Been through the desert, but not like this.

I like odd things, and the beauty of the interwebs is that with a minimum of effort you can find something unique just about anywhere you go.  Just a couple hours north in New Mexico is White Sands National Park--not to be confused with White Sands Missile Range, which is just down the same road and a hell of a lot less welcoming.

White Sands is literally...white sand.  It is 275 miles of gypsum dunes, a remnant of the ancient inland seas that once covered North America.  When you first turn into the road, it looks like the rest of the desert down here: mostly flat and covered with a dozen types of fanged plants that all hate you.  The park road twists slowly past growing hills that gradually bleach from rusty beige to ivory; the plants fade away until there is nothing except the rolling, snowy dunes.

There are a couple of trails and boardwalks studded with informational signs.  We stopped at one.  It was a good introduction to the dunes.  Then it was on to the main attraction.

Further into the park, the paved road ends and the dirt road is blown over with fine gypsum sand.  It was rather like driving back in Alaska during the winter, where the road is made up and the lines don't really matter.  The dunes started to get bigger, easily thirty feet or higher.  I pulled over by a nice, empty dune and we piled out of the van, sleds in hand.

You read that right.  When you go to White Sands in the middle of the desert, you go sledding.  If you can, bring your own.  Sleds are available at the visitor's center but they're only marginally less expensive than a black-market kidney.  If you do succumb and buy the sleds, you can choose to return them on your way out and they will generously give you a keychain in return. The sled wax is helpful, though, so pick up a bar.

Despite it being the middle of the summer, my kids were barefoot within seconds.  I waited to see what happened to them; when they didn't start screaming about their feet burning, I kicked off my sneakers.  The sand was unexpectedly cool between my toes.  Digging down a little, it was positively damp.

Neat.

The girls were excited to sled for about ten minutes.  The sliding was okay as long as you positioned yourself on the sled just right and coated the bottom with copious amounts of wax.  They probably would have gone for longer if they didn't have to walk up a hill of sand over and over again.   Temperate or not, wading through all that was a workout.

Digging was a big hit, especially when we came back with the cousins a couple months later.  It was also fun to hike along the crest of the dunes and see for hundreds of miles.  What can I say?  I'm easily amused.

The visitor's center had a small display about the park and its history, and a much larger gift/snack store.  The best part of the center was the swallows that nested in the courtyard between the visitor center and the gift store.

On the two hour drive home we passed by White Sands Missile Range (which occasionally shuts down access to the park when they are firing missiles).  My mom had been stationed there years before, so it was cool to visit even briefly.  The missile range is where several types of missiles were developed and tested, including the first atomic bomb.  Limited tours are offered twice a year to visit Trinity Site.  I may drag the kids out for forced fun if I remember to make reservations. We also got to see the herd of oryx that range across the military installation, one of several species of exotic game (including Ibex and African Barbary Sheep) that were intentionally introduced by the New Mexico Game and Fish Department to encourage hunting.  They thrived on the missile range and are still available to hunt today.

Didn't get a picture of the oryx, so this will have to do.  Tagging dumpsters--the real reason to visit national parks.

The best thing that I can say about a trip is that it was worth the drive.  White Sands totally was, twice so far and counting.

Faire Time! Huzzah!

We're Faire people.  We do it all--we dress up, we scream during the shows, we eat our weight in overpriced festival food and tip the musicians.  We even participate in the historical lessons and crafts provided, and not just because they're usually the less crowded parts of the faire.   If I had more time and opportunity, I’d love to work one.  This year we had the opportunity to attend one of the best. It was delightful, whimsical, playful, and extensively researched.  It was also the setting for the most disgusting experience of my life.  

I’m finally ready to talk about it. 

