Ranger Harris

I realized that most of my blogs about the National Park Service have been about traumatic events, disastrous choices, and life-threatening doom. Perhaps those are the things that our memories choose to preserve. The combination of adrenaline, dopamine, and norepinephrine form an acid that etches these memory in my marbles. In an effort let the world know how much I appreciate the National Park Service and its employees I will occasionally emphasize our positive encounters with our nation's parks.

July 2nd and we were finishing our day at the National Mall with a visit to the U.S. Grant Memorial and the Capitol Building. In front of the Capitol a stage had been set up and musicians were filing in. We knew that there would be fireworks on the 4th, but we thought we might get a bonus show that night. Looking around for someone to ask we spotted the regulation green and brown of the NPS.

We have grown accustomed to asking rangers all or our questions.What are the best trails? When did this become a national park? Where is the picnic ground? What was Derek Jeter's batting average in home night games? So naturally we decided to ask this ranger what events were scheduled for this evening.

Eric Harris was on  special duty at the mall that night because, as he explained, there was a dress rehearsal for the big show on the 4th. There would be no fireworks.

However, while talking to Ranger Harris he noticed that Evan was wearing a couple of Junior Ranger badges. Ranger Harris became quite animated at this point and started asking Evan which parks he had been to. With our help he explained that we had been several of the parks in the city.

He told us that we needed to head out to National Parks East. He was normally stationed at Green Belt and insisted that we go there. We assured him that it was on our agenda. We also told him that we would be heading up to Gettysburg. His smile became even broader as he told us how great Gettysburg was, and told us that we should visit the Eisenhower home that is adjacent to the battlefield. Though our schedule was tight we promised to go there.


Not Eric Harris, but another very helpful ranger at Greenbelt.


When we are on vacation and wandering around, the wide brim of the rangers hat is always a welcome sign. Ranger Harris is just one of the hundreds of rangers that have helped us, guided us, and made our trips as fun as they are.

Neer neer neer neer, neer neer. (Dueling Banjos)

The red canoe rested on the gravel shore accepting the life jackets and cushions casually tossed in its maw. I had been expecting more ceremony. This was not the final launch of the Space Shuttle Atlantis or the maiden voyage of the Titanic, but it was momentous for us. With the exception of the relatively stable paddle boats in the Forest Park lagoon this was Colette and Evan's first experience with human propelled water craft, and despite my unfortunate choice of comparing it to a ship named after a sunken city and another most famous for sinking this was going to be fun.

No fanfare of trumpets announced our arrival. No crash of champagne bottle unmoored our vessel.  Instead the gravel and metal cacophony and the slosh of my left boot descending into a bit of deeper water announced that our voyage had begun. Under light gray skies that teased that the rain may possibly avoid our float, we slid into the water.

Before we left, I asked where they were going to pull us out. "Oh you can't miss it. There is a big white sign at the Circle B campground," I was assured.  (At this point we will pause for ironic effect. Perhaps a rack focus on my face looking extraordinarily confident and a musical cue such as a slide whistle.)

Notice the lack of other floaters. It will be important later in the story.

As soon as I turned the canoe down stream Evan asked, "Are we going the right way?"

I hope that it is just a phase, but Evan's faith in my ability to navigate this river teeters on the edge of insanity when it topples into doubt about whether it actually is a no uniform day at school or if he should wear his swim trunks to what is obviously a swim party.. If it is not a phase then I must come to terms with the fact that my trustworthiness lies somewhere between carnival barker and con artist.

With only a hint of sarcasm I calmly assured him that the river only flows in one direction, and since we were on a "float" trip, then going with that flow would be our only option. This did not stop him from asking the same question whenever we would come to a smaller stream joining ours or a fork around a small island.

"Evan, We can not get lost on a river." (insert ironic beat here)

After nearly two strokes with the oar, the clouds grew tired of the teasing and let loose an unspectacular yet steady precipitation. I scrambled to extract the ponchos from my backpack before my lack of steering sent us into the overhanging branches, and for the next half hour we coasted through the intermittent rain.

Evan sat in the middle of the canoe under a Casino Queen golf umbrella that rested on the sides of the canoe making a cozy little shelter if it had not been for the water that sloshed at the bottom of the boat. Occasionally he would complain when Colette's oar merely scraped the surface of the water and splashed an arcing spray in his general direction. This was nothing compared to the ruckus he raised when I struck him in the back of the head with my oar while switching.

Later we would have to use this umbrella, some aluminum from the boat and a Speak 'n Spell to "phone home." 

The rain eventually ended and other than my left foot and the tops of my thighs I was relatively dry. We stopped to pee on a log and throw a few rocks. Well I should say Evan and I did. Colette did not move from her seat from the time we entered the canoe until the end of the ordeal .. . I mean trip.

Piloting our craft down stream once again, we passed a group of two canoes from the same rental company for a second time. We had passed them earlier, but they had caught up while we were log peeing and rock chucking.  They talked to Evan this time since he had the umbrella up the first time. The first time we passed them he had the umbrella up so they were unaware of his presence. The conversation comforted us by confirming that others were as foolish as we were.

Not long after that we started seeing signs of civilization, fishermen, restaurants and campground.

"What are we looking for?" Colette called back.

"Circle V," I replied.

"V or B?"

"What?"

"Vvvveeeee or Bbbbbbeeeee?"

"I don't know maybe it was D. Just look for a letter with a circle around it. It should also say Windy's Canoe Rental."

From the middle of the canoe Evan asked, "Are we lost?"

"No we are not lost," we hollered in unison.

A sign for 2 Rivers Canoe stood guard over a sandy inlet. A white placard for Alley Springs bounced into view. Jacks Fork's white sign called awkwardly to us, we never saw a sign for Windy's, or a circled letter or anything.

Having faith in our ability to observe, we continued  though our two to three hour float had meandered into the third hour and signs of civilization were beginning to dwindle.

"Do you think we should call?" Colette asked.

I am not going to ask for directions on a river. It only goes one way. You can't get lost on a river. We can't miss the sign. "I don't know how we are going to call," I said obstinately. Pretending like I had no idea how to dial 411.

But doubt tugged at my poncho sleeve like an annoying three-year-old. The minutes passed more quickly than the currents and the clouds darkened in a desire to reflect our collective dread. Evan's oar, which had been useless for most of the trip, dipped in and out of the water hypnotically and I noticed that the phone number for the Windy's scrawled in Sharpie on its red blade.

Relieved that I would not have to pay the charge for a 411 call and assuming that whatever diety was in charge of Ozark rivers was sending me a sign, I called.

Though relatively ineffective in propulsion, this oar worked great as a phone directory.

"Windy's Canoe Rental."

"Uh yeah, we are past the Jack's Fork canoe pull out, and I think we might have gone too far."

"Are you done?" she asked.

"Yeah, right now we are by a bunch of horse stables."

"Alright. I'll try to get a hold of Rick and see if he can pick you up."

I hang up and steer the canoe to a landing and wait to be contacted.

"What did they say?" Colette asked.

"They said they would come and pick us up."

"So we went too far didn't we?"

