The Big Bye Bye

Grand Junction, CO.

2009-11-02T13:09:00.000-08:00

Just a typical day somewhere in Colorado...

...This will give some insight into the routine aspect of the trip.

Estes Park - again

2009-10-21T15:23:00.000-07:00

Since this is what the whole trip is about, I'm posting this video again...

...See post for May 6th, 2008.

Vail Pass

2009-10-05T08:29:00.000-07:00

Like the first settlers crossing the continent, the old T-Bird needed to conquer the Rocky Mountains...

As you see and hear, a creative approach was needed much of the time to keep the vehicle alive. Also, I want to illustrate the fact that I've heard the same story over a hundred times, often twice in the same day.

T-Bird - Part 3.

2009-10-02T10:18:00.000-07:00

The low-tech solutions are always the best...

Probably all we needed to do was to break an egg into the radiator.

T-Bird - Part 2.

2009-10-01T08:23:00.000-07:00

The '78 T-Bird is like an old man...

The steep mountains and high altitude was just a little too much for the '78. Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion.

Pulled Over

2009-09-30T08:08:00.000-07:00

I'm a little surprised this doesn't happen more often...

Being so conspicuous on the road it's no wonder why sometimes the bright green T-Bird is a target, but I guess the law enforcement officers have better things to do most of the time.

T-Bird - part.1

2009-09-29T10:53:00.000-07:00

This is just the start...

It is an art keeping a car running past 400 thousand miles.

El Centro

2009-09-27T20:47:00.000-07:00

I've been to dozens and dozens of towns like this...

From my experience most of America is made up of towns like El Centro, California. The only differences being the temperature.

Kanab, Utah. Part 2. - Night

2009-09-26T10:18:00.000-07:00

It just happened to be the 4th of July...

We decided to go explore and check out the fireworks.

Kanab, Utah. Part 1. - Day

2009-09-25T13:49:00.000-07:00

Kanab is one of those traditional destinations we've been to at least 6 times...

I can't say there is much going on in Kanab other than it's a convenient stop before Zion National Park. Right down the street from the motel (the one we always stay at), is a pathetic tourist attraction that nobody seems to go to, except maybe to grab a beer. The place blasts creepy cowboy music that can be heard blocks away, to attract customers, but I think it has the same effect as "It's a Small World..." at Disneyland, and only succeeds in annoying you for days. As I understand it, Kanab boasts itself as "Little Hollywood" since it was the location for many old Westerns like Gunsmoke, and classic movies like Planet of the Apes. Anyway, this attraction accurately reflects Kanab as a quiet ghost town.

Typical Day

2009-09-24T09:24:00.001-07:00

You can't travel thousands of miles without getting lost every once in a while...

Despite the volumes of road maps and decades of experience, Dad would often get confused. Funny how it's always somebody else's fault.

Passing

2009-09-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

Dad always considered himself possibly the best driver in the world...

...now whether or not this was true was up for debate, but I do have to say nothing major ever occurred on any of the trips (See post for Sept. 9, 2009 "The Crash of 2009").

Inevitably we would encounter vehicles on the highway doing under 30 mph in a 55 zone. This would most always cause frustration with all the drivers caught behind the vehicle, be it truck, 90 year old's on vacation driving motor homes way beyond their ability, or arrogantly rude slowpokes. To this day I am surprised at the clueless behavior of some of these drivers not realizing their actions had an adverse effect on the highway. To his credit, Dad most always asserted patience, handling the situation as a challenge and treating his passing ability as an art.

Antenna Flag

2009-09-22T09:52:00.000-07:00

The American flag on the car antenna has a long and complicated history...

(See the continuation of this video in post; "Happy Wanderer", April 29, 2008)

The whole justification for putting the flag on the antenna was so dad could find the car in a crowded parking lot. Other items stuck on top of the antenna, such as the Styrofoam 76 balls from the gas station were just as effective for identifying the car amongst vast acres of parked cars, the predominant example being the Disneyland parking lot and the time we forgot which Disney character section we parked our car, but was saved by the fact we had a 76 ball on the antenna to assist out search. Dad had... still has, a box of 76 ball in his garage somewhere, the story being that he and one of his pals got drunk one night and decided to comb the city for 76 balls, stealing them from other cars antennas, resulting in a catch of dozens of 76 balls. I found it ironic that Dad always got extremely upset when somebody would eventually steal the 76 ball off our car antenna.

But the American flag became the annual tradition for the trips, and the journey was not complete until the flag adorned the antenna. Other advantages for the flag included a proud display of patriotism, a symbol of our great country as we all traveled every corner of it, and it distinguished our car as special among the other cars on the highways.

Picnics

2009-09-21T09:21:00.000-07:00

I've learned to hate picnics, they always turn out to be more trouble than they're worth...

Dad had a knack for picking out places sit out and eat lunch, they usually turned out to be a little inappropriate, and occasionally dangerous. While the places to picnic looked inviting on the surface, we would eventually realize that this wasn't such a good idea. A lot of the time it was circumstances out of our control, like hurricane force wind, but often things just turned out weird.

Tourist Trap.

2009-09-17T09:19:00.000-07:00

Along the way, we've encountered many forms of roadside entertainment...

...usually with the intention of getting your money. But it's fun anyway.

To see the rest of this particular experience, check out the post for July 9, 2008 - "Caves"

Packing up

2009-09-12T09:17:00.000-07:00

Here are some tips about packing up the car for road trips...

...notice the careful attention to prioritization. Strangely enough, all the items you see are essential, and some items, like clothes, are conspicuously left at home. Limited space is a serious issue and it took decades for Dad to perfect his "system".

The Map

2009-09-11T09:30:00.000-07:00

This is to give you an idea about the scope of "the trip". The video shows the original map that documents every trip and every route that was taken since the trip started 42 years ago.

Note that this video was taken in 2000, and there have been nine more trips taken since, only adding to the already confusing mess of scribbles and notes.

The Map is a careful reflection of every road Dad has taken since we began these adventures many years ago. As you can see the map has the physical quality of the Dead Sea Scrolls and has been maintained by my dad through meticulous patching and stitching with Scotch tape. Each year is a color coded scribble over the highway taken, which over time has become pointless since many roads overlap and the sheer number of trips has limited the color choices. I tend to look at the map as a whole, taking it in as one big experience looking at the space covered compared to what is left to be conquered.

The Crash of 2009

2009-09-09T16:55:00.000-07:00

It's been a while since I posted to this, and I'm deciding to jump ahead a bit. Much excitement has happened since.

For those of you new to the story, my dad takes a car trip every Summer since 1967 and has never missed a year, (you can read about some of the adventures in earlier posts)

This year he made his annual visit on his way back home. and we documented some of the strange events that occured this trip. I'm happy to report nobody is hurt, but I have doubts about the car. But surprisingly, I suspect the '78 T-Bird will be on the trip for many years to come.

Thanks to my son, Max for the videography and interview.

Trout Haven

2008-12-12T15:13:00.000-08:00

Fishing is one of those Summer activities especially popular in the Rocky Mountains, and is encouraged upon young boys by their fathers. I have to admit that there is something attractive about fishing, some sort of primal , hunter instinct that compels men and boys to capture, kill and eat wildlife, and being in the mountains only goes to bring out theses feelings. There is a primal and instinctual feeling about fishing which I displayed once driving in the car with Dad on our way to a fishing adventure. I was quite young and excited about going fishing and I was convinced that I would have good luck if when driving by the river along the way I could summon all the fish to be caught if I yelled out the window of our moving car, at the top of my lungs, "Pooparoodum Fish!" over and over again. This call had an American Indian quality and significance, and for years to come was the the symbolic phrase for fishing.

Dad gave me a fishing rod early on and I remember only using it on very few occasions. The first was somewhere on the trip when we needed to stop in some small remote town and do laundry. Of course the logical roles were taken in that mom did the laundry in the Laundromat while Dad and I went fishing at a nearby lake. As luck would have it there was a bait and tackle store right next to the Laundromat and a perfect fishing lake a few yards away. So off mom went to do her chores as all good women folk should do, while Dad and I attempted to provide game for the tribe. We needed a few necessities for the rod which included bait, hooks, sinkers and floats, which we proceeded to pick up, as well as a bit of advice from the man running the tackle shop. The bait we used was a jar of those pink salmon eggs which resembled red caviar, in fact it was so much like caviar that Dad suggested I could eat it. This was really not too unusual because I recall snacking on these fish eggs with David and Uncle Bob on a few other occasions and remarking on the similarity to caviar, in fact it tasted pretty good and Dad always commented that it was a suitable and cost-effective substitute for caviar if the need ever raised. So upon opening the jar of bait I had to sample a few of the eggs and enjoying the freshness of the new jar. As bait, I'm not too sure how effective the little fish eggs were, impaling a few on the hook simple popped them which resulted in the loose membrane hanging off the hook, which then came off in the water almost immediately. But the fish eggs seemed to be a popular and effective bait so I trusted Dad and the advice of the bait & tackle shop that this would attract fish to my hook.

We also had to tie the hooks, weights and floats onto the line which, even to this day is a frustrating and tedious task always resulting in a tangled mess which inevitably needs to be cut completely off with the scissors from the Swiss Army Knife and started completely over. But we finally get the hooks and everything straightened out and the long awaited moment arrived when you get to cast the line into the water where eager trout wait (with baited breath) to be pulled out. As expected the first couple of casts were awkward and result in potential snagging of oneself by the hook in the eye, but Dad and I quickly got the hang of it and we cast the line way out into the water. The first thing we noticed was that the float was way too small and didn't provide enough buoyancy to stay afloat, and simply sank in the water. This was a little disappointing because it only meant another delay to catching a fish, so Dad sent me back into the bait & tackle shop to upgrade the float to bigger one. The floats themselves were those red and white balls with a little button on top that pushed a hook fastener on either end to attach the line, so it was really easy to switch the float off the line, and I was able to exchange the float for the next bigger size.
I returned to the lake and we attached the new bigger float, only to find out that it too was not enough to keep the hook and weight afloat. So again I returned to the bait & tackle store for a bigger float. This time the upgrade to a bigger float required an additional cost, which meant I had to return to Dad at the lake and ask for more money. I didn't have a specific amount to tell Dad and this only annoyed him but he sent me back with some change to cover the amount, which I think it did, and I came back with the bigger float. Again, it wasn't big enough and while I was disappointed, Dad seemed amused and once again I was sent back to the bait & tackle shop for the next bigger float. This must have happened more than a few times, me going back and forth to exchange the floats and having to struggle with negotiating the extra cost between my dad and the bait & tackle man, because finally the shop guy had enough dealing with me and asked that I just bring the whole fishing rod and he could determine which combination of float and weight would be the best. So I convinced Dad to come with me and bring the rod with us, which revealed for one, the lead weight we were using was way too big, and in addition of changing the weight, we needed one of the big expensive floats. I began to wonder what the point of the other floats were if they didn't actually float, and they shouldn't be sold in the first place. But anyway, after some discussion with the bait & tackle guy we went back to the lake confident we had the proper fishing gear. Indeed, the float stayed on top of the water, but Dads opinion about the size of the float was that it was overwhelming and only scared the fish away. In any event, I stood there patiently and waited for a nibble... which never came.

This experience at the lake with the huge floater and the bait & tackle shop was a source of conversation for Dad to be repeated for years to come as a lesson about how not to fish, and how the guy at the bait & tackle shop was an idiot, but I never got an acceptable explanation about the proper way, only that the bait & tackle man was leading us astray. I now think it was a classic case of miscommunication. But, there is one was for a truly guaranteed way to catch a fish, and that was "Trout Haven". Trout Haven was a trout farm in the town of Estes Park and consisted of a big concrete tank in the ground filled with dozens of rainbow trout. No licence, pole or fishing experienced required. They would give you a bamboo stick with a line and baited hook on it, (the bait was a piece of cheese I remember and wondered if we should forgo the fish eggs and use cheese from now on), and all you would do was dip the hook into the water and less than a minute later a trout would take the hook and you would pull the line up to a guy waiting with a net to get the fish. The guy would then take out a little club and expertly whack the fish on the head to knock it out, The guy would then take it to a little table and sink in the back and clean it for you right before your eyes. Cleaning the fish was somewhat brutal and done without emotion as they cut the belly open and pulled the guts out. I remember the guy cleaning my fish found the still beating heart of the fish and showed it to me on the end of his finger, I asked if the fish was still alive and he assured me it wasn't. The guts were washed down the sink and I noticed that it just washed out into the tank where the other trout were and I had just fished. The trout became excited at the gut water dumping into the tank and there was a mini feeding frenzy going on. This was fishing for tourists at it's best and it took no longer 10 minutes from renting the pole to receiving a completely cleaned fish wrapped in newspaper, ready to be taken home and cooked. For us the logical next step was for me to give it to the Wind River Ranch chef with special instructions to have it ready for breakfast the next day. Not only was this one of the few times I was allowed in the Wind River Ranch kitchen and met the chef, it was also my firs experience with eating fried trout for breakfast, which for us became the normal way to have trout.

Trout Haven became a short-lived tradition however, we returned one of the following years to find out not only did Trout Haven have limited hours of operation, but there was a big ominous sign at the gate telling everyone the price for the experience was $25 per fish. Now realize at the time, given the rate of inflation for 1969, by today's standards this seemed to be about $100 per fish. Dad wasn't the only one outraged by the price because word quickly spread around the ranch about the exorbitant price charged at Trout Haven and could only be explained as an arrogant attempt to rip people off and disappoint children. Dad, as always, took it as a personal insult and was angry that another good thing that he enjoyed went away because of greed and apathy. I have to admit though that Dad did have a knack for making establishments he liked go out of business. Possibly it was because Dad was attracted to the quirky and unusual places, which tended to scare off normal folks, and despite the "good idea" and critical acclaim, they tended to struggle as a business. But as a rule it was a safe bet that if Dad liked the store or restaurant, it was doomed to failure. Needless to say it was obvious Trout Haven was in trouble and disappeared from the list of attractions and tourist activities in Estes Park.

But Trout Haven was a valuable experience, it gave me the confidence and experience to go out there and fish "for real" in a natural lake or stream. And on one occasion I finally got to experience some fishing success. Armed with the appropriate tackle, and now knowing that cheese is a far better bait for Rainbow Trout, I cast my line into the water and patiently waited for that tell-tale nibble on the line. At this point Dad had left me on my own devices to fend for myself, which is the way it should be. The whole point of fishing is two-fold, to go out with other guys to socialize, in this case I was out with Dad, Uncle Bob and David, and also to be left alone. So I was determined to do this all by myself. David was the first to catch a fish, which didn't surprise me since he was older and had more experience. This prompted Dad to encourage me further, to not let David and Uncle Bob get the only fish! I recall the wait wasn't very long and I finally felt the unmistakable tug on the line. It was different than the feeling of getting the line caught in the rocks or catching a stick, it was a vibrating tug with a definite "live" personality that only meant I had caught a fish. Dad and Uncle Bob coached me and I anxiously reeled it in, careful not to tug too hard or let it go. I remember seeing the fish right before I pulled it out of the water and was thrilled at the fact that this wasn't another false alarm, that I had actually caught one. I pulled the fish out and it wiggled furiously on the hook and I struggled to get hold of it as it was both wiggly and slippery. I got a handle on the fish, (it wasn't very big but enough to make a substantial breakfast) and with the help of Dad pulled the hook out of it's mouth. Getting the hook out was more difficult than expected and required force and injury to the fish, which at this point I was still trying to be both forceful and gentle. After I got the hook out I remembered from Trout Haven that you had to bash the trout on the head to knock him out, which I tried to do by holding it by the lower end and smashing it's head against a rock. This attempt was awkward and ineffective, only torturing the poor fish and causing Dad and Uncle Bob to laugh. With the help of Dad we got the fish under control and proceeded to clean it with my pocket knife, a process that was only a little gross and not as difficult as I thought. I made it a point to find the still beating heart and hold it at the end of my finger like the guy at Trout Haven and both David and I thought this was really neato. The next day at Wind River Ranch I proudly ate breakfast caught and provided by me.

The Girl - part 2.

2008-12-09T16:39:00.000-08:00

To the blog readers: You might want to scroll down and read "The Girl - part 1." first (Thursday Sept 11, 2008) to keep with the continuity of the story, Sorry to be confusing.

So, off we went the next day, just like any other day on the trip. We packed up the car as usual, filled the ice chests and prepared for the drive to the next destination. All that morning getting ready to leave I was trying to see if the girl I saw at the pool was still around, hoping to catch a passing glance or make one final attempt to get noticed by her before we all departed. However, it wasn't unusual for most families like them to leave the motel at the crack of dawn, way before any of us got up. As a rule we all tended to get going a little later than the normal human being, which might explain why it took us weeks longer than everyone else to drive to Colorado and back. So I was disappointed, but not surprised to find that the girl and her family had already left for the day.

I guess the drive that day was uneventful and I assume I thought about the girl more than once, but even I knew enough not to dwell on a fantasy and quickly forgot about the day before at the pool, dismissing the experience as "passing ships in the night". Besides, there are plenty of other girls out there, one is eventually going to notice me someday, I hoped. In fact, there were going to be other encounters that would be disappointing, or missed opportunities. Only in hindsight do I realize now how stupid I was, that there were golden opportunities for me to make friends, but for some reason or another I was reluctant or scared, or encouraged in the wrong way, or not encouraged at all. This was something that I learned much later in life which deprived me of a valuable element of childhood. Dad was able to show me the entire contiguous Western United States by car, but was unable to show me how to make friends.

At Wind River Ranch, every year brought a new group of guests and potentially new friends to make. Fortunately, David was part of the ranch experience and was my best friend during these times, David was also far more comfortable and adept at socializing than me and when other kids were present at the ranch, I was able to blend in, in the shadow of David. One year two brothers, about the ages of David and I were staying at the ranch. At first I was a little uncomfortable but quickly warmed up to the situation, and the four of us hung out together most of the time. But even then, in this group situation, age and maturity tends to separate friends and the older boys would sometimes become bored with the younger ones, resulting in slightly rude behavior, and valuable lessons about life. This however didn't phase me because us younger boys found ways to cope with being ignored, being cool in our own way, and after a short time we all forgot the difference and were all hanging out together again. This was how actual cowboys dealt with life, and this was how I dealt with it also. When the two brothers had to depart the ranch before us, David and I were both disappointed and sad for quite awhile, not knowing how to occupy our time for the remainder of the stay.

And every once in awhile, girls our own age would come to stay at Wind River, but unfortunately I was clueless about how to handle these situations. I always had a tendency to be attracted to the wrong girl, (maybe like the girl at the motel pool) but I tended to have tastes that were completely out of my league. Like the time this slightly older, very pretty girl with long, straight black hair, came to stay at Wind River. Even then I knew I had a snowballs chance in hell to make friends with her since she was older, more popular, flirting with the wranglers and ranch hands and probably didn't know I even existed. But regardless, I was attracted to her and I thought it would've been nice for her to at least say "hello" to me. At the same time, there was this other girl staying at the ranch, about my age, and not quite as attractive as the dark haired girl. This plainer, more appropriate and friendlier to me girl was forced on me as a companion, and in true stupid boy form, I was rude and rejected her friendship. This didn't seem to phase her though as she continued to hang out with me and we passed the time doing the usual ranch activities together. I like to think now that she grew up to be a gorgeous hot mama, while the other dark haired girl gained 80 pounds and has a 2 pack a day habit. God only knows.

But the most memorable, and biggest lost opportunity was the time the noisy European family with the little girl came to Wind River Ranch. The situation at the ranch required all the guests to interact with each other, eat meals in the common dining room, and do some of the ranch activities together, it was a golden opportunity to make friends. So, this large extended family, who I guess were foreign since they acted very different than us typical American guests, descended on the ranch the same time we were there. One of the men of the family wore what looked like a military coat with a medal, I wasn't sure at the time but I thought they were Russian, but in any case, they tended to be noisy at dinner, drinking and whooping it up more than the other guests, and being somewhat disruptive in general. My family tended to talk under their breath amongst themselves about how rude and noisy they were, and how inappropriate it was for them to be having such a good time. I think someone (one of the other guests) complained and they were told to keep it down, which only offended the Russian family and succeeded to separate us all even further.

But, to her credit, I think my mom liked this family, and wanted to make friends with them, even when one of the men, coming back to the cabin drunk, shined a flashlight in our room to see if anyone was home (mom was trying to get my baby sister to sleep) But mom succumbed to peer pressure and was compelled to reject them as everyone else did.

So, getting back to my point, there was this little girl in this family. Her mom was very pretty I remember and both her parents spoiled her rotten, so she tended to be unfriendly. But I think she was just shy and as uncomfortable as I was, or maybe there was a cultural difference that led to these misunderstandings. My mom was encouraging me to make friends with her, saying she was "cute", which she probably was but I didn't see it at the time, and I think attempts were made by mom to get us together. However, discouragement from our family coupled with the rift established between them and the rest of us guests made that very difficult to make friendly advances, and had mom been more confident we probably would've made friend and shown all the other uptight guests how totally un-Christian everyone was being. I myself had already made all my ranch plans with David and the rest of the cousins and really had no time or interest to pursue a friendship with the little girl. So during the stay this poor little girl had to do the cowboy activities by herself.

