Dedicated to the living memory of Mike Wagner and the living legacy of the Wagner Family.

When I left my apartment, I had only two things in mind. First, pick up Wagner. Second, watch the sun rise as far into the country as possible. I can't recall exactly what I'd done the night before, if anything. But I do remember tossing and turning in bed till one great revelationary idea popped into my head.

It was an ordeal waking him. I banged on his door repeatedly, threw rocks at his window, even honked my horn. The apartment complex was usually abuzz with all the party hullabaloo imaginable. Now not a sound could be heard. Only that of the breeze kicking an empty beer can across the parking lot. When he came to the door, he groaned in a slumber, with a what-the-hell-ya-doin'-ya-nutcase! tone that hinged on slamming the door shut. But he laughed at my mania. He would come no matter what. More than anybody, I could count on Mike when spontaneity beckoned, to let loose, to tame the endless expanse of mountains that surrounded Blacksburg.

"Ahhh, look at the sky," was all he muttered, rubbing his eyes.

We rolled from the lot like the Space Shuttle piercing the stratosphere, bent on exploration of the highest degree. It was the first day of spring, and we had to experience the first light. The streets were dark, lonely, sober and innocent. The sweet sound of silence infiltrated the air like an army of enchantment, and the stars shone brilliantly, infinitely. West over yonder, above the sleeping campus, the gleaming gold moon fell low in the sky, and to the east, beneath the farm-speckled horizon, awoke the early sun, casting dazzling shades of purple and fiery red-orange. We glided down the long gradual slope into the valley. Smoke issued from the chimney tops. Steam rose from the frozen-crusted grass. Cows grazed the pastures with vaporous breath. Flocks of birds, ducks and geese slid across the sky, scouting out their age-old territory. The vast lively land awaited the arrival of a new season with blithe abandon.

The road wound casually, circuitously, from farm to farm. We knew each hill and turn like the palms of our hands. From the first day we met freshman year, the road had been our stomping ground, our escape from the problems and perplexities of college life. We had roamed its entirety on grueling bike rides and peaceful Sunday drives. We had scoured the creeks and rivers and waterfalls that adorned its edges. The road guided us wherever it pleased, never to a disappointing destination.

I parked on a hill that overlooked the valley. The mountains modestly carved the perimeter as they protruded into the lightening sky. Birds whistled ever anon above the quiet click-tick cooling of my engine. The brisk breeze smelled of burning leaves. We sat motionless on the hood of my car, waiting to catch the first glimpse of the great rising sun, cigars in hand, ready to light, to christen our futures and bid farewell to the fond years of yore.

Graduation loomed in my mind like a nagging pest. While I anticipated the future with an eagerness to wallop the "real world" with an ambitious fist, I loathed to leave my friends. I had come to Tech as an outsider, not knowing anybody, with an empty feeling that nobody would compare to my friends in high school. But that feeling soon faded. After our first pledge meeting, one thing was definite -- I had a new best friend. Mike had a certain charisma about him, with a live-and-let-live attitude, and he could play a ghost guitar better than Jimi Hendrix. He filled the void that longed to explore and experience the wild wonders of nature. In high school they called me Huck. No doubt I'd finally found my partner in crime, that Sawyer kid. Only he went by Wags.

After a few excursions to the New River, our zeal increased tenfold. Countless parks and camping areas proliferated in the Jefferson National Forest and surrounding counties. We had so much to do, and so little time. Just a few years or so.

The Cascades presented one of our first real adventures. It was November, chilly, and foreboding skies broiled in the distance. We drove a slivery stretch of road through a small town where well weathered men cradled their forties on porch swings, and the local church resembled a ramshackle barn. It was a rough and romantic world surrounded by landscape of unparalleled beauty, and we reveled in its intrigue.

The hiking trail meandered precipitously along a surging stream. When the black sky and its onslaught of sleet descended upon us, we made a two-mile bolt, hurdling huge boulders and stumps, climbing muddy inclines on all fours like greyhounds in a mad dash for the finish. The thunder of the fumbling water roared from afar. Towering at the peak of the mountain, the falls sprang forth, bombarding the bottom pool with the force of a dozen trains. We climbed the cliff trail, our faces and fingers frozen from the misty waterfall spray. Once atop, the panorama broadened into a fathomless view. Swift moving clouds swallowed the mountains in a colossal shroud, and everything sizzled in the downpour.

Upstream the current was settled, and we relaxed on the shore. I tried prodding Wags into taking a dip in the water, but he had more sense. The Indians, I argued, had used intensely cold water to drive the evil spirits from them. It sounded good, anyway, but again he had more sense. My clothes drenched, my mouth a chatterbox, I figured a little dip couldn't hurt. Evil be gone!, I made the plunge.

"You devil," Wags howled.

He laughed at my stupidity long and hard enough, but had the good will to loan me his waterproof jacket for the frigid trek back to the car.

After we were initiated, we regained something that we'd been missing for what seemed years -- spare time. With this newfound freedom, we expanded our limits beyond the college periphery. More time meant more trips to Georgia, West Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Pennsylvania, Tennessee and Ohio. Wags was the perfect traveling companion. Go here, go there, it didn't matter, so long as it involved new places and new people. His curiosity and open mind granted him a special kind of knowledge, the kind that can only be gained through real raw-to-the-bone experience.

