 |
| This picture shows a trip we took to California. All the elements are there: camper, lawn chairs, cooking stove. Only thing missing is the Ford Nova. |
SUMMER ROAD TRIPS
“Why do we have to see Mount Rushmore anyway? The Badlands were cool!”
This was my children during a recent road trip out west. We had spent a good part of the morning and afternoon walking around Badlands National Park, looking at buffalo and counting rattlesnakes.
“Because its cool! The heads are HUGE and you can get really close,” I said while I gestured with both my hands. Everyone screamed as the car swerved into oncoming traffic.
“But its going to rain!”
“It’ll stop. Promise.”
As I stood there in the cold driving rain, my family huddled under a sheltering overhang forty feet behind me, my forehead wrinkled as I stared at four tiny heads barely visible through the mist.
“They were bigger when I was little,” I shouted over my shoulder while pointing at Washington’s shrunken head. This was not the start to our vacation I had imagined1 when my wife and I came up with the idea of driving to a wedding on the west coast. My vacations growing up had been different.
The day before we left Dad and Mom always did the “taillights on the camper” ritual. In order to power the taillights on the camper, an electrical plug had been added to the Nova. The only problem was adjusting the switches to make sure the correct lights came on as you signaled. Dad backed the car as close to the camper as he could and hooked the camper’s plug to the Nova’s plug. With the car running and the driver’s window rolled down, Dad flipped the turn signal, stepped on the breaks, activated the high beams while shouting what he had done. Mom shouted in response what she saw from her lawn chair behind the camper.
“Left signal?”
“No, nothing came on!”
“Right signal?”
“No, left signal!”
“Brakes?”
“Yep, brakes work!”
“Reverse?”
“Left signal!”
Armed with that information Dad could reconfigure all the switches in the plug and try again. Our uncles always borrowed the camper, and with every new car that towed the camper, the reconfiguring of the switches had to happen. Finally, after an hour or so, everything worked. Now it was time to load the camper.
Popping up one end of the camper in the garage, Dad started to rummage inside, while Mom and us boys carried things down from our upstairs apartment. We had sleeping bags, pillows, blankets, bags of food, shoes, books, toys, pots and pans, spices, coolers and anything we thought we would need. Inside the camper, everything had its place--everything was strapped down or placed in a cabinet. By the time Dad was done, the entire floor of the camper would be covered with boxes, and every cabinet and drawer was filled. The one space left by the door was for the travel cooler. We were ready.
We were somewhere in eastern Iowa when we woke up, maybe central Missouri or even approaching Indianapolis. Dad tried to start our trips as early in the morning as possible. With at least three kids, starting the trip before six meant he could drive three or four hours before we woke up. Our heads covered by blankets, we sprawled across the back seat of the car.
Our Ford Nova pulled our popup camper. A little longer than it was wide, the camper when set up seemed enormous. Both ends pulled out into sleeping spaces, and the table lowered for another bed. The manufacturer claimed the camper would sleep six, but that was adults. We fit seven people in there by the end of our camping days.
Soon enough, one of us kids started to wiggle, waking the rest up. Sitting up, stretching our arms over our heads, we looked out the windows at the unfamiliar sight of farms sliding past.
“Where are we,” I asked.
“Almost to Iowa.”
“Wow...Iowa! Is that far?” Paul looked at Mark with eyes wide open. We had never been this far west before.
“Yep, better start looking for the...” and here Dad sketched a giant ‘M’ in the air with his index finger.
“McDonalds?” I said.
“No...mountains!”
“Can we stop for breakfast?”
“First chance we get.”
At the next rest stop, Dad pulled in slowly and parked next to the big semitrailer rigs. Dad stretched his back before heading to the camper. Opening the little door, he grabbed for the travel cooler. Mom had taken us all to the restroom before settling us down at a picnic table. Putting the cooler on the table, Dad pulled a surprise from behind his back. It was a collection of little cereal boxes, all the ones we never bought:-- Frosted Flakes, Sugar Pops, Sugar Smacks...all our favorites. There were also boxes of Raisin Bran, Cheerios, and the like.
“Everyone gets one box, and when they are all gone, we’ll buy a new pack.”
“Ummm...” I looked around the table, “do we have bowls?”
“You don’t need a bowl, you eat it from the box!”
What! This was the greatest thing ever, I thought to myself.
Dad took a knife from the cooler and cut a large ‘H’ into the front of everyone’s box. Bending back the cuts, the box turned unto a bowl. Mom, with a pint of milk taken from the cooler, filled everyone’s box and passed out plastic spoons. Best breakfast ever, and this was only the first day!
After another run to the bathroom, we all settled back into the car. When we were younger (and littler) Dad cut a piece of plywood to the dimensions of the backseat so we could be comfortable back there. With our feet straight out in front of us, we could play or color with ease. If things got too crowded, we took turns laying under the back window, no one wore seat belts in those days.
The Nova had no radio or air-conditioning.2 When the windows were down, conversation was difficult. Still, between the toys we bought with us, the books I had and the games Mom had ready, we were set. Mornings on the road passed quickly and everyone was content. Miles rolled by under the tires, Dad and Mom conversed as best they could in the front, and we bounced around the in back. It was time for lunch before we knew it.
Dad put more thought into these trips than we knew. He studied maps and marked out a route. He knew exactly where he was going and how he was going to get there. Crucially, he knew what towns were not far off the interstates. It was in these small towns we ate lunch. This was genius on his part. Every small town has a park or a square where there are picnic tables. Often there would be a playground with a slide and some type of jungle gym for us to climb on. When we got further out west, Dad would leave the interstate entirely and we would travel back roads whenever possible, following railroad tracks from town to town. We loved standing by the side of a set of railroad tracks, holding a cup of cola in one hand and a sandwich in the others while counting railroad cars flying past.
