Mt. Rushmore - Part 1.

Mt. Rushmore is one of those national monuments that is actually quite impressive and majestic when you finally get to see it in person. I was on the trip with Dad and mentioned that I was curious about "...that mountain with the presidents faces...". I had a vague perception of this monument and didn't really know much about it except in the occasional pictures in school history books (which I ignored for the most part). Dad was receptive to my curiosity and had visited it once before on one of his solo trips, and told me it was called Mt. Rushmore and was in one of the Dakota states. Visiting it was somewhat out of the way but a possibility and Dad went to work on the maps to plan the trip back home around this detour. We mentioned to the rest of the family, both in phone calls back home and to my Aunt and Uncle at the ranch that we were going to take this side trip to Mt. Rushmore, and they all thought this was a crazy idea, going hundreds of miles out of our way in the opposite direction to get home, but this was the kind of side trip Dad lived for and despite his slight outward attitude of annoyance that we were making an unplanned jaunt, he thought this was an important detour and was actually thrilled and excited to be making this visit. So when our stay at Wind River Ranch was over, Dad and I headed North-East into new territory to see the fabled mountain with presidents heads carved into it.

The trip there was actually very interesting, taking me through some new unexplored states: Nebraska and So. Dakota, introducing me to a new territory and different looking lands. One of the new attractions I had only heard about and was now able to see first-hand was Buffalo's, or Bison as they're properly called. I had only heard and read about bison and who the American Indians used to hunt them by chasing them off cliffs, or I had seen buffalo's on old nickles, but now I was able to see some in the wild like the cowboys and Indians did in the old days. We entered the State parks and viewed all the information about the bison and they made a big deal about how this was the only place in the world where wild buffalo still roamed free. As it turned out viewing the buffalo was kind of disappointing and anti-climatic, I only saw a few bison at a time and they were always in the far distance making them mere specks on the landscape, they could've been cows for all I could tell, and were just as exciting. They were nothing like I was expecting, that being the herds of millions of animals stampeding on the endless prairies. Thinking in hindsight, is was sad.

We finally arrived in So. Dakota and entered the Grand Tetons, a mountain range I was unfamiliar with. The mountains themselves were high, steep, pointy and sharp, nothing like the Rocky's or other mountain ranges I've been to. Dad then went on to explain the origin of the name "Tetons", that when the white trappers and mountain men first came to this mountain range, they had been away from women for so long that the mountains looked like tits to them, (or tetons in French). Well, while this was an interesting bit of information I was somewhat embarrassed about hearing this from Dad, I always avoided any kind of mention of sex around Dad and I was uncomfortable hearing him say "tits", especially since it was in reference to desperately horny French fur trappers. So I gave an awkward laugh and hoped he wouldn't elaborate, which thankfully he didn't. However, the mountains were indeed awesome and did invoke a sense of beauty, but they didn't look at all like breasts to me.

Dad announced that we were getting close to Mt. Rushmore and he recalled the time he drove there in his '55 Thunderbird and how he remembered that the mountain suddenly appeared around a corner and took him by surprise. I was now forewarned and was expecting at every turn to suddenly see the head of George Washington loom before me. I guess things had changed since Dad had been to Mt. Rushmore because the mountain appeared in the distance before the big surprise. This didn't however take away from the impressiveness of the monument and I was totally fascinated by the mountain. When you're a kid and you hear and read about such monuments and man-made wonders, one tends to inflate the size and scale in your imagination making the thing bigger than it actually is, When you finally encounter it it always tends to look much smaller and a little disappointing. That was my first reaction to Mt. Rushmore as we approached it from the distance, but as we got closer the size and scale began to reveal itself and I forgot my preconceived notions and became impressed with the work.

Dad and I wandered around the visitor center and viewing area for quite a while, I was looking for areas and opportunities to get closer and was disappointed to find out that we couldn't climb to the top, or even get any closer that the viewing area for all the tourists. The gift shop wasn't satisfying and only offered the usual crap any gift shop offered, the only difference being everything was Mt. Rushmore themed at this gift shop. There were a few large sculptures of the mountain for sale that cost hundreds of dollars, which strangely Dad found to be interesting and I thought for a moment he was considering buying. This not only would've been expensive but also totally impractical since one of these items would've taken up the whole back seat. But instead I had to be satisfied with the Mt. Rushmore snow globe and a few postcards to send to Mom and whoever. But I think Dad secretly planned to get the big Mt. Rushmore and had a place all picked out in our living room to display it when we got home.

We went outside again and took one last look at the mountain before we were off again. This was the start of yet another tradition and we were to return to Mt. Rushmore someday on another one of our yearly trips.

First Beer

The year I went to Estes Park and Wind River Ranch just me and Dad, we arrived at our final destination at the ranch and as always my aunt, uncle and cousins had arrived well before us. I had always looked forward to seeing them again, and spending time with my cousin David was a big highlight of the trip. The previous years had always been a fun-filled 10 days hanging out, playing cowboy with David, and the rest of my cousins. We arrived at the ranch to find out that certain plans had been made for me and my Dad, we were to break tradition, separate the family units and share a cabin with David. Well, I thought this was a great idea! Bunking up with Dad and David the whole stay seemed like the best idea in the world and I enthusiastically embraced this new situation while Dad and David appeared somewhat amused by this concept and my reaction. So this is how it was for the entire stay and it turned out to be an interesting and fun sleep-over atmosphere filled with late night conversations about "guy stuff" and quality time reading Mad Magazines and comic books.