***WARNING—when I say this three-day weekend included the most terrible, stomach-roiling experience of my life, understand I don’t say that lightly.  I have intentionally caught other people’s vomit in my hands.  I have changed blowout diapers that required me to peel feces-soaked clothing off my infant.  I have slept in baby upchuck. I have assisted dogs with bowel movements and washed their crotchular regions afterwards.  What will come to pass is much, much worse.  Turn away now, and believe it was just your standard nerd fest.  If you continue, consider yourself warned.  Here there be monsters.***

The Texas Renaissance Festival is one of several that take place in Texas over the year; however, it is not only the largest in the state, but also the largest in the entire U.S.  When I stumbled across it on FB—one of a handful of times when Facebook’s data snooping did right by me—I knew we had to go.  It’s just an hour or two north of Houston, which makes it roughly twelve hours from us here in El Paso.  However, when you’ve driven five hours one way to look at three metal chickens and eat mediocre sandwiches, twelve hours to a campground and your first real Ren Faire in years is an easy choice.

We booked tickets for the second weekend in November. The theme was Barbarian Invasion, which sounded fun.  Rick wouldn’t be able to go because of work, but I’m used to solo adventures with the kids.  I decided we’d camp at the faire grounds instead of paying $200 a night for an Air BnB.  This way, we could just walk to the festival, save a ton of money, and not deal with morning traffic. I also figured that it would be a fun part of the experience, maybe give us some stories to tell about this crazy weekend.

If I’d only known, I’d probably have sprung for the hotel.

Anyway, we got up bright and early Friday morning.  The van was stuffed with costumes, blankets, food, and the tent.  I shoved the girls in and started across Texas.  Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Texas, there isn’t a whole lot in the middle.  The big towns are on the main arteries like the 10, the 40, and the 35.  Those big roads also have toll roads, and I’m cheap.  Therefore we chose to swing up through hill country and pass by Killeen and Fort Hood, which was also a nice little jaunt into the past since it was Rick’s and my first duty station nearly twenty years ago.

Otherwise, it was all back roads lined with roadkill deer and small towns inexplicably full of goats.  I don’t remember that being such a thing, but, in all fairness, I didn't hang out in Hill Country a lot.  We also passed an exotic ranch with zebras and ostrich hanging out under the manzanita.  My girls are savage, and it was like driving for a twelve-hour roast.  Besides all the hill-people jokes, Bren caught the worst of it, as she was driven to distraction by the crooked fence posts. On one occasion when she geeked out about some part of eye anatomy, Leah archly told her, “We didn’t come here for your Ted Talk.”

I love my kids.

As it got darker, I slowed down to the speed limit.  This made some people behind me kind of cranky, but 1) I’d seen the dead deer smeared across the road, and I knew how they’d got there; 2) I don’t drive the type of vehicle that I’m comfortable zipping 75 mph around a curvy farm road on a Friday night; and 3), I drive a big enough van that you can’t bully me, so pass me or deal with it.

We finally pulled up to the festival campground around 8.  We were given directions to our campsite (“Anywhere you want, hon, as long as you aren’t in the clan campgrounds.  You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em.”).  After a cursory loop of the grounds, we pulled off on a mostly level patch fairly close to some portapotties and a brisk walk from the festival gate.  It was pretty dark, but we managed to get the tent up with a minimum of yelling.  A quick visit to the terrible, unlit communal toilets, a generous squirt of hand sanitizer, and we bundled into our sleeping bags.  Sleeping on the hard, cold ground gets even less fun the older you are, but it seemed a small price to pay for $15 a night. I cuddled in with the two smallest, hoping to harvest their body heat—Texas or not, it was November, after all.

Two of the girls opted to sleep in the van, thinking it would be warmer than the tent. Amateurs.  Sliding open the van door, seeing their breath crystallized on the inside of the windows, and asking them how their night went was a great way to start the morning.  I chucked mini boxes of cereal at them and told them to get dressed.

When they were suitably attired (I was going for comfort instead of corsets), we joined the throng of people tramping down the frosty road to the gates.  Theoretically we could have taken a shuttle, but it turned out to be a golf-cart that seated six (including the driver) and cost $5 bucks a person.  Pass.  Frigid morning walks in thin velvet costumes build character and are part of the experience.  It also didn't hurt that we got to pass all the guild camps and read their ridiculous signs.

“No cameras, no flashlights, no pictures during Jenga.”

