Flight of 5

If you are unfamiliar with this particular National Park, that may be because Firebolt renamed it.  And once that child has something in her head a particular way, that’s just the way it is.  Try as we might, we can’t get our daughter to let go of calling it Tentacles…

After getting on the road at the gentlemanly hour of 10 am, we departed Alamo and drove just over two and half hours to arrive at PINNACLES National Park, arriving in the early afternoon.

Pinnacles National Monument became our country’s 59^th National Park in 2013, and number 9 for our flight to visit.  This particular piece of prime real estate was formed 23 million years ago, give or take, when a whole mess of volcanoes erupted and the Earth’s crust shifted around (and bunched up on itself) to create a wholly unique landscape.  Because my pictures didn’t even remotely capture its splendor, I share the following image borrowed from the National Park Service website:

Our intention with this particular stop was to overnight on the way to Seal Beach where we had reserved a spot to park Davista (and the Subaru) through the winter and see what we could see during out short stay.  Upon checking in we made a beeline for the Ranger Station/Visitor’s Center.  With a stop to evaluate what the Subaru was up to…

Stinkin’ clutch (literally, I’m afraid).

The girls collected their Junior Ranger books just in time to head out for a talk given by a Ranger on the condors in the park.

Firebolt and WoodSprite were captivated, but my least favorite part was handling the feathers – so I didn’t – I don’t know why, but feathers just kinda gross me out.  I think it probably has something to do with my hyperactive imagination that I can’t manage to disengage when I see parts of but not the whole animal   It’s way worse in murky water. But I digress…

Through the Ranger’s informative talk where we learned that, slowly but surely, the condor population has grown from a dismal 22 in the 1980’s to now more than 400.  All of these majestic birds have been bred in captivity and Pinnacles National Park is one of the five sites in North America where these enormous creatures have been released. We didn’t see any condors, but, again, another picture from the National Park Service site:

Still, the feathers?  Creepy.

When the talk concluded we headed back to the Ranger Station/Visitors Center so the girls could finish my favorite Junior Ranger activity to date.  How often do you get to match replica skat to the right species? What an awesome opportunity!

Who doesn’t like to inspect and handle replica feces?!

Well, our 9 x Junior Rangers were all over it and there may or may not have been some giggling involved.

In writing this, I’m reminded of a Muppet sketch where a sports commentator was covering the illustrious sport of wig racing and asked one of the trainers how he cared for the wigs, “Do you use shampoo?” “Nope, nothing but the real thing…”  But I digress, yet again…

Before the sun set (and we’re nearing the winter solstice with daylight rapidly dwindling), we grabbed a snack and went for a shortish hike.

Although we saw some beautiful colors in the lichen and Keeper was rather blown away by the enormous pinecones, it became apparent that none of our hearts were really in experiencing the Park’s beauty.  Perhaps I was projecting that on everyone as I could feel my overtired inner 5-year old threatening a tantrum.  However, while I think WoodSprite may have picked up on my impending meltdown, she managed this one just fine on her own.

On our way back we distracted WoodSprite by asking her to flex her Junior Ranger savvy:

Any guesses?

How about this one…

Yeah, me neither.  Normally I’d offer up Bengal Tiger, Komodo Dragon, or something equally outlandish, but I simply couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to so “guess.”  I think we’re all processing the upcoming departure from Davista in different ways and I’m trying not to wallow in my brewing emotions.  Here’s hoping a day at Disneyland will similarly serve to distract and soften the abrupt departure from our newly cultivated lifestyle into what exactly (I still don’t know) as we make our way back to Maryland.

It should work, right?

All 5-year olds can’t not get distracted at “The Happiest Place on Earth,” right?

Right??!

I sure hope I’m one of them…

After an incredible Thanksgiving visit in Grass Valley we headed back down to Grammy and Papa’s house in Alamo with zero leftovers.  Although we had only planned to be there for a few days, we had a very large task list to tackle to effectively redeploy our lives to Maryland.  Flight’s folks were kind enough to offer us a corner of their garage to store anything we’d prefer not to keep in Davista for the months we’d be parking her (and the Subaru) while we overwintered in Maryland.

My heart grew heavier as we methodically progressed through our storage compartments and packed numerous boxes to send back to Davidsonville or store in Alamo.  That process was wholly deflating as it felt as though we were deconstructing everything we spent the last few months joyfully building.  My rather dramatic inner 5-year old was back now and keening a full Scottish lament.  As we were out of pie, I was glad to tee up some fun distractions for her in the interim.  And those also kept the kids entertained.

We helped Grammy and Papa decorate their house for Christmas, which made me eager to prepare our own house for the holidays.  Firebolt gladly assisted Grammy in making some candy cane brownies.

And WoodSprite may or may not have enjoyed some hot chocolate…

There was a local skating rink that had just opened and we planned to meet our niece and nephew there to take a few turns on the ice.  My inner 5-year old paused in her woeful lament and gave thanks for Flight’s being on a trip.  One of my most (and least) favorite things about Flight is that he is a gifted athlete, which means he picks up new skills at ludicrous speed.  Far faster really than anyone has the right to and, while waltzing may elude him, skating appears to be one of his innate capabilities.  So not fair.

Nearly two decades before, I had visited Flight in The Netherlands where he was on duty as an exchange pilot with the Dutch Navy.  He mentioned that one of the nearby towns had created a skating area on one of the canals and suggested we check it out.  He admitted, “I’ve never been ice skating before – this should be fun.”  My less-than-gracious inner 5-year old gleefully delighted in the opportunity to see him fall on his caboose.  Really, can he please just suck at something?!

Growing up I spent ample time braving the bitter Chicago winter weather to learn to make my gangly way across the uneven neighborhood outdoor skating rink the Evanston Park District flooded every year and was sure I had the upper hand in our outing.  Did Flight favor me with a fall?  Nope.  Not once.  Not only did he easily make his way around the rink, after observing what skills others were performing, he started doing cross-over skating too.  Seriously?  Yep.

Fast forward to Alamo.  Lacing up my skates brought to mind plenty of childhood bruises to knees, elbows, and ego as I sorted out how to stay upright on ice skates.  I was hoping some of that long-buried and hard-earned knowhow would surface once I stepped out on the ice.

As I did, I couldn’t help but hear one of our family’s common observations echoing in my head…

We got a Wii when Keeper was two years old.  Clearly his father’s son in the coordination department, Keeper was able to easily (and most intuitively) play any of the games we collected and started racking up high scores.  His favorite (and perhaps my most challenging) was Super MarioKart, which involves racing through the most seemingly drug-induced lands.  The subtle control of one’s racing car is an elusive skill for someone like me who tends to manage the temperature in the car by alternating between 84^oF and 62^oF, constantly overshooting and never arriving at the ideal.