So one night after a particularly satisfying day of hiking and being men, Dad, David and I were hanging out in the cabin and decompressing from the excitement of the day. David and I were feeling energized and adventurous and convinced Dad to let us each have a beer from the ice chest to celebrate. The beers Dad kept were those mini 7 oz. cans of Olympia, intended for women or lightweights, but Dad kept a supply of these in his ice chests mostly because they fit better in the chests, and I think he liked the cute size of the cans. But these were perfect size cans of beer for children, especially for kids attempting their first full can of beer solo. Dad was somewhat reluctant to let us drink a can of beer ourselves, not so much because we were minors and the potential damage it might cause, but probably because it depleted his precious supply of beer, especially those hard to find 7 ounce-ers, and he didn't like the idea of buying more. But with some amusement Dad agreed and handed me my first can.

I recall having trouble opening it, this was before the current push tabs we see on beer and soda cans, and for some reason beer cans still required an opener, or "church key" to open the can, so the task of popping a hole on one side of the can to drink from, and a smaller hole on the other side to let air in proved somewhat difficult to me. This just frustrated Dad and caused him to further rethink the whole letting me drink a can of beer myself concept, but I insisted and was finally able to open the can adequately. Once open I proceeded to drink the whole beer down robustly, like a man. It wasn't entirely pleasant but not too bad of an experience. Dad cautioned me about drinking it too fast but laughed at the attempt, David too found it amusing and encouraged me to chug-a-lug like a pro. After a few minutes I thought I was feeling tipsy, although I really think it was wishful thinking, and I proceeded to jump on the bed and act drunk, David too thought he felt the effects but was a lot quieter and refined about his drunkenness, I on the other hand wanted to take full advantage of getting smashed and became the life of the party, singing and jumping on the beds.

It wasn't too long after that that the real effects of the beer started to take hold, and I started to not feel too well, which then I immediately ran to the bathroom and threw up. I don't think I was feeling sick from the alcohol so much as from the speed at which I drank the beer and the foam that accumulated in my stomach. The little amount of vomit that came out was bitter and foamy like the head of a glass of beer, and very unsatisfying. Dad and David laughed hysterically and made fun of me not being able to hold my liquor as I crawled into bed miserably. While Dad was thoroughly amused he was also a tad bit annoyed at me for being so irresponsible and wasting a can of his beer, I almost think he actually wanted me to pay for it out of my own pocket to teach me a lesson.

Dad called it a night and all of us turned in, but for the rest of the trip, and many years after that I was constantly reminded about how I can't handle my beer and should probably stay away from it all together.

Night Driving

After the excitement in Tucson, Dad wanted to make up for lost time and decided it was a good opportunity for a "night drive". This was unusual for the trip and definitely out of the ordinary, but nothing to cause any concern, in fact it seemed like it would be fun and different. Dad seemed to have some experience and was familiar with the fine art of night driving, so this was designed to be a first-time learning experience for me, and given our recent event with the car breaking down, I just happened to be ready for the adventure.

Because of the specific dangers involved with the night, we broke some of the tradition and traveled primarily on Interstate highway. This was deemed safer, provided better visibility and we shared the company of other night drivers along the way just in case another incident should happen. I was fairly confident the car was in good shape since it just got fixed, and Dad's driving ability was sure-footed even in the dark, so off we went into the night. We drove through the desert and the atmosphere was decidedly different, the late daytime light gave off a distinctive feeling of peacefulness, it wasn't as hot, and it was relaxing to see the sun set. As the drive progressed and the sun went down, nothing seemed really different about driving at night, except you couldn't see anything. I wasn't feeling tired, in fact I was wide awake, so I sat up in front with Dad and had casual conversations.