It’s hard to describe a Ren Faire to somebody who’s never gone.  There’s a weird, electric energy that comes from a bunch of history-obsessed nerds and fantasy-loving weirdos in fairy chain mail that just lights you up.  Everybody is there to have a good time, and everybody is kind of looking out for each other, and for one day nobody cares what your politics are.  All that matters is geeking out about costumes, watching the guy with the fire whip, and eating funnel cake and turkey legs.

And there’s no better place to do it.  I’ve been to many, many faires in my time, and even the smallest homegrown ones have their strengths.  This one, however, is the BEST.  The grounds are simply massive—about 4 miles of shop and forest-lined paths divided into a dozen kingdoms, each with their respective court.  Spain, England, Hanover, Florence, Poland and Greece all the way to the Pirate and Fairy courts.  Each section has its own food, shows, and aesthetics.  There are multiple professional characters and historical figures walking around, happy to answer questions.  My particular favorite was the Spanish court—all of the women had gilded royal chanclas hanging from their belts.  It was the best.

One of my favorite things about faires is the pervasive music.  There’s always someone playing.  We walked in to the strains of Tartanic, a bagpipe and drum act, that got everyone dancing.  We ate a breakfast of funnel cake and hot chocolate as we watched.  A random stranger pushed a dollar into my girls’ hands and insisted they take a picture with the barbarian guarding the gate.  It was the first of many pictures.

The shops were fabulous, everything from leather goods to handmade hats and clothing to jewelry, armor, and wands.  I let the girls know I would pay for food and one ride, and then they were on their own except for the smallest, who are not to be trusted with money.  We didn’t make it more than a quarter mile in before Echo and Claudia insisted they needed face paint for their one thing.  I tried to dissuade them, but they would not be convinced otherwise.  Inevitably, Claudia loved it for all of five minutes until it started to itch.  She spent the rest of the day picking it off.  Money well spent.

We watched a couple of shows, carefully chosen to avoid any embarrassing questions or explanations.  The older girls were delighted with every shop and found something they wanted everywhere they went.  I succumbed and bought a throwing axe for Rick. We admired the cosplays, which are always one of the best parts of any faire—the Mandalorian and Marvel knight crossovers, the fauns, samurai, Zulu warriors, a surprising amount of mushrooms, Dad Bod Thor, Waldo, Sexy Alligator-Loki, a dapper steampunk dinosaur, a rather lost Picard, and, because it was after all a Barbarian Invasion, a ton of women and chubby, mostly naked dudes in body paint and fur.  

And then there was this friggin' guy...

Then it was time for the joust.

Now, I have a few rules about jousts.  First, always sit in the bad guy’s section.  9 times out of 10, it will be the guy in red and black.  The plot is unfortunately always a little formulaic, but you will have more fun cheering for the dirty dog who is cheap-shotting everyone than you will for the underdog (always a squire or first-time jouster or lady knight).  The other rule is get into the cheers.  You’re at a freaking Ren Festival. Cut loose a little.  If you wind up a little hoarse, you’re doing it right.  You will have infinitely more fun if you’re screaming for your knight to chase those English dogs back across the Channel than sitting primly on your bench and politely applauding. Trust me.  

We lucked out and had a great interactive maiden of the joust.  True to form, we sat in the villain’s section; this time he happened to be Spanish, and our “cheerleader” was the Infanta (Princess) Maria.  She threatened people with her royal chancla and smack-talked her knight.  The girls particularly enjoyed bellowing and rocking out to our designated chant:

Who rocks the joust?

Espagna rocks the joust.

And when Espagna rocks the joust

We rock it all the way down.

She was fabulous.  And even though our guy ultimately, inevitably lost, it was a blast.  Viva l’Espagna!

We ate our way through the countries and visited all the shops, trying on hats and other goods—which will come into play in another post—and finally, the day was drawing to a close.  After the final joust we had some time to kill before fireworks, so I took the younger girls for pony rides.  Bren announced she had to go to the bathroom, so I directed her to the nearest one, told her to wait for us at the royal mint, and waited patiently through the pony rides.  Then Aeryn and Leah decided they absolutely must do the sky-jump ride, which was right next to the ponies.  I figured, what the heck?  It will take just a couple more minutes.  Bren is a good kid—smart, competent, responsible. She’d wait for us.  If not, she knew where we were. Right? Right.

