From the Badlands and Back Again

For our super-involved family vacation this year, we drove from Denver through the Badlands over to my hometown of Bemidji, MN, then up to tour an old iron ore mine in Tower-Soudan, then on over to the North Shore of Lake Superior to a yurt in Grand Marais, then cruised up to the amethyst mines past Thunder Bay, headed back down the North Shore to Duluth and over to Bemidji again where we celebrated Miss G turning 15 (gah!) and eventually made our way back to Denver.

It's actually just as exhausting reading the description over again as the trip itself. Well, almost.

So, every time we make this drive, we don't go through the Badlands, either because we're sleepy or short on time or some other random excuse. This year was the year we finally committed. And deeply regretted having not stopped sooner.

It's so beautiful, one of those places (much like the Grand Canyon, or even Mt. Rushmore) where the majesty truly cannot be conveyed with a photograph. And it is very eerie; it feels like an alien landscape. 

In the instructional brochure we were handed at the ticket booth, I learned that the Badlands used to be the bottom of an ocean, back before the Great Plains were plains; then the place made more sense to me visually. Someday I'd like to go back and spend time hiking through there. So, so otherworldly and breathtaking.

The rest of South Dakota, as always, was a dull and uneventful drive. 

Along the way, I kept telling Dan & the kids how Minnesota is easily the best-smelling state in the Union. They scoffed at me, so I pulled over to the Minnesota Tourist Center as soon as we crossed the border and forced them to inhale. 

They believe me now, all right.

We arrived in my hometown, the birthplace of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox. (Despite Brainerd's claims to the contrary. We Bemidjians know the truth. Or is it Bemidjiites?)

The kids went sailing with Miss G's parental grandparents.

And then we moved onto Phase 2 of the trip: the North Shore!

The night before leaving, my dad off-handedly asked if we were going to tour the iron ore mines. I remembered doing this as a kid, in a vague way that had me wondering if it had just been a nightmare, because I couldn't for the life of me remember *where* I had taken an open-walled elevator down a sheer stone shaft and then riding a mine cart train. Mystery solved!

The second the words "iron ore mine" came out of my dad's mouth, Dan was all over it. So we changed up our route at the last minute to drive through Tower-Soudan and tour the mine.

Then, onward and-- er, over-wards to the North Shore. 

This is a good time to mention that Dan hates Minnesota. It makes him feel claustrophobic, he says. Too many trees. Not enough hills. Nothing to do in Bemidji. All very valid points. When I tell Minnesotans these complaints, they always say, "But have you taken him up the North Shore?" Because the North Shore is really the solution for all of these problems. Previous years we've hit MN, we just haven't had time to make it over to Duluth. This year, though, the state was our oyster.

I found this awesome little yurt to stay in up past Grand Marais. We would've stayed at my first pick, Naniboujou, but they foolishly do not allow dogs there. It ended up being fantastic, because the yurt was absolutely perfect. 

*insert happy sigh here*

Also, it was only a few minutes from Naniboujou, so we still got to enjoy their fabulous French onion soup.

For the next couple days, the yurt was home base. From there, we drove up to Thunder Bay to check out the open pit amethyst mines.

They're really more fun than this photo conveys.

And hiked the Devil's Kettle trail a few minutes up the road.

The first luna moth any of us have ever seen!

It's not defacing property if *everyone* carves their names.

And of course, made time to enjoy some good food.

Then it was time to head back south. 

We stopped at Palisade Head to prove to Dan that, yes, there are indeed climbable things in Minnesota. 

I had to take dramamine and a xanax to get this photo.

Just for scale, that tiny yellow dot down there is Dan.

After the climb, we stopped at a random coffee place along the road to get Dan his fix. I saw a sign on the window that said Bridgeman's.

"I didn't even know they still had Bridgeman's!" I said, as we walked up to the place. "When I was a kid, we used to drive from our cabins into town to get Bridgeman's, then walk around by the college finishing our ice cream before driving back. I always got butter brickle, but they don't make that flavor anymore. I look for it whenever I'm at an ice cream shop."

