Jenmenke

Road Warrior

Road Trip

Game On. Road Warriors Three, Day One, Part One

Friday, 7/29/11

We begin. On the road at 5:50. Were shooting for 5 am but who were we kidding? The cooler needed to be packed, which always takes more time than you think, regardless of the fact that I had everything ready to go inside bags inside the fridge and freezers. I don’t know why. It just does. But probably most relational to our delayed departure time was the fact that I refused to get out of bed before 4:45.

I mean really.

This year, for what I believe is the first time, we began packing and preparing for the trip the weekend before. This was a revelation. While probably most of the sane world’s occupants have been doing this for most of their lives, it is not something I have ever subscribed to and simply had no idea. I never realized how calm things could be, on even the day before the trip, when you begin pulling things out and taking stock of — shoes, do they fit? — pancake mix, we’re out? — lantern, we don’t have @#$% mantles?! — days in advance.

Stress levels go down and time efficiency goes way, way up. The very odd and telling thing about this/me is: I don’t like it. As I sit here and write this, only an hour after leaving the house, everything feels wrong. Nothing is fresh in my mind, because I didn’t do it all in the past 16 hours. It goes without saying that my short term memory is abysmal, but to not be able to answer a single question lobbed to me from the back seat like, “did you bring my soccer ball,” is very disconcerting indeed.

Further, I have no apologies to make about my mental breakdown. No pep talk about “Let’s not hang on to grudges and have fun.”

I don’t like it. Not at all. What’s a trip without the screaming and chaos that goes before it? And what does that say about me?

There are also two back stories that need telling. First and most important, we are leaving exactly 36 hours after Morgan was in a terrifyingly serious car accident. She is amazingly well. Hardly sore. She has a bad bump on her head, some “memory disturbance,” and some cuts/scratches on her hand. The only thing she is really complaining about (besides her brother in the backseat)

…is her fingernail. “It hurts soooo baaaad.”

A fingernail? After rolling your car twice? We will take it.

We. Will. Take. It.

A second and less important, but potentially more devastating issue are my injuries as we leave on this trip. Injuries sustained at the hands of my rooster, El Senor. Well, literally the feet. He attacked me yesterday when I was replacing the giant waterer that I need to use when we are gone for any amount of time. It is no small feat of danger to waddle into his territory, awkwardly dragging a 5 gallon feeder while simultaneously holding a shield to protect yourself.

I made it in just fine, but on my way out, while he was throwing himself repeatedly against the shield, I took my eyes off him for just one second. When I looked back up, he had gotten around the side of the shield just as I was backing out the door. I didn’t want to deal with him chasing me to the house, so I was frantically trying to keep him inside the run. During the scuffle, I somehow ended up trapped in the area behind the fence door. After launching him into the air with a mighty kick (yessss!), I realized the door was stuck on a rock which was on the other side of the door. I simply could not shut the door without breaking it. So, he repeated flew at my bare legs and flipflop-shod feet while I tried to get the door shut.

After about four attacks, I was able to launch him into the air again long enough to bend down, stick my hand through the fence and move the rock that was keeping me from shutting the door. Meanwhile, he ended up on the other side of the door and started flying against the door instead of me, which allowed me to shut the door with him inside the run.

It was all very comical. Really, I tell you it was. I was even laughing. –In between bouts of bending over, all sweaty and dizzy, and saying out loud, “Muther F•cker that HURT! Oooooh mannnnn. That HURT!”

[insert non-road warrior journal information. I should point out here that everyone mistakenly thinks that roosters attack with their beaks. They do not. They use the long bones that protrude from the back of their legs called spurs. The older the bird, the longer the spur. I’m not sure where El Senor got a wet stone to sharpen his, but they are also quite sharp. But let me tell you something: it isn’t the cut that hurts. It’s the impact of the hit. I had, quite literally, instant swelling and bruises at the areas of the punctures. It was these that hurt so bad. I would compare it to being hit with a hammer. No, I am not kidding. Now, back to the journal.]

I like to think I am tough, but man. I almost cried. *almost*

I iced the wounds and took some Advil. I did everything but CLEAN them. I was so busy running around doing chores before we left that I kept putting it off.

Well, to be honest, I did think the blood running down my leg looked super-cool and I did want everyone to see that first. Then I cleaned the punctures. But by then it was hours later. In fact, it wasn’t until about 11 pm while I was waiting for the chicken to finish “oven-frying” — a complete misnomer — that I cleaned the blood off, sat down, took some Advil, and iced my knee and my foot.

I do admit that, although the wounds continued to hurt like Hell, throb, and bother me to no end, there was a part of me that just could not accept that a stupid little rooster could bring me down. It was just too much to bear. Only now, as I write this a day later, with my foot the size of Michelle’s Shrek feet, am I taking it seriously and contemplating the ramifications of a full-blown infection.

Here is my normal, non-attacked foot for reference:

And, here is my Shrek-Foot:

I keep telling myself it will be fine, but I’m not so sure.

It doesn’t help matters to have the anti-chicken-hater-of-all-time sitting next to me saying things like, “Chickens have salmonella you know. You probably have salmonella.”

Really, Dave? Really?

