40StudeDude
03-12-2004, 08:18 PM
In celebration of my 1600th post...it is my HAMB duty and responsibility to tell you a story...this is a TRUE story.
R-
HOT RODS & VOLCANOS
The devastation was unimaginable. Nothing we'd seen on television or in the newspapers prepared us for this sight...the destruction was total and complete. Annihilation of an entire way of life was evident everywhere we looked.
As we rounded the curve on that narrow gravel road, nothing was standing, not a tree, nor a bush, or even a lowly weed. The sight in front of us was in stark contrast to the dense, green forest we'd just driven through. Giant, old growth pines and cedars (trees that have never been logged, most several hundred years old), at ninety to one hundred feet tall, were flattened to the ground, all pointed the same direction, as if mighty Paul Bunyan took one swift swing with his trusty axe and felled every one. The larger limbs of the flattened trees were stripped bare and singed black. There was no sign of anything green. Nothing grew here anymore. The area was totally devoid of life...the whole beautiful forest in the valley between those majestic mountains was dead, the victim of the Mt. St. Helens eruption!
The hot pyroclastic flow (gas, steam and pulverized rock) that felled those great trees, was blasted laterally out of the volcano and swept down the mountainside at or near 670 miles per hour. Temperatures reached 1,500 degrees (Fahrenheit) inside the cloud as it hugged the ground, flattening, burning and literally evaporating everything in its path. As a result, not a single tree was standing as far as six miles away from the crater on the northern side of the Mt. St. Helens.
Our vacation in June, 1984, had taken us to Washington, the Evergreen State, and this narrow pumice-covered road. Two days earlier we had spent the weekend in Salem, Oregon, participating in the National Street Rod Association's Western Nationals, showing off our hot rods at the fairgrounds. While visiting with my Uncle Ehrich, of Salem, our conversation drifted from hot rods to sightseeing. He suggested Mt, St. Helens, he had heard there were roads open, going up near the crater of the shortened 8,365-foot summit, the only active volcano in the continental United States. He cautioned us to be careful; “the roads are old logging tracks, dirt, gravel, steep and narrow, they aren't paved as you get closer to the volcano.”
That didn't bother us, we built our hot rods to drive, and if that meant gravel roads, so be it. We'd already driven over 1200 miles from our home in Denver, Colorado, on this three-week vacation and on nearly every kind of road imaginable. Our trip in June marked just over four years since Mt. St. Helens erupted on May 18,1980. We wanted to see first hand what kind of havoc a live volcano could wreak. Little did we know!
From our vantage point up on the mountainside, we wound down through the valley of dead trees and up the other side. We stopped as the curve of the road edged dangerously close to a drop-off. The uppermost slopes of Mt. St. Helens came into view. All we could see was a grayish-brown 'blanket' covering everything. It appeared to be an otherworldly canvas, a “moonscape” painted by a surrealist using only brown and off-white tones. As a contrast to his painting, he chose the brightest blue he could find for the sky. Nothing moved in that desolation, not even the soft rustle of a breeze wafted over that bleak landscape. As we drove on, in places, the road had been graded below the level of the ash, sometimes as deep as two or three feet, it looked like freshly plowed snow, and it covered everything. From another high point, we looked down at a lake...not the serene, placid lake one would expect to see in the Northwest, but a huge lake choked with thousands of trees, stripped bare of every limb, floating on the surface. It appeared some logging company had dumped them after they clear-cut the forest. That wasn't the case.
Fortunately, there was little traffic, we pulled over to take in the vista below, the whole of Spirit Lake could be seen. At the north end of the lake, the rocky, barren face of a mountain commanded our gaze; an impossible 'high-water mark' was visible. Below that line, not a tree, bush or a blade of grass grew, much less the dirt to grow it! Only exposed naked rock stuck out from the side of that mountain. The release of the Mt. St. Helens landslide (8000 million tons of rock, dirt and debris) had instantly raised Spirit Lake's surface 207 feet, initiating a cataclysmic Tsunami that surged through the lake, pushing everything in it up the side of that mountain to a height of 820 feet above the lake's surface. What didn’t get taken off as the Tsunami went up got removed as the water receded, stripped everything off, including most of the trees floating in Spirit Lake. The force of the water rushing up, then back down, must have been more concentrated than the greatest ocean Tsunami.