Calling it like he saw it, Keeper would observe, “Mom, you’re not very good at this…”  I let him know that, as accurate as his assessment might be, I would appreciate it if he would be a little more encouraging.  From then on out he offered this supportive commentary: “Dad, you’re really great at MarioKart.  Mom’s… Mom’s getting better…”

A far cry from Nancy Kerrigan, but at least I didn’t eat it…

The kids had a blast with their cousins…

Not only did my ice-skating skills leave plenty to be desired, but I was really struggling with hitting pause on our journey this soon into our travels.  My inner 5-year old was approaching a tantrum, and, in gaining steam, offered up plenty of rhetorical questions  in rapid fire succession, all in the same vein.  Why didn’t our house stinkin’ sell?!  Why were we told it would go like hotcakes?! Why was our only reasonable offer from an alleged felon?! Why couldn’t we just continue to travel?! Why do I have to be a grown up and go back to Maryland to tend to the very adult needs associated with selling our house?  How many house projects do I need to tackle for the next owners?  No matter how I tried (and truthfully it wasn’t a particularly earnest effort), I couldn’t want to go back to Maryland.  I couldn’t even muster much enthusiasm for going to our next National Park on the way to park Davista in Seal Beach.

This being an adult business stinks, but at least I’m getting better…

Before we even got underway, our flight was very aware that we have so much for which to be thankful.  With our time on the road, our blessings have become even more apparent and we’ve been living in a season of thanksgiving, making this short stretch with extended family that much more poignant.  We were thrilled to be invited back to Grass Valley to celebrate Thanksgiving this year.  Neema and Teepa are the parents of Flight’s sister’s husband or, as I like to refer to them, they are our in-laws totally removed.  They have adopted our whole flight as an extension of their own family and our kids thoroughly enjoy their bonus set of grandparents.

Perhaps a little peek into my relationship with turkey day would help set the stage for our time in Grass Valley…  Most Americans can’t think of this holiday without evoking delicious eats centered on a roasted turkey, mounds of mashed potatoes, and enough pumpkin pie to choke a horse.  However, Thanksgiving was never really a huge celebratory event while I was growing up.  My father emigrated from The Netherlands when he was 15 and, although he wholeheartedly embraced his new nation’s citizenship, there were many aspects of quintessential Americana that he never really took to.  For example, I didn’t learn how to catch a ball with a mitt until I was a freshman in high school when a good friend (and phenomenal softball player who is now coaching at the college level) showed me how it was done and convinced me to try out for the softball team.  That was a terrible idea for everyone involved as my ball throwing skills weren’t particularly well developed either.  An aside, VW actually made an ad highlighting one of my own personal nightmares centered on the translation of this glaring omission in my physical development to our offspring.  Fortunately, Flight’s hand-eye coordination is exceptional and appears to be a dominant trait eclipsing my less than satisfactory skillset.  But I digress…

Back to our festive fare… There was never a turkey involved in celebrating Thanksgiving at our house growing up.  Rock Cornish Game Hens anyone? Yep, kinda like turkeys but smaller.  We had those a few times, which was far from the norm across the nation, but that particular culinary choice came with the added bonus that everyone got a wish bone… How about pizza? I think we managed that once or twice when my father was on a mission overseas over Thanksgiving.  Because our nearest relatives were my mother’s family who lived at least a 12-hour drive away from our house in Evanston, Illinois, we rarely gathered with extended family and never around the holidays.  Aside from the extra two days off from school, I don’t remember celebrating that day as a major holiday event.

Having already spent last year’s delightful gathering hosted by our in-laws totally removed, I was pretty excited about enjoying a repeat performance.  Last year we had stayed in Neema and Teepa’s 5^th wheel and this year we pulled our own rig onto their 5 acres and plugged right in next to their house.  Our kids were inside and playing games with their cousins as soon as Davista was parked and likely before the engine shut down.

Food preparation had started before we even pulled up.  There was so much food on hand, which is important when you’re feeding 6 kids (two of whom are elite waterpolo players and can easily pack away twice their body weight in mashed potatoes), and everyone pitched in to prepare an incredible spread.

We finally sat down and each shared something for which we are thankful…

After dinner, a round of various games started before the annual poker game got underway.

Since I am well known for having the worst poker face ever, I tend not to play and instead just heckle.

With football games offering an exciting soundtrack to just being together, we reveled in sharing this time (and eating leftovers), which was capped by taking several family photos.  Of the dozens we captured, here are few of my favorites…

Although I thoroughly enjoy visiting with our family, especially in the beautiful Grass Valley setting, my melancholy was deepening as our upcoming departure from our new way of life was growing near.  I couldn’t want to go back to Maryland and was acutely aware of my inner 5-year old stamping her foot and wanting to rebel at the fiscally responsible path we’d chosen, namely storing Davista in Southern California and overwintering in Maryland.  We absolutely need to get back to our house, fire our realtor team, hire a new crew, and do some house projects before we put the house back on the market.  My inner 5-year old couldn’t be bothered with that reasoning, so instead I just pacified her outrage with copious amounts of pumpkin cheesecake.  She quieted almost immediately, but I’m sure I’ll hear from her again once the sugar buzz wears off, hopefully after we reach Maryland.

Took a little walk.  Met a little Trevian.  Had a little talk…  These were the opening lines of one of our high school swimming and diving team’s motivational chants.  I went to Evanston Township High School and our rivals were the New Trier Trevians.  Whenever I hear “Down by the River…” the rest of the words come tumbling free from the deeply buried annals capturing my youth.  When I dug a little deeper into the history of that chant, I learned it’s actually borrowed from one of the Army’s cadence calls and, as with most such morsels of military culture, goes on to suggest best ways of killing the enemy. Whoa! Our family outing today had nothing to do with Trevians, or intentional drownings for that matter, but we did find ourselves down by the Kaweah River.  But I’m getting ahead of myself…  Let me back up…

Our morning started at our spectacular campsite snuggled in beside a stream leading to the Kaweah River.  A capstone of today’s roadschooling adventure was Firebolt finishing her first knitting project, a sweater for her American Girl doll, Samantha.  Samantha is wearing a Shalom Cardigan-style sweater perfect for brisk mornings in the National Parks of Sequoia and King’s Canyon.

