On our second trip to Yellowstone we headed East to visit our daughter Delda who was at that time living in South Dakota and about to move in with the love of her life, Trent, a for real horse riding, hat wearing cowboy. Getting there turned out to be yet another of our adventures in RVing. We were in our 1989, 29-foot Gulf Stream Sun Vista. We had bought it after selling the MSP for 3K to some sucker and looked for quite a while for a newer Class A. On line I had scoped out the ads in the major Arizona newspapers figuring that old people move down to Arizona in their RVs and the old man (i.e. the driver) usually croaks first, leaving the wife to deal with the funeral expenses. As she was not smart enough to buy one of those TV life insurance policies and they are about to dig him up and repossess the coffin, she needs cash fast. She is finally free of the old goat after 50 years of hell and she abso-fucken-lutley does not want him back. Time to dump the RV.
For several months before and after selling the MSP I would look at the Arizona ads on line, making a data base of the make, model, length, year, price, with a notes column for misc. data like “gramps died”. I had a good idea of what I could afford and our plan was to fly down to RV land buy one and drive it back. Just for a joke I also looked at Oregon papers and in the infamous “Trader” publication. Not only does this group publish the “Auto Trader”, they also have the “Truck Trader”, the “Boat Trader”, and the “RV Trader” which I perused religiously every month. I think they sucker you in with “trader” as the seller does not want your old car, cat, or old lady, they want cash so that they can buy new stuff. The selfish bastards! But as we had a weekend free and had nothing better to do, I had circled a couple of ads in the RV Trader that looked Arizona cheap and we went outside. For you non-coasties, “outside” is a term we use when we drive inland usually to the Willamette valley to buy stuff and be able to do this without having to put on rain gear.
The first RV we found we bought. Only had 22,000 miles and all he wanted was 15K as he wanted to start a business. But the clincher was that he had just inherited it from his dad. Gramps died! This was a message from God. It purred like a kitten, had a generator, new tires and an AC that worked without spitting ice water on my foot. Judy loved the interior although she reupholstered it almost immediately and repeated the process about every two years the whole time we owned it. It was certainly a major step up from the MSP. No more climbing the ladder of death to crawl over your mate to sleep. A bigger bath where the shower stall did not double as the shitter. A nice kitchen, built in TV, an awning, and seemingly hundreds of outside cubbies so that I could haul all kinds of shit with us that we didn’t need. And best of all, no more break downs! Little did I know that the curse of the MSP did not leave me when it sold.
But getting back to Delda. We were in Yellowstone and towing a Ford Ranger 4X4 as we found that the Gulf Stream being 9 foot longer than the MSP meant that downtown parking was pretty much out and we needed a scout vehicle to make sure that we had a place to turn the beast around before dry camping off some Forest Service road. Take my word for it, having to back an RV a half a mile in the rain down a curvy gravel road is not a lot of fun, especially for Judy who was out in the rain. It was not a lot of fun for me either as her hand signals did not make any sense, a fact that did not go over well with her when we finally made it out of the dead end and she was back in the RV shivering and soaking wet. Sometimes the truth is best left unsaid. But that is another story.
So, where was I? Oh yeah, Yellowstone, Delda, getting to her. Yellowstone NP has three major entrances and exits. Don’t do the East one, especially as an exit. After passing by the wonderful view of Yellowstone Lake this route goes down and down through a series of “S” curves with a guardrail of the wooden post and broken cable variety. This might have stopped a model T which is what it was apparently designed for, but no way was it stopping 15,000 pounds of overloaded Class A towing a Ranger. We had no sooner started our descent when Judy, digging her nails into the dash, started moaning and wanting to turn around to go back. I would have gladly done this, but it was too late, there was no place to turn around, we were trapped and doomed, and she was once again looking out the passenger window at a gaping abyss. This would have been worse than traveling north on California Route 1 if Judy had been able to speak, but she was so petrified that her larynx froze, and only pathetic mewling noises came out. A lesser man than I would have taken advantage of this by driving closer to the edge, pointing out the mountain goats, and lighting a cigar while steering with his knees, but not me. I did get in a little dig by saying
“Wow! That is so steep I bet you might only roll over only once or twice before hitting the bottom!”
But that was the only dig I got in as I found out she still had a Ninja-like back hand. Unfortunately for me, only her voice was paralyzed. Somehow, we made it down without smoking the brakes. Judy’s voice recovered as the vision in my right eye slowly did over several months. However, the claw marks on the dash where still visible years later when we traded in the RV.
