Family Road Trip

          It was an image I will never forget.  For all I knew we could have been in the Sahara Desert; except for the fact there weren’t any camels to be seen, let alone any creatures—including any other humans.  All that could be seen for miles around was sand, sand, and more sand and one small, leafy green bush about 25 yards away.  The sun was high in the sky and it was a blistering 98 degrees.  The sky was a cloudless, cool cerulean blue.  There was a slight wind that blew hot air across our faces as if we were standing in front of a heater.  There hadn’t been a car in sight for over an hour—except for our two-toned, 1984 Ford Country Squire station wagon which was sitting on the shoulder of that old, desolate highway.  We were on our first ever family road trip to Yellowstone National Park.  When we left the house this morning, the car was packed to the hilt; filled with sleeping bags, pillows, backpacks, two coolers, food, a five-man spring bar tent, a row boat, fishing poles, marshmallow roasters, cooking equipment and everything else you need to spend three nights camping in the wilderness.  Now—all of that stuff lay right beside our station wagon on the black, gritty, asphalt.  I peered through the passenger-side window watching our cell phones as they rested peacefully, out of reach, on the center console.  The car keys hanging obediently from the ignition.  I tugged at the car door handle one more time in hopes it would magically open.  It didn’t budge.  At that time I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry.  Maybe it was my negative attitude that brought on this misfortune.  My thoughts went back to this morning before we left. 

 The clock reads 9:00 a.m.  It is an hour past our agreed departure time.  I irritably stand behind the kitchen sink washing the dishes from breakfast.  Excited screams come from the other room as the kids play video games with their father.

