Tight Connection

One of the most memorable lectures in med school was learning that sleep deprivation affects people as much as alcohol intoxication when it comes to complex tasks like driving. Obviously, that’s pretty jarring to a room full of chronically sleep deprived med students who still had to get home that day.

That story comes to me as I sit on a plane to Belize that we very nearly missed. Like, very nearly. Like, I’ve never been closer nearly. I’m still processing how the son of “two hours to the airport is late” Bill Stone could have let things get that close.

It started with an announcement from the pilot on our approach into Dallas that “We’ve entered a fifteen minute holding pattern. The weather in Dallas is deteriorating.” Never reassuring when you’re within viewing distance of the airstrip. But 14 minutes later, the pilot told us that we were released from the hold and were going to land about 20 minutes late. That would have made our already tight connection impossibly tight. But the flight attendants reminded everyone that our connecting flights were also going to be about 20 minutes late. So that turned into, “Great! We have time to go to the Admirals Club!” Breakfast had been at 3 am that day, so I was famished. 

We rushed off to the lounge after landing and made a beeline to the breakfast counter. And then had a seat. And then ate some more. Only then did I think it would be a good time to look at my watch.

Oh God. We depart in 15 minutes. The gate is 12 minutes away.

So I tossed our stuff back into our bags, piled up our snack bowls, and found Aimee at the coffee bar. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but we need to go.” She immediately picked up on the subtext of, “AAAHHHH!!!!!”

The kids turned into windsails behind us as we ran through the terminal. When we finally rounded the turn to our gate, I saw “FLIGHT CLOSED” on the giant screen out front. Good God. I missed a flight to Belize. This is the most low-stakes, easy travel I’ve been on in years, and I totally blew it. Of all the ways that this trip could have fallen to pieces, “second English muffin” wasn’t even on the BINGO card.

But I completed our sprint to the gate, feeling my phone buzz. By the time I wrestled it free of my pocket mid-stride, I had just barely missed the call from a Dallas phone number undoubtedly trying to ask us if we were still coming on the flight. 

Ugh. So sorry, Helen. Maybe we can try again for your 76th birthday?

As I made it to the counter, the agent saw me waving and said, “Belize?” “Yes! Stone!” I called back. I saw the other gate agent turn to the four people also gathered at the counter and tell them, “Sorry. Standby for this flight is now closed.” Holy crap. We were one keystroke away from losing our seats.

I gave the gate agent our boarding passes, or so I thought. She said, “These are Phoenix to Dallas.” Which was the exact opposite of what the Phoenix gate agent told me. For crying out loud. It was like I had never been on an airplane before. One more strike and they’re going to take my AAdvantage status away.

I tried to play it off with an, “It’s been a morning!” As if the gate agent couldn’t see the stack of four snack bowls in my hand that clearly said “Admirals Club” right on the side. The customer service training that this woman must have gone through to allow her to not roll her eyes right out of her head is beyond impressive. She’s truly a professional.

The gate agent wordlessly scanned our correct boarding passes this time, and we rushed to our seats. I tried to make sense of what had just happened, and attributed it to the four hours of low-quality, travel-excited sleep I got the night before. It’s a good thing I didn’t need to drive home that day.

The rest of the flight was otherwise uneventful, courtesy of the movies our kids were absolutely lost in. Before we knew it, the plane was descending. The view from our windows as we approached Belize City was predictably stunning. Lush tropical forests interspersed with meandering rivers, with only the slightest impression of human occupation. Belize City (and really the entire country) is admirably restrained in its development. In fact, not only is the tallest building in the country a thousand year old Mayan Temple, the second tallest one is, too.

Also predictable was how excited the kids were. Like, bouncing out of their seat excited. They’ve definitely inherited Aimee and my fascination with coming into an unfamiliar airport. And as far as unfamiliar airports go, Central America’s are in a league of their own. There’s a timeless charm mixed with just the right amount of danger that really sets them apart. From the just-long-enough runways that make landing a seat-clutching, airbrake-deploying adrenaline rush to the customs line that could just as easily make you wonder why it was even there as it could deprive you of all your earthly possessions. I love every bit of it.

But that’s a bit unfair. Belize has such a strong tourism sector that they’ve made the arrival process a breeze. Aside from the crush of people gathered around the comically tiny counter available to complete our customs form at, the process was pretty painless. In fact, as we stood in the customs line, ready to get called up to the counter, a supervisor came over to us and asked if we had ever been to Belize before. We told him we hadn’t, and he gave us and our forms a cursory glance-over. Not seeing anything that raised his suspicions, he signed off and directed us past the inspection station. We apparently got the tourists-with-small-kids fast-pass. I thought we outgrew that a couple of years ago, but I wasn’t going to turn down the one-day emeritus membership.

