I attended three days of handgun training this last weekend with Brian Hill of THE COMPLETE COMBATANT. Brian is one of the greatest trainers in the world who is still in the process of being discovered by the larger firearms world, and as excellent training should, Brian’s goes far beyond traditional gun skills growth and into overall matters that affect the deeper aspects of life, performance, and personal betterment at higher levels.
The training was held at the fantastic indoor facilities of The Range, West St. Louis (MO), and I had most of the day on the following Monday to laze around and do whatever in St. Louis while waiting for a delayed flight home on Cattle Car Air.
As a four- or five-year-old, my parents had taken us kids up The Gateway Arch, leaving vivid memories of dancing Indians in the tower base, riding up in those tiny tram cars that resembled the insides of a tight washing machine, and the terrifying swaying of the Arch at the top from high winds while white-knuckle staring out those little bitty windows overseeing terrifying, seemingly unsupported heights.
With a half day of an underpowered Corolla rental still available after the weekend, I decided to revisit warm boyhood memories by peering in person at the St. Louis Arch. It almost caused a feeling of guilt, knowing it would be without my Dollface and our two almost-out-of-control manchilds BUT…I was there…they were in blazing hot AZ…so…
The plan was to just see and admire it, revisit memories and then head out for food near the airport.
It was hot, but worse, it was muggy, reportedly around 96% humidity, so for this Colorado/Arizona boy used to 10-20% humidity, it was basically Hades, almost worse than the dry 110’ish degree heat I’d become used to these last few years in AZ.
I parked four blocks away and melted my way to the Arch, quickly getting sticky from the thick atmosphere. I hadn’t planned to enter the actual Arch, having decided to just gaze across the Mississippi River into Commie Illinois but the muggy heat drove me into the Arch itself. Once inside, the cool A/C tempted, so I decided to stay for a bit and look around.
It was quickly obvious that the more interesting parts of the Arch were behind paywalls, so I momentarily debated spending likely exorbitant sums to get a peek under its skirt.
Understand something, I rarely spend money on myself. It oftimes feels like it should be saved to survive the hard times as a traveling firearms trainer or for daily and family necessities.
I live a life of give and rarely take, or give and try not to self-indulge, likely due to growing up as a not-rich missionary kid to Africa-missionary parents. As a kid, I quickly saw that the missionaries who lived high on the hog tended to be much like Joel Osteen and other such TV evangelists, self-serving egoists who used religion for their own enrichment. Such was always sickening so self-focus has always been an anathema.
My parents were and are the exact opposite, loving those they served and giving of themselves beyond what many may possibly imagine so the decision to do more than originally planned was kinda hard and I struggled with it, feeling selfishly self-focused and possibly unnecessarily spending when it should be spent for my family’s needs.
But, being there again…after almost forty years…so internal handcuffs kept dragging me towards the line for the tour to the top of the Arch. At the front of the line, I was surprised that it was only $17 to go to the top. The internal debate quickly ended, settling that it would almost be criminal to not go up for a measly $17.
I was there…and getting back there again may never happen, especially with my darling family…and in today’s Biden America, $17 barely buys a burger at McDonald’s, so why not spend it on something that brings good memories instead of McD’s poisonous fat?
The thought, “Take the tram!”, and “Just take the tram!”, kept niggling at my brain.
I asked to take the steps up, as a vague memory said that used to be an option but the lady at the front desk looked at me oddly and said they were only used for emergencies. Such a bummer. Climbing those steps would have been heaven.
There was more security there than I’d expected. It is a national park and I’ve been in many but had not realized there would be TSA level security. I’d purposefully removed my concealed handgun and spare magazine and left them in the parked car, so I just walked up to the security checkpoint with my ticket to the top and started taking things out of my pockets and off my body.
The couple behind me started laughing and joking as more and more was deposited in the security x-ray tubs….we defensively minded folks who take responsibility for our own are a bit of an anomaly.
Off came the daily carried knife that Brian Hill had gifted two years ago. The POM OC spray. The AFAK (ankle first aid kit). Tourniquet from my back, left pocket. The string cuffs. The flashlight with its DNA collector. Wallet. Watch. A wristband with deep meaning to me. My notched H&K ball cap. Sunglasses. My Patriot Mobile cellphone. Rental car keys. Well broken in Defenders USA leather belt that will hopefully be available for purchase soon. Solomon shoes.
Doesn’t it almost always feel like they even want us to take off the tidy-whiteys and bend over and cough just to get in these places?
Of course, the metal and explosive detector went nuts, so I was flagged over for a gynecological check.
Then, a stocky park cop came up and told me that he has no problem with me keeping my pocketknife, but I could not keep the POM pepper spray. He offered to let me take it back to my car (too hot and I was tight on time), or that he could confiscate it. I asked if I could just get it back when I returned, but he shook his head.
I told him that it was the best OC/pepper spray in the world, so I had no problem donating it to the cause, as long as he promised to use it on those who needed the hot sauce.
He looked at me strangely for a moment but nodded and grimly laughed as he realized the meaning while walking off without another word and holding on to my nice, new’ish POM canister.
