MORE Y STORIES

By Various Authors

After a century, the beloved campus symbol has inspired more than 100 stories.

Bike the Y
By Dale L. Holdaway (BS ’91), Northville, Mich.

It began one morning as my roommate and I were bantering back and forth about the great feats of which we thought ourselves capable. One boast led to another, and I soon found myself claiming emphatically that I could ride a bicycle to the Y. My roommate thought this preposterous and deemed me unworthy of such a great feat. We agreed to settle the affair once and for all, with the loser paying $5 to the winner. I was so certain I would succeed that the possibility of this being gambling never entered my mind—after all, gambling involves chance, not certainty.

We loaded a bicycle into the car and drove to the trailhead. Upon arrival, I set off in good spirits, energetically forging up the trail. The switchbacks came, rocks on the trail began to make balancing difficult, and my pace slowed as fatigue set in and the enormity of the undertaking began to descend upon me.

And then it happened—I lost my balance, and my feet touched the ground. I steadied myself and began to peddle again.

My roommate immediately began to rejoice and claim victory. “There it is!” he exclaimed. “I knew you couldn’t do it!”

This scenario repeated itself several times, but I persevered, my respect for the symbol’s altitude growing as I continued.

Finally, I arrived at the Y. Did I walk to the Y with a bicycle between my knees, or did I ride a bicycle to the Y with an occasional steadying touch to the ground? I guess it depends on whom you ask.

Zach, I am still waiting for my $5.


Hiking the Figurative Y
By Lisa Heath Richards (BS ’97), Lakewood, Calif.

My first invitation to hike the Y came on a hot afternoon in late August during Freshman Orientation. I sat with my Y Group of incoming freshmen on DT Field prior to the start of fall semester 1991. Our leader enthusiastically announced that we would hike the Y on Saturday night. I glanced over at the steep mountain, seeing the large block Y for the first time. “No thanks,” I thought. My mind was focused on the figurative “mountain of college.” I was preoccupied with finding my classes, buying textbooks, living with roommates, and, most of all, worrying and wondering if I could make it as a college student.

Over the coming years, I would often be invited to hike the Y with friends. I politely declined each time. I did plenty of hiking during my BYU years—in Provo and Rock Canyons, and on longer trips to Arches, Canyonlands, and Zion National Parks. But for some reason, I resisted hiking the Y.

Finally, one evening in late April, several years after my Y Group experience, I sat at the lighted Y and took in the view of the campus, city, and valley that had become my home. Hours earlier, I had donned a black cap and gown for commencement exercises at the Marriott Center; the next morning I would wear them again to be handed my diploma in the Smith Fieldhouse.

Had I hiked the Y as an incoming freshman, the view from the Y would have been similar. But the emotion I felt on that graduation evening could have come only now, after years of academic and personal struggles, failures, and successes. The sense of accomplishment was exhilarating. What to do with the rest of my life now loomed ahead of me. But at that moment, I sat back and relished the thought that I had, at last, hiked the Y.


Looking for a Rock on Y Mountain
By Courtney Palmer Dougall (BA ’99), Springville, Utah

During the Thanksgiving holiday before my husband and I were married, we decided to take a late-night hike up Y Mountain. It was cold and dark, but because we were in that “engaged” mindset, we didn’t mind the weather conditions. We reached the top and sat to enjoy the view.

After a few minutes, though, even romance couldn’t keep us from ignoring the cold any longer. But as I stood to leave, my engagement ring slipped off my finger. To this day I can still hear the ominous sound of my ring clinking down the mountain. My then fiancé began the torturous task of trying to find a needle in a haystack.

After about 30 minutes of fruitless searching, we heard voices. Three young men had had the same idea of hiking that night. When we told them of our predicament, they joined in the search. After just five minutes of looking, one of the young men reached down and held up my ring. If I hadn’t already been engaged, I would have kissed him then and there.