Another first this year is that we are traveling with the Kooistras, Dave’s sister. This will be a tricky line for me to walk since I’m a tell-all kind of person. Can I really tell all when it involves another family? We will see. We will see…

 

Road Warriors 2010 Day Nine

Day 9, The Conclusion

8/6/2010

Everyone was up by 8 am and we puttered around not too enthused for either packing up for home or heading out for a last hike on the Marble Canyon trail.

Lethargy.

We finally got to the trail about 9:30 and scurried along the well-signed interpretive trail without pause, since the sky had suddenly started to threaten rain.

No WAY was I packing the trailer up in the rain!

Or so I thought.

The trail wove along the ever-deepening canyon, through the most recent fire.

In the beginning, the river is level with the path. By the end, the water was so far below, deep in the canyon and brilliant blue

The trail ends with this beautiful waterfall

This is the growth of a lodge pole in just four years!

We raced back after completing the hike in probable record time, but the rain had already come through the campground. Everything we’d taken out to pack up for home and left out was soaking wet. Towels, chairs, shoes, backpacks, rugs…

ARRGH.

What could I do?

I packed it up in the rain.

We headed back to Banff for — surprise! — another dip (and shower) in the Banff Hot Springs. (note the luxurious and clean golden waves in the photo below. That’s hair I’m talking about and not water. My hair to be more specific.)

We also had a delightfully delicious lunch at the Coyote Cafe — the place we were going to eat originally on the ill-fated Pierre-The-Waiter day, but it was too busy. I would have happily eaten there twice.

And… we also successfully exchanged the bad geode (turns out they were “guaranteed”) and got another round of bubble teas.

As I write this, I can’t even remember why Morgan was sulking, but — as usual — I was trying to jolly her out of her mood. This time, by sucking a bubble from the tea into my straw and shooting it at her. Those babies can fly! This, as you might suspect, erupted into a truly horrible spectacle with all of us (except, of course, Mr-No-Fun) shooting black tapioca bubbles at each other. Not only do they travel remarkably far, but they also stick to anything they hit. Hence the fact that the next day, I found a desiccated bubble stuck to the top of my flip flop. It gave me quite a scare until I realized it was not a leech, but a shriveled ball of gelatin.

So we were headed for home, via the ultra un-extraordinary  Canadian Highway 1 and approximately 22 hours of non-stop driving.

We left Banff at about 3pm. We hoped to get home in time to pick up Lola at the kennel on Saturday. That was really our only timeline-induced goal. And not a goal worthy of resisting a stop to sleep if we wanted, in my opinion. If it were up to me, we’d have stayed another week. I’m not ready to head back to the grind. [editor’s note: I am now more than two weeks into the grind as of this posting and it really does stink as much as I thought it would.]

There is not much to relate on the drive home across the Canadian plains as it pertains to scenery, so I had to focus on events in the car.

I had finished my book the night before and with no internet (due entirely to my cheapness at not wanting to pay international AT&T data charges) to download a new one. I thought I would work on my laptop, as there is always some work waiting for me there. But no, the kids had comandeered that and were watching all the old episodes of Top Chef. And, because Dave was driving, I (generously) gave him the use of my iPhone to listen to an audiobook.

What did I do, pray tell?

I read Discover, National Geographic and finishing those, The Road Atlas. I swear it is true. Six hours of nothing to do!

It was almost with relief, then, that I was set to take over the “early late” shift in Swift Current, where we stopped for gas and some dinner.

And I’m here to tell you, there’s nothing swift about Swift Current. We waited a loooong time to pay for gas (no credit cards at pump). We waited for the bathrooms (“you can use it in 10 minutes after I’m done cleaning it.”) and we waited and waited and waited at the drive through for our KFC Twisters. I’m pretty sure the dynamic duo working that Friday night were high. There’s no other explanation for their sloth-like movements, moronic smiles and the fact that the manager called Dave “dude” and “bud” and “man” all in the same sentence.

When crabby, and ever-more-bold, Dave tried to finagle an extra milk (really? milk?) out of the guy for our patience, we received — to Morgan’s initial delight — cellophane wrapped “brownies” instead. It is a testament to their inedibility that even Morgan did not have more than one. We threw the other three away. [editor’s note: typing this, I realize there should be a good marijuana joke in here somewhere, but alas, it is not to be.]

I settled in to the driver seat with my Coke, eager to resume listening to The Devil in the Junior League audio book on the iPhone. Dave, meanwhile, settled into the passenger seat with all his shit, and commenced switching power cords around to his liking. When he took the iPhone charger out of the outlet nearest me and moved it toward him, I tensed up and asked “What are you doing?”

“I’m listening to an audio book,” he said with an air of impatience and disdain.

The nerve!

“The driver gets the phone. You know that.”

He seriously didn’t know what I was talking about. How can that be? 3000 miles under our belt and he hasn’t picked up on the fact that the driver gets the iPhone?

Then I relented because he looked so bummed. And really, I want him to love my iPhone as much as I do. Plus, I knew I had a long night ahead of me. I could share.

He listened for about 30 minutes before nodding off to sleep. Well, not nodding really, since he wears his lime green neck pillow. But his head still falls forward at an awkward angle. I extracted the phone and settled in for the night.