"Maybe just a little, but we are not lost. You can't get lost on a river. Eventually you just end up in New Orleans. They are supposed to call back."

And they did. We were told to stay put, and they would be down to pick us up. A few minutes later I got another call saying that they couldn't get to us, but they would go down river and pick us up in about 1/2 a mile. "Don't leave until I call you again, or you'll go right by us."

So we waited.

And waited.

And the phone rang. We headed out, and it started to rain again.

"Look at it this way," I said "it can't get worse."

"Yes, it can. It could start to thunder."

"We are almost there. Don't worry."

"That sounded like thunder," Evan exclaimed.

For those of you that have read my Mesa Verde post, you know that Evan is deathly afraid of thunderstorms and attuned to any low rumble, but this did indeed sound like thunder. It wouldn't stop sounding like thunder either. It lasted for at least fifteen seconds.

Colette made me call again to make sure that they were there and we hadn't already passed them. I knew that Colette was not comfortable with being on the river for the rest of her foreseeable future especially when we could only foresee it lasting another five minutes, so I called immediately. I didn't want to explain again that we can't get lost on a river, and to be honest I was starting to doubt it this truism.  Calling was not an easy task with the rain falling and the tendency for the boat to drift like a badly aligned car every time I took my oar out of the water.

When I finally managed to dial, they assured me that we would be seeing them any minute.

We were going to get out of the river one way or an otter!

Just when Evan and Colette (and possibly me) thought we would never leave the river, we saw two guys to our left screaming, "Over here."

I steered the boat the best that I coud and paddled as hard as I could so that we would not drift past them. We ran aground on a gravel bar so I jumped out to push. At that point I figure that I would just guide them in the rest of the way. What I did not figure was the depth of the river. I should have been Mark Twaining that shit because I was suddenly in water up to my navel.


I lifted my jacket up like a Victorian woman walking through horse manure and kept my phone dryish, but my jeans and wallet couldn't have been any wetter.

During all of my phone conversations the general tone had been that this was a relatively common occurrence, and I had reassured Colette that this was not a big deal. Unfortunately as soon as our soaked selves were in the truck Colette asked.

"Uhhhhhh," the driver paused trying to find a polite way to say it and failed, "no."

The purpose of the road we were on is still a mystery to me. It could not possible exist just to pull us out of eh river, yet I saw no other reason for it to be there. Of course when I say road, I mean a level area along the  base of a bluff.

We rattled and bumped back out to a paved road and from that point we were only two minutes from where we left the car.

"Can you recommend a good restaurant?" Colette asked.

"There's a steakhouse just across the bridge. Take the first left, but if you run out of pavement you've gone too far."

I assured him that though we had just recently gone to far, we would find the restaurant. Unfortunately, we missed the first left and went to far. When we finally found the steakhouse, it was closed.

We finally ended up stopping a a burger place. Our waitress was extraordinarily nice bringing crayons so that Evan could work on his Junior Ranger book. However, her "what are you stupid" look when she heard we had been on the river dropped her tip by a couple of percent.

For the hour or so that we weren't lost (you can't get lost on a river) and it wasn't raining, we had a lot of fun. I just need to convince Colette that if we going during the summer it can be a much more pleasant experience.

Mall Rats - The Longest Day of Vacation (Part 5: National Security)

I finally had my shirts, but we didn't bring a bag for fear of security hassles. Laden with five shirts and a bag just big enough to hold two patches purchased at the Lincoln Memorial gift closet, we headed to the Holocaust Museum.

According to the map, it was at the intersection of 15th and Independence Ave. I could not, however, find 15th. Colette questioned my map reading abilities, and I questioned my sanity. I handed the map to Colette to confirm that I was both competent and sane. In this particular instance I was both. The street did not exist, at least in this corner of the universe.

"Excuse me," I approached a police officer leaning against his patrol car, "Where is the Holocaust Museum?"

"Right there," he replied pointing to the building across the street. His tone of voice was similar to the one I used as a teenager with the old ladies when I worked at  Food Barn and they would ask me where the peas were. If they would have just turned around, it would have been obvious.

"Do you see the giant Nazi? Yes? Well that is the Holocaust Museum," said the officer.

It would prove to be our most pleasant experience with law enforcement for the rest of the day. As we neared, street sign I noticed the name I was reading was on a brown sign denoting that it was an honorary street name and not reflected on the ten-year-old tourist map I was using for navigation. It was named for Raoul Wallenberg who rescued thousands of Jews from Nazi occupied Hungary. 

Apparently not a Hispanic or a Jew.

There was a line to get in, and a helpful employee of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum informed us that we would not be allowed to take drinks in. She said water was fine, but we would have to consume our Gatorades. 

"There are water fountains inside so that you can refill them," she kindly suggested.

Our Gatorades were empty, but a metal detector awaited us inside the building. As Colette had informed me at every other metal detector, I should not have worn a belt. I told her that a wanding was a small price to pay compared to running around the national mall looking like Lil Wayne.

You can understand why people might be confused.

During the wanding Evan and Colette ambled over to the conveyor belt to retrieve our items. After spending a couple of days wandering D.C. tourist sites, we were familiar with the routine. They attempted to grab the pile of free t-shirts and my keys and phone from the plastic tub.

"Ma'am you're going to have to back up and let me do my job," the guard declared as he placed his arm on her to guide her away. Luckily, Colette did not decide to go all Beatrix Kiddo on him and waited until he handed her our items.

We chalked it up to one guard having a particularly bad day. It was the 4th of July, probably one of their busiest days. Once through security we got tickets for the last possible time slot because we still had to make our way to the Jefferson Memorial so Evan could get his Junior Ranger badge, or at least we hoped that was the case. Our only source of intel was one beleaguered ranger at an information kiosk back near the Lincoln Memorial.

The bald dome of the memorial was visible from the Holocaust Museum like Pike's Peak is visible from western Kansas. The direct route lay through a body of water. While eating the Popsicle we promised him, Evan excitedly pointed out that we could rent a pedal-paddle boat to get there. Fortunately for my calves this was not the case. We would not be able to disembark at the memorial. At least that is what I told Evan.

                                                                 photo by Evan

So we began walking again. Orange plastic fencing taunted all along our path. I'm not exactly sure what they were working on, but it was obvious that like Poseidon pestering Odysseus, the founding fathers were not going to make our odyssey easy. In order to avoid the Scylla and Construction we had to circumnavigate the Memorial

I kept looking for signs of the Junior Ranger Program that I had been promised, and I was starting to worry. Jefferson is the writer of the Declaration but he is morally ambiguous at best.  I'm not sure he was worth the voyage. Even Colette was showing the effects of fatigue.

I felt like Columbus, or Magellan, or that Siberian that decided to get all of his buddies to cross the land bridge (or kelp highway). It was my idea and if we didn't find gold, or a North American vacation home, then I would be sacrificed upon the altar of the Jefferson.

After passing the gauntlet of barricades and Port-A-Potties we would have to make one final orbit before entry. It was as if path had been modeled on the sling shot trajectory of lunar modules.

Nothing phallic about this.