Once out of Yellowstone the ordeal was not quite over. We still had to cross the Buckhorns on Highway 14. There are two Highway 14 routes over the mountains. Highway 14 that goes up through Shell Canyon while Highway 14A swings farther north and according to the Rand McNally road atlas is the more scenic route as its entire length has tiny dots next to it. I wonder how many marriages have been prematurely ended by those seemingly innocuous dots. Fortunately for me I had been warned about 14A. A good friend of mine, Dick Steele, who by the way named his son Rusty, had gone this route a few years before in his class C. He said that the road was steep, winding, and had abysses that alternated from side to side. He also said his Norwegian Wolfhound was so freaked out that it would move from one side of the RV to the other so it would not have to look down into the bottomless pits. I know for a fact that his dog was absolutely fearless as Dick, being the original dirty old man, had taught “Buster” to say hell-o to pretty young women by walking up to them, putting his snout under their skirts and throwing his head back, to which Dick would feign horror and profusely apologize while fishing the mutt a Scooby Snack out of his back pocket. Dick said that he and his wife, Jan, had a lot of two hit fights due to his escapades, “she hits me, and I hit the floor”. Jan is a sweetheart but knowing Dick, I could understand. If you ever meet him be advised that his middle name is not “of” no matter how much he insists it is.
But the non-alternate highway 14 route is no picnic either as half of the route also has those tiny dots. But it is stunningly beautiful and a fossil hunters dream. The climb starts in Shell Canyon where you can collect fossil seashells from the “I forgot to write it down and can’t find it on line” geologic era that wash out of the strata like pebbles into the stream bed. As you climb up and down the Buckhorns each geological stratum is labeled as to the formation and geologic age. Unfortunately, most of these outcrops are associated with cliffs and hair pin turns so that I had to keep my sightseeing to furtive glances in the hopes that I would not get caught. There also appeared to be a plethora of dinosaur related activities to be had along route 14. Museums and even a place where you view dinosaur tracks in a near vertical wall of Cretaceous mudstone.
My mother-in-law, Fran, insists that “scientists” have found human footprints next to some dinosaur prints, although she did not volunteer any specifics. She also insists that the great flood created all fossils and coal. She, like so many others that are blinded by their perceived special place in the universe and are ignorant of how science works. For example they are always just about to find the Ark on top of a 10,000 foot mountain, even though this is a scientific impossibility and the written records of the ancient Egyptians goes right through the time of Noah without mentioning a flood. I suppose they all could have drowned and been replaced by Noah’s descendants who switched to hieroglyphics just for shits and giggles. Even then I think these faux pharaohs just might have mentioned something about the flood.
I have tried to reason with Grandma Fran over the years but have failed miserably even when I stuck to my peculiar brand of “religious” logic. I would start by saying
“Grandma, Is God perfect”?
“That goes without saying”.
“Then by reason, God’s creation of heaven and earth was perfect”.
“So, what’s your point”.
“Well if it was perfect then why did he destroy it?”
“That was because man has free choice and sinned”.
“So, God decided to destroy his perfect creation and start over”?
“That’s right”.
“Then God made a mistake”??
“No God is incapable of making mistakes”.
I just can’t win these arguments and as she was 89 at the time and could probably take me in an arm-wrestling contest, I finally just gave up. Although her arguments are circular and don’t make any sense, she is not completely crazy as some of the more ridiculous fun-damn-entalists who claim that all evolutionary biologists have secret handshakes and are in league with Satan. I guess I can take some solace in her not considering me to be the spawn of or have any association with the Dark Lord. To her, I am just sadly misinformed. She is a firm believer in “scientific creationism” and “intelligent design”. Don’t get me wrong, I believe in God. Someone with a sense of humor had to start this mess we live in. I think God created physics, a sort of a “let there be light” with a lot more pizzazz. Einstein may have made a similar observation, but then went on to say the real interesting part of God’s creation of physics is whether he could have done it a different way. And who is to say he didn’t?
In contrast, the creationist/intelligent design type believe that man is special and was made that way by direct intervention in biology, geology, chemistry, and any other science that got in the way. God meddled with his perfect creation of physics so that man would eventually be formed from lesser critters or directly from dirt so that God would have someone to worship him and eventually screw up his creation.
Talk about genetic engineering gone wrong. This doesn’t strike me as especially God like. I don’t think God would monkey around with his perfect creation just to create a fuck up. He’s more likely just to have started the process and has been sitting back on his sofa having a cold one and chuckling a lot over the past 15 billion years or so with the possible exception of that Jesus Christ thing.