Brilliantly constructed by Firebolt, the colors were chosen to highlight Samantha’s coloring.  Okay, so maybe that last bit’s a stretch as that was the only yarn we had on hand.  However, the pattern was adapted from a cardigan I made for Firebolt when she was two and she knit Samantha’s new garment all by herself…

The next academic highlight was returning to the Visitor Center so the girls could be sworn in as Junior Rangers for these two parks.  This was by far the most in depth review of any of their Junior Ranger work.  The girls were asked plenty of questions about what they learned about the Sequoia and the surrounding ecosystems and they both rose to the occasion.  Me, I just stamped my passport and observed the age appropriate inquisition.

With the badges rightfully earned, we made our way to Slick Rock Recreation Area to recreate late in the afternoon.  We parked and sauntered down to the water, WoodSprite “Hey Momma”-ing me on the way…

Similar to the geological wonder we summitted yesterday (Moro Rock), the smooth granite boulders strewn about in the Kaweah River were unlike anything I’d ever seen.

Perhaps more aware of the fact that it was late November, our girls were less inclined to swim in the frigid water, but Keeper rallied.  He first waded out to his own island…

And then, not only invited his sisters to join him, but transported them one at a time across the Kaweah where together they owned their new land.

What an awesome big brother!

Firebolt grew brave enough to forge through the water on the return trip, but WoodSprite gave that idea a hearty NOPE and again relied on her brother’s ferry services, which he was gracious enough to offer.

The kids explored a little more and spent time solving the world’s problems.

Then Keeper volunteered to submerge himself in the water, but wanted evidence to document his bravado.  Flight videoed his crazy stunt, but I think this picture captures well the temperature of his surrounding environs.

Um, no.  No, thank you.

Was it cold?  I’ll let you be the judge…

Keeper, however, was warmed by the thrill of his daring adventure, so he did it again.

And again.

Again, um, no, thank you.

While Keeper was braving the water, Firebolt struck up a conversation with a kid whose family we learned was actually staying at this beautiful location as the site’s hosts.  Flight already captured that boondoggle opportunity in his post and I’ll just add that I continue to be amazed by all the unexpected ways that I learn other families make this unconventional lifestyle work.

Sweet sibling time aside, my absolute favorite picture of the day was Flight’s silhouette in the waning daylight.

The late afternoon lighting also provided some lovely portrait shots of our girls.

We trundled back to our car, which was parked near our new friends’ house, and headed back to our own residence.  We paused briefly outside the Kaweah Post Office, long enough really just to take a picture of the tiny building that dates back to another age.

According to the Lonely Planet website’s summary, it was “Founded by the utopian Kaweah Co-operative Colony,” and “is one of the USA’s smallest and oldest still-operating post offices, now staffed by volunteers,” because the U.S. Postal Service rescinded its contract in 2010.  Yikes.  Now I can’t speak to the politics of our nation’s mail service, but I can certainly get behind choosing this location to create a utopian colony.  Although I didn’t meet a single Trevian down by the river, I’d like to think we’d have equitably shared this piece of paradise as graciously modeled by our kids.

Actually there isn’t.  There is no trouble with the trees.  Sequoia National Park suffers from zero maple v. oak issues — the sequoias dominate, unopposed.  The unrest is probably limited to Canadian forests.

While you recover from that severely nerdy / cringey reference, let me describe the drive to Three Rivers, just outside of the park, where we spent the next few days.  As it happens, I was correct to be concerned about the grade in our escape from Death Valley.  Here’s the picture of our route.

It turns out Death Valley really is a valley; quite a deep one in fact.  The section in purple is a long, steep upslope.  It takes you from -200’ to just about 5000’ in about 20 miles.  That was tough, but manageable at 20-30 mph or so and in low gear.  The section in yellow is a very steep downslope.  In about 12 miles you lose a good bit of that elevation again, at a 9% grade.  For some perspective, 6% is the highest grade allowed on interstate highways.  So if you think about infamous stretches of highway with runaway truck ramps and the smell of angry brakes, you’re likely thinking of 6%.  There are small sections of steeper grades on tiny roads in hilly urban or mountainous areas, but this was my first brush with 12 miles straight of 9%.  It was not enjoyable.  Not at all.  You want to stay in the lowest gear you can manage in order to let your engine tackle as much of the slowing down as possible, but with this kind of slope I had no choice but to get on the brakes repeatedly.  Once brakes heat up enough they start to “fade,” i.e. lose effectiveness, until they have no ability to do their job at all.  I don’t know at what temperature this happens, but I was in no mood to perform experiments.  I did learn that Davista will in fact upshift automatically when the RPMs get so high that engine/transmission damage becomes a possibility.  This happens at about 5500 RPM (= a screaming engine), and causes a very abrupt and uncomfortable speed increase.  Sweating profusely about halfway down the hill, the brakes smell hit us strongly.  A few seconds of wondering what it would feel like to push the pedal and NOT SLOW DOWN convinced me to urgently seek and subsequently spot a turnoff on the opposite side of the road, into which I guided us to let the brakes cool.  In an A320 we have brake fans and a brake temperature gauge to help with such things – not so in Davista.  We sat there on the side of the desert road, me with my fancy IR thermometer taking shockingly high temperature readings I wasn’t sure I understood, for a good half hour before I was satisfied that they had cooled enough to take us the last 5 miles or so.  Luckily by that point it was more or less a straight shot – if nothing else I could scream into the valley at 100 mph and let the next uphill section dissipate our energy.  (Not really… I think Davista would shake and shudder herself into oblivion at about 85)

Disaster averted and lesson learned, we pressed on through the desert past some really rough little near-ghost-towns and then over the Tehachapi Pass into California’s fertile Central Valley again.  Though we stopped in Bakersfield for the night, it was a short and non-noteworthy, so I’m considering this just a two day drive to Sequoia.

Sequoia is the southernmost of California’s three national parks in the Sierras, and shares a border (and a Junior Ranger badge) with Kings Canyon national park.  It is, of course, most famous for its trees, but it also contains some of California’s most remote wilderness and extreme terrain, to include Mt. Whitney, the continental US’s highest point.  We stayed at a relatively low elevation just outside the park, along a stream feeding the Kaweah River.  Great call, as not only was it one of the best private campgrounds we’ve visited, but here’s the road up into Sequoia.

Davista would not have liked that at all.  Even our Subaru didn’t like it.  Our campsite, however, was right on the stream and hammock friendly, as well as spacious and populated with enough kids to allow our own to throw together a nerf gun battle or two.

Our original plan was to drive up to Sequoia and do a bit of hiking the first day and then do a second drive on day two past the sequoia groves and into Kings Canyon.  Nixing that plan became very easy after that first day of driving.  Though technically not very far, driving through Sequoia into Kings Canyon would have entailed a solid 4 hours on the road, through torturous (because they’re so tortuous!) (yes, I just learned the difference) switchbacks.  Nah.  Fortunately the girls were able to bag their Junior Ranger badge for both parks while only visiting one.