The next step was another Central American classic. The crush of taxi drivers and shuttle vans waiting for fresh tourists (and their cash) exiting the airport. But even that was charmingly subdued. Maybe 20 or so people holding name signs behind a rope line. I was approached directly maybe two times, and even then it was in the most innocuous way possible. As if the drivers were already heading to our hotel and we could tag along if we wanted.

But there was no need for any of that. We had a transfer already arranged by our hotel. If there’s a single splurge that I’ve become dependent on in my parenthood travel era, it’s the prearranged airport pickup. I mean, I love getting on the wrong bus as much as anyone. But after 12 hours navigating airports with curious children (or in our case, almost not navigating), it’s such a relief to know that we’re going to finish out the last leg of our journey with almost zero effort.

As I was looking around for our name on the van signs, I heard, “Uncle Jason!!” in stereo as both of our kids saw Aimee’s brother at the exact same time. He and Aimee’s parents had arrived from Atlanta about 45 minutes before we did and were hanging out at the airport until we landed. After a big round of hugs and “I’m so glad you got your passport,” “I’m so glad you got your passport,” we loaded our bags in the van and were on our way

The jungle lodge we were staying at was about 90 minutes away from the airport. The drive took us through the familiar scenes of roadside fruit stands and rolling hills covered in palm and banana trees. But everything was also just a hair different. Most signs were in English and there was a clear Caribbean flair. Most surprisingly, the residual evidence of being a former bit player in the Cold War so prevalent throughout the rest of the region was nowhere to be seen. Belize was fully a part of the British Empire throughout most of the Cold War (and remains part of the Commonwealth these days), so it was never the site of proxy wars like all of its neighbors were.  Belize really is its own little gem of amalgamated Mayan, Caribbean, and post-colonial cultures. I was already fascinated.

I further fell in love as we pulled up to our “lodge.” The stunning views (and pool bar) quickly established that this wasn’t the kind of place I would have backpacked through in my 20s. I wasn’t complaining. Our host, Fermin, showed us around the property, pointing out the usual amenities. But Caves Branch, where we were staying, adamantly pushes back against the sanitized EcoResort label that might otherwise be slapped on a very comfortable collection of tree houses in the Central American highlands. That part became immediately obvious when Fermin took us to our rooms, advising us to always carry a flashlight while walking up to them. When Quinn asked why, Fermin listed all nine types of venomous snakes on the grounds.

This was the first hotel orientation I’ve ever been on that discussed how many types of highly venomous snakes are on the property. At least one, the fer-de-lance, can be fatal. “But don’t worry,” Fermin told us. “The odds of a snake bite are less than 1%.” Yay? But exhausted after the previous 24 hours, I didn’t spend much time laying in bed worrying about it. Any snakes that managed to get past the thin screen walls or two-inch gap below the door wouldn’t be getting much resistance from us that night.

In Process

This is usually the post where I talk about traveling again, or what I’ve been up to lately. You know, a lot of nothing. There’s only so much I can say about packing up two kids and getting them to the airport.

But this one is different. I actually have a story before we even start the trip. It started about six months ago, before the first time we almost went to Belize. Quinn’s passport was nearly expired, and I figured it would be a good time to get it renewed. We had three months before the trip, after all. So I completed his paperwork, took another adorable photo, and headed down to the Coconino County court house. Everything checked out, but as I was handing the clerk Quinn’s application, I realized that I forgot to check the “Expedite Application” box. Oh well, I figured. We had plenty of time, and I didn’t know when I’d be able to get down to the court with both him and Aimee again soon. So we sent it off and went on with our lives.

A couple of weeks later, then a couple of months later, his application was still in process. As all of you have since seen, the State Department was seeing unprecedented demand for passport applications. Nearly 64,000 every single day, and one of them was for Quinn Stone.

As we entered the last few weeks before we were scheduled to depart, I really started sweating it. So I called the 800 number. After waiting my turn in line, I reached a super helpful agent, even if her hands were relatively tied. She mentioned that despite the demand, they were still hitting their stated processing times.

I asked what the back up options were, since it was going to be down to the wire either way. I knew there was a passport center in Tucson that did in-person applications under special circumstances. She told me that I could call back and try to get an appointment if I hadn’t received the passport within 5 days of departure.

So I waited, and tried to not melt my phone by over-refreshing the website during the next nine days, alternating between being convinced that this trip will either absolutely happen or absolutely will not happen. Finally, five days out, I called the National Passport Center hotline again. I had gotten so good at timing my call to the exact second their call center opened that my hold time was only 30 seconds. I had the process nailed.

But I was actually too fast. The call agent told me her computer was still booting up. Then still booting up. Then, “there must be something going on with the computers.” Then, “I’m so sorry, you’ll have to call back.”

“No! Please! I can’t.” … “I mean, no, it’s not for work. It’s not an emergency. Nobody’s lives are at stake. But I really could use a vacation.”