One day the little girls mom took her horseback riding in the corral. Already the wranglers were making fun of her and she was obviously uncomfortable around horses, and somehow during the ride the little girl fell off the horse and sprained her ankle. Now from what I heard from the wranglers, she was being a sissy (even for a girl) and made a big deal out of nothing. This only led to more ridicule and rejection from the ranch. From then on the little girl was carried piggy-back by her mom or dad everywhere they went. I have to admit that the girl was being a whiner. So for days afterward the little girl was carried everywhere and became insufferable and a source of morbid amusement to the rest of the guests. To every ones relief the Russian family left and the ranch was back to normal. But to this day it is a huge regret I didn't make friends with the little girl, because if I had, things would have been different, and she would have been running around the ranch instead of being carried.

Always hindsight is 20/20, and during these trips I had plenty of time to think about nothing, and only many years later do I reach a conclusion. But in the case with the girl I briefly saw at the motel pool, nothing could have been plainer.

We reached our next destination, probably another Holiday Inn or something similar, it was hot and I looked forward to jumping in the pool as usual, and as usual there was already a crowd of kids playing at the pool. I got to the pool and I couldn't believe it! There she was again, the girl from the day before! By sheer coincidence our families were traveling the same itinerary and staying at the same motel again. I can't remember if we were coming or going but I wonder if I thought she might be going to Wind River Ranch the same as we were. I was stunned. I remember she was wearing a different bathing suit this time, which made little difference about the way I felt about her, all I knew was that possibly, divine intervention brought us back together again, I was given another chance, somebody was trying to tell me something! So I did the most logical thing I could think of... Nothing.

Wind River Ranch

2008-12-08T14:44:00.000-08:00

I thought this might be a good time to talk about Wind River Ranch. Going to the dude ranch was the primary reason we took these trips in the first place and it became the Summer destination for my family for over 10 years.

Wind River was situated smack in the middle of the Rocky Mountains and for me it was about as "cowboy" as one could get, complete with log cabins, horses and wagons and plenty of forest, mountains and meadows to roam around in. The ranch was owned by an old couple, Mr. and Mrs. Hutchinson. Both of them were extremely nice and always made a point to treat us well, Mr. Hutchinson was an old cowboy type who made all the speeches at dinner while Mrs Hutchinson was one of those old lady cowgirls who wore a lot of big silver and turquoise Indian jewelry. The Hutchinsons kept the ranch running smoothly and more like a resort than a ranch, and nobody ever complained to them to my knowledge. When we arrived for the first time I had no idea what to expect (being only 4 years old and all) but I came to believe this is how all genuine cowboys lived and decided from that point on that I was to become a cowboy (Freddy) when I grew up. So, Wind River became the perfect training ground for the next few years.

Mom, Dad and I got our own log cabin, I remember that the first year we got the cabin furthest away at the very end, so we had to make a hike through spooky woods at night to get to the it. My aunt and Uncle and the cousins got their own cabins which was split up between the adults and kids which meant the kids got to hang out in private cabins, however I don't really remember spending much time in the cabins since there was so many other more interesting things to do. My grandmother, Gammy, got a room in the fancier area of the ranch, in the library or den section with a fireplace and with all the other old ladies who expected special service and were allowed to bring their little dogs to the ranch. Our cabin was very rustic and made of real logs, I remember it being comfortable and not any different from any of the motels we stayed in, other than it being made of logs. We even had maid service every day which was bonus perk for cowboys I thought, all-in-all the cowboy lifestyle seemed pretty cushy.

Which then brings up the meal situation, which was conducted in a big dining room at regular times with all the other guests. Three times a day the meals were announced by someone ringing a big swinging bell on a rope outside, a fancy version of the chuck wagon triangle bell telling everyone to "come an' get it!" All the guests were expected to arrive in a timely manner and be served by young college guys in white waiter outfits. The first year, we were served by a young man named Eric, who I thought was really cool because he was funny and could wiggle his ears, I also thought he was cool because he was also a lifeguard at the swimming pool (another cowboy benefit at the ranch) and he attempted to teach me to swim, which took me a few more years to eventually pick up. Eric was our regular waiter at meal times the first year at the ranch and I was disappointed when we returned the following year and he wasn't there. He did however come to visit one day and we found out he became a fire fighter, which made him even cooler.

The whole family, aunts, uncles, cousins and all sat at a big table together, with all the other guests at their own family tables. Every day the menu changed and the food seemed to be gourmet, or at least it was presented that way. Being a young kid I didn't know or care about the difference and was happy just to get spaghetti and meat balls or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but we were obliged to eat whatever was served us with very little choice other than salad dressing or beverage, which of course was dictated by the grown ups. The only special orders that were allowed was if you caught a fish at "Trout Haven", the kitchen would custom cook the fish for you, usually for breakfast. At first, a whole trout for breakfast seemed odd and out of place, not the usual breakfast fare, but I was convinced by everybody that this was normal, and even a preferred cowboy breakfast. Being explained to me in this way I enthusiastically accepted fried trout for breakfast and it became one of the expected traditions of the ranch.

Every year that we stayed at the ranch happened to fall on my birthday, so every year from the time I was 4 to about 10 I had a "cowboy" birthday. Mrs. Hutchinson during lunch would come out with a birthday cake adorned with sparklers and personally present it to me to blow out the candles. For birthday presents I always got a spiffy new cowboy outfit complete with guns and holsters, and later when I outgrew the cowboy persona, most of the presents tended to be touristy novelty gifts from Estes Park and the "Ripley's Believe It Or Not" magic store. I remember one year getting a magic trick finger guillotine that I amazed everyone with, or the "Magic Rocks" that when I brought home I decided to grow them in a drinking glass, which my 1 year old sister proceeded to drink, sending her to the hospital poison ward for a week. The other dangerous gift I got was something called "Itchy-Coo", a fierce itching powder when applied to the body gave a painful scratchy rendition of the sensation after you get your hair cut, only this stuff was mean and painful and couldn't be showered off or laundered out of the sheets and pillows. After my cousins and I played a trick or two on unsuspecting victims, getting the stuff all over ourselves in the process, the vicious Itchy-Coo was burned in the fireplace voluntarily.

Anyway, meal-time, especially dinner was a time for everyone at the ranch to meet and socialize, there was this den area before you got to the dining room with a fireplace couches and a grand piano, and lots of socializing went on there. One of the regular guests, Mrs. Bowie, could always be found on her favorite couch knitting a sweater by the fireplace. This den area was usually the first place to visit when we would arrive at the ranch and sign the guest book. There was usually a fire going, even in the middle of Summer since the climate high in the Rocky Mountains tended to be cooler. The den area always has a familiar smell and comfortable atmosphere. Every once in a while the ranch would hire a guitar player for the "young people" in the den area. The guitar player was a hippie looking guy and he didn't clip off the extra length of guitar strings, leaving a signature tangled mess at the end of his guitar. He played mostly the contemporary folksy favorites like "Leaving on a Jet Plane", "If you Could Read My Mind". (a girl favorite) and "Abraham, Martin and John". This was an attempt to relate and cater to the teenagers at the ranch who might've been bored with the cowboy activities. Also, for the benefit of young and old alike the ranch had BINGO twice a week in the dining room, where the guests could do some mild gambling. This was conducted by one of the more popular and outgoing waiters at the ranch, or by Mr. Hutchinson himself. I was allowed to participate at BINGO, but never won.

Another function of meal time was for the wrangler guy to come around and sign you up for the various horse rides during the week. There were different type horse rides you could take and this was one of the few a-la-carte features of the Ranch, which meant we needed to ask Gammy permission to take horse rides since she paid for them. This never seemed to be a problem though and everyone was encouraged to take at least one ride. There was the "breakfast ride", this was the most family friendly of rides and it included a hour ride to a regular location where the cowboys had a campfire going where they would cook eggs and sausage for the guests. The older, weather-beaten cowboy would drive ahead in a pickup truck and have everything ready for us city-folk, where we would sit on rocks and eat breakfast off paper plates under the majestic Rocky Mountains. Then there was the "lunch ride", which was similar to the breakfast ride except it was later in the day and we went to a different location, actually close to the ranch where other non-horse riding guests could join us for burgers after the ride. Then there was the "dinner ride" which I was never able to go on because I think it involved steak and beer, which probably made it not kid friendly and expensive. But there were other rides you could take that didn't involve food, but just horse riding and these were offered at numerous times during the stay. These included anything from just a ride around the corral, for the little kids or those terrified of horses, to all day rides into the national park for the heartier folk.

The wranglers in charge of the horses and rides tended to be young, studly and popular guys, although one year the wrangler was a girl, and I remember she kept giving me a horse I didn't get along with. This particular horse was very uncooperative and I was frustrated trying to control her. I would request another horse but this wrangler insisted I take this horse every ride, which tended to discourage me from horses. But on one of these rides the wrangler girl was determined I get used to this particular horse and tame it, I had eventually had enough of the damn horse and I got angry, wielding a riding crop I threatened the horse (without hitting it) and suddenly the horse respected me and cooperated. The wrangler girl was pleased and I was no longer reluctant to ride that horse anymore.

But usually the wranglers were macho guys and played up the alpha-male role, even my cousin, Gail, fell under their spell and dated one of them, even beyond the 10 day stay at the ranch. The wranglers were defiantly cool to hang around and it was cool for us to befriend the wranglers when we were not riding horses. Much of the time David and I hung out in the rec room, a large open space with a pool table, shuffleboard, a piano and soda pop machine. This is where all the cool guys would spend quality time doing guy stuff (even though girls were often involved) and the rec room was place to be a real cowboy. The rec room was also a very convenient place to send the kids right before dinner, which also happened to be "Happy Hour" for the grown ups. Happy hour took place in a mysterious building at the ranch where kids seldom went, and I recall it was the only building that had a TV. I also recall the wranglers cabin had a TV where David and I caught one of the wranglers watching "Adam-12" which to me seemed very un-cowboy-like. But the rec room was often used as a safe refuge for the kids while the adults disappeared for an hour or so before the dinner bell rang. Outside the rec room there were cowboy activities, like a Horse Shoe playing area, and this fake practice horse, which was a metal barrel welded on a big spring embedded in the ground. One could practice rodeo "bucking bronco" without getting on a real horse, kind of like a low-tech mechanical bull, and many hours were spent rocking back and forth on this horse. The wranglers seldom paid much attention to us kids hanging out in the rec room, often they were busy working and we were encouraged to not pester them too much, but all of the wranglers during the years had a positive impact in my cowboy upbringing.

One of the last functions the ranch offered, but was always be expected, and everyone was obliged to participate in, was square dancing. This took place on a Saturday evening, and to my knowledge the only official function in the rec room. This was defiantly my least favorite activity but I was forced to dance with all the different folk. This was also the one activity that involved the other neighboring ranches and people living in the area were invited to Wind River for the evening. The whole Ranch was there to square dance, even the wranglers, who dressed up in their finest "duds" and there was a lot of "cowboy" goings on. Every year there also seemed to be one little red haired girl in a light blue dress who attended, she was about my age and I always got paired with her. I was naturally shy and uncomfortable being with her and I now sense she was the same about me, and David made it a point to tease me about it. But I awkwardly endured this temporary date for the evening, and the beauty about square dancing is that you eventually get to dance with other partners and the relationship with the red haired girl quickly dissolved. Kids were also not expected participate too much and I was compelled to dance only a few dances, which always ended in the "Hokey Pokey" where everyone, young and old, got in a big circle and "shook it all about".

The last day at the ranch was always a sad day, which started with breakfast, and the dining room always seemed a little empty that day. It was somewhat stressful packing and Dad seemed to be at his worst behavior, being an unpleasant transition. Before we left the entire family would pose for a picture on the old fashioned wagon outside the dining room and Gammy would then be driven to the airport by one of the ranch-hands. Uncle Bob was always more efficient than Dad making the departure but stayed to see us off. We all said goodbye to each other, knowing, and hoping that we would return next year.

The Girl - part 1.

2008-09-11T17:02:00.000-07:00

I can't really think of any friends I've made on the trips, in fact I can safely say that I never met and maintained a relationship with any other kid I met along the way or at Wind River Ranch, there was no time for that, and the brief friendships I did make with other visitors at the ranch were brief and soon forgotten. I was never the most social individual and making friends was always awkward and difficult. Dad was never much help either being just as socially inept and uncomfortable as I was about strange people, so being friendly with passing ships in the night was never practiced on the trips.

A lot of the times we would spend time swimming at the motel pool with other kids and families, and like I think I mentioned before, my family and I never pursued and cultivated a friendship with any of the other people visiting the motels, it seemed pointless and the brief time spent at the motel never gave anybody a chance to get past the initial suspicion. In turn nobody ever approached us for friendship as well. This was probably a good thing too because I guess it was generally thought that it wasn't normal to be overly friendly, it was best to be polite and distant. On the few occasions someone did approach us for friendship, there was a desperate and dangerous quality about that person and we felt it necessary to passive-aggressively retreat. Like with the kid who called himself "Konk". The kid Konk was still young but a little older than me and I remember him wearing one of those yacht captain hats like the Skipper on Gilligans Island. He was very talkative and outgoing and insisted I play with him, making up games like tag or throwing rocks into the empty field. I was careful and sure to stay close to Mom and Dad while he was around. Dad was amused by Konk, and Konk explained his name: that when he was bad or wouldn't shut up, his dad would konk him on the head, I guess this happened so often that the nickname stuck. Well Konk hung out with us and was resistant about going back to his own parents (I wonder why?) and he kept the conversation going the entire time he was around, and getting a little bit annoying in the process. His parents, who I remember never emerged from their motel room, finally sensed he was starting to fray on my parents nerves and sternly called him back into the room, Konk sadly and reluctantly went back to his parents and we never saw him again.

That didn't mean I never wanted to make friends, actually the trips were often very lonely. Except for the few times I took a friend on the trip like Ted or Oliver, or the ten days spent at Wind River Ranch with David and the rest of the cousins, I generally spent most of the time by myself, swimming in to motel pools or daydreaming for hours in the car or on the occasional swingset at a motel. I would often wish I could make friends, or even just one friend would've been nice. Even better, would be if I was able to meet a girlfriend on the trip.

We stopped for the day at a motel, and I think it was a Holiday Inn, or one of the "premium" motels we occasionally stay at, and of course it had a good swimming pool with a slide and diving board. There were a bunch of other kids already at the pool and I shyly got up my courage to join the group and participate in the fun. There were a few separate families hanging out and everyone seemed to know each other and getting along in the games and sliding down the slide and it was difficult to distinguish the siblings and parents from one another. I just quietly tried to blend in. And... there she was... the cutest girl I've ever seen in the whole world, swimming and having fun with the rest of the kids. I tried not to stare or let on that I thought she was the prettiest girl I've ever seen, because obvious looking was rude and creepy, but I couldn't keep my eyes off her. She was about my age, was wearing a 2 piece bathing suit and had a thin silver necklace. She probably already knew herself she was pretty and was confident with the other kids, but not bitchy or mean to anyone. She liked to dive off the diving board, and I liked watching her, but she seldom went down the slide, probably thinking it was immature. I played it cool and pretended I didn't notice her as I confidently climbed the slide ladder and powerfully slid down the slide making an impressive splash in the pool. I would even sometimes go crazy and show off by going down the slide head first, indicating my superior experience, humor and fearlessness. As hard as I tried, I don't think I ever got her attention, or anyone elses attention for that matter. So as much as I wanted to go up to her and say something suave and alluring, something like, "hello" or something like that, I didn't dare, I was too afraid.

Everyone around the pool, including the girl, eventually got done with swimming and the pool activities and went back to their rooms to dry off, change and get ready for settling in for the night. I continued to lurk about making sure I wasn't too obvious, and actually relieved to have the pool to myself for awhile. The girl disappeared with her family for awhile, but I certainly didn't forget about her, I was acutely aware which room she was in, or in this case rooms, since her family seemed to be normal and didn't cram 2 adults and 3 kids in a single room to save money, so it looked like the girl and her brother(s) and sister(s) had a room to themselves, and I kept an eye out from a safe distance. But a little while later the girl came out again, this time not in a bathing suit but in shorts and a t-shirt, and this didn't make any difference in her beauty, she was still really cute and even more sophisticated. I dried myself off and again casually hung around pretending not to care about any of the other kids, especially the girl. The other kids played together like they all knew one another and pretty much ignored me, since I was giving off the "leave me alone, I'm too cool for you" vibe, which probably translated into just "unfriendly". But in reality what I really wanted was for one of them to notice me, especially the girl, but any of the kids making a friendly invitation would do. I tried to project positive energy while not making eye contact, but my reverse psychology wasn't working and nobody invited me to play.

It started to get late for kids, and dinner time forced all families together to disappear to a nearby Denny's or similar restaurant. I felt somewhat defeated, knowing I would never see her again, but at a loss as to what I would've done had I actually met and talked with the girl. Instead I sat on the swingset, alone, and daydreamed that she was sitting there with me.

Uncle Bob

2008-07-28T21:51:00.001-07:00

Like I mentioned before, the whole point of these trips every year was for an annual family reunion at Wind River Ranch just outside of Estes Park, at least that's how these trips started. A large contingent of my family on Dad's side would congregate for ten days at the dude ranch and we would all do cowboy and Rocky Mountain activities together. For me it was always a lot of fun and I always particularly looked forward to spending time hanging out with my cousin, David, who for the most part was my best friend. But the patriarch, and de facto leader of our extended family while staying at the ranch was Uncle Bob.

Even though Uncle Bob commanded respect, and compared to Dad was infinitely more "strict", I remember him actually being very nice and gentle, not scary or unreasonable about spoiling our fun like Dad would sometimes claim. Uncle Bob was the only person who could veto Dad's shenanigans without argument, effectively resolving a tedious situation. Us kids began to recognize that while my Dad's decisions could be way more fun, Uncle Bob's decisions to counter the fun were probably for a reason, and all of us kept our mouths shut about it. For instance: like when the miniature golf game was dragging on without any foreseeable end in sight because us younger players didn't have the skill or patience to time the ball correctly through the windmill obstacle, Uncle Bob had the authority to change the rules up a bit, allowing for a temporary stoppage of the windmill and making it easier for all of us. This rule breaking was not necessarily without it's advantages, narrowing the handicap between kids and adults and giving everybody a satisfying final score.

Uncle Bob had a rare and practical sense of humor, with results that would last for years to come. One early year at Wind River Ranch, it was decided that David and I were to get proper hair cuts, fitting to young cowboys. Uncle Bob claimed to have superior hair cutting ability for boys and owned the electric clippers to prove it. David and I sat on the porch of one of the cabins and Uncle Bob proceeded to shave both our heads clean and smooth as cue balls. This was done without the prior consent or knowledge of my Aunt or my Mom, and when we revealed ourselves, pretty much everyone was both amused and shocked, and a mildly embarrassed for us boys who had to parade this indignity to the entire ranch, the rest of the cousins were also probably having a good laugh at our expense, as well as Dad and Uncle Bob who probably conspired over beers to do this and mostly likely thought this was the funniest thing to happen at Wind River ranch in years. I wouldn't be surprised if Dad suggested Mohawks for both of us (mind you this was way before the time Mohawks were mainstream and common for anybody to sport, let alone kids) I suspect what really happened was that Uncle Bob fully intended to give us regular "butch" haircuts, but his skill level and expectations got away from him and one thing led to another, a little even-ing out here, a tad more off the top... and eventually he just said "the hell with it" and took the easy way out and shaved us clean... done. Lucky for me and David we were both in the same boat with our conspicuous new look, easing the self consciousness, and also, we were cowboys and were able hide our mean looking bald heads under our cowboy hats.

Speaking of cue balls, Uncle Bob was the person who taught me to play pool. For me he was the expert at pool, he owned a real pool table at his house (unlike the dinky 1/2 size Sears pool table we had) so I reckoned he had plenty of practice and I was always eager to take his pool playing advice. Wind River Ranch had this great rec room, complete with a piano, soda machine, shuffleboard, and of course a pool table. I distinctly remember Uncle Bob instructing me the proper way to hold the cue, aim the tip of the cue at the white ball and properly hit one of the color balls to sink it into a pocket. At the time I was too small for the table and I also had this annoying habit of purposely just missing the cue ball right before I attempted to strike it. After a few minutes of me awkwardly hitting balls around without any success, most everyone else would lose patience and forbid me to play, Uncle Bob on the other hand would get out the "Granny stick", that special cue with the bridge on the end for long, across the table shots, and let me have a chance to at least sink one ball into a pocket with it's assistance. This would eventually satisfy my pool playing curiosity and I would eventually get bored and let the adults and bigger kids play without my interference. Over the years when I finally got big enough to see over the table and maneuver the cue without the "granny stick" I remembered the tips and trick Uncle Bob showed me and David and instilled the foundation for my pool playing instincts.

But one day Uncle Bob showed his control during one of our family picnic hikes into the park. It was the first year we went to Wind River Ranch without David, who was involved in a Boy Scout Jamboree that Summer and couldn't make it to Estes Park. I was terribly disappointed and found myself at a loss most of the time, hanging out with the girl cousins or making feeble attempts at making friends with other guests at the ranch. In any event I ended up doing pretty much nothing, and out of desperation I even tried taking up embroidery which the girl cousins were into, and thinking back I'm glad to say I was completely bored with this sissy activity. So on this particular hike I amused myself by collecting bits of wildlife and nature, such as poisonous mushrooms, rare wildflowers, frogs and snakes (if I could catch them), and I took along an ice bucket with me to catch and keep all my live specimens. The whole family found a nice spot next to the rushing river with plenty of rocks to sit on and opportunity to watch nature in action. The river was rushing fast but not particularly dangerous and I only needed to be mildly aware of the risks to stay out of trouble.

