Something about consistent triple-digit drops in the market, rhetoric, record and a plummeting barometer makes me want to acknowledge the occasion. Free TV is forecasting a storm along the Wasatch, and I smell its breath on the wind. We’re gearing up for a rather terrifying Halloween.

As I sit here, sails furled and all hatches battened, I am wondering where my bailout equivalency check is. With giant monuments to stupidity and greed listing and foundering, this tiny red boat still floats strong – today anyway.

Meanwhile, people argue over records, votes, debates and winners. I know deep down inside that we will wind up with yet another Republicrat president regardless of outcome. We will continue our obsessive focus on the executive branch, just as our country cousins fuss over their queen. While we're out to lunch, justices will be permitted to legislate from the bench while Congress finds creative ways to spend ever-growing heaps of money on anything but existing debt.

And you, dear reader, might ask yourself if Sammy’s block finally cracked.

I shall address this directly primarily for my own benefit. The pressure is high. My medium-sized $X billion company (“my” denoting pride, not ownership) has canceled a company-wide conference call tomorrow, and sparse information has been trickling down slowly from heights unseen. Memos are arriving regarding expenses, and my boss is suddenly becoming a semi-permanent attachment as he redoubles his effort to coach, “add value,” and “drive the number.”

I am currently forecasting roughly thirty percent growth for my humble little four-state territory. Turning heads in the best of times, this forecast, while accurate, has earned me daily phone calls from various entities and yes, my omnipresent boss. In reality, things could be much, much worse.

Forecasts notwithstanding, I did the only sensible thing. I made one final run beneath a dying summer’s sun. Big Cottonwood’s water has grown icy as the nights stretch and the sun’s oblique reach is thwarted by stubborn crags that refuse to honor season. I was suddenly embraced by beauty ablaze as the best hour arrived unannounced. For only an instant, the falling sun ignited the narrow channel between water and overhanging trees. I cast a shadow over
riffle and stone stretching wide up the mountain, and eventually into space. As I beheld my giant misshapen likeness, I noticed recently fallen leaves, Aspen perhaps, churning in the current like great golden coins toward a troubled city below. And it ended. Only the great cliffs continued to burn as embers in the twilight, allowing me to reach my car before complete darkness. I drove homeward a bit faster than usual, focused on things of greater importance.