The agent kindly let me stay on hold for a few minutes while she restarted her computer and I restarted my heart. Eventually she was able to connect. “Let’s see. In person appointments…Hmm. Arizona? Nope. None available in Arizona. Let’s try the bordering states. Nope. Nothing in California. Nothing in Denver. Are you willing to travel?”

I told her that I was while I internally tried to figure out how to get an extra day’s work shift covered for an early start to our vacation. Woo! Maryland! I hear the area between the airport and passport agency is lovely this time of year. But it was a moot point.

“Nope nothing available in the rest of the country. Not a single in-person appointment available anywhere in the US right now.”

*Breathes into paper bag.*

I thanked her for checking, and continued my will-we-or-won’t-we oscillations over the next three days. By that point, we had finally told Aimee’s mom that at least two of us likely won’t be going on her birthday trip. She took it in stride, and said she was going to hold out hope that Quinn would get his passport in time.

My ever-evolving plan at that point was to send Aimee and Mimi to join Helen and Tom in Belize. I told Quinn that he and I might need to come up with a backup plan, and he immediately replied, “The bike park? How about the bike park?” It was a good reminder. He has no concept of whatever this “Belize” place is. He could care less where we go. He just wanted to hang out. Maybe sneak in a bit of trail riding. He’s an inspiration.

Aimee wasn’t in love with the thought of us having separate vacations. And if I’m honest neither was I. But it didn’t seem right to just throw in the towel and all stay home. So I kept brainstorming. 

On my lunch break two days before we were scheduled to leave, I had an epiphany. “Travel insurance! We bought travel insurance!” That had become a definitive part of my post-kids travel routine. I mostly get it for any emergency medical issues that might come up, but it also has a trip cancellation provision. I wondered if not receiving a passport counted as a qualifying event to make a claim. So after pouring through 63 pages of legalese, I saw that it was!!

So I came up with a list of a half dozen places we could travel to without a passport that wouldn’t feel like a total letdown after planning on going to Belize for the last 6 months. It wasn’t too hard to narrow it down.

Guam? What would it take to get to Guam? Ah. A 28 hour plane ride? Hard pass. How about Hawaii? Aimee and I had a lovely trip there before we had kids and it would be a ton of fun to bring them back with us. I looked up flights, and there were some incredible last minute deals.

I couldn’t wait to tell Aimee, but this didn’t feel like something you send via text message. So after work, I raced home and told her as we were setting up for dinner, “I have a plan! This is going to be great!”

By that point, Aimee was used to hearing my schemes along the lines of, “You and Mimi go for the first four days, you fly back while I fly out, and I bring Mimi home after a couple days there myself.” So her expectations were tempered, and she suggested we wait until after dinner instead of going through yet another meal in a funk that we weren’t going on vacation together. I played along, but definitely excused the kids from the table way earlier than I normally would have. 

“Ok?” I said. “Ok.” She said. 

“We have travel insurance! We can go to Hawaii!” She immediately started crying. 

“Yes! That’s a wonderful idea!” 

So after a few phone calls to the insurance company and a late night on travel reservation websites, we had a trip planned for 36 hours later. It was as delightful as we had hoped, but this isn’t that blog. This post is to make sure I’ve completely chased away any built up sympathy from not getting Quinn’s passport in time. Don’t cry for me. But definitely do get travel insurance before your next trip.

Fast forward five months to us having a second attempt at Belize planned. The dates had actually worked out even better, since Aimee’s brother, Jason, could come this time around. But about 2 weeks before we left, he texted the group, “So…I still haven’t received my passport yet.”

Ah! In all the prep for the trip, I had forgotten that Jason was also waiting for his passport. So after I came down from chest-tightening memories of getting Quinn’s passport (we did eventually get it), I shared with him the lessons we had learned. But since passport demand had slowed quite a bit since our adventures, Jason didn’t have any trouble getting a face to face appointment. He got his passport with a full 48 hours to spare. Plenty of time. We were going to Belize!

Portlandia

Monday morning brought the final round of goodbyes with our friends. But thankfully, the vacation wasn’t over for any of us. Cicely, Alicia, and their families would be driving up the Oregon coast for another stay few days nestled between the water and the trees. Aimee, the kids, and I would be headed inland to visit my aunt and uncle in Portland. We were able to see them in Whiteriver before the pandemic, but this would be the first time we’d be visiting them in Portland since we had kids. All six of us were looking forward to it. So we packed up the car one last time and hit the road. The kids barely made it down the driveway.

In spite (or perhaps because) of their exhaustion, the kids did remarkably well for those final six hours of our road trip. All in all, we covered about 1,200 miles that week, and I only questioned our decision for about seven of them.

Our two stops were at a park in rural Oregon and a delightfully funky cafe in Eugene. Same state, remarkably different places. It was nice to see both.

