If You Take Your Family Hiking

 If you take your family hiking, you'll have to make a plan. You'll start by picking a good trail.  Not too long, not too short, not too far away, not too steep, not too boring, not too popular.  You'll check the weather and pick a day that everyone's free.

When you find the right hike and pick the right day, you'll have to wake them up.  Some people will be helpful and take initiative, but others will start to complain even though you've been talking about this for three days.  They'll find a thousand reasons not to go, each stupider than the last.

When you counter all their reasons, they'll say they have nothing to wear.  You'll send them back to find the pants they never wear but that still wind up in the laundry every week. They'll complain about not being able to wear shorts, and you'll remind them--patiently, again--about cactus, rocks, and all the biting/stinging/venomous things that live where you'll be walking.

When they're finally dressed in weather and terrain appropriate clothes, they'll need to get some shoes.  Inevitably one kid's shoes are too hot, another wants to wear sandals, and a third kid can only find one of any given kind.  You'll help them look.

When everyone has their shoes on, you'll grab the backpack your surprisingly prescient youngest packed.  It's stocked with snacks, sunscreen, water-bottles, her sister's travel emergency kit, and spare toys if she gets bored.  Impressive.  You herd everyone to the car.

When they're getting buckled, someone will have to pee.  You'll have to unlock the house again, but at least you'll be able to drive straight to the hike.

When everyone is back in the car, you'll start driving.  Your husband will need snacks.  Good snacks, not the ones from the house.  So you'll pull over. Everybody will want snacks.  You've made it out the door, and you're not going back.  Snacks it is.  They will be eaten by the time you finish driving.

When you get to the trailhead, one kid will bolt down the trail, one will ask to stay in the car, and another will need to pee.   You will locate the port-a-potty and make everyone pee. Then you will summon the overly energetic child and hand them the backpack to slow them down; this will also encourage the stragglers to keep up if they want what's left of the good snacks. You will be proud of your problem-solving skills.

When you finally start hiking, someone will complain, loudly, about everything.  Several will probably take turns voicing their discomfort. It's hot.  Their feet hurt.  They could've been sleeping.  The sweat feels gross on their back. You will try to divert their attention by pointing out the flowers, the views, and--is that a deer?  They will refuse to be distracted.  You will tell them to deal with it, and the fastest way back to the van is to finish the hike.  No, they can't wait there while everyone else hikes.  Because, that's why.

When you start to make some distance, some of your crew will insist on climbing over every rock and jumping off every tree stump.  You will warn them that they will get tired. They will promise they won't.  You will know it is a lie.

While you are trying to slow down your explorers and encourage your stragglers, another child will be fascinated by every tiny flower, alienesque bug, bark texture, oddly colored rock, and weirdly shaped cactus.  They will want to take pictures of everything.  You will consider using a stick to hurry them up but will remind yourself that you are doing all of this to enjoy nature and your family.  Theoretically.

When you're two miles up the trail, someone will demand snacks because they are starving to the point of imminent death.  You will offer the mostly healthy, energizing snacks in the backpack.  Even though the snacks are what they eat every day at home, apparently they are now undesirable and possibly poisoned.  You will allow them to eat the sleeve of crackers and crumbs of the gas station snacks instead.

When they've eaten the crackers, they'll be thirsty.  You will encourage them to drink water.  One will chug the water until their stomach hurts, another will say they're not thirsty, and a third will say the water tastes weird.  You will make them drink it anyway.

When everyone has had a satisfactory amount of water, you'll get everyone back on their feet.  Without leaving the trail someone will manage to get a splinter.  You will look everywhere for the tweezers and discover that's the one thing not in the kit.  You promise yourself you'll get a pair just for hiking.  Meanwhile, your husband will whip out his folding pocket-sword with a six-inch blade and perform surgery on the trailside.

When the splinter has been extracted, someone will have to pee.  The only bushes around are knee-high, so they will refuse to go.  You will encourage them to go anyway because the only toilet for miles is back at the trailhead and no one else is around. They will refuse and bring it up frequently for the rest of the hike.

When you are three miles in, one of your kids will lie down in the middle of the trail and declare they live there now, just leave them there and pick them up on the way back.  You promise it's almost time to turn around.  They won't believe you. Your husband will poke them with a stick until they get up.

