Grand-Canyon Band of Brothers

It was a Friday morning when I walked into the chapel in Summit, Utah. I took a seat mid-way towards the back. The funeral for Bill Grimm would start in a few minutes. I had not been particularly close to Bill, yet felt a kinship to him. A bond was formed fifty years earlier, strong enough to prompt a 9-hour drive across three states to pay respect to this good man. 

It was May of 1975. A group of friends got together with one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World as a backdrop, A backpacking trip into the Grand Canyon helped solidify friendships which would last a lifetime. Our Band of Brothers totaled six then. But Father Time had taken its toll. Six months previous we lost Rob Brusman. With Bill gone now, our numbers dwindled to four. 

As I sat waiting for the service to start, I reflected on life. Friendship is a fragile thing. What are the survival odds over five decades? I spent the last thirty years bouncing across the country. Career moves had taken me thousands of miles from my roots, from the friends of my youth. And yet, all these years later, these good men were still good friends in my sunset years. I was incredibly blessed. 

When I glanced at the clock, the start of the service was already ten minutes late. I didn’t mind. I continued to reflect. 

Over the decades, our band of brothers always remained friends, but sometimes drifted. During our kid-raising years, those years spent furthering our careers, we weren’t as close. But the bonds never broke. Such was the case with Rusty Spencer, who was sitting two seats to my right. 

 Rusty was the driver on an infamous summer evening when a water-balloon war was waged on every motorist, cyclist and pedestrian of Prescott, Arizona. We were stopped at a red light when a declaration came across our police scanner. “I have an all-points bulletin for a blue Chevrolet pickup, license plate number XYZ-123.” Another friend jumped from the bed of the truck and took a look at our plate before exclaiming, “Yep, that’s us.” 

As I continued to reflect, Don Davis entered the chapel and sat between Rusty and I. Of all the members of our band of brothers, my roots ran deepest with Don. We had known each other since we were in diapers. As teenage drivers and lovers of fast cars, we had an unspoken rivalry. When we parted company and left on our missions at the age of 19, Don was the clear winner. He had experienced flashing red lights in the rearview mirror and been pulled over by a cop 27 times. My second-place score was a paltry 19. 

If our friend Rob Brusman hadn’t had his own funeral six months earlier, he would have been at this one. The official cause of death was a brain aneurism, but the real reason was the Lord called him home before any of us would have liked. He had a unique position amongst us. He was the glue that held our Band of Brothers together. 

Without Rob there would be no band. Of the six of us, three were converts to the church. Rob played a roll in the conversion of each. Despite a ton of mischief as a youth, he was the one who rose to the top spiritually. He was the one who served as a stake president. He was the one to have an apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ speak at his funeral. 

As Bill Grimm’s family began to enter the chapel, I was pulled from my thoughts. There was a long line of them. As they took their seats, they filled the entire middle section. Amongst them was Bill’s brother Jack. As a one of the speakers, he took a seat on the stand. 

 I didn’t hang out with Jack until our senior year of high school. He was a good friend of Rob’s, so he became a good friend of mine. One of the blessings of returning to Arizona in retirement, has been refreshing my friendship with this good man. We might be closer now than we were in our youth. 

The service finally got underway. A Eulogy was offered by Bill’s daughter, Dove. Jack then stood and gave a stellar performance, paying tribute to his beloved older brother. 

 Bill Grimm was a cowboy. He dressed the part. He lived the part. He was a hard-working man. He did what he loved, not what was most lucrative. He left behind a remarkable legacy, though not one of riches or material wealth. His legacy was his five well-grounded children, the spouses they chose, and twenty grandchildren. 

In reminiscing about Bill’s life, Jack included our 1975 Grand Canyon trip, the one that solidified us as a band of brothers. At the time, Bill’s occupation was running mule trains in and out of the Canyon. The night the rest of us spent at Phantom Ranch, Bill spent on the rim. He got up in the wee hours of the morning and went to work. He ran a mule train to the bottom of the canyon, unloaded his freight then took the train back to the rim. He then literally ran the seven miles back down the South Kaibab trail before hiking another 8 miles with us as we climbed out of the Canyon via the Bright Angel trail. He was a stud. This gesture solidified him as member of our Grand-Canyon Band of Brothers. 

Last September, five out of six of our Band of Brothers gathered in Prescott where we enjoyed a reunion of LDS students from our high school days. One of our old classmates observed the closeness of our group fifty years later. With envy and admiration, he wished he enjoyed similar long-time friendships. His words gave me pause. My heart swelled. He was right. Our band of Brothers was truly blessed by a lifetime of friendship. As I sat in Bill’s funeral and reflected, I felt confident it would continue into the eternity.