We rolled up to Richard and Shelley’s home around dinner time. It’s a charming house on its own, but especially so when mixed with wonderful childhood memories of spending time with them and my cousins there. They’ve lived in that house since before I was born, and it was fun to watch my kids start building some of their own memories. 

Despite my cousins having long-since moved out, there were plenty of toys to play with from my recently retired uncle’s child psychology office. He had been sending his clients home with a toy of their choice for the past several months, but hung on to a few of the ones that previously belonged to his kids when they were younger. So there were some great early-80s Fisher-Price gems that Quinn and Mimi enjoyed just as much as if they came off the shelf yesterday.

After dinner, we had planned to walk to a nearby park. The kids had been in the car all day, and some outside time would be good for all of us. But we barely made it three blocks before bladders and the hour caught up with us. At least four of us were pretty exhausted, and I suspect a fifth was as well.

Back at the house, Richard played a ragtime piece on the piano as we brushed teeth and got ready for bed. He’s an accomplishes pianist, and it was nice for the kids to see what could eventually come from from the piano classes that Mimi is barely three months into.

The sleepover that night wasn’t anywhere near as epic as the ones the week before. Thankfully. But Mimi and Quinn got to snuggle up together on the futon for about ten seconds before everyone fell asleep.

On Tuesday, the kids slept in later than any other morning I can remember. It was way past second breakfast—bordering on third—before our family had eight eyes fully open. We had a lot of week to sleep off. 

Thankfully there wasn’t much of an agenda that day. We talked through our options over breakfast, and the Oregon Zoo sounded like a particularly nice way to spend the day. Lots of outside time, leg stretching, and of course, animals. Richard asked Mimi what she was hoping to see, and she replied with bunnies and flamingoes, of all things. None of us were convinced that we’d be seeing either at a Pacific Northwest zoo, but we headed off downtown to find out.

The Oregon Zoo is remarkably well done. It’s built into an existing Cascade forest, so if you didn’t notice the elephant signs or concession carts, it would be easy to forget that you’re not on a hike. We meandered through the delightful elephant, giraffe, and orangutan exhibits, then we stumbled upon the…wait for it…bunnies!

Mimi ended up being two for two. There was a flamingo exhibit just around the corner. The perfect zoo.

By early afternoon, all of us were starting to fade. We headed back to the house for a mega nap, and then had a little happy hour on Richard and Shelley’s front porch. Then, 24 hours after our first attempt, we finally felt able to bite off the trip to their neighborhood park. It was great. A nice playground, a little splash pad, and, being Portland, some top-notch people watching.

Dinner was some delicious takeout, and then we all settled in for a night of sleep that was just as excellent as the one before it.

The next morning was our last one of the trip. We didn’t need to be at the airport until the early afternoon, so Richard and I made a quick donut run as we had done a decade earlier. But since this one was post-children, I bought fewer of them and was able to eat even less. But they were still delicious, even if I had to live vicariously for a few of the flavors.

We still had time left for one last activity, and set off for the oldest rose gardens in Portland, a city full of rose gardens. It was particularly beautiful, as our trip coincided with their peak bloom. Mimi, who had taken to picking flower petals any time we looked away that week was beyond thrilled when some caretakers noticed Mimi salivating and handed her some of their clippings. 

After some time on the nearby playground and then several rounds of goodbye hugs, we set off for the airport. It was an easy drive and we were plenty early. But I still had to repack all of our bags once we took out the car seats. Besides, we had learned long ago that a few extra minutes at the airport are more than worth it when we’re shepherding a couple of kids. Although, in all honesty, Mimi had been shaking off her travel cobwebs the entire trip and was now back to leading the rest of us through the airport.

We breezed through security and killed a bit of time checking out the taxiing airplanes. Even our only remaining post-security task was easy. Our seats were dispersed across the airplane, but the gate agent didn’t have any trouble finding an entire row for us to takeover. Although he did ask before printing the boarding passes if we really wanted to give up the opportunity for free babysitting. Fair question.

But as it turned out, our seat assignments barely mattered. Quinn slept almost literally from wheels up to touchdown. Mimi put on her headphones and lost herself in a children’s nature documentary. I would have barely noticed her if I didn’t feel an excited tap on my shoulder every three minutes to alert me to another baby animal on the screen. Who knew that even pigeons could be cute?

Phoenix was starting to see the first rumblings of a monsoon as we made our approach. As is often the case on summer afternoon flights over the desert, the turbulence was considerable. But it was all lost on the kids. Quinn melted hearts and cut the tension with his occasional exclamations of “That made my belly have butterflies! Belly butterflies!!” It brought the house down every time. Both kids had charmed the flight attendants so much that every time one of them passed by our row, another set of Biscoff cookies landed on their tray table.