Many years ago, I accepted Jesus as my savior. But I was not “born again” as I gradually came to accept Jesus as a role model for my life, rather than being smacked in the head with it and passing out. I still question my faith on an almost daily basis. I could be wrong, and I have no concrete proof that I am right. Although many of the religious ilk chastise me for my lack of faith in miracles, I think that I would still be a Christian even if some archeologist on a dig in the holy land found a body with a crown of thorns on the skull. I am not a Christian because I fear hell or expect that heaven awaits me. I may in fact be saved, but that ultimately is not my decision and in my humble opinion those that claim salvation show a complete lack of humility before the almighty. I also have a problem with those that claim with absolute certainty that God has a plan for their lives. To which I usually respond with “but what if God’s plan is to set you up as a bad example.” God in fact does have a plan for everyone’s life: you are born, and you are going to die, what you do in between is mostly ad lib. It’s how you treat your fellow man during that interval that counts.
Having attended lots of church services from Mormon to Pentecostal I have come to the sad conclusion that most organized religion is more concerned about the past and future than the here and now. By far the worst are of the “name it and claim it” variety. They have a good handle on the power part, but not on the compassion. On one memorable occasion at a Four-Square service, my youngest son turned to me and said in a stage whisper,
“Dad if I talked to you the way these people talk to God, you’d smack me!”
From the mouth of babes. That was the last time I went to that church by mutual consent of myself and the congregation. I am sure that they still pray for me. It may be a prayer about bolts of lightening up my ass, but then I could be wrong, as I often am.
Grandma was right about one thing; the end times may well be upon us. Although this world will undoubtedly end in Gods good and cosmic sense of time, man is capable of ending civilization at any time. And if Al Gore and almost all the climatologists on the planet are right, that time maybe coming sooner than later.
At the top of the Buck Horns we stopped at a small Forest Service campground just off the highway. It was nearly full, which was a surprise to me as it was October. Then I noticed the guns and camouflaged 4 X 4. Oh my God! I had inadvertently stumbled on an Aryan Nations Convention! How could this be? I was in Wyoming not Idaho. Then it dawned on me, deer season. What a relief. I was not surrounded by armed Nazi skin heads, just armed deer hunters getting drunk and showing off their loaded weapons to each other.
Now before all you hunter’s start picketing this blog, let me just say that I know all about deer hunting having tried it several times in my youth. I remember those nights before the hunt sitting around the campfire, getting drunk, smoking my first cigar, showing off my loaded weapon, and talking about hunting, women, and who had the best 4 X 4. I am sure there must be some who really like hunting for the sport, rather than an excuse to get drunk and spend a few days away from the ol’ ball and chain. Personally, I don’t particularly like hiking though the brush while being eaten alive by blood sucking insects. I also do not like the taste of venison. Although it could be an acquired taste like oysters or black olives, I never acquired it. Maybe I would have had ever actually bagged a deer. One of the principal reasons for this was that I usually was drunk and hung over from the night before. I was not at my hunting best. Besides that, deer are wily critters. They know when hunting season is.
That evening we camped out at the top of the Buckhorns, I was sure I saw a couple of does checking out the camp. Most likely they were spies checking out the deployment of the enemy forces so that the next morning the hunters would be skunked. At least that has been my experience deer hunting. Never took a shot, never had a shot, never saw a buck. Eventually even my slow mind concluded that hunting was not for me. Sold my guns and never regretted it for a second as I do not need to get away from Judy. She lets me drink and smoke to my heart’s content while camping with her.
That night in the Buck Horns was cold, except in the bedroom. Must be something about a near death experience that heightens a woman’s libido. There is also something to be said about lack of oxygen heightening orgasms and as we were camping at 9000 feet and the air was mighty thin. I woke just before dawn to the sound of hunters moving off into the surrounding countryside in their 4 X 4’s then drifted back as we snuggled in one of those perfect positions that requires years of practice to attain. I drifted off with musing thoughts of what would happen if deer ever figured out how to shoot rifles with their hooves. Realized how ridiculous that idea was then began to think of designs for firearms that could be fired by four-legged sport prey. I discarded that idea as well, not because I am morally opposed to a deer protecting itself with any means available, but because deer have no money and nothing worthwhile that they could trade me. If I did invent deer-user friendly weapons, all they would have to pay for it would be venison, which would defeat the purpose for them and not be very tasty to me. With those thoughts fading mercifully, I went back to sleep.