Five hours earlier, we had entered Washington State via Interstate 5 out of Portland, Oregon. We drove I-5 north to the # 33 exit and took Highway 503, an asphalt paved two-lane highway. Mt. St. Helens was approximately 60 miles north of Interstate 5. We decided to gas up in Woodland as we exited because we had no idea where the next station was. The two-lane was decent, it followed the Lewis River in places and we crossed over it a couple of times as we headed north. From the cleanliness of the river, you'd never know it played a part in the destruction of the area by carrying flood-waters off the slopes. The gigantic flood was caused by a Lahar. It, in turn, was caused by the eruption and the ensuing ash cloud. Temperatures in the cloud reached several hundred degrees, causing the instant meltdown of permanent snow covering the mountain and liquefying the landscape. It raced down the mountainside at close to 100 miles per hour, gathering debris to a height of 60 feet, taking everything in its path down the slopes.
Driving toward the volcano from the southern side, it was hard to believe there was an active, smoking volcano in this forest. Tall, lush pine trees lined both sides of the highway, a gentle breeze drifted in the side windows, the scent of pine and wildflowers filled the 70 degree air and the sky was an incredible blue. It was a perfect summer day. Dan, my brother, was ahead of me driving his 1947 Chevrolet Aerosedan. My son, Chris, and I were following in my 1940 Studebaker coupe. Our cars are known as 'hot rods'. Dan's choice for his hot rod is a two-door fastback sedan; manufactured the same year he was born. My choice is a rarer vehicle, one of only 13,000 Commander model 5-window business coupes built for the 1940 model year. My brother and I have rebuilt both cars over the course of several years. We start with the vintage auto and completely update it. We took everything old out, installed a new modern front independent suspension, with disc brakes and rack and pinion steering, put in a new V8 engine and automatic transmission, add a late model rear-end and generally rebuild or replace all chassis running gear and finish the new chassis with radial tires. New wiring was installed, new tinted safety plate glass was put in all the windows and then we add many 'creature comforts' found in new cars: tilt and telescoping steering column, cruise control, AM/FM stereo radio with CD/cassette and four speakers, power windows, power antenna, electric seats and door locks, lap and shoulder belts, new gauges and a CB radio. With that completed, we refurbish the original body, and apply several coats of the latest multi-stage polyurethane paint. Then the stainless trim is polished, the bumpers rechromed and lastly, the complete interior reupholstered using the latest fabrics, style and carpeting, even to the point of upholstering and carpeting the trunk. Oft times when we stop at major tourist attractions, our hot rods become the attraction. Questions about the cars range from; “what kind of car is it?” to “why are you driving it on this kind of road?” to “where are you going (or coming from)?”
As we headed north on Highway 503, every few miles we spotted a sign stating 'Tour Mt. St. Helens from the Air.' The CB crackled after the fourth such sign, it's Dan. “Hey Rog, you see those signs?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them for a while, that could be fun,” I answered. My son, 13 at the time, thought so, too. Of course, he's up for almost anything other than riding in Dad's hot rod, sight-seeing all day; “we've got time, let's check it out, watch for the turn off.”
Several miles down the road, the final sign appeared, 'Air Tour, one mile ahead, turn right, go three miles.'
The CB radio crackled; “doesn't list any prices, did you notice?”
“Yeah, but it can't cost that much, can it?” I asked. “It is way out here in the forest, and I haven't seen that many cars on this highway.”
The turn put us on a gravel road, more like a mid-western country lane, narrow and not well traveled. The three miles seemed to take a long time. At only fifteen miles per hour, it would. Gravel roads can inflict serious damage to expensive paint and windshields on our hot rods, I followed at a safe distance to avoid rocks being tossed from Dan's radial tires and to prevent getting too much dust on the car.
Dan remarked, via the CB, “those trees on either side of this lane are thick, twenty-five feet into that forest and anyone is liable to be lost for a day or two.”
Upon hearing that, Chris urged me to “not stop here, we'll get lost and never get to take the plane ride.”
“If there's an airstrip in here, it's got to be mighty short...can't be very wide either,” Dan suggested.
“Have we gone three miles yet?” No sooner had I said that than we drove into a large grassy clearing. To the left of the gravel lane and 100 yards ahead, sat a vintage, late 1940's single engine airplane, looking quite a bit worse for wear, and certainly not very airworthy.