We crossed the border into the US at Portal (an appropriate name, don’t you think?) in North Dakota at — I don’t even know when. 3:30 am? You’d think a Suburban towing a cute tiny pop-up with sleeping kids in the back at the ungodly hour of 3-something in the morning would garner at least a sympathetic smile out of the border patrol. Nope. They must take classes in stoicism. He made me roll the windows down, wake the kids and answer a whole lot of really stupid questions.

I had a marathon drive, stopping only to clean a truly sick amount of bugs off the windshield so that I could see. There was lots of lightning that was fun to watch, and eventually lots of rain and wind to complete the storm. We changed time zones ahead one hour and taking that into account, I drove 10:45 to 4:30. Almost 6 hours.

When I handed the baton to Dave in Minot, ND, I even fell asleep for an hour or two.

Dave struggled on in his “late late” shift and I re-took the wheel at 8am, rather than try to sleep at a rest stop, since Dave couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

My stint at the wheel was brief, however, as we blew yet another camper tire in Alexandria on I-94. I do believe this was our first-ever tire change on a full-blown highway with semis blowing past us at 80 MPH only feet away. Not cool.

That woke Dave up!

And he drove the rest of the way home.

And I had nothing to do. Because he took the damn phone again.

[editor’s note, and conclusion: We ate a Perkins in Alex, which was yuck-o, and made it to pick up Lola at the kennel. Much cleaning, unpacking and chaos ensued when we arrived home around 1pm. It was 90 degrees and humid, which was the start of an insufferable 7-day humidity/heat wave which we Minnesotans are not too fond of. I even turned the air on, which is a rare event indeed.

In retrospect, the trip was a great one. I savor these days of waning summer with my kids getting older as much as I am capable. I’m not the blubbering type, but I love my kids and we are so lucky and fortunate to both be able to take trips like this, and also have kids that want to go on them. I know that may change, but for now, today, at this moment, I don’t even mind The Reluctant Hiker’s sulky attitude or the incessant robotics chatter (that I have banned) spewing forth from Charlie’s mouth, making little sense to me.

Just don’t hold me to this reverie, because I think it might just be hormones.

Road Warriors 2010 Day Eight

Day 8

8/5/2010

NEWS FLASH: Dave slept until 9am.

Never in the history of the camping world has that happened before.

I was up and sort of wandering the empty campsite wondering what to do. I haven’t a CLUE how to make coffee in our camping coffee pot. I get where the water and coffee goes but don’t know how much of either to use or how long to cook. Stuff like that.

There are very few things in my life that I deliberately make dumb on, but I’m entitled to at least two or three and camping coffee is one of them. Well, any coffee pot, other than my own, I guess. I’m just a bad coffee maker.

In the midst of my wandering, Charlie stuck his head out of the camper and cried, “No fire?!”

And I realized I don’t do fires, either.

Not learning how to use Dave’s coveted new zero-turn mower is the third. I spent 11 years mowing our yard and garden with a push mower and revel in my new role as sunbathing onlooker.

And I think that’s about it. I think I pretty much can do anything else. Test me. I dare you.

I did get to work on blueberry pancakes with those amazing local blueberries, only to be told by the emerging sleepers that it was “a little too early for pancakes.”

What?

We leisured our way through the morning, eventually making sandwiches and packing up for a day in the car and on the road.

You see, Dave wanted to see the Columbia Ice Fields, located midway between Banff and Jasper. Being the most experienced Banff traveller from my many forays to the park with my family growing up starting in the 70s and ending in 1981, it was natural for Dave and the kids to know if I had been to the ice field.

Yes and no.

Here’s what I remember:

I remember driving in the car with my family on the way to the ice field with the idea of possibly going even further to Jasper. I remember at some point, a mutiny occurred. Whether it was my mom, brother and I against my dad or if it was us against my mom (highly unlikely, as it was always my dad who was the idea-man back then), I can’t be certain. But I remember that we had all had it. And started begging my dad to turn the car around.

I do know that we got to the ice field — which in my opinion is a total misnomer since you can’t actually SEE the ice field. Instead, you see one or two fingers of the ice field (glaciers).

I remember getting out, walking on the glacier and overwhelmingly vetoing the option to ride in a Sno-Cat on the glacier.

And mostly I remember that we all thought it was a waste of a day in the car.

After all, four or five hours roundtrip (depending on stops and traffic) is a lot of driving for a Minnesotan to see snow.

However, that was somewhere between 30 and 35 years ago. Now I had the chance to torture my own kids with the experience. Who was I to deprive them of this opportunity? Plus, Dave was throwing down the gauntlet. It didn’t matter how much I dug my heels in. He was determined to go to the ice field whether I came or not.

But that didn’t mean I had to be pleasant about it.

So I wasn’t.

I still say it’s a long stinkin’ drive to see some snow. But, to be fair, I have to admit that parts of the drive itself are pretty impressive. The vistas are huge. Not craggy and steep, so much as long and unbroken continuous slabs of rock; tilted and touching the sky. Nice.