Evan had managed to find a few fellow Jedi whose musings on the Galactic Empire infused his legs with enough energy to bound ahead. So he and I had traversed to the dark side of the Memorial just beyond the horizon of Colette's perception. 

There was no sign of the Rangers which I had been told would be on the lawn. I saw a door leading into the base of the Memorial, and in an effort salvage our expedition (and find a/c) I went in. There we found a table manned by Rangers and living historians. Unfortunately cell phone signal did not penetrate the stone of the Memorial, and it soon became evident that Colette had not witnessed our detour. I got Evan started on an activity and stepped outside to call Colette. She was a little angry like a sailor left on a deserted island or astronaut left behind at tranquility bay, or one of the crew devoured by the cyclops. I have used so many metaphors for this day I am starting to get confused. Suffice it to say she was not happy. 

Not pictured: Colette standing on approximately 20 feet of granite directly above Evan.

We eventually got the Junior Ranger badge and a bag for our free t-shirts. I refilled the Gatorade bottles and prepared for the return flight. 

In an attempt to shorten our voyage by about ten feet we squeezed through some barriers and past a S.W.A.T. van. At the end of the van we noticed several heavily armed police officers geiting out. I was reminded of our trip to Mexico where armed guards stood watch at the borders of the states. I always thought of that as something that happened in other, less fortunate countries, but here they were a the Jefferson Memorial. Of course I realized that I was still in the U.S. because there were two shirtless gentleman taunting the officers as they took their positions. Ahhhhh, freedom of speech.

We finally made it back to the Museum and found our security square dance partner awaiting us.

                                "Take your keys and take your phone."

                                "Put'em in the basket and dos-e-do."

                                "The beep will sound and you turn around."

                                "Put your arms out and let the wand pass."

                                "Along the arms, down the leg, around your beeeeeep"

                                "Do it again and take off your belt."

                                "Look at your partner say 'What the hell'"

                                "You're finally through, no more to do."

                                "If you wouldn't mind sir take a drink."

Hold on, that's a new move. "It's just water. The lady outside said that we could have water."

"Do you mind taking a drink? If you wanted to take a swig of kerosene, I guess you could."

I can only conclude that anti-antisemitism is still more dangerous the radical Islamism. I guess it could be a perfect storm of isms.

The Museum is best experienced in person. My emotions are rarely set off by museums, but this is an exception. By the time we were done most of the other tourist spots were closing. The big three Smithsonians were open until 7:00, but we had already seen them.

The crowds foretold by many had begun to materialize. Though they still didn't seem as bad as those on the Arch Grounds on the 4th. It could be that there were more people, but there was so much more room to spread out that the density was more noble gas than heavy metal.

Colette however was still concerned about Evan's safety and insisted that he walk in a much tighter formation. If Evan's safety was left entirely up to me he would most likely have wandered off with another family long ago. But I was not about to let him wander of with the Hare Krishnas so when we walked past their festival I started to watch him a little more closely. The promise of a return to the McDonald's at the Air and Space Museum however was enough to entice him away from the allure of the "awesome" dancers.

Evan's new family.

After dinner the Gatorade bottles were filled once again. This time with ice tea. I'm not sure if this breaks any moral codes or McDonald's policies (which in some cultures are equivalent), but a desire for caffeine far out-weighed any threat of eternal damnation.

We headed out to claim a position on the Mall to view the fireworks. My eminent collapse clawed at my calf muscles and burned my soles. We had planned to sit on the Capitol steps, but our legs only carried us to the first open spot past the Hare Krishna festival. We plopped down and finally the free t-shirts could serve as something other than a strain on my arms. Five shirts and a plastic bag make a pretty good pillow.

I will probably never understand what happened next. Colette and Evan decided to continue walking. They were going to see the "silver tree" by Roxy Paine. A similar but smaller tree is Evan's favorite art at SLAM. I, rather unselfishly, promised to stay there and save our spot.

I'm not sure it the bars are to keep us out or the sculptures in.

In defiance of Colette's explicit orders I attempted to sleep as soon as they were out of visual range. The air settled over me like damp blanket, but exhaustion soon forced me into a semi-conscious state in which I incorporated snatches of ambient conversation into my dreams.

The dog next to us was a rescue dog.

The guy behind us went to an "amazing" wedding in Michigan.

I'm at gay marriage involving canine participants.

Something struck me in the face. Cooler than the surrounding air and only marginally wetter. Then another strike. And another. Molecules of moisture had banded together in the upper atmosphere and decided to assault my last chance at rest. Rain that we had thus far avoided threatened to drench the centerpiece of our vacation.

After 23 drops had struck my face (yes I counted), Colette called to say that it was raining, and we should move to a location that may provide some shelter. Gathering as much data as possible such as the coloring of the sky, the prevailing winds, and the number of droplets per square inch of face, and comparing to my wealth of meteorological experience, I decided that we were staying put.

It was risky. I was opening myself up to an I-told-you-so, but I honestly thought the rain would hold off. We were in an excellent spot to see the pyrotechnic display, and quite frankly, my legs hurt. To compound the problem further before I had drifted off I purchased a glow necklace from a passing vendor/homeless guy. The Holden/Morton household has a long-standing policy forbidding the purchase of such fripperies, but it was only a buck.

I am happy to say that on this one night everyone lived. The rain never materialized and the glow necklace kept Evan peacefully entertained until the fireworks began.

Soon I will photoshop the guy with the "H" out of the picture and alter history forever.

Except for half-mile hike to the Metro station and half-hour ride back to the commuter lot where we left our car the longest day on vacation had ended, and I wish it hadn't.

Mall Rats - The Longest Day of Vacation (Part 4: The Sweet Smell of Free Shirts)

I unsuccessfully scanned the field for piles of shirts or wild throngs of people snatching 100% cotton manna from the sky. Nothing.  So I was forced to confront the next pack mule burdened with a pile of schwag.

"It's that way. You see the stage?"

I did.

"There's another stage just past that."

We continued.

Past the first stage.

No shirts.

We continued.

To the Washington Monument.

No Shirts.

We continued hugging the curved wall retain the patch of grass surrounding the monument.

"Hey, you. Hey, hey. Where did you get the shirts? Evan, stay there. Hey, you with the shirts. Yeah, you. Where did you get the shirts?"

By the benefit of my periscopic height I was aware of our destination before Evan and Colette. The shirt stage was our El Dorado, our Fountain of Youth, and the crew would not mutiny. I picked Evan up and placed him in the crow's nest. "Shirts Ho!" Let the pillaging begin. And of course by pillaging I mean I got shirts for everyone and politely asked for a couple of extras so we could give them out as gifts.

Only six hours remained until the fireworks, and we still had plenty to do. We didn't bring a bag for fear of security hassles. So now laden with five shirts and bag from the Lincoln Memorial gift closet just big enough to hold a couple of patches I was ready to head off to the Holocaust Museum.

Oddly enough, nobody asked me where I got the shirts. Go figure.

Mall Rats - The Longest Day of Vacation (Part 3: We Go To War)

"Excuse Me, where did you get the shirts?"

"They were giving them out just over there."

