It's the call of the pipes that brings healing and comfort to a family bereft of a dear one. The lonesome strains have the ability to transcend time and space, lifting the grieving hearts heavenward, but for the piper it is a solemn reminder of the responsibility we bear. There is no place for poorly tuned drones, or squeaking chanters. There is no tolerance for sloppy embellishments or lazy fingers; there is only one requisite, "Play well or stay home."
It pains me to say that there have been times I have not delivered on the piper's ethos. Perhaps it was the extreme cold of the day, or a chanter reed that had weathered too many performances and should have been retired long before. Whatever the excuse, I've had occasions where I felt ashamed for not performing at my best. Happily, those occasions are few and far between, but still, the stinging memories haunt my reflections.
So it was today, as I wound my way ever higher into the beauty of the pristine canyon. I found my self bombarded by the questions of an over protective psyche, "do you have your Chanter?", "Which chanter is best for high altitudes?", "Don't forget to tune before you get there." "Crap! I forgot how the altitude plays havoc on the pipes.", on and on it went. The stark reality that began to reveal itself was that such questions had no definitive answer.
Therein is the piper's burden, discovering how to play well under any circumstance one finds oneself. It all boils down to one thing, experience. Admittedly, I have not had a vast amount, I just am stupid enough to strike out and try, inexperienced as I am. I have had to take my knocks and climb the rocky road, and I still have so far to go. Please understand, I am not implying I am a sage, wise piper by writing this tale, I just hope some may find it useful. I digress; where was I? Ah yes, anyway as I drove, the beauty of the canyon seemed to ease my anxiety.
The call today was to bring the healing balm to those who knew Tucker Evans Taffe. Who is Tucker? I must admit, I knew little of him myself until I dug deeper. Tucker is the embodiment of all that youth aspires to be.
Tucker was a lean and handsome lad standing nearly six foot four inches tall. He was known to some as, "The King of the Wasatch". His exploits were legendary. In talking with his Uncle, I learned that Tucker would climb a steep mountain face that loomed high above the Alta Lodge. Upon reaching the top, he would ski to the bottom only to repeat the feat twice more in the same day. As I looked at the forbidding rock face, I could not even imagine making it up once, let alone three times.
As so often happens to those who dare to challenge the limits of mother natures bounty, Tucker found misfortune on the steep slopes of Mount Rainier. While traversing uphill to reach the summit of the Nisqually Glacier, Tucker fell into an unseen crevasse and fell over a hundred feet to his death. The starkness of the tragedy is only underscored by the youth that was ripped away. Tucker was only 33 years of age.
As I drove up the canyon I found myself nearing the Alta Lodge; time to tune, I told myself. I pulled to the side of the road and pulled out the pipes. I thought nothing of the slight difference in altitude from where I was to where I would have to play. The pipes rang out true and beautiful. My mind was at ease, this would be one of my best performances yet.
Finally I arrived at the lodge and made my way down the four flights of stairs to the entrance. There I met Scot Laidlaw, Tucker's uncle. After a brief discussion, it was time to let Llieam do his thing. As I struck in and began tuning the first tenor drone, I realized my Chanter was extremely sharp. Great! Evidently, the higher the altitude the less dense the air with which the cane reed can vibrate, and so the reed will pitch higher, who knew?
I was able to wrangle the pesky reed to the correct pitch and I tuned the drones. Now it was show time. I walked to the back of the lodge, to a patio overlooking the majestic rocky mountains. I played the "Dark Isle"; the sound reverberated off each lofty mountain peak. It was awesome. As I concluded the tune, I noticed a large crowd of people above me on the balcony. They looked at me intently but were silent as the grave. It felt awkward, almost like playing the pipes in church. I proceeded to play tune after tune, "Danny Boy", "The Skye Boat song", "Amazing Grace", and many others.
I could tell that Lliem was applying his healing balm to the listening crowd. In the silence of the onlookers, I heard the soft tears falling as each remembered Tucker, as son, brother, friend and companion. It's hard to describe the feeling as you play to such an audience. You simply must play well. It proved to be a challenge. The 8,500 foot altitude was unyielding. It took all the concentration I had to keep a steady drone as I played. But I was able to carry it off and it proved to be a beautiful performance, or so I was told.
Gliding back down the canyon, I reflected on the power of these ancient pipes. I felt a sense of pride and humility. Proud to be able to wield such an influential instrument, and humbled that I have so far to go before mastering it's fickle ways, but I traverse on. Until next time, "May the road rise to meet you and may the wind be always at your back."
