It was the year of 1987. Summer was approaching, bringing with it an air of excitement. For we would be going on our greatest adventure yet. Yes, my family had traveled all the way to Florida and reached the frontier of Tennessee, but never had we planned for such a massive journey as the one we were about endure. For two full weeks, we would roam the open road, stopping at famous landmarks, visiting places we had never been, and enjoying scenic panoramic scenes of majestic beauty along the way. My parents intended to travel north into the mysterious terrain of Canada, for no one except my father and brother had ventured outside the United States. Dad was forced to go overseas to fight in the civil war of Vietnam while my brother spent a summer in southern France with a foreign exchange student he had met in junior high. However, the rest of us never went past the American border. The plan was very simple on paper but complex in its execution. My family would travel in our spacious mini-van northward through the Dakotas and cross the border into the Canadian province of Saskatchewan, spend a couple of days there, then head southward back home. What we did between these two points would be determined by money and intuition.
To help with the finances, Carol and Mike donated funds for the cause. The couple had employed my mother to babysit their children five or six days a week since I was a young lad. And so, when plans were being made for the summer vacation, they wanted their kids to embark on the journey with us and offered their financial support. In the end, we had seven passengers crammed into the van – Mom, Dad, Jeff, Julie, my brother, my sister, and myself. Amazingly, despite the large number of kids inside one vehicle for two weeks, there was not a single fight or argument. Not one. Maybe it was because we were entering new territory. Maybe my parents put something in our drinks. Maybe it was an alien implant. Regardless of what may have caused this strange phenomenon, it resulted in one of the most fantastic, memorable experiences of my life. That's not to say that everything went smoothly without a hitch or nothing bad happened. Far from it. A lot of interesting things transpired, making the trip an unforgettable journey.
Like every previous endeavor, our journey began early in the morning. My parents awoke all of us, Jeff and Julie had spent the night, sometime between five and six, which was considered lucky because they usually got us up at four. As always, we crawled out of bed and moved about like half-asleep zombies. I can't remember if we ate anything before leaving, but I do remember that I was wide awake when we left, probably from all the packing. All the supplies were crammed in the back of the mini-van while the toys, puzzle books, and other time fillers went under the seats. There were two seats in the front, two in the middle, and three in the back. Although the back held three, only two of us sat there while the third sat on the floor, a prized spot throughout the two weeks because you could lie down and have more space. To prevent battles from breaking out over this area, there would be a rotation, but only if it was desired by one of the five crew members. The Super Summer '87 Trip, as I dubbed it several weeks before, was about to begin.
Traveling through Texas was uneventful and unremarkable, mostly because the area was flat farmland viewed in the dim light of morning. It also didn't help when you were suffering from a headache caused by the lack of sleep. We eventually crossed the Red River, which was remarkably larger than I thought it would be. For some reason, I had envisioned it as a small river that you could cross in less than ten seconds. I was wrong with my initial expectations and was amazed by how wide it actually was.
Nothing happened in Oklahoma. We just drove through it, never stopping along the way. The only thing worth noting was the strange sensation you get when traveling on a road that you've always wondered what it would be like. Such an occasion presented itself on a large highway where drivers would have the option of going forward to Oklahoma City or taking the ramp to go elsewhere. In all previous trips, we had taken the ramp. But this time would be different because we remained on the main highway headed toward Oklahoma City. We never drove through the state capital, not even its suburbs. We just skirted the outer edges and continued heading north to Kansas.
Once we crossed the border, we started noticing that there were a lot of birds perched on the telephone poles for reasons unknown. As time wore on, they seemed to become more plentiful. Then it happened. Suddenly without warning, one of the birds swooped down right in front of the van and barely managed to survive to tell the tale at the next dinner party. We joked about how the bird had a death wish or maybe was just plain stupid. Either way, everyone dismissed it as a fluke occurrence. This concept did not last long because another bird rushed in front of the van, almost getting hit. We now started speculation on whether there was some food on the road or maybe something had spooked them. No sooner had we started this line of thinking when a third bird flew in our path, risking the possibility of becoming roadkill. Now it was becoming ridiculous. One bird after the other swooped down to take their chance at getting hit. Was it a dare? A death pact? An attempt to get the driver to swerve, lose control, and crash the vehicle? No one knew. All we could ascertain was that they had no fear of death. We tried to identify the species the best we could, but failed at the task. Wanting to at least give a name to these daredevils of the sky, we called them Kamikaze birds, named after the Japanese pilots who deliberately crashed their planes into American navy carriers. These Kamikazis continued to harass us throughout Kansas and Nebraska on a periodic basis. It would not be until much later that we would learn the identity of our assailants.
The first major stop we made was the Boot Hill Museum in Dodge City. The largest section was a street filled with old buildings from the Wild West. It contained a saloon, restaurant, dentist, hotel, church, and several stores. For the most part, it resembled a Hollywood movie set than an actual town, which was punctuated by the fact that we didn't get to enter many of the places because they were closed.
I have no recollections of the interiors with the exception of the saloon. After going through a set of swinging doors, we straight to the bar, which seemed to come straight out of an old Western film, complete with bottles of all shapes and sizes sitting on the shelves and a variety of cups on the back table. Everyone ordered a drink at the bar after sitting on the wooden stools along the perimeter. The occasion brought with it the first and last time I tasted a sarsaparilla. Not because I didn't like it, but because it's something I've never been able to find anywhere. Regardless, it was a nice place to relax and allow me to look around. The entire floor was filled with large round tables and wooden chairs, arranged just like the movies of the old west. There was a small theater with red curtains in the back, though no shows would be presented that day. In the far corner of the room on the left side of the stage, a long piano waited to be played. Above the large instrument, there was a sign which provided the famous warning not to shoot the piano player.
When we finished our drinks, it was time to walk to the infamous Boot Hill. When we climbed the hill and entered the cemetery, it wasn't at all what I expected. I thought that I was going to see large tombstones and the graves of famous outlaws. Instead, I saw old, wooden markers and crosses along the various pathways. Signs were erected to identify those with indiscernible names or provide background information. As far as the residents were concerned, the vast majority died as a result of fights at the saloon. Some met their fate while buffalo hunting while others got killed in accidents. Taken as a whole, the cemetery was small but interesting. At the outer edge of Boot Hill, a small jail stood to give an idea of what one looked like back in the day. To be truthful, “small” would not be a good word to describe the building which had been confiscated from Fort Dodge. But rather, the word “tiny” would be nearer the mark. For it only had a single room with a chair and a minuscule cell next to it. As luck would have it, the museum allowed visitors to enter the jail so pictures could be taken behind the cell bars. It obviously didn't take long for us to take advantage of this feature.
For the grand finale of our tour, everyone but our parents rode an old-fashioned stagecoach. Whether or not it was actually used during the old west remained to be seen, but we didn't care. It was a stagecoach, something you didn't get to do a lot. We all climbed up a set of wooden stairs and climbed inside. The ride itself was nothing spectacular, going around in a complete circle in front of the main street in an empty field, but we enjoyed the novelty of the experience.
After leaving the Boot Hill Museum, we had to stop for gas. This would not have been a problem if it weren't for the horrid smell coming from a nearby farm. It was a lurid, rank smell which was made tolerable once all the windows were closed. My father, however, received the full blast as he suffered at the gas pump. Needless to say, he was very happy to get back into the car and continue to the next destination.
We continued our drive north until one of us saw a sign advertising that the geographic center of the United States. It grabbed our attention and we decided to check it out. Located near the town of Lebanon, the area surrounding the spot was filled with grassy hills and farmland. There was not much in regard to letting people know they had reached their destination, just a stone pylon with the American flag waving in the air. It also had a historical marker and spread-out benches. Overall, it resembled a local park more than a significant landmark. We spent a few moments in the center of the nation, hiking the nearby hill and walking around the open field. The crew wanted to stay longer and play around, but we still had a long road ahead of us.
We drove straight through Nebraska, never stopping along the way. I don't remember anything of our time going through the state, probably because it seemed the offer the same type of scenery as Kansas with its farmland and small hills. Regardless of the reason, the memory fails to bring in a single detail of anything significant. The same could not be said for the next state we visited, for my family was about to witness one of the most amazing sites of the nation.
My father told us that our next stop along the trip would be the Dakota Badlands, but we would not go through the entire park. I personally didn't care just as long I got to see something different than the flat farmlands of Kansas. The terrain changed drastically as we neared the border of South Dakota and my hopes of witnessing something wonderful substantially increased. However, nothing could prepare me for what we were about to encounter.
My father parked the car in a small, concrete lot and told everyone to get out. We obeyed, not really expecting much because we hadn't officially entered the national park yet. Nevertheless, there was no complaint. We were glad just to be able to leave the confines of the mini-van. We all followed Dad toward what appeared to be a cliff. But it wasn't the cliff that atrracted my attention. It was what lay beyond it, something which I noticed less than a minute after we started walking alongside Dad. It was a scenic view with a strange beauty no one could possibly describe with words.
Before my eyes was a gigantic canyon. Not as large as the Grand Canyon, but a canyon nonetheless. I could see peaks reaching all the way into the infinity of the horizon. Hundreds of them. Not only did they disappear into the horizon, they also stood as close fifty feet away. Their tallness never exceeded a height of ten stories and their apexes never surpassed a length of fifty feet. The peaks themselves never heeded to a particular shape, size, or characteristic. Some of them would be perfectly round, almost to the point of making you think they were smooth. Others were rough and jagged, many forming peculiar and familiar objects in the process. Their thickness also varied, ranging from a wide, walkable top to a razor-thin summit.
Regardless of these differences, there was one common characteristic they all shared. Each peak had multi-colored stone layers from the outer tip of the apex to the lowest point of the bottom near the ground. Colored orange, yellow, brown, white, and red, the layers sometimes resembled the rings of a child's toy. The color scheme was further accented by the close proximity of the peaks, which usually stood an average of sixty feet from each other at the base. When looking down below, it became evident that these formations would make a mind-bending maze for those traversing on the ground without a guide of some sort to guide them. This held especially true when considering the fact that there were no trees in the canyon to serve as markers, at least from what could be seen from the viewpoint of the cliff.
We stayed for a while in the area, gazing at the wondrous site in front of us walking around near the edge. The captive spell it had cast was broken by the loud exclamation of my brother that we had seen a chipmunk. I loved animals and rarely got to see one, along with everyone else, so we quickly looked around and asked where. My brother pointed his finger with excitement to a woodland creature which was definitely not a chipmunk. As it turned out, he had discovered the existence of a common squirrel. The amount of laughter, ridicule, and teasing which followed cannot be summed up in words, but it is safe to say that we made sure my brother would never forget the incident.
Soon after the squirrel sighting, everyone got into the van to continue the journey. We drove alongside the vast canyon valleys and several rock formations. The most memorable monoliths were a large group of multi-colored domes which covered an area of several miles. Ranging from twenty feet high to six feet high, each dome was decorated with bands of red, blue, green, orange, and yellow rings. At the very end, some of these domes only reached a height of three feet.