Toward the end of the picnic activity I was busy collecting live specimens and needed to fill my bucket with fresh river water. I had to lean down on a sloping rock and dip the bucket into the river to get the water, not realizing that when I put the bucket into the river, the current grabbed hold of the bucket and pulled me off balance, and into the river. The current was strong and whirling and quickly swept me to the other side of the river bank where I was hopelessly separated from the rest of the family, all the time I kept a tight grip on the bucket. This was immediately noticed by everybody and they all urged me to stay on the other side until something was figured out, but I took it upon myself to walk downstream and look for a suitable place to cross back over.

Only a few yards down did I notice an old fallen tree spanning the river, the log was sturdy and adequately crossing the river, it also had old worn branch stubs sticking out the entire length of the log giving it the appearance of a spiky pole, which made it both easy to grab, but somewhat dangerous in that one slip could impale a leg or other tender parts of the body. But regardless of this I attempted to cross back using this natural bridge against the protest and desperate warnings of Dad and Uncle Bob urging me to not do so, and all the time holding the bucket.

As Dad and Uncle Bob looked on helplessly I slowly creeped across the log maneuvering carefully around the spiky branches so not to stab myself in the crotch or something. Uncle Bob I remember had an exasperated look and Dad was merely annoyed. I made it exactly halfway across when I inevitably slipped and fell back into the river. I fell on the upstream side of the log which made the current push me underneath the log as I hung on, still holding the bucket. Dad came rushing to save me first and awkwardly crossed the log and tried to pull me up. The current dragging me under the log only made it more difficult and frustrating for him and he then attempted to push me under the log and try to gram me up from the other side, but doing this only made Dad fall in the water himself which prompted Uncle Bob to come to the rescue.

It was obvious Uncle Bob had no intention of getting himself wet, and was more than ticked off at me and Dad for requiring him to risk his neck to save us, but Uncle Bob quickly managed to control the situation, allowing Dad to gain control of his own predicament. The first thing Uncle Bob did was to rip the damn bucket out of my hand and fling it as far away as possible, which then allowed both him and dad to pull me up and literally drag me to shore. Dad was complaining that it was all my fault he fell in the water and that Bob only complicated the situation, Uncle Bob kept his mouth shut and suggested I stay out of the water from now on.

My Aunt and Grandmother were severely pissed-off at me at this point and Gammy proceeded to yell uncontrollably for a few minutes about my lack of judgement and ability to ruin a otherwise good picnic. After I was yelled at my Aunt and cousins explained that Gammy was upset because she loved me and was worried I was going to get hurt, but I knew better and believed she was just mad, and it was going to be a long time before she got over it.

Later, after we got to the cars, Uncle Bob approached me and admitted with some humor that cousin Bobby had stupidly fallen into the rivers on a number of occasions and needed to be saved several times, that maybe what had happened to me was just a youthful and expected rite of passage. I got the sense that he wasn't as angry at me as he led my Aunt or Gammy to think.

Caves

2008-07-09T09:53:00.000-07:00

I don't remember if it was before or after we visited our first cave on the trip, but I recall the time Dad read me a story about, Jim White, who discovered Carlsbad Cavern. It was a book we found at the library and Dad read the story to me in chapters over a couple of weeks, I remember the book became due in the middle of reading it and we had to renew it, I was suspicious of this whole "renew" business and didn't understand the concept of borrowing books and I became concerned that the library wouldn't want us to keep the book beyond the time agreed upon on the little card stuck in the inside cover. But, we got to keep the book for another week and Dad read me the whole story about how Jim White found and explored the strange and forbidding cave that had bats flying out every night that made the all locals superstitious and fearful. I was fascinated by the story and the pictures of stalactites and stalagmites that adorned the cave, and I wanted to someday see this Carlsbad Cavern for myself.

The first cave we ever visited was with Mom and Dad on one of the early years on the trip, I don't remember the name of the cavern but I think I visited it again when I went on the trip with Dad in 2000 and shot the video, that would be Grand Canyon Cavern. But the first time I remember taking an elevator way down underground and emerging into a chamber that eventually led us through narrow passageways and a large cavern. The tour guide led the group on a maintained walkway and the trail was not difficult with only a few narrow passages. The cave was well lit and comfortable, however there were none of the stalagmites and stalactites I had heard of being in caves and had seen in pictures. I was looking forward to seeing these stalactites and 'mites, but in fact the cave was kind of plain and didn't really have any interesting rock formations. However, the thing that most interested me, and I remember most clearly was the dead bobcat. Apparently the bobcat had fallen down the cave and died about 100 years ago and was found mummified, this was one of the main attractions in the cave and was displayed behind a roped-off area next to the path for all the tourists to see. For me this was defiantly the most interesting item in the cave and during the rest of the tour, when I was getting bored, I wanted to go back and visit the dead bobcat again for a better look. Years later when I visited the Grand Canyon Cavern with Dad the tour took us by a dead bobcat, and this is what sparked my memory again about the first cave, realizing this was either the same cave, or every roadside cave attraction had to have a dead bobcat section included on the tour.

The tour continued and the ending event was to take us into a vast chamber and gather the group for a picture (to be sold later when we returned to the surface). But before they took the picture the tour guide demonstrated what it was like to be in total darkness by turning off the lights in the cave. Yes, it was very dark down there and I don't think anybody would be able to find their way around in that much darkness. And before they turned the lights back on there was a flash of the picture being taken, resulting in a photograph of a bunch of disoriented tourists nervously smiling in the depths of a cavern. We returned to the top the same way we came down and a few minutes later got to look at the picture of our group in the cave. They were selling prints for what Dad thought was an exorbitant price, and it really wasn't a good picture of us anyway, so of course we passed on buying the picture. We always passed on buying the picture.

Another cave we visited in later years was "The Ice Cave". This cave was a little less formal than the other cave and the infrastructure was more primitive. There was no elevator leading us down into the depths of the Earth, merely a door in the side of a mountain in the middle of the desert. We took a short hike on a trail through a volcanic field of lava rock, it was barren and hot and they included some mannequins of Indians posed in authentic situations along the trail. Apparently the Native Americans used the Ice Cave to store meat and other food like a refrigerator back before the white man came and took the cave over as a tourist attraction. We came to the door to the cave, which was nothing special, and the tour guide gave a little talk before we entered the cave, announcing that we needed to enter and exit the cave quickly as to not keep the door open to long and eventually thaw out the cave (like a refrigerator). So we entered the cave and it was indeed cold, especially in contrast to the outside which was about 100 degrees. The atmosphere was dark and wet and we didn't see much ice at first needing to walk through some terrain first. The cave itself was volcanic and the ice was leftover from ice-age glaciers and survived buried deep within the mountain, it was kind of ugly actually. When we got to the ice, there wasn't much there but it was amazing that it lasted this long. The ice was dirty and embedded in the walls of the cave and there remained evidence of the Indians digging out sections to store food. Again, the tour guide turned off the lights (this seems to be a theme with cave tours) but instead of taking a picture he brought out an ultra-violet light to illuminate the ice, which brought out bright, vibrant and psychedelic colors in the ice formations, this was my favorite part of the tour. The guide then went on to show us what the light does to his eyeglasses, giving them the same groovy colors as the ice, and apparently is a phenomenon particular to the Ice Cave. On the way back to the door leading outside, someone asked a question why there wasn't any icicles, the guide went on to explain, and indicating with his flashlight toward the ceiling of the cave, that there used to be one icicle but it fell off because of the constant opening and closing of the door, This made me think that the Ice Cave was melting.

Finally one year, I was able to visit Carlsbad Cavern. I was on the trip just myself and Dad and we had planned from the beginning to visit the cavern, I was excited and looking forward to connecting the actual cave with all the stories and pictures I read about over the years.

I realized that we weren't going to be able to see the bats flying out of the cave, being that it happens too late in the day and we needed to push on after seeing the cavern, but I had convinced myself that the gift shop was going to sell souvenirs of real stuffed bats or a real bat encased in plastic for a paperweight. In the past I had always collected souvenirs of real animal parts or preserved specimens, like the baby octopus in the jar of formaldehyde I got in Big Sur and kept for many years, or the various rabbit pelts, raccoon tails, I even had a coyote paw for some time. One item I always wanted but we never bought, (because of the price) was the mounted head of a Jackalope, which was a hare with antlers, a creature that adorned many touristy gift shops and was the subject of hundreds of postcards. For many years I was convinced these creatures were real, which Dad continued to encourage this belief (like Santa Clause) and he often would engage us by having us keep out eyes open for a jackalope on hikes. But days before we arrived at Carlsbad Cavern I would remind Dad that I especially wanted to get a "stuffed bat" and we were to set aside funds for this item. I now suspect Dad was only humoring me and was aware that no such item existed in the Cavern gift shop, and indeed there was nothing in the gift shop coming close to a stuffed bat, even the fake bats were hard to find.

Carlsbad Cavern was a National Park and the attraction was very big, highly organized and crowded with visitors. You could take a guided tour if you wanted (for an extra cost) or you could take a self-guided tour that wandered through the various sights in the cavern. We of course opted for the self-guided tour that allowed us to see things at our own pace and not have to deal with other people so much. You start at the top entrance where Jim White and earlier explorers entered the cave via a barrel and pulley, which has since been modified to allow tourists to easily hike down a trail of switchbacks, which eventually led to the main cavern rooms. This cave was more of what I imagined a cave to be like, with lots of stalactites and stalagmites, the cave was lit in various fashions to best display the different formations. The cave was huge and there was lots to see with park signs directing visitors to the various scenes and formations. One area Dad pointed out that I remember was "the bottomless pit", and he told of how when he visited the cavern years ago the tour guide tossed a rock down the pit and you couldn't hear it hit the bottom, suggesting that it was falling forever so deep that there was essentially no bottom to the pit. This time we were forbidden to throw anything down the pit to test this, given that people would probably throw anything down, rocks, garbage, children... and eventually fill the pit up with debris. We meandered through the cavern and although the space was enormous we still had to navigate through and around crowds of people. One of Dad's tricks was to find a guided tour and follow at a nonchalant earshot distance, getting the benefit of the tour without having to pay, and allowing us to abandon the tour when it got boring. We found a guided tour and pretended to not pay attention but followed at a safe distance for awhile, gaining valuable information along the way. This time there was no dead bobcat on display.

We saw about as much as our patience could take and decided to get a treat at the famous snack bar in the cave before taking the elevator back up. The snack bar was of course expensive and limited but we got a token beverage and made our way to the top where we were met by the visitor center and forced to exit through the gift shop. Again, I searched for the stuffed bat paperweight to no avail and left the gift shop empty-handed. Dad contemplated staying for the "bat show" but it would be many hours before it would happen, and then we found out that there was a chance the bats could give a disappointing showing, so Dad decided to not stay after all. We continued on our trip, the Carlsbad Cavern experience fulfilled.

Falling Stars

2008-06-27T19:01:00.000-07:00

One of the earliest memories I have of the trips happened the first year, with Dad, Mom and myself. We stopped at a motel in Cedar City, Utah and it was a warm clear Summers night. The motel I remember was very nice, all wood, inside and out, and was more of a cabin style motel that you could take walks around. The motel also had a swing set, and that was always a main attraction for me since I've always liked to get pushed on the swing and daydream. Dad mostly always was the person to push me on the swing and as far as I was concerned I could stay being pushed for hours. I'm sure Dad was glad when the time came that I was able to swing myself because if there was a swing set available I would insist to get a push for however long Dad was willing to put up with it.

This night in Cedar City, Dad and I took a walk around the motel grounds, it was dark and there was lots of insect sounds all around us, when we eventually made our way to the swing set, and I of course asked to be pushed on the swing. So like I said it was dark and Cedar City at the time was the middle of nowheres, so the stars in the sky were brilliant and bright, and Dad was showing me the stars. All of a sudden a shooting star went past, I had never seen one before and probably missed it all together, but Dad got very excited and tried to point it out to me during that fleeting moment. Dad began to explain to me about "falling stars", and all I could think of was the actual stars we were looking at falling from the sky, remember I was only about 4 years old and the concept of astronomy wasn't all that clear yet to me. So after a little while another falling star went by, (I'm sure this time I missed it) but Dad stopped the swing and pointed my whole body in the direction of the falling star, like I was going to somehow catch it moments after it had passed. By now the swinging was coming to an end and Dad and I sat on one of the 2 person swings and tried to catch a glimpse of another falling star. Many falling stars did come by and Dad would always perk up when he saw one, I always attempted to see it but never could quite get my reflexes to react and actually see one. Dad was calling this a "meteor shower", which seemed kind of funny since showers were always wet, and included sprays of liquid, not the occasional and elusive dot that I never saw. I however was being polite and every time Dad pointed out another falling star I would agree that I saw it too. At one point I thought I did see a falling star, it was about the size of a golf ball and it landed in the bushes right in front of us, and I noticed how slow and floaty these falling stars actually were, it also made a noise like a cricket.

Dad and I stayed out by the swing set for hours, looking up at the sky and the stars, talking about the universe.

The Big Thompson River Flood

2008-06-23T09:41:00.000-07:00

The most exciting storm by far was the great Estes Park flood in 1976. We followed what seemed to be the same storm all the way into Colorado and into our ultimate destination, Estes Park. The storms always became most severe in the afternoon and into the evening, clearing to blue skies in the morning leaving the impression that the bad weather was over, but it always returned in the afternoon and with the same ferocity as the night before. In Estes Park things seemed normal as it always has been and we went about the traditional routine of miniature golf, go carts and eating in the usual plain cuisine tourist restaurants.

Dad wanted to stay in a cabin down in the Big Thompson river canyon, The Chief, which had a Indian head for a sign logo and was a set of cabins we had stayed before the year I went on the trip with my friend Oliver. The cabins offered not much more than a bed and a place next to the river to fish and look at, but this year was an Olympic Games year and we had been following some of the events, participating in a McDonalds contest where we could win free food if the American athlete won a medal, so it was vitally important to keep track of the events. The cabins Dad planned to stay at had electricity and lights, and that was about it for technology. Mom just about had a fit and was refusing to stay in a desolate cabin with no TV while the rest of us went hiking and go carting. So my Dad graciously agreed to have us stay in a more modern motel a few miles up and much closer to town. Note: We checked into the Mountain 8 Inn for the first time that year, and Dad has stayed in that same motel consecutively ever since. Things were relatively happier now that we had visibly upgraded accommodations and television to pass the times of boredom.

That night it rained harder than I’ve ever seen it rain in Estes Park in my whole life. It was actually quite exciting and fun, and we watched the downpour from the balcony. Then a bolt of lightening hit the swimming pool, maybe 50 yards away from us. It was so close I can remember noticing that lightening looked solid, like a tree trunk, but blindingly bright. The immediate thunder practically knocked us on our butts, and even Dad was a bit taken back, we all went into the room and watched the rain from the window while the Olympics played on TV. It rained all night and Ted in the middle of the night got up, went to the window and started having a conversation, waking everybody up, and then he went back to sleep. We mentioned it to him the next day and he denies remembering any of it happening.

The next day was no different than what we had come to expect, the skies were blue and the sun was shining. Dad, Ted and I, had planned to hike Longs Peak that day and things seemed ideal to go out and spend time in the Rocky Mountains. We knew it rained a lot last night and it wasn’t surprising to expect there to be a bit of a mess in town the next day, evidence of flooding and water damage was not surprising and we generally ignored it as typical as we bought some supplies at the market and went into the park for our hike. Generally you are supposed to start very early in the morning to hike Longs Peak so you can make it up and back and beat the lightening that usually occurs in the afternoon (more people die from lightening on high peaks than from falling) But we didn’t intend to make it to the summit and the late start was irrelevant. We hiked up the trail through the forested part and got up above the timber line where there was a vast field of boulders leading to the peak. By this time the clouds began to roll in and the weather was looking gloomier, Dad thinking he was vastly familiar with the terrain decided to take a shortcut and bypassing the defined trail across the boulder field, which is fine if you can see ahead of you and where you want to go. But the clouds moved in fast and we found ourselves in dense fog. Quickly we became disoriented and concerned about which direction to move to, that and the fact that the danger of lightening was a real threat we agreed it was best to make our way back down. Even id someone moved a few feet ahead of you, you could lose sight of them through the fog, and without a defined trail we relied on dead reckoning to make our down. When we finally reached a trail we were still confused about which direction was back down, or leading up to the summit. We all agreed to a direction which happily turned out to be correct and we descended below the cloud cover and the fog gradually cleared so we could see far enough ahead of us to be confident again. But as we got below the cloud we entered into the rain, and the rest of the 4 mile decent to the trail parking lot was through constant and fairly heavy rain. Of course we were unprepared for rain and only wore our hiking clothes and a light jacket appropriate for typical summer weather, so the hike down was somewhat miserable, cold and very wet. Thankfully we were going down hill which at least made the hiking easier and let us think about other things to distract us from the cold rain. So silently and steadily we made our way down the mountain to the car.

By the time we got back to the motel we were freezing and even the hot shower had little effect on the chill for a long time, it was not a good hike. And when we returned, my mom was slightly panicked with the news about the town that we had ignored on our way to the mountain. Apparently it had rained something like 14 inches in 2 hours last night, the town was severely flooded and very damaged. The dam leading down the canyon with the cabin we were supposed to stay in had broken and severely flooded the canyon. We realized that we would've been staying in an area hit worst by the floods and mudslides,but changed at the last minute at my mom’s insistence. We found out that many people are dead and missing… no exaggeration. Across the highway from the motel we were watching National Guard helicopters landing for rescue missions, and later bringing bodies of victims to be transported to other locations. Mom was very upset and wanted to go home, but it looked like access out of Estes Park was limited for a day or two and we had to stay for a day or two.

All telephone communications were cut off and food and water was being rationed, It was all very exciting. We went across the way to a little restaurant, and Mom wanted to get something comforting from the bar, and we met this guy who was helping in the rescue efforts, he drove a blazer, (which we now call a SUV), but at that time only people with a reason to drive a blazer drove one. He was part of the CB radio organization in town and was helping with communication efforts as well. My mom got into a conversation with him and I guess he was generally a nice guy, kind of a tough truck driving macho man, and he offered to relay a message to our families, via CB radio down to Boulder, saying we were okay. Dad began to talk with him and was tempted to help out in the rescue efforts down in the canyon. The guy seemed a little reluctant taking Dad and explained that rescuers generally came equipped with their own rescue gear, like ropes, shovels and appropriate clothing, so this effectively discouraged Dad and he was forced to watch the excitement from the sidelines.

When we finally contacted Ted’s family a few days later, they were more confused by the message that got sent to them, knowing we were in a flood but not the extent of the disaster, but assuming we were okay. The call they received was vague and short of information and only concerned and panicked them further, but they were all relieved we were okay.

Cats

2008-06-22T19:23:00.000-07:00

We were in a town called Quincy, and we were getting ready to leave in the morning when this nice orange cat come up to us. I started playing with the cat and it was paying a lot of attention to us. Dad saw this and took a liking to the cat and named it "Quincy", after the town we were in. The cat didn't go away so Dad thought it would be a good idea if we took the cat with us. Now the cat probably belonged to someone and thinking back probably would've hated being in the car, but Dad really tried to convince Mom to let him take the cat, using me as an excuse since I fell in love with it. Mom pointed out we were in my Grandmothers car and that we had already made enough mess without having a live animal. Mom then treated Dad like a little kid who brought home a stray puppy, she simply said "no".

But this set the stage for future cat events, and we were to find out that Dad basically gets his way one way or another. A little history: My whole life I've known Dad I've never known him to ever hold a job. He must have made money somehow, or else how could we have spent entire Summers on the road living out of Motels and visiting roadside attractions? But Dad never, as long as I've been around, had a real job, except for the job at UCLA in the Neurological Research Lab taking care of the test animals. From what I have been told this is one of those labs where they would plug electrodes into animals brains to see what would happen, I'm always reminded of those anti-vivisection picture of the cat or the monkey with all the wires sticking out of their brains with their expression a mixture of pain and bewilderment. Well, my Dad worked in one of these scientific labs as a technician, taking care of the test animals, mostly cats. For many years afterward Dad still carried his UCLA identification card and often used it to get discounts, or impress people at cocktail parties, even though the expiration date was 1962. On more than one occasion when asked what he did for a living Dad would answer he was in "neurological research", even more than 30 years after the fact. Once when I was in school, I think the 3rd grade, we were asked to tell what our dad's did for a living, Everyone else had answers like; "president of a big oil company", "a doctor", "Center for the LA Lakers"... but when they got to me I was stumped, and the only thing I could think of was "scientist". I think this amused the teacher and she mentioned it to my Mom later, but I was truly at a loss at what my dad "did". From then on I was told that "...he is in investments.", and that became my answer for years to come.