I guess we were both hungry because the main topic for discussion was about food, specifically all the weird and unusual foods there was available to eat, and more interestingly, all the weird and disgusting things Dad has eaten. Of course Dad had to bring up the movie Mondo Cane, a film I’ve never seen but was very familiar with the theme song, which Dad had the 45 of, and like I mentioned before, we would always play at our traditional celebration before the start of the trip. The movie Mondo Cane, from what I could gather was a documentary film about weird things that went on all over the world, and one of the things shown in the film that Dad loved to talk about was about these people in Africa (or somewhere like that) that had more of these big bugs living around them than they knew what to do with, so someone decided that they could eat them. So Dad explained with great delight about how they would roll up these live beetles into a burrito and eat it like it was just refried beans or something, and during this meal some of the bugs would escape from the bite holes and crawl along the face of the person eating them as they would casually grab the beetles and poke them back into the burrito and continue eating. I could only imagine what this was like or what it appeared like on the screen, but it was fun to listen to, even the millions of times Dad told it over and over again. At the time the most exotic thing I could think of eating was octopus. I knew this was something you could eat, and that many people all over the world eat it regularly, but to me this was the ultimate in dare-foods, and I could only imagine finding an opportunity and actually eating it. Dad on the other hand was unfazed about eating octopus and explained that it was the tentacle that made the best eating. This led to other possibilities such as squid, rattlesnake, frog legs, monkey brains, any kind of raw meat (remember, this was before sushi became mainstream) and of course, eel. The eating of eel seemed like the supreme feat in disgusting cuisine to me, which then led to an interesting story that Dad re-tells at any opportunity not realizing he's told it 100 times before. The story goes: Dad and his father, Grandaddy, were somewhere in South America and went to eat in a local restaurant, and on the menu was "eel soup". Now one would expect eel soup to be large pieces of cooked eel, since our perception of eels are basically sea snakes and should have similar appearance and size to a snake. But when the waiter brought Dad his eel soup it was a bowl of luke-warm oily broth with hundreds of thread-like live eels swimming around in it. Grandaddy was appalled by this dish and insisted that he send it back, but Dad was fascinated by eating live baby eels and proceeded to eat it all down. Grandaddy wanted nothing to do with this revolting display and moved to another table. Dad explained that the soup was basically tasteless and he could feel the little eels slither down his throat. While I was amused by this story I too found it nauseating and admitted that I would never be able to eat this eel soup.

Most of the drive was through the state of New Mexico and part way through the trip we were spotted by a highway patrolman and we were pulled over. This is always a cause for concern and being stopped by the police is always nerve-wracking, For some reason I can't help but imagine the worst and fear we have somehow done something seriously wrong and will be taken in and put in jail. Dad seems to take a practical approach about being pulled over and consciously tries not to show panic, but tends to be impulsive with his actions. Just about every time we have been pulled over by the police (not very much) Dad always gets out of the car after he pulls over and stops, and every time this apparently spooks the policeman and they sternly demand him to "remain in the vehicle" over the loudspeaker. I never understood why Dad always insisted about trying to get out of the car after he was stopped, and he always seemed surprised and perplexed after he was told to get back in, but I guess he was nervous too, and this concept about remaining in the car for the policeman never sunk in. The reason we were stopped was; one of our front headlights was out. It made sense we never noticed since we never travelled at night. The patrolman was typical, polite but stern, nice but slightly suspicious. He gave us a warning and told us we couldn't continue until we replaced the headlight. Now the problem was that it was about 10:00 at night and we were essentially in the middle of nowhere, except for a small community beside the highway. Dad agreed to get the headlight replaced and the patrolman reluctantly let us go, but followed us into the town to make sure we didn't just continue on without heeding his advice. We went to the only store that could possibly sell headlights, a Piggly Wiggly grocery store, and of course they didn't have headlights. This didn't discourage Dad and he was determined to continue, but I was afraid that Dad was going to do something foolish and get us deeper into trouble with the policeman still lurking and ready to arrest Dad for contempt of the law. But despite my fear and nervousness, Dad actually came up with a brilliant solution. Knowing we were under surveillance, we went into the Piggly Wiggly, bought a snack, came out and opened the hood of the car as if to change the headlight. Now our car had double headlights - two on each side, one pair for regular headlights and one pair for the high beams. When the high beams were on all four headlights were lit, so what dad did was disconnect the regular bulb on the good side and turned on the high beams, and it appeared as if just two regular lights were on. Now I was still a little nervous about doing this, running the risk of the policeman recognizing the high beams were being used, and it's technically illegal to drive the highway with other drivers present with the high beams on, and we didn't do what we were told to do which was replace the bad bulb. But Dad was satisfied this was going to work and we got in the car and drove off, essentially tricking the cop. We must've been noticed by the patrolman as we entered the highway again, but the patrolman seemed satisfied himself and to my relief took off in the opposite direction. Dad made a self-satisfying laugh and re-assured me that this was all that was needed to comply with the law sometimes.

It was late, well after midnight when we reached our destination of El Paso, Texas. We stopped at one of the first motels with a vacancy, and I was surprised to see that there was still activity and life this late at night, things even seemed to be more open than during the day. The motel manager was friendly and it didn't seem unusual that we were checking in so late and needed something to eat. He directed us to an all night taco place next door and we proceeded to get cheap and really greasy Mexican food to eat in our room. I ate my dinner and quickly fell asleep for the night, my first successful night drive behind me.

Tucson

A little known fact; I was born in Tucson, Arizona, but remember nothing of that time since I was an infant and my brain capacity was not capable of long-term memory yet. But on the trips we were able to visit Tucson on a few occasions. The first visit I remember was one of the early times on the trip when Mom was along, we made it a point to visit the apartment building I lived in after I was born. It was an ordinary building and it looked a lot like some of the motels we stay at. The thing that impressed me the most was that it had a pool (like most every home or apartment in Tucson) and I was happy to think that I once lived in a place that had a pool at my disposal - even though I was only a baby and couldn't swim. Mom told me all about some of our neighbors and pointed out what apartment they lived. One of our neighbors at the time, and good friend of my mom's, was Linda See, who later went off and married a Beatle and became Linda McCartney. At the time we were visiting the apartment I don't think Linda had married Paul yet so Mom spoke of Linda only as an old friend that she missed very much. Linda had a baby daughter at the time I was born so my mom and her had something in common and spent a lot of "mommy time" together. Mom said that Linda had a car with air conditioning, so they would do their mommy errands in her car with some comfort since the temperature in Tucson would often be over 100. I remember nothing about these times and have no recollection of Linda and her daughter, Heather, but there are pictures of Linda holding me as a baby and things seemed quite normal for us.