We drove past the area and entered a section which primarily of dirt hills with sparse, protruding grass. It was this region that Dad decided to stop and take a break. In addition to some picnic tables, there was a small nature trail which would take less than five minutes to walk. At various points, signs provided information on the rocks, wildlife, and climate of the region. These signs were usually accompanied by some sort of exhibit, though I cannot remember a single detail of what was displayed. A short distance away from the trail, a tall hill which looked like pile of dirt stood at least fourteen feet high. Its prominence and easy accessibility seemed to call out to us and beg to be climbed. The crew heard the beckoning and wasted no time in attempting to reach the top. My brother and Jeff managed to reach it, my sister and Julie got midway, and I barely made it off the ground. Not only was I overly cautious when it came to adventures, but I was also a lousy climber. So I spent most of the time on the nature trail with my father and watching the others struggle to become the king of the mountain. Our departure from this place also marked the end of our visit to one of the most unusually beautiful places I have ever seen.
From the Dakota Badlands, we entered an area called the Black Hills. It was a beautiful region filled with a variety trees spreading across the land. We traveled through the mountainous forest, enjoying the magnificent scenery while heading to Wind Cave National Park. The one thing which attracted our attention to the place was the presence of an underground waterfall, something we had never seen before. We found the parking lot, got out, and followed a long, winding sidewalk leading to the cave. The entrance was wide and didn't look like the entrance to a cave. The interior was brightly light along one side of the concrete passageway while a rail on the other prevented weary travelers from falling into the underground river below. It was a comfortable journey to the waterfall, at least in terms of walking. The whole area was freezingly cold, even with our jackets on. The noise of the rushing water kept getting louder as we neared out destination, yet it seemed to take an eternity to get there. When we did, I noticed that most of the walking lights were gone and a large rail surrounded the dead end. The underground waterfall stood before us, rushing its contents from above into the river which had accompanied us from the beginning of our trek. Several spotlights in the water illuminated the main attraction in a variety of changing colors. Having seen our first and probably only underground waterfall, we turned around and headed back to the van.
We then headed northward toward our next target, which didn't seem to take very long to reach. After an hour or two, my mother saw the sign which signified we were near Mount Rushmore. Much to my surprise, we didn't have to reach the park in order to view the four presidents. The van was just driving along the road when the monument suddenly showed up on the right side, completely taking me by surprise. I always thought that you wouldn't be able to see it from the road. They would put some kind of barrier like a wall or some heavy foliage to block the view, forcing visitors to pay money to see the attraction. Instead, you could easily pull off the side of the road, take a few pictures, and continue on your way. Even if you chose not to do so, the artwork was in plain view for several minutes. Despite all this, my parents decided that we would make a stop at the stone portraits of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln.
I can't remember at all what the park's entrance and museum looked like. I do recall that the main viewing deck was a large, concrete plaza in an open area with no trees. At the very edge, protected by a high metal fence, you could look down at the deep ravine below or use one of the many telescopes to see the presidential faces up-close. It was weird, looking upon an iconic national landmark you had only seen in books and film. And yet, there it was, standing majestically in front of me. I studied it for awhile then moved onward to an unexpected treat.
My family walked into the park's cafeteria and I noticed we had entered a piece of cinematic history, for the place had been used by the legendary Alfred Hitchcock when he directed his film “North By Northwest”. The movie's climax takes place at Mount Rushmore. However, before the final showdown occurs, there is a scene which takes place in the nearby cafeteria. It is this spot that one of the main characters seemingly guns down the hero, played by actor Cary Grant. The movie became one of my favorite dramas during my youth, so I was ecstatic at the chance to visit one of the set pieces.
We left Mount Rushmore and headed eastward, not knowing we were about to get sidetracked. As we traveled along the highway, one of my parents noticed a billboard with only two words on display and told everyone about it. A few more miles down, another billboard appeared with a few more words. The process continued until a full sentence was formed, advertising some place called Wall Drug. Then came a sign proclaiming that Wall Drug was offering a free glass of ice water. However, it wasn't just one sign. No, that would be too normal. They decided to post signs all over the place telling how great Wall Drug was and how badly we needed to get that free glass of water. We just had to see what this Wall Drug was all about.
As it turned out, Wall Drug was a tourist trap in the form of a massive indoor shopping center, but one unlike I have ever seen in my life. The outdoor area resembled a small western town during the early twentieth century. The parking lot itself resembled the type you would see in a downtown area. We found a spot for the van, got out, and entered the main building.
The interior was like a small maze with its many corridors, both wide and narrow. Alongside these passages, you could enter a wide variety of specialty shops providing leather, cards, clothes, games, silverware, jewelry, books, lamps, plates, vases, antiques, paintings, posters, and many more. It seemed like they sold anything and everything in these stores, each one possessing a slightly different atmosphere. The place had a pharmacy, several places to eat, and even a chapel. Stuffed animals, statues, and Western artwork adorned the walls of both the hallways and the stores. Figures such as cowboys and clowns allowed people to take photos of themselves and their families. Machines which could have been found in penny arcades were placed throughout the vicinity. All you had to do was insert a quarter and the animatronic figure inside the case would move. Sometimes, an instrument would play or more than one figure would perform. In addition to all this, visitors could enjoy live musical entertainment at some of the eateries.
There was a large area in the back of Wall Drug for a number of fun activities. The main one involved taking pictures at various set pieces including an old wagon, a small replica of Mount Rushmore, a stagecoach, and a large statue of a jackalope. The last item represented a legendary animal which had the body of a jackrabbit and the antlers of an antelope. Originally conceived by early lumberjacks, it has become a popular icon of South Dakota.
At the center of the courtyard, there was a well that served as a water fountain. A sign indicated this was the spot where you got your free ice water. Sure enough, there was a place next to the well to grab a cup and get some ice. Whether you had to use a provided scoop to acquire the ice, I cannot recall.
Despite all the stores, photo spots, penny arcade items, and live entertainment, the one attraction that made the largest impression during our brief stay was a piano-playing gorilla who liked to sing. This description would actually be an insult to what it actually was. At its core, it served as a penny arcade relic which required money in order to function. In this case, it was a single quarter. Inserting this contribution would cause an animatronic gorilla to sing and play the tune “Pop Goes The Weasel”. I use the words “sing” and “play” very loosely here, for the gorilla did little of either. The hands moved slowly up and down in a banging motion. And even then, they barely made it to the piano keys themselves. Not to mention the fact that the hands completed their first trip to the piano when the recording reached to “mulberry bush”. The mouth didn't do much better. The lower jaw moved up and down just as slow, if not more so. A whole three lines passed before the mouth completely opened and closed. It was worse than the dubbing of a bad martial arts film. After the performance, a poor word choice indeed, none of us thought we had been ripped off. It was so terrible, everyone was laughing and giggling throughout the act.
My family continued east after getting sidetracked and crossed the Missouri River. We made it to Aberdeen then decided to take a short break at a small park named Storybook Land. It consisted of life-sized sets and figures representing popular tales, nursery rhymes, and books. There was the shoe which the old woman with so many children lived in, doubling as a slide for kids. Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall and Mother Goose rode her avian companion. You could have your photo taken with characters like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Dorothy and her three friends, and Moby Dick. The most memorable moment was when everyone got my brother to sit in a dentist chair and pretend that we were torturing him using various methods. After an hour of walking around and acting crazy in front of the camera, we left the park and continued our northern odyssey.
What happened after our pit stop in Aberdeen remains a mystery because I can't remember a single detail. All I know is that we drove through the rest of South Dakota and entered North Dakota. That is all. What I can remember, however, is our encounter with the border officials as we tried to enter Canada.
As we traveled through the upper portion of North Dakota, I noticed that the hill had diminished to the point of nonexistence, transforming the area into flat prairie land. The only thing which kept my attention to the countryside was the prospect of seeing a sign indicating that the border was near. Excitement filled the air when a mileage sign showed up. From that time onward, my eyes were glued to the road ahead. Then I saw it. A large building on the left side of the highway. Odd as it may seem, I saw no tall, concrete walls or high barbed wire fences. Just a building, some patrol cars, and a few officers who stood near the road.
My mother stopped the mini-van when the officers motioned her to do so, then rolled down the window. They asked about our intentions, where we were headed to, if there was anything which needed to declare, and other standard questions. All seemed to go well until one of the men wanted to know if we were carrying any alcohol. When Mom told them we didn't have any, they seemed to be baffled and suspicious, despite the fact that there were five kids in the back of the vehicle. They asked again and wanted to make sure Mom was perfectly clear in her denial that we didn't have any booze. Maybe they were hoping for a free beer. Maybe they were just plain bored. Regardless, their reaction prompted Mom to suggest the possibility of searching the van to put their minds at ease. They took it.
Everyone had to get out and stand outside while the officials searched our vehicle for hidden booze. I found the whole affair both exciting and amusing, for we had never had our car searched by the police, especially on such a silly premise as smuggling alcohol with a group of kids in the back. After five or ten minutes of going through almost everything, the men completed their task and allowed to cross the border. We had finally reached our destination.
It didn't take long for my excitement of traveling through Canada to subside. I couldn't help but feel disappointed, for all the magazines, brochures, books, and television shows advertised a place filled with majestic mountains, wild forests, and lush landscapes filled with overflowing wildlife. Instead, I was surrounded by prairie land as far as the eye could see. I might as well have been in Texas. In fact, the only indicators that this wasn't so were the signs along the highway, which provided information in French with subtitles in English. It felt weird reading them because I was so used to reading English in large letters and occasional Spanish in small ones. This was not just confined to the signs, but also to stores and restaurants. When we stopped at a McDonald's, even the salt and ketchup packets had English in tiny script underneath the dominant French script.
The only other main difference was the currency. Although the coins looked perfectly normal despite the different designs, the bills were a completely different ballgame. Not only was the print font larger, each denomination sported a large variety of colors I had never seen, for the American dollar bills at the time was a simple green with black ink. Because the currency was so different than our own, the crew chose to treat most of it as a souvenir of the trip rather than spend it at the few places where we stopped.
The first stop was a museum about the Canadian Mounties. Looking more like a community civic center, it housed several collections pertaining to the mounted police and various aspects of Saskatchewan, the latter because it was considered to be the central for the organization. I cannot remember much of the collections, nor can I recall any of the information I read. I know that there were a lot of costumes and historical artifacts. There were some displays covering the native peoples of the land in addition to the answer to the mystery which had been bothering us since the first encounter in Kansas. While walking through the wildlife section, my father noticed a familiar bird. It was the one which kept going on suicide missions by diving in front of our car. Filled with excitement, Dad told us that the culprit was an avian species called the meadowlark. The mystery solved, I felt disappointed knowing the answer, probably because it took away some of the mystique from the experience.