The Columbia Ice Field — Athabasca Glacier to be more precise — is the destination stop for the ice field and it was crawling with people. We aren’t used to camping during “high season” so we aren’t the most patient (or kind) carload of people. Sadly for our immortal souls, some of our best laughs and fondest memories come at the expense of the colorful or interesting travelers that we meet along the way. People are just too funny not to make some fun. I suppose I shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true.

From the parking lot, the people walking up to the glacier looked like ants in my kitchen. After pounding our sandwiches out of the back of our car (who needs a picnic site?!) standing in the parking lot, we joined the pilgrimage . It was pretty interesting to see the year markers denoting where the glacier had been — going all the way back 150 years.

I wondered if I had been remembering it wrong that — when I was there years ago — the glacier had been almost to the parking lot. But no, the recession has been that dramatic. From the marker closest to the time I was there, you couldn’t even see the glacier.

The other big change was that you couldn’t walk on the glacier any more. Actually, that only changed a couple years ago. Due to the rapid melting, there is now a river and a lake under the toe of the glacier that makes it too dangerous. Most of the signs on the walking paths were — not about the history — but about the hysterical danger warnings and deaths that have occurred.

The interpretive center (also new since I had been there) was very cool. It had historical videos, displays and other stuff to help you grasp the immensity of the ice field that you don’t ever get to see. And it had an evergreen with purple pine cones. I’m not kidding. This photo was not retouched at all:

Worth the trip?

No.

Can’t say I didn’t tell him so.

A long drive “home” with another late-in-the-day side trip to Yoho to see Takakaw Falls and Emerald Lake. We missed the turn for the falls, so went to Emerald Lake first instead.

Rather than a hike, the Boss Man made an impulse decision that we would canoe instead.  Charlie was ecstatic, having been on a continuous loop during our time at Lake Louise:

“We should rent a canoe. Dad. We should rent a canoe. Hey Mom. We should rent a canoe.”

Repeat.

I’m not sure , but I think The Reluctant Hiker was elated too — though she hid it well underneath the crabby facade we are becoming used to in her 15th year…

I canoed with Charlie…

and Dave with Morgan.

It was really fun, I have to admit. (So long as I made an effort to forget how much the hour was costing us…)

We left to hit Takakaw (which I insisted on saying loud like a crow’s caw every time I said it) Falls on the way back. There was a view of the fall on the road in that was spectacular. I wish we had stopped to get a picture. We parked and after the obligatory feeding of the Ground Squirrels

we started on a short walk to the base of the falls which I had to keep assuring Morgan was not a “hike.”

The falls were ridiculous. Truly unbelievable. Huge and cool. It slays me that the guide book treats it like any other site. This one should at least say something like “A must see” or “Don’t miss!”

It helped that a brilliant rainbow highlighted the bottom of the falls.

It didn’t even seem real. Unfortunately, we missed the perfect Christmas card photo by seconds. Just as we realized the “magic hour” color of the sunlight with the rainbow behind it was captured perfectly on camera…

the sun sunk behind the mountain. We were in the process of frantically trying to get someone to take the picture for us.

But no one spoke english.

That is the truly crazy thing about these Canadian Parks. Everyone is from Europe or Asia.

Damn them all!

I had to talk Dave out of stopping at Lake Louise for some chicken to cook with the Tastefully Simple White Chili on the menu for our last camping dinner. “We don’t need it! Don’t stop! Let’s just get back! It’s late!” — I hate grocery shopping as much on vacation as I do at home, it seems.

We got back to camp around 8:30pm and quickly made the white chili, corn on the cob and fire-toasted flour tortillas (a great idea!). It was great, even without the chicken.

Everyone was dog-tired, and headed off to bed, one by one, leaving me to toil over this very journal late into the night with my headlamp.

Road Warriors 2010 Day 7

Day Seven

8/4/2010

We got up around — well, starting with Dave at 7 and finishing with Morgan at about 8:30. Dave had coffee waiting for his stinky princess and we hit the road before breakfast for an early hike to the Paint Pots before the crowds hit. We aren’t used to vacationing during peak season, as we usually travel late in August after most travelers have gone back home to school, sports, etc. So, we are likewise not used to dealing with neighbors in campsites and interlopers on the trails.

It was a short and easy walk, relatively flat. Crossing a rushing river…

to cool, vibrant yellow dirt and mineral-ish looking water

bubbling up from the ground like an oozing volcano.

I found about five flowers I’d never seen before and picked them to I.D. later.

I figured out three of them, but never the other two. Hooded Ladies Tress was my favorite, reminding me of a little troll person:

I picked these flowers on hikes and made them talk to Morgan to try to jolly her out of her various hike-induced funks. As you might imagine, these efforts proved fruitless.

When opened up, they look like this:

We came back for eggs and brats, take 2 — ironic, since Dave refuses to eat eggs at home. Our own, freshly laid eggs from our own chickens. It’s a long, long story that is most easily explained by saying Dave does not like our chickens.

Then — the moment we’d all been waiting for — we packed up with suits and towels, soap and shampoo — and headed for the Banff Hot Springs! And more importantly, a HOT SHOWER!

The town of Banff — an oasis for Morgan’s retail-deprived eyes — beckoned to her longingly as we whizzed through, without pause, to our destination. Only one about-turn (and it wasn’t for Lululemon) when we passed a local farm stand with fresh local fruit and veggies. We bought peaches, plums, cherries, blueberries and corn.