We jokingly thanked our “three Nephites” and started down the mountain, immediately heading to the nearest jewelry store to have my ring resized.

Today we still love reminiscing about that fateful night as we take our three beautiful girls hiking to create their own Y Mountain memories.


How the Y Remained a Y
By Peter J. Brown (BS ’04), State College, Pa.

The Intercollegiate Knights have long held the job of lighting and guarding the Y for Homecoming week and graduation. Luckily, the guarding part is made a little easier by the loudmouthed nature of some would-be pranksters.

One Homecoming week evening, I was enjoying the view of the valley when someone in a nearby group suggested rearranging the lights into a giant U. Waving at them with my walkie-talkie, I suggested that wasn’t a very good idea. They said they only wanted to do it because they were Cougar fans and wanted to get everyone fired up for the next game. I said it still wasn’t a good idea.

A half hour later, on a different part of the Y, I heard a familiar voice say, “Let’s wait for that guy to go home and then rearrange the lights.” I let them know I was right there and that they would have to wait quite a while for me to leave, as I was spending the night at the Y.

Apparently, they decided to wait until I went to sleep. At least that’s what the other guy on guard duty said they announced later, with him sitting only a few feet from them. They might have been able to pull it off if they hadn’t been so loud about it. Eventually they went home, and the Y was still a Y.


Big Questions
By Curtis E. Craghead (BA ’76), Mesa, Ariz.

My roommate was a long-time student at BYU and a “hanger-on” after graduation. Living at the foot of the mountain, over time he developed a passion, bordering on obsession, to leave a message on the Y. His message was simple and would be delivered on two separate occasions, but the scheme required precision planning and just the right medium of expression. He had collected plenty of coconspirators in the scheme, but he was not sure of his materials. As the years passed, a great deal of debate went into choosing the appropriate substance. I worked with the web press that printed the Daily Universe early each morning. Suddenly, the required materials were apparent, and his plan went into action.

Late on two Saturday nights, a couple of weeks apart, we journeyed up the mount with roll ends of newsprint to communicate to all of Provo—nay, to the entire world. The first occasion asked, “Y?” A picture was published on the front page of the Daily Universe and much speculation ensued about its meaning. Was it “a frustrated answer to a rejected marriage proposal?” or “philosophical inquiry into the meaning of life?” The second occasion continued the message with the reply, “Y NOT?”


Scaling the Y
By Deby Manning Jensen (BA ’93), Provo

It was a Saturday afternoon in February and warm enough to go on a hike. My roommate had friends visiting from home, so we decided to give them a grand tour of Provo and view it from the Y. We talked my boyfriend (now my husband) out of studying and into going with us. After all, he had a car.

We didn’t know how to get there, so we just drove east and up until we came to the base of Y Mountain. We thought it was odd that the trail was not well marked, since we knew so many people made the trek every year, but we started climbing anyway.

As we hiked, we went slower and slower. This was much harder than we had anticipated, and it was taking a lot longer. We looked for the Y, but we couldn’t spot it as we climbed. Sometimes the incline was so steep, we simply sat down in the dirt to rest.

Finally, we saw the bumpy white thing that was our goal. Our energy strengthened, and we practically ran the rest of the way. We were surprised to see just how big it was. With our last ounce of strength, we heaved ourselves onto the Y and marveled at the beautiful view of Utah Valley. Then we heard a noise and glanced to our left to see some people. Why were they not as exhausted as we were? And what was that they were walking on? Could it be . . . a trail? We looked at each other in shock as we realized we had not hiked to the Y—we had climbed the face of the mountain to the Y.

I’ve climbed the Y many times since that February afternoon and have always found it easy. Perhaps it’s because I always used the trail.


An Unofficial Initial History
By Yvette Locey Schurig (BS ’01), Houston, Texas

Several years have passed since my husband and I attended BYU, and every summer we travel back to Happy Valley to visit friends and family. Last summer, we spent a day at Seven Peaks Water Park.