We pulled into the shade of the pines and turned off the cars. “That old plane couldn't hold more than two people,” Dan surmised, standing next to his car, surveying the airplane in the distance.
“Sure doesn't look to me like it's flown in a while, does it?” I said as I brushed dust from my trousers.
Fifty yards in front of the old airplane sat a mobile home. It appeared to be reasonably new. To the right, across the lane that now dead-ended, sat a long, narrow shed, dilapidated and abandoned. The wood weathered white and the board ends pulled loose from their moorings. Rusty nails, naked, holding onto nothing, mute testimony to the power of water, sun and time. I remarked to Dan that the “old plane would probably fare better in what's left of the shed, out of the weather, than sitting under those pines.”
The airfield looked good though; green, smooth and very short! We were greeted by a woman sitting at a picnic table in front of the mobile home. We chatted for a few minutes and then asked about the plane ride. She explained the tour took approximately two hours and the pilot would take us around the volcano and directly over the cone since the mountain is “only 15 miles north of here.” The fare is $30 each. I accept.
“Uhmmm, NO! I don't think so,” Dan is adamant, “you and Chris go ahead if you want. I'll stay here and keep an eye on our hot rods. I just don't feel like flying right now.”
“Aw c'mon, Dan. It won't be any fun if you're not going. Besides, you're the only one who knows how to run your camera.”
The situation worsened, heated words were exchanged, he wouldn’t give me solid reason other than “I don’t feel like it.” I could not understand his abrupt about-face. No amount of persuasion was going to change his mind.
Bummer...into the cars and back out on the highway, disappointment setting in big time, I could see it in my son's eyes. Three or four miles down the asphalt two lane road, Chris broke the silence, trying hard to hold back his tears. “That sure would have been neat, Dad.”
Yes! Yes, it would have been. Why should I let my brother put a damper on a fun thing? If he doesn't want to go, fine, my son and I still can. “Yeah Bud, I think it would be neat. Tell you what, let's you and I go and Dan can wait for us.” His face lit up.
I grabbed the CB mic and told Dan that we had decided to take the ride anyway and would he find a place to make a U-turn…fifteen minutes later I was in the mobile home office shelling out the $60.00 fare. Dan still didn’t want to go. Too bad!
“Are you sure you don't want to go? There is room for six,” the woman asked as she wrote a receipt while looking at Dan, “I've got some cold drinks if you like, you can wait at the picnic table.” Turning to me she said, “I'll call the pilot and have him bring the plane up, you two can wait by the lane until he gets it warmed up.”
I could see the consternation on Dan's face as we walked outside. “Are you sure you want to fly in that thing?” He said, motioning blindly toward that vintage 1940's plane.
“It's got to be flyable, they wouldn't sell these rides if it were dangerous. I'm positive the FAA would make sure of that,” I said.
An engine roared to life, Dan looked at me, surprise on his face. “Sounds really good, doesn't it?” he said, somewhat astonished.
We were standing on the left side of the lane; the mobile home was between the vintage plane and us. I tied to ease Dan's mind a little, “maybe they put a newer engine in that old plane, just like we put a new V8 engine and automatic transmission in our old cars and turned them into hot rods. I can only assume that someone hot rodded that old plane. That would make it more airworthy, wouldn't it?”
Before Dan could answer, as we were watching the left side of the mobile home expecting the vintage plane to appear, out from behind the dilapidated shed on the right rolled a shiny new red and white Bonanza. The pilot taxied up near the mobile home...the woman motioned Chris and I toward the plane...I looked at Dan. Neither of us had to say a word, we both knew! Dan struggled to get his money out of his pocket as he ran toward the mobile home to purchase his ticket.
The three of us had a great air tour. It lasted almost three hours and the pilot took us over the cone three times, each time lower than the last, over Spirit Lake three times and around the whole volcano twice. The view from above was awesome and the pilot’s narrative about the destruction made the flight extra special. Dan shot over three rolls of film, got some great photos and we got an extra long tour of Mt. St. Helens from the air.
Two very important things were learned that day...First: NEVER, NEVER, NEVER assume. ASK! Then ask again! Second: NEVER judge a book by its' cover! Dan was so sure the old plane sitting beside the airstrip was the one we were to fly in, he wasn't about to chance a trip in it...simply not so. From that day forward, Dan always asks questions, no matter how stupid they sound.