But the most memorable visit to Tucson by far was the year I went on the trip with just me and Dad. Mom stayed at home for some reason and I think this was the beginning of the end for Mom and the trips, I think it was because my sister Katrina was too young to make the trip that year, at least that was the excuse, but the real reason was probably because Mom was sick of the traveling. But this year was just me and Dad for the whole trip, we were going to Wind River Ranch and share a cabin with my cousin, and unbeknownst to me, I was to have my first whole can of beer and throw up over the excitement, but that's another story all together.

Dad and I started out the trip as usual and this year we were to do something different and special and go to a whole other country: Mexico. The thought of going to another country that wasn't the United States was exciting and I was really looking forward to it. We started off the trip in San Diego and stayed at one of the first Motel 6's of all of the trips, very close to the border, so close that we could actually see across the border into Mexico from the motel. The next day we drove into Tijuana, parked the car on what seemed like a safe place and walked around the shops for a couple of hours. Tijuana was like one big gift shop with lots of Mexican things like big belt buckles, leather whips, sombreros, and Mexican jumping beans. I got a small scoop full of jumping beans from a very friendly Mexican lady who enjoyed selling her beans to Americans, even though we had already bought some when we walked past again for a second time she insisted we buy some more jumping beans, like already buying from her didn't matter, or she didn't recognize us again a few minutes later. But then again a lot of the buying in Tijuana was like that. I also wanted a pair of bongo drums, and since we were in Tijuana where bargaining was encouraged, we searched for the best deal on bongos, and there were many choices for sure. Having found an acceptable deal we got back into the car and headed for our next destination, Tucson, Arizona.

We drove along the border in Mexico, which was fairly unexciting and I ended up sleeping most of the time, but a few times during our drive in Mexico the car made a strange noise, This caused minor concern for Dad and we continued our trip as usual. We crossed the border into Arizona without incident, declaring the bongo drums and jumping beans as the only things we were bring from Mexico, which didn't seem to be a problem. We drove through the desert and it was typically hot, we were just passing an observatory toward our right in the distance when all of a sudden the car made a terrible noise and began to shake violently. Dad pulled over and we checked the problem; one of our rear axles had broken and the wheel had come completely off. Had there not been a fender covering the top of the tire the whole wheel might've come completely off and would've flown across the highway, luckily it didn't. But here we were, in the middle of the desert about 50 miles away from Tucson, I was convinced we were going to die since there wasn't another car to be seen anywhere, I thought we were completely stranded with no hope of survival and I thought of my Mom's friend Linda and her daughter Heather and how Tucson was going to be my place of birth, and death. I started to cry.

Dad calmed me down and tried to convince me we weren't going to die. He first opened the trunk and got out the cash from the tool box and a few other valuables, I think I was also told to get my small bag of stuff. Dad got out one of those faded red gas station rags and waited for a car to come by, one car did come by shortly and he waved the red rag to stop the car. The car that stopped had 3 or 4 Mexican men and they all looked suspicious and mean, and they didn't speak English, Dad politely told them we were okay to wait for another car and they drove off without saying anything, Dad said he didn't like the looks of that group and we were probably better off waiting for another car. And shortly after that another car did come by again, and this was an older family with an adult daughter. They agreed to drive us into Tucson, this time them being suspicious of us, but Dad convinced them we were harmless and so they drove us an hour to Tucson, having forced small talk with occasional periods of awkward silence along the way. As a way to break the silence I told them I was born in Tucson, which they politely acknowledged but really didn't seem to care about.

They dropped us off at the first Holiday Inn we came to just entering Tucson, all of us being relieved from this inconvenient encounter, we quickly forgot about them as soon as they drove off. We checked in to the Holiday Inn and Dad immediately called a tow truck to deal with the car. We got something to eat and waited for the tow truck to arrive. It was early evening when the tow truck finally arrived and Dad explained that it was just him and me so I needed to come along to retrieve the car. The driver was really friendly and nice and told me to hop in and sit in the middle between him and my dad right with all the many stick-shifts and levers. The driver was really good natured and more than glad to be helping us out, I was relieved by this fact and proceeded to make conversation with the guy, talking about cars and our recent visit to Mexico. Since he was a tow truck driver all of the conversation tended to be about cars, and the hour drive to our car went fast. It was dark by the time we reached our car and the driver quickly and efficiently hooked the station wagon up to the truck, the atmosphere now didn't seem so perilous and I had forgotten about how scared I was that afternoon, and a few minutes later we turned around and were back off again toward Tucson. When we got back to the Holiday Inn it was late, around midnight, the driver waited while we unpacked the ice chests and essentials, and was off to take the car to be fixed to some location he and Dad had discussed. We never saw the nice tow truck driver again.