With the turbulence the only remotely notable thing on the three hour plane ride, we then set off for the Admirals Club to pass some of the three hours we’d be at PHX. Bedtime quickly came and went, and the longer we tried to keep the kids reasonably quiet, the more futile our efforts became. At one point, Quinn became convinced that every approaching plane was a 747 jumbo jet. His cries of “Jumbo Jet! That’s a Jumbo Jet!” quickly went from adorable to moderately entertaining to grating, and we figured that it was time we let the other visitors get some benefit out of their club membership. We packed our bags and made our way back to the public areas of the terminal before (or perhaps just as) we wore out our welcome.

Putting their over-tired loopiness on full display, Mimi and Quinn took to running the entire 100 yard walkway separating the four terminals at Sky Harbor Airport. And I’m talking full sprint.

Those Biscoff cookies really pack a punch.

At one point, I’m near-certain that Quinn fell asleep with his eyes open while taking the moving walkway back to the starting line. 

But then they were right back at it. It was something else, and quite a few travelers were cheering and congratulating them every time they reached the end of one of their sprints. I was exhausted just watching. 

Unsurprisingly, the kids were barely conscious on the flight to Flagstaff. The only way we knew that they were even awake was when one of them spotted a lightning strike in the storm that spanned our entire 45 minutes in the air. But they even had a way of making even that seem more exciting than concerning. These kids are fun. And after 8 days, 1,200 miles, 4 flights, and a half-dozen sleeping arrangements, they’re still fun. I think that really says something, and I’m already looking forward to our next trip with them. But maybe this time I’ll say yes to the free babysitter.

Tide Pools and Mystery Trees

Saturday was a gloriously lazy morning. Not a soul in the house stirred until at least 7:30, with several people (all with a last name of Stone) sleeping clear until 9:00. For a house full of a dozen people starting at three years old, that’s nothing short of a miracle.

While the kids explored the wooded acres of our rental house, the parents enjoyed their coffees on the back porch. And, as we do every time this group gets together, planned our next trip. Cambodia 2024?

By a combination of coincidences and similar vacation preferences, some good friends of ours from Flagstaff were staying about 15 minutes away on the other side of Crescent City. Even though we see them at least weekly at home, we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to hang out on the coast. Our friends (Bradley and Brandie) had already been there for a few days, so we let them choose the destination. They have kids the same age as us and an even healthier sense of adventure, so we knew they’d pick a winner.

And did they ever. True to form, they picked a site well off the beaten path. After a few false starts and dropped pins, we caught up with them on a cliffside trail overlooking Endert’s Beach on the outskirts of town. Bradley said it would be an easy half-mile hike down to a secluded beach with some interesting wildlife.

For some background, Bradley and Brandie are near-professional climbers who have travelled the world over several times, so I should have known that “an easy half-mile hike” was really more like a moderate mile and a half. But our flip flops, unsuspecting other friends, and small children all did great. As the trees opened up to a stunning, untrafficed beach, we immediately knew why our friends wanted to check the place out. In addition to having a world class beach essentially to ourselves, we were surrounded by tidepools filled with urchins, crabs, and some of the largest starfish I had seen outside of an aquarium. There were ear to ear grins on 16 faces for the next couple of hours. 

On the better-than-expected hike back up, Bradley told us about a few of the other places around town that they enjoyed. We didn’t have much of an agenda the next day, so we took notes and planned on seeing their favorites.

Bradley and Brandie had to head out early the next morning. They were continuing their journey north to see family in Oregon. So after a round of hugs and well-wishes, we all parted around dinner time.

Alicia cooked us a fantastic dinner, as we had become very accustomed to that week. Then we put on a movie for the kids while the adults continued our future-vacation planning. Another delightful day.

The next stay started nearly as slowly as the last. But not quite, since we had two whole activities planned that day. That’s 100% more than Aimee and I usually plan on trips (with or without kids), but we figured that we’d go out with a bang on the last day with our friends.

We spent the morning at the nearby Trees of Mystery, the roadside attraction to end all roadside attractions. 

An enterprising environmentalist bought up 120 acres of ancient redwood forest nearly 100 years ago, back when there wasn’t much more in the area than logging camps and railroads. The park flourished in the golden age of American road trips, and continues going strong today because it really is such a unique operation. The 50 foot tall Paul Bunyan at the entrance sets expectations right out of the gate. 

This is no National Park, ladies and gentleman.

The park is a delightful combination of roadside kitsch and natural splendor. Giant wood carvings portraying the myths around Paul Bunyan are interspersed with some of the most amazing (and tallest) trees in the world.

Weaving through a few of those trees is the Canopy Trail, a series of interconnected rope bridges about a hundred feet off the ground. Keeping up (and swaying) with a fearless three and five year old was no joke. For the first time in my life, I felt the woozy vertigo of my brain trying to figure out why we were walking so high off the ground. I didn’t have a good answer for it.