R-
HOT RODS & VOLCANOS
The devastation was unimaginable. Nothing we'd seen on television or in the newspapers prepared us for this sight...the destruction was total and complete. Annihilation of an entire way of life was evident everywhere we looked.
As we rounded the curve on that narrow gravel road, nothing was standing, not a tree, nor a bush, or even a lowly weed. The sight in front of us was in stark contrast to the dense, green forest we'd just driven through. Giant, old growth pines and cedars (trees that have never been logged, most several hundred years old), at ninety to one hundred feet tall, were flattened to the ground, all pointed the same direction, as if mighty Paul Bunyan took one swift swing with his trusty axe and felled every one. The larger limbs of the flattened trees were stripped bare and singed black. There was no sign of anything green. Nothing grew here anymore. The area was totally devoid of life...the whole beautiful forest in the valley between those majestic mountains was dead, the victim of the Mt. St. Helens eruption!
The hot pyroclastic flow (gas, steam and pulverized rock) that felled those great trees, was blasted laterally out of the volcano and swept down the mountainside at or near 670 miles per hour. Temperatures reached 1,500 degrees (Fahrenheit) inside the cloud as it hugged the ground, flattening, burning and literally evaporating everything in its path. As a result, not a single tree was standing as far as six miles away from the crater on the northern side of the Mt. St. Helens.
Our vacation in June, 1984, had taken us to Washington, the Evergreen State, and this narrow pumice-covered road. Two days earlier we had spent the weekend in Salem, Oregon, participating in the National Street Rod Association's Western Nationals, showing off our hot rods at the fairgrounds. While visiting with my Uncle Ehrich, of Salem, our conversation drifted from hot rods to sightseeing. He suggested Mt, St. Helens, he had heard there were roads open, going up near the crater of the shortened 8,365-foot summit, the only active volcano in the continental United States. He cautioned us to be careful; “the roads are old logging tracks, dirt, gravel, steep and narrow, they aren't paved as you get closer to the volcano.”
That didn't bother us, we built our hot rods to drive, and if that meant gravel roads, so be it. We'd already driven over 1200 miles from our home in Denver, Colorado, on this three-week vacation and on nearly every kind of road imaginable. Our trip in June marked just over four years since Mt. St. Helens erupted on May 18,1980. We wanted to see first hand what kind of havoc a live volcano could wreak. Little did we know!
From our vantage point up on the mountainside, we wound down through the valley of dead trees and up the other side. We stopped as the curve of the road edged dangerously close to a drop-off. The uppermost slopes of Mt. St. Helens came into view. All we could see was a grayish-brown 'blanket' covering everything. It appeared to be an otherworldly canvas, a “moonscape” painted by a surrealist using only brown and off-white tones. As a contrast to his painting, he chose the brightest blue he could find for the sky. Nothing moved in that desolation, not even the soft rustle of a breeze wafted over that bleak landscape. As we drove on, in places, the road had been graded below the level of the ash, sometimes as deep as two or three feet, it looked like freshly plowed snow, and it covered everything. From another high point, we looked down at a lake...not the serene, placid lake one would expect to see in the Northwest, but a huge lake choked with thousands of trees, stripped bare of every limb, floating on the surface. It appeared some logging company had dumped them after they clear-cut the forest. That wasn't the case.
Fortunately, there was little traffic, we pulled over to take in the vista below, the whole of Spirit Lake could be seen. At the north end of the lake, the rocky, barren face of a mountain commanded our gaze; an impossible 'high-water mark' was visible. Below that line, not a tree, bush or a blade of grass grew, much less the dirt to grow it! Only exposed naked rock stuck out from the side of that mountain. The release of the Mt. St. Helens landslide (8000 million tons of rock, dirt and debris) had instantly raised Spirit Lake's surface 207 feet, initiating a cataclysmic Tsunami that surged through the lake, pushing everything in it up the side of that mountain to a height of 820 feet above the lake's surface. What didn’t get taken off as the Tsunami went up got removed as the water receded, stripped everything off, including most of the trees floating in Spirit Lake. The force of the water rushing up, then back down, must have been more concentrated than the greatest ocean Tsunami.
