day 34
Sunday, August 17 2008
Cheyenne, WY to Yellowstone National Park
Yellowstone.
As I left for my trip, a friend of mine told me that you learn a lot about yourself on a journey like this. I think that’s true, in some respects more than others. But Yellowstone helped me confirm something I’d always suspected about myself: I am soooooo not a camping guy. I know, I know. I’m supposed to like camping, and I’m supposed to like nature, and yadda yadda yadda. But it’s just not in my blood, and I’m going to have to come to terms with that. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with nature or camping, or any of that–I just know for certain that it’s not for me.
(or, to be more philosophical and open-minded about it, camping is not for the 32 year-old version of me–who knows what I’ll be like in 20 or 40 years from now? perspectives and tastes change all the time, right?)
Since I was there for the evening, however, I walked around the campsite to find an interview subject or two. I met a family from Twin Falls, Idaho, who were on their annual vacation. Two young boys, Brady and Jack, had been riding their bikes around the camp earlier while the parents, John and Nicky prepared the fire and unloaded some dinner supplies from the Winnebago. They told me that Twin Falls is the only place in the country that it’s legal to go base-jumping, which reminded John of the first time he’d gone bungie jumping.
John has an interesting cadence to his voice–very rushed-and-stopped, over and over. I think this comes from a bit of a more shy nature–or, if not shy, then I think he’s just the sort of guy who would rather let his actions speak for him more than his words.
Most of the speaking of the evening fell to Brady, a tow-headed 12 year old who has a knack for getting hurt. Seriously, almost every single one of the many stories Brady told me tonight end with him breaking a bone, or bleeding, or scarring his leg…. here’s a quick edit of about fifteen minutes of talking to Brady:
Actually, that thing about the dumpster might not be as dramatic as Brady made it sound. Here’s the full part of that story, with his mother’s input:
Brady’s little brother Jack is a little less of a hellion, but he’s still prone to the occasional injury. Since it was the apparent topic of conversation, he joined in with an anecdote of his own (though Brady, as older brothers will, couldn’t help but join in to help out with the story):
I bid the family good night and left them to their hotdog cooking.
I made my way back to my tent (graciously lent to me by my friends Randy and Lisa), and tried my best to get comfortable for the evening–but I just couldn’t do it. I stretched and twisted and turned inside the sleeping bag, on top of the sleeping mat, under the blanket, with my head on the pillow. It felt like the way you feel when you accidentally put a t-shirt on with your head in an arm-hole, and one arm out the body hole, and the other arm in the head-hole, and you try to make it fit comfortably, struggling and struggling and struggling, until you say to yourself: screw it, I’m just gonna sleep in the car again.
So I did. Eff you, camping.