Painting the Y
PAINTING THE Y – September 16, 2022 – Provo, Utah, USA
Jeff and Dallin had one more room to paint on their final job together. They wasted no time filling their backpack style spray coaters and laying down a glossy white coat. Jeff complained about their boss at Timpanogos Paint Company making all the money while they did all the work.
Jeff was in his late 20s. He had red hair and a beard and was wild and impulsive by Utah standards. He swore without limits and drank bucketloads of coffee.
Working for Timpanogos Paint Company was sixteen-year-old Dallin’s first job. He started in the summer and was now helping with a few jobs after school and on the weekends. He looked up to Jeff, who taught him most of what he knew about painting. When Jeff bragged over all the outrageous things he had done with motorcycles, guns, and girls, Dallin readily believed him.
“I can’t believe you’re really moving. I thought you liked Utah,” Dallin called over to Jeff, who was working on the opposite wall in the room.
“I’m tired of it. Time to try somewhere else. I’ll stay with my cousin in Colorado for a while. Find paint work. Ski different mountains.”
“Must be nice to just drive away like that.”
“It’s the only way to live. Don’t let anything tie you down too tight.”
A door slammed shut at the front of the house, signaling the homeowners had returned after running an errand. Jeff loved eavesdropping on conversations, and he motioned for Dallin to stay quiet so he could listen. The couple in the adjoining room began discussing weekend plans.
“If we’re going to see your parents, it’ll have to be Friday night. On Saturday we’ve gotta be down in Provo for the Utah-BYU game.”
The couple wandered out of earshot and Jeff quickly turned toward Dallin. “I didn’t know that the football game was Saturday. I hope Utah kills them. Like a hundred to nothing.”
“My grandpa loves BYU. He wouldn’t like you saying that.”
Jeff smirked and snarled. “I’ll say it all day. I’ll say it to his face. All BYU fans are self-righteous hypocrites. I hate ‘em. I hope you’re not one of ‘em.”
Dallin did not want to end up on Jeff’s bad side, so he said, “I don’t really care, but I guess I’m for Utah.”
“You better be.”
The animosity between fans of the University of Utah and Brigham Young University went beyond alumni loyalties. Utah was a state school and BYU a church-owned private school. Anyone with an ax to grind against “The Mormons” or who knew nothing about their church, tended to side with the state school. For many, the rivalry became a proxy battle over lifestyles and beliefs.
As Jeff continued to paint, he craved getting in one more shot at all BYU supporters before he left the state. In a scene reminiscent of “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” he thought up a devilish plan.
“Hey, how would you like to be famous?” he called to Dallin.
“For what?”
“For pulling the biggest prank in like the history of the world. You and me.”
“What would we do?”
“Paint the Y. You know how it’s usually white? We’d paint it U of U red.”
“The whole thing? Wouldn’t we get in trouble?”
“Not if we did it in secret. And if anyone could pull it off, it’s us. Who else knows as much about paint?”
“You’re pretty much the paint expert.”
“I guarantee we can pull it off.” Jeff laughed gleefully as he imagined everyone waking up to the white Y painted red. “They’ll be spittin’ mad. So, you gonna help me?”
Dallin liked the idea of being famous and Jeff treating him like a partner. “Yeah, I’ll help if you want.”
The Y Jeff referred to was the grand whitewashed block letter on the side of the mountain overlooking the city of Provo. Visible from 20 miles away, it symbolized BYU and the surrounding community. Hiking from the base of the mountain up to the letter was a rite of passage for new college students, who followed a well-maintained switchback trail.
To maximize the shock value of the red paint, Jeff knew it should be applied on Friday night before the big rivalry football game. There would be no time to fix it before the game started on Saturday afternoon. Fans in the stadium and TV cameras would look up to see the red letter hovering over them. As Jeff and Dallin left their house painting job, they made plans to meet up late on Friday night near Dallin’s house.
When the rendezvous time arrived 50 hours later, Dallin snuck out a window and met Jeff on the street. The back of Jeff’s Dodge truck was covered in a camper shell and stuffed with cardboard boxes loaded with all his possessions.