That smile was only on the outside.

Just barely after I recovered from the Canopy Trail, we came up to a gondola spanning a line even higher than the trees. Higher than the Canopy Trail, but fully enclosed, the fear factor was a wash. The lumberjack-type manning the controls had a facial expression that said, “Care if the line snaps? I won’t even notice.” But we know the views would be worth it.

They were.

It’s a bit hard to tell in the photo, but what Mimi was so surprised about is that our landing spot on top was actually above the clouds. We went through them on the way up to the viewpoint.

The park trail meandered through another mile or so of the forest before returning us to where we began. With two days between walking along the Skyway and writing about it, I think I’m ready to say that it was a fun experience and actually mean it.

We cruised back up along the coast, stopping for an obligatory seaside lunch of various fried fishes and starches. It was delicious. 

The next stop was the Avenue of the Titans. It came highly recommended by Bradley and Brandie, and for good reason. 

Words (and even photos) can’t do this park justice. It was one of the most majestic forests I’ve ever been in. You should go. But thankfully your visit (and ours) will have much less of an impact following some important renovations that were completed last year. Despite being nearly impervious to fire, the Giant Sequoias have one very important susceptibility. Their roots are extremely shallow (surprising for such a tall tree), and can be damaged very easily by extensive foot traffic. So a large coalition came together to protect them with a (much more modestly) elevated walkway. It’s a great solution to allow many people to see this wonder of the world while still making sure that the millennia old trees aren’t killed by a few decades of tourist traffic.

That evening was just as delightful as the ones we had been having all week. But this one was unfortunately the last one of the trip with our friends. So we solidified the details of our next reunion over some drinks and ice cream before drifting off to sleep. As much as we wanted to drag out the day, only those of us under 10 were able to keep their eyes open past 9:30. So as we had been doing all week, we piled the kids into the back bedroom, put on a movie and let them ride out the most epic of sleepovers. It was a magical week for all of us.

Another Roadside Attraction

Breakfast was provided by the hotel, but it was the kind of breakfast that made me more concerned about who would be providing the toilets. But at least it made our morning easy and let us hit the road relatively early. 

Unfortunately, Donyel and Cicely weren’t quite as lucky with their room, and had to go down the road to a sister property. So we hung out in the lobby until they joined us, and were relieved to hear that motel attempt #2 was far more successful.

We only had one scheduled destination that day: Fern Canyon, a stunning State Park that requires time-specific permits to limit the environmental impact of visitors. (We had our act together for that one.) But our reservation wasn’t until late afternoon, so we made a quick stop at the quintessential Redwoods roadside attraction: a drive-through tree.

As far as 1950s kitsch goes, this one was pretty cool. I tried not to think about someone taking a chainsaw to a 2,400 year old tree. But us not visiting wouldn’t put the tree back together. Plus, the kids loved the massive tree trunks turned climbing structure (and we loved that it pulled their attention away from the gift shop).

The second attraction was a rolling one. The Avenue of the Giants runs parallel to the 101, meandering through alternating sections of redwood forests and tiny towns right out of a Normal Rockwell painting. Lots of pie shops, Paul Bunyan statues, and front-porch bear carvings. Roadside Americana at its best. 

After traversing through about half of it, we headed back onto the 101 for the rest of the journey. The Avenue of the Giants was beautiful, but we wanted to make sure that we made it to Fern Canyon during our reservation window.

And I’m so glad we did. Even the drive to Fern Canyon was absolutely stunning. 

The meandering dirt road weaved through a prehistoric forest with an extremely dense canopy. It was otherworldly, and didn't feel like anything else I’ve seen in this country or any other.

After about four miles of this magic, we rolled up to the ranger station, showed our permit, and paid the entrance fee. The ranger at the window asked if we had been there before. When we told her we hadn’t, she told us that Elk had been seen in the park that day (pretty cool), but also bears (less cool) and mountain lions (not cool). Every National and State Park I’ve ever been to has a generic bear warning at the entrance. I typically walk right past it. But something about this ranger’s warning made me feel like we might actually encounter one today. Or far more concerningly, a mountain lion. To really bring it home, she asked us to stop by her post on our way out and tell us if we saw any of those animals on our hike.

Um, first of all, that’s making a very big assumption about the fatality of our hypothetical encounter. But also, I’m pretty sure you’ll hear me plenty clear from inside the park.

After receiving the ranger's warning, I kept a tight leash on the kids. But probably a bit too tight. I spent the first mile of the hike wrestling with which of several competing hazards I should be focused on. "Don't run, kids. Unless there's a bear. Then do run. But not if there's a mountain lion. Then definitely don't run. Stay closer. But also go explore. And no, you can't go on my shoulders." Then there was the ongoing inner monologue of maybe I'm being too hard on them. Or maybe not hard enough.