          “You know, if you spent more time helping me clean up the house, we could leave sooner!” I angrily think to myself. 
          Just then, Jenny runs into the kitchen.  “Mom, dad wants to know if you’re ready to leave yet.”
          “Are you kidding me?  Are you flippin’ kidding me!?”  I think to myself.  “You tell your father that if he wants to leave soon, it would be nice if he would spend more time helping and less time playing stupid video games!”  Men, I swear!  How do they not see a sink full of dishes, toys spread all over the floor, bathrooms that look like they haven’t been cleaned for weeks and feel that it’s okay to leave on vacation without even vacuuming?
          “Mom, Dad told me to tell you that you don’t have to be like your mother and have everything spit-shined just to go on vacation.  He also told me to tell you that no one is going to come over anyway.”
          I decide after that comment that I might as well clean out the refrigerator, straighten the pantry and dust the whole house.  I am finally ready to leave.  It is two and a half hours later than expected, “And I don’t care because I have a clean house,” I smugly think to myself.
          Tom happily helps buckle all the kids in the car and we are off.  We haven’t been driving for more than 3 minutes when Kate blurts out, “Are we there yet?”
          “Almost,” Dad replies.  “Only 5 hours and 53 more minutes to go.”
          “Is that true, Mom?” she questions.
          “Yes, Kate.  That is the truth,” I reply.
          Fifteen minutes haven’t gone by when Kate asks for a second time if we were almost there yet.  At this moment, I know this is going to be a long car ride.  Thankfully it is Sam’s naptime and he crashed moments ago and should stay out for at least two hours.  I decide to take advantage of not having to entertain him and try to catch some z’s myself. 
          I quickly fall asleep but am awakened just as fast.
          “Ninety-four bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-four bottles of beer.  Take one down, pass it around, ninety-three bottles of beer on the wall.”
          “Seriously, honey?  You could teach the girls a hundred songs and this is the one you decide to teach them!”
          “What’s wrong with this one?” he asks with confusion.
           I attempt to fall asleep to the tune and must have been somewhat successful because the next thing I hear is, “Four bottles of beer on the wall, four bottles of beer…”
          Well, at least it kept them occupied for the past hour.
          “Hey, honey.  Are you sure we are going the right way?” I ask.  “I don’t ever remember driving through the desert to get to Yellowstone.”
          “Yeah, I’m sure.  I know right where we are,” he answers with confidence.
          “There’s a gas station right there,” I reply.  “We could stop real quick and make sure.  I really don’t ever remember driving this way and it kind of looks deserted up ahead.  I don’t want to get stranded.”
          He scoffs and says, “You worry way too much.  We don’t need to stop.  I’m positive we are going the right way.  Why don’t you ever trust...”
          E-rum, e-rum, e-rum.
          “Woah!  Gotta stay away from those rumble strips,” Dad remarks.
          “Dad, what’s a bumble stick?” questions Kate
          As serious as can be, dad replies, “They are called rumble strips, darling.  Those are for blind people.  It helps them know when they are driving off the road.”
          “Oh.” Kate responds pensively.  “Good idea.”
          I roll my eyes and wonder, “Are my kids going to turn out normal?”  I can just hear them now repeating everything to their friends, just the way their father explains it to them. 
          “Mom, is that true?” asks Jenny.
          “What do you think, Jenny.” I say
          “Dad!” squeals Jenny as she shakes her head at him.
          I sit back, looking out the window.  None of it looks familiar.  There is more sand and less trees the further we drive.  I haven’t seen any sign of human existence for miles.  We are passing fewer cars every minute.  “Where the heck are we?” I nervously think to myself.   
          “Dad, why was there a mattress in that ditch?” Jenny asks, interrupting my thoughts.
          With a big grin he says, “That’s what they call a ‘Rest Stop’, where you can take a nap if you’re too tired.”
          “Mom, is that true?” suspiciously questions Jenny.
          “Why can’t you just say, ‘Must have fallen off a truck,’ like a normal dad?” I ask with a bit of annoyance.
           Tom looks over at me with “the look” and it grabs my heart.  It’s the same look he gave me when I knew he was the one.  The one he gives me to let me still know he loves me.  I start to think of his witty remarks and how his sense of humor is what attracted me to him, but all of the sudden my thoughts are broken up by a loud and fast thwup, thwup, thwup sound.  Tom carefully pulls the car to the shoulder of the highway and gets out.
          I anxiously wait the report.  “Flat tire!” he yells from the outside.
          “Oh, great!  Just what we need,” I say under my breath.
          Knocking on my window , Tom shouts, “We are going to have to unload the entire back of the car to find the spare.  Jenny, come help mom and me unload.  Kate, you keep Sam entertained.”
          We unload for what seems only a few minutes when Sam starts screaming. 
          “Kate, give him his milk,” I say.
          “I did.  He doesn’t want it.  He just throws it down every time I give it to him.”
          “Give him some Smarties then.”
          “I am, but he just throws them at me.”
          The screaming continues.  It’s so hot though, that I ignore the screaming and continue to help remove bags, fishing poles, coolers, sleeping bags and equipment. 
          “Are you sure there is a bottom to all of this stuff?” I sarcastically ask Tom.
          “Yep,” he says as he pulls out the other cooler exposing a small rectangular section of the car floor.
          “Mommmm!” yells Kate.
          “What, Kate?” I ask with a bit of exhaustion.
          “I have to go the bathroom and I can’t hold it anymore!”
          “Ugh – really?  Jenny, you stay here and help dad.  Just in case any cars drive by, I am taking Kate behind that bush over there so she can use the bathroom.  I will take Sam with us too, and maybe he’ll calm down a little.”
          I quickly unbuckle the screaming Sam from his car seat and grab Kate by the hand.  We hurry over to the bush.  Teaching a 5-year-old girl to use the bathroom in the wilderness while holding a screaming baby is almost as exhausting as unloading a packed car.  Luckily she does it without too much trouble.  Sam finally starts to calm down as we head back from the bush.  We see Tom removing the lug nuts from the tire.  Jenny is intently watching him.
          When we get back to the car, I decide it’s best if I buckle Sam back into the car to avoid him running out onto the highway or getting into any of our camping things.  I pull the door handle.  It doesn’t budge.  My heart skips a beat.  I try again.  It still doesn’t budge.  I try the driver side door.  It doesn’t budge.
          “Tommm!” I frantically scream.  “The car is locked!  Do you have the extra set of keys in your pocket?”
          He stands up and checks.  No keys…

          I find myself standing at the window.  No matter how many times I pull the handle, the door will never open. 
          I sit in the small spot of shade next to the car with the kids as Tom finishes replacing the tire.  I intently wait for a passerby.  No one comes.  I’m not sure how much time has gone by.  The sun has noticeably moved in the sky.  At least we have food.  I pull out some drinks and make sandwiches for dinner.  Still, no one drives by.
          I didn’t say a word as I helped repack all of our junk into the back of the car.  I am full of mixed emotions.  Tom was the last one to shut the door.  But was it really his fault?  Were we doomed from the beginning because of my awful attitude about the house not being clean?
          We now drive in silence.  Five hours have gone by, we took a 113 mile detour, we have three sleeping kids, one frustrated husband, one anxiety-ridden mom, a broken window and we have arrived at our final destination.  I see the Yellowstone National Park sign—and it has never looked so beautiful.

He Is Gone

The crisp morning air stings my fingers as they tightly grip the ice cold metal on the fishing pole.  I bite down hard as I begin to hear my teeth chatter.  I anxiously wait for the sun to come up to give me some warmth.  The tug, tug of the trolling line lulls me into the mist of my childhood.