But getting back to the story, Dad worked in this research lab where they basically tortured cats for scientific purposes, and I think that while Dad found this fascinating and necessary toward the progress of science, he might've felt some sense of wrong and truly felt sorry for the animals. I was told he was fired from that job for letting the cat out of their cages to experience a little freedom, Dad was upset and frustrated when telling how the doctors didn't like the way he treated the cats with compassion. Before leaving that job Dad was able to take one of the cats home and it lived at my grandparents house for many years, the cat's name was Psycho and he was never very friendly to me.

So Dad always had an affinity for stray or needed cats, especially on the trips and it became another tradition to find and take a kitten along in the car for the journey. The first cat I can recall getting was a gray Russian Blue cat we named Jerky. I forgot exactly where Jerky came from, probably a free kitten given away in front of a grocery store, but Dad picked up this cat somewhere and brought him along on the trip with us. The first thing we needed to take care of was the cat box situation, this was solved by lining a cardboard box bottom with a plastic garbage bag filled with kitty litter, and placing it on the floor of the back seat behind Dad, and opposite the ice chests. For the most part this worked well since cats pretty much know from the very beginning that the box is the place to go, and emptying the box of cat poo was fairly simple by just stopping by the side of the road and dumping the unwanted litter out and replacing it with clean Johnny Cat. However, after a while the smell did become a permanent passenger in the car and spillage was unavoidable, we all began to learn how much a person could get used to if having to live with it in a confined space over a long period of time. Adding to the mess and odor was the food and water situation for the cat, especially the water dish (an empty cat food can) that would always spill and mix with the dry food and stray kitty litter. Us kids learned to avoid that section of the car all together and ignored the chaos until it became too disgusting, or Dad ordered one of us to deal with it. Except for the occasional times where the cat would get underneath the brake or accelerator pedals, making it difficult for Dad to drive safely, the cat did quickly become accustomed with driving in the car and Jerky's habits conformed to ours in no time.

But, there was also the problem of having pets in the motels, which at the time most motels forbid any kind of pets, and for good reason. All of us then had to get used to the fact of hiding the cat from the management (as well as occasionally sneaking one of us in) and us kids became very stealthy at including the cat in our motel activities. On a few occasions the management did catch us with the cat and became angry, either threatening to kick us out or charge us additional for the potential mess. Dad would always somehow talk his way out of it or agree to keep the cat in the car overnight, but nobody ever liked it. Jerky did however become part of our family and when he was brought home Mom was initially not happy and reluctant to accept Jerky, in fact Jerky was to become one of the favorite cats of all time and even Mom became extremely fond of Jerky and he was one of the favorite cats. This was great, but also started a dangerous precedence, since now bringing the cat home from the trip was proved successful, Dad had to find a cat on every trip since.

Jerky was probably the only successful cat story I can recall on the trips. There were a few trip I didn't attend that my sisters went on and they relayed stories of getting a kitten, that after a few days was not able to withstand the heat and stress of traveling, and died in the car. I assume this was sad and traumatic for my sisters, and a great disappointment for Dad, but after a few days of mourning they would inevitably come across more free kittens and have another companion for the road.

The year Ted and the family was on the trip, Dad showed up again with a black kitten. Us kids were delighted but Mom was furious. The cat had diarrhea and immediately made a few messes either in the car of in the motel room, so we named him "Spot". Ted thought this name was appropriate and funny and even Mom had a chuckle, but Spot wasn't happy, or happy to be around. The car was already crowded and full of all kinds of different smells, and the cat only added to the stress and unhealthy factor to our group, and from then on Mom began to make plans. One day well into the trip, Dad took all of us kids on some event for a couple of hours and left mom with the cat in the motel room, when we returned Spot was mysteriously missing and Mom appeared both angry and unconcerned. Dad immediately had a fit and accused Mom of foul play, demanding an explanation, Mom only responded with cool and calculated denial. The rest of us kids suspected many things but mostly kept quiet.

Having a cat was always Dad's thing, an unexplained need for a mascot. Dad often recalls the time he was traveling in his '55 Thunderbird and picked up an alligator lizard somewhere down South. He kept the live alligator on the dashboard of the car as he drove along and I guess it kept him company or something. He then tells that he was racing to catch a ferry, and cut it so close that he actually jumped the ramp onto the ferry before it left. Well, this angered the ferry captain so much that he stuck his head into Dad's window and yelled obscenities into his face. This apparently got a reaction out of the alligator who reared up and hissed at the captain (like a cat) This so amused the ferry captain seeing this strange creature hiss at him that he forgot about being angry at Dad and let him pass through without trouble. So having a pet seems to be essential to Dad on the trips, and since we couldn't get alligator lizards anymore, cats were the next best thing.

Motels - part 4. Teepee's & Waterbeds

2008-06-21T13:25:00.000-07:00

So as long as I'm talking about motels I should probably mention some of the more memorable ones, memorable in a unique and often strange sort of way. It was not unlike Dad to every so often treat us to a novelty motel or maybe one with something extra to offer. At first the big treat was to get a room with a "Magic Fingers" vibrating bed. This was always an exciting treat, at least at first, but after a while the novelty wore off and it ceased to be a benefit anymore. Dad however always took advantage of the vibrating bed, especially after a long drive, I assumed it was comforting and relaxing to stagnant and sore muscles. I now think the intention for the "Magic Fingers" was probably something more "adult" in nature rather than for tired truckers and other travelers, but these were far more innocent times for us and the thought that the vibrating beds were somehow abused for carnal pleasure never occurred to us, it was just an extra perk much like the coffee machines in the room or free fly swatters.

There were also little minor details about some motels that make them stick out in my mind, like the pool with the peace sign painted on the bottom. Don't ask me why I remember this but it always remains in my memory, probably because we had an especially fun squirt gun fight in that pool. Dad would get us a set of squirt guns to horse around with in the pools and this was especially fun on hot days and worked well to blow off pent-up steam from being in the car for hours. The ongoing goal was to find quality squirt guns that shot long and powerful streams. Dad had found for himself this strange little squirt gun toy device that was a little red plastic barrel with a periscope type squirter coming from the top. Not only did it have a hefty squirt that could give a slight sting if shot directly in the eye, but it had the most water holding capacity which gave Dad the advantage while the rest of us were reloading. The water gun fights could get rambunctious but never lasted very long and resulted in serious injury. Another game I remember playing in the peace sign pool was where Dad would throw a nickle in the deep end when we weren't looking and we were challenged to dive in and find it. This was a more mature game and went far to strengthen my swimming skills and breath holding ability. Having the painted peace sign bottom of the pool just made the task more challenging and fun.

Speaking of water, one particular motel that was an unusual and a once in a lifetime experience was when Dad treated us to the water bed motel. Now, this wasn't a sleazy dump in a bad part of town, it was a regular looking motel, like an Imperial 400 or Best Western, but instead they had water beds in the rooms. This actually wasn't too unusual, remember this was the '70's and water beds were all the rage, but if you couldn't afford one, or just wanted to try it out, you could find them at these water bed motels and test drive one. At first we got a single room like we usually do, and someone had to volunteer to sleep on the floor, usually this was Dad. But we got to the room (without sneaking someone in) and it was a lot nicer than usual but had only one big water bed. Dad and Mom had a private discussion and they decided to get another adjoining room for themselves, and my sister and I would have this room for ourselves. This was out of the ordinary but we didn't have a problem with it thinking that there just wasn't enough water bed to go around for everybody. So they got the other room and he and Mom immediately went to "take a nap" and gave strict instructions for us to not disturb them and stay in the room. Now, this was also unusual and my sister and I were too young and naive to catch the drift, but again we didn't have a problem with it and were excited to spend a few hours playing on the water bed and watch color TV. The jumping on the water bed turned out to be not as fun as you would think and both my sister and I quickly got bored. The TV watching was also not very compelling and we were limited to watching nature shows or "Wide Wide World of Sports", so the TV became more peripheral noise than entertainment and I was motivated to find other means of keeping busy. I decided to snoop through some of Mom and Dad's things and I came across Dad's collection of vitamins. Dad was always big into vitamins and has a separate supplement for every vitamin and mineral A to Z. So I went and took one or two from each container (there were quite a few) and made a game out of the little pills. I was especially fascinated with the clear amber capsules for vitamin E and the smelly fish oil or garlic capsules. I wanted to know what was inside them so I got a fork and poked a hole in one of them, making an oily mess and leaving me with a deflated gel pill. I didn't stop there and went on experimenting by getting a bathroom drinking glass and mixing the vitamins all together by mashing them up and using the liquid from the gel capsules as a binder. This process took me more than a few minutes and resulted in a pasty goo that smelled like vitamin E, garlic and alfalfa. I actually took a taste of the concoction, and fortunately it was disgusting otherwise I might've thought it was healthy and consumed the whole thing. I decided then that I better clean up and dispose of the evidence less Dad find out I stole his vitamins for fun and games. I cleaned up as best I could but did leave tell-tale signs of what I was up to. When Mom and Dad returned they weren't in the best of moods for some reason, Dad was only mildly annoyed that I was into his vitamins but to my surprise mostly ignored my mischief. Both Mom and Dad were more quiet than usual and there was tension in the atmosphere for the rest of the evening. That night, for me and my sister, sleeping on the water bed proved to be more anti climatic than anything and I recall having a restless night. The next morning we checked out as usual and continued on our way, the curiosity about water beds had been fulfilled.

One of the more novel motels we stayed at was the "Teepee" or sometimes called "Wigwam" motel. Apart from their appearance and kitchy architecture, there wasn't anything particularly unusual about them and they were actually quite nice and comfortable. The outside of course looked like a stucco teepee with a TV antenna sticking out of the top, but the inside was round and wood paneled with all the modern conveniences like a bathroom and TV. The neighborhood this Motel was in wasn't much to speak of, catering to truckers and travelers, but it was pleasant in it's ordinary-ness. For some reason the thing I remember most about the Teepee motel was getting a late start leaving in the morning and I was allowed to watch Saturday morning cartoons like Scooby Doo and The Groovy Goulies. And even though the Teepee motel was slightly more expensive that a regular Motel, (paying for the historic privilege I guess) Dad found the extra cost worth it and made it a point to return to the Teepee motel when ever we were in the area.

Motels - part 3. Dumps

2008-06-20T11:38:00.000-07:00

Most of the time the motels we stayed at were fairly nice, at worst just ordinary, but nothing too frightening or dangerous. However, there were a few instances and experiences worth noting and were the cause for many memorable nights, some truly a cause for concern, and a few that were only manufactured by our attitude, imagination or bad moods, which in hindsight make the experience not as miserable as we thought.

At the forefront of dumpy places to stay is the Astoria Hotel, in Astoria, Oregon. This hotel became the litmus test to compare every dank and dreary hotel and motel we were to ever stay at and has been the cause for tense conversation ever since. Not only was the hotel itself old, dark and cold, but the weather in this coastal Oregon town was gray, bleak and wet. It is ironic however that I now live in this area of the country and have come to like and accept this weather, as well as come to love the town of Astoria. But at this time we came into town and Dad insisted on staying at this old and historic hotel thinking it would be a good experience, like in the old days before there were motels like we were used to, Mom and I just thought Dad was being cheap. The major flaw in this hotel that was the main gripe was it didn't have bathrooms in the room, but communal bathrooms down the hall. I guess this is the way it was normally like back in the day, and Mom and I failed to see the unique fun in this and Mom complained bitterly about this inconvenience. I didn't really like it myself but accepted this and let Mom do all the complaining. Dad only got annoyed and thought it was unreasonable to complain stating that this is what it was like in every hotel, even the fancy expensive ones, only a few years ago and Mom and I needed to suck it up and enjoy it. The hotel like I said was old and a bit musty, the carpets were hard and thread-bare and the color scheme for the entire hotel was a muted gray with splashes of faded color in the carpets and wall paper. It also had an old elevator that had one of those metal gates that needed to be manually closed before the elevator would work. The elevator was small, slow and creaky and it made me a tiny bit nervous, but Dad pointed out that it was an Otis elevator, and if I haven't mentioned it before, Dad is proudly descended from Elisha Otis - the guy responsible for the elevator and it's namesake, and the reason Dad is named Otis. So Dad never failed to mention whenever we were riding in an Otis elevator and demanded respect for the privilege. But this particular elevator seemed to be an original vintage Otis complete with Victorian era technology, and it failed to impress me or Mom. The other inconvenience was that the hotel had a lobby and desk clerk, which meant that the anonymous status we usually enjoyed didn't exist at this hotel, and we were under the constant scrutiny of the manager, which for some reason made me and Mom uncomfortable. Dad suggested that we do what everyone did in the old days and hang out in the lobby and read magazines on the old couches among the elderly tenants, this was received coolly by me and Mom and promptly ignored.

Mom was in a bad mood the entire stay, which put everyone in a bad mood. Dad vainly tried to smooth things over by justifying the historic value of the hotel and that we were being spoiled and ungrateful, (which now I see his point) and we probably needlessly turned it into a bad situation. The next morning there seemed to be a rush to get out and Dad was visibly irritated and disappointed by our lack of enthusiasm. From that time on Dad still tries to expound on the virtues of the Astoria Hotel, and other hotels like it, and becomes slightly belligerent and sarcastic when mentioning it, expressing pity about our lack of open mindedness.

But that is not to say that we didn't have genuine bad experiences in motels, sometimes unknowingly checking into a shady establishment frequented by unsavory truckers, criminals and prostitutes. Usually you could spot one of these motels a mile away, but sometimes we either didn't see the usual signs, or didn't have much of a choice. At one motel I remember that it superficially liked okay, but on further examination realized that it was converted from a hospital, possibly a mental hospital, noticing oblique details like curtain rods around the beds and strange plug outlets that accommodated sadistic instruments. Then there was the time there was a faint but unpleasant odor in the room, which was discovered to a decomposing animal head under the bed, only to be found the next morning during one of Dad's "idiot checks" Even Dad was disturbed by this discovery. And every so often, and without any explanation we would check into a motel and get a distinct suspicious and unwelcome feeling, encountering unfriendly and often mean managers that seemed they would've rather that we didn't check in. Maybe they sensed Dad being "different", or they didn't like kids, but whatever the case we learned to avoid and keep quiet in these situations, knowing it would soon be over and the next motel would certainly be better. Fortunately these cases were the exception and not the rule.

This is also not to say that we didn't have bad experiences at good motels. Even Holiday Inn's had the potential of unpleasant danger. At one of the traditional stops during the trip, that being San Diego, California, Dad would make special concessions and stay at premium motels in order to celebrate the start of the trip of set the tone. At this time we checked into a "round" Holiday Inn, which was a building with cylindrical architecture resembling the Leaning Tower of Pisa (without the leaning) There were a few of these type of round Holiday Inns around California and we happened to have one of these in our own neighborhood back home in Los Angeles. Dad would sometimes take us kids and stay the night in this Holiday Inn, literally 2 miles from our house, just for kicks and a chance to pretend we were on the trip during the regular time of the year. So in San Diego Dad was enthusiastic to stay in this Holiday Inn since it fulfilled a tradition. Well, during this stay, and sometime during the late night, someone knocked loudly on the door to the room next to ours, demanding to be let in. Fortunately the doors had peep holes and Mom and Dad were able to witness what was about to go on. It seemed that a large angry man had left a gun under the mattress in the room next door and was desperate to be let in to retrieve it, at 3:00 in the morning. The more the person in the room hesitated and argued against it, the more angry and unreasonable the guy with the lost gun got. After about 10 minutes, probably when the guy realized someone might've called the police, he took off abruptly. Needless to say this concerned Dad and Mom and we checked out of that Holiday Inn and checked into a far safer Motel 6 in "Motel Village" just outside San Diego and with convenient access to the zoo and other family attractions. The round Holiday Inns never seemed the same after that.

Longs Peak

2008-06-17T17:37:00.000-07:00

The showpiece of Rocky Mountain National Park, and the ultimate challenge for hikers and climbers is Longs Peak, which claims a formidable 14,259 feet above sea level and gives Estes Park, and much of Colorado a magnificent natural monument. Wind River Ranch, where we stayed, lay in it's shadows and everyone gazed and talked about it as if it were a pagan god or some forbidden region to be respected, in fact it was an awesome and dangerous mountain with many would-be climbers meeting their fate attempting the summit, I can remember on more than one occasion where someone had fallen to their death, or someone needed to be rescued from the sheer cliff that was called "The Diamond". I however spent most of my time looking at the peak from a safe distance miles away.

There was more than one way to reach the summit and far less dangerous routes than scaling the cliff of the Diamond with ropes and sheer guts. Dad, Uncle Bob and some of the more experienced guests would make the annual attempt to reach the top of Longs Peak the easy way, there was a long trail of switchbacks leading to a field of boulders (coincidentally called "the Boulder Field") and to the base of the peak to a less treacherous cliff where there was a series of cables laid out to assist less experienced climbers to the summit. There was also a longer but strenuous trail along the back of the peak that you would reach through a pass called "The Keyhole", and while this was slightly safer, it took hours longer to reach the top. Reaching the top required leaving early in the morning and returning later in the evening exhausted and satisfied, but more often than not they would return without reaching the top claiming altitude sickness or bad weather, or just being plain tired. One of the regular guests that would lead Dad and Uncle Bob on these treks was a well respected doctor who had years of experience with Longs Peak, Dad would often talk about him and his hiking experiences with the doctor and Dad gleaned much of his Longs Peak expertise from him. With the doctors' leadership Dad was able to reach the summit of Longs Peak on a couple of occasions taking both the cables and the keyhole route. On one of these hikes, my cousin David and I stayed behind and became concerned when our dads didn't return after a couple of hours, not realizing it would take all day to complete the trip. We got a pair of binoculars and tried to find our dads on the cliff worried they were stuck, or we just wanted confirmation they were okay and tried to see them from the ranch. However we didn't see anybody on the mountain. Dad and Uncle Bob returned from reaching the summit one time a little disappointed and confused, they made the very strenuous and dangerous climb to the top, only to find that there was a bunch of people already there, no different than any other hike in the Park, there were old people who didn't seem fit enough to make the climb as well as young kids. Dad and Uncle Bob couldn't figure what they were doing wrong to feel so challenged and exhausted by the climb only to find mere tourists had easily accomplished the hike ahead of them. Later they surmised that most of them took more than one day to make the top and that they would camp overnight along the way. Both Dad and Uncle Bob deemed this as cheating.

It would be a few years before I was allowed to attempt Longs Peak, and I had to succeed at a number of other mountains before I was considered worthy to be allowed to try Longs. One of these mountains was Twin Sisters, a mountain directly behind Wind River Ranch, a simple 11,428 feet above sea level. Twin Sisters is actually 4 peaks, and as a kid I never understood why they called it twins when it was 4, it should've been quadruplet sisters. But on a later trip when I was older, during a casual conversation with Dad, he explained the meaning of "twin sisters" to my innocent and naive sensibilities: if you view the peaks from a certain vantage point the peaks resemble a set of two women's breasts... Oh... yeah, now I see it. It was like the explanation of "Teton" during our trip to Mt. Rushmore, and just as embarrassing. But from that time on that's what I see when I view Twin Sisters. But again, I digress. So the year I went on the trip with Dad by myself and shared a cabin with David was the year we all attempted Longs Peak, me, Dad, Uncle Bob and all my cousins. The hike started out as usual, long, boring and very uphill. Dad and Uncle Bob knew of a shortcut that the rangers take when they need to hike the mountain, that would be to cut through the switchbacks and follow the telephone poles up to the boulder field. While the shortcut did shorten the distance, the terrain was far more rough and the incline noticeably steeper, the hike was fast becoming unpleasant. I was the youngest in the group but not the biggest complainer, (although I did my share of complaining). Most of the harsh words came from the girl cousins, Gail and Sarane, who didn't plan on such an involved hike and wanted to get back to the comfortable cabin life. However we all had an goal and Uncle Bob pressed us on. We got to the Boulder Field, which was exactly like we expected, a vast field of boulders. For me and my size, navigating the boulders was more difficult and time consuming than for the rest, but having David and my Dad along made it worthwhile and I continued on trying to make the next milestone; the cables. Dad told me that once we reached the cable it would be an easy jaunt to the top, but we had to get to the cables first, and that was proving to be more difficult than expected for everyone. The boulder field was the remnant of an ancient glacial flow and left behind a huge pile of strewn rocks, at that altitude there was nothing green or living except for lichen and the occasional marmot, a large beaver-looking squirrel that would emit a loud squeak and disappear before you could get close to it. So some of us kids were distracted by the marmots and this prolonged us getting to the cable route. Dad encouraged me to make a hard push toward the cables and when we arrived everyone else had already been there for some time waiting for us. My cousin Gail was a teenager and preoccupied with getting back to a date she had made with one of the wranglers later that evening, This annoyed Dad immensely and he complained under his breath that our very important objective of reaching the top was being undermined by Gails love life. Uncle Bob was also not very enthusiastic about making the last leg to the top and despite Dad's arguing that it was only a few hundred yards to the top, Dad got voted down and everyone decided this was more than far enough to consider it a successful climb. I was only slightly disappointed but very tired and I knew that the distance I came up, was the same distance I needed to come down, Dad tried to convince me that I basically made it to the top, that we were only minutes away and that I could consider it "the top" if I wanted, but I always knew better, that this wasn't the summit and that I didn't really make it to the top - this time.