The hike through the sequoias was predictably spectacular.  Though not quite as tall as the giant redwoods, sequoias are more girthy and therefore massive.

We’ve found that as a family we have some of our best conversations while hiking; this time some of our more interesting conversational meanderings took us to the things that were happening in the world when these trees were young.  One feature I found especially interesting about sequoias is the degree to which they’re scarred.  Every one of the older trees sports heavily blackened areas, from forest fires and/or lightning strikes.  Evidently they are able to survive forest fires quite well, and when you’re around a few thousand years, you’re going to see a few of those.

That idea of extreme longevity spurred me to take Keeper with me on a conversational tangent about this interesting podcast I heard in which they were discussing how, if all diseases were curable and aging effects were stoppable, we would essentially all die of accidents, and what the graph of age vs number of people alive would look like.  He may have found it less interesting than I.  He stuck with me though.

The reverent vibe that we had previously sensed in among the redwoods was definitely present here among the sequoias as well, though there are significant differences between the biomes – redwoods are low in elevation, sequoias are high, and redwood forests felt more lush and dense, whereas the sequoias seem to be more or less the only vegetation within their groves.

It proved an ideal place to sit and answer Junior Ranger questions.

We rounded the General Sherman tree at the last bit of our hike; it’s the largest (by volume) living single stem tree on Earth, and looks it.

Tree hike complete, we braved the curvy road again, but opted to stop at Moro Rock just before sunset.  Moro Rock sits like a sentinel at the top of the Kaweah River canyon and commands stunning 360 degree views.  Great place for a sunset.  Unfortunately that translates to crowds, which don’t mix well with precarious trails that cling to steep rocks.  On top of that, these crowds were speaking very little English and seemed to have different ideas than we did about what constitutes personal space, making the whole endeavor a little dicey.

Keeper was not amused – first Angel’s Landing and then this?  “You do know I’m not kidding about the acrophobia thing right??” Sorry man…

The views though!

Having decided not to make the drive up the mountain again the following day, we spent it relaxing in the campground, followed by a short drive down to Slick Rock Recreation Area, at the eastern/upstream side of Lake Kaweah, where the river empties into the reservoir over a series of smooth rocks.  With the lake level quite low, there were quite a few rocks on which to play, though visiting just before Thanksgiving was a mixed blessing – no crowds, but no crowds because the air and that water is cold!  Fortunately our kids, especially Keeper, don’t mind cold water.  Check him out being the great big brother and carrying his sisters out to the middle of the river…

Later he opted for some full immersion swimming on the condition that I videoed him doing so.  “Pics or it didn’t happen” indeed.

One of the more interesting occurrences on that day was meeting, for the first time this trip, another family doing more or less the same thing as we were.  (!!)  Leave it to Firebolt to make the introduction.  She still sees herself as “shy,” but will find and introduce herself to just about any kid her age and will be playing as if they’ve been friends for years within 15 minutes.  I don’t think she realizes what “shy” means.

The family hailed from North Carolina, and had settled for the winter right there at Slick Rock Recreation Area as “camp hosts.”  This is an amazingly good deal which I wish we had previously researched and considered.  Essentially you stay for free at the nicest spot in the camp (and may even get a small stipend?) in exchange for minimal duties.  For them it was collecting the fee envelopes from the box each day and ensuring things were reasonably clean and that people weren’t doing prohibited things.  Not taxing during the very slow winter season.  What was interesting about this particular gig was that Slick Rock wasn’t even a campground… in fact theirs was the only site, and was well-appointed.  So essentially they had the entire park to themselves, and they told us about how they had dialed themselves in with the Three Rivers community, and had been brought into the town’s fold immediately.

While this was no longer any sort of option for us, I did note it for future reference, and scold myself slightly for not researching such options prior to our trip.  They seemed to be a fun family; I wish we could’ve hung around a bit more, but alas, the sun was setting and we were leaving the following morning, so we said our goodbyes.  The following day would bring a drive up to Grass Valley in the northern Sierra foothills to park in my sister’s in-laws’ driveway in preparation for a full on extended family Thanksgiving, which was something we had been able to do last year (minus the motorhome) and were greatly looking forward to.

We set our park-Davista-and-return-to-Maryland day as December 7^th (a day that will live in infamy).  We’ve got strongly mixed feelings about bringing this period of travel to a close.  The sense of not wanting to stop is deepening.  We still don’t have a destination, but the itinerant lifestyle, or at least this version of it, has become very easy and almost natural.  Breaking that rhythm doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, yet we haven’t come up with a viable alternative.

In the meantime some Big Family time will do us good.

I now celebrate every opportunity to head into the forest and get my tree Zen on, yet this was not always so.  Spending most of my childhood years in the Chicago area, I only had true tastes of nature’s glory while attending Camp Windego, a Girls Scout Camp in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, which I attended for at least a month most summers. As I got older, I traded in these blissful summer weeks learning to horseback ride, canoe, swim, and sail for a solid training regimen in the pool and in the dance studio growing as a diver and a Highland dancer.  During my training at the United States Naval Academy I was reintroduced to sailing and even taught this basic seamanship skill after I graduated while waiting to go to flight school.  Yet in early adulthood, aside from this limited time on the water and a brief foray into the holly-laden bramble of Quantico, Virginia, when I learned decidedly that the Marine Corps was not my best career path, I hadn’t spent much time in nature.

When Uncle Sam moved me to Whidbey Island in Washington State in my early 20s, I surprised myself by discovering that I was far more a country mouse than a city one.  While surrounded by so much natural glory, it is nearly impossible to be otherwise.  Sure, there were plenty of Navy folks who bemoaned the distance to the nearest shopping complex and yearned for easy access to strip malls, but I delighted in having just what was needed and nothing extraneous.  In fact, that suited me just fine.

It was during my JO (junior officer) tour with Patrol Squadron Forty (VP-40) that I was introduced to Washington Park.  Even if it hadn’t been Flight who introduced us, I would have immediately fallen in love with this sacred space.  Stretching out into the Puget Sound on the farthest northwest reaching corner of Fidalgo Island, this spectacular 220 acres is riddled with incredible hiking/mountain biking trails boasting insane views of the Olympic mountains, the San Juan Islands, and the Cascade Mountains around every corner.

For the less adventurous, there is a loop trail open to cars that will take you to some beautiful sites with perhaps the most photographed tree in the San Juan Islands (see the pic I snapped of Firebolt in our mother-daughter trip back to Anacortes last June), but so much is lost by not journeying on foot (or bike).