My daughter and I were almost to the front of the line to ride down “Flash Flood” when my daughter noticed the huge white Y on the side of the mountain. In her 4-year-old quest for knowledge she asked why it was there.

The true story of the Y seemed too complicated to explain in the short time we had before our plunge down the waterslide, so in a flash of spontaneity I said, “Do you remember that Mommy and Daddy went to school in this town, and that we got married here and that you were born here? Well, when Daddy wanted to ask Mommy to marry him, he climbed up that mountain and painted that Y. Y is for Yvette. The Y is still there because Mommy said yes.”

I watched a suspicious smile cross her face before she responded simply, “Oh,” and any further questions were washed away by Flash Flood.


Rising Above Trials
By Kristan W. Warnick (BA ’94), Salt Lake City

As a junior at BYU I experienced difficult times with family, decisions, and the usual pressures of school, money, dating, and self-improvement. I lived southeast of campus at the time and often sought relief by running in the foothills of east Provo. Previously, hiking to the Y had always seemed like a hot and dusty trip, but during this time of my life it came to be a weekly habit.

I would come home, loaded with the cares of a long day, change into running clothes and head out the door up the steep paved road to the Y trailhead. I would focus on my breath, the tightness in my muscles, the smell of the sage, and the rhythmic sound of my feet hitting the ground. As I headed higher, I would push myself harder, enjoying the purifying feeling of exerting myself to my limit.

I would glance backward at the city, sometimes shrouded in valley smog. I could see the teeming backdrop of my day-to-day human drama slowly receding as I climbed the mountain.

Finally I would arrive at my goal, the Y. Exhausted, I’d sit down on the cool textured surface and take a long drink of cold water. Then I’d look out over the city far below, dwarfed by the breathtaking view of Utah Lake and the surrounding hills. My reward was an elevated perspective on my life.

A warm feeling of love and a peaceful calm would inevitably settle over me. The obvious metaphor of God’s love and perspective, overarching the smallest details of trials and pain of my life, would make its way to my heart, refreshing and renewing me once again for the trip back down to the challenges in the valley of mortal life.


Night on Y Mountain
By Lue K. Turner (BS ’97), Lexington, Ky.

I have very strong feelings that come up whenever Y Mountain is mentioned—and they aren’t warm fuzzies.

As a freshman at BYU I was participating in Y Group activities and orientation a few days before school started. My Y Group leaders announced one day that our activity that evening would be a night hike to the Y. Being from Iowa, I wasn’t a mountain hiker, but I thought it shouldn’t be too bad since I would be in a group and the Y didn’t look that far up the mountain.

As my group got about halfway to the Y, a few of us became winded. Our group leaders said we could either wait where we were for everyone to come back down, or we could follow the trail back to the cars. I decided to go back to the cars.

However, after several minutes of walking over unfamiliar and rough terrain, I concluded I probably wasn’t on the trail anymore. I could see the lighted Y, so I headed toward it, blazing a new trail up the steep terrain. Frequently, I would lose my footing and slide several yards back down the mountain.

By this point I could hear a group of people calling my name. They sounded two whole mountains away. I responded several times to their calls, but they couldn’t hear me.

After 30 minutes there was no more shouting of my name. My Y Group had left me on the mountain alone in the dark. Realizing I was not going to be rescued, I started heading down the mountain.

My night consisted of sliding down paths and tripping on rocks; catching myself once just before stepping off a sheer drop-off; crossing several barbed-wire fences (on which I ripped my clothes and once even electrocuted myself); swimming across two canals; scaling a 12-foot-high chain-link fence behind some apartment buildings as people returning from dates looked on; and walking back to BYU campus after getting directions at a gas station.

I made it to my dorm and showered. Then the phone rang. It was my Y Group leaders and my roommate. They kept asking me what happened, if I was OK, and how I felt. I finally broke down and said in the phone, “I can’t believe I left my family for this!”

