Dawn rings through my body with the gentle nudge of sunlight. Birds chirp frantically and the cool breeze carries dew onto the open areas of our sleeping bags. I am awake. It’s probably quarter after 5 or nearing 6, I can’t be sure. Today’s our day to road trip to Zion, and the earlier we’re up, the better.
I stumble lazily out of our $30 K-mart tent and perch by the nearest tree. I haven’t yet mastered the ability to pee standing up, with urine either landing on my boots or splashing back to may ankles and pants. At this point I don’t really care; it’s masked in the stench I carry from the past 2 days. Kim and Joe rise and collectively we break down the tents and clean up Campsite 4. With us we carry food, trash, and our own waste. Our lives get crammed into Chief, our once pristine and uninsured Chevy Impala.
The route through Arizona resembles every road trip movie I saw growing up. The freeway winds and inclines in segments, its wide arms wrap around erected mounds of red, jagged rock. At eye level there are acres and acres of bare land, of red clay littered with mounds of hay and asymmetrical cacti. I’m behind the wheel now, my arms rested on the open window sill, and eyes focused on the multi-tiered mountain range. From top to bottom the colors shift from white to pink then red to brown, each representing centuries of molding and erosion.
This is freedom. Without realizing it, I’m going 90MPH. My adrenaline rises and my fears and anxieties fall behind me. I’m flying. In the valley I feel small, like a tiny element that could be projected at any time. I grip the steering wheel tightly like I was 5 again, bike riding with my dad. It’s shocking to think I was once small enough to fit on the bar at the center of his bike. I sat there, feet dangling, cradled between his giant arms as he biked up and down East Mountain Avenue and South Side Park. At age 9, I don’t think he could even carry me anymore.
“Seven Years” by Lucas Graham comes one. We’ve hit a rare spot where there’s actually FM signal. I sing a long with it, it now being one of my favorite songs. “Soon I’ll be 60 years old, my daddy got 61. Remember life and then your life becomes a better one…” The soothing melody fills the car. I think of my grandfather, of my dad, of my life flying past me as fast as the shrubs lining this narrowing road. I picture Papa hiking down to Skeleton Peak with me, he’d always join any adventure .He’d be proud of me going 90MPH right now, just as he was when I handled the wheel at 14 with steady hands and fearlessness.
I don’t have many older memories with him since he started to slip from us around that time. My dad would be here too if I’d let him come. “…Soon I’ll be 60 years old, will I think the world is cold or will I have a lot of children who can warm me up?” I wonder now, as I have before, if my kids will have limited memories with their grandfather, or if my dad will teach them how to throw a ball, like he did for me. I think of late night karate sessions with my dad twisting my arms to escape an attackers grasp. “Body weight forward,” he said, “keep balanced, and elbows over fists if you’re close enough.” I’ve never fought before, but I’ll always know how.
I see my dad gripping the fence wires behind home plate in what my mom calls his “weekend uniform"; a gray Nike tank, blue cargo, shorts and loafers. Every game he’d stand there watching, bouncing between stillness and anxious pacing. I wonder how many games he’ll catch, or if he’ll be there to bitch out coaches for benching my kids like Papa had complained to Coach Goodale. “I came here to see her play,” he said in his broken English, “and you have her here on the bench.” I don't fully remember how the conversation ended, all I know is that I was on the field the very next inning.
Pulling into Zion was like driving through “A Land Before Time.” Long patches of green lay between orange, conical shaped mountains. Goats stood awkwardly on tree branches to either side of us. Directing the car around the sharply curved cliffs was a challenge, since my eyes constantly diverted to the scenery around me. This is not real, I thought. The gates of Zion National Park resembled those from Jurassic Park, sealing the outside world from this preserved ancient land. I honestly expected a dinosaur to pop out from behind the trees.
We passed the main campground and Visitor’s Center. We actually passed everything, missing all directory signs due to our distractions. The campgrounds were flat even beds of grinded red rock covered by a large wooden canopy. Older couples lounged on fold out chairs, reclining after a long day’s hike. I could see my mom and dad vacationing here, foolishly decked out in wide brim safari hats and knee high hiking socks, lost and frantic to make it back before sundown. “It’s all a part of the adventure,” by dad would say laughing while my mom would curse to herself, to the trees, and to everything around her.
I laughed to myself while Kim freaked out about not having a campsite. This would be the funniest family vacation. I thought back to our night at the monastery in Sorrento. My dad mocked the nuns and Jesus sculptures, leaving Albert and me rolling in laughter until our stomachs were sculpted and sore. My mom wanted to laugh, we could see it, but she held back in her dedication to Catholicism. This was our ongoing family dynamic; mom serious and grounding, dad testing our self control in public. Mom giving us lectures on drugs and alcohol, dad slipping us tequila shots at the New Years party throughout high school. It was a balance, and it worked. Right?
Zion’s beauty swept around me and left me with a sudden wave of clarity. Suddenly I felt light. Time formed lines down the sides of each mountain peak, breaking it into solid pieces marked by periods only known by those who’d been present. I thought of the segments that I’d formed and broken up by years and random phases. They stood sturdy in my memories and radiated in my character, my work ethic, and my daily habits. I thought of dad, who channeled Papa’s fearless, adventurous, “in-the-moment” attitude. I channel it too; that’s what got me to Zion in the first place. Somehow, I knew, at that moment, that my kids, nieces, and nephews would have so much of my father, whether they knew it or not. I could see myself twirling around in a laced white wedding dress, laughing with my dad at our lack of rhythm. I imagined him throwing his crocs at my mischievous brats, him telling them stories of their crazy grandma and rebellious mother. I could hear him calling them bambini after juggling through a list of wrong names, and him giving them their first beer around 7 years old, just like Papa had given me.
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