The cherries — OH! So good. And if you remember from years past, also so DEADLY. (aka “fart balls”)

Then, on to the Springs.

They’d upgraded the facilities considerably since our last visit in 1987 and going back to my first visit in 1977. Not gross at all. Nice, even. My first memories of the place were of a giant changing room that had a perpetually wet and slimy floor and fat, naked, hairy European women standing all around — and me trying my darndest to change into a swimsuit without exposing any privates. My how things have changed: beautifully dry floors, lockers, benches and me –walking around like a fat, naked, hairy European woman.

That is to say, the floors were beautifully dry until Morgan and I walked through from the showers dripping our wet hair all over it… And the pool was different too: sparkling clear — not murky — and smelling faintly of chlorine instead of Sulphur. Call me a pool-spoiled snob, but I don’t care. I’d rather smell like Chlorox than a big fart.

Morgan and I took our time showering, shaving (!) and I even dried my hair. Ahh, ahh, and triple-ahh. (I make audible groaning noises when I brush my hair that disturbs Morgan a great deal and today was no exception.)

As expected, Charlie was wild-eyed with impatience when we finally emerged. “What the HECK?” is his most overused phrase, which he repeated over and over while I ignored him as long as I could, finally turning to him with wild-eyes of my own, whistling, “CHILL OUT” through a fake smile (for the onlookers) and gritted teeth (for emphasis and to scare him into submission).

And then, it was off to Banff for lunch and the coveted, much-anticipated SOUVENIR SHOPPING!

We might have done a tad-bit of research on restaurants before selecting an inviting little place with a large deck that had tables available outside. The food was “meh” but the waiter was something out of a Seinfeld episode. None of us caught his name — if indeed he even told us his name or wore a tag — but all of us, independently, thought of him as “Pierre.” Why, I have no idea. He never actually even said enough for us to determine his country of origin. He did, however, have very expressive eyebrows which he used as his primary means of communication. When we received — after a very lengthy wait — our $12 calamari appetizer with 12 squid rings on a plate and nothing else and gobbled it down in less than 45 seconds, Pierre did a double-take; first, shooting his eyebrows up in surprise, then down in confusion.

He hesitated before clearing the plate that just moments before had been set down. Dave uncharacteristically asked “Is that the normal portion size for the calamari or did it seem small to you?”

“Hmmm?” (eyebrows up)

“Was that the normal amount?” (Dave repeats question)

“Sorry?” (eyebrows even higher)

“I’m just saying it seemed like a really small portion for $12” (kids have almost slithered out of chairs on to deck under table in embarrassment)

“You think so?” (eyebrows furrowed)

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh.” (eyebrows up again) and off he went.

The kids immediately erupted into gaggle of “Dad! I can’t believe you said thats!” I was only disappointed not to have been able to pinpoint his accent — if he even had one. Dave fell ill a few hours later, all of us speculating Pierre may have had the last ‘word’ after all.  Either that, or it was all just a ploy by Dave to sit out the last hour of shopping at a nice shady table in front of a coffee shop in Banff. Actually, the more I think about it…

Morgan basked in the glow of Banff, honing in on the two most expensive shops at hand: Roots and Lululemon. She finally settled on a Roots zipper top and promptly fell in love. Why I don’t stop trying to foster a good relationship with her by means of meaningful conversation and togetherness, and instead, just buy her love with material goods is a mystery. It would certainly save me a lot of time and make her a lot happier…

Meanwhile I slipped off and made a impulse purchase of my own — a salmon (orange/red) Patagonia zip hoodie. I couldn’t wait to show everyone. But when I did, I only received a collective sigh. Apparently they all think I already have that top. Apparently, everything I own looks the same?

Charlie, of course, was in his customary hand-wringing state of wanting everything but worrying like a little old lady about what everything cost. If only I could melt my two kids together… Sadly for him, because Dave was feigning illness, it was me who marched him into The Rock Shop to force a decision. Remember, I’m the one who hates knick knacks, hates to dust unnecessary items and can’t stand frivolous purchases. So I talked him into buying, not some pretty rocks that will sit around driving me crazy, but pretty rock BOOK ENDS. At least it is USEFUL. He also bought a $5 geode to crack open at the campsite

that ended up being nothing more than a solid rock.

Ohhh the TRAUMA! The disappointment!

Dave, funding it all, bought nothing. And he calls me the martyr?

A stop at Cow’s for ice cream (Morgan is still swooning over memories of her coffee ice cream as I write this hours later) and a book shop for a guidebook to the Canadian Parks. Then some last minute Bubble Tea. Amazing! Our’s was pineapple and soooo good.

On the way home we opted to cash in on the Reluctant Hiker’s shopping afterglow and make a spur-of-the-moment decision to continue on to Lake Louise for a late afternoon and hopefully crowd-free hike. When we pulled in, cars were parked at least a mile away from the main parking lot, but there was a constant stream of people walking to them. The lot was almost empty!

We lured The Reluctant Hiker up the hill to Mirror Lake, just short of Lake Agnes and the Tea House.