“You got the painting stuff?” Dallin whispered.
“It’s in the back with my clothes. You ready for this? It’s gonna be so epic!”
“I had an energy drink so I could stay awake.”
“Yeah, me too,” Jeff replied in a crazed voice. “I wish I had done more stuff like this when I was your age.”
They drove down the freeway with Jeff repeating how legendary the night would be and how every U of U fan owed them. They continued through the dark and quiet streets of Provo until they were at the trailhead that led up Y Mountain. Jeff stopped his truck short of the public parking lot. He cut the engine and motioned for Dallin to get out of the cab.
“I don’t want anyone noticing my truck in the parking lot. This is closer to where we’ll start, anyway.”
“We’re not walking up the trail?” Dallin had hiked the switchback trail half a dozen times and assumed that was how they would trek up the mountain.
“One of my buddies said cops patrol the trail. They don’t want anyone touching their precious Y. So, we’ll skip the trail and go straight up.” Jeff pointed toward the dark silhouette looming over them.
While Dallin gawked skyward and wondered how they would manage the slope, Jeff unloaded two five-gallon buckets of paint and two backpack style paint sprayers already filled with two gallons of paint.
“That’s like 70 pounds each,” Dallin protested. “How are we supposed to climb carrying that?”
“You’re young and strong. Stop whining. You don’t become a legend by doing something easy.”
They both strapped into the paint sprayers and grabbed a heavy bucket. Jeff shuffled to the mouth of a ravine that led to the general direction of the Y. He and Dallin began to climb, struggling to lift the paint buckets a few feet at a time and then scrambling in the darkness to find a next foothold. For most people, the switchback trail hike up to the Y felt exhausting even when emptyhanded. That trail was a mile in length with a 1000 feet elevation gain. There were plenty of rest stops along the way to allow visitors to catch their breath. Without a more gradual trail to follow, Jeff and Dallin’s path was punishingly steep. They also had to navigate thick bushes and boulders without using a flashlight that might attract attention.
“I don’t know if we can make it,” Dallin cried as he strained to lift his paint bucket.
“We have to make it. It’s the only way we won’t get caught. No going back now. Stop thinking and just move.”
They reached the bottom of the Y about three hours after leaving Jeff’s truck. Considering their obstacles and payload, it was a decent time. The ground under their feet was now covered with white paint, marking an obvious change from the natural terrain over which they had struggled. Jeff did not give Dallin time to rest.
“Drop your bucket. Let’s start with the paint on our backs. I think we walk back and forth and move backwards up the mountain.”
After only a few minutes of spraying, they both realized how much area they had to cover. The giant letter was 380 feet tall and 130 feet wide, about as big as a football field. The fourteen gallons of paint they carried would need to stretch a very long way.
“We can’t put it on very thick!” Jeff called. “Don’t be too thorough.”
They moved faster up the mountain, squirting jets of paint around their feet. Without much ambient light, they could not judge the coverage, but they kept telling themselves the whole mountain was turning bright red. They refilled their sprayers with paint from their buckets and worked up to where the top half of the Y branched out. Forty-five minutes after they started, the paint was gone.
“I’m out!” Jeff shouted.
“Me too!”
“That’s gonna have to do it. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
Jeff laughed and sniggered all the way down the mountain. They mostly followed the same path they used to climb up, but it was much easier going downhill with empty buckets. By the time they reached Jeff’s pickup, he had forgotten how little paint they had used.
“The whole town’s going to wake up to the brightest red they ever saw. All these goody-goodies won’t be faking any smiles, that’s for sure. This was the best idea I’ve ever had.”
Jeff and Dallin dropped the empty buckets and sprayers into Jeff’s truck and looked around for any nearby movement. They seemed to be alone. They got in the truck and cruised through the silent Provo streets.
“We pulled it off! We’re legends!” Jeff shouted. “You should be proud of yourself.”
Dallin returned a tired smile. All the adrenaline from climbing and painting disappeared and his body sagged like a noddle. When they reached the freeway, Jeff grew unexpectedly serious.