When you get to the main destination of your hike, everyone will be happy for about twenty minutes.  All fatigue, hunger, injustice and ennui will melt away as the kids scramble up to see the cliff-dwelling or the old abandoned mine or the 100-mile-mountain view.  You will feel vindicated.

When it's time to start back down, even as you have foretold the kids who have been darting off trail and scrambling over rocks and have walked roughly three times further than you have are suddenly exhausted.  You give them five minutes to rest and make them drink more water.  

When they've drunk, they'll have to pee even more.  Since there's still insufficient booty-cover, they will refuse again. However, they are walking faster now out of desperation to get back to the trailhead port-a-potty, so you don't press the issue. You're all almost back, even the one who is still working on their photo-documentary and the other who is still complaining about how much they don't want to be there. 

When one of your helpful children senses that her siblings aren't enjoying themselves as much as she is, she will offer unasked for encouragement and start singing and pointing out tiny flowers and oddly colored rocks.  Half of her siblings will sing along and ooh and aah at her discoveries.  The other half will silently plot her demise.  You will take the backpack with the keys in it and make a beeline for the parking lot.

When you finally get back to the car, you will reach for the keys but not be able to find them.  You will search three times through the backpack, a little more frantic each time as you wonder where they could have possibly fallen out on the trail.  Then you will find them wedged between the sunscreen and the mysteriously reappeared tweezers in a side pocket.  Just in time, too, because the kids are loudly on the edge of heat-stroke and dehydration.  You will usher them into the car.

As soon as everyone is buckled, someone will remember they have to pee.  You will get everyone out for a last visit to the bathroom and promise yourself you're never doing this again.

 When everyone is finally buckled and you're on the highway home, all of your kids without exception will start talking about what an amazing time they had.  One will talk about the big rocks they climbed.  Another will talk about the rabbit they saw.  The perpetual complainer will sigh about how pretty everything was.  Yet another will mention how good it felt to get out and move, and they'll all crowd around to look at the 200 pictures their sibling managed to take in a little over two hours. It will be the best day they've had in a long time. The one who asked to be left for dead will hug you and say, "Thanks for taking us hiking, Mom."  And then you'll start to think that the last couple hours might have been worth the hassle.  You'll remember this other trail that you wanted to do with a waterfall at the end.  Maybe, just maybe, you all should go hiking again next week.

And if you take your family hiking, you'll have to make a plan.

Girls Trip!

As a Mother's Day gift to myself, I escaped El Paso with a couple of friends on a turn and burn to Santa Fe for a girls' rafting trip.  I was a little anxious at first.  It's still a bit of an adjustment to dip out on the family, and it was also my first time really getting to know one of the women I was with.  I needn't have worried.  The family survived my absence, and both of my companions were simply phenomenal.

Fun backstory tangent--originally there were only going to be two of us, but then we opted to invite a third (and we are so glad we did).  My friend's husband had been dubious about us going "unsupervised" (he thinks I am a bad influence on his wife--I'm roughly 90% sure he's joking) and was relieved when we told him about the third friend we'd invited. He said something to the effect of "Good.  She's responsible and will keep you two out of trouble." Imagine my delight when I found out on the drive our "responsible" chaperone was getting her motorcycle permit the next week and going skydiving later this summer.  Even typing this weeks later I have a very satisfied smirk about the whole situation.

Anyway, we found our way to Santa Fe with no issues except for a lost wallet.  We have absolutely no idea what happened to it.  It could only possibly have been at one of two places; we called both and drove back to the closest one, but no dice, which sucks.  (It was never found.)  The wallet was the only blight on an otherwise great trip.

After five hours of conversation and snacks, we were ready to stretch our legs.  We considered hiking Tent Rocks National Monument (look it up, it looks totally wicked), but it's on Cochiti Pueblo and requires two sets of reservations and exorbitant fees that we weren't willing to wrangle on short notice.  We opted for Bandelier National Monument instead.  All day we'd been watching a storm build on the horizon with growing concern; it broke as we checked in to Bandelier.  (In a strangely literary twist, it was also at this time that we discovered the missing wallet.) We persisted despite being almost immediately drenched by the fat raindrops.  In retrospect, it probably wasn't the smartest decision--the trails we picked involved steep climbs and multiple slick wood ladders--but, dang it, we were out for an adventure and an adventure we would have.  We soggily pressed on, taking only a brief respite in a cliff dwelling with a half-dozen other hikers who had also been caught in the rain.  Fortunately Someone took pity on us and our stubbornness and the rain tapered off a little over half an hour later. (Not, coincidentally, before the first of the ladders.  But we lived.)