After the girls finally got unharnessed, we booked it down to the mint.  No Brenna.  I checked the bathroom.  No Brenna.  We checked the stores and shops in the immediate vicinity. No Brenna.

Now I started to get worried.  I had to hold it together for my anxiety-ridden crew, but I was mentally reminding myself that people don’t come to Renaissance Faires to kidnap teenagers, that Bren was a much more difficult target than any of our increasingly intoxicated fellow patrons, that people are generally good and just here to have fun, which usually doesn’t include human trafficking.  I told myself that on loop for the next 45 minutes while I dragged my remaining kids in circles around the faire, checking bathrooms and shops and revisiting where we’d parted just in case she’d gone back to try and find us, randomly screaming her name and having it echoed in quintiplicate by her sisters.  No dice.

Finally, kicking myself for not making her bring her phone, I got the impression to go to the front gate.  I did, and reported her missing at the lost and found desk.  Two hassled-looking security guards took her description and faded into the darkness after making me promise to contact them if she showed up so they could stop searching.  I planted the other girls on a bench and posted myself in front of the gate, staring under every hood and glaring down every girl stumbling past in the semi-darkness.  I was terrified, and I’m sure it showed.

“Mom!” I pivoted and saw Bren rushing toward me.  I hugged her, then grabbed the scruff of her neck and frog-marched her over to the help desk. “This is her,” I told them, shaking her at them. “Please call the guards and let them know I found her.”

Finally together again, we collected her sisters and drifted back towards the jousting arena for the fireworks, while I shook an explanation out of Bren.  Apparently she had waited, and waited, then wondered if she had misunderstood the meeting place and came back to find us.  When we weren’t at the ponies, she widened her search.  We had circled around each other in the darkness yelling for each other.  Then she had gotten a prompting to go to the front gate.  She’d resisted, but it kept coming so she finally made her way up front and saw me, wild-eyed and searching.  All's well that ends well, and all that.  

The sun had long since set and taken any warmth with it, but we had driven an entire day to get there, slept on the cold hard ground, made it through an entire day of festival without naps, lost and found Brenna…we weren't going home until everything was done.  We bought more cocoa and snuggled together on the hill outside the jousting arena with a minimum of whining. The fireworks were worth the wait, illuminating the sky to the frantic song of bagpipes and heart-pounding drums.  The girls danced despite the cold.  

Finally the last glitter faded from the sky and we joined the dregs of festival patrons filtering towards the front gates.  The girls were exhausted but happy.  We took stock and found that we’d gotten off lightly for a full day at the faire—Jane had lost her wallet and one of her candles, and Aeryn had lost Bren’s second-best corset.  Not bad.  It had been a pretty good day.

It wasn’t over yet.

We walked past the various clan camps, where the festivities were just getting started.  Bonfires, dance parties, fire throwers and sword fighters—always a good show after the artist has been drinking for several hours.  One set of campers on the end of our street were starting up karaoke and, this early in the evening, were mostly on beat.

We shlumped into the tent, changing into pajamas and brushing teeth.  Then I started sending them in groups to go to the bathroom in the portapotties at the end of our lane.  Now, my kids hate portapotties.  Seriously.  As in “I’d rather pee myself or go behind a bush than use this communal unflushable toilet.” However, since all of the bushes were occupied, I insisted.  Clauda was the one hold out, so I carried her stubborn little butt down there myself. 

There was no light so I turned on the flashlight on my phone.  I understood why the kids were reluctant.  Portajohns are always kind of terrible, even when fresh; after a day of thousands of people using a handful of toilets, they were atrocious—a pile of sludge seeping with vaguely blue water, reeking of beer and unknown nightmares. I couldn’t bring myself to put my phone on the floor, but I needed both hands to help my rapidly melting four-year-old navigate her footie pajamas.  I compromised by placing it on the blessedly full toilet paper holder so I could still see.