After leaving the museum, we had to choose between two places, for time was growing short. We could either visit the capital of Regina or a state park with herd of wild bison. Because the crew loved animals and never saw a large animal like the buffalo in the wild, the state park won by a landslide. It seemed like a long journey, though in reality it was only thirty-five miles away from our first stop. Our parents told us to look for the name Moosejaw on the highway signs to make sure there would be no wrong turns. This resulted in a countdown as we noted how many more miles there were until we got to the oddly-named town with a state park.
After paying an entrance fee, Mom drove us along a concrete pathway which circled a large lake. There were tents, trailers, boats, and playgrounds. But all of this did not matter to us, for we were only focused on one thing – finding those buffalo. My mother was told to look for a lookout tower, but that didn't stop the crew from looking at the ground in hopes of spotting the increasingly elusive creature. We eventually found the tower and drove toward it using a gravel road to get there. Everyone got out of the car except Mom and looked around for the buffalo. They were nowhere to be seen. So we walked up the stairway, which looked more like a fire escape than anything else, and reached the top. The crew looked down and scoured the ground for any forms of life, but came up empty. No buffalo anywhere. It was at this time that my father noticed a wood sign, proclaiming to everyone that the bison were shy and preferred to hide in the bushes on the five-acre reserve. We looked in the bushes and under the trees from the tower. Not a single buffalo. Feeling that we had just been hoodwinked, we departed in a dejected manner.
My family spent the night in a non-descript hotel and headed south for the trip back the following day. However, before the journey started, my mother decided to stop at a small shopping center to restock on food and supplies. It took a long time and everyone was ready to get back on the road when she got back. From that point onward, nothing significant or noteworthy happened until we arrived at the border.
When my parents told us that we were getting near the border, the entire crew became excited. I expected a big building like the other one we had to stop at, but instead found myself looking at a rather small place which resembled a house with one room. Two middle-aged men got up from their posts and slowly walked toward the mini-van as my mother slowed it to a complete stop. After she rolled down the window, the oldest of the two asked if there was anything to declare, then proceeded to grant permission to continue our journey when she gave a negative answer. That was it. No other questions. No search. No interrogation. Nothing. My mother was so shocked by how easy it was to get back into the United States, she had to ask them once or twice if that was all they wanted. Thankful we didn't have to get out of the vehicle, we crossed the border and found ourselves in state of Montana.
As my family traveled south, we entered into a mountainous region with roads containing sharp turns and narrow passages. It was at this moment when my mother, for reasons unknown, decided to allow her mind to wonder off somewhere. As the car approached a turn with no protective barricade, she didn't react. The van just kept going. Dad screamed and yelled at everyone to abandon ship, for we were about to go off the cliff. I was so enthralled by the scenic beauty, I did not realize the peril we were in. I heard second exclamation and jerked by head upward and toward the front. The van was headed toward the wild blue yonder. The vehicle screeched hard to the left, the wheels precariously close to the edge. For a few split seconds, I thought I was a dead man. But there was no plunge. The terror was over.
The majestic mountains eventually gave way to gently sloping hills of stately green grass. They seemed to go on for miles, disappearing into the horizon. The road entered the endless meadows covering the hills and snaked its way along them. It was in this pleasant pastureland that we ere told by Dad that we would be visiting the legendary battlefield of Custer's Last Stand, known more academically as the Battle of Little Big Horn.
The rolling hills of green continued as we approached the outskirts of the futile fight for survival against the Native Americans of the region. There were no signs or markers, just individual crosses and white stones, signifying where the soldiers had fallen. The ones with the plaques signified that they were officers. Thankfully, my father had a guide to the battle which had acquired earlier, where he got it I cannot remember. Regardless, he pointed things out as Mom slowed down and became somewhat like a tour guide. When we turned a corner, there in the far away distance was a tall, white memorial stone which everyone assumed was the resting place of Colonel Custer. We were right.
The grave was located on top of a big hill, placed at the exact spot where he was shot. This large stone was surrounded by several other stones of smaller size which paid tribute to those who had died alongside their commander. From there, you could see stones and crosses scattered across the landscape like crop seed planted a farmer. There was a visitor center and museum near Custer's memorial. In addition to all this, there were lessons about the battle, weapon demonstrations, and lectures about the life of a soldier. It was a fun, educational experience and one that did not end when we left the hill. Even as we headed further south away from the site, we saw plenty of graves and learned about the life of a photographer who had witnessed the fight. We eventually saw an end to the stones but not to the hills. They continued all the way to the border.
To mention all the wonderful sites we viewed while traveling through Wyoming would be an exercise in futility, for it is one of the most beautiful states of the Union. Its valleys, canyons, forests, gorges, caves, geysers, monuments, and parks would take an eternity to fully explore. An impossible exercise for new visitors let alone seasoned veterans. Its a place where each and every feature can provide a different experience for the traveler and a different meaning to those who enjoy the great outdoors. No amount of words can ever adequately describe the panoramic scenery which surrounds the many roads going through the state. For this reason, I can only focus on the main highlights or risk spending the next fifty pages gushing about beauty using the same words over and over again.
The first leg of this venture involved heading east toward Devil's Tower. Ever since I had seen the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”, I had wanted to visit the place which played such a key role in the film. And now, I was going to get that opportunity. As we moved closer and closer to the destination, I noticed that the forested area around us was growing increasingly thinner, not by any recent fire or other natural cause, but by the lumber industry. Large areas were chopped down, leaving noticeable clearances where dense wilderness once stood untouched by human hand. Hundreds of trees, so it seemed, suffered the indignity of being vandalized with lines of paint to determine which ones would survive the axe. And this was no small section, for we traveled several miles and at least fifteen minutes before the devastation to the forest was behind us. It was this experience more than anything else that stressed to me the importance of preserving and protecting the environment. For it was one thing to watch commercials and documentaries, but to see it first-hand made it more real and personal.
It felt weird gazing upon Devil's Tower when it came into view, looking upon something I had only seen in postcards and a single movie. The tower itself looked like a stone mountain which had its top chopped off and its sides scratched. Indeed, the Indians of the region believed the side marks were caused by the spirit of a giant bear which tried to climb the structure to reach some people at the top. The mountain had no vegetation on it, but there were plenty of bushes, trees, and stones along the perimeter of it base. As it turned out, there were no clearances or runways at the tower left over from the movie set of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”. We later learned at the visitor center that the whole scene was shot elsewhere in a hangar.
It took a while to get to the visitor center after parking the van, mostly because of the long pathway leading to it. Never in my life had I ever seen so many flags. Not only was each state of the nation represented, but the flags of several other countries also waved in the breezy air. Although I'm sure there weren't that many, it seemed like the boulevard had more flags than the United Nations Building. After entering the place, the contents of which more resembled a museum more than information center, we briefly looked at the exhibits then went outside to explore the many nature trails. The many walkways themselves were all made out of concrete and traveled around the entire perimeter of the tower. The only difference among them were the closeness to the base with one exception which went all the way to the base. Those wanting to make an attempt to climb the monolith took this trail. And there were many. As we walking around one of the walkways, we would periodically stop and stare upwards, watching the hikers' progress to the apex of the mountain. After making one trip around the base, my parents decided it was time to leave and continue our journey.
The mini-van went southwest into grassy hill country. It was in this region that we intersected with the legendary Oregon Trail. My father stopped the vehicle upon seeing the marker sign and told everyone to get out once we got there. The sign wasn't the traditional green or brown marker which everyone is used to seeing, but a large, wooden one with a painted illustration of a wagon. The lettering beneath the artwork told about the history of the trail and the significance of the place where we stopped. Nearby, wagon wheel marks could be found, marking the general direction homesteaders made in their trek to Oregon.
From there, we headed northwest to the town of Custer. It was getting late, so we decided to eat at a restaurant once we got there. Many local restaurants have different ways to get your attention such as unique signs, decorations, or slogans. But the one where we stopped, the name of which I cannot recall, had the most unique approach I had ever seen. To the left inside a wooden corral, there stood a buffalo. But not just any ordinary buffalo. It was an extremely rare white buffalo. I had never seen one before, in person or in the media, so it was a special moment for me when I first glimpsed it as we drove into the parking lot. While nothing eventful happened at the dinner table, the restaurant provided my first and only buffalo burger. What surprised me the most was how lean but filling it was. It didn't seem that big, yet it effectively satisfied my appetite to the point that I felt no need to eat the french fries which came with it.
After dinner, we found a hotel owned by a woman whose husband was serving in the military and moving soon to another base. Presumably for this reason, she allowed us to stay in one of the rooms at an extraordinarily low price compared to the other rates we had to pay. My mother was so taken aback at the cost that she asked the owner to see the room first. To say the room was nice would be an understatement. We put our stuff inside it then went for a short walk in the area. Although I recall very little of that venture, I do remember that the vicinity had street lamps which looked like those you would see in Victorian London, though I doubt that they were powered by gas. We went back to the hotel, settled down, and watched a little television. For some reason, I know that we viewed an old episode of Doctor Who on the local PBS station.
We all got up the next morning and visited a museum dedicated to William Cody, a man more commonly known as Buffalo Bill. With a strong emphasis on the entertainer's Wild West Show, the place displayed all sorts of costumes, posters, props, advertisements, photographs, memorabilia, and artifacts which were accompanied by informational signs. The highlight of the museum was full-scale replica of a wagon with a movie screen on the side. On this small screen, I got to see for the first time actual footage of the traveling show. There were sharp shooting, trick roping, horse stunts, wagon stunts, bullwhip artists, Indian dancing, parades, and performer Annie Oakley. I stood in front of the screen, transfixed by the enormity of getting to witness the grand spectacle of something I had only read about in textbooks. Indeed, it lived up to the historical reputation which had been passed down through the generations in oral accounts. I wanted to spend more time than allotted at the museum, but time was pressing and we had a lot of ground to cover that day. We were about to visit the legendary Yellowstone Park.
The journey from Cody to Yellowstone was a rather short one, lasting for less than an hour. When we arrived and stopped to pay the fee, the booth attendant gave us the usual warnings and rules, then told us not to expect much in the way of finding wildlife when my mother inquired about the chances of seeing animals. As it turned out, the complete opposite was true. There seemed to be wildlife everywhere. And the most prevalent of these were the bison. Here we were gazing upon herds of bison which had not been advertised at all when back in Canada we were promised a buffalo herd and came up empty. The irony was not lost on us. In fact, it struck our minds the moment we saw the first herd. At one point, Mom stopped the car and we all got out to take a closer look. Dad walked near one buffalo so he could get a better picture with his camera. It looked up at him, snorted, and started pawing the ground. Dad noticed the animal's behavior and wasted no time in leaving the vicinity, fearing he would soon become an unwilling star on a television show called “When Animals Attack”.
Buffalo were not the only forms of wildlife we encountered. On one occasion, a mother antelope and her daughter walked along the road while a foolish photographer tried to get a good picture. The mother moved into the heavy thicket of the surrounding woods, leaving her offspring behind. The cameraman, for reasons unknown, decided it would be a good idea to sneak as close to the fawn as he could. Miraculously, the parent did not make an appearance to inflict serious damage on the man. Further down the road, traffic came to a screeching halt as a whole herd of antelope crossed from one side to the other. It took a while for the animals to finish their small expedition, but it didn't matter. Everyone was thrilled just to have the opportunity to see wild animals roam throughout their native land.