I need a new pose for pictures.  What a dork.

The view from inside.

Some of our fellow refugees from the rain.

No health problems, and as for heights...we just didn't look down.

It was gorgeous.  Sunlight slanting through the pines, trees steaming after the rain, and a view of the canyon from a native site 130 feet up the canyon wall. Fresh rain, great company, cool history and no broken ankles--it doesn't get much better than that. 

It was steep and tilted to the left.  Luckily it was bolted firmly to the rock and had had a chance to dry off a little.

The third of four ladders.

Though we considered taking a selfie with the sign, we behaved ourselves and stayed on the safer side of the rail like totally responsible adults.

 Amped and ready for dinner, we returned to Santa Fe. Now, Santa Fe was...okay.  For a state capitol, I wasn't super impressed.  When we got back from hiking and checking the rest stop for the wallet, it was about 8 o'clock and most of the restaurants were closing by 9--on a Friday.  We settled for one of the few local restaurants open.  It was edible, but not great.  Our hotel was a hipstery little place that was half-renovated and could have used a bigger parking lot, but for $85 a night and clean sheets, it was still a steal.

The lobby ceiling of the hotel.

The next day we were up bright and early for breakfast burritos and a drive towards our meetup with New Mexico Rafting Adventures.  We weren't entirely sure what to expect.  Two of us had rafted once, several years before, and not on the Rio Grande.  We were spooked a little and overpacked in case the river was frostier than intended.

It was.  I opted not to use the wet suit, and the first wave that washed over the side of the raft was...refreshing, which is a nice way of saying it was freaking cold and I might have yelped a little as I was doused from toe to thigh.  Luckily my companions were a bit smarter than me and had taken the wetsuits.   As for me, it was too late to change my mind so I just whimpered quietly to myself and carried on.  My feet quickly went numb, so between that, paddling through the rapids and our guide's informative chatter about the local history and geology I was distracted from my self-inflicted discomfort.

Between rapids we got to see petroglyphs and New Mexico Slow Elk (just cows of the normal mooing variety, but the guide thought he was very clever).  After our last and biggest rapid, we were given the option to get off the raft and float for a bit.  The guide thumped the river bottom with his paddle to prove that it was only about four feet deep.  My friends and I were the only ones to take him up on his offer.  We slid off the raft.  Now, this was the Rio Grande, not the 35 degree snow-fed Nenana, but I also wasn't wearing a dry suit and that 50 degree water was more than enough to make me question my life choices and send me scrambling back towards the raft.  However, as I was thrashing back to better decisions, I noticed one of my friends drifting happily downstream and I was shamed into staying in the water.  Besides, my other friend had jumped in just as the river deepened unexpectedly and inhaled a noseful of frigid water; by the time the guide had hauled her into the boat I had gone comfortably numb.  I pointed my toes, leaned back in my vest, and let the river carry me onward.

Decapitation Bridge, which was fortunately higher than it looked.

To be honest, I wasn't really looking forward to getting back in the raft anyway. It hadn't been a great experience the last time--hauled unceremoniously up and dumped in the bottom of the raft, left to try to flip myself over like some stranded turtle, scrabbling on the wet rubber and face planting multiple times while everyone else stared helpfully.  This time wasn't much better.  When it was time to get back in, the guide grabbed the straps of my life jacket and hefted me mostly into the raft.  I say "mostly" because he dropped me belly-first on the bottom of the boat, my legs canted above my head on the slick side of the raft; it took some awkward and frankly embarrassing flailing to get me back right-side up in my seat.  When it was my turn to pull my friend in, I made sure to pull her up enough that she could get her legs under her and was spared the wretched turtle flail experience.  I'm a gentleman like that.

