Mount Saint Helens was a highly anticipated stop for the whole family.  Brandon and I remember the news coverage of the eruption from when we were little, and the kids, well, what kid doesn’t love an active volcano?  The park was full of enthusiastic, young rangers, who bubbled over with tasty, geological tidbits.  While there was plenty of discussion about the scale and drama of the 1980 eruption, many presentations focused on the astounding, almost immediate explosions of life that followed the devastation. Prairie Lupines bloomed, for instance, in the nutrient-poor pumice, fixing nitrogen in the soil and preparing the ground for the return of other plants. Wildflowers blanketed the ground, and it felt like Bluebonnet time in Texas.

Here’s an interview with some folks who were flying over Mt. St. Helens when the 1980 eruption occurred:

https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/witness-archive-2012/id1003007466?mt=2&i=368638068

In Portland the next day, we visited a church Jane read about in byFaith, our denominational magazine.  Nathan Lewis, the pastor, had written an article about the church’s efforts to be good neighbors to a nearby Islamic Center. Here’s a link to the story:

http://byfaithonline.com/can-muslims-and-christians-be-good-neighbors/

I often describe myself as a “cradle Christian”. For as long as I can remember, church-life has been the backdrop of my memories. However, it took a long time for me to understood why corporate worship is so essential to my spiritual growth. As we stood among strangers, speaking familiar words of praise, confession, forgiveness, and assurance, I was suddenly connected to a much larger body of worshippers, near, far, past, present, and future, all acknowledging a worthy king.  It made me long for heaven.  It also made me want to get back to my particular band of worshippers in Lubbock.  “I think we should try to make it home in time for church next Sunday,” I announced as we loaded up in the RV.  A cheer rang out.  The race was on.

To fit the remaining ten days of our trip into six, we began cutting or abbreviating our Oregon and Northern California plans. We satisfied ourselves with the mountains, rainforests, and beaches we’d already visited in Washington, and we gave up coastal redwoods for the giant sequoias we could examine at Yosemite. We skipped the lava tubes at Lassen when we discovered there are also some in New Mexico. Instead of camping at Crater Lakes, we made a brief stop. We almost regretted the out-of-the-way drive until we peaked over the edge of the crater. Six miles long, 1,900 feet deep, and just this blue. Breathtaking!

The kids are studying the Medieval, Renaissance, and Reformation periods in history and literature this Fall, so we were fortunate to see a production of Hamlet at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland.  The acting was fabulous, and occasional gloomy choruses accompanied by electric guitar added a gothic-rock mood to the show.  We’d listened to Charles and Mary Lamb’s story version of Hamlet on the drive down, so even the little girls could follow the play.  Brandon, who prefers a story with a happy ending, was disappointed that despite the updates to the play, Hamlet still did not redeem his mom, patch up things with Laertes and Ophelia, and win back his crown.

Just outside San Francisco, we spent a couple of nights with our friends, the Shargels.  We last saw Lynn and Steve seventeen years ago when we passed through Jackson, MS on our first move out to Lubbock.  What a fun reunion!  We were delighted to see our kids become fast friends.

The Shargels live on the campus of the school where Steve teaches.  It’s on a hill overlooking the ocean. Fog and cool temperatures roll in each afternoon, and a sharp, sweet scent of eucalyptus and pine hangs in the air.

I trimmed our San Francisco tour down to one day, and the Shargels, a little horrified at the thought of our trying to park an RV in the city, lent us their vehicle.

After watching Escape From Alcatraz, the kids are still debating the fate of some of the inmates.

Sea lions and sword-swallowers at Pier 39

Jake, showing off some of his card tricks, in the magic shop

In Chinatown, we peeked into a fortune cookie factory in Ross Alley and found good dim sum (Thanks, Emily Angehr, for training us young).

CRIME…

Usually, there is a point on these trips when my plans are thwarted in some way, and I REALLY lose my cool. This time that moment occurred on a street corner in Chinatown. It may have colored my family’s vision of San Francisco forever.