The land itself was complete wilderness with trees and brush standing alongside the many roads. Peering through them, it was easy to tell that the surrounding forests possessed a density no words could describe. The pathways twisted left and right, often intersecting with other ones. In many ways, traveling on them was like navigating a complex maze. For my parents had to constantly consult the map to make sure we didn't get lost or accidentally take the wrong road. On top of this, we had to resist the urge to stop whenever something wondrous appeared before our eyes. We saw majestic mountains, tall waterfalls, and deep valleys. With so much to see, it would have been impossible to reach our final destination by the end of the day if we paused to marvel at each one, though there were a few stops where we couldn't resist.
My parents eventually found their way out of the forested, mountainous region of the park and entered a completely different area. This one was relatively flat with green pastures, hills, and distant mountains. Then it transformed into a barren area where the trees were sparse and rotted, the grass disappeared for the most part, and horrible smells filled the air. Stone geysers appeared out of the ground, billowing forth different forms of smoke and steam. In some instances, hot water spewed from the small and large holes into the air at various heights. But most of the time, they remained inactive with only white wisps to remind viewers of their potential deadliness.
Yet geysers were not the only things surrounding the road on both sides. Many sulfur lakes and pools of hot water also populated the land. More often than not, the liquids came in different colors and sometimes more than one hue. They covered the whole spectrum of the rainbow from green and blue to red and orange. The top would be a light shade of one color while the bottom would present a darker tint. On many occasions, we could see the steam rise from the surface of these beautiful natural features, reminding everyone of their true treacherous nature.
The road we were taking slowly guided us back into the forest, but not away from the geysers and hot springs. All along the road, we saw steam and smoke rising into air from points we could not always see. It was this point that we saw a sign indicating we were near the most famous geysers of all time. We made a turn and stopped at what looked like a large hunting lodge with a completely filled parking lot. We drove onward and found a spot for the van nearby. As my family arrived at an open plaza, everyone got to see Old Faithful during its final moments of spewing forth its hot water. After the show ended, we walked up to the geyser and strolled along the circular path which surrounded it. We didn't have the time to wait an entire hour to see the full performance, so we left and continued westward.
The final stopping point before leaving Yellowstone was a series of mud pits. The smell was so bad, my mother decided to stay inside the car while the rest of us explored the attraction. As it turned out, the mud pits were actually large pools which were so hot that it caused the mud to boil. To view all this, we had to climb some concrete stairs then walk across several narrow bridges which had guard rails on both sides. The mud pools came in all different shades of white, gray, and brown. Only a few had little bubbles forming, while the rest featured large ones often bursting with great gusto. Some even provided explosions and fountain-like exertions. Because of this, the bridges didn't feel very safe in some particular areas despite all the handrails and safety assurances. The latter, of course, came with a list of instructions and warnings which needed to be obeyed at all times. We remembered the rules, not wanting to experience what it's like to be boiled to death, and left the mud pits in one piece.
Upon leaving Yellowstone, we saw by a moose standing near the road, as if it was the park's way of saying goodbye. But there was one last parting gift it wanted to provide. A few miles past the moose there was a small gas station, a welcome sight because our van badly needed more gas. My mother was driving, meaning that it would be Dad who would have to get out and fill the tank. As soon as he got out, a huge swarm of mosquitoes rose out of the surrounding fields like a military air raid of epic proportions. They moved together as one, moving swiftly like a mighty creature as they descended upon the gas station. My father was surrounded by these bloodsucking insects. He swatted at them to no avail, trying to prevent himself from being eaten alive. My brother opened the side door and entered the battle. He too was attacked, but not at the same rate as my father. He spent half his time swatting Dad and the rest slapping himself. Although this did little to alleviate the situation, it did allow Dad finish filling the tank. Once he placed the cap back on, he rushed inside the van with my brother close behind. Mom turned on the engine, stepped on the pedal, and made sure we left the vicinity as quickly as possible.
The afternoon was getting late as we rushed to our final stop of the day. In the distance was an incredibly awe-inspiring view of the Grand Tetons, a mountain range we wanted to explore but didn't have the time to do so. The jagged, rocky mountains stood along the right side of the road, their reflections showing on the waters of the lake in front of them. The descending sun shone its light upon the peaks and painted a bright yellow on their stone surface. As the sun lowered closer to the horizon, the mountainsides also changed color. They turned into to a mass of glowing gold, then slowing turned into various shades of orange before settling upon a deep red to match the transformation of the sunset clouds. And all of this was reflected in the lake below. To do this day, I can recall this memory of one of the most beautiful scenes I have ever witnessed.
Darkness had already arrived by the time we got to the town of Jackson. We looked and looked for a place to stay but kept finding “No Vacancy” signs, mostly because the place served as a ski resort center. My parents finally spotted a hotel on the outskirts at the top of a hill. The proprietors noted that the room didn't have any air-conditioning, but we wouldn't need any if we kept the windows open at night. They were right. It was very cold but we had a good night sleep.
The following day, we made a short stop at a park in the downtown area of Jackson. On one side, there was a huge arch made out of deer antlers. What grabbed our attention immediately was the fact that we had seen it during the climax of the Clint Eastwood film “Any Which Way You Can”. This was a complete surprise and a very pleasant one indeed. We got out of the car and took a few photos before heading southwest. We continued going in that direction and entered the state of Idaho. Despite my best effort, I cannot remember a single thing about that segment of the trip, probably because we only spent a few hours there without stopping. However, there was plenty to recall about the next state below it.
For some reason, I had always pictured Utah as a flat, barren place full of deserts and sparce prairies. Maybe I had adopted this notion from its close proximity to Nevada, which is well-known for the desert area surrounding Las Vegas. Maybe it came from the accounts of the Mormons describing the Salt Lake area as a place of desolation. Regardless of the underlying causes of my preconceived notions, my expectations were completely shattered. We traveled through mountain ranges, valleys, and canyons. It was a complete buffet of spectacular vistas, the locations of which I cannot remember.
As we drove along one of the many roads, my mother spotted a place that provided a gondola ride to one of the mountaintops. Everyone wanted to go for a ride except me and Mom. For my part, I was afraid of heights. And the construct of the vehicles and cable system did very little to alleviate my vision of plummetting several hundred feet to the ground below. I wished them well as they departed for what we all thought would be a fifteen-minute round trip. So when half an hour passed with no sign of the crew returning, we became very concerned. What was going on? Was there some sort of accident? Were they stuck? We waited fretfully until they arrived forty-five minutes after their departure. The first thing out of my mother's mouth was the question concerning what took them so long to get back. As it turned out, there was an entire visitor center at the top with some trails venturing away from it.
We eventually turned east and arrived at the Dinosaur National Monument, which was divided in half by the border between Utah and Colorado. I can't remember which side the main center was located, but I can recall that it a huge parking lot that required a tram to get to the big attraction. The multi-storied building had displays of paleontologist tools, educational signs showing how escavations were conducted, illustrated displays of dinosaurs, tables with prehistoric bones, and plenty of fossils still embedded in stone. The highlight of the center was the side of a cliff which had an enormous skeleton of a carnivorous dinosaur firmly set in place. Protected from the public using a glass barrier, the skeleton was being slowly removed from its stone prison by a group of scientists who were taking their time on the project. I didn't know what the completion date was, but I figured at the time that it would probably take ten years judging by the team's speed. Everyone had a fun time until we got to the parking lot. After disembarking from the tram, Dad discovered that he had accidentally locked the keys inside the van and there wasn't an extra set of keys. Luckily, Dad discovered the trunk was unlocked and all was well.
We headed into Colorado then went south. While traveling through the beautiful forests of the state, we made only one stop. Not to eat and rest, but to engage in a mighty snowball fight. There were no rules and no mercy. Just an onslaught on snowball action. After exhausting ourselves from the furious battle royale, we continued our journey.
At one point, I noticed a sign advertising that we would soon be crossing the Continental Divide. I became excited because I had never seen it. I peered outside, looking for any sign or post signifying we were going to cross the divide. In what was perhaps the single most underwhelming moment other than Moosejaw, all I saw was a solitary green traffic sign which said “Continental Divide”. That was it. A traffic sign. There was no flag, trail, or special landmark. In fact, if it weren't for the green marker, I would have never known we had crossed the divide. Disappointed, I sat back down and looked at the scenery as we drove along the winding road.
Leaving Colorado, we made a detour and visited the Grand Canyon, though we spent most of time driving alongside it. The main reason for this was the simple fact that we were running out of time and money. We made one brief stop and gazed upon the majestic beauty of the canyon, a place which would take at least three months to explore in my estimation. To try to describe the magnificence standing before me would be an exercise in futility and one I wish it avoid at all cost. Needless to say, it was a sight to behold. After a quick trip to the restroom, we moved eastward to Carlsbad Caverns.
We arrived in the town of Carlsbad during the late afternoon and rested at a hotel until dusk arrived. After a short drive, we arrived at the caverns for the evening bat show. The seating area was located on a slope to the right of the cave entrance. Those wanting to experience the event had to sit on long wooden benches. We had to wait for a very long time before the bats decided to venture out into the night sky. During the latter portion of this wait, a park official provided a small seminar on the nocturnal mammals and their lifestyles. At first, only a few exited the cave in search for food. These particular ones tended to stay near the entrance, flying close to the ground as they scoured for insects. More and more bats started to leave their home until a whole swarm was spiralling outward, making them look like a massive tornado in the process. As the bats dispersed, they looked more like gigantic insects in the fading light than the furry winged creatures seen on nature programs. It was truely a spectacular experience and one which I will not forget.
The following morning, everyone got into the van to travel to Carlsbad Caverns once more, this time to explore the underground tourist spot. After paying admission, we all got into the queue line to enter the cave. I was expecting to descend in a straight line but soon discovered we would be walking along a path which zigzagged back and forth. As we got further down into the darker regions of the entrance, My brother almost had a close encounter with a brown bat. He was brushing his right hand along the wall and stopped it only a few inches from the bat. If he had continued for just a few more inches, he would have awoken it and who knows what would have happened next.
When we got to the main area, I was amazed by the cave's enormity. Not in terms of space, but in how high the ceiling was. It was not until halfway through the self-guided tour that I realized just how big the place was. We walked along the many concrete walkways trying our best not to get lost. Some areas were heavily lighted while others had little or none at all. The caverns seemed to have a little bit of everything in terms of natural features and fun was had by all.
The only thing we did not like about the caverns was the temperature. It was hot and dry outside the place, but the temperature dropped gradually as we descended the pathway. Although we had jackets for the occasion, it didn't stop the sudden temperature changes from having an affect. My father became ill as a result of these drastic changes and it soon became a race to Dallas so Dad could rest and get better.