But that's not the end of the story. We spent the next couple of days at the Holiday Inn, mostly hanging around the pool since it was hot and we had nothing better to do, Dad would occasionally make some phone calls to deal with the car. But in a couple of days the car was fixed and we set off to pick it up. The thought of taking a cab was mentioned but Dad thought it would be a better idea to walk to the Ford place and pick the car up, Dad assured me it wasn't too far, only a couple of miles. So we set off on foot sometime in the late morning and it started off not being too bad of a walk. I kept thinking that over the next hill or right around the next bend we would see the Ford dealership. Well, the short walk turned out to be longer - a lot longer, than I expected. I suspect Dad knew this all along and was avoiding getting a cab, and Dad kept telling me we were almost there, sometimes showing me on the map where we were, but the distance on the map was misleading, and to make matters worse it was getting really hot. The neighborhoods we were walking through weren't much to look at either, being regular neighborhoods with houses and streets, or desolate commercial areas where we had to cross vast highways with no crosswalks. About halfway through the walk Dad agrees to stop into a 7-11 and get a drink and an ice cream, this is when I first realized the value of water in the desert, and found out that drinking a Coke when you're really hot and dehydrated actually makes you more thirsty. Dad was eager about teaching me this lesson about the importance of water and continued to remind me that drinking Cokes (like Mom) wasn't a good idea. The more we walked the more irritated and hot I got and kept suggesting that we get a cab for the rest of the walk (not that there were any taxicabs in this part of town) Dad rejected the idea every time and we kept walking despite the 100 degree heat and the successive degeneration of each neighborhood we entered. We finally came into an area that was totally undeveloped except for some freeway construction, we walked up a big hill with no traffic and toward the top of the hill we could see the Ford dealership and garage, in the middle of nowhere. Boy! I was glad to see that place, and even more glad to find out that the car was fixed and ready to go. I relaxed in the relative coolness of the garage while Dad paid a lot of money for the car. Dad later explained to me that he used some of the "emergency money" for the car, anyway, it seemed like a lot what it cost to fix the car. Soon again we were back in our car and driving back to the Holiday Inn, it seemed like luxury to be driving again after that miserable walk and I tried to forget the whole afternoon hike.

We got back to the Holiday in late afternoon, we packed up the car, checked out and proceeded on my first "night drive" as Dad called it, to make up for lost time.

Travel Hat

This is another one of those silly traditions I have no idea how or when it got started, but it is here to stay forever. This would be the "Travel Hat", or sometimes called the "Guru Hat". Dad one day on the trip bought a cheap felt Hillbilly hat in a grocery store somewhere on the trip. The hat was among other silly items for sale and was meant as a joke gift or souvenir depicting the "flavor" of the region: that being "white trash". Originally the hat had a corn cob pipe and a feather stuck in it, and a few cloth patches glued around it to give an impression of poverty and cheapness, but over the years Dad added more items and found-objects to the hat to enhance it's personality and humor, he also deliberately kept the price tag of $1.39 dangling off the side (like Minnie Pearl), which Dad thought was incredibly clever and hysterically funny.

Dad would keep the hat stored in the trunk of the car only wear it on special occasions (thank God...) those time being: The first day of the trip - moments before we would get in the car and leave home, and when we would arrive at Wind River Ranch in Estes Park, often when we were unpacking the car. The hat became a symbol of happiness and frivolity and displayed some trinkets that articulated Dad's joy about being on the trip as well as expressing his quirky personality. One of the first items to be stuck on the hat was a few cloth stickers with smart-alecky sayings like "Made from 100% garbage" or "Bought on Credit". Dad thought these stickers were appropriate to the hat specifically and these probably started the whole tradition of adding to the hat every year. So each successive year of the trip an new item was added to the hat. As time progressed many of the new items were beer themed or contained parts of dead animals. Mom, as expected, wanted nothing to do with the hat shenanigans and was embarrassed by the whole juvenile affair. I think Dad sensed this and in turn made a bigger spectacle of himself wearing the hat on those occasions. Everyone came to expect Dad making a scene with the hat and politely endured the antics until Dad got it out of his system, and it was over until next year.

Over the years, the adding to the hat decorations became an official task and challenge for Dad and the kids, keeping in mind that only one item would be deemed acceptable and make it's way onto the hat, and into history.

First Photo

A part of the trip I will continue to mention is the fact that Dad took Polaroid pictures all throughout the time we were on the road, and the most consistent series of pictures is the taking outside the motel room. Most of the time I wasn't really aware that Dad was taking pictures, I was usually doing my own thing and unwinding from the long hours in the car, Dad took it upon himself to make the daily picture his own ritual and most everyone else was uninterested in the project.

Taking a Polaroid picture for dad was not a simple procedure, it actually could take hours sometimes, which seemed a bit ironic given the fact he was taking "instant" Polaroid pictures. The meticulous manner that went into setting up the motel photo often tried everyone's patience so most of the time we just stayed out of it all. Even for such a simple camera Dad had figured out dozens of variables, had many complicated attachments and filters to manipulate exposures, and he was always aware of the atmosphere which even the most subtle change could mean the difference between a masterpiece, or a dud.