Wrapped up like a cocoon, the warmth of the sleeping bag keeps my eyes from opening.  Nature's alarm clock sounds and the singing birds tell me I need to get up.  It must be about five thirty in the early morning.  I struggle to emerge from the coziness of my sleeping bag, yet the lake calls me.  The brisk early mountain air sends a chill through my body as I reluctantly slither like a cautious water snake out of my bag.  I interrupt the natural sounds of nature as I unzip the tent.  The brook that runs through out campsite babbles as it hurries down the mountain side as if escaping from danger.  The crunching of dirt and rocks beneath my feet bring a feeling of freedom from the constant everyday walking on man-made concrete and cement.  We are silent as we make our way down to the lake; taking in the beauty nature has to offer.  The smell of pine awakens our senses and a magical excitement reflects in our eyes as we see the lake.

The mountains tower over the south side of the lake.  As the sun rises, the mountain is reflected off the lake as if to take a morning swim.  The water is as smooth as glass, giving the impression you could walk on top of it.  We climb into the small metal fishing boat.  The smell of fish slowly floats past our noses.  The cool crisp mountain air whips our faces as we zoom to the other side of the lake.  The motor pushes us to top speeds of 15 miles per hour.  With that style of speed it only takes us 15 minutes to reach the opposite side of the lake.  We unwillingly accept the shower given to us as the boat comes to a halting stop.  But, this is when the magic begins.  We ungrudgingly wipe the water drops from our faces.  The white Styrofoam cup of worms is passed from person to person as if it is champagne and we are celebrating a special occasion.  I stir the worms with my finger looking for a fat juicy one.  I am only 8-years-old, but I prefer to worm my own hook like a true fisherman.  The worm wriggles through my fingers as though it knows this is its last chance to escape its fated doom.  As the hook pierces through the flesh of the worm, I know I have won.  I drop the hook into the clear, frigid water and allow the boat to drag out my line.  I watch as it is swiftly let out down into the depths of the lake.  The icy water drips onto my leg from the water-soaked line as it unwinds from the reel.  My thumb becomes numb and feels raw as the line slides under it.  I count the line colors as they change.  Seven is a good number to let out.  The game can now begin.

We patiently wait.  With our eyes closed and our faces pointing toward the sky, we rest our heads on the backs of the old, orange safety vests awaiting the arrival of the sun's rays to warm our faces.  The hum of the motor sings to us like a lullaby and the tug of the pop gear rocks us into an indescribable peace just long enough to sooth our tired souls.  We are quickly brought back into reality when we are bitten with excitement - a fish has decided that worm for breakfast is a special treat.  Hearts pound with excitement as we wait to see the size of the fish on the end of the line.  And then, without
seconds to think, two more fish decide to join in on the morning's "worm breakfast special".  The feeling of franticness embodies us as three poles start reeling in at once.  My Grandpa struggles to net the three fish and keep the boat steered in a straight line as to keep the lines from tangling.  Yet, he always accomplishes it like a professional fisherman who could do it all in his sleep.

Not an hour passes and we are already up to 14 fish.  As I sit, I admire my Grandpa.  He looks like he belongs on the lake.  He is humble as he teaches us the art of trolling.  He is dressed in his flannel coat and his white lips are covered in zinc oxide.  He never fails to break the silence.  He bursts out into song and starts singing about beans and how they are the magical fruit as though nothing has happened.

The morning passes by quickly and we easily reach our fish limit.  The sun is now high in the sky.  The white clouds resemble cotton candy and it feels as though we can reach out and grab some for a tasty treat.  The leaves on the Aspen trees start to whisper as the afternoon wind comes for a visit.  We watch the eagle as it soars above us in search for food.  Its nest is in sight and not far off from where we are.  In this moment, I take in my last breath.  What I have experienced for the last few hours was a bit of a fairytale.  There is no doubt in my mind that a higher power has created such beauty.

The motor revs as we begin to leave and I am quickly brought back to the present.  I am not in an old metal fishing boat, but on a pontoon boat.  It has been hours and we haven't caught one single fish.  The lake looks the same.  The eagle's nest is still there.  The white clouds are just as fluffy, but the feeling is different.  I am much older now.  The fish must have gotten tired of the "worm breakfast special".  The orange fishing vests are gone and we are now sporting life jackets.  The metal boat has been upgraded and the maximum of five people on the boat has been transformed to 15.  My Grandpa has since passed on and I feel alone.  So much has changed since I was a child, but the memories of Fish Lake will stay unchanged.  As I return, year after year, and the crisp mountain air travels across my senses, I will always see my Grandpa sitting in his metal boat with white lips, singing crazy songs, and creating amazing memories which I will never forget.