Nothing significant happened after we left Carlsbad except crossing the Texas border. The rest of the journey was a long one, watching the flat countryside as we rushed home. There were no stops except for the occasional bathroom break, for now we simply wanted to get back. We eventually got to Dallas and my father went straight to his bed, where he suffered for the next couple of days. Despite that one casualty, we all made it in one piece. We had traveled to Canada and back in the longest, largest vacation trip our family had ever taken. It was also the most memorable and will never be forgotten.
To help with the finances, Carol and Mike donated funds for the cause. The couple had employed my mother to babysit their children five or six days a week since I was a young lad. And so, when plans were being made for the summer vacation, they wanted their kids to embark on the journey with us and offered their financial support. In the end, we had seven passengers crammed into the van – Mom, Dad, Jeff, Julie, my brother, my sister, and myself. Amazingly, despite the large number of kids inside one vehicle for two weeks, there was not a single fight or argument. Not one. Maybe it was because we were entering new territory. Maybe my parents put something in our drinks. Maybe it was an alien implant. Regardless of what may have caused this strange phenomenon, it resulted in one of the most fantastic, memorable experiences of my life. That's not to say that everything went smoothly without a hitch or nothing bad happened. Far from it. A lot of interesting things transpired, making the trip an unforgettable journey.
Like every previous endeavor, our journey began early in the morning. My parents awoke all of us, Jeff and Julie had spent the night, sometime between five and six, which was considered lucky because they usually got us up at four. As always, we crawled out of bed and moved about like half-asleep zombies. I can't remember if we ate anything before leaving, but I do remember that I was wide awake when we left, probably from all the packing. All the supplies were crammed in the back of the mini-van while the toys, puzzle books, and other time fillers went under the seats. There were two seats in the front, two in the middle, and three in the back. Although the back held three, only two of us sat there while the third sat on the floor, a prized spot throughout the two weeks because you could lie down and have more space. To prevent battles from breaking out over this area, there would be a rotation, but only if it was desired by one of the five crew members. The Super Summer '87 Trip, as I dubbed it several weeks before, was about to begin.
Traveling through Texas was uneventful and unremarkable, mostly because the area was flat farmland viewed in the dim light of morning. It also didn't help when you were suffering from a headache caused by the lack of sleep. We eventually crossed the Red River, which was remarkably larger than I thought it would be. For some reason, I had envisioned it as a small river that you could cross in less than ten seconds. I was wrong with my initial expectations and was amazed by how wide it actually was.
Nothing happened in Oklahoma. We just drove through it, never stopping along the way. The only thing worth noting was the strange sensation you get when traveling on a road that you've always wondered what it would be like. Such an occasion presented itself on a large highway where drivers would have the option of going forward to Oklahoma City or taking the ramp to go elsewhere. In all previous trips, we had taken the ramp. But this time would be different because we remained on the main highway headed toward Oklahoma City. We never drove through the state capital, not even its suburbs. We just skirted the outer edges and continued heading north to Kansas.
Once we crossed the border, we started noticing that there were a lot of birds perched on the telephone poles for reasons unknown. As time wore on, they seemed to become more plentiful. Then it happened. Suddenly without warning, one of the birds swooped down right in front of the van and barely managed to survive to tell the tale at the next dinner party. We joked about how the bird had a death wish or maybe was just plain stupid. Either way, everyone dismissed it as a fluke occurrence. This concept did not last long because another bird rushed in front of the van, almost getting hit. We now started speculation on whether there was some food on the road or maybe something had spooked them. No sooner had we started this line of thinking when a third bird flew in our path, risking the possibility of becoming roadkill. Now it was becoming ridiculous. One bird after the other swooped down to take their chance at getting hit. Was it a dare? A death pact? An attempt to get the driver to swerve, lose control, and crash the vehicle? No one knew. All we could ascertain was that they had no fear of death. We tried to identify the species the best we could, but failed at the task. Wanting to at least give a name to these daredevils of the sky, we called them Kamikaze birds, named after the Japanese pilots who deliberately crashed their planes into American navy carriers. These Kamikazis continued to harass us throughout Kansas and Nebraska on a periodic basis. It would not be until much later that we would learn the identity of our assailants.
The first major stop we made was the Boot Hill Museum in Dodge City. The largest section was a street filled with old buildings from the Wild West. It contained a saloon, restaurant, dentist, hotel, church, and several stores. For the most part, it resembled a Hollywood movie set than an actual town, which was punctuated by the fact that we didn't get to enter many of the places because they were closed.
I have no recollections of the interiors with the exception of the saloon. After going through a set of swinging doors, we straight to the bar, which seemed to come straight out of an old Western film, complete with bottles of all shapes and sizes sitting on the shelves and a variety of cups on the back table. Everyone ordered a drink at the bar after sitting on the wooden stools along the perimeter. The occasion brought with it the first and last time I tasted a sarsaparilla. Not because I didn't like it, but because it's something I've never been able to find anywhere. Regardless, it was a nice place to relax and allow me to look around. The entire floor was filled with large round tables and wooden chairs, arranged just like the movies of the old west. There was a small theater with red curtains in the back, though no shows would be presented that day. In the far corner of the room on the left side of the stage, a long piano waited to be played. Above the large instrument, there was a sign which provided the famous warning not to shoot the piano player.
When we finished our drinks, it was time to walk to the infamous Boot Hill. When we climbed the hill and entered the cemetery, it wasn't at all what I expected. I thought that I was going to see large tombstones and the graves of famous outlaws. Instead, I saw old, wooden markers and crosses along the various pathways. Signs were erected to identify those with indiscernible names or provide background information. As far as the residents were concerned, the vast majority died as a result of fights at the saloon. Some met their fate while buffalo hunting while others got killed in accidents. Taken as a whole, the cemetery was small but interesting. At the outer edge of Boot Hill, a small jail stood to give an idea of what one looked like back in the day. To be truthful, “small” would not be a good word to describe the building which had been confiscated from Fort Dodge. But rather, the word “tiny” would be nearer the mark. For it only had a single room with a chair and a minuscule cell next to it. As luck would have it, the museum allowed visitors to enter the jail so pictures could be taken behind the cell bars. It obviously didn't take long for us to take advantage of this feature.
For the grand finale of our tour, everyone but our parents rode an old-fashioned stagecoach. Whether or not it was actually used during the old west remained to be seen, but we didn't care. It was a stagecoach, something you didn't get to do a lot. We all climbed up a set of wooden stairs and climbed inside. The ride itself was nothing spectacular, going around in a complete circle in front of the main street in an empty field, but we enjoyed the novelty of the experience.
After leaving the Boot Hill Museum, we had to stop for gas. This would not have been a problem if it weren't for the horrid smell coming from a nearby farm. It was a lurid, rank smell which was made tolerable once all the windows were closed. My father, however, received the full blast as he suffered at the gas pump. Needless to say, he was very happy to get back into the car and continue to the next destination.
We continued our drive north until one of us saw a sign advertising that the geographic center of the United States. It grabbed our attention and we decided to check it out. Located near the town of Lebanon, the area surrounding the spot was filled with grassy hills and farmland. There was not much in regard to letting people know they had reached their destination, just a stone pylon with the American flag waving in the air. It also had a historical marker and spread-out benches. Overall, it resembled a local park more than a significant landmark. We spent a few moments in the center of the nation, hiking the nearby hill and walking around the open field. The crew wanted to stay longer and play around, but we still had a long road ahead of us.
We drove straight through Nebraska, never stopping along the way. I don't remember anything of our time going through the state, probably because it seemed the offer the same type of scenery as Kansas with its farmland and small hills. Regardless of the reason, the memory fails to bring in a single detail of anything significant. The same could not be said for the next state we visited, for my family was about to witness one of the most amazing sites of the nation.
My father told us that our next stop along the trip would be the Dakota Badlands, but we would not go through the entire park. I personally didn't care just as long I got to see something different than the flat farmlands of Kansas. The terrain changed drastically as we neared the border of South Dakota and my hopes of witnessing something wonderful substantially increased. However, nothing could prepare me for what we were about to encounter.
My father parked the car in a small, concrete lot and told everyone to get out. We obeyed, not really expecting much because we hadn't officially entered the national park yet. Nevertheless, there was no complaint. We were glad just to be able to leave the confines of the mini-van. We all followed Dad toward what appeared to be a cliff. But it wasn't the cliff that atrracted my attention. It was what lay beyond it, something which I noticed less than a minute after we started walking alongside Dad. It was a scenic view with a strange beauty no one could possibly describe with words.
Before my eyes was a gigantic canyon. Not as large as the Grand Canyon, but a canyon nonetheless. I could see peaks reaching all the way into the infinity of the horizon. Hundreds of them. Not only did they disappear into the horizon, they also stood as close fifty feet away. Their tallness never exceeded a height of ten stories and their apexes never surpassed a length of fifty feet. The peaks themselves never heeded to a particular shape, size, or characteristic. Some of them would be perfectly round, almost to the point of making you think they were smooth. Others were rough and jagged, many forming peculiar and familiar objects in the process. Their thickness also varied, ranging from a wide, walkable top to a razor-thin summit.
Regardless of these differences, there was one common characteristic they all shared. Each peak had multi-colored stone layers from the outer tip of the apex to the lowest point of the bottom near the ground. Colored orange, yellow, brown, white, and red, the layers sometimes resembled the rings of a child's toy. The color scheme was further accented by the close proximity of the peaks, which usually stood an average of sixty feet from each other at the base. When looking down below, it became evident that these formations would make a mind-bending maze for those traversing on the ground without a guide of some sort to guide them. This held especially true when considering the fact that there were no trees in the canyon to serve as markers, at least from what could be seen from the viewpoint of the cliff.
We stayed for a while in the area, gazing at the wondrous site in front of us walking around near the edge. The captive spell it had cast was broken by the loud exclamation of my brother that we had seen a chipmunk. I loved animals and rarely got to see one, along with everyone else, so we quickly looked around and asked where. My brother pointed his finger with excitement to a woodland creature which was definitely not a chipmunk. As it turned out, he had discovered the existence of a common squirrel. The amount of laughter, ridicule, and teasing which followed cannot be summed up in words, but it is safe to say that we made sure my brother would never forget the incident.
Soon after the squirrel sighting, everyone got into the van to continue the journey. We drove alongside the vast canyon valleys and several rock formations. The most memorable monoliths were a large group of multi-colored domes which covered an area of several miles. Ranging from twenty feet high to six feet high, each dome was decorated with bands of red, blue, green, orange, and yellow rings. At the very end, some of these domes only reached a height of three feet.