It wasn't until I was 15 and was in Estes Park with my Dad one Summer, we had decided before we got to Estes Park that we were going to make it to the top of Longs Peak this time, although Dad was always concerned about "acclimation" and warned me about the altitude and it's effects, I was determined to reach the summit, and I think Dad was also. Dad prepared me with buying me a pair of expensive hiking boots, just like the ones he got when he hiked Longs Peak the first time. Dad considered it was time to buy proper boots since my feet had seemed to stop growing and the investment wouldn't be wasted when I outgrew them. We made a few preparatory hikes and then one day started out early to make it to the top. At the ranger station at the base of the trail we found out that the cables had been removed and it was considered no longer a novice trail, that if we wanted to reach the summit we would have to take the Keyhole route. Dad went to the car and brought along a pair of cleats that you strap on to your boots for gripping ice, for some reason he thought they would be useful. Concerned about not being able to use the cable route we started off to the top. Now, the reason you need to start early is to beat the weather, I found out much later that more people die on Longs Peak from lightning than from falling, especially up at the boulder field above the timber line. This was something we were unaware of at the time, but we pressed on. We also could no longer cut off the switchbacks and take the shortcut through the trail like we did before, they were trying to re-grow where the telephone poles used to be and forbid hiking off the trail, fortunately my age, size and strength had matured and hiking the trail wasn't as strenuous as the last time, also the boulders in the Boulder Field had become smaller to me making them easier to manage. I was full of energy and in no time we reached the base of the mountain where the old cable route used to be.

Dad and I were watching some climbers descending the old cable route with ropes. As we sat there watching them Dad and I thought that it really didn't look all that difficult to climb up without the cables. Part of the reason the cables were there in the first place was to be able to cross a patch of glacier, which wasn't there anymore. So with a little discussion, Dad and I convinced ourselves we could climb up to the top and avoid the lengthy Keyhole route. And up we went. Silently we passed the climbers on their way down and they didn't discourage us from attempting this way up, so we thought it must have been okay to climb up. A little ways up one of us loosened some rocks and they came tumbling down toward the climbers, we yelled out a warning and the climbers seemed to overreact, panic and dive for cover. We could tell they were not pleased with us and I could guess they were cursing us under their breath. Dad thought this was a silly reaction and they looked funny running for cover like that, I started to get a little concerned and doubted our decision make it to the top this way, but continued to climb up. Along the way climbing the cliff, every so often, we would come across metal eyelets embedded in the rock, these were originally used to attache the old cables to the side of the cliff, and now climbers, like the ones we just kicked rocks on, would use them for climbing with ropes, so we used these eyelets as guides to the top. We didn't get far, but far enough so we couldn't get back when we realized we might have made a mistake by taking this route, the rock climb was quickly becoming more and more difficult and dangerous and it got to the point where we were unable to climb down without slipping and falling. Falling at this point also would've meant certain death down off of The Diamond, we were between a rock and a hard place and essentially we were trapped realizing climbing the cliff looked easier than it actually was. We considered calling out to the climbers for help, who were far in the distance, but we were too embarrassed now, considering how stupid we must have looked to them dropping rocks on their heads. So we both hung on there for a few moments and tried to decide how to get out of this predicament, it was a go up or stay situation and staying wasn't an option, (and it seemed going up wasn't much of an option either), so we guessed we just had to go up. Dad realized that he had those strap-on cleats for his boots, which seemed useless right now, but he took them out and told me to tie one of the straps to one of the eyelets just barely in reach above us. I was able to reach that high but Dad had difficulty stretching that far, so I tied the strap around the eyelet, and hoping my knot held, pulled myself up to a better position. Hanging on to the eyelet strap and to Dad, I awkwardly pulled him up to a better position and we both inched ourselves up to a safer point on the cliff. The worst part seemed over and it looked a little bit easier from that point on, but we really couldn't tell, but we did know one thing for sure, we couldn't go back down the same direction less we risked falling to our deaths, so Dad and I nervously continued up the old cable route, sans cables. Thankfully the rest of the climb was not as treacherous and became easier, but I also noticed that it was considerably longer to the top than I expected, not the few minutes and couple of hundred yards dad indicated to me the last time we attempted Longs, but the worst was over and gradually the incline became less steep, until finally, we reached the summit.

This was truly a momentous occasion, not only had I finally reached the top of Longs Peak, but I didn't die in the process. I too noticed the amount of people at the top, obviously they took a different way up, but I was a bit surprised at how many people there was at this remote and difficult place on the Earth. The summit really wasn't what I expected and from the base, the peak looks pointed with not much area at all, but in fact it was flat and rocky and covered a few acres and resembled the landscape of Mars in those NASA pictures. Dad and I didn't say much about what we just went through, but we did silently say a prayer and promised never to do anything like that again. And since we did work very hard getting up to the top we made the most of it and spent as much time exploring the summit before we made our way down. There was no question about it, we were taking the long and difficult Keyhole route back down and fortunately it was downhill. There wasn't really a trail and you had to scramble and climb over rocky terrain, following painted bulls eyes on the rocks marking the way to the Keyhole pass, and back to the Boulder Field. It was easier going on the way back but we were tired and clumsy, and to make matters worse the threat of lightening loomed before us. At the Keyhole there was built out of rock a shelter to stay in case of lightning, we took a quick look but was eager about getting back and clueless about the threat of lightening. On the way through the Boulder Field we could hear thunder in the distance, and felt slightly vulnerable, but chose not to think about it and continued down. Once at the treeline the trail re-appeared and the hiking got easier, I tended to hike faster than Dad, (which he always mentioned and warned me about overdoing it), so I put myself on auto-pilot and went straight down to the parking lot without hardly stopping to rest. About a half-hour later Dad appeared and we got back in the car and went back to town, successfully conquering Longs Peak.

To celebrate we had dinner at Pizza Hut, this was before I became a regular beer drinker so I rested on my laurels with a pitcher of Dr. Pepper and half a large pizza. I proudly told the waitress we just finished climbing Longs Peak, but she didn't seem impressed.

Freddy The Cowboy

2008-06-16T22:33:00.000-07:00

As I told you before, we all went to Colorado and spent 10 days at a dude ranch, Wind River Ranch, high in the Rocky Mountains. Now what this meant for me was that I needed to be a rootin-tootin cowboy, and in order to play the part correctly I needed a proper cowboy persona complete with cowboy boots, leather vest, bandanna scarf, matching cowboy hat, and of course a holster and pistol. My weapon of choice was a fancy six-shooter with a authentic looking wooden handle, the bullets were actually those red paper rolls of caps that needed to be threaded into the gun and aligned with the hammer, and when fired correctly gave a satisfying bang! and followed by the distinct smell of gunpowder. To make my alter-ego complete, I somehow decided that Sean wasn't an acceptable cowboy name, (whoever heard of a real cowboy named Sean), they all had names like Billy, Butch, or Sundance, not a very un-cowboy name like Sean. So I thought a better name for myself would be Freddy. I actually remember where I got the name, it was from one of the older kids in my neighborhood named Freddy, who would ride a skateboard or his bike dangerously, I thought he was cool and so I thought it would make an intimidating cowboy name for myself. So from then on at the ranch I insisted on being called Freddy. Another one of Freddy's cowboy powers I deemed upon myself was that I had poison teeth. I guess Freddy's symbolic cowboy animal identity was the rattlesnake (an appropriate creature to emulate I thought) and if I were to be truly powerful and respected by all the grown-ups, poison teeth certainly should be able to fight of any vicious bad guy or Indian. So there I was at Wind River Ranch living by the code of the West and having all the cowboy accoutrement's at my disposal.

The ranch was situated on many acres of forest and meadow and had a few acres of horse corrals and places to ride and play. Surrounding parts the ranch and the cabins were many areas of tall grass and weeds which were great fun for us kids to play and hide in, my cousin David and I would spend a great part of the day playing cowboys and Indians, or more likely since we were both cowboys we played cowboys and cowboys, but the tall grass provided many opportunities for various games. Since I was only about 4 years old at the time the grass and weeds was a good foot taller than I was and it was easy for me to get lost and disoriented, but I quickly learned to navigate the weeds and became comfortable with it's tendency to swallow me up. One time my Mom and Dad were out looking for me among the many acres of woods, cabins and tall grass, they searched the ranch calling my name (Sean) but I wouldn't answer and preferred to stay hidden in the tall grass. My parents started to get a little concerned and frantic since there was a distinct possibility that I could've wandered off and gotten lost in the woods, and a real possibility of being attacked by the numerous wild animals reported around the ranch. My Aunt and Uncle and a few of the other guests assisted in the search and I vaguely remember being aware of this but still remained hidden in the tall grass. Another guest at the ranch who was familiar and amused with my taking the cowboy name Freddy suggested that my parents call out Freddy instead of Sean, and doing this convinced me to re-appear out of the weeds a mere few feet away. My parent and the rest of the search party were both amused and a wee-bit angry at me for scaring them, but from then on everyone knew my name was Freddy and took it seriously.

At the time I was way too young to ride a horse by myself but I took every opportunity to go on supervised horse rides in the corral with the many wranglers there to assist us dudes with the horses. It was one of the last days at the ranch and Mom and Dad had scheduled to let me have a horse ride around the corral. Riding a horse was very exciting and represented the ultimate in cowboy activity, so up on the horse I went while Dad held the reigns and Mom stood back with the camera. I was feeling very cowboy and confident sitting up in the saddle, decked out in my hat, boots and duds, and I thought it would be an appropriate time for me to take out my pistol and fire off a shot like they do in the movies. I pulled out my gun, pointed it in the air (very cowboy-like) and Bang! went a cap. This was lucky and unusual because normally the hammer of the gun misses the cap and you get an unsatisfying snap with no bang, but this time the hammer hit the cap perfectly and gave off a particularly loud bang. Well, needless to say this startled the horse and he reared back at the sudden sound, coming back down and stepping on my Dad's foot as he struggled to control the horse. Dad composed the horse and himself and then became agitated at me for shooting the gun in the first place. I thought it was a great idea at the time but I then immediately knew I did something wrong and began to panic and cry. The horse calmed down quickly, but now I was more concerned that the wranglers were going to be angry with me and take my gun away.

That was the beginning of the end for Freddy the Cowboy, now humiliated by acting impulsive and un-cowboy-like. I sadly went back to being Sean again, but kept the poison teeth for a few weeks.

Spoons

2008-06-10T17:53:00.000-07:00

We were on our last leg back home traveling down the West coast of Oregon and Northern California. The scenery and the weather always makes a sudden change and it tends to get a bit colder and overcast. It seemed like everyone was in a rush to get home and even Dad was feeling the pressure, but still insisted on taking his time and making methodical stops according to his pace. The pressure must've been intense because we stopped for lunch along the way at a restaurant along the coast and we all had a tense meal, when we left the restaurant and went on our way, about 10 miles down the road from the restaurant Dad and Mom realized that we forgot to pay the bill and stiffed the waitress. Dad considered turning around and paying, feeling a bit guilty since this was something Dad would never intentionally do, Mom was just upset at the whole situation in general and the potential delay seemed to irritate her even further, so Dad reluctantly and silently decided to just keep going. The rest of us kids knew it was wrong and was uncomfortable with this decision, thinking at any moment the police would appear behind us and arrest Dad for theft. But nothing happened and the further we got away the more it seemed we were safe from being caught up with.

We arrived in a section of the Pacific Northwest where there were a lot of Redwood trees and the forest was dense and green. Dad decided to stop for the night at a set of motel cabins by a lake, and everyone, Mom included wholeheartedly approved. This was the first time we stopped at these cabins and for years afterward they became a traditional stop for Dad since they proved to be a surprisingly pleasant and generally happy destination. The cabins themselves were somewhat rustic and primitive, but clean and comfortable, each having a kitchenette and plenty of room. The office area had a small cafe and gift shop selling postcards, fishing tackle and bait and the management was friendly. The office also had one pay phone and Mom and Ted used the opportunity to check in with our families. The decision had been coming for some time now but Mom had already decided she has had enough and made arrangements to fly back home when we got to San Francisco. Ted was also getting tired of the trip and was anxious to meet a girlfriend he made at EST camp right before the trip, so Mom and Ted arranged to fly home in a day or two. I was feeling pressure and conflicted but asked to fly home with Ted and Mom, I think this upset Dad because he was being difficult about agreeing on the arrangements, and continually made fun of Ted for having a girlfriend, but I felt it was best that I fly home with Mom and Ted while Dad drove the rest of the way home with my sisters.

Meanwhile back at the cabin and the lake, Ted and I were enjoying ourselves fishing and running around the cabin area. There was this other kid there traveling with his adult sister and he was attempting to make friends with us, he began to tell us the details of his life and his family indicating that he was with his sister because of some trouble with his parents. Ted pretty much ignored him and concentrated his efforts on fishing, I felt a little guilty and paid attention to the kid. After a while the kid suggested we spy on his sister (who was young and pretty) and if we were lucky we could maybe see her in her underwear. This was definitely a tempting offer but I was cautious, and yet tried to sneak a peek at every opportunity. The sister seemed unaware but unfortunately kept her clothes on the entire time we were spying on her. I think the sister was suspicious of me, and any other kid in the area and called her little brother to come back in the cabin for the evening, the kid sadly protested but finally gave me a pathetic wave goodbye and went back into his cabin.

I went back to fishing with Ted. I was using my new fishing rod and reel I got for my birthday and Ted was using his old and inferior rod and reel. Ted was far more enthusiastic about fishing and determined to catch a fish than I was and I quickly got bored and offered Ted my rod and reel. It was getting dark and I went back to the cabin, when a short time later Ted came back all flustered and upset: he had accidentally dropped my new rod and reel into the lake and it sunk unseen in the murky water. Ted apologized profusely but I wasn't really upset. We went back to the dock he was fishing off of and tried to retrieve it with sticks, but it was no use, the rod and reel were gone. Ted still felt bad about it and tried to compensate by giving me his rod and reel or looking to buy another reel in the cabin office gift shop, but it was late and there was nothing we could do about it. It didn't really matter anyway, that was the last time I was going to go fishing again for a few years, so the rod and reel had already served its purpose.

There was no TV in the cabin, so we all organized a lively game of "Spoons", or sometimes called "Pig". This was a card game that involved multiple players and a set of spoons, you would set out a number of spoons for each player - minus one. When you reached a match with your hand of cards you would quickly grab a spoon, prompting the other players to grab a spoon, leaving one unfortunate player without a spoon, and they were out for the duration. The game would continue until only one spoon was left and the lucky player with the deciding hand would grab the last spoon. This was a game of skill and bluff and would often digress into fury and get somewhat out of hand. Sometimes when silverware wasn't available we would have to use plastic spoons and inevitably they would all get broken and someone would injure themselves on a sharp plastic edge. This time the cabin had an equipped kitchenette so we were able to procure real silverware, but there wasn't enough spoons to go around so we had to improvise and use a couple of forks. Mom participated for a few hands but when the atmosphere got a little feisty she dropped out completely. Dad and the rest of us started to get overly excited and the game was beginning to take on a fever-pitched pace, we were playing on one of the beds the whole time, and during one game suddenly someone grabbed a spoon, and the rest of us lunged for the remaining silverware. Someone grabbed the fork, and one of the tines caught on the sheet, ripping a huge tear in the sheet and part of the mattress underneath. Mom immediately put a stop to the game, causing Dad to react like a punished and defensively guilty child. But that was the end of the game, and the evening festivities.

This was also essentially the end of the trip for Mom, Ted and I that year since a couple of days later we were in San Francisco and catching a flight home.

Brewery Tour

2008-06-10T09:52:00.000-07:00

The origin of some traditions are often dubious, sometimes unpleasant, or only fun when taken out of the context of reality and put into the isolated experience of just my Dad, so such is the case with the brewery tours. These events on the trips have become another annual occurrence that involves full participation and precise ritual, and since it has become one of the mandatory events, all of us have come to expect. However, extreme caution and careful handling is required. To explain this, one needs to understand certain behaviors that manifest in Dad sometimes, habits and traits we've come to recognize during certain times. Things like when Dad is too generous, too friendly, too talkative, too happy... and that almost always spells trouble. A good example of this is, in certain and specific restaurants like The Hamburger Hamlet or Regular Jons', (irritatingly called "Pizza Joes" by Dad) something will trigger this behavior, it might be that fatal glass of wine, a big screen TV playing free old movies, or a special menu item that causes Dad to become overly interested in the cuisine. What then happens is Dad will refuse to leave the restaurant, even long after closing and the staff is vacuuming and patiently waiting for Dad to finish. Dad's eating habits take on a precise and maddening ritual that can only be described as deliberate torture with no reason other than to piss everyone off. Every bite of food is carefully and slowly manipulated into exact portions, each bite split into successive smaller and smaller portions. Bites turn into half-bites, and those half-bites turn into half-bites, and so on... until the last minuscule bite which can often stay on the plate for hours. This stalling tactic is interspersed with confrontational topics of conversation and long trips to the restroom, (which are actually visits to the cocktail lounge in order to work in additional drinks). The later the evening gets, and the more impatient the rest of us become, the more intense this behavior grows. Even after the restaurant has long closed Dad will continue to order additional items like glasses of ice for his beer or slices of lemon to garnish his carefully portioned food, and even when every morsel had been eaten, Dad will not allow the dish to be taken away until he meticulously scrapes the residue off the plate with his fork or a lemon peel, then sprinkling the lemon peel with potassium salt he brings with him, eats the peel. Paying the bill then becomes a drawn-out procedure that has literally taken an hour to accomplish, Dad uses this time to prolong the occasion and further anger the wait staff. And during all this, Dad truly believes everyone is having a wonderful time.

But I digress... The point of this particular story is how the brewery tour tradition got started, and hopefully you will see the connection.

We arrived in Olympia, Washington, home of the Olympia Brewing Co. makers of "Oly" and those cute little cans of beer I talked about, and also Hamms and Rainier brands of beer. Taking the tour was free and seemed like an interesting idea to pass the time, so all of us got in line and formed a group for one of the tours of the facility. The tour itself was slightly interesting for kids but I think Ted and I quickly got bored and could've taken the abbreviated version of the tour, Dad however found everything fascinating and lingered as long as possible at every station of the tour. It took about an hour to complete, but at the end of the tour came the Pièce de résistance - free samples of their beer. This was the trigger that set off future incidences of unpleasantness and arrogant behavior later on. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the early time of day to consume alcohol, but whatever the case it switched Dad from Jekyll into Hyde for the rest of the day. I think Mom knew the inherent danger from the beginning but this was unavoidable since I think this was Dad's intention from the get-go; free beer. This was the most important part of the tour and included some audience participation, tasting the different brands and quality, and although Dad wasn't chosen by the tour guide to show off his beer-tasting prowess, he still watched enthusiastically. Eventually everyone was offered to partake (except us kids of course, who where given cups of root beer or 7Up) and partake Dad did! Taking advantage of tasting every sample the brewery had to offer until the next tour came through and we were forced to be cut off. Jokingly the tour guide said the only way to get more samples was to take the tour again, which Dad seriously considered, but even this went beyond reason and Dad was forced to sip his last free beer for the day.

This didn't mean we were leaving the brewery just yet, there was still the gift shop to peruse, and due too the recent free lubrication, Dad was uncharacteristically open and excited about shopping in this tourist trap. Mom recognized this and immediately went into angry bitch-mode, trying to discourage us kids from taking advantage of this unusual situation of alcohol induced generous Dad. She put up with the shopping spree of T-shirts and funny hats for a few minutes and angrily went to wait it out in the car, all the time Dad was joyfully laughing and enjoying the tension. Now, this is where it started to get unpleasant. Dad found that the gift shop sold pool cues with the different beer brand logos printed on them. This made perfect sense since beer and pool went together, and we had a pool table back home. So Dad thought it would be brilliant and fun if we were to start our own collection of Olympia beer pool cues. At first all of us kids were excited at the prospect of buying such high-quality items in a gift shop, since usually we were lucky to get out with a cheap key chain or postcard, and also it seemed favorable for us taking advantage of Dad's temporary generosity. So enthusiastically we went to picking out a set of cues to go with our pool table back home. For us kids the choice was easy and we made our decisions in about 10 seconds - 3 cues, one for each brand, we didn't care about the color of the handle. But the decision wasn't so simple for Dad, who had to second-guess every choice and question every decision anyone made. The combination and choice of colors was vitally important, and also to consider was the future choice of additional cues, since Dad had already decided this was going to be a continuing tradition every time we visited a brewery tour gift shop. The choice and decisions went on for quite a long time and Dad would consult us kids about our opinion, but would shoot down our choice for some reason or another. I finally became tired and exasperated with this process and abandoned Dad with the pool cue selection. This only angered Dad by my lack of enthusiasm and participation and he chastised me for being ungrateful about his generosity, threatening to take away my privilege of using these new fancy cues when we got home, and relegated to use the old crappy warped ones instead, essentially forcing me to endure the pool cue selection process. By now, already two subsequent tours had come through behind us and we were still in the gift shop quibbling over which color and style of beer cues was the most appropriate for our cheap Sears pool table that hardly anyone played on anymore, and the people working the gift shop were starting to wonder about Dad's sanity I'm sure. Also, I was getting nervous that Mom was still waiting in the car, seething with anger and temptation to drink herself with every given minute. Even Ted was beginning to get impatient and suggested that Dad should just pick out the stupid cues already so we can get going. The whole pool cue idea turned into a major production and everyone began to think it wasn't such a good idea after all, taking Mom's advice and waiting in the car seemed like the best decision after all. But eventually, after a great deal of pain and frustration, we became the proud owners of official "Olympia" and "Hamms" beer pool cues.