Parenthood.

But thankfully my self-analysis didn’t keep me from looking up, because this place was absolutely stunning.

Mimi made friends with a banana slug

Once we had been in the park for a bit and I convinced myself that a mountain lion wouldn’t be running off with one or both of my children, I lightened up and we had a blast crawling through the trees and fording the streams running through the canyon. It was delightful.

On our way out, I gladly breezed past the ranger's station with nothing to report. Then we made the last bit of our drive to the house that we’d be staying at for the next few days. There was a massive yard for the kids to play in, shade from 100 foot tall redwoods, and a tranquil lake out the back. 

As I write this from the back porch the next morning, I’m watching the kids running laps around the house pretending to be wild animals, the moms chatting and reading books in the shade, and the other dads playing ping-pong in the garage. This is summer camp, and I could really get used to living out here in the forest. Maybe I will actually look into that Yosemite assignment.

Golden

We had a lazy morning after our Yellowstone Yosemite adventure. Not only do Aimee and I have a strict no-more-than-one-early-wakeup-per-vacation policy, were we still recovering from the six miles of hiking we did after that early wakeup.

Our kids define "lazy morning" slightly differently, and forded a mile of the stream running next to our house. These kids are fearless. 

Most of that day was going to be spent driving our way up the coast. It was a 500 mile journey to Crescent City, but we'd be breaking it up with a quick motel stop halfway. So the agenda wasn't too packed, and we had time for a picnic lunch on the nearby Sugarpine Logging Train. 

Just like the name implies, Sugarpine is a rehabbed logging train turned tourist attraction. Some of the history was lost on our kids, but that's not why they were there. Like every child ever, they just love trains.

We hadn't even left the station yet.

The conductor relayed some trivia throughout our journey that the adults found plenty interesting. The most striking bit was when he said the original early-1900s logging operation completely clear-cut the 30,000 acres of forest outside of Yosemite that we were currently rolling through. There wasn’t a tree in sight that was older than 90 years. This is why we protect National Parks now.

With our kids grinning ear to ear, we of course wanted a group photo on the train. I looked around our little train car to see who I could ask. My general rule of thumb is to never ask anyone older that 17 to take a cellphone photo for me. But our options were pretty limited, and I handed my phone to one of the few people within arm's reach. 

I immediately regretted it when I saw our would-be photographer fumbling with my phone, which I had already set up to take a photo. And then he abruptly looked up and said, “Uh oh. Someone’s calling you. Want me to answer it?” For so many reasons, the answer was obviously, “No thanks.”

After a few attempts, he handed me back my phone, and asked how it turned out.

"Um, perfect. Thanks!"

As I silently planned how to tactfully ask someone else to take our photo, I scrolled through my phone log to see who called. As it turns out, no one at all. I discovered that the call I had “received” was actually him somehow calling 911 from my phone. "Sorry, officer. Yeah, we're fine. Just an indecent exposure."

I'll be here all week.

After a rolling lunch, we eventually disembarked the train and found someone else to take our photo.

Although by that point, we were dipping into nap time, and it's not hard to see which kids were pretty checked out.

With bellies full and wiggles expended, we got back in the car and started our journey north. As we had hoped, the kids were out cold before we even left the parking lot. The next two hours were quiet and pleasant as we rolled through the Sierra Nevada mountains out towards the coast.

Our first stop was a slight detour to visit our friend, Danielle, and her family in the farming country outside of Modesto. Aimee has known Danielle since just after college, and is actually the Godmother of one of Danielle's children. It was delightful to catch up with all of them. We would have stayed through dinner if we didn't still have four more hours left in the drive.

Our other detour that day was the Golden Gate Bridge. The kids had seen photos of it, and were excited to drive over it in real life. To get there, we took the Bay Bridge into San Francisco, itself an engineering marvel. The massive four and a half mile double-decker bridge is one of the longest in the country, and is so big it actually passes through an island tunnel at one point. It was a delight to hear the “Oohs,” “Ahs,” and “This is so specials” coming from the back seat. Which is nice, since after a little jaunt through San Francisco proper, we rolled up to a completely fogged-out Golden Gate Bridge. Like, completely fogged out. I had trouble seeing the car in front of me, let alone any part of the bridge besides the road we were rolling over.

As you can see from his face, Quinn was still trying to figure out where the rest of the bridge was, but everyone was in good spirits.

Our detours and extra stops eventually caught up with everyone, but we were able to keep it together until we pulled into a little motel in Ukiah, California around 9:30 pm. We didn’t need much more than a bed, and this place fit the bill. 

Staying in potentially-dodgy roadside motels always reminds Aimee and I about the dodgiest ones we’ve stayed in (I'm looking at you, Knights Inn Buffalo). So we reminisced about them while we got everyone ready for bed, and were very happy that this one wasn’t going to make the list.