Five hours earlier, we had entered Washington State via Interstate 5 out of Portland, Oregon. We drove I-5 north to the # 33 exit and took Highway 503, an asphalt paved two-lane highway. Mt. St. Helens was approximately 60 miles north of Interstate 5. We decided to gas up in Woodland as we exited because we had no idea where the next station was. The two-lane was decent, it followed the Lewis River in places and we crossed over it a couple of times as we headed north. From the cleanliness of the river, you'd never know it played a part in the destruction of the area by carrying flood-waters off the slopes. The gigantic flood was caused by a Lahar. It, in turn, was caused by the eruption and the ensuing ash cloud. Temperatures in the cloud reached several hundred degrees, causing the instant meltdown of permanent snow covering the mountain and liquefying the landscape. It raced down the mountainside at close to 100 miles per hour, gathering debris to a height of 60 feet, taking everything in its path down the slopes.
Driving toward the volcano from the southern side, it was hard to believe there was an active, smoking volcano in this forest. Tall, lush pine trees lined both sides of the highway, a gentle breeze drifted in the side windows, the scent of pine and wildflowers filled the 70 degree air and the sky was an incredible blue. It was a perfect summer day. Dan, my brother, was ahead of me driving his 1947 Chevrolet Aerosedan. My son, Chris, and I were following in my 1940 Studebaker coupe. Our cars are known as 'hot rods'. Dan's choice for his hot rod is a two-door fastback sedan; manufactured the same year he was born. My choice is a rarer vehicle, one of only 13,000 Commander model 5-window business coupes built for the 1940 model year. My brother and I have rebuilt both cars over the course of several years. We start with the vintage auto and completely update it. We took everything old out, installed a new modern front independent suspension, with disc brakes and rack and pinion steering, put in a new V8 engine and automatic transmission, add a late model rear-end and generally rebuild or replace all chassis running gear and finish the new chassis with radial tires. New wiring was installed, new tinted safety plate glass was put in all the windows and then we add many 'creature comforts' found in new cars: tilt and telescoping steering column, cruise control, AM/FM stereo radio with CD/cassette and four speakers, power windows, power antenna, electric seats and door locks, lap and shoulder belts, new gauges and a CB radio. With that completed, we refurbish the original body, and apply several coats of the latest multi-stage polyurethane paint. Then the stainless trim is polished, the bumpers rechromed and lastly, the complete interior reupholstered using the latest fabrics, style and carpeting, even to the point of upholstering and carpeting the trunk. Oft times when we stop at major tourist attractions, our hot rods become the attraction. Questions about the cars range from; “what kind of car is it?” to “why are you driving it on this kind of road?” to “where are you going (or coming from)?”
As we headed north on Highway 503, every few miles we spotted a sign stating 'Tour Mt. St. Helens from the Air.' The CB crackled after the fourth such sign, it's Dan. “Hey Rog, you see those signs?”
“Yeah, I’ve seen them for a while, that could be fun,” I answered. My son, 13 at the time, thought so, too. Of course, he's up for almost anything other than riding in Dad's hot rod, sight-seeing all day; “we've got time, let's check it out, watch for the turn off.”
Several miles down the road, the final sign appeared, 'Air Tour, one mile ahead, turn right, go three miles.'
The CB radio crackled; “doesn't list any prices, did you notice?”
“Yeah, but it can't cost that much, can it?” I asked. “It is way out here in the forest, and I haven't seen that many cars on this highway.”
The turn put us on a gravel road, more like a mid-western country lane, narrow and not well traveled. The three miles seemed to take a long time. At only fifteen miles per hour, it would. Gravel roads can inflict serious damage to expensive paint and windshields on our hot rods, I followed at a safe distance to avoid rocks being tossed from Dan's radial tires and to prevent getting too much dust on the car.
Dan remarked, via the CB, “those trees on either side of this lane are thick, twenty-five feet into that forest and anyone is liable to be lost for a day or two.”
Upon hearing that, Chris urged me to “not stop here, we'll get lost and never get to take the plane ride.”
“If there's an airstrip in here, it's got to be mighty short...can't be very wide either,” Dan suggested.
“Have we gone three miles yet?” No sooner had I said that than we drove into a large grassy clearing. To the left of the gravel lane and 100 yards ahead, sat a vintage, late 1940's single engine airplane, looking quite a bit worse for wear, and certainly not very airworthy.