Mirror Lake was such a disappointment after such a long way up

that we bait and switched her and decided to go all the way up to the Tea House. The Reluctant Hiker dug her heels into the horse-manured sand and abjectly refused. No amount of cajoling and guilt-tripping worked. She sat her sulky butt down on a rock and wouldn’t budge.

So we left her there.

It was only another 1/2 mile to the top. When we were almost there I had a brilliant idea. I hung my head over the cliff when I judged that she was almost directly below us and yelled at the top of my considerable lungs:

MORGAN… IF YOU COME UP, WE’LL GO OUT FOR DINNER.

With almost no pause at all for consideration I heard a faint “OK!” (I think I’m finally getting the hang of this Mother-ing thing.)

And she appeared at the base of the Tea House less than five minutes later, huffing and puffing.

I kid you not. I think she might have broken a land speed record. I’m going to have to tell her soccer coach this technique for motivating her.

The funny thing was, it only occurred to her right then that perhaps we would have gone out for dinner regardless of her decision to join us. I refused to answer on the basis that it might have incriminated me.

After many excrutiating attempts at a self-timer family photo shot for Christmas cards,

we arrived back at the base of the lake and climbed in the car to find a suitably over-inflated priced venue for dinner, finally settling on a pizza joint inside a lodge, the name of which I can’t remember.

The wait was loooong, but the service and food were good. So I guess we didn’t mind the Lake Louis upcharge. We were so tired that we skipped dessert, even though they looked soooo good: sorbet, panna cotta, cheese cake, etc.

I drove us home and everyone was quickly asleep.

Dave had a mini-Hitleresque  outburst upon our arrival at camp. It’s a common one: Morgan, Charlie and I tend to agree that it is OK, on rare occasion (for example, after waking from a 40 minute sleep) to skip brushing teeth before bed. Dave does not agree.

Really? One flippin’ night?

(It’s been a long 15 year argument)

As usual, he “won.” Even though by “winning” it meant that no one else was talking to him. I might not even have said good night to him.

Take that!

Road Warriors 2010 Day 5

Day Five

8/2/2010

No Signature Toast this morning. Charlie slept later than everyone. Another FIRST for 2010. Dave made bacon. Not bacon and eggs. Just bacon. I had granola and this new brand of greek yogurt I got at Cub Foods. It was so disgusting looking that I could barely eat it. It looked exactly like gloppy tofu. And I LIKE tofu! Pretty sour too…

Oh, who really CARES about my stupid yogurt?!

Our campsite was pretty humorous, since we were almost sitting on the road in our chairs, due to the fire pit placement. We felt like that sad-but-happy couple from the Montana campsite mentioned earlier in the trip. The place was packed, too, though we overlooked the indignity since we liked all the dogs.

Interesting (and freakish) is that speed boats can go on this river. And they do: roaring up and down on a fairly regular basis. It’s so weird! You look at the river, with all the swirls in the the current and the shoreline and you just don’t think it can be possible because it looks so shallow!

We were on the road at 10 am. We headed back in to Thompson Falls to pick up a prescription for Charlie’s new affliction: swimmer’s ear. (Not a first, btw). I was so thankful that we were staying in a place close enough to a town with a pharmacy AND that I actually had a cell signal to call Curt Whisler and Catalyst Clinic in Watertown. Thanks guys!

While I milled around the drug store waiting for the ear drops (what in HEAVEN’S NAME takes so long at pharmacies?), I managed to spend another $30 on: magazines, lip balm, and three different products for Morgan’s toxic feet. (I think I just answered my own question.)

Dave drove north on Hwy 200 about 30 minutes before we blew another car tire.

Simply inexplicable.

And, we had forgotten to buy more of the magical Fix-A-Flat. (Not inexplicable.)

We did a 180 and headed back to the town of Clark Fork to a Chevron Station where they said they could work us in in about an hour. We ambled off to do errands (like buy more Fix-A-Flat). We went to a feed store and met a cross-eyed cat (I swear it is true) and went across the street to dine at Mom’s Cafe.

The cafe garnered mixed reviews from the tough crowd. I thought it was fine, but Dave didn’t like his “baby burger,” declaring it, “cooked to annihilation and barely edible.” Such an elitist. Maybe he should stop ordering kid’s meals.

The car was ready just as we arrived, so the timing was perfect. And the cost? $10.

We’ll take it.

How is that even possible, $10?

In the car again at 3:30 and Dave is saying we won’t make Banff by nightfall. I say he’s wrong. It’s Canada or bust.

We drove by Lake Pend Oreille in Idaho and it was AH-MAZING. Insanely beautiful. We had no idea. And it’s a REAL LAKE and not a reservoir! It’s over 1000 feet deep. Truly beautiful. Now we are thinking the lakeside campgrounds in Coeur d’Alene Idaho might not have been as lame as we thought, if it is anything like this lake.

I bet you would assume I would post a picture or two here, right?

Nope. It’s CANADA OR BUST, remember?

**** R E C A L C U L A T I N G ****

One hour delay at the Canadian border customs station…

**** R E C A L C U L A T I N G ****

Yah, so it was a total delay of about 3 hours when you added the tire and customs together, so it’s true. We didn’t make it to Banff.