We drove past the area and entered a section which primarily of dirt hills with sparse, protruding grass. It was this region that Dad decided to stop and take a break. In addition to some picnic tables, there was a small nature trail which would take less than five minutes to walk. At various points, signs provided information on the rocks, wildlife, and climate of the region. These signs were usually accompanied by some sort of exhibit, though I cannot remember a single detail of what was displayed. A short distance away from the trail, a tall hill which looked like pile of dirt stood at least fourteen feet high. Its prominence and easy accessibility seemed to call out to us and beg to be climbed. The crew heard the beckoning and wasted no time in attempting to reach the top. My brother and Jeff managed to reach it, my sister and Julie got midway, and I barely made it off the ground. Not only was I overly cautious when it came to adventures, but I was also a lousy climber. So I spent most of the time on the nature trail with my father and watching the others struggle to become the king of the mountain. Our departure from this place also marked the end of our visit to one of the most unusually beautiful places I have ever seen.
From the Dakota Badlands, we entered an area called the Black Hills. It was a beautiful region filled with a variety trees spreading across the land. We traveled through the mountainous forest, enjoying the magnificent scenery while heading to Wind Cave National Park. The one thing which attracted our attention to the place was the presence of an underground waterfall, something we had never seen before. We found the parking lot, got out, and followed a long, winding sidewalk leading to the cave. The entrance was wide and didn't look like the entrance to a cave. The interior was brightly light along one side of the concrete passageway while a rail on the other prevented weary travelers from falling into the underground river below. It was a comfortable journey to the waterfall, at least in terms of walking. The whole area was freezingly cold, even with our jackets on. The noise of the rushing water kept getting louder as we neared out destination, yet it seemed to take an eternity to get there. When we did, I noticed that most of the walking lights were gone and a large rail surrounded the dead end. The underground waterfall stood before us, rushing its contents from above into the river which had accompanied us from the beginning of our trek. Several spotlights in the water illuminated the main attraction in a variety of changing colors. Having seen our first and probably only underground waterfall, we turned around and headed back to the van.
We then headed northward toward our next target, which didn't seem to take very long to reach. After an hour or two, my mother saw the sign which signified we were near Mount Rushmore. Much to my surprise, we didn't have to reach the park in order to view the four presidents. The van was just driving along the road when the monument suddenly showed up on the right side, completely taking me by surprise. I always thought that you wouldn't be able to see it from the road. They would put some kind of barrier like a wall or some heavy foliage to block the view, forcing visitors to pay money to see the attraction. Instead, you could easily pull off the side of the road, take a few pictures, and continue on your way. Even if you chose not to do so, the artwork was in plain view for several minutes. Despite all this, my parents decided that we would make a stop at the stone portraits of Washington, Jefferson, Roosevelt, and Lincoln.
I can't remember at all what the park's entrance and museum looked like. I do recall that the main viewing deck was a large, concrete plaza in an open area with no trees. At the very edge, protected by a high metal fence, you could look down at the deep ravine below or use one of the many telescopes to see the presidential faces up-close. It was weird, looking upon an iconic national landmark you had only seen in books and film. And yet, there it was, standing majestically in front of me. I studied it for awhile then moved onward to an unexpected treat.
My family walked into the park's cafeteria and I noticed we had entered a piece of cinematic history, for the place had been used by the legendary Alfred Hitchcock when he directed his film “North By Northwest”. The movie's climax takes place at Mount Rushmore. However, before the final showdown occurs, there is a scene which takes place in the nearby cafeteria. It is this spot that one of the main characters seemingly guns down the hero, played by actor Cary Grant. The movie became one of my favorite dramas during my youth, so I was ecstatic at the chance to visit one of the set pieces.
We left Mount Rushmore and headed eastward, not knowing we were about to get sidetracked. As we traveled along the highway, one of my parents noticed a billboard with only two words on display and told everyone about it. A few more miles down, another billboard appeared with a few more words. The process continued until a full sentence was formed, advertising some place called Wall Drug. Then came a sign proclaiming that Wall Drug was offering a free glass of ice water. However, it wasn't just one sign. No, that would be too normal. They decided to post signs all over the place telling how great Wall Drug was and how badly we needed to get that free glass of water. We just had to see what this Wall Drug was all about.
As it turned out, Wall Drug was a tourist trap in the form of a massive indoor shopping center, but one unlike I have ever seen in my life. The outdoor area resembled a small western town during the early twentieth century. The parking lot itself resembled the type you would see in a downtown area. We found a spot for the van, got out, and entered the main building.
The interior was like a small maze with its many corridors, both wide and narrow. Alongside these passages, you could enter a wide variety of specialty shops providing leather, cards, clothes, games, silverware, jewelry, books, lamps, plates, vases, antiques, paintings, posters, and many more. It seemed like they sold anything and everything in these stores, each one possessing a slightly different atmosphere. The place had a pharmacy, several places to eat, and even a chapel. Stuffed animals, statues, and Western artwork adorned the walls of both the hallways and the stores. Figures such as cowboys and clowns allowed people to take photos of themselves and their families. Machines which could have been found in penny arcades were placed throughout the vicinity. All you had to do was insert a quarter and the animatronic figure inside the case would move. Sometimes, an instrument would play or more than one figure would perform. In addition to all this, visitors could enjoy live musical entertainment at some of the eateries.
There was a large area in the back of Wall Drug for a number of fun activities. The main one involved taking pictures at various set pieces including an old wagon, a small replica of Mount Rushmore, a stagecoach, and a large statue of a jackalope. The last item represented a legendary animal which had the body of a jackrabbit and the antlers of an antelope. Originally conceived by early lumberjacks, it has become a popular icon of South Dakota.
At the center of the courtyard, there was a well that served as a water fountain. A sign indicated this was the spot where you got your free ice water. Sure enough, there was a place next to the well to grab a cup and get some ice. Whether you had to use a provided scoop to acquire the ice, I cannot recall.
Despite all the stores, photo spots, penny arcade items, and live entertainment, the one attraction that made the largest impression during our brief stay was a piano-playing gorilla who liked to sing. This description would actually be an insult to what it actually was. At its core, it served as a penny arcade relic which required money in order to function. In this case, it was a single quarter. Inserting this contribution would cause an animatronic gorilla to sing and play the tune “Pop Goes The Weasel”. I use the words “sing” and “play” very loosely here, for the gorilla did little of either. The hands moved slowly up and down in a banging motion. And even then, they barely made it to the piano keys themselves. Not to mention the fact that the hands completed their first trip to the piano when the recording reached to “mulberry bush”. The mouth didn't do much better. The lower jaw moved up and down just as slow, if not more so. A whole three lines passed before the mouth completely opened and closed. It was worse than the dubbing of a bad martial arts film. After the performance, a poor word choice indeed, none of us thought we had been ripped off. It was so terrible, everyone was laughing and giggling throughout the act.
My family continued east after getting sidetracked and crossed the Missouri River. We made it to Aberdeen then decided to take a short break at a small park named Storybook Land. It consisted of life-sized sets and figures representing popular tales, nursery rhymes, and books. There was the shoe which the old woman with so many children lived in, doubling as a slide for kids. Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall and Mother Goose rode her avian companion. You could have your photo taken with characters like Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Dorothy and her three friends, and Moby Dick. The most memorable moment was when everyone got my brother to sit in a dentist chair and pretend that we were torturing him using various methods. After an hour of walking around and acting crazy in front of the camera, we left the park and continued our northern odyssey.
What happened after our pit stop in Aberdeen remains a mystery because I can't remember a single detail. All I know is that we drove through the rest of South Dakota and entered North Dakota. That is all. What I can remember, however, is our encounter with the border officials as we tried to enter Canada.
As we traveled through the upper portion of North Dakota, I noticed that the hill had diminished to the point of nonexistence, transforming the area into flat prairie land. The only thing which kept my attention to the countryside was the prospect of seeing a sign indicating that the border was near. Excitement filled the air when a mileage sign showed up. From that time onward, my eyes were glued to the road ahead. Then I saw it. A large building on the left side of the highway. Odd as it may seem, I saw no tall, concrete walls or high barbed wire fences. Just a building, some patrol cars, and a few officers who stood near the road.
My mother stopped the mini-van when the officers motioned her to do so, then rolled down the window. They asked about our intentions, where we were headed to, if there was anything which needed to declare, and other standard questions. All seemed to go well until one of the men wanted to know if we were carrying any alcohol. When Mom told them we didn't have any, they seemed to be baffled and suspicious, despite the fact that there were five kids in the back of the vehicle. They asked again and wanted to make sure Mom was perfectly clear in her denial that we didn't have any booze. Maybe they were hoping for a free beer. Maybe they were just plain bored. Regardless, their reaction prompted Mom to suggest the possibility of searching the van to put their minds at ease. They took it.
Everyone had to get out and stand outside while the officials searched our vehicle for hidden booze. I found the whole affair both exciting and amusing, for we had never had our car searched by the police, especially on such a silly premise as smuggling alcohol with a group of kids in the back. After five or ten minutes of going through almost everything, the men completed their task and allowed to cross the border. We had finally reached our destination.
It didn't take long for my excitement of traveling through Canada to subside. I couldn't help but feel disappointed, for all the magazines, brochures, books, and television shows advertised a place filled with majestic mountains, wild forests, and lush landscapes filled with overflowing wildlife. Instead, I was surrounded by prairie land as far as the eye could see. I might as well have been in Texas. In fact, the only indicators that this wasn't so were the signs along the highway, which provided information in French with subtitles in English. It felt weird reading them because I was so used to reading English in large letters and occasional Spanish in small ones. This was not just confined to the signs, but also to stores and restaurants. When we stopped at a McDonald's, even the salt and ketchup packets had English in tiny script underneath the dominant French script.
The only other main difference was the currency. Although the coins looked perfectly normal despite the different designs, the bills were a completely different ballgame. Not only was the print font larger, each denomination sported a large variety of colors I had never seen, for the American dollar bills at the time was a simple green with black ink. Because the currency was so different than our own, the crew chose to treat most of it as a souvenir of the trip rather than spend it at the few places where we stopped.
The first stop was a museum about the Canadian Mounties. Looking more like a community civic center, it housed several collections pertaining to the mounted police and various aspects of Saskatchewan, the latter because it was considered to be the central for the organization. I cannot remember much of the collections, nor can I recall any of the information I read. I know that there were a lot of costumes and historical artifacts. There were some displays covering the native peoples of the land in addition to the answer to the mystery which had been bothering us since the first encounter in Kansas. While walking through the wildlife section, my father noticed a familiar bird. It was the one which kept going on suicide missions by diving in front of our car. Filled with excitement, Dad told us that the culprit was an avian species called the meadowlark. The mystery solved, I felt disappointed knowing the answer, probably because it took away some of the mystique from the experience.
After leaving the museum, we had to choose between two places, for time was growing short. We could either visit the capital of Regina or a state park with herd of wild bison. Because the crew loved animals and never saw a large animal like the buffalo in the wild, the state park won by a landslide. It seemed like a long journey, though in reality it was only thirty-five miles away from our first stop. Our parents told us to look for the name Moosejaw on the highway signs to make sure there would be no wrong turns. This resulted in a countdown as we noted how many more miles there were until we got to the oddly-named town with a state park.