We pulled into the shade of the pines and turned off the cars. “That old plane couldn't hold more than two people,” Dan surmised, standing next to his car, surveying the airplane in the distance.
“Sure doesn't look to me like it's flown in a while, does it?” I said as I brushed dust from my trousers.
Fifty yards in front of the old airplane sat a mobile home. It appeared to be reasonably new. To the right, across the lane that now dead-ended, sat a long, narrow shed, dilapidated and abandoned. The wood weathered white and the board ends pulled loose from their moorings. Rusty nails, naked, holding onto nothing, mute testimony to the power of water, sun and time. I remarked to Dan that the “old plane would probably fare better in what's left of the shed, out of the weather, than sitting under those pines.”
The airfield looked good though; green, smooth and very short! We were greeted by a woman sitting at a picnic table in front of the mobile home. We chatted for a few minutes and then asked about the plane ride. She explained the tour took approximately two hours and the pilot would take us around the volcano and directly over the cone since the mountain is “only 15 miles north of here.” The fare is $30 each. I accept.
“Uhmmm, NO! I don't think so,” Dan is adamant, “you and Chris go ahead if you want. I'll stay here and keep an eye on our hot rods. I just don't feel like flying right now.”
“Aw c'mon, Dan. It won't be any fun if you're not going. Besides, you're the only one who knows how to run your camera.”
The situation worsened, heated words were exchanged, he wouldn’t give me solid reason other than “I don’t feel like it.” I could not understand his abrupt about-face. No amount of persuasion was going to change his mind.
Bummer...into the cars and back out on the highway, disappointment setting in big time, I could see it in my son's eyes. Three or four miles down the asphalt two lane road, Chris broke the silence, trying hard to hold back his tears. “That sure would have been neat, Dad.”
Yes! Yes, it would have been. Why should I let my brother put a damper on a fun thing? If he doesn't want to go, fine, my son and I still can. “Yeah Bud, I think it would be neat. Tell you what, let's you and I go and Dan can wait for us.” His face lit up.
I grabbed the CB mic and told Dan that we had decided to take the ride anyway and would he find a place to make a U-turn…fifteen minutes later I was in the mobile home office shelling out the $60.00 fare. Dan still didn’t want to go. Too bad!
“Are you sure you don't want to go? There is room for six,” the woman asked as she wrote a receipt while looking at Dan, “I've got some cold drinks if you like, you can wait at the picnic table.” Turning to me she said, “I'll call the pilot and have him bring the plane up, you two can wait by the lane until he gets it warmed up.”
I could see the consternation on Dan's face as we walked outside. “Are you sure you want to fly in that thing?” He said, motioning blindly toward that vintage 1940's plane.
“It's got to be flyable, they wouldn't sell these rides if it were dangerous. I'm positive the FAA would make sure of that,” I said.
An engine roared to life, Dan looked at me, surprise on his face. “Sounds really good, doesn't it?” he said, somewhat astonished.
We were standing on the left side of the lane; the mobile home was between the vintage plane and us. I tied to ease Dan's mind a little, “maybe they put a newer engine in that old plane, just like we put a new V8 engine and automatic transmission in our old cars and turned them into hot rods. I can only assume that someone hot rodded that old plane. That would make it more airworthy, wouldn't it?”
Before Dan could answer, as we were watching the left side of the mobile home expecting the vintage plane to appear, out from behind the dilapidated shed on the right rolled a shiny new red and white Bonanza. The pilot taxied up near the mobile home...the woman motioned Chris and I toward the plane...I looked at Dan. Neither of us had to say a word, we both knew! Dan struggled to get his money out of his pocket as he ran toward the mobile home to purchase his ticket.
The three of us had a great air tour. It lasted almost three hours and the pilot took us over the cone three times, each time lower than the last, over Spirit Lake three times and around the whole volcano twice. The view from above was awesome and the pilot’s narrative about the destruction made the flight extra special. Dan shot over three rolls of film, got some great photos and we got an extra long tour of Mt. St. Helens from the air.
Two very important things were learned that day...First: NEVER, NEVER, NEVER assume. ASK! Then ask again! Second: NEVER judge a book by its' cover! Dan was so sure the old plane sitting beside the airstrip was the one we were to fly in, he wasn't about to chance a trip in it...simply not so. From that day forward, Dan always asks questions, no matter how stupid they sound.