We push the door open and I peruse the ice cream while Dan checks out the coffee situation. And there, a hundred miles from Bemidji and about a million from my childhood, is Butter Brittle ice cream. Okay, so not butter brickle, but I am positive it's the right flavor.

"Oh my god," I say, grabbing Dan's arm and pointing. 

"We'll need a scoop of the butter brittle ice cream too," he tells the girl at the register.

IT TASTES EXACTLY THE SAME!!

Then back to ol' Bemidge for some bday shenanigans. Although Miss G started out with a bit of a rough morning on her big day, we managed to turn the day around.

...by finding pig sprinkles at Leuken's!

She's not type A at all. Nope.

All in all, a super fun family vacation. One of our best. We came home with many pounds of amethyst, a sheet of birch bark the size of a small cot, gobs of mosquito bites and a ton of dirty laundry.

Everything a vacation should be. 

Spring Break at Lowercase E

For Spring Break this year we stuck close-ish to home, just drove a couple hours away to Lowercase E Campground. Also known as Backwards-Number-9 Campground (that's what the kids have dubbed it).

"Climbers call it Mecca, because it has such amazing climbing," Dan tells me, when I ask what the real name of E Campground is.

"But what's the real name?" I ask, exasperated.

"Well, the white men call it the Pahroc. The northern part."

Good enough.

It's clearly a lowercase e.

We like E Campground lots; it's a short drive, for one thing, and there's never anyone else there. Unless we invite them. Although we did see evidence of former residents during our stay.... some unwrapped candy hidden in curious places...

...an old Easter egg so disgusting even the dogs wouldn't eat it....

But we had the area to ourselves, even though we arrived late Easter Eve. 

Although the dogs did not eat any broken Easter eggs, they did unearth a bunny burrow right in the middle of our campsite. 

Cutest. Thing. Ever. (The bunny's pretty cute too I guess)

Much as the girls wanted to adopt the trio of baby bunnies (promptly named Shakes, Lucky, and Scrappers), we left them there with their mama. Sadly, that meant the dogs had to be tied up for the remainder of our stay to keep them away from the delicious, intriguing little things. We probably should have tied the kids up too, for the exact same reason. 

The kids made a burrow of their own. For reference, here they are when viewed from the ground:

... and here's the Kid Nest they made up there:

Dan even delivered chili to them. Because he is awesome like that.

Before we leave, the girls love to complain about camping; once we're there, they love the actual camping. Probably due to the all the shameless incentive/bribery junk food we slather on.  

It's the only time we let them eat yummy MSG-laden ramen. 

We spent a delightful four days with no cell reception getting progressively smellier and climbing rocks. Not necessarily in that order.

A good time was had by all, with just a little tinge of sadness at not knowing if we'll make it back to E Campground again anytime soon.

It's a pretty long drive from Colorado.

Zombie Legs Hot Springs

Dan really likes to take us out on vigorous adventures, which the other three of us love/dread. We like playing outside, but simultaneously fear Dan's notorious sandbagging.

Our trek out to Boy Scout Hot Springs was the typical mixed bag. Dan told me exactly what to expect (six miles round trip; 80' climb somewhere along the way) and yet I was still totally unprepared. I think maybe because the beginning was so deceptively easy. Five minute drive from our house to a well-packed dirt road. A few minutes later, we're on a lovely sandy walk...

...pretty scenery...

...more pretty scenery...

...Miss L even found heart-shaped glass...

And then, right when I was feeling really confident, BAM.

The cliff.

"Don't worry, honey! It's easy!"

For those who may not be aware, I have a problem with heights. I also have a problem with panic attacks. Climbing is really the perfect marriage for these two quirks.

Know what though? I did it. I just focused on finding good holds instead of on the fear (or the cold sweat or the nausea) and did it. It was pretty freaking amazing, actually.

View from the first ledge.

Unfortunately, the initial sheer drop was just the tip of the 80'. There was lots more down-climbing and scrambling to be had.

Funny, it looks way less terrifying in photos.