I gotta tell you, once you become accustomed to having constant, instant access to POM pepper spray…and it’s no longer there…ya feel a trifle naked.
I was grateful I had five or six more brand new ones waiting at home in their boxes, and I later grabbed another to carry around.
I waited the half hour for my tram, looking at all the sights and reading the many postings under the Arch.
The history there is rich, pure Americana, full of grit and ingenuity, muscle and effort, portraying the hearty desires of our ancestors for challenges and discovery.
St. Louis was, at one time in our short, vibrant history, truly the gateway to the untamed, wild West. “Go west, young man, go west.”, was the cry that originated in St. Louis, beckoning to parts hitherto unknowable, as distantly dangerous then as Mars seems now, and where only the brave dared tread.
There was an obviously single, pretty lady and her young daughter visiting the Arch, along with a separate very handsome, squared away man and his similarly young daughter. I watched as they – by sheer coincidence – were paired up for the ride up to the top in the tram tubs.
I watched interest blossom between the two as we waited for our trams. Attraction to each other was on careful display, budding love possibly peeking in their futures, and it was good to see the two young girls of similar ages studying each other, seemingly trying to decide if they would be a good fit as stepsisters. What a place to meet the love of your life and have your life unexpectedly changed.
My turn in the Arch-ascending washing machine tub came, and I was paired with a delightful family of three from Oklahoma. Mom, Dad, and their 20’ish son, together on the way to Kentucky, had stopped to visit the Arch. I never learned their names, yet we traded general chit chat, and it was good to randomly meet such decent, down-to-earth Americans.
I internally clenched at the beginning jolt on the way up, the way one does on a bouncy airplane in turbulence, left over unreasonably magnified fear from being a kid and so scared the last time bumping my way to the top.
Four minutes up, and the top didn’t sway at all the way my kid brain remembered. The sights were gorgeous, both into gun-hating Illinois and overseeing the beautiful Cardinals stadium (my alternating favorite first or second team when occasionally paying attention to paint drying baseball) and downtown St. Louis on the west side into the freedom-land of Missouri.
Pictures were taken, and I offered to take pictures for two sweet couples. One was an older hippie couple, enthusiastically pointing out their roller skate of a smart car parked far below, while the other was young, laughing and energetic, adorned in American flags and MAGA clothing.
I heard all versions of American English, from the lazy, nasal southern drawl to clipped, crisp New Englander, relaxed, casual Western, Ebonics, and to “Hang Ten” Californian.
There was also Spanish, Russian, German, Japanese, and French. I’ve spent time in most of those countries and as a rather fluent French speaker but having a horridly limited Russian language interest, it was a great time eavesdropping on them all, especially the two older French couples, who were visiting America for the first time and clearly enjoy a very particular joint endeavor they unabashedly talked about due to not suspecting anyone could understand them but that also should not be mentioned in public, polite company…or where my strict Baptist parents might blushingly read about.
Time at the top: 10 minutes, then we were efficiently ushered out to make way for more visitors.
The ride down was 3 three minutes, gravity doing better than the mechanical push up. The Oklahomans and I bid each other safe journeys and I walked down to the muddy, mighty Mississippi river front.
The view straight up from under the Arch was disorienting and awe inspiring. It seemed to sway, though maybe I was the one swaying drunkenly instead of the towering arch. More pictures were taken, none doing justice to the magnificence of the Gateway to the West.
I left reinvigorated and in awe once again at the majesty of our nation, of God’s grace and so many’s extreme sacrifice that gave us and preserved this United States. I also left with a sense of gratitude for having visited there with my parents almost a half century ago, creating vibrant memories then and getting to see it once more to somewhat relive those day, while also aspiring to someday take my own there.
Here’s the point to all this:
This was a vacation of the soul. It was short, only a little over an hour long but my soul opened and that sense of previously unrealized need for such repose was palatable. Memories of happy yesteryear with the loving family of my childhood was ever present and the longing to share it and similar experiences with my own young boys was there as well.
Living constantly on the go is tough on the soul and spirit. I fought this soul vacation momentarily but sensed it was needed, and ultimately, it was rejuvenating.
It came down to this:
Euphemistically, say yes to the tram.
Say, “Yes”, more often.
Remember those times when you really didn’t want to do something, or haven’t been sure you really wanted to do it, but you did it anyways and it ultimately proved to be a great time – once you put your grumpy insolence to going to any effort away and embraced doing the thing?
That Arch tram was emblematic of far more and ultimately saying, “Yes”, provided more soul rest than the short hour would seem if measured by the artificial restrictions of the clock.
Take the rests your soul needs, especially the short ones. Jobs, friends, obligations, family, expectations, and other pressures unique to you bring about stress and a toll. At times, it must all be put aside, and life deservedly should just be enjoyed.
The soul needs its quieting moments, much like the body, and I urge you to occasionally give in and rest the soul by indulging in what truly awakens and brings your soul quietness, greatness, and gratitude.
Adam Winch
Founder, Defenders USA
