out of the house. Today I can’t hold onto you long enough to feed you. I know you’re a straight A student, but I’ve never seen you prepare like this for any class. What’s going on?

I’m way too casual in my answer, Oh, it’s nothing much. My study group in American Problems presents its report to the class today.

You’ve got enough stuff there for ten people. Did anyone else in your group prepare anything?

They’ve done a lot of work, but I just want to make sure we’re prepared to the max. You know, better safe than sorry.

Tom still doesn’t seem satisfied. You’re not telling all. There’s more to it than just a report.

Okay, so it’s a little debate. There are two study groups, and each takes one side of an issue, I explain.

A little light is dawning in Tom’s eyes, Terry, who’s on the other team?

The car is in front of the west doors of the school, and I delay my answer until I have my arms stacked high again. I turn toward the school then back to a waiting Tom, The teacher says they’re study groups and not teams. Because this is a friendly competition, it’s for the education process only… Pam is on the other team. With that, I slam the door with my foot and juggle my load into the school.

Rushing down the hall with my arms full, I’m amazed a school can be so empty and lonely at 7:30 a.m. and so crowded and noisy at 7:55 a.m. A quick trip to the health room gives me the last poster I need. The next fifteen minutes are spent in my classroom hanging the charts and pictures for this friendly debate. Having completed every preparation I can think of, I slip into my desk to collect my thoughts and wait.

I’m ready—I know I am ready. I feel a little agitation about having spent so much extra time on this project, but after the tennis match last week it will be worth it. I think about Pam and how the competition between us has always been there. Lately, it seems to be more intense, and Pam is there every time I do anything. I wonder a little why it is becoming so important for me to be the winner in our unending confrontations.

My thoughts shift to visualize how Pam will look as she walks into the classroom with her aura of confidence. Wearing one of her latest fashion outfits, she will be so completely coordinated there will be some accessary in her long blond hair matching her clothes. From hair and make-up to shoes, every detail will be perfect.

I smile as a ridiculous thought crosses my mind. If Pam and I were to trade clothes, they would probably fit exactly. I almost laugh out loud as I try to picture Pam in the T-shirt and jeans I have on today.

The opening door brings me back to reality. A group of about ten kids push through the limited access and fan out to their seats. Pam is in the group. I watch her take in the room preparations and allow myself one last thought. You look just like I thought you would, but just wait until this hour is through. You won’t look or feel number one. As the bell rings at 8:00 AM, I feel a surge of confidence. This time Pam will walk away in second place.

As soon as we suffer through morning announcements, we’ll get our discussion started. The study groups presenting material this morning are the ones working on controlling drinking and driving. Mr. Richards is trying to start class when he is cut short by the unseen voices invading the classroom from the little mesh screen high on the wall for morning announcements.

Some mornings I wish the broadcast would take the entire period, but this morning it seems as though it will never end. They invite everyone to the schools-out dance on Friday night. Unending and unclear instructions are given to the seniors about graduation exercises. Every team which played last week is congratulated, and then the usual list of students who are to report to the principal’s office for one reason or another is announced.

Finally, the blaring speaker falls silent, and Mr. Richards moves from his chair to sit on his desk. He gives instructions while motioning with his hands. You people sitting in the front row of desks find an empty seat somewhere. Pam, you take three of these front desks, turn them around, and put your group in front over there. Terry, you take the other three desks and put your group on this side.

After a few seconds of maneuvering, the battlefield is laid out. There are two groups of desks in the front of the classroom. They are both lined up at an angle, so they are half facing each other and half facing the class.

With the teams in place, Mr. Richards lays the ground rules. Remember, this is not a formal debate. It’s just another way to help you study. Take a few minutes and make sure each person on your team knows what they’re covering. When you’re ready, each side will take a turn presenting its material. If we have time, we’ll let the class ask questions at the end. Pam, your side starts first.

Sandy and Mark huddle around my desk making sure their cards are in order, and I give them some additional facts I gathered over the weekend. We also decide Sandy will be first, Mark, second, and I’m third. I make sure my closing statement will be last. If Pam’s group is to begin, it means I will be the concluding speaker for both groups. I smile as I think to myself, this is working out better than I hoped.

Pam’s group takes a little longer organization time. When they are ready, Pam stands by her desk and begins for her group. No one wants a drunk driver on the road. We have laws now to guard against the drinking driver. The law itself doesn’t seem to be keeping the drinker from behind the wheel. That would lead us to understand something different than stiffer laws are needed. The medical profession recognizes problem drinking as a medical problem and alcoholism as a disease. You don’t take a person with epilepsy and put him in jail if he has a seizure while driving. You care about the whole person and treat the disease so the person can function as normally as possible. Jail terms and fines do not promote healing. What the drunk drivers need are education, treatment, and rehabilitation.

The whole class buzzes when Pam finishes. Sandy reflects their feelings as she leans over and whispered to me, That’s a tough act to follow. What should I do?

I smile to myself as I think, Pam, you’ve done your homework. That’s okay so have we. With reassuring confidence dancing in my brown eyes, I whisper back to Sandy, Don’t worry. Give the information just like you have it. She’s good, but we’re in good shape too. Just be confident!

Sandy stands tall, looks the other team straight in the eye, and begins her delivery. I think we need to look at cold facts for a moment. One-third of all highway deaths involve alcohol. Let me make this point a little plainer. During the ten years from 2006 to 2016, ten thousand people were killed every year in drunk-driving crashes. Every year since then the numbers have increased, but the percentage says the same. About one-third of all highway deaths are alcohol-related. If there were stiffer laws and penalties, people would think twice before they drink and drive.

Eric from Pam’s team is on his feet fast. You’re right about the use of alcohol and related deaths. Over thirty percent of highway deaths do involve alcohol. But you should also be aware that 34% of those are caused by problem drinkers or alcoholics. If alcoholics were forced into treatment, they would be helped, and the drunk driving problem would be helped too.

From that point, the debate moves on with a fury. Each person is on his or her feet with new information almost before the other team is finished. It is almost becoming a game to see who will run out of facts first.

Then about five minutes before the class period is to end, my turn comes around again. This time I do not stand up but speak slowly and deliberately from my desk. "Six years ago this spring, both my mom and dad were in our family car coming home from a faculty party up at the university. They stopped for a red light on Transom Street and started through when it