Even with the serious limitations Polaroid cameras and film offered, Dad over time was somehow able to get the best results out of such a deceptively primitive technology

Estes Park - Fun

Up until now I haven't really talked much about the ultimate destination of our trips, that would be Estes Park, Colorado. This is a small town nestled in the mountains and the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park. It's a breathtakingly beautiful location and the town itself, while mostly crowded with tourists has really hardly changed over the past 40 years I have been going there. The town survives on the tourist trade and the attraction from the national park, which means the economy is dominated by motels, gift shops and activities that have no practical value other than to serve the town itself. While many of the chintzy gift shops and specialty stores catering to wannabe cowboys and mountain climbing enthusiasts have come and gone over the years, there are a few that have always been there and probably will always be there forever, "Indian Village", a mainstay and supplier of all the needed accoutrement's required for an Estes Park visit providing everything from postcards, Indian artifacts, toy guns or bows and arrows, or the ever-popular rabbit fur pelts that I insisted on getting one (or two) every year.

One of the more perplexing yet successful businesses in the town of Estes is the Christmas stores, or Christmas Shoppes as they're so often called. I've never understood the attraction to these shops, especially during the Summer when we were there, but there always seemed to be at least 3 of these stores in town, and they were always hopping with customers. Most of the customers for these stores appeared to be old ladies or Midwest housewives who compulsively shop early for Christmas, my Aunt and Grandmother (who are not from the Midwest) fits this description perfectly, spending what seemed like hours in these stores carefully buying useless and tacky decorations to be displayed 6 months from now. More to my dismay was the fact that my Dad seemed to be attracted to these shops, possibly the thought of Christmas (the greatest holiday of the year) and the "big bye bye" (the greatest vacation of the year) were magically combined and enjoyed for that brief time that we frequented these stores. I was always dragged into these shops and made to wait patiently while all the grownups browsed the endless array of crap. To make things doubly miserable most of the items in these stores were extremely delicate and fragile, which meant I needed to be on my best "don't touch" behavior, and to make matters worse the people working these stores were impatient with kids and obviously disliked anyone under 30. I'm glad to say that my Aunt usually recognized our boredom and arranged for us to do something else with the bigger kids like get ice cream or go down the "Big Dipper" slide for an hour or two.

It was these attractions like the "Big Dipper" slide that made the endless shopping endurable for us kids, while this was considered a treat and not done on a daily basis, we had a vast amount of activities at our disposal. The "Big Dipper" was a large 4 or 5 storey tall fiberglass slide with different colored sections to choose from, and depending on the condition of the color, your size or weight, or the preference of the guy working the top of the slide each section was either fast or slow, coming down on your blanket to reduce friction and increase static electricity shock risk. The actual sliding part had dips in the decline which gave a roller coaster-like experience and the more use a section got the less friction and faster performance resulted, the goal being to slide all the way to the end, or further. The "Big Dipper" slide was only one of a few activities available at that location, the best being the big inflatable bubble called "The Moon Walker" and we got to jump around in for 10 minutes (for a nominal price). We arrived in Estes one year to find that the Moon Walker was gone, thoroughly disappointed we inquired about what happened and found out that the Moon Walker had been vandalized by "kids with knives". Devastated by this injustice we complained about our loss for years to come. Then the trampolines, which was reserved mostly for the bigger kids was a lot of fun but didn't last long probably because of an injury or lawsuit. Then the bumper cars were always fun as was the small gauge scale train to take the smaller kids on a round trip around the area. And then there was always miniature golf, which Estes Park boasted 3 separate courses at one time. Miniature golf was usually a separate event reserved for the evening when it was cooler and we could afford wasting a couple of hours. I realize now miniature golf was probably more fun for us kids than the adults, which tended to get frustrating and prolonged especially at the difficult holes. My Dad and Uncle Bob would often resort to cheating when sinking a ball became impossible for one of us kids, hurrying the process along so we could get out before midnight. The other huge attraction for us kids was the Go-Carts, possibly the most fun any kid my age could have. This was a specially planned occasion since it tended to be pricey, but all us kids looked forward to this event and the thrill of driving these go-carts lingered for days. I was somewhat young for the carts and started out riding on the lap of Dad or Uncle Bob, but I eventually grew to size and my confidence grew as well allowing me to drive solo. Once I lost control and spun out on the tires on the far side of the track, one of the workers had to come and rescue me and he was very angry and berated me for driving recklessly. I was a bit shaken from that time on and avoided driving a go-cart solo for the rest of that visit, however on our last day in Estes we made a final go-cart event and I courageously drove the cart by myself, being extremely careful and keeping within the go-cart speed limit and rules of the road. To my surprise I received a smile and nod of approval from the mean guy who yelled at me, my confidence in go-cart driving restored.

Estes Park in many ways was better than Disneyland or Knotts Berry Farm, a unique place where I could be free to have fun.