Well, I wish buying the pool cues was the end of the fun, but it wasn't. Actually it was about to go from bad to worse, to worse-er. The stage was set with Dad and the few free beers had successfully turned him into a happy but belligerent ass. For the rest of the day Dad and Mom were to be confrontational, with Dad having the clear advantage. Dinner was awkward and much of the same behavior prevailed with Dad being both generous and unreasonable. We found a motel and Mom promptly retreated into seclusion allowing us kids to fend for ourselves against Dad's obnoxious and smart-aleky behavior. Looking for the motel we noticed a movie theater close by, and we all thought it might be a good idea to leave Mom by herself and the rest of us go see a movie, that ought to keep both us kids entertained and Dad out of trouble. The movie playing was "Bad News Bears", which I had already seen but wasn't opposed to seeing it again, and it was a good movie for my sister who needed time away from Mom as well. So Dad packed the three of us in the car and took us to see "Bad News Bears" for the rest of the evening. The theater had a balcony, which was always the best seating, but Dad always preferred the seats down below off to the side, and it wasn't all that unusual for Dad to sit somewhere else during movies, so us kids sat up in the balcony and Dad was somewhere else, unseen for the rest of the show. The theatre was full of kids, the building itself was old and the atmosphere was quaint and seemed like a scene out of the 1950's. Halfway through the movie there was an intermission and the theatre had a raffle matching the numbers on your ticket stub, giving away candy and snacks from the concession stand. After the raffle, a guy playing on an old organ gave a rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" the organ platform slowly lifted up from under the stage in front of the screen, and while playing the song the raised platform reached about 10 feet up, stayed for a minute, and then slowly went back down under the stage again. Ted thought this was hysterically funny and had never seen anything like this before, making fun of this scene for days, I had to agree that it was strange and unfamiliar, but thinking back, sad that nobody appreciated it.

The movie ended and we went to the lobby to meet Dad so we could go back to the motel. Dad wasn't around so we searched around the theater to see if we could find him, but he was nowhere to be found. It never occurred to us that Dad would leave early during the movie, but apparently that's what he did, and we sat uncomfortably in the lobby for about an hour, wondering what could've become of Dad. The three of us stayed put while the theater closed up, some of the people working stayed around since we were not accompanied by our parents, and Ted and I considered calling the police. The theater agreed to let us stay a few more minutes before calling the authorities when Dad finally pulled up outside in the car in front of the theater. Relieved we thanked the theater people and rushed to the car. When we got in Dad sat there smiling as if nothing was wrong and was unaware he kept us waiting for an hour. Upon further observation we realized that Dad was about as drunk as anyone could be and still be conscious, that he spent the last 3 hours in a bar adding fuel to the free beers he had earlier.

In a round-about way Dad admitted he was too drunk to drive, (which he clearly was). Ted laughed nervously and offered to drive, but being only 12 years old was only slightly safer than having Dad drive drunk-as-a-skunk. Dad happily announced that we were going to play a game called "Navigator" Which meant us kids were going to give directions, and Dad was going to steer. This was not a good game at all and meant that Dad had no idea where he was or how to get back to the Motel, relying on us kids to figure out the directions to the Motel. All of us kids really didn't pay much attention getting to the theater and we only had a vague idea how to get back, but at the time was the only practical way for us to return to the motel without involving the police. So off we went. I sat in the front and Ted and my sister sat in the back with Ted leaning over the front seat to better give directions. It became necessary on a few occasions for me or Ted to grab the steering wheel in order to avoid crashing. Dad thought it was a lot of fun, and we pretended it was fun so not to alarm Dad. We would bark orders like "Turn here" and Dad would take the directions literally and turn up a curb sending Ted and I scrambling for the steering wheel to correct the turn and avoid us crashing into a storefront. Dad would calmly react by saying we told him to turn "here", so that's what he did, and it was our fault that he drove up onto the curb. Panicking a bit we would explain that we meant him turn at the next street, not onto the sidewalk, so from then on we were extremely specific about our directions. We went around many blocks nobody really agreeing as to which was the correct way back, I was getting extremely upset and thought we were going to die, Ted on the other hand managed to take control and direct Dad down the correct street. By some miracle of God we found the motel and Dad clumsily parked the car in front of our room. Ted was laughing nervously telling Dad in a subtle way that he was an idiot, I was relieved we got back without serious injury or involving the police, my sister was crying. Dad on the other hand was having the time of his life and continued to tease us by wanting to go somewhere else, All of us were begging dad to shut up and go to bed, but he continued to ramble on and find more mischief to get involved in. At that point I wished the police had arrived.

Back in the motel room Mom was passed out herself and completely unaware what had gone on that evening. At some point Dad had found his way back to the room and passed out, the rest of us kids nervously fell asleep eventually.

The next morning all of us got up and continued on the trip as if nothing had happened.

Flashed in Seattle

2008-06-06T12:43:00.000-07:00

In 1976, 'The Worlds Fair' was being held in Spokane, Washington, and we happened to be passing through. It was really hot and I remember the fair wasn't very crowded, in fact, the fair was really boring. We looked around at some of the exhibits and then spent some time on the carnival rides, but for the most part The Worlds Fair was uneventful. However I couldn't leave without a souvenir and felt compelled to spend my savings on useless junk, so the item I decided on was an invisible dog leash. What this was is a plastic rope reinforced with a stiff wire and a dog harness attached to the end. Holding the stiff leash out and pretending to have a dog attached looked like you were being led around by an invisible poodle. This novelty toy was being sold by a bunch of carnie looking guys demonstrating the effect and teasing the crowds with the invisible dogs to make sales, I was suckered in and shelled out something like $6 for this item and proceeded to run around like an idiot thinking the invisible dog trick was amusing everyone around me. Ted and my Dad finally had to tell me to settle down and stop acting like a moron, that the invisible dog show wasn't entertaining anybody. Getting back to the car I discovered that the 5 foot steel reinforced leash was awkward and didn't fit in the car conveniently, so I was forced to fold the wire in half to make it fit in the way back and not be in the way of anybody. This put a permanent kink in the wire leash which was later impossible to smooth out, which destroyed the whole invisible dog illusion and essentially ruined my toy. I should've listened to Dad and Ted and bought the spring-loaded fly swatter rifle instead.

The following day we arrived in Seattle and decided to stop and take a look around. We couldn't help but notice the Space Needle, a Jetsons looking building with a revolving restaurant at the top and Mom and Ted wanted to go up in it. I don't think Dad was too keen on going up to the top because it cost a lot of money and he also might be forced to buy lunch at the revolving restaurant, which was also expected to be expensive. But Mom insisted and Dad had to let Mom have a say every one in a while to keep things in balance, but Dad was clearly irritated and impatient with the whole event. We took an elevator to the top and the elevator was operated by a young woman who gave us a spiel and explanation about the tower. At the top observation deck we got a spectacular view of the city of Seattle and got to run around the tower for a bit, and indeed the main level of the tower had a revolving floor which provided a 360 degree per hour view of the cityscape. It was interesting and fun to be able to stand between the stationary and moving sections of the floor, letting your feet spread apart until you couldn't stand up anymore, which was entertaining for us kids but annoying for the adults to watch. The spinning restaurant was merely an ordinary and over priced snack bar preying on tourists, so in order to get a seat in the restaurant to enjoy the revolving view Dad allowed us to have the obligatory ice cream treats and drinks, but no real food. We sat there for about 3/4 of a revolution and quickly got both bored and jittery from the ice cream, so we decided to mill around the observation decks some more.

While all of us were taking in the scenery, Mom noticed there was a man in a long coat walking around to various guests and tourists, and giving them a peek at his genitalia. Mom was somewhat amused and informed Dad and us kids to beware of the flasher. Fortunately the flasher didn't seem interested in little boys and focused his attention at the various women. He didn't even look like your stereotypical flasher with the raincoat and legs wearing sock garters, he was a regular looking young guy in a suit and tie, with his hands in his coat pockets strategically positioned to reveal his bits at any chosen moment. From then on we all kept the flasher in the corner of our eye and made it a point to avoid him, especially in the restrooms. However upon studying his approaches and technique, he never seemed to be getting any reactions from any of his victims, in fact everyone seemed to be ignoring him. This amused Mom even further and she joked to Dad that he must not be very impressive to the girls. Ted and I just observed his actions with perplexed and embarrassed horror.

This seemed like as good a time as any to make our exit and take the elevator back down. My sisters and Ted were still busy in the gift shop, so my Dad stayed behind with them to take a later elevator down while my Mom and I took the next available elevator. A group of us got in the elevator car while the young woman operator prepared to take us down, and at the last minute the flasher got on with us. Mom and I gave each other a nervous but amused glance as the flasher took position right in front of the lady elevator operator, the doors closed and we silently started down. He must have given the operator a flash because she reacted with a sarcastic and unenthusiastic "yeah, I know..." and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of the elevator ride, we suspected that he was a regular visitor to the Space Needle and the young lady operator was already intimately familiar with our flasher friend. At the ground level we all piled out of the elevator and went our own ways, the flasher walking off to the side. Mom and I observed him as he proceeded to zip himself back up and walk away disappointed and dejected.

All the stories I've ever heard about flashers and perverts always involved shocked reactions, screaming and police chases, this experience was nothing of the sort and rather unexciting. But from that time on whenever I think of or see the Seattle Space Needle, I always think of flashers.

Mt. Rushmore - part 2.

2008-06-03T11:19:00.000-07:00

This is a good example of how traditions get started on the trips, now that we went to Mt. Rushmore once, and it seemed to be a success, it is a requirement to visit Mt. Rushmore again whenever possible, like it or not. So a few years later after the first Mt. Rushmore visit, we were on the trip this time with my friend Ted and the entire rest of my family (Mom and sisters) I mentioned before about the trip with Ted that Mom came along under duress and was somewhat miserable the whole time. We reached the main milestone of Estes Park and had an unusual adventure there (Big Thompson River flood of 1976 - another story), so after Estes we were officially on our way back home taking the customary Northern route, and like always the trip back home was an intentionally drawn out and meandering route, which was Dad's way of taking his time getting home and avoiding ending the trip for as long as possible. It was not unusual for Dad to successively take shorter and shorter legs the closer he got to home, travelling sometimes only 25 miles at a time and basically staying at motels in our own neighborhood before actually getting home, for some reason arriving home and ending the trip was upsetting and traumatic for Dad so he did his best to prolong and avoid ending it, much to the frustration to everyone else on the trip who was ready to go home the first week. But anyway, we were in Estes Park a few days longer than expected due to the flood, Mom long since had enough and just wanted her misery to end and would have gladly just driven back home straight through, the whole 1200 miles without stopping. But Ted, still amazed and excited by the whole adventure mentioned casually that he would like to see Mt. Rushmore. I remember the look of horror on Mom's face when Ted suggested this and an appearance of panic mixed with a helpless anger came over her face, knowing that just the slightest mention of any roadside attraction would surely turn into a week long detour. Mom yelled out a desperate and vain "NO!!" which only succeeded in clinching the deal with Dad, who then felt obligated to make this Mt. Rushmore request a reality for Ted. Dad also for some reason was intent on doing whatever the opposite Mom or anyone else wanted just out of spite and to contradict, thus making it seem like an unreasonable request to deny Ted and the rest of us a chance to see Mt. Rushmore. So with a bit of tension we were off again back home to Los Angeles, via So. Dakota.

The night before we got to Mt. Rushmore we had traveled an unusually long distance and got into some town later than usual. Everyone at this point was tired, upset and cranky, and we couldn't find any suitable motels with a vacancy. Dad however managed to find a hotel in town, one of those older drab and dreary hotels with bathrooms down the hallway, places Mom and I would consider a dump, but this seemed the only place Dad would accept us staying at for the night and refused to look any further for a better motel. I think I was feeding off my Moms unhappiness and I recall that I had a tantrum and refused to sleep the night in the hotel, Dad countered with the suggestion that I sleep in the car, which I considered but with further thought calmed down and conceded to sleep with everyone else in the hotel room. As it turned out everyone was so tired that we hardly spent any awake time in the room and promptly went to sleep. Silently we endured the atmosphere of the hotel and the inconvenience of using the bathroom down the hall, and despite the ridiculousness of the situation Mom and I managed to complain about the hotel for days after that stay.

The next morning was my birthday and we were scheduled to be at Mt. Rushmore later that day. I think we were glad to be leaving the dumpy hotel not so much that it was dumpy, but that it caused such a hissy fit among us. Even as we were leaving early that morning I couldn't let it go and was still complaining about Dad's choice of accommodations. This sent Dad over the edge and he lost his temper demanding that I shut up about the whole thing already and he threatened to withhold my allowance for the day. This only upset me even more, being my birthday and all, and I expected better and preferential treatment, but Dad's anger was formidable and I went to sulking in the back seat for a few hours.

When we arrived at Mt. Rushmore tempers had cooled and things had calmed down to a normal tempo forgetting the unpleasantness of the morning. The monument itself was spectacular as usual and even Mom was impressed for the moment. Everyone had a good look at the presidents faces in the mountain and we were all happy again. The attraction had something new to offer this time, helicopter rides to view the mountain from the air. For $50, the helicopter flight was a 5 minute jaunt up in the air, an exciting bank and turn, and back down again. Well, Ted and I couldn't resist and we pleaded with Dad to let us take a helicopter ride, especially since it was my birthday and deserved something special - especially after that miserable night in that flea bag we just stayed in (but I didn't dare mention that now...) So Dad and Mom nervously watched a few flights to determine the practicality and safety of this special treat, Mom noticed and read the disclaimer and laughed that they're insured for $1,000,000, like that would make any difference. So to my surprise (I was sure they would say no) Mom and Dad agreed to the helicopter ride for me and Ted. Ted And I climbed into the seat with the pilot and buckled up and we immediately took off into the air, It was totally exciting and I wasn't afraid at all, the sensation of flying in a helicopter gives you the feeling of freedom and weightlessness. I don't even really remember seeing Mt. Rushmore being too enthralled with the actual flying in the helicopter. After a short time the pilot made a sharp turn and bank and looking off to the right out the door of the helicopter, we were looking straight down off the side, it was so cool. A short time later we landed and it was the shortest 5 minutes I ever spent. Dad and Mom greeted us, and they sincerely felt just as excited about our adventure as we did, noting how the bank the pilot made for us appeared more extreme and exciting than some of the other flights they observed, Ted and I felt privileged and somehow thought the pilot considered us especially brave and deserving of an exciting maneuver. Mom was now relieved we didn't crash and had to explain to Ted's parents he died in a fiery helicopter accident. My sisters seemed a little put out and jealous but resigned they were too little to fly. I thanked Dad profusely and decided to forget about the dumpy hotel forever, this helicopter ride more than made up for that miserable night. After the helicopter ride we took one last look at Mt. Rushmore and then all got into the car and proceeded to the next destination. Ted and I were pumped for hours and talked about nothing but the helicopter.

Later that evening we arrived in Rapid City, and much to everyone's relief Dad was feeling nice and found us an especially attractive and unusual motel to stay for the night, a complete contrast to the night before, It might've been just luck but it was one of the nicest, roomy and clean motels during that whole trip, which goes to show how unpredictable events on our trip can be. But in any case it was a nice and memorable conclusion for my birthday.

Mt. Rushmore - Part 1.

2008-05-30T10:20:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-28T14:54:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-19T17:45:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-13T13:37:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-09T10:46:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-07T16:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-06T12:22:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-05T14:29:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-02T17:16:00.000-07:00

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)

Roller Coaster Time!

2008-04-29T17:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the simplest things could amuse us while driving along, how some of these activities or traditions got started are often more interesting than the events themselves, becoming more legend than actual history. With the passage of time past events are mostly forgotten or exaggerated changing the original event into something that can never be found again and repeated.

It was the first year of the trip, with me, Mom and Dad. We were driving through the desert on a beautiful Summer day through what I believe to be Nevada, or somewhere like that, all I can really be sure of was that it was the scenic route, a favorite path of travel for Dad in any circumstance. So the road itself was narrow, winding and hilly, it was also desolate and I barely remember seeing another car during this part of the trip. Now when I say hilly, I mean that the road had many small peaks and dips, which made for a roller coaster ride in the car. Dad took full advantage of this and would accelerate at certain points in the dips to get maximum roller coaster effect. I was delighted with this and this roller coaster time became one of my favorite parts of the trip.

I would sit up in the back seat ready and anticipating the next roller coaster section of the road, Dad would announce "roller coaster time!" and maneuver the car to get the best performance, coming up to the first apex and accelerating just at the right moment at the dip which would send the car flying off the second apex. Sitting up and leaning forward to get a good position and look out the front windshield I would ready myself and at the right moment and would let myself go free, letting the car perform physics on my body. The sensation that occurred was pleasurable and exciting, giving the body a brief moment of weightlessness that could be felt most noticeably in the crotch. This sensation was the closest a 4 year old boy could come to experiencing sexual pleasure and I announced to Mom and Dad that it made a "tickle in my tail". This amused Mom and Dad thoroughly but I think they didn't quite understand exactly what I meant. They laughed for days about this and it further encouraged the roller coaster time activity.

This particular roller coaster time was the longest and most intense on any of the trips, in fact it made all the other roller coaster times pale in comparison. This stretch of road offered miles of roller coaster opportunities, some of them a bit too extreme for the car causing us to bottom out, or the speed required to travel to achieve roller coaster meant that the off chance that we might encounter another car going the other way would probably result in collision. Dad seemed to ignore this possibility and focused his energies on driving with the most roller coaster efficiency.

Most of the roller coaster times that we encountered after this were merely one or maybe two dips in the road. Dad would still announce "Roller coaster time!" giving us a chance to position ourselves and he would attempt to get the car slightly airborne. Most of the time the results were disappointing, but every so often Dad would be able to get just the right momentum and that pretty sensation between my legs would occur. That first roller coaster time became legendary and was the point of comparison for all other roller coaster times. A few years later Dad attempted to find that stretch of road again, he had always thought it was a certain "out of the way" scenic route that there was no real reason to take except for the superior roller coaster time, but on one of the trips Dad purposely went out of the way to drive this stretch of road again and experience the roller coaster time from the past. We got on what we thought was the road and found it to be not like we remembered. If I didn't know better I would think we were on the wrong road, (in fact I think we were) but given my Dad's superior map navigation skills and his meticulous way of recording the past routes we took, Dad was certain this was the road. However, this road wasn't nearly as roller coaster-like as I remembered and the experience was totally disappointing. Dad thought that over the years the road had been re-paved and straightened, which might be true since many of the roads of days gone by have been replaced or eliminated in favor of the big Interstate highways, Roads like the famous "Route 66" are now history and no longer exist the way it did when times were simpler and more patient. There's a good chance this is what happened to this road.

It's almost like that roller coaster time was only a dream and only happened in my imagination, that this particular road never existed and that we somehow stumbled upon some supernatural event, a ghost road, a one time event and a road that will never be traveled again.

Happy Wanderer

2008-04-29T15:28:00.000-07:00

We used to have a bumper sticker on the station wagon, it was one of those customized bumper stickers you send away for where you can put anything you want on it, Dad sent away for about ten of these and they said, "Happy Wanderer". They were day-glow orange with plain black lettering and had a road construction quality to them. We had one of these on our car for about five years and Dad put a fresh one on every start of the trip, along with a new American flag for the car antenna, the trip couldn't be started without the antenna flag. Dad claimed the antenna flag was so he could find and identify our car in a crowded parking lot, but we never seemed to park in lots so the flag was more decoration and political statement than anything else. Dad also used to put an orange Styrofoam "76" ball (from the Union 76 gas stations) on the antenna, but those always seemed to get stolen, which was ironic since Dad had a whole box of "76" balls which he and his friend John one night got drunk and went out and stole as many of them as they could, I think Dad still has a dozen or so of them still in the garage. But the antenna flag never got stolen, they would fly off occasionally or deteriorate over time, but there was always a flag on Dad's antenna.

Driving for hours there really wasn't much to do or see, so I would look at whatever was outside and daydream.

Polaroid - part 1.

2008-04-28T20:58:00.000-07:00

This is probably the most amazing part about the whole trip. Not only did we travel thousands of miles covering practically every road West of the Mississippi, but the whole thing was documented on Polaroid film. Dad thought Polaroid was the greatest invention ever conceived and stubbornly remains loyal to the product to this day. Even now since they haven't made the cameras and film anymore Dad has hoarded all the Polaroid film he can get his hands on, keeps it frozen in storage and rations it during his trip for all the traditional photos he needs to take. He owns and collects every model of Polaroid camera and uses all of them according to which photographic situation suits him best, but the main camera of the trip is the "95", Dad's first camera and the first model Polaroid camera ever sold. Dad still takes pictures with it to this day.

The story goes; Dad was given the camera as a gift by his father when he graduated from grammar school sometime back in the 1940's, he was so intrigued and fascinated by the instant developed pictures, that he became almost religiously devoted to Polaroid and refused to accept any other form of film. The camera he takes on the trip, the "95" is the same camera he was given 60 years ago and has since been repaired and jury rigged to keep it functional, but it still works.