It was a seriously sad car full O’Menkes. [editors note: do I even need to say anything about “car full O’Menke’s? I don’t think I was even drinking.] Honestly, we are better Road Warriors than this journal portrays. Four days from Wyoming to Banff?

Unacceptable.

Making matters more precarious was the fact that our trusty Rand McNally Road Atlas seemed to give up its accuracy after crossing the border. Either that, or these Canadian’s are messing with us by moving major landmarks around. We missed the two campgrounds we planned to stay at about an hour south of Banff. Of course, I am too cheap to have the data roaming turned on for my iPhone so I can’t consult my maps there, and everyone knows how bad Blackberries suck(Dave’s phone). We did have a GPS with maps of Canada along that we had given to Dave for Father’s Day, but Dave absolutely loathes it. And since I was driving, I couldn’t consult it myself. –Oh believe me, I tried, but I have to concur that the GPS is a frustrating little device when you are used to the touch screen on an iphone.

After some (very) terse words. (I mean, for LORD’S sake, just turn the damn thing on and look at it! Maybe we’ll be able to find the fricken’ CAMPGROUND). I finally fumbled around with it myself enough to seriously freak him out and make him look at it and lo and behold it took us right to the last provincial park on the map before Radium Hot Springs and the entrance to Kootenai.

The only problem was that the last provincial park on the map did not have any camping. It was a picnic grounds.

Excited eruptions from the back seat immediately followed (I forgot they were even back there) along the lines of “Yea! We get to stay in a hotel!” You’d think they’d know us better than that by now.

The plan now was to cross our fingers and bomb it for Banff and take the first site we could get. However, along the way, crazily enough and like a mirage, Dry Gulch Provincial Park Campground appeared unexpectedly out of nowhere about 5 miles later and we snagged one of the last sites. It wasn’t pretty, but we weren’t complaining.

We set up and had the most anticipated meal of the trip for everyone except for me: Spaghetti.

I made the “seasoned toast” and pretty much ruined it. I added way too much Lawry’s. It’s true.

I’m damned near perfect, but I’m honest, too. And I screwed up. Which makes me realize I didn’t document my worst camping screw up in years: I forgot to stow the pop-up crank handle when we left the last campsite. I left it attached to the outside of the camper as we drove away. Luckily it was discovered in Thompson Falls while I was in the pharmacy spending Dave’s hard-earned money.

OH THE SHAME! The potential DISASTER! I hang my head. What more can I do but confess it here.

…and move on, pretending it never happened at all.

So the spaghetti was fabie. I still brought too much, though. My notes said to bring exactly “4 cups of sauce.” But as usual, it just didn’t seem like enough! The kids are bigger! Hell, I’m bigger! And how much did we eat?

Four cups.

We had to throw the other cup and a half away. It pained Dave greatly. But there are to be no leftovers while camping. It was a lot harder for me to throw the extra green curry from last night.

Mosquitos were a significant factor again, which we just don’t understand, never having run into it before.

Tucked in and lights out by dark. Lightning in the distance.

…that brewed into a full blown thunderstorm an hour later. It poured! I had to crawl over Dave to zipper-shut the screens on the kid’s side. He did give me a loving pat on the butt as I straddled the gap. And I wonder what would happen if I hadn’t gotten up. Would the kids wake up and shut them? Would Dave? I just don’t think so. I crawled back over him and back into my sleeping bag, stewing about the rain and how it complicates the packing of the camper in the morning and then…

I REMEMBERED ALL THE SHOES OUTSIDE THE DOOR!

I grabbed a flashlight and crawled back over Dave to try to fish them into the camper without actually having to go outside in the downpour and getting all wet. I rescued the shoes, but I also had a pretty wet head.

And then I crawled back over Dave and into bed and stewed some more, trying to just enjoy the rain. Eventually it stopped and I slept like the dead knowing the shoes were dry and that we were close to our destination.

Road Warriors 2010 Day Four

Dear Bennett,

While you ridicule my blogging efforts all 11 other months, you are — as you said, yourself — “seriously for some reason fascinated by and want to hear more” and are impatient for the next post, saying, “and the fact that I have been reading for 4 days now and you are not yet to august is pissing me off!” I must take issue with your impatience for a few reasons:

  1. I have a life other than this blog and don’t have time to write more than 3 or 4 times a week.
  2. And, if I may remind you, for every other post I have written you have said something like “What is the point?” or “Who wants to read about Meatless Mondays?” and “Why are you doing this?” etc., etc.
  3. In my opinion, the desire to read about our Road Trip, makes you even a bigger loser than me for even writing about it in the first place.

Thanks for your patience, everyone other than Bennett. But I’m sure you understand the need to skewer my brother publicly at every chance possible. We may be nearing our 50’s, but I never fail to delight in the sibling bickering with my brother that I despise so much when witnessed in my own kids.


Day 4

8/1/2010

Charlie’s Signature Toast for breakfast (have I really emphasized how good this is? Please, don’t buy one of those “camping toasters”, borrow my son and his marshmallow fork instead) and a quick camp pack-up, made much more difficult by all the dew. It got down to 42 degrees last night and that makes for lots O’dew, after all. [editor’s note: I cringe at writing “lot’s O’dew”, but that’s what it says in this-here journal and integrity prevents me from edits.]