Perhaps my favorite piece of town history is that a fair chunk of Washington Park was paid for by the women of this community who raised money by selling $1000 worth of lemon pies in 1922.  As all Anacortes women were called upon to bake pies, all Anacortes men were encouraged to purchase a pie at $1, $2, or $3 each, depending on what one could afford with all proceeds going towards this $1000 goal.  This article from the local paper shares the big push for pie sales as well as providing two recipes for lemon pie.

When Washington Park and I were first getting to know each other, I began to understand that there is something magical about a gathering of trees, and, the taller the trees, the more seemingly majestic their congregation.  Commanding all and yet expecting nothing, such collections of trees have inspired me to wonder what they must have seen in their lifetimes beyond lemon pie sales.  Fast forward to our visit with the Redwoods earlier this fall where I was blown away by their awe-inspiring height and calming energy of these soaring cathedral-like beings.

Meeting the Redwoods reminded me of something out of Inner Bridges written by Dr. Fritz Smith.  A little background… Fritz is an osteopath who is also licensed as an MD and studied with both Ida Rolf (founder of Rolfing Structural Integration) and J.R. Worsley who brought 5-Element Acupuncture to the West.  A profound healer who immersed himself in studying many avenues to tap into the body’s resources to self-heal, his book focuses on the integration of these traditions and the extrapolation of which evolved into Zero Balancing, his own style of bodywork that systemically reorganizes. I had the good fortune to attend initial Zero Balancing training with Fritz in 2015, who, then at the at of 86, easily lectured all four days and performed manipulations and treatments.  Just being in his Zen presence was incredibly calming, not unlike the energetically soothing effects of trees that he describes in Inner Bridges.

Trees, because of their tall vertical structure, serve to streamline and regulate energetic fields.  So, when maybe you feel like this… (I refer to this as the swirling vortex of ick and found the below image online to illustrate it…)

… it’s incredibly helpful to bask in the mollifying majesty of these giants.  I wholeheartedly felt such reverence and calming amidst the Redwoods, yet was less so pacified by the Sequoias.  Perhaps I am in a more melancholy space recognizing that we were nearing an undefined pause in our journey with plans to return to Maryland to overwinter, yet I was less inspired by these behemoths than their cousins to the north.  The Sequoias were impressive, don’t get me wrong – how could they not be as the girthiest of the bunch, the General Sherman Tree, wears the crown for the largest living being on our planet (that we know of, I’m sure there are some larger ocean-dwellers that I’m fairly certain I don’t want to meet…) – yet, I just wasn’t as moved.  Regardless of my psycho-emotional response, this particular panorama captures the enormity of these beings…

It also happens to be where our children may or may not have been frolicking off the path and chasing each other clumsily weaving in between the sleeping giants along the Congress Trail.  Always a speedster, Keeper was tearing after his sisters when he caught a root and brutally rolled his ankle.  So brutally, in fact, that he had dirt on the top of his foot where the cuboid and lateral cuniform bones meet.  If you haven’t studied foot anatomy, basically the top of his foot was kissing the ground.  He stood up to assess the battle damage and discovered he wasn’t able to put weight on that foot.  After momentarily considering (and dismissing) aborting our hike, I encouraged Keeper to sit down and, with his permission, went to work on his ankle.  Fortunately, I had heard my angel whisper that today’s “go bag” should include some of my sprain and bruise liniment, which works wonders in healing soft tissue damage.  Between the application of the liniment and doing some sinew channel acupressure work, Keeper was able to walk, gingerly at first and then painlessly, and even climb about on some downed soldiers.

Meanwhile, his sisters worked to find the most interesting (sometimes precarious) places to work on their Junior Ranger badges.

While watching Keeper cautiously take his ankle for a test drive, I surprised myself by tearing up, overwhelmed by the simple joy of catalyzing healing in another.  I turned to Flight and choked out, “I really miss being a healer…”

Making a note to dig into missing that aspect of my essence when I might carve out appropriate time to do so, I took a deep breath and redirected my thoughts to savoring the park’s highlights.  My favorite collection of sequoia was the Senate Cluster where I could only imagine the debates that have spanned millennia.

The runner up was the grove I captured in Flight’s sunglasses…

As we made our way back to the car, we saw several downed trees that looked as though their skirts had been unceremoniously flipped over their heads as they tumbled and their altogether was on display.

Our crew managed one last proper photo before we made for Moro Rock.

Encouraged by Keeper’s ease with regaining his stride, we opted to explore another of the park’s famous treks, overlooking his (and my) dislike of heights.  Although it is only a ¼ mile amble from the parking lot to summit this granite dome, much of the path is flanked by steep drop offs, reminiscent of our incomplete visit to Angels Landing.  Here’s a picture I found on the National Park Service site to illustrate the summit.

What is not pictured here, and also why I didn’t try to capture this perspective, were the eleventy billion foreign tourists who had no qualms about pushing by others and crowding into personal space.  Keeper and I both need to work to battle our respective bouts of acrophobia in such places and the pressing throng of enthusiastic sight-seekers made that more challenging.  I became distracted mesmerized by the landscape’s shifting colors as the sun set, yet Keeper remained thoroughly nonplussed.

After getting some great shots of the family at the summit, I remained at the top snapping pictures as the sun dropped lower.   Looking West it just got more beautiful by the moment…

And the view to the East wasn’t so bad either…

Flight, ever clued into our flight’s (dis)comfort level, ushered Keeper and his sisters back down to the car while I remained transfixed by the sunset.  After one last shot, I too descended, my thoughts again relishing today’s opportunity to flex my healing skills and giving thanks for the resiliency of Keeper’s youthful joints…

I guess seeing Death Valley immediately after Zion was hardly setting the stage favorably for this, our 6th, National Park experience.  On the plus side, it was unexpectedly toasty when we rolled into Death Valley.  Yes, I recognize that this place is touted as being the hottest on the planet and temperatures will routinely soar into the high 110^os Fahrenheit in July and August, but I wasn’t expecting that just before Thanksgiving. Summer, yes, but almost winter? In fact, there is a reason the campground and Visitor’s Center is called Furnace Creek as records hold it reached 134^oF there in July 2013.  I can’t even imagine how that searing air might have felt on inspiration.  Fortunately, on our short visit in late November, the temperature peaked at reasonable 94^oF.  I tried to catch that in pixels, but just as I shot, the temperature dropped to a tepid 94-1^oF. Dang it.

Our visit was short and sweet (sort of), aside from the clown show put on by our fellow campers. As Flight alluded to in his post, we slept often throughout the night with periods of slumber punctuated by obnoxious neighbors, a roaring desert wind easily batting our house about, and a nearby yip yip dog protecting I’m not sure what exactly.  I was most disappointed by our lack of seeing a starry night as we were driven in by the aforementioned cacophony before the clouds dissipated.  Sigh…

Our afternoon arrival allowed for the Junior Rangers in our clan to pursue yet another badge, which they successfully accomplished at the nearby Furnace Creek Visitor’s Center.