The main function of the "95" seems banal and boring, but given the uninterrupted years of use and sheer number of photos it has taken, gathered up and put into context the pictures this single camera has taken is extraordinary and borders on genius. Every motel Dad and we have ever stayed at on the trip, has a picture taken of the view outside the room. Without fail Dad has taken a Polaroid snapshot with the "95" outside the room of every motel, whether the view is a pastoral landscape on a perfect Summers day, or a brick wall, it doesn't matter, the picture is taken no matter what. Usually the picture is of the motel parking lot, often using our own car as the centerpiece of the photo, but sometimes magic seems to happen and a deceptively simple picture outside a Motel 6 can say a thousand words. It is also typical for Dad to stay at the same motel multiple times over the series of many years, each picture outside the rooms will reveal the passage of time in a small town, noting either growth or depression. On the back of each Polaroid photo Dad will note the details of the setting, the room number, the town, date and any other thought that might occur to Dad as he was taking the picture. Often the sayings are silly, but in a strange way they always make sense.

Polaroid photos take a minute to develop, but sometimes art takes decades to develop.

Motels - part 2. "Sneaking in"

2008-04-26T17:05:00.000-07:00

Like I mentioned before, Dad had a knack for making cheap motels even cheaper. Basically the only way we could've spent the night less expensively was to sleep in the car, which thankfully we never had to do. Wherever we went, no matter how small or remote the town, we were always able to find a suitable motel and regardless of the town it seemed like most motels were created from the same mold.

The first few years of the trip the road offered mostly the "mom and pop" independent type motels, and most of those were nice, even superior at times. The big chain motels were the Holiday Inns, which we stayed at occasionally but was always considered a treat since they tended to be slightly more expensive. The Holiday Inns were consistently clean and full of amenities like big Coke machines and pools with diving boards, slides and adequate deep ends. I think Mom liked the Holiday Inns the best because they represented the height of luxury for our trips. Other chains included Best Western, which we only stayed at out of desperation since Dad considered them outrageously expensive and pretentious. Another was Imperial 400, they were kind of a hybrid of the chain and mom and pop motels since they didn't have a unique brand or design architecture, but were typical "big town" motels. They've since gone out of business, but we were always pleased to stay at an Imperial 400. Another early kind of chain motel was the Friendship Inn, basically these motels were mom and pop but belonged to an association or some kind of franchise that united them in reputation. Dad, and Mom loved the Friendship Inns since they were both cheap and promised consistent quality. Friendship Inns also had this neat little policy in which they gave you a token when you checked out and if you presented the token at another Friendship Inn you got a discount. This became a fun little game seeking out the Friendship Inns in new towns or planning some of our destinations because a Friendship Inn was in that town. We were all sad when we started the trip one year and found that Friendship Inns were gone, Dad was irritated at this fact noting that anything that is good or he likes always goes away.

But getting back to making cheap motels cheaper, these were the days before most motels had the "kids under 12 stay free" policies, and motels at the time had certain rules of charging that was both by number of persons and the number of beds to accommodate those persons, essentially you couldn't get a room with one queen size bed (or 2 single beds) and stuff 3 people in it. Dad found these rules to be completely unjust and couldn't understand why he was charged more for a room with the same amount of beds only because we had 2 adults and a kid, while the couple with no kid got the same room for less, we never heard the end of this all during the trips. Dad always stated that he was perfectly happy sleeping on the floor, or more the case was he was perfectly happy having me sleep on the floor... sleeping on the floor of cheap motels became an art for me and Dad, and sometimes sleeping on the floor was preferable, but more on that later. Dad's solution to this unfair policy was simple, he would sneak me in to many of these motels. Mom reluctantly went along with this, and I was completely uncomfortable with this obvious dishonest act, I actually dreaded it every time Dad would come to a motel and tell me to "duck down". The whole ritual was always nerve-wracking since I had to stay hidden in the back seat on the floor, next to the ice chests, while dad registered, a process that could take up to 30 minutes and was full of risks. Often the manager wanted to come out and see the car, check the licence plate or something, or I even thought they were suspicious of people like us sneaking in and wanted to check the back seat, but whatever the case I needed to stay hidden until we were registered and Dad announced it was all clear to sit up. However... that didn't mean the risk was over, many times after being snuck in the situation called for evasive action on my part during the whole stay, For instance, if we got a room right next to the managers office, or dad sensed the manager was a mean, nasty and a suspicious control freak and somehow suspected Dad was up to something (which he was). This became a problem for me when it meant I couldn't use the pool or swing set for fear of being seen and caught trying to get out of paying for the room. This is why I always loved Holiday Inns and Imperial 400's, since the office was always tucked away from most of the rooms, and even so, the atmosphere of these chain motels was so anonymous that the managers probably didn't know who's kid belonged to who, and even then they probably didn't care if a few kids got snuck in. I would guess that is why nowadays most big motel chains have kids stay free, they couldn't stop everyone sneaking kids in, so they just gave up and made them free. Mom and pop motels were different, they were intimate, old-fashioned and the managers most likely were the owners, they cared if you cheated them out of $5.

A couple of times we were actually caught sneaking-in, I think it because we acted somewhat suspicious (we learned how to be non-chalant later with practice) but sometimes it was just impossible to hide the fact I existed, even dad would have to make concessions and not sneak me in when it seemed impossible, or denying me the use of the pool outweighed the extra cost. But the plan did backfire a couple of times, and the manager did call our bluff, often threatening to throw us out and call the police. Dad however had an ingenious excuse and was very good at acting innocent, he would apologize and explain that we were accustomed to staying at Holiday Inns, and kids usually stayed free at these motels (which at the time wasn't exactly true) and he was just in the habit of registering for only 2 adults and forgot that this motel charged for kids. The managers always reluctantly believed the excuse and took the additional payment, letting us stay the night and not alerting the authorities. When this happened it always embarrassed Dad and he would forgo sneaking-in for a few days, Mom usually gave dad the "I told you so" look. But after a few days of paying premium Dad would go back to the "sneaking-in" and I would protest in vain to this petty criminal activity.

I never liked the sneaking-in.

The Way Back

2008-04-15T07:12:00.000-07:00

It was finally decided that we should have a new car, not just for the trips but in general, and mom really wanted a station wagon, in fact she insisted upon it. We looked around for what seemed like forever and finally got a Ford Falcon station wagon. It wasn't at all like Uncle Bob's Country Squire with wood paneling on the outside and seats in the way back, our car was about as plain as it got, a car reserved for military bases or factory businesses carting stuff around. The car was an olive green and a black plastic interior, no carpet just plastic matting, manual crank windows, no AC, AM radio only, it didn't have a roof rack (which would've been useful) and the way back was a bare metal surface, which with instead of folding seats like Uncle Bob's wagon had a locked compartment underneath that acted as a trunk. This was certainly the most inexpensive station wagon available in the world, but it was new and it was ours. Thinking back it probably was a really good car, very practical. That car went on about a dozen of the trips and always ran like a top (for the most part). As far as my mom was concerned she was resigned but happy to have it, always wanting a Country Squire with wood paneling and seats in the way back for the kids, but dad just wasn't going to afford a car like that.

The car was intended for my mom, but immediately my dad took it over and it became his car. He called it the "F-Con" short for Falcon, which was reminiscent of the "T-Bird" short for his '55 Thunderbird. He even went as far as to try and call the Mustang the "M-Stang" which was kind of a stretch and never caught on. But as far as the "F-Con" was concerned, the original idea was that my mom would have the station wagon and my dad would have his '55 Thunderbird, the only problem with that plan was that the '55 T-bird didn't run, I remember it running only a handful of times in my life, and even then it was a tad sketchy. So the theory of my dad having his own vehicle amounted to it sitting in the garage deteriorating with lofty plans of getting it going again and having it win drag races like it did in the old days. But dad required a car for his activities and now we had a new one. The first thing dad did was to remove the dashboard, the reason was that he had bought from the JC Whitney catalog a set of racing gauges and dials, never intended for this station wagon but was thought every car should have (since the '55 T-Bird had them). He always complained about the "idiot lights" and thought it was a better idea to have dial gauges like an rpm tachometer, a temperature gauge and some other gadgets. But these instruments were no way going to fit into the existing dashboard arrangement, and to integrate these into the car system, the dashboard needed to be removed completely, and all the gauges, even the pre-existing factory installed speedometer and gas gauge, just layed out on the empty interior beneath where the dashboard once covered. It was incredibly ugly and immediately made the car look 30 years older, and for the most part unnecessary since the gauges were overly complicated and never really worked anyway. The exposed interior was made of a light colored particle board which caused an annoying reflective glare on the inside of the windshield, which if the sun was just right, glare caused the driver not to be able to see out the front of the windshield. To solve this, dad found an old navy blue t-shirt of mine and draped it over the offending parts, covering a patch of the reflecting parts and making a section of dark on the window letting the driver see without distraction. This dashboard arrangement stayed with the car for many years, and everyone became used to it and eventually took it for granted. Even when reasoned with or threatened, dad refused to put the dashboard back on and even got angry at the suggestion.

But the best part of that car, the thing that make all the other annoyances insignificant, was the way back. The way back was the whole reason for getting a station wagon in the first place, and for us kids was a privilege tailor made for us. As far as the trip was concerned the way back was more than a luxury, it was a necessity that made the trips all those years with multiple kids possible, the trips would've been impractical and miserable without the way back. Now, I mentioned before that the way back was nothing more than bare industrial black metal, in fact everything in the interior of the car (except for what was underneath the dashboard) was black and hard, which made things uncomfortable and hot, hot because the black plastic and metal absorbed outside light like a solar panel causing any surface in the car exposed to direct sunlight to become hot enough to inflict serious burns. So to provide comfort in the way back we dedicated a special sleeping bag, unzipped and spread out to allow some cushion, and shield from the sun. The sleeping bag was adequate but difficult to keep under control, constantly sliding and bunching up in corners of the back, but we all fell into a way back routine and adjusted to the difficulties, making the best out of this compromised situation.

There was also a back window that could be rolled down, but because of the lack of modern conveniences on the car had to be rolled down manually from the outside. This meant during the driving we had two choices, either the window was up, which meant the way back ran the risk of becoming a greenhouse, or it was down, which provided ventilation in the form of a noisy and sometime fume filled wind. So we had to choose carefully the status of the window because dad was always reluctant to stop and roll the window up or down according to our whims. The window being down could be a source of amusement, waving to truckers and making them blow their horns, or we often threw stuff out the back and joyfully watched the items bounce and break on the speeding pavement. I think we even attempted to fly a kite out of the way back window once with disappointing results, accomplishing a lesson in aerodynamics showing us that the wind created by the wake of the car actually blew in, not out like we suspected. Throwing the kite out to catch the wake a few feet behind the car resulted in the kite slamming onto the pavement and dragging it back at 60 mph, ripping the string through our hands and causing a nasty friction burn. Dad was either unaware of our potentially dangerous experiments or glad we were suitable occupied. More than likely he enjoyed watching us struggle with these vain attempts at amusement.

The way back served many purposes, it was a place to nap during the long days driving, it was a refuge and escape from the other occupants of the car when they inevitably got on your nerves, it was a place to play and keep busy with projects meant to fight constant boredom, and it was a holding cell used as punishment and confinement when discipline was deemed necessary.

The way back was a home away from home in the car.

Bags

2008-04-13T15:44:00.000-07:00

Dad had a unique way of packing. Space in the car was severely limited and to top it off, was deemed that most of our personal belongings was considered unnecessary, things like clothes only took up room for more important stuff like a huge collection of maps and foot massagers. A good portion of the trunk was set aside for emergency equipment, in case the car broke down, which actually was a good idea but I doubt any of the tools and gadgets were actually used. A mechanics tool box with a full set of tools was taken along and the tool box itself served as a bank lock-box, containing a large wad of cash to be used for specific purposes on the trip, but more on that later... So, to save room all of our clothes were packed in plastic garbage bags instead of suitcases, to utilize every square inch of space, filling the compartment with our clothes like liquid. At first we all protested at this idea, depriving us of a personal privilege of being able to contain and control our own clothes in one packed unit, like the civilized world expects, but we soon found out that this inconvenience didn't really matter, that having handy access to our clothes was basically irrelevant, and that we adjusted by only changing our clothes every few days, or more.

But that didn't mean we couldn't keep a personal stash of necessities, toys, souvenirs and other important items. And dad was the first to make sure he had a personal goody bag of important and irreplaceable stuff. The most important luggage of the trip was "the bag", a World War II era canvas tote bag with handles and a zipper, probably intended as a carry-on bag when flying on a DC3, like in an old movie or something. Dad has owned this bag since he was quite young, taking it to college, a few colleges in fact, and on his travels with his father. He most likely took it on his first car trip across the country in the '55 Thunderbird (the trip that started it all...) back in the '50's, and it has become a traditional travelling companion ever since. Despite the physical condition of the bag and the practicality of it's usefulness, dad continues to keep this as his main article of luggage.. This bag containers all the trinkets of comforts and survival to be used anytime during the trip. If the care broke down, we were stranded and had to walk a hundred miles to civilization, dad would probably take the cash out of the tool box, put it in "the bag" and be able to cope for weeks without worry.

Some of the items contained in "the bag"
- A fly swatter (one of many free swatters provided by Holiday Inn)
- An old plastic ziplock baggie containing a collection of little motel soaps (also free with most motels)
- Swiss Army Knife
- A few plastic straws in different varieties (some with the "splayed end" like a spoon, best to eat 7-11 Slurpies
- A package of Kool Ade
- A little all-in-one salt and pepper shaker (with potassium salt instead of sodium)
- Shaving kit (specific to the trip, with the old pink electric rotary razor)
- The map (see first post)
- The book; "The Umpire Strikes Back"
- A guide to Rocky Mountain wildlife
- An assortment of plastic cutlery (including the "spork")
- Postcards and postage stamps (stamps usually out of date and requires additional postage)
- A yellow plastic Polaroid print holder
- Scotch tape (very important, never to be used without permission, more about that later)
- Old prescription containers for uses that God only knows what for
- One of those keychain puzzles (move the number squares to get them in order)
- Pine incense
- Tire pressure gauge
- Batteries
- Toothpicks
- Rubber bands (usually old and will break when stretched)
- Feathers
- An assortment of different clips (paper, spring, etc...)
- An assortment of lids
- Can of Planters mixed nuts

I can go on, but I really can't remember the best stuff

Rain

2008-04-12T09:07:00.000-07:00

Another extreme, and sometimes dangerous aspect of the trip was rain… lots of it. You wouldn't think the weather could get so wet and dreary during the Summer, especially in the desert, but there were Summers I can remember nothing but rainy weather, day in and day out, the trips were lessons in extremes. The first encounter with torrential rain came on the first year of the trip when we were traveling through Nevada on out way to Ely. During this time the Interstate highway system was still in development and most highways were small, winding and desolate. My dad was also fascinated and compelled to take dirt roads whenever possible, taking advantage of a little known shortcut or unseen part of the country. This was cause for concern from my mom who wasn't really excited about the adventure aspect of the trip, she just wanted to get there and get it over with. And, there was an unmistakable element of danger involved taking dirt roads, you were usually alone on the road, very seldom would you see another car on these side trips, and the roads themselves were not of the best quality, rough and treacherous. If something were to happen to the car on one of these dirt roads it would be a long walk back to any sort of services. However dad assured us through his experience that there was nothing to worry about and insisted that taking dirt roads were not only safe, but had a great and untold advantage over paved roads.

It had been raining a lot on the regular paved highway, which was bad enough, but dad was hell bent on taking this dirt road through the desert and shaving off a dozen or so miles. Mom of course protested but Dad had the final say (like the heater) and we turned onto this dirt road, which by now was mostly muddy gravel. Progress was slow on dirt roads, even when dry, but now the downpour was more torrential by the moment. To make matters even more exciting, lightening would tend to strike every few minutes and sometimes only a few yards from our car, resounding in a horrific clash of thunder. Dad re-assured us that lightening wouldn’t strike our car and gave some convoluted scientific reason why, that our tires insulated us from electrocution, which I took for granted was correct, but didn’t relieve anybody’s concern. The ground kept getting wetter and the puddles were getting bigger. We hit a water filled pot hole and bottomed out briefly, which resulted in a rare nervous reaction my dad, now slightly concerned for our situation for the first time since we entered the dirt road. We eventually came upon a puddle that not even Moses would chance to cross. Stopping the car dad got out to check the depth of the puddle, taking off his shoes and rolling up his pants he tested the puddle and discovered it nearly went up to his knee. The decision to turn around and go back was unanimous, but turning around was a bit of a problem for the time being, the road barely being wide enough for the car. Dad had to travel in reverse for about a mile to a section of the road wide enough to turn around. It then it took about 15 shifts back and forth the turn the vehicle in the other direction, like maneuvering in or out of a tight parking spot, and at one point the car was perpendicular to the road with a mere foot in either direction to nudge the car. A note: from that time on, Dad always took notice of available turn-around spots every half-mile or so, and announced them, whenever he took a dirt road after that.

Finally with great relief we made it back to the paved highway, mom was obviously seething with anger and had an "I told you so" look on her face, dad, as always took it in stride. The weather didn’t get any better and now it was starting to get dark, but the danger of being stranded in the middle of Nevada not being discovered for weeks was behind us and I looked forward to getting to the motel, and even thinking given this traumatic experience dad would be nice and spring for premium nights stay in a Holiday Inn instead of a cheap dump with no soda pop machine. We made it to Ely only to discover that this has been the worst storm in centuries and the flooding has contaminated all the clean water in the area, which meant no drinking water, no ice, no showers, and curiously, (which I never got a convincing reason) no Coca Cola. This deprived me and my mom of one of the few luxuries of the trips and mom became even more burning with resentment, which she displayed by being cooly silent. However, this disappointment seemed to delight my dad and he took advantage of our misfortune by reminding us that it was basically our fault and responsibility that we were dependent on such comforts as Coca Cola and decent food, while he was perfectly content sacrificing these luxuries. Dad communicated this with a subtle smile and self-satisfied attitude that can only be described as mean. Strangely, the flood didn't affect the beer supply in Ely and he teased us further by flagrantly ordering cold beer while we were forced to drink milk or canned juice. The beer intensified this sadistic behavior for the rest of the evening, and the next day was tense and quiet between my mom and dad. But dad always seemed to be completely clueless to the gravity of the situation and the minor misery it caused, never realizing that excitement and adventure for him was not necessarily enjoyable for the rest of the human race. Dad always looked back at this whole experience as being fun.

Romper Room

2008-04-11T15:46:00.000-07:00

Besides the swimming pools and the occasional swing sets, there really wasn't much to do once we got to a motel and settled in for the rest of the day. Dad, having sat behind the wheel all day usually laid down on the bed, put a couple of quarters in the "Magic Fingers" bed vibrator and took a nap with the TV on. Usually there was nothing on TV anyway - remember; these were the days before cable and even in large cities you were lucky to get 3 or 4 channels on a motel TV, but for the most part we stayed in very small towns and had a choice of 1 or 2 channels offering re-runs of Hee Haw or Spanish speaking religious shows. The early days of Motel 6 the TV watching wasn't even free, you had to put quarters in and pay by the hour, much like the vibrating beds. This was kind of annoying for us kids, and my mom too, because it represented the ultimate in "cheap" for a motel, having to pay for right of TV watching seemed like punishment and forced us to budget the viewing time carefully, it was also ammunition for dad to exercise his power trips and teach us lessons about how nothing is free, not even TV, so if we wanted to watch cartoons it'll have to come out of our own allowances. However, we survived and more often than not found something else to do.

So out of sheer boredom us kids invented a few activities to keep us occupied and kept our muscles from being atrophied from hours sitting in a car packed with four other people and 3 ice chests. We came up with a game we called "Romper Room", which was a hybrid version of tag, and for the most part didn't have any rules except running around the motel and avoiding each other. This game was best played at Motel 6's because the building layouts were somewhat maze-like, usually with multiple complexes, double storied with various stairs, and surrounded by parking lot (which was considered off limits) So for hours at a time we would run around the terraces and walkways with no particular object or goal in mind other than to not be in close proximity to the others that were playing. On a few occasions we would encounter other stranger kids in the motel and engage them in a session of romper room, but usually they didn't understand the motive and lack of rules and quickly lost interest, leaving each group of kids to play their separate games in parallel.

Actually, we tended to avoid other stranger kids, there was no point in pursuing a friendship that was going to last only an hour or two, and it was safe to say we had nothing in common with the other kids, other than we happened to be staying the night in the same motel, then we were off the next morning to our next destination never to see each other again... but more on that later

Hot

2008-04-09T21:09:00.000-07:00

Of the many things we had to contend with on the journeys, weather seemed to be a reoccurring event, and we encountered the various extremes the summer weather had to offer. One obvious extreme that made the car travel rather unpleasant almost every trip, was heat, especially in the southwest desert mid-July. It could literally get up to 110 degrees inside the car if you dared look at a thermometer. Driving with the windows down only resulted in a blowing furnace-like 106 degrees, which wasn’t much better, unless you were wet from water gathered from the ice chests. We had come up with various survival tricks to mimic air conditioning, the most effective being rubbing yourself down with a Wash ‘n Dri and letting the wind from the open windows react with the cooling alcohol of the wet nap. This had only a temporary effect and needed to be repeated more often than practical, and I suspect now probably made us even hotter in the long-run. We also had a little battery operated fan, which was originally part of a toy – a cheap plastic hovercraft vehicle powered by the fan at the end of a 3 foot cable connected by a motor and 4 D cell batteries. The actual hovercraft vehicle part had been broken off leaving this nifty little fan that could be pointed directly at ones face for a refreshing breeze, which could be accentuated by the alcoholic reaction of a Wash ‘n Dri. The fan also became a useful torture device on my sister by letting the fan snap on sensitive parts of the skin, or better, sticking the moving fan in her hair causing a painful tangle that required force and surgery to remove.