Good Morning, Yosemite

Our 5 AM alarm felt like you’d imagine it would. This better be one nice F-ing forest.

We stumbled our way through dressing six sleeping children, and woke them up just enough not to choke on the bagels we offered force fed them.

We loaded up the cars and were somehow still on track to arrive by 6! Or so we thought. The mapping we did last night wasn’t lining up with the mapping we did that morning. Our phones were now telling us that our expected arrival time was 6:05 AM. Not good. Those five minutes were the difference between getting into the park and trying to explain to six groggy kids why their dad, mom, and four other grown adults didn’t bother to check if permits were required. Also what’s a permit?

It’s not like the winding cliffs we were driving through allowed us to make up much time. So the drive was a quiet one, to say the least. I was white knuckling the steering wheel, Aimee was staring down our arrival time, and the kids were just trying to figure out why the hell we got them up so early.

Eventually we started to see some evidence that we were getting close. We breezed right past the “Estimated Wait Time: 90 minutes” sign, and tried not to think about how many miles that translated to. When the “60 minutes” sign came up just a few seconds later, we shuddered at the thought of trying to get in at a slightly less ridiculous hour. Maybe we did actually make the right decision. But it was 5:57, and the entrance was still nowhere to be seen. Too soon to pat ourselves on the back.

Then, a few seconds later, we saw the iconic National Parks Service fee stations come in to view. I tried not to let my excitement translate into quadrupling the speed limit. We might actually make it.

Photo: National Parks Service. There was no was I was going to slow down to take a picture.

We rolled up to the window, saw that the booth was empty, and kept on driving through. The initial response was confusion. “Was that it? Are we in?” Then shock. “I think that was it. I think we’re in.” Then unencumbered, 6 in the morning, who-needs-coffee excitement. We all spontaneously pulled our cars over, got out, looked at one another and started cheering! We made it! Through half-open eyes, the kids didn’t quite share our joy (in fact, Quinn started crying as the commotion woke him from his haze). But we’re hoping they’ll appreciate it eventually.

The park itself was spectacular. That was obvious from the first moments we arrived, even as we spent the first hour simply driving across the western half into the more iconic Yosemite Valley. Because we had to be in the park by 6, we didn’t have the luxury of driving in through the main entrance. But having a sunrise view of  some of the lesser known sections was a treat in itself.

But once we got to the heart of the park, we realized that we had absolutely no idea what to do next. With the usual pre-vacation hubbub of kids, jobs, international flights, and road trips required just to get to this point, we had done next to no planning about what to do once we actually got here.

So we walked up to a group of park rangers heading off to their posts and asked almost literally, “What should we do here?” The rangers paused, but didn’t let their faces betray what I’m sure was at least a small amount of judgement. True professionals. They gave use a few tips, and snapped a photo for us. This one, in fact.

When I look back at this photo I think, 1. “I shouldn’t still look that tired. We had already been awake for three hours,” and 2. “So that’s when Mimi’s cat phase started.”

For some context, the typical Yosemite visitor started planning their trip months—occasionally years—before their visit. Permits are in short supply and sell out seconds after they’re released. Many visitors go on multi-day backwoods adventures, and a handful brave the world-class climbing walls. We just found out where the entrance is about an hour ago.

In fact, we had even called the park “Yellowstone” several times that morning. Out loud. In public. In fact, the shuttle driver called us out with a smile on her face when we said that while trying to figure out which stop we should get off at. I’m just glad I didn’t ask where the geysers are.

Through a combination of kindness from the shuttle driver, advice from the rangers, and pity from other guests, we made our way to a delightful little hike up to a stream-fed lake with stunning views of the iconic Half-Dome cliff face. But first we had to actually get there. At that point, the kids had been up for four hours, which is just two fewer than what they slept the night before. That said, they did great. Every 100 feet or so, they’d ask one of us to carry them. But we told them that the Earth Giants would wake up if they heard any whining.

I never thought I’d say this, but thank you, Frozen 2.

As we knew they would be, the views from the top made the effort to get there seem trivial. The kids spent the next hour playing on the world’s most scenic playground.

After our hike, we dropped by the Yosemite medical clinic, but for the best possible reason. A friend from our Whiteriver days is now the clinic’s nurse practitioner. (Yes, the job seems as idyllic as you might imagine.) She and her family live inside the park, and she takes care of the various bumps, bruises, infections, and other maladies suffered by park guests and 2,000+ employees. She had been giving me the hard sell to work there for the past six months, and to be honest, the sales pitch became infinitely easier once I experienced the park in person.

By lunch, our kids were fading (Aimee and I had hit the wall at least an hour earlier). So we headed back to our little mountain retreat and spent a delightfully lazy afternoon napping, playing games, and otherwise taking it easy.

Turns out, it’s quite a nice F-ing forest.