Dan had the bright idea of having the kids take photos of me climbing. You know, because I'd never remember it otherwise. Reluctantly, I handed over my (brand-new, been used approximately three times) camera. You know where this is going, right? One kid handed the camera to another kid, and someone (we'll never know who) dropped it.

Final pic of the day. Or, you know. EVER.

Good thing no one told me about the camera till after my adrenaline levels dropped a little.

So, you won't be able to see the other deathtraps we clambered down, namely slick limestone waterfalls with no holds to speak of, just some slightly moldy, more-than-slightly frayed rope to hang on to for dear life. Three (or was it four?) of those little numbers.

But you won't see any of the pretty stuff either, like the rich greens of the moss limned in pale mineral deposits dripping down the canyon walls. And pictures couldn't convey the heat radiating from the seeping stone formations, much welcome in the fading-sunlight/late-afternoon chill, or the slight salt smell that reminded me of California coast.

It was magical. Can't say for sure that it evened out the terror completely, but definitely magical.

If you're anything like me, all you want after a long, stressful day is to soak in a screaming hot bath and let the world disappear. The cool thing about a hot springs hike is, you get to do just that.

The less-cool thing is, you eventually have to climb back up everything that set your teeth on edge. Only this time, in the dark.

It was a little nightmarish. Not because I was scared (it's actually much less scary when you can't see how far you could potentially plummet to your death) but because my legs were so exhausted from the long scramble up the sandy hillside, I could no longer trust them. And you really, really need to trust your body when climbing.

With only one minor freakout while clinging spider-like to a rock (which consisted of me yelling "I'M FREAKING OUT!!" and Dan appearing next to me in approximately four seconds, saying "Hello, I'm Dan. I'll be your rescuer today!" and me saying "Oh my god I love you so much") we made it back to that first cliff. And up and over it, too.

On the sandy final leg, my legs started acting really weird, doing this funny kickback with every step. I felt kind of... well, zombie-ish. Jerky and uncontrolled.

"Does anyone else have zombie legs?"

No one else had them. Then, after about 15 more minutes of shuffling through deep sand, Miss G spoke up.

"Mama? My legs are like... kicking."

"I knew it. Zombie legs. They're contagious. Let me know if you start feeling hungry for brains. It's best if we decapitate you early on. You know, to prevent suffering."

(I really do talk like this to my kid. Generally she just glares in response. I suspect somewhere, way waaay down, she thinks I'm funny. Maybe.)

Miss L caught them too, a little bit later. I promised her the same mercy of proactive beheading, and she seemed appreciative.

We made it back to the car all in one piece (if we don't count the camera), renamed the hike to something more evocative, and cheerfully swore to never go there again.

It was the perfect way to start the new year.

Fairy Places

I collected fairies once. Somewhere along the last couple years, I sort of got over it. Tucked them into boxes, possibly to save for my niece if she gets into such things when she’s older. At thirteen and nearly-thirteen, our girls have outgrown magic and packed away their own fairy collections; dull practicality is rushing into its place at a frightening pace.

Everything is becoming lame. School is lame. All their parents are lame. Hiking and camping are definitely lame. As far as I can figure, electronics are the only not-lame things left in existence.

Except we found this place in Oregon, out in the middle of nowhere. We were looking for campsites along this dirt road; a near-hidden muddy turnoff caught our eye almost too late. I reversed a bit to make the turn and we edged down a muddy path toward a stream.

The whole drive was gorgeous-- tall pines, clean air, dappled sunlight-- but this was a pocket of even more perfect. Every living branch and fallen trunk enveloped in quiet moss; water curling around smooth stone islands and wandering into tiny waterfalls; hazy green light and some delicious unidentifiable smell.

“This is such a fairy place,” I said before we even got out of the car. The phrase was reflexive; I haven’t used it in years. Maybe because I’ve been stuck in the desert, where fairies and their places are in mighty short supply.

I thought the girls’ apathy was impenetrable, but they lifted their heads like racehorses scenting a track. Within seconds, they were out of the car and across the river and calling to come look! come look! with the level of excitement usually reserved only for new Glee episodes.

