"Here"

The 1999 Bonfire collapse, for Aggies at any rate, is one of those frozen moments in time, like the Kennedy assasination or the Challenger explosion. It's very difficult to express the conflict of emotions that rise when the subject of Bonfire is broached. It's hard to believe that it's been five years already. It seems like a lifetime ago, but also just yesterday. Calista was just a year old, and Lisa and I had discussed taking her to Bonfire the following week. Now, the prospect of my daughters growing up without ever having experienced Bonfire is a sad one, indeed. Five years later, there's still no closure. Nobody knows whether Bonfire will ever burn again, or not.

For many of those students, the longtime symbol of the Aggies’ burning desire to beat the University of Texas during the annual November football game is little more than a tale passed down from previous generations. Some have tried to keep the tradition alive with off-campus burnings, while others argue Bonfire should return to campus or forever be left in the past with its horrifying demise.

Five years after the early morning collapse on Nov. 18, 1999, killed 12 Aggies and injured 27, the legend and future of Bonfire have been stuck in limbo. Meanwhile, the university so closely linked to the tradition has looked for ways to move on.

We make it back to College Station several times a year, and have watched as the Bonfire memorial has taken shape. It's been an emotional experience, watching it go up. There's talk of eventually building a museum to chronicle the history of Bonfire, and house the tokens left by pilgrims to the site in the aftermath of the collapse in a "spontaneous shrine". My family went a month or so after the fall. The construction fence that cordoned off the dismantled stack was covered with flowers, wreaths, "pots," ax handles, crosses and all manner of paraphernalia that'd be meaningless to non-Aggies. We brought along a bunch of packets of maroon bluebonnet seeds, and let Calista scatter them along a nearby drainage channel on the Polo Fields. Then we pinned the packets to the fence.

Current and former students already are calling the Bonfire memorial, which is to be dedicated in ceremonies Thursday, the "Aggie Stonehenge." And while the appellation might seem grandiose, it is understandable. Designed by A&M graduates at Overland Partners, a San Antonio-based architectural firm, the monument is hauntingly severe, arguably timeless.

"It's breathtaking," said Milton "Chip" Thiel, who was seriously injured in the Bonfire accident. "It's absolutely breathtaking."

The administration appears to be--from most outside perspectives--attempting to end the prospects of any future Bonfire through neglect. If enough time passes, people won't care, and the calls to revive it will fade away. I don't think that will work, because, well, Aggies are Aggies and get downright obsessive over things like this. A segment of the student body has recognized this, and responded with a student Bonfire held off-campus. It's small and hard to get to, and anyone associated with the university--from football players to the Aggie Band--are forbidden to participate in any form. It's not the same, but it's grown every year. Hopefully, by the time the 10-year anniversary of the collapse rolls around, differences can be settled and Bonfire can return to campus in a safer, sanctioned form.

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