"It's a good time, makes me laugh," he would say in his hilarious mock-British accent.

Now as I pondered the past on this peaceful morning, I felt good. In all my college days, I had not one regret. I had unforgettable memories and friends that would last a lifetime. Nothing could ever take them away. And here I sat, on the rooftop of America, in the presence of my fellow friend whom I'd come to know as my brother. It was no formality when the first light broke over the horizon, and Wags bit one end from his cigar, lit it calmly and said, "Phi Alpha, bro," and shook my hand. It was a fraternity greeting, its meaning too often lost in ceremony. But now it held true to the idealism of its creation. We had been through most everything together and, after all the triumph and tumult, were finally able to enjoy the spoils. The earth stood on end for an eternity it seemed, as the sun rolled over the land in one great rejuvenating wave of light.

After graduation, we parted our separate ways. Wags stayed in Blacksburg and worked as a biologist, while I moved to Richmond and took a few film classes at the local university. I visited him periodically when the occasion called for us to "kick it old school," as we called it.

Once, Wags accompanied me on a trip to West Virginia to produce a documentary on coal-mining. When I saw the old gleam in his eyes, I questioned the adage about post-graduation blues. It was possibly the most important transition of my life, and I felt more at ease than ever. We rolled through the mountains like pioneers of yesteryear, allured by the million-colored leaves that blanketed the spiraling roads, inspired by the ruggedness of the small dilapidated towns. And yet, in a world that seemed light years from our own, nobody was a stranger. Wags brought out the bright life that burned and beamed from the poor ragged locals, some of whom went so far as to invited us to their Halloween party. A whole ten people were invited. It would've been a record attendance, they said, had we been able to make it. Another local, an old miner, told us his life story. Both his father and brother had died in the mines. He spoke with an awful retch, probably from the years of toiling in the rock dust below.

The following spring I moved to my hometown, St. Louis. I had longed for four years to be with my old high school friends. It was good to be home again, but amid all the comfort and contentment, I felt yet another longing. The Blue Ridge Mountains had followed me clear to the Midwest. I rekindled those carefree college days like a prize fighter donning his title belt, and longed to be roaming the hills and camping by a raging fire under a pristine star-studded sky. Above all, I longed to be with Wags much as I had missed my friends when I set off for college.

We crossed paths here and there, in Blacksburg, Richmond, Connecticut, even in Johnson City, Tennessee, for the greatest good-ol'-boy concert of all time, Lynard Skynard. But it was never enough.

Last winter we drove to Arlington for an alumni Christmas party. Wags got a kick out of my old Chevy Caprice, which he aptly named BOB, for it was big, old, and brown. He would tilt back the seat and luxuriate in the spaciousness. "Man, this thing's smooth as silk," he would comment. "This, my friend, is the fine line between sport and luxury." I knew he appreciated Bob's character and its boaty figure which resembled a billboard, but Wags had one heck of a driving machine, a '68 Buick Skylark 350 convertible. "Don't patronize me, my friend," I'd joke. "Hey, it's not just a Caprice," he'd say. "It's a Caprice Classic."

We ate dinner in Georgetown and explored the shops and taverns for a few hours before heading to Arlington. Of course, we could've gone straight to the party. But I wanted more time to catch up with my old comrade. We traded stories as if we'd been apart for years. There was something perennial, a feeling of coming up for fresh air when in the presence of Wags. He put everything into perspective with his lively humor, his face eternally aglow with good cheer. Time slid by seamlessly, and not a worry dampened his invincible spirit.

In Arlington we kicked it "old school" with our fraternity brothers. As always, everybody was delighted to see Wags. He had such a magnetic aura that whenever he walked into a room, conversations would pause, and you'd hear a dozen people say, "Hey, it's Wags." His friendliness was intrinsic and irresistible. If you knew Wags, he was your friend. No strings attached. You could trust him, confide in him, brag about him and count on him to lighten the mood in any situation.

When we left the next morning, I had no clue it would be our final ride together. In retrospect, I wouldn't have changed one thing had I known. We rode like always, with the windows down. Even in the dead of winter, we absorbed the elements in earnest. We rode as we had on the nameless roads of our beloved Blue Ridge country with insatiable hunger and interest. We rode like always, telling jokes, spinning yarns, laughing in hysterics till our cheeks ached and our eyes welled with tears. The novelty of our youth had not worn off. It never would.

When I heard the awful news of my dear friend's death, I reacted with a barrage of questions. How far did Wags fall? Who was he with? Was he sleeping near the cliff? What time did it happen? Did they try to revive him?

There had to be a loophole somewhere. Wags had an intense lust for life and he made game of pushing it to the limit, but not in the endangerment of his own well-being. Never. An accident of this magnitude couldn't happen on this side of the universe. It only happened to the dregs of society. That was the way it should be. Heck, the guy was so strong-minded he never even cheated on a test, and then he had the gall to brag about it. What tragedy, what injustice could ever besiege such a soul!

To this day, I still fumble with the notion, for I feel the very presence of my old friend Wags in the open road that rambles the country, in the thrill of embracing the unknown with the sweetest loin of desire, in the finer qualities that mold the hearts and minds of true gentlemen. He only broke a leg, I think. He'll be back soon. He must be well for tomorrow to see the coming of the first light.