We pitched tents and played barefoot in the water till dark. The girls kept saying “It is a fairy place; it is SUCH a fairy place” all heady with delight. They collected raspberries and flowers and little pretty things, arranging them just so near certain places they thought the fairies would like best.

In the morning, they woke us with delighted shouts that the berries were missing!! And nothing else had been touched at all, Mama! They found oddly dry rocks left in conspicuous places and were sure the fairies left them in gratitude. Giddy from success, they vanished into the brush to collect more berries, more flowers, more little pretty things to leave behind.

In spite of the dizzying speed at which they’re approaching adulthood-- too slowly and too quickly, all at once-- I feel freshly anchored. Even though they are careening away from childish things, becoming unrecognizable from the 'them' we've known for the length of their lifetimes, there's a kernel there that wants to believe in fairies, a smidgen of innocence left unaffected by cell phones and skinny jeans. 

I remembered why I started collecting fairies in the first place: so I could remember that too. The simple strength of childhood faith in magical things: Mom's kiss will make it better; other worlds await beyond wardrobe doors; fairies live near waterfalls. 

Maybe it's no accident that life got real dull and cranky right around the same time I felt irritated with fairies in my house. Maybe it's faith that threads magic through our lives instead of the other way around.

Magical, magical Taos

The wildfires thwarted our plans to kick it in Taos for a few days on our outgoing trip to Colorado, so we decided to make up for it on our way back. My long-lost really good friend Deanna  lives there. (PS, she is awesome.) And we're on a mission to get Dan's stuff into some galleries so... you know, why not start that project out at a famously picky mecca like Taos?

Anyway. 

I find a place at vrbo.com for rent at the very last minute. It's this 3-bedroom adobe house about a block from the Plaza for the same price as the Super 8.

Original 40's hardwood floors and saltillo tile. Cute little flagstone patio. Two bathrooms. Full kitchen. Casita out back. Dog-friendly.

THE SAME PRICE AS THE SUPER 8, PEOPLE. 

Of course-- there's this catch. The rental guy tells us the neighbor is a little nuts. He's not specific on what kind of nuts. Loud music at odd hours is implied. We're encouraged to call the cops if we want. "If you don't want to get involved or whatever, just call me and I'll call the cops for you. I know you have kids."

Dan & I are both kind of intrigued about Crazy Neighbor. We get in past dark, but there's no sign of him. In the morning, the dismembered bicycle hanging from the metal fountain is a pretty solid sign which neighbor to watch out for. And the metal fountain itself is a peeing eagle. Sort of majestic, in a urinary kind of way. 

We have to walk past Crazyhouse on our way to get Dan his morning coffee. There's a skinny twitchy guy out front who greets us with a manic cheerfulness: "Hi! Hello! Good morning! I guess you must be the neighbors. You know this guy who stays here, this guy? He's kind of, like, kind of crazy, right?"

It's not clear whether this guy is, in fact, himself the crazy neighbor but pretending not to be, or if he's genuinely schizophrenic. Or, third option, a second crazy guy. 

But, you know, whatever; we're friendly by nature and he seems harmless so we chat for a while. He claims to be an electrician friend of Crazy Neighbor. We make semi-uncomfortable small talk, the less mentally stable of us flashing large tooth-missing smiles throughout, and eventually he shakes our hands and tells us to have a great stay in Taos and enjoy the day. 

We walk to the Plaza and have coffee at this tiny place called World Cup (cute name, right? Tied for cutest with a place called Higher Grounds in Golden, CO). It's about as big as our rental's living room, and the walls are plastered with currency from different nations and lots of bumper stickers. I'm not a coffee drinker (anymore... that's a long, sad story for another day) but they offer some kind of orange zest mocha with an irresistible name that I can't remember at the moment so I make an exception and it is so worth it. 

I love that this is a town where some law-enforcement dude with shiny handcuffs tucked into the back of his belt is getting his morning joe at a place with 'Question Authority' bumper stickers over the door.