After paying an entrance fee, Mom drove us along a concrete pathway which circled a large lake. There were tents, trailers, boats, and playgrounds. But all of this did not matter to us, for we were only focused on one thing – finding those buffalo. My mother was told to look for a lookout tower, but that didn't stop the crew from looking at the ground in hopes of spotting the increasingly elusive creature. We eventually found the tower and drove toward it using a gravel road to get there. Everyone got out of the car except Mom and looked around for the buffalo. They were nowhere to be seen. So we walked up the stairway, which looked more like a fire escape than anything else, and reached the top. The crew looked down and scoured the ground for any forms of life, but came up empty. No buffalo anywhere. It was at this time that my father noticed a wood sign, proclaiming to everyone that the bison were shy and preferred to hide in the bushes on the five-acre reserve. We looked in the bushes and under the trees from the tower. Not a single buffalo. Feeling that we had just been hoodwinked, we departed in a dejected manner.
My family spent the night in a non-descript hotel and headed south for the trip back the following day. However, before the journey started, my mother decided to stop at a small shopping center to restock on food and supplies. It took a long time and everyone was ready to get back on the road when she got back. From that point onward, nothing significant or noteworthy happened until we arrived at the border.
When my parents told us that we were getting near the border, the entire crew became excited. I expected a big building like the other one we had to stop at, but instead found myself looking at a rather small place which resembled a house with one room. Two middle-aged men got up from their posts and slowly walked toward the mini-van as my mother slowed it to a complete stop. After she rolled down the window, the oldest of the two asked if there was anything to declare, then proceeded to grant permission to continue our journey when she gave a negative answer. That was it. No other questions. No search. No interrogation. Nothing. My mother was so shocked by how easy it was to get back into the United States, she had to ask them once or twice if that was all they wanted. Thankful we didn't have to get out of the vehicle, we crossed the border and found ourselves in state of Montana.
As my family traveled south, we entered into a mountainous region with roads containing sharp turns and narrow passages. It was at this moment when my mother, for reasons unknown, decided to allow her mind to wonder off somewhere. As the car approached a turn with no protective barricade, she didn't react. The van just kept going. Dad screamed and yelled at everyone to abandon ship, for we were about to go off the cliff. I was so enthralled by the scenic beauty, I did not realize the peril we were in. I heard second exclamation and jerked by head upward and toward the front. The van was headed toward the wild blue yonder. The vehicle screeched hard to the left, the wheels precariously close to the edge. For a few split seconds, I thought I was a dead man. But there was no plunge. The terror was over.
The majestic mountains eventually gave way to gently sloping hills of stately green grass. They seemed to go on for miles, disappearing into the horizon. The road entered the endless meadows covering the hills and snaked its way along them. It was in this pleasant pastureland that we ere told by Dad that we would be visiting the legendary battlefield of Custer's Last Stand, known more academically as the Battle of Little Big Horn.
The rolling hills of green continued as we approached the outskirts of the futile fight for survival against the Native Americans of the region. There were no signs or markers, just individual crosses and white stones, signifying where the soldiers had fallen. The ones with the plaques signified that they were officers. Thankfully, my father had a guide to the battle which had acquired earlier, where he got it I cannot remember. Regardless, he pointed things out as Mom slowed down and became somewhat like a tour guide. When we turned a corner, there in the far away distance was a tall, white memorial stone which everyone assumed was the resting place of Colonel Custer. We were right.
The grave was located on top of a big hill, placed at the exact spot where he was shot. This large stone was surrounded by several other stones of smaller size which paid tribute to those who had died alongside their commander. From there, you could see stones and crosses scattered across the landscape like crop seed planted a farmer. There was a visitor center and museum near Custer's memorial. In addition to all this, there were lessons about the battle, weapon demonstrations, and lectures about the life of a soldier. It was a fun, educational experience and one that did not end when we left the hill. Even as we headed further south away from the site, we saw plenty of graves and learned about the life of a photographer who had witnessed the fight. We eventually saw an end to the stones but not to the hills. They continued all the way to the border.
To mention all the wonderful sites we viewed while traveling through Wyoming would be an exercise in futility, for it is one of the most beautiful states of the Union. Its valleys, canyons, forests, gorges, caves, geysers, monuments, and parks would take an eternity to fully explore. An impossible exercise for new visitors let alone seasoned veterans. Its a place where each and every feature can provide a different experience for the traveler and a different meaning to those who enjoy the great outdoors. No amount of words can ever adequately describe the panoramic scenery which surrounds the many roads going through the state. For this reason, I can only focus on the main highlights or risk spending the next fifty pages gushing about beauty using the same words over and over again.
The first leg of this venture involved heading east toward Devil's Tower. Ever since I had seen the movie “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”, I had wanted to visit the place which played such a key role in the film. And now, I was going to get that opportunity. As we moved closer and closer to the destination, I noticed that the forested area around us was growing increasingly thinner, not by any recent fire or other natural cause, but by the lumber industry. Large areas were chopped down, leaving noticeable clearances where dense wilderness once stood untouched by human hand. Hundreds of trees, so it seemed, suffered the indignity of being vandalized with lines of paint to determine which ones would survive the axe. And this was no small section, for we traveled several miles and at least fifteen minutes before the devastation to the forest was behind us. It was this experience more than anything else that stressed to me the importance of preserving and protecting the environment. For it was one thing to watch commercials and documentaries, but to see it first-hand made it more real and personal.
It felt weird gazing upon Devil's Tower when it came into view, looking upon something I had only seen in postcards and a single movie. The tower itself looked like a stone mountain which had its top chopped off and its sides scratched. Indeed, the Indians of the region believed the side marks were caused by the spirit of a giant bear which tried to climb the structure to reach some people at the top. The mountain had no vegetation on it, but there were plenty of bushes, trees, and stones along the perimeter of it base. As it turned out, there were no clearances or runways at the tower left over from the movie set of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind”. We later learned at the visitor center that the whole scene was shot elsewhere in a hangar.
It took a while to get to the visitor center after parking the van, mostly because of the long pathway leading to it. Never in my life had I ever seen so many flags. Not only was each state of the nation represented, but the flags of several other countries also waved in the breezy air. Although I'm sure there weren't that many, it seemed like the boulevard had more flags than the United Nations Building. After entering the place, the contents of which more resembled a museum more than information center, we briefly looked at the exhibits then went outside to explore the many nature trails. The many walkways themselves were all made out of concrete and traveled around the entire perimeter of the tower. The only difference among them were the closeness to the base with one exception which went all the way to the base. Those wanting to make an attempt to climb the monolith took this trail. And there were many. As we walking around one of the walkways, we would periodically stop and stare upwards, watching the hikers' progress to the apex of the mountain. After making one trip around the base, my parents decided it was time to leave and continue our journey.
The mini-van went southwest into grassy hill country. It was in this region that we intersected with the legendary Oregon Trail. My father stopped the vehicle upon seeing the marker sign and told everyone to get out once we got there. The sign wasn't the traditional green or brown marker which everyone is used to seeing, but a large, wooden one with a painted illustration of a wagon. The lettering beneath the artwork told about the history of the trail and the significance of the place where we stopped. Nearby, wagon wheel marks could be found, marking the general direction homesteaders made in their trek to Oregon.
From there, we headed northwest to the town of Custer. It was getting late, so we decided to eat at a restaurant once we got there. Many local restaurants have different ways to get your attention such as unique signs, decorations, or slogans. But the one where we stopped, the name of which I cannot recall, had the most unique approach I had ever seen. To the left inside a wooden corral, there stood a buffalo. But not just any ordinary buffalo. It was an extremely rare white buffalo. I had never seen one before, in person or in the media, so it was a special moment for me when I first glimpsed it as we drove into the parking lot. While nothing eventful happened at the dinner table, the restaurant provided my first and only buffalo burger. What surprised me the most was how lean but filling it was. It didn't seem that big, yet it effectively satisfied my appetite to the point that I felt no need to eat the french fries which came with it.
After dinner, we found a hotel owned by a woman whose husband was serving in the military and moving soon to another base. Presumably for this reason, she allowed us to stay in one of the rooms at an extraordinarily low price compared to the other rates we had to pay. My mother was so taken aback at the cost that she asked the owner to see the room first. To say the room was nice would be an understatement. We put our stuff inside it then went for a short walk in the area. Although I recall very little of that venture, I do remember that the vicinity had street lamps which looked like those you would see in Victorian London, though I doubt that they were powered by gas. We went back to the hotel, settled down, and watched a little television. For some reason, I know that we viewed an old episode of Doctor Who on the local PBS station.
We all got up the next morning and visited a museum dedicated to William Cody, a man more commonly known as Buffalo Bill. With a strong emphasis on the entertainer's Wild West Show, the place displayed all sorts of costumes, posters, props, advertisements, photographs, memorabilia, and artifacts which were accompanied by informational signs. The highlight of the museum was full-scale replica of a wagon with a movie screen on the side. On this small screen, I got to see for the first time actual footage of the traveling show. There were sharp shooting, trick roping, horse stunts, wagon stunts, bullwhip artists, Indian dancing, parades, and performer Annie Oakley. I stood in front of the screen, transfixed by the enormity of getting to witness the grand spectacle of something I had only read about in textbooks. Indeed, it lived up to the historical reputation which had been passed down through the generations in oral accounts. I wanted to spend more time than allotted at the museum, but time was pressing and we had a lot of ground to cover that day. We were about to visit the legendary Yellowstone Park.
The journey from Cody to Yellowstone was a rather short one, lasting for less than an hour. When we arrived and stopped to pay the fee, the booth attendant gave us the usual warnings and rules, then told us not to expect much in the way of finding wildlife when my mother inquired about the chances of seeing animals. As it turned out, the complete opposite was true. There seemed to be wildlife everywhere. And the most prevalent of these were the bison. Here we were gazing upon herds of bison which had not been advertised at all when back in Canada we were promised a buffalo herd and came up empty. The irony was not lost on us. In fact, it struck our minds the moment we saw the first herd. At one point, Mom stopped the car and we all got out to take a closer look. Dad walked near one buffalo so he could get a better picture with his camera. It looked up at him, snorted, and started pawing the ground. Dad noticed the animal's behavior and wasted no time in leaving the vicinity, fearing he would soon become an unwilling star on a television show called “When Animals Attack”.
Buffalo were not the only forms of wildlife we encountered. On one occasion, a mother antelope and her daughter walked along the road while a foolish photographer tried to get a good picture. The mother moved into the heavy thicket of the surrounding woods, leaving her offspring behind. The cameraman, for reasons unknown, decided it would be a good idea to sneak as close to the fawn as he could. Miraculously, the parent did not make an appearance to inflict serious damage on the man. Further down the road, traffic came to a screeching halt as a whole herd of antelope crossed from one side to the other. It took a while for the animals to finish their small expedition, but it didn't matter. Everyone was thrilled just to have the opportunity to see wild animals roam throughout their native land.