Flight and I evaluated all that we could see within Death Valley based on our very limited timeline.  I had heard about the rocks that move on their own, leaving a carved groove in their wake to indicate their unexplained travels.

While some scientists have proposed and demonstrated a plausible mechanism for their unique existence, I prefer to embrace the mystery.  Although I was keen on seeing the Sliding Rocks, when I learned they were located a scant 3.5-hour drive from our campsite, one that should require a sat-phone and a high-clearance 4×4, I became far less interested and was happy to rely on images I found online.  Maybe next time…

Instead, we chose to see the Devil’s Golf Course, which was covered with jumbled, low-lying salt formations almost as far as the eye could see.

We saw only one other car on our way out to the fairway and its occupants scuttled away shortly after we arrived to leave us truly alone on the expansive salt flat. Very eerie and certainly not where I’d want to skin a knee.  Here’s a close up view of all that dirty salt:

Although I lined it off the list for possible summer cottage locations, I’m glad we saw it.

We drove back to the campsite, all a little subdued, maybe a little perplexed by what we had seen.  We broke camp and bid Furnace Creek adieu. On our way out of the Park, we drove through Artists Drive and stopped to take in Artist’s Palette where the hills are alive with the patina of aged minerals.

I know, that doesn’t have the same lyrical ring to it, but the mounds of muted colors were indeed awe-inspiring.  Although they didn’t exude same siren’s call for me as my red rocks, I was glad we made the opportunity to see them as well.

While seeing the lowest point in the US was one to check off the bucket list, the highlight of the trip was our brush with a runaway vehicle.

Ours.

In all my years of commuting up and down Parley’s Canyon to take me from Park City to teach at the U and back home again, I had always wondered about the highway’s offshoots labeled, “Runaway Truck Ramp,” as I had never seen one in use. Apparently they’re pretty handy when a massive hunk of metal achieves an inertial state that can no longer be overcome by its braking system.   Especially on steep grades (9% in this particular case, although I’ve heard it may be more), the scale often tips to inertia because the frictional load on the brakes heats them past their functioning temperature window.  In Utah, these well-placed ramps allow gravity to take over and bring a barreling mass back under control.  Despite looking in earnest, especially once our brakes started smelling hot, I didn’t locate any on the steep slope.  Hmm…

So here we sat for a stretch to allow our hot brakes to cool enough to gently nudge them back into the safe range of temperature operation.  As Flight likes to say, it wasn’t yet an emergent situation but we could easily see disaster from our parking spot at the side of the road, IR thermometer in hand.

I have since done some more research on that stretch of road and learned that RV brake failure and/or brake fires are not uncommon, so much so that State Troopers refer to late spring and summer as “Towing Season.”  !!!  The RV-capable towing companies based near Death Valley must be nearly as lucrative as those in Pismo Beach, and I, for one, am most thankful that we didn’t provide an additional data point to stretch the season into November.  Onto the cooler climes and greener (and maybe less steep?) slopes awaiting us in Sequoia National Park…

This makes no sense, but turning around and backtracking to the west along the same road we had traveled a few days prior rubbed me wrong.  It felt vaguely counter-productive, as if we’d already gained that ground and were giving it back up, even though we were headed to new destinations.  Like I said, no sense.

Possibly though, it’s related to this tiny, deep-seated sense of relief I experience each time we complete a leg of our journey, with nothing having broken down or disabling us in some way.  I used to get the same feeling back when we had a boat in the San Juan Islands – I loved going out, but every time we pulled back into the dock having cheated maritime disaster once again (never a given; we got into some pretty sketchy situations in that boat), I would feel this tension release.

So here we were driving back through the Virgin River Gorge and around Vegas toward California, not sure of what to expect in Death Valley.

As we turned northwest out of Las Vegas and left civilization behind, I was struck once again how massive and remote Nevada is.  We only saw a small corner of it, but the entire state is mini mountain range after mini mountain range, wide valley after wide valley, rocky, dry, and empty, forever.  And by “mini” I don’t mean that they are small mountains.  They’re huge.  But the ranges themselves only stretch for 50-100 miles, and there are so many of them that you wouldn’t even know their names unless you lived in Nevada.  Maybe even then you wouldn’t.

There’s truly a “you could find anything out here” feel to the area, which helps to explain Burning Man, Area 51, legalized gambling and prostitution, and the little town we drove into just prior to turning west back into California.  There were only a few scattered semi-decrepit buildings, but evidently one of them was a brothel run by Mr. Dennis Hof, of HBO/Cathouse infamy. How did we know?  Well, the town, if you could even call it that, is full of billboards with his enormous face on them.  I’m not a fan of the man and can’t fathom how he managed to build his fortune on brothels situated literally in the middle of nowhere, but he’s nothing if not an expert self-promoter.  I wish I had a picture to share.

The weather, as it has for most of our journey, cooperated.  Winter is of course high season in Death Valley, and the forecast called for low 80s and sunny, but with a good bit of wind.

I’ve previously mentioned Davista’s, and therefore my, severe sensitivity to grades.  Highway grades I mean.  Slope.  I nixed an entire leg of the journey due to not wanting to crest a few 8000’ passes (ok, and also because of the snow), and here we were about to descend steeply into a valley, the bottom of which sits at -282’.  It’s also bordered by a range of snow-capped mountains to the west, which would be the direction of our egress in a day or two.  Point being, as the engine shifted into low gear and began to whine once again as it tried to prevent us from reaching warp speed, I gritted my teeth a bit and hoped she was up to the task.

Semi-interesting side note here:  Many people know that Death Valley has the lowest elevation in the US.  What fewer people seem to know is that Mt. Whitney, the highest elevation in the Continental US (get outta here Alaska!), is only 85 miles away as the crow flies.  In fact, the two points are in the same county.  What’s more, there’s an endurance footrace called the Badwater Ultramarathon that starts at the bottom of Death Valley and ends at the Mt. Whitney trailhead.  California’s got a lot going on.

The scenery was interesting in an extreme desert sort of way.  Though Tacco and I were fascinated, we’ve long since given up on demanding that the kids put down their screens / books and look out the window though, at least for any extended period of time, by which I mean more than it takes for Firebolt to say “cooooooolllll.”  We figure that if Yellowstone, the Tetons, and the rugged Pacific coast failed to provide enough visual stimulation to hold their attention, then nothing will.  At least they’re not fighting with each other.