Next day we descended to the prairie, stopping at Sheridan, WY to get some of the hundreds of pictures Judy had taken, developed. Digital cameras are great but without a computer to download them, the memory cards fill up and before Judy could take hundreds more pictures we had to get them on CDs and while we were at it, why not get prints made so that we could look at them on the trip. This turned out to be one of our biggest unplanned expenses. As a card carrying liberal, I have nothing really good to say about Wal-Mart, however, the price was right and the service from their underpaid and trod upon employees was generally pretty good. The occasional bad service or rude and ignorant employee you find can be overlooked. However, at the Sheridan Wal-Mart, it took over two hours to get our photos printed. They could not seem to download one of our memory cards and we found out two hours down the road from Sheridan that one of the packages of prints we paid for was not ours and that someone else had gotten one of our print packages in exchange. But I didn’t complain as my lost prints were of Yellowstone wildlife while the strangers had lost prints of something far more interesting. Unfortunately, Judy found the mistake before I did and edited out all the best ones.
Our next stop was going to be the Black Hills and Mt. Rushmore in South Dakota. We took I 80 heading east, passed Gillette, then turned off on highway 16 to Newcastle. This is not the most scenic route unless you are into oil wells and coal trains but the closer you got to the Black Hills the more pine trees there were. Starting out as scrubby little things growing taller and in denser stands the closer we got. When we finally arrived late in the afternoon, we began looking for a campsite. Being off-season the Forest Service campgrounds were all closed and gated. We pulled into one that had a few sites open in an area before the gate and then decided that it was too close to the highway for our dog Hannah. We unhooked the Ranger as there was no place to turn around and you can’t back up with a towed rig unless you want to do damage to your towing system. This turned out to be a really good idea as Judy would scout ahead of me in the Ranger to find out if the Forest Service campgrounds were open or not while I waited on the side of highway. That way I did not have to back the RV onto the highway when she found that the gate was closed. For the next two hours we drove from one site to another finding them closed but edging ever closer to Rushmore. It was getting dark; I was getting hungry and grouchy and talking smack to my wife who could not hear as she was 50 yards away from me pulling out of yet another gated campground. Our last resort was a KOA that was close to Rushmore. But right across the road was one more Forest Service campground. I parked on the side of the highway as Judy once more took the Ranger to explore. She drove back out 10 min. later with a big smile on her face. It was perfect, we had the place to ourselves and it was free. I followed her in, and we parked in a pull-through spot that was surrounded by aspens in fall colors with a carpet of leaves on the ground around us. The air was nipply as we dined al fresco under the trees that evening while Hannah played in the fallen leaves. She had never seen anything like this before as any leaves that fall off the few deciduous trees on the Oregon Coast are soon blown away. She was having a great time running through them, playing her “catch me” game which she never loses if you are stupid enough to play it with her.
The next morning, we drove up to Mt. Rushmore. Everyone has seen pictures of the place so it should come as no surprise what it looks like. But you can’t walk around a picture. A picture does not convey the constant interplay of sunlight and shadows and how the light changes from minute to minute. We walked up the trail to the base of the monument to gaze up at odd angles. Judy took tons of pictures all of which turned out to be wonderful. I purchased a t-shirt of the “guys” with their immortal faces on the front of it and their naked butts on the back. Judy refuses to let me wear it in public. Also, at Rushmore is a pathway with all the state flags. I am proud to say that Oregon is one of the few states which has a flag with two distinct sides. It is dark blue with the state seal on one side and a beaver on the other in gold. Looking at my state’s flag gives me a goose flesh rush like looking at a back-velvet picture of Elvis.
We also got to meet Abe Lincoln at Rushmore. He had shrunk a little with age so needed elevator shoes to get to his full 6’ 4’’ presidential height, but he still had lost nothing of the country warmth in his handshake and had no problem in posing for a few snap shots. Considering the choices, we have had at the ballot box over the past few elections, I tried to convince him to run again but then he reminded me of the twenty-second amendment. Besides that, after he was assassinated, he could go back to having a normal life and he was also not so sure he deserved greatness for forcing all those red states to stay in the union. I asked him what he meant by that and he said “You can fool all the people some of the time, and you can fool some of the people all of the time but you can’t fool all of the people…” Just then he got a distant look on his face and muttered something I couldn’t quite catch about wars, liars, Texans, and unnatural acts with pigs and Russian hookers. He was obviously distraught, so I did not pursue the matter and politely excused myself leaving him to his thoughts. On our drive out of the monument I wondered if Mr. Washington would be on duty the next day and what his thoughts would have been on the current state of the nation and the constitution. Then I got depressed.