After coffee is procured, we walk down to the gallery where, during our initial visit to Taos that lasted less than 24 hours, Dan managed to find a kindred spirit. The place isn't open yet, but next door is a chocolate shop. I recognize the guy behind the counter as the same one who was in line in front of us at World Cup. God, I love small towns.

We make our way back toward the house past an amazing-looking toy store that has a free playground out back looped with enormous kiddie habitrails. This is a sign it's time to wake up the kids.

Back in the driveway, we're greeted by this: 

Dan points at the sage. "That was not there when we left," he says.

I pick it up. The charred ends are still warm. The placement is consistent with having been thrown over from Crazy Neighbor's yard.

Even the tweakers here are nice! 

Later, I tell Deanna the story. "That's so Taos!" she says. Actually, she says that a lot.

Later in the morning, Dan somehow runs into the landlord from next door. He finds out that Crazy Neighbor was in fact arrested the same night we arrived, apparently got into some fight with his brother. So I guess the other crazy guy we met this morning was, in fact, just a random second crazy guy hanging out at the house for no apparent reason while his crazy friend was in the clink.

The next morning we hit up the farmers' market, only a few blocks away in the opposite direction of the Plaza.  We bought homemade chipotle chevre and fresh spinach and a bouquet of purple garlic, then came home and made omelets. 

Then we toured the Earth Ships. 

The sign (predictably) says 'Please do not touch thermometer.'

I'm not sure it's possible to see those things and not want to build one yourself. They are brilliantly constructed and very cool, zero utility bills and recycling of grey water built right in. I love the idea of a dwelling existing in so much harmony with nature. On a related side note: Oh my god, I've become such a hippie. 

You have to cross the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge to get to and from the Earth Ships. It's really gorgeous and terrifying. 

I made the kids go out to the middle of it to take the next few shots 'cause I was too chicken. It's actually embarrassing how few feet I walked out before getting dizzy.

I should've known those last two pics coming the second I handed them the camera.

We got milkshakes at this renovated bus. 

We all agreed they were the worst milkshakes ever.

And we met this cool crusty dude with two milky alabaster feathers he'd carved. 

Then we had to visit his booth and all the other little booths set up over by the Bridge. Some of it was really cool. 

I've seen roadside Native American booths before, especially around the Grand Canyon area, but these have a different feel. In that section of the country, there's a sense of desperation in all those wares lined up. Here, there's a fierce pride. Pride in their craft, pride in their heritage, pride in themselves. There's strength coursing through the desert here.

When we get back to the rental, the Crazy Neighbor's landlord has organized a yard sale of Crazy Neighbor's stuff, clearly evicting while the iron's hot. Or incarcerated, as the case may be.

This is the cleaned up version of the yard. 

Of course we had to check it out. 

I got this great book for only $5!

And now it's our day to leave and I am seriously cranky.

In visiting my hometown, I used to get a sense of "Yes, this!" when I stepped out of the car. I always thought I'd eventually end up there, that nowhere else would ever be home. 

Something about that solidity eroded over the past few years. Something not right, some stale scent of hollow obligation now wafts in under the pine sap and behind the loon calls. It's not my place any more. 

I'm also not at home where I currently live. Not even close. 

Dan and I talk a lot about our Forever House, about where we want to end up after the kids are on their own. Or at least, old enough that custody schedules no longer have to be a factor in our residence choices. We've debated Tucson, considered Colorado. We can't seem to commit to anywhere. Nothing feels right.

Until we pulled into Taos. 

The second our feet hit this ground, we looked at each other with mirroring "Yes, this!" in our eyes. This is our place. Not right now; there's no practical way to fly Miss L back and forth to Reno, and it's expensive and we need to plan for it. But we know it's our future, and it's a freeing, grounding thing to have that certainty in my life again. It's been missing for a long time.

As Peep says, I "cried a biddle from happy" when I found the sage in our drive coming back from our first morning wander here. There is something a little nuts about this place, and even that is so incredibly right.