After we changed into dry clothes, we took our guide's advice and headed a half-hour north to Taos for tacos.  We stopped by an unimpressive little restaurant with a view of the Sangre de Cristo mountains and the best Mexican food I've had in a long while.  The entire dining room was hazy.  As soon as we were seated, I started coughing. Water didn't help.  I couldn't figure out what was going on until one of our neighboring tables had their meal brought out, and then we saw the culprit: a plate of sizzling, scorched--and smoking--chilies.  Everything was suddenly clear (metaphorically). We'd basically been pepper sprayed from the moment we stepped in. It was totally worth it.  Our young and very competent waiter (he was the only one working tables) gave some top-notch suggestions and we all left very satisfied.

Taos was a very nice little town--a little touristy, but honestly also better maintained because of the tourists.  If I could do the trip over, I'd have just stayed in Taos.  We didn't stop to sight-see (we did still have a six hour drive home) but we did drive out to the Rio Grande Gorge Bridge.  Standing roughly 600 above the Rio Grande, it's the seventh-highest bridge in the U.S.  It was pretty neat.  There are sidewalks on either side of the bridge for pedestrians (which was smart because drivers just speed right across).  There is a hiking trail along one ridge, and a guy was in the parking lot selling "real turquoise" jewelry that was just a little too affordable to be authentic.  We were also unfortunately not allowed to drop anything off the bridge.  It wasn't really something I had considered until I saw the sign forbidding it, but after that it took some effort not to pocket one of the rocks from the parking lot and fling it into the middle of the gorge.

The drive home was unremarkable but perfect.  We talked about raising kids, adventures we wanted to take, fears about ourselves, experiences with our faith, and so much more; when the conversation lagged (as it will after 24 straight hours with the same people and not enough sleep) a couple of conversation card prompts got it flowing again.  10/10 recommend. 

So what's the takeaway? As hard as it is to take me-time as a mom, it is soooooooo good.  Emotionally, mentally, physically...it's good all around.  I wish we could have spent a little more time in Taos.  There's a lot to see--the Taos Pueblo, one of the oldest most continuously inhabited pueblos in the country; the eco-friendly earthship houses; Black Rocks Hot Springs; hiking, rafting, national parks, and of course the little downtown full of shops, artist galleries, and an old mission church. Even though I would have loved to do more, we did enough.  It was good to connect with a couple of really incredible women and have an adventure together.  We all need a little more of that.

So go do it.  Just bring extra socks.

This ancient relic was a pleasant surprise.

Poppies and Dust

Spring in El Paso is a mixed bag.  It's not crazy hot yet, which means it is still possible to go outside at a reasonable time of day.  It also means winds. And dust.  So, so much dust.

I struggle with the wind.  I grew up in Arizona, where the spring winds gust from March through June.  I hate it so much more than prolonged dark, cold, rain, or heat.  For everything else, you can go outside with a little prep--usually meaning more clothes (or less, as applicable).  Wind, on the other hand, throws dirt in every exposed orifice and makes it hard to see, speak, or hear.  It's dangerous to drive--big vehicles act like sails, blowing you all over the road, and the sand makes it difficult to see.  There's an ever-present low-pitch howl that grinds at my nerves, whistling through the windows and keening in the alleys between houses. The piece de resistance is the fine coating of sand in and over everything regardless of what precautions you take.  

I'm not a fan.

Another part of spring in Chuco Town* is Poppy Fest.  In March, the Franklin Mountains throw one last hurrah before the summer comes and incinerates all forms of life.  El Paso commemorates this with four weekends of food trucks, craft fairs, folklorico and walks among the poppies.  We never made it to the actual festival (something about parking on the shoulder of a busy highway and clumping through the desert with hundreds of other people is something of a turnoff) but we did make it out to see the flowers during the week.

I was whelmed.

Someone else was whelmed, too.

It was a rather blustery day even for an unusually blustery spring.  We wouldn't have braved the winds except that we were all a little stir-crazy from being stuck in the house, courtesy of the aforementioned winds.  I'm also trying to tick experiences off the list.  Ergo, we bullied everyone into closed-toe shoes and jeans and drove across town to the mountains that bisect El Paso.