Money

The trip was one of the few times in my life where I had an allowance. Ordinarily the concept of getting a regular allowance never worked with my family, mostly because we lived our lives on a "as needed" basis, and the habit of saving up for something meant last minute begging, borrowing, stealing, scrounging the sofa cushions, etc for extra cash to buy something I wanted, or more often I would just pester my parents until they got me what I wanted, or I waited until Christmas. There were a few occasions where Dad implemented an allowance system, but it always turned out to be convoluted and never held up to the realities of discipline and consistency required for financial management. Dad would often start the allowance out at a ridiculous 22 cents a week, having us endure the pittance until he felt we were ready for a full 25 cents a week, essentially forcing a lesson on inflation on us. I don't know why but this system never encouraged an attitude of saving. I could tell Mom was totally irritated by Dad's allowance system and she reacted with discouragement and quiet anger, which didn't help my attitude either. So the whole allowance thing never worked with our family - except on the trips.

Money on our trips was not only a reality, but a rare occasion for Dad to be somewhat generous, at least to a certain point. The trips were still done on the cheap, but there were certain luxuries and treats we enjoyed on the trips that we didn't ordinarily get, and Dad used this as an opportunity to show off his financial might, and to dole out an allowance to us that for the most part worked pretty well. Even Mom has an official allowance, which she probably found to be humiliating but she endured patiently.

The saving of money started the moment we got home from the trips; whatever was left over from the last trip (which usually wasn't much) went into the kitty for the next year's trip. We all had one of those "cash register banks" where you would put coins into a slot, pull the lever and it would record the amount while locking the coins in a compartment. When the amount reached $10, the bank would unlock and release all the change you accumulated. So whenever we would come across some spare change, find a dime in a pay phone or a quarter on the sidewalk, or someone would slip me a dollar, it would go into the cash register bank savings for the big bye bye. A few things to note about the cash register banks: For one, they didn't register the amount for pennies, so when the bank unlocked and you counted up your booty you could always expect a little extra to the amount. The register bank officially only took coins, but there was a round hole in the back that if you tightly rolled up a bill you could insert it into the bank to be included in the final amount later on, This was especially used when one of us got a $2 bill, a rare and exciting treat, $2 bills were considered sacred and privileged to be saved and only used on the trips, so all of these were rolled up and pushed through the hole in the back of the bank. The bank also didn't take dollar or half-dollar coins, which however could be inserted into a little slot in the back of the bank. We would often get silver dollars and 50 cent pieces from generous grandparents, so most of the time Dad insisted these went immediately into the slot in the back of the register bank. But having the little slot in the back of the bank turned out to be a neat little feature, which I'm not sure Dad was aware of, in that if you were desperate for cash, you could turn over and shake the coins in the bank in such a way that eventually choice coins would work themselves out. Using a tool like a flat-head screwdriver or a butter knife you could carefully manipulate the choice coins into position through the slot and procure a dollar or two out of the slot. I even caught Mom doing this on a few occasions when she needed an extra couple of bucks, the strategy being to try and get the half-dollars or dollars out as much as possible. The thought that I was cheating myself never entered the picture because when it came time to open the bank and count out the accumulated change, Dad was always somewhat surprised at the small-ish amount and kick in a few extra bucks to round out the amount.

When the time got close to leaving for the trip and the usual preparations were being made, it was a really exciting moment when Dad would finally bring out the register banks and insert the exact needed amount to reach that long awaited $10 and open the bank. With a satisfying and distinctive "click" and a triumphant "ding" of a bell, the bank would open and we would gleefully empty out the pile of change and assorted bills on the carpet. It became a long awaited tradition this counting of the money for the trip, we would start out sifting our fingers through the coins like greedy pirates who finally find the buried treasure chest of Spanish doubloons, a ritual we called "money-O!" Then we would carefully separate the different coins and stack them in appropriate amounts to be rolled in those paper coin rollers, and taken to the bank in exchange for more manageable forms of money to be used during the trip. We would spend a couple of hours on the floor counting out the change, separating out the "wheat pennies" to be saved separately, and it always seemed to work out to be about $30 or $40, if not Dad would chip in to make everyone equal.

The final result for the trip would be a roll or two of quarters with the person's name on the paper roll along with a running total of the amount in the roll (it started out being dimes but inflation dictated quarters were more practical) and a tightly rolled cylinder of $1 bills, each bill had a serial number written in pencil in the corner border along with the person's initials to designate who's money it was. The reason for the record keeping was to keep accurate track of how much was spent and who was spending. The cash was kept in Dad's tool box in the trunk compartment in the way back of the station wagon. The morning ritual before starting off for the day always included the doling out of our daily cash allowance. Us kids were allotted about 50 cents a day in quarters that was intended for the soda or snack machines at the motels, this would allow us at least two soda pops with maybe some change left to carry over to the next day. The dollar bills were given out at Dad’s discretion and were intended for special treats or souvenirs we encountered along the way. We quickly realized the benefit of planning for future items and souvenirs to purchase and save up the dollars over time for places like Estes Park, where the souvenirs were plenty and very tempting.