He pointed in the general direction of the Washington Monument. I was on a mission. These were better than my collection of radio station, movie promo, volunteer worker shirts that I had collected over the years. These were souvenirs. I could avoid paying $30.00 for one shirt and get three free ones instead. I was going to get these shirts.

However, there was business to take care of on this end of the mall. I glanced longingly into the reflecting pool, or I wish I could. It was currently under repair and was just a mud pit behind chain link fence. The shirts would have to wait.

Colette was already on the phone with her parents. We were going to the Vietnam War Memorial, and she had called to see if her dad had any names that he wanted her to look up. As is the case with almost all conversations with her parents over the phone, or in person, this one was leading to more confusion than when Celine Dion opened for ICP.

The collaboration soon ended when Joseph Bruce felt Celine dissed him in her song It's For You when she said, "Quelques fois je dis des mots bizarres."

Her dad was working on the lawn so her mom had answered the phone. Somehow the message shouted over the roar of the hedge trimmers became somewhat confused as it was relayed to Colette. A call would be forthcoming that would clarify the situation. 

We decide to eat lunch and during the sandwich and chips meal we ordered at a snack shop the phone rang. Colette's mom thinks she finally got the name right so Colette takes the last few bites of her sandwich and heads back to the memorial to find the name in the directory. Meanwhile I watched Evan chase pigeons and trying to feed them his lunch. As soon as I said that we were going to find mom, his legs began to hurt again. If only the pigeons would follow my lead. 

We eventually found the name on the wall which turned out to be an old neighbor of Colette's mom, and not a war buddy as we had thought.

Nothing funny to say here.

While all of this was going on I was also on the prowl for a park ranger. I found one at an information kiosk. Though he had no information on the free t-shirts I did learn that the Junior Ranger program was happening at the Jefferson Memorial so we wanted to make sure that Evan got there. Colette kept insisting that she wanted to go to the Holocaust museum, and all I could think about was that there were now less free shirts than there were half an hour ago. 

I plotted a path on the map of the mall that would get us to all three locations, but as far as I was concerned the free t-shirt was the primary objective. Who cares about the experience if you don't have a t-shirt to commemorate it? 

This path first took us by the Korean War Memorial depicting a number of soldiers marching with heavy loads. Evan of course was fascinated with the soldiers, but the irony of their marching juxtaposed with his aching legs was lost on him. 

Honeycutt and Hawkeye never had to walk this far.

Next on the trek, once we passed the interminable fence blocking our view of the reflecting pit, was the WWII Memorial. 


The buzz of insects swarming my face formed a cacophonous melody with the plaintive whine of Evan's discomfort like a preschool marching kazoo band being followed by fire engine sirens in a parade honoring aural assault.

Not pictured, the fire engines.

For the next leg of our journey Colette set a pace faster than any Kenyan in a marathon and was quite a distance ahead of us. So much so that it would make more sense for me to call to her on a cell phone rather than disturb the other tourist with my hollerin'. I followed, frequently looking back to insure that Evan hadn't collapsed on a bench next to Bummy McNopants. I had given him a map of the mall to distract him from the torture of his calf muscles, but now he was trying to find himself on the map using a public restroom as his reference point.

We finally made it to the WWII Memorial which consists of a column for every state surrounding a shallow pool. Many people were soaking their feet, and Evan asked to do the same. Though the only thing either of us said out low was, "Well, uhhhhh," both Colette and I were debating whether is was disrespectful to soak your feet in a memorial honoring fallen soldiers. Is it acceptable or would it be like roasting marshmallows over the eternal flame at Kennedy's grave?

"Mmmmmmmmm S'mores"

They had died preserving our freedom, but Evan was working our nerves. Eventually, we decided that the soldiers would understand.

Just like a day at the beach.

I was soon ready to go. We were close to the Washington Monument, and I had still not see the free t-shirts. We could contemplate freedom later, now we needed to concentrate on free-shirts.

Mall Rats- The Longest Day of Vacation (Part 2: Free T-Shirts)

"Myyyyyyyy leeeeeegs huuuuuurt," Evan's vowels exploded all over the sidewalk. He sounded more like a howler monkey warning us about a nearby harpy eagle or jaguar than an eight-year-old asked to walk to the Lincoln Memorial. We encouraged, begged, implored and demanded that he catch up. This merely succeed in embarrassing and annoying him. I was walking a few paces ahead of Colette and Evan when in a fit of pique Evan ran up and struck Colette in the behind. I am not sure what he hoped to accomplish with this act of rebellion, but what he got was obviously not it. Reflexively Colette reached back to defend her posterior and made contact with Evan's bass drum abdomen causing a hollow thump to reverberate across the Potomac.

It sounded much worse than it was, but did little to improve diplomatic relations. An entire page of the scrapbook is devoted to "grumpy bridge."

"You are going to be in this picture and like it. Now come on."

"Huunhh I'm going stay on this bench forever."

I do want to make a quick detour into a discussion about the conservation of energy. As you can see above, benches were spaced evenly across the bridge, and Evan conceived a brilliant plan. He started running to the benches to sit and wait for us. Technically it is the same amount of work using Newtonian physics, but Evan is more of quantum guy. In Evan's conception of the universe the rest given to his legs is cumulative. So is it better to turtle or rabbit? Aesop would have you know that slow and steady wins the race, but which style results in less strain on the calves and blisters on the feet.

Philosophical conundrums aside, complaints continued to dive-bomb our ears like the unidentifiable black flying bugs that infest the mall. Extensive research, and by extensive I mean I googled it for a minute, reveals that they may be Cicada Killer Wasps. I'm not buying it since one of them flew into my eye. Evan insisted that they were bees and ran away from them like they were cans and he was The Jerk. If only we could have run from his complaints. As we reach the bottom of the stair to the Lincoln Memorial, they reached a crescendo.

Fortunately we were able to appeal to Evan's love of the Great Emancipator to drag himself up the 57 steps to view the Daniel Chester French sculpture. We took some pics, read Lincoln's words and visited the gift closet. We eventually headed back down to what I assumed was lunch.

"Four weeks and seven hours ago our Evan beheld his hero."

However, the nature of the National Mall is that everything is just a few steps away, and in this case it was the Vietnam War Memorial. At this time I also started to notice other tourists toting bundles of t-shirts. I have developed over the years a keen sense for free give-aways and these shirts had all of the tell-tale signs, but mainly it was the fact that people were carrying piles shirts on their shoulders. This of course set off a mild panic. What if all of the shirts were gone before I could ascertain their source. I had to find out where to acquire the gratuitous garments, the complimentary clothing, the no-cost smock. A free shirt could easily assuage some of Evan's "can I have this" tendencies and perhaps soothe his aching legs such is the curative powers of schwag. But first lunch, I mean but first the Vietnam War Memorial and a comedy of communication with Colette's parents.

Mall Rats - The Longest Day of Vacation (Part 1)

For the benefit of the readers this next essay will be broken into chapters. What follows is part 1 of an interminable series of events culminating in 4th of July fireworks on the National Mall.

"My legs hurt. I can't go on," exclaimed the pathetic little voice clung to my back slowing our progress. Evan had collapsed on a bench incapable of, or at least unwilling to move.