We were on the road by 9 am though, and that’s pretty good. The kids seem more predisposed to actually helping put-up and take-down camp this year — a big change from just being in charge of the chairs. I remind you, these “kids” are 13 and 15, not 3 and 5, like you might imagine at reading that, prior to this year, they were only in charge of the chairs. I’m thinking that if I play my cards right, I might be sipping a cold beer shortly after pulling into a site by the end of this trip! [editor’s note: Not.]

We drove out of Beaverhead Deerlodge National Forest and through the Pioneer Mountains. Really, really badly damaged from the Mountain Pine Beetle. Very sad.

We drove east to I-90 and hopped on the highway headed north, stopping in Missoula for lunch at the kids’ now favorite hamburger joint, Five Guys. (Dave and I quickly decided not to tell them there is a Five Guys in Edina, or they will be nagging us relentlessly to go there every time we are within a 20-mile radius of the cities).

We got back on the road with me (Jennie) driving — which reminds me — we finally determined, after much pain and suffering, that the Virgin Mobile MiFi does NOT roam on the Sprint data network, contrary to the information given to me by that boneheaded BestBuy saleswoman. ARRrrrggh. Very simply: NO coverage west of Minnesota, AT ALL (until SPOKANE). Extremely disappointing, but then again, also kind of nice to have a really good reason for not answering all those pesky emails. I guess I’ll have to decide if I will keep it when we get home.

Anyway, it was still up in the air as to where we were headed: Coeur d’Alene or stay on the Montana side in the national forests to camp. Coeur d’Alene was inviting, but campground descriptions pulled up on my iphone sounded pretty lame to Dave who was doing all the research riding shotgun (and cussing and fumbling and freaking out about “where did it go?! I didn’t touch any buttons! I swear! I hate this phone!” and so on — and on and on…). I had pulled up website listings while in Missoula, where I had a strong 3G signal, and pasted them into Notes and emailed them to myself for Dave to study on the road where I knew I would not have a strong 3G signal — which he did for about 3 straight hours.

At the very last minute (and when I say that, I mean, slam your brakes on, cut off the guy in the right hand lane, and shoot across the solid white line), he had me exit Hwy 90 in Henderson to take a road marked on the big road atlas that would bring us north in a fairly straight line to Thompson Falls, Montana where the camping sounded better. We’d be lying if we didn’t admit that when it comes right down to it, we have a prejudice against Idaho campers and campgrounds from previous experiences — that being the general belief they come in pre-formed packs of 20, each with their own ATV, pack of cigarettes and case of beer. Oh, and one loud boom box per set of campers.

The plan was all well and good, except for the fact that the road on the map did not reflect the actual road on the ground. Again, no exaggeration here, which I really do need to say, given my natural flair for the conversational dramatic. This was the most fun road I have ever had the pleasure of driving on. It reminded me of the rollercoaster called ‘The Mouse’ where there were little stomach-loosing dips and the nose of your car would go off the edge of the rails before you made your turn. The road was: twisty, turny, dippy, and very pretty. Up one side and down the other of a mountain. The fastest I went was 25 MPH and that felt like we were flying. I can’t say that we weren’t nervous, driving over long stretches of large, sharp chunks of rock that passes as gravel though, not particularly wanting to blow another car tire…

I also can’t say that it was fun for the passengers. Perhaps more telling than my description of the road is the fact that I managed to make both kids sick in the backseat — a FIRST for the Menkes! No puking, but much spit production and groaning and Advil consumption.

And NO FLATS!

A true success, all the way around.

We emerged out of the dark forest (much greener and healthier than those at the start of the day, by the way) right into the town of Thompson Falls, Montana. We stopped for gas at a station with a disturbing mural on its bathroom doors where the heads of these people are painted on the glass, so that when you are inside the bathroom, their faces are staring at you:

and twist ice cream cones (a shocking indulgence Ok’d by the Granola) and proceeded to stay at the first campground we came to — another shocking event. Not just for the decisiveness of it, but for the fact that it was a State Park which is not usually our cup of tea. This park had one strong and undeniable attraction for us on this particular day: the large and inviting Clark Fork river.

No, not because it was hot and we wanted to swim, but because it was day 4 with no shower. Well, I did wash my armpits in the sink of a gas station early the day before, but that doesn’t count.

We set up and headed to the river. Spoiled from our warm pool at home, the river was colder than we wanted it to be, but warmer than we expected it to be. Well worth it for a clean head of hair that doesn’t ache from my ponytail anymore.

We enjoyed the first vodka tonics of the trip and ate — always my favorite — Thai Green Coconut Curry with chicken and all kinds of good stuff I brought with from the garden.

Dave caught a small mouth baby bass after dinner

and I — thank the Lord — finally had a reason to visit the outhouse.

As the sun set and darkness approached, we observed and made up stories for all our neighbors (always close quarters in state parks) that trolled in and set up late in the day, making us feel like we had been transplanted into a sort of campground suburbia. There were several dogs that made Morgan and Charlie happy. And there was a family that included four small boys under the age of 8, that made me happy not to be the mom in that camp…

Another night early enough to not require the lantern put us in the camper around 10pm — a new 2010 record!