We arrived at our campground without incident, but discovered fairly quickly that “play it by ear” wasn’t going to be a viable tactic here.  The official National Park campground was ok, if a bit shrubby and windswept, but the other options (if you recall, we were only able to get reservations here for one night but planned to stay two) were full-on Lunar Base Delta.  Zero vegetation, zero hookups, not even close to level, and, well… ugly.  There’s a time to be hard core; this was not it.

So The Plan morphed, as it’s wont to do.  One night in Death Valley.  We’d check out the Ranger Center in the evening, drive around to see a few sights in the morning, and then continue west.

The wind really kicked up as we walked over to the Ranger Center to see whether it would be feasible for the girls to bag another Junior Ranger badge (it was).  One of the surprising things we learned about Death Valley from the exhibits was the fact that there’s a Native American tribe that has made their home at the bottom of the valley for, well pretty much forever.  So many questions about that…

I also discovered to my consternation that the path out of the valley to the west wasn’t nearly as forgiving as it had looked on the map.  Though it avoided the 7000’+ pass through the highest mountain range, it didn’t avoid passes altogether, and in fact would take us up about 5000’ and down pretty quickly.  I filed that away for later.

It wasn’t our best night.  We slept ok all things considered, but on top of the incessant wind making noise and shaking our home, there was not only a loudly partying group nearby (who I noticed were being evicted by the NP staff the following morning) and a dog next door that decided it was important everyone knew he existed most of the night.  It’s safe to say that none of us was complaining about breaking camp and moving out in the morning.

We did decide to go check out Devil’s Golf Course, which sums up Death Valley nicely.  It’s otherworldly and worth checking out, but after a few pictures and comments about how alone we were out there, it was time to move on.

We took one more side jaunt through an area called Artist’s Palette, and then departed.

It wouldn’t be fair to call our Death Valley detour a swing and a miss, as it’s undoubtedly extraordinary, and something to check off The List.  But one night was plenty.  Back to the mountains!

How is it that my image of Zion before we went was so far from reality?  I really have no excuse – I’ve been there.  It was long ago, and I don’t think I even spent the night, but still… my general thoughts about it went something like this:

• It’s one of the many National Parks in that area of the country and similar to them
• There’s a canyon, but it’s not as striking as Bryce Canyon or as massive as the Grand Canyon
• It’s isolated, so sparsely visited and primitive
• It’s worth a day’s visit, maybe an overnight, but that’s about it

Though the broad lines of those statements have a kernel of truth in them, not a single one of them is correct.

Zion is mind-blowing; I could spend months there.  Though it is indeed somewhat isolated in an area of Utah known more for renegade polygamists than any of the actual nearby towns, it’s actually the fifth most visited National Park, ahead of even Yellowstone [late edit:  The 2017 numbers are in, and it was actually third, ahead of both Yosemite and Rocky Mountain].  And the town of Springdale, which abuts the southern (and main) park entrance, is nicer than any “gateway to xx park!” town I’ve seen, with good eats, cool shops, almost zero touristy chintz, and stunning 360 degree view houses perched on various rock outcroppings.  I know when I glance to my right while driving and see Tacco browsing the local Zillow listings that we’re equally impressed with the real estate.

To say “there’s a canyon” is akin to visiting the Norwegian fjords and saying “there are cliffs.”  Technically true, but wholly inadequate.  It’s also technically true that it’s much smaller than the Grand Canyon, but in seeing it you realize how beside the point a size comparison is.  I spent three days overwhelmed.

And no, it’s not really similar to any of the other National Parks in that area.  It’s more like a “greatest hits” compilation of all of them.  It’s now unfathomable that I was waffling on whether to bring the family to Zion.

Our drive took us northeast out of Las Vegas, through mostly uninspiring desert scenery until we reached the Virgin River Gorge in the far northwest corner of Arizona.  Crossing into Utah on the upper end of the Gorge, the rocks became redder and the plateaus and peaks more dramatic.  Turning off the interstate near St. George, we rejoined the Virgin River (the north fork of which is responsible for carving Zion Canyon) and followed it through the eye-popping vistas into the park.

Fall is a slow time in Zion, but it really shouldn’t be.  The weather was mild, it was uncrowded, and though the Fall colors had long since peaked, plenty of color remained.

A few deer greeted us as we pulled into our campsite, and Keeper was thrilled to find that we had not only full hookups, but as solid a cellphone / internet signal as we had seen anywhere thus far.  As it was a bit too late for any serious hiking, we did some low grade exploring of the area, had some dinner, and turned in fairly early after planning our upcoming few days.

Much like Yosemite, the main attraction in Zion is the canyon through the center of the park, but the expansive backcountry is riddled with rewards for the more adventurous.  Unfortunately we were limited on several axes in our ability to be adventurous this visit (time, kids’ abilities, accommodations, conveyance, etc.).  But also like Yosemite, the hikes within the valley/canyon are famous for good reason.  The two most well-known in Zion are Angel’s Landing and The Narrows.  The former is a switchback intensive climb 1500′ up the canyon wall through widely varying mini-biomes, culminating in a knife edge clifftop walk to what seems like an unreachable point of rock when you see it from a distance.  The last bit of trail drops off very steeply on both sides and is only as wide as two people or so in places. There are metal posts driven into the rock with chains hung between them that give you something to hold onto.  Everywhere we read about it advised “CHILDREN NOT RECOMMENDED.”  As it turns out we have three of those.  That could be problematic.

The Narrows is sort of the opposite of Angel’s Landing, and is essentially a mostly flat hike up the river.  The catch, though, is that the canyon becomes narrower and narrower, until the only way to keep hiking is IN the river.  It continues this way (and becomes even narrower!  Wait, I think I just realized how they came up with the name…) for more than 10 miles, and the standard way to do it is with semi-dry suits that look something like fishing waders and a long wooden walking pole for balance in the water.  Needless to say, this is not something you would attempt with rain either in the sky or in the forecast, nor is it something you should put your six-year-old through.  Which isn’t to say we didn’t make our best effort to do so; unfortunately you could fit two Woodsprites simultaneously into the smallest sized dry suits they had available for rent.

Nevertheless undaunted, and invigorated by the scenery, we decided we would try semi-abbreviated versions of both hikes, reasoning that we could get up to the point on Angel’s Landing at which the chains/knife edge started and stop there if it didn’t look reasonable, and that we could hike the Narrows just up to the point where you had to get your feet wet, and then maybe wade a bit further if we were feeling it.  We also decided to do another hike on a side canyon which was short but led to more stunning views.  It was a good compromise, we thought.  Have I mentioned Keeper is acrophobic though?  Yes, spiders and heights, and in the last week we had climbed more steep rocks and seen more tarantulas than in his previous 11 years combined.  Nothing wrong with terrifying your kids, right?