Ironically we hoofed it more in our five days in the nation's capitol than we did in our two weeks in Colorado and Utah. Perhaps the density of hiking and severity of foot boo-boos just made it seem as if that was the case. Evan's sandals had rubbed an eraser size red spot on the back of his foot. However, the howling for a band-aid would have led any casual observer to believe that we were the meanest parents on the face of the planet. They would have been certain of it after Evan's proclamation at  Lincoln Memorial. A passing priest immediately began performing an exorcism. Clara Barton rose from the dead to attend to the battle wound. A passing lawyer offered his card and told Evan he could sue for emotional distress. Former President Clinton jogged by and said, "I feel your pain." Even Colette and I began to empathize it had been a long day and we still had about nine hours until the fireworks.

Evan's Boo-Boo under only moderate magnification.

We had again bought a day pass for the Metro with the intention of hopping on the train periodically throughout the day. Unfortunately, this is not practical. By the time you walk to the train station you might as well have walked to your destination. We did make one transfer to the blue-line and arrived at Arlington station, our first stop of the day. Upon reaching the surface we asked a local family which way to go to get to the cemetery. Our main goal was to visit Arlington House, Robert E. Lee's residence before he became a traitor and current NPS site. We were pointed in the right direction but before we headed off she suggested that we take the walk across the Potomac to the Lincoln Memorial.

"It's just  lovely. It's a little hike but worth it, " she coerced.

Of course when on vacation you should always take the suggestions of locals. And if George Washington could through a silver dollar across the thing, then we could walk it.

Washington had one hell of an arm.

We walked to the cemetery visitor center and realized that Arlington House was at the top of a hill overlooking the cemetery. The entire property at one time belong to Lee. Built by his father-in-law George Washington Parke Custis, Lee and his wife Mary Custis lived there until Virginia's secession. Lee was often gone due to military obligations in the Mexican war, however he was in residence to deal with the estate after the death of his father-in-law, and thus was available to deal with the disturbance at Harper's Ferry and capture John Brown.

This of course was while he was a Colonel in the federal army. After succession and Lee's resignation the property was seized by federal troops under Brig. Gen. Irvin McDowell and several military  fortifications were built.


Later in order to prevent the Lee family from ever taking possession of the home againBrig. Gen. Montgomery C. Meigs appropriated the grounds for a cemetery. 

"If we can't kill his confederate ass at least we can haunt the heck out of it." ~Brig. Gen. Montgomery C. Meigs

We began the march up hill and it was evident that it would be a long day when Evan asked if there was going to be a shuttle. There was not. The path to the top is a who's who of dead people. We stopped at the eternal flame commemorating John F. Kennedy where it became evident that Evan was not in the mood to be respectful.

We continued on to Arlington house only to find that it is currently under renovation. You can still tour it and look at placards of what the rooms should look like, but the actual rooms had been stripped of any wallpaper, paint and furniture. Finishing the junior ranger book was a struggle. Evan couldn't sit still and the bugs were beginning to dine on our sweat salted shins. He did finally get his badge.

Pictured: The calm before the storm.

A glance at the map revealed that the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier sat just a short distance away. On the map it appeared to be less than an inch. The sight of the guard ameliorated Evan's disposition and the stairs offered a brief respite from our stroll as we watch the sentry.

The return trip though equidistant was significantly more pleasant owing to the fact that we were now going down hill, and soon we were at the bridge across the Potomac. Perhaps it was the humidity or maybe the warm front of over-stimulation colliding with a cold front of exhaustion that had moved in this morning formed the squall of foul temper in Evan. Whatever the meteorological explanation may be the thunderclap of attitude would flare up as we crossed the river.

Crazy Dinosaur Bones

Okay this isn't really a National Park, but it is on the National Mall so we are going to count it.

Crammed butt to belly with other patrons, I gazed upon the fossils of creatures extinct for nearly 250 million years at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. That was until I was reminded by a bit of overheard conversation that these were just plain old lizards that had lived long enough to get really, really big.

"What I want to know is were these things in the Garden of Eden," said Random Citizen #1.

This, of course pinged my sonar, blipped my radar, and snapped, crackled, and popped my Geiger counter. Red alert, all hands to battle stations we are on a collision course with crazy.

"What you have to remember is that reptiles never stop growing. These are just lizards that lived for a very long time and never stopped. That is why alligators get so big." Random Citizen #2 explained.

"Oh," replied #1.

"Adam I told you not to flush that thing down the toilet."

"Woman stop naggin' me and bring me some that knowledge fruit."

This must be true. Several people on yahoo answers said so. It actually involves some tricky Old Math. (As opposed to the New Math that Jesus taught to the money lenders in the temple.) If you take the same numbers that allow Noah to live to be, I don't know, like a 1000 years old, then you can easily see how Adam's pet iguana would eventually become an iguanadon. 

I began to wonder though, how does that explain the Giant Ground Sloth in the next room.

Off Screen Discussion: "You see it was right after 'Let There Be Light' or maybe later, I don't know, but God said unto the creatures great 'Let's Get Small.'"

God



Goin' On A Bear Hunt or What Am I, Stupid?

The look in her eye telegraphed a very clear message. There was no dots or dashes, interference or downed lines. It screamed, "What is that idiot doing?"

I know because I often shoot that same look at driver's that cut me off (Or the lady at Whitehaven that scraped the side of my car and then denied it happened. Luckily National Park Rangers came to our rescue again and convinced her that this is indeed what had happened.), the man at Quik Trip writing a check to buy a pack of cigarettes and a Pick 3, the guy running across the highway holding up his pants, and anyone that voluntarily jumps from high places.

Most recently that same look came to my face when she had come to a stop in the middle of  Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. As power vacationers (20 National Parks, 4 major museums, fireworks on the National Mall, a Washington Nationals baseball game, and pool time at the hotel) once the wheels start rolling we do not have time for construction, RVs going up hill or random stops on scenic drives with no pull-out.

We might occasionally stop for this.

We had just finished a ranger program about bears and filling out the Jr. Ranger booklet. Rain had been falling periodically throughout the morning, and fog moved in, not on little cat feet, but more like a sentient energy alien on Star Trek. (Suck it Carl Sandburg.) By the time this random traffic stop occurred the rain had ended and the clouds were nestled in the bosom of the Blue Ridge Mountains creating alternating bands of dark forest (I considered using the word corbeau, a Frenchy word meaning blackish-green.) layered with streaks of clouds creating the soft blue that is the range's namesake. A beautiful day, but one that still held the promise of a thirteen hour drive back home to St. Louis, so I was just a tad irritated that we had stopped, not at a scenic overlook, but a portion of the road that was forested on both sides. That was until . . .

"Bear"

"Where?"

"There"

A black bear stood watch at the side of the road. We were actually the third in a row of cars so it was probably 15-20 feet ahead of us. She eyed us for about 15 seconds and turned to go. That is when I saw movement up in the tree. My caveman see-what-I-can-hunt vision is always keenest in the car.

"There's babies in the tree," I squealed.