We did not always eat sandwiches. Sometimes we had Vienna Sausages, or canned ham. Dad seemed to have an endless supply of these little cans and he knew the right flourish to generate the most excitement when he pulled them out of the cooler. Nothing made eating lunch on a picnic table under a giant tree in a small town park next to a passing coal train better than spiced ham on saltines. If that sounds sarcastic, you are taking it the wrong way. When you are 10 years old, there is nothing better than what I just described.
Lunches were long affairs. Mom and Dad relaxing under the tree and we boys running around burning off all the energy we could. When everything had been cleaned up and the cooler put back into the camper, we loaded up again. First one to the car got to pick where to sit. In a car without air-conditioning and vinyl seats that had been sitting in the noonday sun for almost an hour and a half, this was important. You also did not want to have to spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in the sun. I was never the first one to the car.
Sometime around four in the afternoon Dad knew it was time to stop for the day. We had exhausted all the car activities and were staring out the window with a thousand yard stare. We were done for the day. Dad checked his map, consulted his campground book, and took the next exit he could. As soon we saw the KOA or Jellystone signs our energy returned.
While Dad checked in, we raced around to scout out everything that was important. Did they have a swimming pool? Was it heated and have a diving board? Was there a game room? Did they have a pool table? What was in the little store? Where there other kids running around? Was tonight movie night!
Dad and mom got right to work setting up the camper and we went swimming. Outdoor pools out west are usually sun warmed, meaning by the middle of the summer the water is pleasant. Only one time (in Billings, Montana) was the the water cold. We tried to swim, but after our lips turned blue, we crawled shivering out of the pool and wrapped ourselves in towels. Back at the camp site, the camper was up, the ends pulled out, sleeping bags spread and the little propane stove was running. Mom cooked something and we gobbled it down, starving hungry after swimming. Dad built a campfire and we had smores. If it was family movie night at the campground, we dragged lawn chairs and a blanket to the giant screen. The movie was always fifteen to twenty years old, often Abbott and Costello or Bud and Lou, never anything modern.
After the movie it was time for showers. These campgrounds did not have heated showers. If they did, by the time our family got there, all the hot water was gone. The first time we tried to shower turned in to a yelling and screaming disaster. Dad finally taught us the water on water off technique. You turned the water on, got as wet as you wanted, turned the water off, rubbed soap and shampoo all over your body, turned the water back on and miracle of miracles it did not feel as cold. We were also introduced to the famous soap on a rope, which we thought was the coolest thing ever.
As night fell we sat around the dying fire until we started to nod off. One by one we would crawl into the camper, find a spot and go to sleep.
But one night Dad woke us up.
“There’s raccoons outside,” he whispered.
“What?” We sat up all groggy.
“Raccoons, looking for food.”
“Where?”
Silently looking out the window screens we saw dark shapes moving, almost flowing on the ground and crawling on the picnic table. Dad turned on a flashlight and we saw them, he was telling the truth. Raccoons!
“What do they want?”
“Food.”
“We should leave something next time.”
So we did, not on purpose but on accident. Someone left an entire box of cereal out and no one noticed in the dark. That night we woke up to the sound of a battle royale on the picnic table. Pressing our noses to the screen, in the dim moonlight we watched as three raccoons fought over the box, cereal flying everywhere. The biggest raccoon ended up with the half empty box, hissing into the dark at all his vanquished challengers. That is when Dad decided to get the box of cereal so we had something eat the next morning. The raccoon heard the door open turned to face Dad, and rearing up on his hind legs did his best imitation of a bear. Dad let the poor guy keep his prize.
On our trips to Colorado or California we only stayed for one night at each campground along the way. Dad would wake up first, make coffee, and begin to breakdown the site. Lawn chairs were put way, the stove packed back inside the camper and any children still sleeping moved to the car. The real work began when he pushed the ends of the camper in, lowered one side at a time being sure to tuck the fabric in and hooked everything back up to the car.
At this point the strangest ritual took place, adjusting the extended mirrors. This fascinated us. One parent would sit in the drivers seat while the other stood by one of the mirrors. Beginning to point up, down, left or right, the driver would attempt to position the mirror in order to ensure safe driving that day. For some reason this seemed to take forever. Up, up...no down...left, left, left, down....left, up...The adjustments seemed to make no sense. We were desperate to be the guy moving the mirror, but Dad never let us. When everything was ready, we started off again, pausing only for breakfast.
Days passed on the road and finally we arrived in Colorado. The mountains were staggering to our little minds., and there was snow! We did all the Colorado things: Pikes Peak, Native American ruins, caves, and small town window shopping. We went to rodeos and we chased the greased pig around the arena. Our campground had horses and I think that is where I learned to dislike horses.
On later trips out west we went to Yellowstone National Park and while in California visited Yosemite, The Redwood Forest and San Francisco. My memories created on these trips are what led to me standing in the poring rain confused as to why Washington and his friends looked like pinheads or yelling at my photographer son, “Sure, you can go closer to the wild buffalo bull that is pawing the 7ground and snorting. Go ahead.”
Maybe I can get them to Yellowstone next. Those hot pools were enormous and there were thousands of wild buffalo...
1 Most of our “adventures” as a couple and a family involve me trying to recreate a memory from my childhood. This is why we end up at White Castle at four in the morning, me rubbing my hands with glee and my kids trying not to gag from the onion smell.
2 On one trip we took, Dad installed an 8-track player and a pair of speakers he wired in. On that trip I believed we listened to the animated Robin Hood movie at least once or twice a day. The other 8-track was a Bill Cosby routine.
Comments
Post a Comment