A couple of years ago, we spent a day of our summer vacation at Yellowstone National Park with my parents. We hadn’t been there since Suzannah was a year old, and we thought the kids would enjoy Old Faithful. They did -- we have video footage of Suzannah exclaiming, “That is so cool! Whoa! I’m pretty sure that’s even taller than all the people!” (Isaac, not yet three, turned to us and said, “Water gone? Turned off?”)
Later, while the kids licked at ice cream cones, I wandered through the gift shop. I don’t really feel like a tourist when I go to Yellowstone or Glacier National Park because I spent so much time there growing up, but I still occasionally buy t-shirts, and sometimes I find great books tucked into the corners of these little shops. A few years ago, I bought a collection of poetry by Montana writers and it is still one of my absolute favorite poetry anthologies of all time; last summer, I found a book of poetry by one author featured in that book.
But when we found ourselves in Yellowstone two summers ago, I didn’t buy poetry. I sidled up to my husband, who was innocently tucking into his own ice cream cone, and said, “Will you buy me just one book?” He nodded, distracted, and so I got to take home Death in Yellowstone: Accidents and Foolhardiness in the First National Park.
Death in Yellowstone is pretty much exactly what it sounds like: an account of the 300 deaths that have occurred inside Yellowstone National Park. The book is divided into two sections -- Death by Nature and Death by Man. I am not particularly concerned about Death by Man; I am unlikely to travel by wagon or stagecoach, and I’m just as likely to be killed by a drunk driver or murderer anywhere else.
I am smart enough not to try to pet the bison and grizzly bears.
I don’t eat plants while I’m hiking, even though I have learned (supposedly) once or twice which ones are “safe” and which ones are the kind that will twist up your insides in ten seconds before you drop dead right there on the trail. Look, I saw Into the Wild; I’ll just stick to my own snacks.
Death by lightning doesn’t worry me because while I worry a lot (just you wait) I can’t do much about a thunderstorm. I’ll enjoy it, actually, but I probably won’t be standing on top of a mountain while I do so.
I’m a strong swimmer. I always swim sober, and mostly in lakes (rather than rivers), so the little chapter on Death by Drowning didn’t keep me awake at night.
Death by falling actually worries me a lot, and it kind of makes me no fun to hike with sometimes, especially when we have the kids with us. There’s a really lovely hike we enjoy here in Washington -- I’m not going to tell you where it is because if you know it you’re definitely going to make fun of me -- and I can barely even get through it sometimes because it involves crossing a bridge (a fairly wide, wooden bridge with a substantial railing) and I am utterly convinced that one of our curious children will somehow scale the railing before we can grab them and fall into the water below. (It’s not that far below. If it were, I wouldn’t be walking over it, believe me.) Matt was not appropriately empathetic that first time, and there may have been some tension between us for the rest of the hike. It’s fine, though. Bygones.
My point is that there are really high places from which to fall in Yellowstone and I did not enjoy reading about them. I shared this with my husband, along with the rather strong opinion that we should avoid any place that boasts a spectacular view; nevermind the fact that I love a lot of those places. (I can’t believe I am confessing this publicly, but years ago when we went to Snoqualmie Falls I couldn’t bring myself to walk up the steps to the viewing area. I got close, but I seriously almost threw up when Matt thought he was going to carry our little daughter to see the waterfall. We can get a perfectly good view of the falls on the opening credits of Twin Peaks.)
The worst chapter, though, was the very first one: “Hold Fast to your Children: Deaths in Hot Water.” Just the title is bad news for a mother, especially one who spends so much time in Crazyland. Later that night, after we’d tucked our exhausted children into bed, I curled up in my parents’ living room with my new book. It wasn’t long before I sat up, horrified.
“Matt, do you know what happens to your eyeballs if you fall into one of those hot springs and get boiled alive? They turn white. Not just the part that’s already white. The whole thing.”
“Good grief, Shari,” my mother said. “Don’t you have anything nicer to read? What were you reading before you started reading this book?”
I showed her my copy of Rabid: A Cultural History of the World's Most Diabolical Virus.
“For Pete’s sake,” my mother said.
“I’m glad I got you that book after we walked around the hot springs,” Matt said.
“Well, we’re not going back until the kids are teenagers, obviously.” My what-if’s (what if one of my children broke away from me and stumbled and fell in? What if one of us turned our back long enough for one of them to try to touch the pretty water?) were quieted only by the knowledge that Isaac was solidly contained in either the stroller or the backpack the entire time, and Suzannah had a firm hold of someone’s hand all the time and was also well-behaved enough to listen when we told her seriously that it was important to stay with Mom and Dad and Grandpa and Grandma and not touch the water. Also, we were safely home again by the time I had to visualize someone boiling alive in the hot springs.
I’m not sure what prompted me to write all this tonight, except that soon we’ll be in Glacier for a few days during our annual Montana trip and I suppose I was feeling nostalgic. There are no hot springs in Glacier, although I have no doubt I’ll find something to be anxious about. Still, as far as I know, no one has written a book called Death in Glacier, and Matt probably wouldn’t let me have it anyway. (When Suzannah was about two, we spent a few days in the park with Matt’s family. At night, after everyone else had turned in, I stayed up late reading a book about grizzly bear attacks. I know I said that’s not a particular fear of mine -- it’s still not -- but the book gave me such chills that I half-expected a grizzly to come charging through the cozy living room of the house we were renting near Whitefish.) I don’t really know what to say about this. The other day Becca said to me, "I mean, horrifying documentaries about rabies and/or gangs and/or religious cults are how you relax.”
Okay, but seriously, I will try to be reasonable on this trip.
Relatedly, I’ve been mostly off Facebook -- all the grandparents have been here over the past week and we took a quick trip to the ocean -- and I plan to stay mostly off until we’re back in Washington. One of the things I appreciate about vacation is the permission I give myself to truly unplug and be present where I’m at. I’ll check my e-mail a few times, and I still might post here, because I love to tell everyone what I think all the time. Also, my friend Mandy recently tagged me in a challenge to post three positive things for seven days. This is a Facebook thing, but maybe I can do that here, and it’s a nice way to check in and capture the moments I want to remember from our trip. I won’t promise seven consecutive days -- I don’t plan to try to punch in a blog entry on my stupid smartphone somewhere in the mountains -- but I’ll shoot for seven days before I post on Facebook again.
Here are my three for today:
1. The light summer drizzle that greeted me when I stepped outside this morning. I love our sunny Seattle summers, but these moments of softness that make everything smell new again are a gift. The droplets shone on our pretty purple flowers in the front yard.
2. The pound of fresh roasted coffee from Valhalla, which I bought on a coffee outing with Suzannah and Kyanne. Have you ever physically just hugged a package of coffee because it smelled so good?
3. The freshest, lightest, loveliest dinner -- butter lettuce, roasted beets, cucumbers, kohlrabi, and roasted broccoli. Every single week I am grateful for such easy access to gorgeous local produce here. I love this season of salads, and I’m so looking forward to pluots and peaches in a couple of weeks.
I’m signing off to finish The Mill on the Floss, because while I do love a nice meaty Victorian novel in the summer, I’m not sure I want to pack along my hefty hardcover. I’m planning to bring a few paperbacks instead -- and who knows what kinds of books I’ll pick up along the road this year.
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