“They could still catch us if we say anything. You gotta stay quiet for a while. I’m sure the Sheriff down here would love to slap a felony charge on us.”
“What does that mean?” Dallin asked, a new shot of adrenaline perking him up.
“Jail time. At least for me. They’d go easy on you because you’re a minor.”
“Jail? It’s just a prank.”
“Oh, they’d love to make an example of someone. That’s why they patrol the trail.”
“I was just helping. It was your idea. I can’t go to jail.”
“Relax. You’ll be fine. Just don’t blab about anything that could be traced back to the crime. But, you know, there was always a risk. Anything worth doing has risks.”
“I don’t want to be in trouble. I can’t be in trouble.”
“Then keep your mouth shut and they’ll never catch us.”
“I’ll never say anything. I swear.”
“So we have a pact. You won’t squeal and I won’t squeal.”
The mood in the truck dropped dramatically. Dallin stared at the passing scenery that lined the freeway and wished he was home in bed.
Jeff and Dallin did not realize that the dreaded security patrols were nowhere near the Y trail that night. University security was eager to protect the landmark from vandalism, but they realized pranks were most likely to occur around notable events like the Utah-BYU football game. The conversation Jeff overheard about the game on Saturday was about women’s soccer, not football. The soccer rivalry could get heated, but not to the point of property damage. BYU’s football team was not even in town that weekend. They were in Oregon for an away game while the University of Utah’s football team hosted San Diego State.
Another thing Jeff and Dallin missed was the cameras installed around the perimeter of the Y. Signs on the trail informed visitors of the cameras, but the vandals did not take the trail. The cameras had infrared capability. Even in the dark, they recorded clear images of Jeff and Dallin, including their shirts, which showed the logo for Timpanogos Painting Company.
Dallin returned to his Lehi, Utah home at 4:20 in the morning. He snuck back through the window, crawled into bed, and fell instantly to sleep. Jeff kept driving until he reached the Wyoming border. Believing he was safer across state lines, he rented a cheap hotel room and slept until the afternoon.
When they left Provo and while they were spraying the Y, the painters smelled moisture in the air. They did not realize, however, that almost as soon as they left the mountain, it was hit by an absolute downpour. Jeff had skimped on the paint and bought surplus stuff that was bright red but watery. The fourteen gallons sprinkled over the Y had no time to dry and was nothing compared to the thousands of gallons of water dropped by a rainstorm.
By the time the sun came up, any trace of paint had been carried down drainage ditches and pipes to the bottom of Y Mountain. Anyone looking up at the Y saw it in its pristine white glory. Because nothing looked out of the ordinary, there was no reason for the campus police to check the footage recorded on the stationary cameras. Jeff’s and Dallin’s images were digitally saved but never viewed by human eyes.
Jeff left his Wyoming hotel and drove directly to his cousin’s house in Ft. Collins, Colorado. He looked up Utah news but saw nothing in the headlines about the painted Y.
“Biased media covering it up,” Jeff concluded.
After a couple of months in Colorado, he felt far enough away from the crime that he began to brag about it. With each telling, the coat of paint grew redder and visible from farther away. Those of his listeners who had been to Provo and knew about Y Mountain, had not heard about it being painted. But to stay on Jeff’s good side, they were willing to take his word for it if he thought his prank was so great.
Dallin lived closer to the action and stayed spooked over all the felony talk. He buried his paint-stained clothes and shoes in his backyard and never mentioned his exploits to his family and friends. He did not even dare look for news articles about the painted Y for fear of being cyber traced. He kept hoping someone would bring it up. No one did.
Dallin never saw or heard from Jeff again. As far as he knew, Jeff was living up to his side of the pact and keeping the secret. When Dallin returned to work at Timpanogos Painting Company the next summer he kept looking around for Jeff. It would have been nice to relive that night when they pulled the greatest prank ever and trudged straight up the mountain. As Dallin had learned, probably the best part of pulling a prank is talking about it later.
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