In order to get to all the places I wanted us to see, I purchased all-day transit passes.  I fretted over the expense, but concluded it would be worthwhile because a single ride on the cable cars is pretty pricey, but we’d make up the cost hopping on and off all along the line from Fisherman’s Wharf to Chinatown, and then we’d take a bus to Golden Gate Bridge, farther away.  What I did not anticipate is that once we got off the initial car, it would be impossible to get all eight of us back on a cable car for the return ride at the height of tourist season.  We stood on the hot street corner, full of Chinese food and watching one overloaded trolley after another pass without stopping.  I fumed as time slipped by, and I mentally conceded the Golden Gate Bridge walk. We walked up a steep hill to another cable car line.  They were full, too. I was so angry, both at my miscalculation and the MUNI sales charlatan, that I may have stomped my foot at a cable driver and cried.  (It’s all a little hazy, but I’m sure my kids could write a book about how not to respond to disappointment.)  Finally, we decided to walk back, and as I struggled to calm down and enjoy the moment, I realized we were seeing all kinds of neighborhood details we’d have missed from the cable car.  Soon, I was embarrassed by my nasty, public display. How will I ever convince my children to exercise self-control after that hissy fit?

The little girls recognized spots like Lombard Street from the cartoon versions in Inside Out.

When we’d walked almost all the way back to the wharf, an absolutely unmerited miracle occurred.  There was room for us on a cable car! In my zeal to board, the kids say I elbowed in front of some foreign tourists, who are probably still cursing my American entitlement attitude.  I waved my all-day passes at the attendant and cried, “This is our last chance!” We squeezed in, Brandon and Tom clinging to the outside of the car, and we swooped up and down rollercoaster-style from Lombard to the Bay.

…AND PUNISHMENT…

Steve’s mom, Marilyn, is a most delightful Californian, gregarious and outdoorsy. “And what did you learn from that experience?” she’d ask one after another of my kids after thoughtfully interviewing each about his likes and dislikes. She did not approve of attempting to grasp San Francisco in one day, and she was proved right, as my ugly-tourist episode evidenced.  But Yosemite in one day?  That idea was anathema. She could not help but warn against it.  I contended that we were tired, anxious about the start of school, and missing our friends and family, but she shook her head.  I stubbornly pressed on, but I paid the price.

While we drove through the Yosemite Valley, oohing and aahing at the skyscraper granite, I read aloud from a biography of John Muir, champion of wild places. “We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every nerve and cell of us.”  Suddenly, I was aquiver!  Was Muir driving home his point from the Great Beyond? I dropped the book and fled to the RV toilet.

The Mariposa Grove, home of the largest sequoias at Yosemite was closed, but a ranger directed us to another grove on the road to Tioga Pass. By the time we reached the trailhead, I felt a little better.  We filled our water bottles and loped leisurely downward in search of big trees, taking little note of the ragged faces of the returning hikers we passed along the trail.  Soon, however, John Muir’s Revenge visited me again.  I glanced around desperately for some off-trail privacy.  There were a few broad-leaf trees, but I didn’t recognize them.  Could they be trusted in an emergency?  “Between every two pines is a doorway to new worlds,” Muir urged. Finally, I located a clump of dogwoods, and telltale bits of toilet tissue assured me that I was not the first to seek shelter among them.

We reached the end of the trail, all of us a little more winded than we expected for a downhill hike, and I pretty dehydrated after two more off-trail excursions.  Immediately, we noticed just how “up” we had to go to get out.  I labored along, pausing every few minutes to gasp for air and wondering if this sojourn was an exercise in penance for my San Francisco sins or my irreverent attempt to whisk the family through Muir’s favorite haunt.  I would not escape so easily now, I lamented.  In fact, since I’d already left so much of myself behind in the woods, why not just drop down dead and become food for the sequoias? Perhaps this would satisfy Mr. Muir? “Another day in the Sierras in which one seems to be dissolved and absorbed…” he seemed to cajole.

“Just toss some brush over me and keep going,” I urged Jane, who had a hand on my back by now, pushing me forward.

Eventually, we made it back to the RV.  Having chastised me for my arrogant haste, now Yosemite delighted us with views of sparkling lakes and dramatic glacier carvings as we drove through the high country toward Mammoth Lakes.

Smoke from a fire burning beyond the hills

…AND GRACE

Washed, fed, and rested, we steeled ourselves for the long two days of driving it would take to make it back to Lubbock.  Despite our united home-going efforts, coexisting in a stinky RV on leftover provisions is a test. We were in our pew on Sunday morning with plenty to confess, and thankfully,  we found sufficient mercy to cover us.

Ghost towns and Joshua trees and miles and miles of quiet on the road home