The second car in the parade pulled out and continued on its way so we inched closer. Colette spent several clicks of the shutter coming to the realization that the fraction of black  bear cub butt visible in the foliage to the naked eye was not so evident to the telephoto lens.

I'll give you a minute.

"Here, you try," she said thrusting the camera into my hand. Colette often does this assuming I am a Dumbledore level wizard

I was seated on the opposite side of the car so I determined that the best plan would be to exit the vehicle. In retrospect I am amazed that Colette, my usual source of reason and sanity, chose this moment to dry up and say nothing as I stepped onto the blacktop. Slowly opening the door and leaving it open so as to not startle the cubs, I crept around the front of our Ford Flex and trained the camera on the tree sheltering the diminutive ursine.

I had time to adjust the lens and snap one picture (see above) of what turned out to be a bunch of leaves when I heard the snap of a branch. Years of movie watching had trained me to know that snapping branches are always harbingers of doom.

I glanced at the car in front of me and saw a woman's face framed in the side view mirror saying, "What is that idiot doing?"

The physics of light rays dictated that my eyes were visible to her and my Pokeman eyes of surprise could not have possible be bigger than they appeared.

Now the door that I had left open to avoid loud noises looked like a brilliant moment of foresight as I leaped back into the driver's seat. As I closed the door Mama Bear, minus the cute apron of fairy tales, bounded out of the tree line. She proceeded to cross the street looking back and imploring her cubs to follow.

 Just so we are clear, we have 30X optical on our camera.

I was so busy focusing the camera that I was only vaguely aware of the echoing noise emanating from the woods.

"What's that noise?" Colette asked.

"I don't know. I got to get this picture."

It was so unbearlike that my mind actually convinced me that it was a couple of hikers shouting at each other across a valley. Stirred from my photographic reverie I realized that I had heard the cry several times before as we had traipsed about the National Mall. If I had the Universal Translator App, I would have recognized Mama Bear's call and the cub's reply.

"Come on Dude. Catch up."

"I caaaaaan't"

Mama Bear was just worried about a little stranger danger and wanted to make sure that the cub looked both ways before he crossed the street.

Disneyburg

We had come to expect a certain subtlety from ranger stations and visitor centers. I like to think it is because of the well thought out plan to blend into the environment. They are always a welcome sight. Whether they use existing buildings like in Harper's Ferry or Cuyahoga, a low dark wooden structure blending into the forest as in Shenandoah, the barn like structure on the battlefield of Monocacy or the doorway into the hillside beneath the Frederick Douglas home, the rangers within have always been helpful.

The exception was Gettysburg. The monolith that rose before us seemed as out of place as those discovered by early man in 2002: A Space Odyssey and had nearly the same effect on our mood. The sign declaring a ban on backpacks was situated like a Wal-mart greeter at the start of the concrete path from the parking lot to the Cracker Barrel building perched at the end of a slight rise. So while I took our belongings to the car Colette and Evan went on in.

"I really wish I had a white slat-seat rocking chair instead of this concrete bench"

Colette confronted me when I walked in after placing our bags in the car and tells me to deal with the tickets. It is then that I realize that the massive room is dominated by a ticket counter protected by a labyrinth of retractable nylon straps extending so far from the cashiers that I was sure that my 20/20 vision had failed me.

You should know that Colette and I often play the "Craigslist Game" in which she flashes a picture of some piece-of-crap Spanish influenced sofa or an onyx figurine and I have to guess the price. I know she wouldn't show it to me unless the price was extravagant, but I invariably guess over a hundred dollars below the asking price. From the tone of her voice I could tell that I was going to lose the game again. When I saw the prices for the museum, movie, bus tour and something called a Cyclorama, I just assumed I saw it wrong, but no, in order to enjoy any one of the activities offered I would have to pitchfork over $100.00.

House payment, $700 early 90's entertainment center, hmm I just don't know."

The only thing comparable is the ride to the top of the Arch, which our family has never done. The NPS often partners with other agencies. In the case of the ride in the Arch it is Metro, the public transportation system in St. Louis. And in the case of Gettysburg it is the Gettysburg Foundation whose objective it is:

• To preserve, honor and protect the natural and cultural resources associated with the Gettysburg National Military Park, the Gettysburg Campaign, and the Eisenhower National Historic Site.
• To excite visitors about the past, inspire them to want to learn more about the events that have shaped America and prepare them to become better citizens.
• To make sure that lower middle class families can't learn anything. (This last one is kind of implied.)
• To provide the world with a Cyclorama (Big Picture - Wikipedia) of Pickett's Charge.

We did manage to finally find the park rangers tucked away in the corner. We signed Evan up to be enlisted in the UNION army primarily because it was a requirement for the junior ranger badge.

This is not the first time Evan has enlisted in the UNION army. He marched and drilled at Whitehaven for Junior Ranger Day, came under fire at a Civil War reenactment in Mississippi, and shot a musket at the Battle of Booneville. He has visited battlefields at Shiloh, Vicksburg, Wilson's Creek, Pea Ridge, Antietam, Manassas, and Monocacy. If it wasn't for his tendency to confuse The Clone Wars with The Civil War, I would say he was, for an eight-year-old, and expert. (General Grant's brilliant victory at Geonosis is legendary.)

At least we had found the rangers, a respite from the tour-bus friendly commercial cavalcade of cyclorama. At every other battlefield or national park there has always been a free film or a fiber optic map detailing troop movements. Now all we had was a ranger program and the $30.00 driving tour CDROM we purchased at the gift store. Before I go on I should mention that if you ever encounter the TravelBrains CDROMs at any of our national battlefields, you should buy it.

So the enlistment starts with the basic physical requirements. If there is a Civil War school, then there must be an entire class devoted to the delivery of the two-teeth joke. Basically the only requirement for a Civil War soldier is that they have two teeth, one top and one bottom. Though it is never mentioned, these two also need to be within close proximity. Without this rather mundane physical attribute soldiers would not be able to tear open the paper cartridge and load their muskets.

Next came a question and answer session. Evan excitedly announces his favorite fact about bayonets, that they are frequently planted in the ground and used as candle holders. The topic soon turned to food. Since Colette and I are both teachers it was intuitively obvious that the ranger was trying to steer the musket volley of responses so that she could talk about hard tack. (Apparently it is hard.)

Unfortunately, before she could order a cease fire, Evan said, "Goober peas!"

The ranger looked confused, stunned, and to be honest a little shell-shocked.

The pause in the presentation was long than Sarah Palin trying to answer a policy question. I wasn't sure what was going on. Burl Ives had consistently informed us that the Georgia Militia enjoyed, "peas, peas, peas, peas, eating goober peas."

Along with "The Battle of New Orleans," "Goober Peas" is Evan's favorite song on our ipod. I doubt, however, that the ranger had the same play list so she asked Evan to repeat his answer. Still stunned, she then said, "no," and rephrased the question.

"Did the soldiers eat pizza and nachos and stuff?"

It is at this point that Colette and I diverge in our analysis of the situation. Colette insists that the young lady mistakenly thought that Evan had said pizza.

I had a hard time ascribing that level of ignorance to a human being and assumed that the near homophones of "peas" and "pizza" were a coincidence. However, as of this writing I am beginning to doubt myself.

