Sometimes we just have to stop and take stock. See where we are. Ask ourselves: “What now?”
One summer Carol and I decided we would pack up the family (the WHOLE family) including my aged parents, rent an RV and go to Yellowstone National Park.
The kids were 9, 7 and 4 years old and my parents in their very late 60s. They were unwell, just how ill we would find out on this trip. We had been married but a few years.
The RV was a “cab-over” affair that promised self contained independence…a real break from our Reno bound existence. The first night on the road, when the water hookup sprayed like a Roman fountain instead of our only water supply was only the beginning of our troubles.
The promised beds which could sleep 9 must have meant 9 pygmies or hamsters, because it certainly didn’t mean 4 adults and 3 children. And the only “real” bed when folded out blocked the only very really needed toilet. This same bed was to hold the same folks who REALLY needed the toilet every night, frequently.
The other “bed,” wedged above the truck’s cab, was more like a burial shelf in a medieval church crypt. The two inch foam pad assured there was not quite enough room to lie on your side, but molded to your sweating body as you lay corpse-like on your back.
The children were placed on the roof in bundles of clothes and sleeping bags which weighted them down as much to keep them from rolling off as to insulate them from the Nevada desert cold. They loved it.
And this was the FIRST night.
Morning brought no showers, nor any running water to either wash dishes or flush the only toilet. It did bring bacon and eggs, pancakes and the naive hope things would be better in Yellowstone.
Long miles of open, empty road at 8 miles per gallon at a top speed of 60 mph caused a kind of “RV Cabin fever” still seared on all our collective memories.
It was in this agitated state of pent up energy that we arrived (late) to the Fish Bed Camp Ground at the edge of Yellowstone. Twelve hours on the road had mellowed our view of multi-generational family vacations and the kids JUST WANTED OUT.
After a quick dinner I agreed to take the children to a meadow we had passed on the way into camp. It being early June, it was still quite light at 8:30 that evening.
We planned to join my wife and parents at the campground’s fire circle after our hike to the meadow. We hoped to see deer, or maybe even an elk.
The light in the thick forest was fading much faster than our enthusiasm to reach the meadow. And when the meadow proved to be as empty as a church on Monday we tucked back into the deepening woods.
Now the only light was provided by our small flashlight and it cast a flat pall which was swallowed by the crowded trees. Stumbling over fallen lodge pole pines we quickly lost the trail and became utterly, hopelessly lost.
This was when that little voice in my head asked, “What now?”
The other little voices clinging to my hands and coat asked other, urgent questions.
When are we going to get back? Why is it so dark? Aren’t we going back to Mommy? What about the bears?
That last question played in my own head, accompanied by the memory of the sign in the camp office which read: “No sleeping in tents, on the ground or soft-sided campers. This is BEAR COUNTRY.”
One thing was sure. We weren’t going to find our way back before dawn.
That meant we had to stop, take stock and prepare to spend the night in the woods.
A fire was out, I hadn’t bothered to bring matches, nor any survival gear for that matter. We would just have to huddle together for warmth on the cold ground.
We had no food, nor any food smells about us so bears were a much smaller threat than hypothermia.
As we lay on the forest floor that very, very long and cold early summer night I thought how foolish I had been to tamp off into the woods at dusk. And I heard the sounds of frogs and crickets in the meadow alternated by sirens of those looking for us.
I deeply hoped it would not rain. I didn’t know then that precipitation could have been deadly.
That night was the longest of my life. Weighted down by my sleeping children, I was punished as much by my guilt as by the hard ground.
Dawn came grudgingly grey and cold with a faint light too dim to find the trail.
The only direction left was the meadow, now white with frost, but at least open. If we couldn’t find our way, searchers could at least find us.
The meadow was a cruel obstacle course of snaking stream, and open ponds of black water. Our pant legs froze stiff to our knees.
But all night I had heard another sound: cars on a distant highway. And at a far, far end of this frozen meadow I saw at once our distant deliverance: the road we had driven in on.
The walk to that asphalt salvation was as cold and frustrating as losing our way was simple. Tall grass hid water puddled and deeper. Detours were as frequent as tears.
Finally we mounted the road and flagged down a passing camper. A hurried explanation of our plight delivered us back to camp and a very worried mom and grandparents.
We were exhausted, our toes and fingers burned from the cold but we were otherwise unhurt.
There had been 50 rescuers set to search for us later with the sun rise.
We never rented an RV again, but that morning it sure felt like home.