The girls were excited to tear through their Junior Ranger challenges once we woke up the following morning, and we took a walk up the river to the Ranger Station to get that process rolling.  More deer, more scenery, more fresh air.

As our visit fell on all weekdays, we did have homeschooling tasks to accomplish prior to “playing.”  That’s tough.  Especially in a place like this.  While I know that we are not on vacation and that we can’t just run around on a rock or in a river and call it “school,” sometimes I really, really want to.  Fortunately Tacco keeps me honest.

Angel’s Landing was, in a word, amazing.  Yet again, I’ll defer to the pictures.

Even the lower part of the hike was better than most any hike I’ve taken, anywhere.  But the top was simply beyond description.  There was enough flat area for everybody to safely loll around and take in the view, but Keeper opted to lay down to get his fear of heights in check.  A sign warning of the entirely obvious danger informed us that six hikers had lost their lives due to falls over the last few years, and though this was clearly meant to alarm us, all Tacco and I could think was “that’s all?!?”  I was speculating that more than that had died from bee sting allergies or having a tree branch fall on their head – this place looked like people would be sliding off of it daily at a minimum.

I so wanted to keep going.  Tacco, rightly concerned about her issues with vertigo, did not, but I sat and contorted my brain into about a dozen different rationalizations for taking one or more kids up to the top with me, all of which failed even the most basic risk vs. reward analyses.  So in the end I took Firebolt and Woodsprite, separately, up to the part where the chains begin.  It was cool.  We got some pics.  Next time we’ll conquer it.

And I have to give a special shout-out to Firebolt here, because she continues to surprise us.  As a self-proclaimed non-risk-taker, she was the first to join me at the chains, and would’ve definitely gone to the top with me had I not reluctantly eliminated that option.  She even laid down on the rock and put her head over the edge of the 1300’ cliff, and then asked me to take a video of her looking down, then looking at me with an “are you kidding me right now?” face.  It seems like everything she tells us she can’t do, she then tries, and excels at it.

Later in the day we did the short Canyon Overlook Hike, which turned out to be almost as vertigo-inducing as Angel’s Landing.  Keeper was not amused, particularly at this section of rickety wooden pathway bolted into the rock.  He might think we’re trying to kill him.

Again though, views forever.

Our last day started with somewhat more threatening weather, which did not bode well for a hike up The Narrows.  Fortunately though, the ominous clouds below dissipated before homeschooling was complete for the day, and we were able to enjoy a pre-hike riverside picnic lunch in sunshine, if not exactly warm temperatures (it was November after all).

The trail up the river to The Narrows’ beginning delivered yet another palette of Utah river/rock/trees for us to gawk at, as well as several rocks to scramble upon.  This has become a favorite activity of the kids’ since Joshua Tree.

Though we easily reached the point at which wet feet (or a dry suit) became mandatory for those continuing, we opted to stop there rather than risk ruining the rest of the day by having one of the kids misstep and convert wet feet into wet everything.  Did I mention it was a little chilly?  Both the water and the air.

As it turned out, however, Keeper managed to check that particular block anyway on the way back.  Shortly after turning around to hike back downstream, he ventured off-trail to scramble on some rocks down by the river.  What 11-year-old wouldn’t, right?  I know I would’ve.  I could see that he was getting himself into increasingly tricky situations with smaller margins for error.  Mentally noting that the current wasn’t particularly strong and there were several potential egress points, however, I didn’t bother to keep too close an eye on him.  I did manage to snag a suitable “before” pic though.

Within a few minutes, I noticed several other hikers staring and pointing toward his vicinity.  Quickly climbing up to get a better vantage point, I caught the tail end of his jump-gone-wrong, which was him completely submerged in the cold river and swimming toward a calm spot from which he could climb out.  When a quick “are you ok?” netted a thumbs up, I smiled and watched for a few seconds before scrambling down to take pictures help my son.

Evidently what happened, a common river-rock-jumping failure mode, is that he jumped from a higher rock to a lower rock without fully strategizing how to get back to the higher rock.  His attempted jump back up plastered him on the rock’s steep side without enough purchase, and he had a solid few seconds of slow backwards sliding to think about the water temperature and the fact that he’d found his not-previously-considered path of least resistance back to dry ground.

Not that he was especially hurt other than a few rock scrapes, but Keeper’s a tough kid, which is one of the many, many things I love about him.  He doesn’t make a big deal out of things that aren’t.  And if you see him wincing in pain or God-forbid, crying, you know he has some serious hurt going on and isn’t just embarrassed or wanting some attention.  He took the whole thing in stride, even laughing about it and posing for some “after” pics.

The hike back in his soaked clothing got a little bracing when the wind kicked up or we got in the shadows, but he never complained.  Good man.

So what are we taking away from Zion?  Primarily a desire to come back.  There’s so much to see there, particularly in the back country.  More confirmation that that high desert/mountain climate very much suits us.  And a deepening sense of not wanting this phase of travel to end I think.

One thing I touched on tangentially with my comment about needing to push myself (or be pushed) to get the kids to actually sit down and do their school tasks — the larger point there is this sense we’re discovering that every day is a Big Day.  There are no throwaway days, they’re all huge ones, ones that we want to wring every last moment out of.  And while that sounds in many ways ideal and exhilarating, which it absolutely is, we’re finding it to be a double-edged sword in that it’s a difficult pace to maintain.  We find ourselves far more physically and mentally exhausted than we feel like we ought to be at times, with decreased desire to take care of the mundane life tasks (education being only one of them) that need to get accomplished, and this seems to be one of the root causes.  It’s tempting to blow off math and writing and reading entirely, because holy cow, kids, look around!  Zion!  But when you’re doing that every day, hmm…  While we know our kids are logging countless amazing experiences as we wander, we don’t want to do them a disservice by neglecting the things their peers are learning.  And they need us to maintain high energy as well.

I suspect it’s something we could and likely will adapt to with more time, but in the meantime it’s a bit of a surprise.  And I do wonder how the process will work in reverse when we settle back down.

Zion, though… incredible.  Definitely in at least the top five of my favorite national parks, probably more like top three.  Even without the benefit of distance, the kids are all saying the same.

We now turn back west and head toward Death Valley, which I’m not so sure about (then again, I wasn’t so sure about Zion either).  Like Zion, I’ve been there before and my recollections tell me that it’s unique and worth seeing, but maybe not mind-blowing.  We also couldn’t get a reservation at the National Park’s RV campground there for both nights we’re staying, so we’re playing it a bit by ear.  Maybe not the best thing to be doing in, you know, Death Valley.

But nah, we’ve got this.  Where have I heard that before?