The presentation continued running the new recruits through drills until a cry of charge. Quite to the ranger's surprise, many of the soldiers, including Evan, charged into the head high weeds. Upon returning to the ranks, Evan followed the ranger around assisting that the weeds would have been good cover.

"Come on boys I smell a double pepperoni."

Colette and i had quietly decided that we would talk to the ranger to let her know about goober peas. Historical accuracy is extremely important in our family. I was still making excuses for her. Maybe since we enlisted in the Union (our army of choice) and boiled peanuts were more a staple of the rebels, she was trying to be hyper-accurate as well. Unfortunately, this was not the case. We explained it to her as Evan sang the tune in the background.

She responded nicely enough, "I'm always glad to learn something new."

Colette has since decided that she will only listen to over-weight, gray-bearded guys when it comes to the Civil War. I understand because these are the same guys I look for in the hardware store. Rangers and hardware-store-guys should be teaching me something new and not the other way around.

At least we had the well-reviewed TravelBrains CD. It did an excellent job of creating the action, a cyclorama if you will, at the various locations along the driving tour. Though I should mention that they gave General Grant a fictitious middle name to go with the "S". This phantom initial came about because of a clerical error and stuck with Grant standing for everything from Uncle Sam to Unconditional Surrender.

In another dubious comment Abner Doubleday is referred to as the "legendary creator of baseball." The may or may not be yet another error. It depends on the conotation of legendary. If by legendary the narrator means a fictitious story unsubstantiated by historical data, then he was correct. If, however, legendary means famous, then this would be another error. I'm always willing to give them the benfit of the doubt.

Great Sand Dunes

If there is one thing that I have learned in our visits to our nation’s parks is that I am not nearly insane enough to be pioneer. It first occurred to me when we were in the Badlands as a passing thought, “Can you imagine stumbling upon this for the first time?”

It became more coherent in the Tall Grass Prairie Preserve. “Seriously, half a day’s wagon travel from Kansas City and you hit this?” Imagine the ocean. Now imagine that it is made out of tall grass. Now start walking.

That night at the campfire would have been like, “Um, I think I forgot my wallet. I’m like one punch away from a free wheel rotation at Willy’s Wagon Shop. I’ll probably head back, but don’t worry I’ll catch up.”

Finally this summer these nagging thoughts and humorous asides coalesced into a fully formed thesis.

The pioneers of westward expansion were flippin’ insane.

We were in the Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve, which with some skillful camera work could easily have been used for the location shots in Lawrence of Arabia. We were surrounded by mountains, and though it was shorts weather, the temperature was moderate. Yet before us stood monolithic mounds of sand. We were at the base of God’s hour glass. If Paul Bunyan had a big blue cat instead of Babe, then this would be its litter box. No cactus or tumbleweeds, no rattlesnake whipping a wave across the desolation, no variation in color, just the monotony of the ocean, writ not in water or grass, but the muted yellow of sand. Yet at the highest point I could see of people marching like ants on a pheromone trail creating a dotted line between unending sky and interminable sea of sand.

Those tiny specks of humanity represented a challenge; if they could make it, then so could I. There would be no turning back. No defeat, no surrender. I can conquer the sand and I will drag my wife and seven-year-old son with me. So I packed our earthly belongings, or in this case water bottles, a couple of apples, and some sunscreen, into my backpack and struck out to seek our fortune.

The initial part of the sojourn was over level, relatively compacted terrain, but the distance alone inspired the first bubbling of complaint from Evan. It would be a theme for much of the vacation. There must be a part of child brain that demands parameters on any trip. It is what leads to the ubiquitous whine, “Are we there yet?” Without a concrete end in sight the only alternative is infinity, and to be honest looking at the unbroken horizon of sand I can begin to understand.

With a little pleading, manipulation and lies Colette and I were able to get Evan to reach the peak of the first dune. Walking in sand is the classic two steps forward one step back scenario. I had to consciously lift my foot out of the sand and plant it perpendicular to the direction of the miniature sand slides each movement would make. Sand crept into my boots and added weight so that I was soon lifting an additional five pounds per foot.

We had scaled several dunes and though our destination looked no closer the path back to the car had expanded as if the camera of my eye had suddenly zoomed up and out to reveal that we had become the ants. The appropriate Ennio Morricone score blending a scream of terror and the distant call of a vulture played in the background. It was becoming clear that we were not going to make it. In fact as some of the ants had crossed our path on their return I had noticed that they were all part of a high school cross country team. I group of humans bred to endure the lack of oxygen and water as well has the monotony of running in perpetuity. We were going to turn back.

Sitting at the top of the dune, sand creeping into every crevice, I inspected the sandbags laced to my feet. Grains had worked their way between the rubber sole and leather body of my shoe. The front end was flapping up and down like a bizarrely deformed duck. This would make a good excuse. I couldn’t make it. My shoe fell apart.

With clearly defined parameters the whining had settled down. Evan had surpassed me in exuberance, and I had to frequently tell him to stay close to us. The sole of my left boot began to flap as well. My longer strides had allowed me to pass Evan on the upward slope of the last dune. Following close behind, he called out to me. I told him I would stop at the top. As I removed my backpack and plopped on the sand Evan handed me a foot-shaped piece of blue rubber. For the last ten minutes I had been hiking in what amounted to a moccasin.

I placed the mocking shoe rubber into a zipper pocket of my backpack and continued with my soleless right boot. The grasping hands of sand kept pulling at the sole of my left boot necessitating that I lift my leg higher than normal in order to extricate it. We eventually made it to the car, and I disposed of my hiking boots. Luckily, I had a pair of Keens that would protect my feet for the next twelve days of vacation. Our hikes were all of the out and back variety always ending with a collapse into air conditioned car and familiar sounds of an iPod playlist. I get the solitary explorers, the mountain men, the trappers. They were solitary. Loners with nothing better to do and nothing to tie them down. But the pioneers that packed up their families, their homes, their lives and just started walking? They were flippin’ insane.

Capitol Reef

My only experience with ravens had been literary in nature; seeing them in nature itself was quite extraordinary. The crow was, of course, familiar as a regular consumer of road kill along Missouri highways, but it paled in comparison of size and ingenuity to its cousin. The eponymous Raven that taunted Edgar Allan Poe and his melancholic loss of Lenore, the creator of the Tlingit, Haida, Tsimshian, Bella Bella, and Kwakiutl plucked my eyes with its ebony beak and would not let them go as it perched with three others on the twisted tree and picnic table of the campground.

Capitol Reef is one of nearly a thousand national parks in Utah, and we were preparing to have a lunch of Spaghettios after a morning of hiking and picking apricots from the groves that remained from historic Mormon orchards. My table of choice had earned that distinction due to its proximity to the car. Hauling the food, stove, drinks, utensils, and propane canisters was not strenuous, but I saw no reason to walk farther than necessary. Colette, however, had other priorities. She decided that our lunch would be better enjoyed in the shade. I am not at this point, or any other, going to say that what was to transpire was her fault, but this particular decision does seem to have a direct causal relationship.