My Y Group leaders were apologetic and gave me flowers the next day. Needless to say, I have never attempted to hike the Y again.


A Series of Unfortunate Events
By W. Christopher Montgomery (BS ’74), West Jordan, Utah

My friend Larry and I decided to climb to the Y one Saturday. That was our first mistake. We did not take any food or water with us, thinking our excursion would be short—mistake number two.

We accomplished the easy climb without fanfare. Once there, we decided that it was not much farther to the top. We opted to continue our climb—our third mistake.

While climbing over some rocks, Larry sat down on the top rock while I was pulling myself up. My eyesight was just level with the top of the rock when both of us heard the sound of a large nest of rattlers basking in the sun about five feet to my right. Larry seemed to go straight into the air in his attempt to escape, while I dropped down to where I had been. We went around the snakes and continued our climb—another mistake.

We made it to what we thought was the top only to see that another peak farther on awaited us. A fifth mistake was to press on.

We eventually reached the top, where a number of flags marked the passage of others before us. As we surveyed our position from the top of the world, we decided that we had progressed far enough north to be beyond the cliffs that we knew were below us.

We began a descent straight down. That was our sixth mistake.

After a little progress, I slipped and began an uncontrolled slide down the hill. Finally, I stopped. Larry went a few feet farther down to explore. He found a sheer drop just 10 feet from my position.

Consequently, we repented and made our way south along the face of the mountain. That was the only thing we did right. The remainder of our descent was uneventful except for some dehydration, which we quickly remedied upon our return to civilization.


Red-Handed but Not Caught
By Daniel L. Soulia (BA ’82), Eschenbach, Germany

In 1982 I was a resident assistant in W Hall of Deseret Towers. On the Friday night before the BYU-Utah game, I was sitting with a bunch of kids from our floor in a room right by the elevator. We were discussing the precautions that had been taken on campus to prevent vandalism to the different targets Ute fans seemed attracted to (like the cougar statue by the Marriott Center.)

Suddenly, in the doorway appeared one of my old missionary companions. It seemed odd that he was there so late in the evening, especially since he attended the University of Utah and lived in Brigham City. Since he and I would be attending a concert the next night in Salt Lake City, I wondered why he was in Provo that night. But I was glad to see him, and we had a good time trading insults about each other’s respective teams and fans.

In the course of our conversation, I noticed that he seemed to have a lot of red paint all over him—on his clothes, in his hair, and especially on his hands. It seemed odd, as did the fact that he jumped whenever the elevator door opened.

Eventually he left, and I thought no more about it until I got up the next morning and looked out my window, which opened directly onto a wonderful view of the Y. There, I saw that not only had the Y been transformed into a large red U, but there were several smaller Us all over the side of the mountain. Then I understood all the red paint on my friend.

When I saw him that night, I asked him about it.

He just smiled and said, “Well, some of us just thought that Provo needed some redecorating!”

Apparently, security on the Y had been lax that night, and he and his friends had taken advantage of it. Now, years later, I can’t see the Y without thinking of him, the rivalry, and the great times I had at BYU.


A Symbol of Gratitude
By Kimberly Webb (BA ’01), Bluffdale, Utah

I wasn’t the most enthusiastic freshman, but I was attached to the state university I was attending. I loved jogging around campus, going to cultural performances, and screaming my head off at sporting events.

That’s why I ignored the prompting at first.

During a fireside broadcast from BYU, the Spirit whispered, “You should be there.”

“Where? In the Marriott Center? At BYU?” I thought. “No way. I just got here.” But the idea persisted.

Leaving after one semester was hard for me. I didn’t pack until the last minute, still questioning if I should go. Of course, BYU was a fantastic school, but couldn’t I excel at any college? Surely other students deserved a coveted spot at BYU more than my uncertain self.

I entered my first BYU English class during spring semester feeling bewildered. I enjoyed it, but I felt like a visitor waiting to go back home.