Often to make matters worse, (believe it or not), my dad would blast the car heater in these situations. The justification was that it helped the car from over-heating, but everyone else in the car was convinced it was to be mean, especially since dad always wore a dark windbreaker, long sleeves and one of those gray plastic sauna-suits under all those clothes while he drove, everyone thought he actually liked being uncomfortably hot and on the brink of stroke. Whatever the case, it always pissed everyone off when we discovered the heat was on while the outside temperature was well over a hundred and five. The reaction we always got from him was a smirkish and illogical excuse that was bordering on conspiracy, and an ultimate assertion of authority over the car and the control of the heater.

Motels - part 1.

2008-04-08T18:36:00.000-07:00

Dad was an expert at finding cheap motels, and even better at making them cheaper. The thing was is that outside appearances were often misleading, a fancy looking motel with a pool with a slide and swing set could turn out to be a dump, while a crummy looking mom-and pop motel in the middle of nowhere charging $5 a night could turn out to be one of the best motel experiences on the whole trip. The thing was you could never tell, but Dad, and the rest of us got to be pretty good at spotting a good motel or not.

One important criteria was: did it have a pool. That alone could be a deal-breaker and was usually not negotiable when a choice had to be made. Seldom did we have to sacrifice the pool privilege, and it was usually because there was nothing else, and it was Summer, hot, and even dad saw the advantages of full immersion in water after spending 5 hours in a car traveling through the desert. If it had a pool with a slide, one those turquoise fiberglass water slides that endlessly dumped kids into the deep end that was a bonus, but not fully required. The pool slides took a little getting used to, the had to be smooth, not weather-beaten with a powdery look, and they had to be wet, usually aided by a little sprinkler system embedded in the fiberglass to keep the slide moist and slippery. If one attempted to descend down a dry slide, or even a partially dry slide, you risked getting a nasty rash the first time down accompanied by a tell tale friction squeak of skin passing over the dry spot, and every kid in the country who has ever used a motel pool slide knew this. If you came to use the pool and nobody has obviously been swimming, you had to check the status of the slide wetness, see if the manager has turned the sprinkler on. Even if there was a group of kids already swimming it was customary and polite to inform newcomers the status of the slide so not to injure new swimmers with a nasty friction burn comparable to a bad belly flop off the high dive board. If the slide was indeed neglected and dry, a brave volunteer needed to trail blaze the slide and descend it with wet swim trunks to adequately moisten the slide so future trips down were fast and painless. Even so one had to be careful since even a small unnoticed dry patch could catch flesh and inflict a stinging burn with a familiar and dreaded squeak. But when the slide has taken a few passengers and everyone involved is convinced to the safety, small, frenzied but organized lines would form up the ladder and kids would joyfully plunge into the pool, going down on their butts, on their stomachs, backwards… the joy would last for hours and hardly ever turned nasty by bullies or rude behavior.

Lightning

2008-04-07T17:21:00.000-07:00

I’ve always wanted to see a real tornado, but never got the chance to see the actual funnel cloud I’ve only seen in pictures. So the possible opportunity to witness a tornado during one of the violent storms we often encountered on the trips excited me. The failure to see a tornado touch down was always a disappointment I carry to this day. The closest I ever got was in Guymon, Oklahoma. The clouds were black and the storm sirens were heard everywhere. We had checked in to a Holiday Inn and we were told to stay indoors for the time being. Well, the sky got darker and the wind picked up. We were watching the event from a lobby door with access to the pool, the wind was making tiny tidal waves in the pool and would actually splash over the sides. In front of us was a flag pole flying the American flag, the wind picked up and I saw no tornadoes, but the flag was flapping violently, so much that within less than a minute the entire flag had literally dissolved away from the force of the wind right before my eyes. As soon as it had come, the storm ended. The storm warnings continued through the night as well as the constant lightning that visibly struck every 5 or 10 minutes. In the 2nd floor room of the Holiday Inn I slept on the floor next to the window so I could fall asleep watching the lightning flash in the distance throughout the night.

The year my friend Ted came with us on the trip (more about that later), as well as my sisters Trisha and Katrina, and the surprising involvement of my Mom on the trip again that year. Mom had disavowed the trip years before, but I found out later that she felt compelled to go and keep a protective eye on Ted. The trip for her that year was miserable and she quite understandably drank her way across the country to keep from going insane - needless to say things were tense at times. By the time we got to Guymon, Oklahoma (the same place where we had the flag-ripping tornado a few years before) we had caught up with a spectacular storm that gave us a beautiful but frightening light show one evening. As a challenge my dad and us kids were determined to get a picture of lightning on the Polaroid, which was a test of patience not only from the weather cooperating, but the obsessive insistence that we all participate long after the thrill of the challenge had gone from us kids. Again my mom had nothing to do with this potential fiasco. We started out setting up the cameras out in a field next to the Motel, which became obviously dangerous when the storm approached toward us and lightning seemed to strike in a taunting manner mere yards away. Mom, almost hysterical at the lack of good judgment, screamed for us to return to the safety of the motel enclosure. Dad stubbornly refused to admit any danger but complied with the demand. From that new vantage point we spent what seemed like hours waiting for an appropriate burst of lightning worthy of wasting a chance at printing an instant photo. Given the primitive equipment capabilities (even for that time) we determined, with my dad that in order to get a picture of lightning one had to anticipate the flash. That meant waiting with full attention for the occasional but rare multiple and lingering bolts that only happened when you least expected. The whole event became extremely frustrating, except for dad who seemed to enjoy the irritation in us kids and cultivated the frustration further by suggesting irrational demands and punishment for wasting film on a failed try. The weather itself seemed to enjoy teasing us as well by providing sporadic bursts of activity when we were least prepared and suddenly relinquishing activity as soon as we were ready, Dad somehow had the ability to make us feel responsible for the lack of cooperation in the weather and responded with an ultimatum that we wouldn’t sleep until an image of lightning appeared on Polaroid film. Finally! We got one. And thankfully it was a group effort, if one could imagine that a group of kids with a 1940’s Polaroid camera could help matters, a blurry ambiguous blob of light appears on a black & white photo. We could all go to bed now.

The picture still exists and is proudly deemed the only picture of lightening my dad has been able to get.

Ice

2008-04-06T14:59:00.000-07:00

Being on the road most of the time, food was a reality that couldn't be ignored even though my dad would’ve liked to make eating more akin to his odd whims and tastes. It was always apparent that eating was a fact that mostly annoyed my dad because the rest of us generally had normal eating habits and tastes. My dad on the other hand preferred food that wasn’t necessarily orthodox, impulsive, but structured around life long routines and habits – for example: mayonnaise needed to be stored in a cupboard at room temperature for more than a few days, and eaten with such delicacies as canned mackerel with a quality slightly above cat food, and accompanied with a dill pickle sold in a plastic bag. Sandwiches bought at a restaurant and taken home as leftovers can last literally for days and eaten in stages for different daily meals. I’m always amazed that dad hasn’t died yet from food poisoning, but the riper the food, the better with him. That didn’t mean he wasn’t opposed to good food as well, as long as it had an occasion or was free. Dad was able to put down hundreds of pounds of gourmet items if it was provided, or if he was feeling generous and wanted to celebrate at an expensive restaurant, the eating of good food go into the extreme and turn into an embarrassing and frustrating production that could take hours and finish only when the management of the restaurant asked us to leave because they have closed an hour ago. But usually, and out on the trip, price was the deciding factor on what to eat.

Out on the road our refusal to bend to my dads eating habits clearly irritated him and was a source of anger when he was feeling antagonistic. Buying food in a local small town market would often result in bad choices, like jars of baby food. I don’t know why dad thought baby food was a good idea, I think he just liked the little jars, but he insisted that we keep a supply in the car. You could have a full meal; meat, vegetable, fruit, all in a convenient single serving container, it was kind of like being an astronaut. We would keep a selection in the ice chests, and along with a cup of freshly mixed up Kool Ade or Tang, we got a square meal without having to chew. I remember especially liking the berry deserts and the beef dinner, they were like little portions of pudding. I realize later that baby food was not the most economical way to eat, but it was easy before the days of modern packaging. Gerbers was the brand of choice, over Beechnut, I felt Gerbers had the best selection and flavor, and dad abandoned his thrifty habits and forked over the few extra cents to buy the premium Gerbers brand. Dad must’ve had some infantile fascination now that I think of it. He always had a baby bottle full of water with him on the trip, a habit he picked up from one of my cousins, who when she was 13 or so, liked to carry a baby bottle and drink from it. A habit that probably lasted not more than a month with her, and was highly discouraged for a 13 year old. But none the less, my dad thought the baby bottle was a great idea. Now, I never actually saw him suck on it like a baby, he claimed that he always had a dry mouth and constantly needed to "hydrate", so he would use the baby bottle like a squirt bottle, squeezing it and sending a stream of water out the nipple into his mouth, over his teeth. He kept the bottle next to him in bed, watching TV in the Motels and next to him in the car. This brilliant innovation alleviated the need to have a cup of water next to him constantly, or having to constantly have an ice cube to suck on out of the chests. I still think he liked having a baby bottle. The bottle served other purposes as well. Filling it with ice water, it became a useful tool to wake us up in the morning, pulling off the covers and squirting us with icy water. I can still remember the whistling sound the bottle made as it was squirting us, dad would sadistically laugh at our discomfort, and it was maddening. Once someone tried to take the baby bottle away to avoid the morning ritual, this only resulted in panic and severe punishment. It was then best thought to endure the morning squirtings.

But the ice chests. They did more than hold our baby food; they were the kitchen of the car. The first year of the trip, we started out light on the in-car supplies. The first ice cooler container was a bag, it looked like a bigger bowling ball bag, red plaid fabric on the outside and lined with white plastic on the inside. We filled it with ice and drinks but soon found out its limitations. One was size, the other was it leaked. I recall halfway through the trip the ice bag wasn’t working so dad went and found two Styrofoam ice chests. The plan was that one would be for drinks and the other for food, and for the next 35 years this was the arrangement. I need to point out that dad still uses these same original ice chests, they are practically dissolving, being held together with various types of tape and are kept waterproof with plastic sacks. Dad claims that the newer ice chests aren’t made as well as these and he refuses to replace them, even though these chests are practically unusable. The other reason is he can’t find the correct dimensions for replacement ice chests, being annoyed at the way modern designed chests taper toward the bottom and use back seat space inefficiently. The beloved ice chests we have miraculously took up exactly one side of the back seat foot space, always right behind the passenger seat. This always meant that the person sitting on that side had to either be small, or uncomfortable. Having the chests there allowed dad to reach over and grab a drink, sometimes even a beer, which was one of those cute, small cans of Olympia.

As the ice chests aged over time and use, the ice began to take on a particular flavor, we knew this because of the constant crunching during hot drives. You could actually taste the history of each ice chest, the food chest being the most distinctive. I actually remember the distinctive taste of dill pickle, the flavor being imparted by those pickle in a bags my dad always got, but never ate all in one time. Half eaten baby foods would also leak into the ice and permeate into the Styrofoam for years, leaving a singular flavor in the ice that never changed and can be recalled from my memory to this day.

Getting the ice for the chests was another daily production that took on irritating proportions, and was carried out with military accuracy. Pretty much every motel we stayed at had an ice machine next to the coke machines, not having an ice machine was reason not to stay at a particular motel. The intention of providing ice for guests was most likely to fill one bucket to use for your soft drinks, and to fill maybe one ice chest. Early on in the trips it was taken for granted that ice was free and there was always plenty for everybody, the ice machines were always pretty much the same, a freezer with a horizontal door that constantly made ice for all the guests, the ice themselves were usually little cubes, but sometimes there were odd shaped ice like tubes, the tube kind was not preferred and melted faster, but probably was more cost effective for the motel. But in any case the free ice was a valued commodity and dad took full advantage of the service at every motel. Although ice was free, it was generally thought to be uncool to fill the chest right at the ice maker, we found this out early when the motel manager laid into my dad one morning after he was caught taking what looked like 30 gallons of ice. So one had to be nonchalant about getting ice for the chests, making multiple trips with the provided motel bucket at various intervals so not to arise suspicion, sending us kids on ice errands was also a good tactic that ensured a good supply, but even then one had to be careful about getting ice, especially if the machine was next to the office (getting ice tended to be a noisy task) or the manager was constantly lurking and milling around the motel grounds. Holiday Inns were the best for getting ice since the managers didn’t really care how much ice you took and there was generally 2 or 3 machines in a motel. But the ice getting was a major important chore and sometimes took a couple of hours to complete. Later on in the trips the managers either got wise to the ice taking, or it started to become expensive, so different methods were used by the different motels to curtail free ice taking for ice chests. The first was obviously stating that ice was for room use only, not for filling ice chests. This only angered my dad and was generally ignored; various excuses were used to justify him taking ice for his chests, and only made the ice-getting tasks more complicated and secretive. The worst though was when you actually had to buy ice; this was deemed unjust and ludicrous by dad and only motivated him to look for creative ways to obtain free ice. Over the years the ice procurement continually got more and more difficult, but continues to be a vital necessity for the daily trips.

Balloon time!

2008-04-05T10:03:00.000-07:00

Dad always considered himself a superior driver, far above everyone else on the road. Rarely would he admit some other car in front of us a good driver, usually they were idiots, or most often ignorant to the finer subtleties and skills of driving the streets and highways. So when we were on the road, dad, and our car in particular, was special and stood out among the other ordinary drivers, some who had no business at all being on the road.

Another skill dad claimed to have superior knowledge about was navigating, and he had a vast collection of various road maps to guide and direct us on our journeys. We found on the first year of the trip that all maps and map companies were not equal. Most everybody in the world used Rand McNally maps, but according to dad, these maps were ordinary and superficial, they didn't include the little known dirt roads and by-ways not considered by the regular travelers. Much to my dad's annoyance most cross country travelers were not interested in scenery and interesting back-roads, they just wanted "to get there" as fast as they could without regard to the beauty of getting there. Dad considered this a major character flaw of everyone in the world and it angered him that everyone seemed to care more about the destination and not about the "getting there". So the maps were extremely important, but the Rand McNally maps didn't cut it. The map company of choice was Gousha (I think that is the name) I'm not exactly sure the actual name of the company because to this day dad always pronounced it "Geeshee". So that's what those maps were called, "Geeshee maps" and that's what I'm going to call them here because I've never known them named any differently from their correct name - they're "Geeshee maps". The advantage of Geeshee maps was that they were up to date (so my dad claimed) indicating the current new roads, and they indicated the little used dirt roads, meant for the locals. The maps themselves were also rare and difficult to find, which was evidence for dad that they must me good. Many a times dad claimed a Geeshee map saved his life and pointed him in the right direction, avoiding disaster or road construction, giving him the advantage over the other sorry highway travelers who were unfortunate enough to have to rely on Rand McNally maps. The Geeshee maps and the occasional discovery of the dirt road was a privilege my dad held over all others.

Now I need to mention that part of our Summer trips to Estes Park was to gather our entire family, Aunt, Uncle, Cousins... to vacation at Wind River Ranch, and Uncle Bob was likewise responsible for driving his family in the Country Squire station wagon to Estes Park. I remember that station wagon well, I wished we had one. It had wood paneling on the sides, the way back windows were covered with stickers showing the interesting roadside attractions my Aunt, Uncle and cousins visited, and because there was 4 kids to contend with in their family, the way back of the station wagon had fold-up seats that was way cool and really fun to sit in, it seemed to me a great privilege to be able to sit in the way back.

But according to my dad there was a couple of fatal flaws in my Uncle Bob's traveling style. For one, he usually wanted to get to the destination as fast as possible, taking only 2 or 3 days to reach Estes Park - LA to Salt Lake first day, Salt Lake to Estes Park second day, done. This always perplexed my dad, not understanding why Uncle Bob didn't enjoy the drive there, or didn't have the time to enjoy the journey. Uncle Bob's schedule was something my dad would never understand. The second flaw was that Uncle Bob used a Rand McNally map to navigate, and not only that, it was one of those convenient road atlas type of maps combining the whole country in one book, not the superior fold out maps specific to a region. For my dad, using a Rand McNally road atlas was for amateurs and potentially dangerous. To really be prepared one had to use a Geeshee map and know how to read it properly. You not only were required to know the proper map reading skills, (more about that later) but almost as important was the unfolding and folding of these type maps, a procedure that was as frustrating as it was treacherous, dad often showed off his superior skill of opening, reading and re-folding a geeshee map while driving. But Uncle Bob's using the Rand McNally was cause for ridicule and insult by my dad, expressing disbelief about how Uncle Bob could ever get anywhere using a Rand McNally.

Dad in all his infinite wisdom came up with a solution to help Uncle Bob find his way 500 miles using an inferior map. Dad came up with "Balloon Time", a ritual we performed 3 or 4 times a day in the car. Whenever we would change a highway, make a turn-off, pass a landmark or cross state lines, mom would blow up a balloon and I would let it go out the window of our speeding car. Often without warning dad would yell out, "balloon time!" and the ritual began, my mom patiently putting up with the silliness since it kept me occupied and interested for 5 minutes. To me this was a task of great importance, crucial to Uncle Bob reaching Estes Park successfully. I would stick the balloon out the window and let it flap in the wind a few seconds before letting it go. We would watch as it was carried by the wake of the car and drifted, ideally by the left side of the road so Uncle Bob could see it. By leaving this symbolic breadcrumb trail for Uncle Bob this was reassurance that following the roadside markers of balloons they would make it to Estes Park without getting lost.

However, I never understood why Uncle Bob and my cousins always got to the ranch before we did.

Tradition

2008-04-04T18:02:00.000-07:00

One day, I found out we were all going to drive to Estes Park, Colorado, wherever that is. We were going to take my grandmothers car, an Oldsmobile Delta 88, because for some reason our red Mustang wasn't good enough, and my Gammy was going to be in Estes Park when we got there and she wanted to use the car, so we would drive it there, let her use it and drive it back. So me, my mom and dad were going to take a "Big Bye Bye" to Colorado.

We were going to a ranch and be cowboys, live like the real cowboys did in a cabin and ride horses. We were going to some place called a "dude ranch" and the name of it was Wind River Ranch, high in the Rocky Mountains. But to get there we were going to drive, it would take a long time since up to now my frame of reference for driving distance was going to the market with mom, or "little bye byes" to visit with my cousins in Hollywood, or a day trip in Palm Springs. But this was a BIG bye bye and would take a long time spending many days in the car going hundreds of miles. We were going to eat in the car and stay in motels along the way and we were going to see many wonderful things along the way that I had no concept at the time were interesting or not, in fact I had no idea what we were getting into for the next 40 years.

I was too young to have any responsibility of packing and preparing for the trip, I was just coming along. The packing and planning was up to my mom and dad, and it seemed like mom was a little unhappy about the whole thing. But dad was all into it. The day before the trip, when things were probably the most hectic, it became an annual tradition before the trip for many years to come, to take out a selected collection of 45's (the little vinyl records with the big hole) and play them for hours, and dance to a couple of the favorite songs. The main song of the collection was "A Summers Place" by Percy Faith and his Orchestra. This was the theme song for the trip since we started the 'big bye byes" during the Summer and Estes Park became our Summers place. On the flip side of "Summers Place" was a happy little instrumental song called "Go Go a Pogo" Which was really fun to hop around and dance to. Dad and I would dance so vigorously that we would shake the house and sometimes break things. Another important theme song vital to the musical tradition was "Baby the Rain Must Fall" by Glenn Yarborough, a very masculine and inspirational song that expressed the true spirit of the big bye bye and was the official theme song for my dad and all he stood for and believed in. This song more than others was the personality of the big bye bye. Some of the other songs we would play was "Transfusion" by Nervous Norvous, a cheap 50's novelty song about crazy drivers getting into accidents and needing blood transfusions due to injuries caused by reckless driving habits. I guess this was a cautionary tale meant to set the tone for expert driving talents my dad claimed to have above all the other drivers on the road, and we were sure to encounter all of them. There was "Downtown" and "I Know a Place" by Petula Clark, and the theme from "Mondo Cane" which was fun to pretend you were riding a horse to. "Walk on the Wild Side" was a cool movie theme song that had 2 versions on each flip side of the 45, I can remember the label artwork for each specific record and since I couldn't read that was how I kept track and knew which record I wanted to play.
Mom was always annoyed at this ritual and stayed far away, probably because it was a way for my dad to avoid work and also motivated him to act a little crazy. This was my dads tradition, this was his "big bye bye" and this was the official start of our Summer vacations.