All went well until I helped Claudia off the toilet.  As I was swinging Claudia over a particularly nefarious stain, my phone started to slip off the holder. I grabbed for it mid-swing.  I misjudged and sent it flying.  I watched in horror as it arced through the darkness…and landed with a *gloop.*

It only could have lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an hour. I stared, almost catatonic, at the light somehow still shining under the murky water.  I thought of the thousands of irreplaceable pictures on my phone, of the seven hundred miles that had to be navigated to get back home, and the vast lonely distances where my van could break down and a phone could be crucial.  I had seconds until it flooded and the battery died.  If I was going to do anything, it had to be decisive and it had to be NOW.

Before I could change my mind, I plunked down Claudia, zipped her up, rolled up my sleeve and…I still can’t say it.  You know what happened.  In half of an unspeakable second, my fingers scrabbled around the hard case and pulled my phone from the squelchy abyss as if it were Excaliber.  I opened the door with my left hand, hoisted Claudia onto my left hip, and power-walked back towards our tent, my right arm extended as far away from me as possible, trying not to think about what I’d just done.  At the karaoke camp somebody getting progressively drunker lurched through "Africa" by Toto, oblivious to the horrific act that had just occurred.  Some campers at a neighboring bonfire, perhaps sensing my distress, generously offered me some vodka.  I declined as I stumbled past. They offered again, saying it was travel size.  Again, I declined, though I probably could have used a drink just then.

I all but threw Claudia into the tent, then rushed to the van.  I upended a couple bottles of water over my arm and phone, then busted out the bleach wipes. I pulled the phone from the polluted case and went through easily six wipes, cleaning every crevice I could find until the wipes stayed clean.  Then I started on my hand, going through another half dozen wipes, scrubbing under my nails, between my fingers, all the way to my elbow (which was unnecessary, but I couldn’t help myself) over and over and over again a la Lady Macbeth until my skin started to burn and the damned spot could not possibly have survived.  When I was no longer on the verge of throwing up, I called Rick and had him talk me down. He assured me that a dozen bleach wipes was more than sufficient, and that, while disgusting, there wasn’t much that I actually needed to worry about. I didn’t believe him, but I really, really wanted to.  At any rate, it was too late.  It was done.

Exhausted in so many ways, I crawled into the sleeping bag with the littles and huddled close.  It was a cold night, and hard to sleep, especially with a lopsided rendition of "Walk the Line" that was practically a failed field sobriety test blaring across the campground. Random whoops and cheers echoed throughout the night.  I never found out how the fire-juggler made out, but I assume there would have been sirens or screams if he had set himself or anything of note on fire.

I woke up with the sun.  The field of tents was thinly frosted, steaming as the sun’s weak heat melted the fragile crystals and the haze of campfire smoke drifted over the grass.

 I shook the girls awake and we broke camp, piled into Bertha, and started the long drive home.  It was a good drive, with stories and laughs and the questionable remnants of Brenna’s smoked turkey leg.  It had been a--mostly--splendid weekend.  Certainly it had been a memorable one.  Even so, it was a relief to pull into the driveway and sleep in my own bed...after a shower.

All in all, I recommend the Texas Renaissance Festival, if you ever get the chance.  Twelve hour drive and all, I plan on going again next year.  I'll probably even camp again.  This time, though, I’m bringing a bell for Brenna…and headlamps.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go wash my hands.

Down Down to Goblin Town

It's unusual for me to volunteer to go into a hole in the ground.  Between adult-onset claustrophobia, a fear of undiscovered mole-people, and a healthy desire to avoid millions of tons of rock directly overhead, spelunking is not a cherished hobby of mine.  There may or may not also be unresolved issues with the Hobbit cartoon from the 80s and my father randomly singing the goblin song when I was a kid.  Add in an unpredictably cranky four-year-old and I'm more than happy to stay home, safely near snacks, air, and Octonauts.