The land itself was complete wilderness with trees and brush standing alongside the many roads. Peering through them, it was easy to tell that the surrounding forests possessed a density no words could describe. The pathways twisted left and right, often intersecting with other ones. In many ways, traveling on them was like navigating a complex maze. For my parents had to constantly consult the map to make sure we didn't get lost or accidentally take the wrong road. On top of this, we had to resist the urge to stop whenever something wondrous appeared before our eyes. We saw majestic mountains, tall waterfalls, and deep valleys. With so much to see, it would have been impossible to reach our final destination by the end of the day if we paused to marvel at each one, though there were a few stops where we couldn't resist.
My parents eventually found their way out of the forested, mountainous region of the park and entered a completely different area. This one was relatively flat with green pastures, hills, and distant mountains. Then it transformed into a barren area where the trees were sparse and rotted, the grass disappeared for the most part, and horrible smells filled the air. Stone geysers appeared out of the ground, billowing forth different forms of smoke and steam. In some instances, hot water spewed from the small and large holes into the air at various heights. But most of the time, they remained inactive with only white wisps to remind viewers of their potential deadliness.
Yet geysers were not the only things surrounding the road on both sides. Many sulfur lakes and pools of hot water also populated the land. More often than not, the liquids came in different colors and sometimes more than one hue. They covered the whole spectrum of the rainbow from green and blue to red and orange. The top would be a light shade of one color while the bottom would present a darker tint. On many occasions, we could see the steam rise from the surface of these beautiful natural features, reminding everyone of their true treacherous nature.
The road we were taking slowly guided us back into the forest, but not away from the geysers and hot springs. All along the road, we saw steam and smoke rising into air from points we could not always see. It was this point that we saw a sign indicating we were near the most famous geysers of all time. We made a turn and stopped at what looked like a large hunting lodge with a completely filled parking lot. We drove onward and found a spot for the van nearby. As my family arrived at an open plaza, everyone got to see Old Faithful during its final moments of spewing forth its hot water. After the show ended, we walked up to the geyser and strolled along the circular path which surrounded it. We didn't have the time to wait an entire hour to see the full performance, so we left and continued westward.
The final stopping point before leaving Yellowstone was a series of mud pits. The smell was so bad, my mother decided to stay inside the car while the rest of us explored the attraction. As it turned out, the mud pits were actually large pools which were so hot that it caused the mud to boil. To view all this, we had to climb some concrete stairs then walk across several narrow bridges which had guard rails on both sides. The mud pools came in all different shades of white, gray, and brown. Only a few had little bubbles forming, while the rest featured large ones often bursting with great gusto. Some even provided explosions and fountain-like exertions. Because of this, the bridges didn't feel very safe in some particular areas despite all the handrails and safety assurances. The latter, of course, came with a list of instructions and warnings which needed to be obeyed at all times. We remembered the rules, not wanting to experience what it's like to be boiled to death, and left the mud pits in one piece.
Upon leaving Yellowstone, we saw by a moose standing near the road, as if it was the park's way of saying goodbye. But there was one last parting gift it wanted to provide. A few miles past the moose there was a small gas station, a welcome sight because our van badly needed more gas. My mother was driving, meaning that it would be Dad who would have to get out and fill the tank. As soon as he got out, a huge swarm of mosquitoes rose out of the surrounding fields like a military air raid of epic proportions. They moved together as one, moving swiftly like a mighty creature as they descended upon the gas station. My father was surrounded by these bloodsucking insects. He swatted at them to no avail, trying to prevent himself from being eaten alive. My brother opened the side door and entered the battle. He too was attacked, but not at the same rate as my father. He spent half his time swatting Dad and the rest slapping himself. Although this did little to alleviate the situation, it did allow Dad finish filling the tank. Once he placed the cap back on, he rushed inside the van with my brother close behind. Mom turned on the engine, stepped on the pedal, and made sure we left the vicinity as quickly as possible.
The afternoon was getting late as we rushed to our final stop of the day. In the distance was an incredibly awe-inspiring view of the Grand Tetons, a mountain range we wanted to explore but didn't have the time to do so. The jagged, rocky mountains stood along the right side of the road, their reflections showing on the waters of the lake in front of them. The descending sun shone its light upon the peaks and painted a bright yellow on their stone surface. As the sun lowered closer to the horizon, the mountainsides also changed color. They turned into to a mass of glowing gold, then slowing turned into various shades of orange before settling upon a deep red to match the transformation of the sunset clouds. And all of this was reflected in the lake below. To do this day, I can recall this memory of one of the most beautiful scenes I have ever witnessed.
Darkness had already arrived by the time we got to the town of Jackson. We looked and looked for a place to stay but kept finding “No Vacancy” signs, mostly because the place served as a ski resort center. My parents finally spotted a hotel on the outskirts at the top of a hill. The proprietors noted that the room didn't have any air-conditioning, but we wouldn't need any if we kept the windows open at night. They were right. It was very cold but we had a good night sleep.
The following day, we made a short stop at a park in the downtown area of Jackson. On one side, there was a huge arch made out of deer antlers. What grabbed our attention immediately was the fact that we had seen it during the climax of the Clint Eastwood film “Any Which Way You Can”. This was a complete surprise and a very pleasant one indeed. We got out of the car and took a few photos before heading southwest. We continued going in that direction and entered the state of Idaho. Despite my best effort, I cannot remember a single thing about that segment of the trip, probably because we only spent a few hours there without stopping. However, there was plenty to recall about the next state below it.
For some reason, I had always pictured Utah as a flat, barren place full of deserts and sparce prairies. Maybe I had adopted this notion from its close proximity to Nevada, which is well-known for the desert area surrounding Las Vegas. Maybe it came from the accounts of the Mormons describing the Salt Lake area as a place of desolation. Regardless of the underlying causes of my preconceived notions, my expectations were completely shattered. We traveled through mountain ranges, valleys, and canyons. It was a complete buffet of spectacular vistas, the locations of which I cannot remember.
As we drove along one of the many roads, my mother spotted a place that provided a gondola ride to one of the mountaintops. Everyone wanted to go for a ride except me and Mom. For my part, I was afraid of heights. And the construct of the vehicles and cable system did very little to alleviate my vision of plummetting several hundred feet to the ground below. I wished them well as they departed for what we all thought would be a fifteen-minute round trip. So when half an hour passed with no sign of the crew returning, we became very concerned. What was going on? Was there some sort of accident? Were they stuck? We waited fretfully until they arrived forty-five minutes after their departure. The first thing out of my mother's mouth was the question concerning what took them so long to get back. As it turned out, there was an entire visitor center at the top with some trails venturing away from it.
We eventually turned east and arrived at the Dinosaur National Monument, which was divided in half by the border between Utah and Colorado. I can't remember which side the main center was located, but I can recall that it a huge parking lot that required a tram to get to the big attraction. The multi-storied building had displays of paleontologist tools, educational signs showing how escavations were conducted, illustrated displays of dinosaurs, tables with prehistoric bones, and plenty of fossils still embedded in stone. The highlight of the center was the side of a cliff which had an enormous skeleton of a carnivorous dinosaur firmly set in place. Protected from the public using a glass barrier, the skeleton was being slowly removed from its stone prison by a group of scientists who were taking their time on the project. I didn't know what the completion date was, but I figured at the time that it would probably take ten years judging by the team's speed. Everyone had a fun time until we got to the parking lot. After disembarking from the tram, Dad discovered that he had accidentally locked the keys inside the van and there wasn't an extra set of keys. Luckily, Dad discovered the trunk was unlocked and all was well.
We headed into Colorado then went south. While traveling through the beautiful forests of the state, we made only one stop. Not to eat and rest, but to engage in a mighty snowball fight. There were no rules and no mercy. Just an onslaught on snowball action. After exhausting ourselves from the furious battle royale, we continued our journey.
At one point, I noticed a sign advertising that we would soon be crossing the Continental Divide. I became excited because I had never seen it. I peered outside, looking for any sign or post signifying we were going to cross the divide. In what was perhaps the single most underwhelming moment other than Moosejaw, all I saw was a solitary green traffic sign which said “Continental Divide”. That was it. A traffic sign. There was no flag, trail, or special landmark. In fact, if it weren't for the green marker, I would have never known we had crossed the divide. Disappointed, I sat back down and looked at the scenery as we drove along the winding road.
Leaving Colorado, we made a detour and visited the Grand Canyon, though we spent most of time driving alongside it. The main reason for this was the simple fact that we were running out of time and money. We made one brief stop and gazed upon the majestic beauty of the canyon, a place which would take at least three months to explore in my estimation. To try to describe the magnificence standing before me would be an exercise in futility and one I wish it avoid at all cost. Needless to say, it was a sight to behold. After a quick trip to the restroom, we moved eastward to Carlsbad Caverns.
We arrived in the town of Carlsbad during the late afternoon and rested at a hotel until dusk arrived. After a short drive, we arrived at the caverns for the evening bat show. The seating area was located on a slope to the right of the cave entrance. Those wanting to experience the event had to sit on long wooden benches. We had to wait for a very long time before the bats decided to venture out into the night sky. During the latter portion of this wait, a park official provided a small seminar on the nocturnal mammals and their lifestyles. At first, only a few exited the cave in search for food. These particular ones tended to stay near the entrance, flying close to the ground as they scoured for insects. More and more bats started to leave their home until a whole swarm was spiralling outward, making them look like a massive tornado in the process. As the bats dispersed, they looked more like gigantic insects in the fading light than the furry winged creatures seen on nature programs. It was truely a spectacular experience and one which I will not forget.
The following morning, everyone got into the van to travel to Carlsbad Caverns once more, this time to explore the underground tourist spot. After paying admission, we all got into the queue line to enter the cave. I was expecting to descend in a straight line but soon discovered we would be walking along a path which zigzagged back and forth. As we got further down into the darker regions of the entrance, My brother almost had a close encounter with a brown bat. He was brushing his right hand along the wall and stopped it only a few inches from the bat. If he had continued for just a few more inches, he would have awoken it and who knows what would have happened next.
When we got to the main area, I was amazed by the cave's enormity. Not in terms of space, but in how high the ceiling was. It was not until halfway through the self-guided tour that I realized just how big the place was. We walked along the many concrete walkways trying our best not to get lost. Some areas were heavily lighted while others had little or none at all. The caverns seemed to have a little bit of everything in terms of natural features and fun was had by all.
The only thing we did not like about the caverns was the temperature. It was hot and dry outside the place, but the temperature dropped gradually as we descended the pathway. Although we had jackets for the occasion, it didn't stop the sudden temperature changes from having an affect. My father became ill as a result of these drastic changes and it soon became a race to Dallas so Dad could rest and get better.
Nothing significant happened after we left Carlsbad except crossing the Texas border. The rest of the journey was a long one, watching the flat countryside as we rushed home. There were no stops except for the occasional bathroom break, for now we simply wanted to get back. We eventually got to Dallas and my father went straight to his bed, where he suffered for the next couple of days. Despite that one casualty, we all made it in one piece. We had traveled to Canada and back in the longest, largest vacation trip our family had ever taken. It was also the most memorable and will never be forgotten.