The poppies were much smaller than expected.  The pictures always show them painting the desert gold, but between the dry winter and chill weather, the poppies were fewer and farther between, curled against the cold.  Even so, they were beautiful.  The desert has a way of making you appreciate even the smallest flashes of color. The loop trail was a pleasant if brief walk.  The small girls ran ahead, joying in the illusion of independence, and the older girls lingered behind to passive-aggressively torture each other.  They've developed the most delightfully wicked senses of humor as they've aged. No complaints.

The danger crab that warns you not to go off trail this close to the old post ordnance grounds.

And that's it.  It seems like a small thing to document, not really worth a blog post.  However, I've found it's the small things of a place that I remember best and miss most.

*I've probably mentioned this before, but Chuco Town is a nickname for El Paso, which is where the Pachuco movement supposedly started.  Pachucos were Hispanic and occasionally black men who were part of a counter-culture movement in the 1930s, identified primarily with jazz, night clubs, zoot-suits and a resistance to assimilation into the Anglo-American culture.  Some contemporary (ish, since they date from the 90s) references include the song "Zoot Suit Riot" by the Cherry Popping Daddies and the "Hey, Pachuco!" from the movie The Mask. 

 

There is only Zuhl

 For a variety of reasons—most of them having to do with traffic—we don’t go on excursions nearly as often as we used to when the kids were smaller.  If I’m going to schlep through an hour of traffic one way to get to the other side of town, the destination better be worth it.  Then there’s the cost to consider.  I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older that the more something costs, the higher the bar for it being a good experience.   The Children’s Museum might be amazing but if I have to drive half an hour, fight for downtown parking, and then pay $30 apiece, I’d rather get some McDonald’s and go to the park with friends.

Sometimes, though, I will take a risk.  A friend recommended the Zuhl Museum in Las Cruces, which is about 45 minutes northwest of El Paso.  It’s a small geology museum on the New Mexico State University campus.  Its tagline is “Where rocks come alive!” which seems to try a little harder than absolutely necessary to convince us that rocks are fun. At any rate, last week I hit a point where we all needed to get out of the house so I opted for a last-minute field trip.

Totally worth it.

The museum isn't much bigger than my house, but it was awesome.  There were excellent crystals and minerals found in the surrounding mountains, and massive fossils including a variety of femurs, crinoids, and nautilus shells.  The petrified wood…well, I was raised in northeastern Arizona, and I’m kind of a petrified wood snob.  It just doesn’t generally impress me.  This museum’s collection did.  Polished table-size slabs of the stuff, entire stumps, palm trees, pinecones…it was amazing.

Teenager for scale.

My favorite part was the fossil room, complete with a mosasaur skeleton and a baby mammoth that was discovered north of Fairbanks, Alaska.  (The girls and I may have whooped a little loudly, to the displeasure of the older couple sharing the museum with us.)  There were also massive bug imprints, fish skeletons, dinosaur bones, and so much more.  We've found fragments of fossils out in the desert, which is pretty common considering that 80 million years ago Texas was underwater as part of the great Inland Sea, but it was still pretty awesome to see complete versions of the plants and shells we picked out of the limestone out at the shooting range.

Mosasaurs

A dimetrodon, one of my two favorite dinosaurs--and he's happy to see you!

(The other is an ankylosaurus, if you're curious, and yes, I know dimetrodons aren't *technically* dinosaurs.  My favorite ancient reptiles, if you're going to be like that.)

Crinoids like we find in the quarry.

The docent was great.  I love talking to the staff in museums, especially smaller ones (smaller museums, not docents--the size of the person is mostly immaterial).  They always have something interesting to share.  The guy on duty was a geology student himself specializing in…I forget, but something complicated, field-based, and geological.  He had discovered some of the items on display, and he shared one of his very favorite pieces with us—a 2.5 million year old fossilized pinecone.  We all got to hold it. It was awesome. I mean, yeah, rocks are definitionally old, but this still felt like holding a piece of the past that your normal garden rock just can’t compete with.  He answered the girls’ questions and just seemed happy to have someone to talk to. 

So if you ever find yourself in Las Cruces with an hour to kill, you could do worse than the Zuhl Museum.  Yes, there are other places you could look at rocks for free, but these ones are really nice rocks.  Like really nice.

Little gifts from the docent--dinosaur models.