However, I now live within a two-hour drive of one of the most famous cave systems in North America.  By the laws of homeschool it was a requirement that I go.  That's how, after a month of studying types of caves, formations, ecosystems and all things speleological, I packed up the cranky four-year-old and her sisters and headed two hours northeast to Carlsbad Caverns*.

*Be warned.  There is just about NOTHING between El Paso and Carlsbad.  That includes bathrooms.  So dehydrate, or be willing to go behind a most-likely abandoned building.*

Just past the Guadalupe Mountains, we turned off onto a winding two-lane road that twists through a series of hills covered in cactus and creosote.  At this point, all we could see was desert, stretching off in every direction, and the visitor's center.  There was nothing else.  There was certainly nothing to suggest a massive network of caves just below our feet.  After we were checked into the visitor's center, we were offered a choice: take the elevator down 800 feet to the Big Room, or take the longer, steeper, more exerting route through the natural mouth of the cave.  Since anything worth doing is worth doing more painfully and dangerously, we chose the second option.

A little path took us past a bored guard who gave us the "Good Tourist" spiel--no gum or food of any kind, pee before you go because it's a long walk, don't touch or lick the stalagmites--and suddenly the mouth of the cave yawned open in front of us.  It was enormous.  Cave swallows flitted around their nests, completely unconcerned with the people trekking down the steep switchbacks into the darkness below.  After a couple of pictures, including one of the very comforting sign warning about radiation levels in the cave, we started our descent.

The temperature dropped quickly.  The caverns stay a temperate 56 degrees F year round.  In the middle of a Texas summer, however, it took a great deal of cajoling and ultimately tyranny to make sure everyone was dressed appropriately--long pants, a sweater, and closed-toed shoes.  Once we were in the cave, the complaining stopped.  Shocking.

The first part of the caves are pretty dark.  The paths are lit just enough to prevent lawsuits, and there are hand rails to keep you from imminent broken ankles, but we still spent the majority of the descent looking down at our feet. In a flash of brilliance, I had requested that Echo wear her light-up sneakers--she was incredibly easy to find for the next four hours.

I only have one kid who really struggled with claustrophobia.  She fights the good fight against anxiety anyway, and I didn't exactly do her any favors dragging her underground.  During the descent she asked constantly about seismic activity, and what we would do in the event of an earthquake or if the ceiling fell in. Just when she was on the verge of a full blown panic attack, Echo looked up calmly.

"Where it's darkest is where you have to be bravest."

I was impressed with her young wisdom and compassion.  I should have waited for her to finish.

"...Especially if you're behind." Then she proceeded to talk about the cave collapsing in great detail for the next ten minutes.

Sisters are the best.

Anyway, once we wound our way into the main caverns, everyone stopped worrying about imminent crushing death.  It was incredible, an alien world of stone and water and the occasional memorial marker to the crazy people who mostly lived while initially exploring these caves.  It was marginally more illuminated than the walk down. I didn't count the pictures I took, but it was easily in the hundreds and none of them did the place justice. Below are just a handful. Even when I returned with my brother and sister and their kids (bringing our total up to 3 adults, 11 kids between the ages of 1 and 16), I thoroughly enjoyed myself.  Frankly, I'm just impressed that we didn't lose a kid either time.

One of my favorite parts was the elevator.  It counts down your 800-foot ascent, and also cheerfully warns you not to jump or you risk breaking the elevator *insert ominous music*.  In a brilliant marketing stroke, the elevator--the only exit from the caves-- opens directly into one of two gift shops, replete with stuffed bats, posters, and informational books. (The second shop focuses more on crystals, candy, and more generically New Mexico stuff.) Do yourself a favor and don't spend $10 on two disappointing tacos or a sandwich at the cafe. 

We didn't stay for the bats, but I've heard it's pretty cool to watch them leave at twilight.  I believe they are active between May and October.  If you choose to go, know that for the foreseeable future they are excessively paranoid and require masking and reservations made at least a day in advance of your trip.  As holes go, this one's pretty spectacular and worth the inconvenience.  Fully recommend.

Ho ho, my lad.