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.