Dad also kept a special roll of $2 bills in the cash supply. These prized and privileged bills were rarely used and we felt reluctant to spend them. They were only given out if it was my birthday, Dad was feeling especially generous, (or was apologizing for something), or as a tip for a pretty and especially nice waitress at one of the many cafes we ate at. All-in-all I think this cash system worked rather well.

Dramamine

So after recalling all of these memories of roller coaster times and hours upon hours of driving desolate highways in a hot car, I have to mention that there was often a price to pay. Fairly soon into the trip I experienced my first bout of car sickness. This probably came about as a result of a couple of factors, the first being the monotony of the scenery coupled with the subtle but constant motion outside the car. Since there was little to do but look out the window the movement and vibration most likely caused disruption to my inner ear balance, that and the extreme heat inside the car brought about intense nausea. The second factor probably was the food I was eating in the car, which consisted of baby food, cold Oscar Meyer hot dogs, (slightly wet and soggy from the ice water in the ice chests), little cocktail onions, Snap-E-Tom bloody mary mixer, Juicy Fruit gum, and all washed down with Kool Aid and Styrofoam flavored water. All this in combination made for some miserable moments during the trip. The first time I threw up it came as a complete surprise for everybody and the first vomiting event happened inside the car, the resulting mess and stench only furthered the nauseous sensation. By this time Mom and Dad were panicked by the first bout of sickness, and they were now coaching me to throw up outside the window of the car. Throwing up out of a window of a car going 60 mph is not the most elegant method of vomiting and this only resulted in an awkward mess inside and outside the car, not only did the momentum and wind splash vomit all across the side of the car, but the aerodynamic turbulence caused by the vehicle blew a good portion of the vomit in my face and back into the car itself. The whole event was a catastrophe.

Remember, we started the trips driving my Grandmother's dark blue Oldsmobile Delta 88, and when we were supposed to arrived at Estes Park she expected her car to be in the same condition that we originally started the trip in. Now, the interior had a distinct vomity smell to it, and the outside where I leaned out and threw up was now smeared with a contrasting orange-yellow viscous and textured bile resembling condensed soup. Dad avoided the mess and neglected to clean it off immediately, so along with the intense heat created by the sun against the dark blue metal of the car, and the drying effect of the wind created by the car travelling at high speeds, caked and cemented the vomit on the car for most of the duration of the trip.

Dad and Mom realized that something had to be done about my car sickness, so at the next town they found a drug store and bought me some Dramamine. The pills were little chalky yellow tablets that had a distinct aspirin-like taste. I voluntarily took what was given me and washed them down with lots of funny tasting water, but the thing we discovered about Dramamine was that it only works if it has time to absorb into the body, taking a tablet, driving to arouse nausea and then throwing up the Dramamine a few minutes later doesn't do any good. Dad, with all his medical wisdom, decided a practical approach needed to be taken when using Dramamine, that at least a half-hour was required to absorb the medicine before driving could commence. Once a suitable Dramamine routine was accomplished the drug would knock me out for a few hours and the risk of throwing up was avoided. For Dad and Mom this had a double benefit, not only did it keep me from throwing up, but it put me to sleep, essentially keeping me occupied during the tedious driving parts of the trip, so Dramamine therapy became a part of our routine. Realizing that I was consuming a considerable amount of drugs, which also became a considerable cost, Dad became concerned and began to ration out the Dramamine in half-doses, and eventually quarter-doses, which not only saved on the Dramamine supply but also lessened the narcotic effects keeping me awake a little more. From that time on Dramamine was an essential supply for the trips.

However, we still had the serious problem of the condition of Gammys car, the interior was still ripening, and the dried vomit along the side of the car was still obvious, disgusting, hard as a rock and risking damage to the paint. So the day we were supposed to arrive at Estes Park we stopped at the last major town Granby, Colorado, before hitting the Rocky Mountains. At Granby we were able to find one of those self-serve car washes with pressure hoses, and we also purchased a bottle of Lysol with a few rolls of paper towel. Dad and Mom desperately began to wash the car inside and out, and the vomit was removed with some difficulty and many quarters for the car washing machine. There was still quite a bit of work to be done on the inside of the car and Dad somehow avoided this task and got Mom to thoroughly clean the inside of the car. As Mom cleaned with Lysol, Dad entertained me by taking me through the town of Granby and buying me ice cream. Granby was a typical Colorado Tourist town that had wooden sidewalks, otherwise there wasn't much to see. The town was also next to Grand Lake and Lake Granby that Dad took me to look at and tried to interest me in. When we arrived back at the car wash, Mom seemed frustrated but resigned that the cleaning job was satisfactory for Gammy, so with a brand clean car, Mom dosed me up with Dramamine in preparation for the nauseating mountain driving we were about to do, (not risking me throwing up on the newly cleaned car), and we were off again only a few hours away from our final destination of Estes Park and Wind River Ranch.

I seem to recall Gammy wasn't exactly too pleased with the condition of her car, which I'm sure I got blamed for. I think that was one of the reasons we stopped taking her car on the trips.

(I don't really have an appropriate video or picture for this subject, but this one is suitably boring)