As I headed down the hill toward my apartment complex nestled at the foot of Y Mountain, my eyes became fixed on the Y. The sight of it stunned me. “You are a BYU student,” a voice seemed to say. “Stop moping around and act like one.”

From then on that imposing block letter reminded me each day that I had come here for a purpose—to contribute something and learn much more.

Today the Y is a personal symbol of gratitude, reminding me of a loving Heavenly Father who guided me despite my stubbornness. It stands for inspiring classes, treasured friendships, and excellent educational experiences, all of which set my feet on a career path I could never have discovered anywhere else.

I may not be the most enthusiastic alumna—rarely screaming my head off at sporting events or attending cultural performances—but I hope I’m among the most grateful.


Y Is for Lindsey
By Lindsey Callan Taylor (BS ’03), Provo

I took my first trek to the Y during Homecoming week of my freshman year. My roommates and I heard of the Light the Y hike and decided it would be a fun adventure. We took a shuttle up to the starting point and hiked in the dark up the trail. Once we reached the Y, we were told to find a light bulb to turn as soon as we were given the cue. At the count of three, we each turned our chosen bulb and watched as the Y was set aglow for the whole valley to see. We spent some time enjoying the view, then descended back to our dorms again. 

After that first experience with lighting the Y, I always got so excited when it was lit every year. Two years later, after I had married, I realized that Homecoming week almost always occurred the week of my birthday. My husband and I joked that they lit the Y especially for me each year and that my whole name was actually on the mountain, but there was a technical difficulty and only the Y worked. Even though most of my name wasn’t there, the Y stood for Lindsey, and it made me happy every time I saw it lit up.


Mountainside Scoreboard
By Peter J. Brown (BS ’04), State College, Pa.

During BYU football’s phenomenal 2001 season, with a 6-0 record going into the Homecoming game, I volunteered to light and guard the Y that night. Since the game was being played in the evening, I listened to the plays on the radio and the cheers from down in the stadium.

I don’t remember whether it was premeditated or whether the idea came to me sometime during my 24-hour vigil, but I thought of spelling out 7-0 next to the Y if the Cougars won and kept their undefeated record. The idea was linked to stories of the olden days when the Y was lit with fiery “gook balls” and the Homecoming queen was announced by lighting the winner’s initials in fire next to the Y.

The game was a blowout, so I had plenty of time to set things up, though the number of extra strings of lights limited me to drawing a 7. When the game was officially over, I plugged in the extra strings to congratulate the team. And at least some people could tell what I was trying to say.


Pushing for the Y
By Katherine Leslie Fredrickson (BA ’04), Byron Center, Mich.

My brother began attending BYU in 2003, shortly after his mission. He was very physically active and frequently hiked Y Mountain for exercise and fun. He was also making ambitious plans for his academic career at BYU.

However, in 2004 he suffered an accident that left him paralyzed from the shoulders down. He spent months in hospitals relearning how to breathe and swallow. Simple tasks like turning the page of a book or scratching an itch were practically impossible.

Over the next year as he began to grapple with his new circumstances, he decided that a quality education was the best way for him to make something of himself. His desire to return to BYU and finish his degree became his inspiration for setting goals that even those with full use of their bodies would consider challenging. He felt that BYU was the best place for him to be because he knew that no matter the challenges, he could count on the help of friends, classmates, and even total strangers.

Despite additional health problems, my brother started school again in the spring of 2005. He relied heavily upon roommates, ward members, and classmates. Because of his hard work and the help of those around him, he has had great success and he is now making plans for law school.

My brother decided to conquer yet another seemingly impossible task for someone in a wheelchair: scaling Y Mountain. In the summer of 2005, several of my brother’s friends pushed his wheelchair up the steep slope to the top of Y Mountain. For him, the journey was about more than just reaching the top; it was about not letting life’s challenges get in the way of his dreams and about learning to rely on the friends he made at BYU to accomplish those dreams.