I also can’t blame the birds. They were merely following the food as the adjective form of their species name demands. You can’t blame a wolf for wolfing down his food, a wasp for being waspish, or a raven for its ravenous behavior. So it must have been fate that brought forth the foul (fowl?) fecal rain.

As the reddish-orange sauce sizzled at the edges of the aluminum pan, the avian sentries squawked and cawed in the branches above. I passed the first serving of Chef Boyardee’s cuisine to Evan, and quickly turned to the rest of the family sized can that was rapidly burning around the edges. What happened next is a little unclear, but suffice it to say that there was now an additional ingredient that Chef B had never intended to include. A soupcon of green and white raven poo was swirly through Evan’s dish like oil in a rain puddle, beautiful to look at, but horrifying in it implications.

Ravens, as is their nature, are not precise animals, and the seasoning was not entirely accurate in its application. In addition to being in Evan’s food it was also liberally ladled on to his hair and shoulders. During the cleaning process splatter was discovered on the oven mitt, grocery bag, and the box for our new propane stove.

Thanks to the raven and its trickery, for nearly half an hour, instead enjoying a meal amongst the glorious iron tinged rock formations and the bountiful groves of Capitol Reef, I was suppressing my gag reflex while expunging poo from Evan’s hair. The raven, along with eastern gray squirrel (It’s a long story), is the focus of a blood feud, and as such is subject to equal justice. The problem is that I don’t have the time or resources to find a tree overhanging a raven eating its lunch.

Mesa Verde

After driving 45 minutes on a serpentine road to a remote destination in Mesa Verde National Park we boarded the tram to take the tour of Long House. Tension, though mild, had been building. As is usually the case when decision making is left up to me, I chose poorly. When scheduling the tour, I failed to take into consideration that humans require sustenance. And though the more astute readers may view the storm clouds on the horizon as a metaphor, I can assure you that they were quite real.

Colette was concerned that the gear, specifically the sleeping bags, that had been left out at our campsite would blow away. I reassured her that at worst things would get a little wet. A problem easily corrected by the industrial size driers at the campground laundry. To be honest I was not entirely sure that would be the case.

As we boarded the tram, the wind had begun to gust, but still the sky above us was clear. Sunscreen was liberally applied to my seven-year-old son Evan. We were of course in a desert.

Ranger-guided tours at Mesa Verde have a tendency to become repetitive since virtually nothing is known about the Ancestral Puebloans. There is a reason why alien abduction remains a popular theory with amongst others, Fox Mulder. This one was no different. “We are not rally sure why they moved into these cliff dwelling,” “The architecture is truly amazing,” “We really don’t think it was drought that forced them to leave, but we don’t know for sure,” “The kivas may have been used as family meeting rooms, or for religious ceremonies, or as shelter from the cold, or something else,” “We just don’t know.”

Mike Myers : Babysitter :: Danger Ranger : Evan

What separated this from the other tours was the rapidity at which it was given as the storm clouds that had been perched in the distance swooped into the canyon.

“I don’t care if you get wet, but I am concerned about the lightening,” proclaimed Danger Ranger as he became know to my family. Before he earned this moniker I gave him the respect that comes with the hat he was quickly covering with a shower cap explaining that his failure to do so previously had resulted in the destruction of his old hat. This should have been my first clue that he may have been missing a chapter from his Mesa Survival Guide.

The drops of rain were large and cold. If Evan had looked up, he could have easily drowned in the tablespoon sized precipitation. In addition to my trust of the ranger, my decision making abilities were further compromised by the uncertain state of our campsite. I should have known better. I should have known that staying in the shelter constructed under literally tons of stone would have been safer that what was about to occur. The tour following ours was in the shelter and wisely decided to stay put. Instead, I followed the ranger’s command to make the trek along the steep stairs and narrow path up the side of the exposed cliff.

The rain on our faces mixed with sweat and the gritty desert dust to create a blindingly toxic potion. I had Evan by the hand dragging him up the hill. Colette, struggling with the elevation, was left behind as I rushed Evan to safety.

In a matter of seconds the thunder had grown from the rumbling of a disgruntled crowd to the crack of a police baton against the skull of a rioter. My memories of lightening are vague at best because I was squinting through stinging eyes, and I felt Evan’s hand slipping from mine as the storm tried to pull from by grasp.

Colette was no longer in sight so I was the only ears to hear Evan’s pleas to rescue him from the cold sting of rain and the ear-numbing thunder.

Around each bend, behind each tree, and between each deafening growl I expected to see sanctuary, but it remained elusive. It was as if it had been erased with a few sonic shakes of the global etch-a-sketch. As the cover of shelter neared the sound of thunder was replaced by the maniacal marching bass drum beat of my heart. Desperately sucking in the dry desert air aggravated the cough that had nagged me through the early days of our trip. Evan and I had made it, but I knew I had to go back and get Colette.

Leaving Evan with David, assuming that a pedophile would not concoct an elaborate plan involving the National Park Service, Danger Ranger and weather manipulation, I rushed to recover Colette. I found her accompanied by a helpful woman only about fifty yards down the path. She immediately questioned me about Evan, but was reassured to find out that David was in the same party as the woman that had helped her. This reduced his pedophile percentage to near zero.

We were reunited and sheltered though there were lingering doubts considering that we were ensconced in a metal-framed tent atop a 9000 foot mesa. But, if we were going to die we would do so dry and in the company of thirty or so strangers.

"Look out behind you!"

Danger Ranger, in a rare show of responsibility, brought up the rear of our group. Not content, however, to leave any semblance of heroism he decided to reclaim his role as purveyor of anecdotal evidence. His thought process must have gone something like this:

Mouth: Hey brain, I don’t think they are scared enough.
Brain: Are you sure? I think they have had enough.
Mouth: Naw. Give them a good story. That’s your job. You are a ranger to the end. Brain: If you say so.

Huddled together in the center of the tent to avoid the viper bite of cold and rain I was unable to protect Evan from the cascade of fear that was about to descend.

“Did you all here about the people that died in the storm at the Grand Tetons?”

Evan stammered, “Dad I don’t want anybody to die before they are old, and it’s their time.”

Though impressed by the sophistication of his empathy, I was mad that the thought was ever introduced into his mind. “Nobody is going to die,” I reassured. Though as with the status of our campground I had a few doubts.

And because death was not nearly menacing enough Danger Ranger continued, “I had a buddy that was struck by lightening and he hasn’t been right since.” Brilliant so if we don’t die at least Evan can be sure that his parents will become lobotomized zombies plaguing him the rest of his life.

By this point the tram had arrived and Evan hade slipped into a fear induced coma. We returned soaking wet to the car and retraced our path to a mildly wet, but relatively undisturbed campsite. I was two for two with my optimistic predictions. Our gear survived, as did we. I didn’t, however, forecast Evan’s fear of any cloud darker than dingy laundry. The cumuluphobia extends to photos and videos of clouds as well as the rumble of distant planes and Harleys, which are much more common in our nation’s parks than you would think.

He will eventually grow out of it, but hopefully he is smarter than his father and learned to recognize Danger Ranger when he appears again.

These were a little damp when we returned.