Lessons From Big Sandy
By Alma Richards

Summer, the time of travel and this summer was no exception. We were going all the way out to Grand Teton National Park. This was going to be grand, a perfect vacation of six solid weeks in a nine-passenger station wagon driving across this country. In former times nine passenger station wagons were big enough to hold nine real adults. The station wagon was packed to capacity with all six of us, my parents, my two sisters, my brother, me, all our food, the big green tent, a Coleman stove, a Coleman lantern, sleeping bags, air mattresses, and clothes. Each item had a specific place and no more. It either squeezed into its place or it didn't come along.

The Grand Teton National Park was the one place we could really enjoy nature. All that camping in Kansas and up along the great lakes was just camping. The Grand Tetons, and them alone, would be real camping. That was where we would commune with the most beautiful nature of all. Our Rand McNally camp guide showed tall pine trees casting cool shadows on tents, as happy campers fished in clear dancing rivers. Gentle bears, safely on the opposite shore, snatched fish right out of the water in their mouths. This was going to be wonderful. Every part of the trip drew us nearer to our destination, the Grand Tetons.

All experienced campers know it is imperative to get to your camp ground before 5, or you won't get a good spot, and we wanted the best spot of all. As we flew along route 80 West, trying to get to Grand Teton National Park, a peculiar thing was happening. The faster we went the more it seemed someone was moving the mountains away from us. Out west space was big, with big sky that comes right down to the big horizon, and lots and lots of tan land, with tan grass, and tan fence posts. In all directions all you could see was the tan land under tan sky. There was not a tree in sight to break?up the wide expanse of sameness, only low scruffy knots of ensnared weeds with thorny sharp vines that tumbled at will, was the only variation in the vast expanse. This was not like the small carefully blocked off green lawns of the east. Soft purple mountains, far, far off, framed the tan hard ground giving you the illusion that time and space had blended together into an endless sameness. Finally even my parents had to admit that space in the East appeared to be very different from space in the West.

Mother dutifully looked in the Rand McNally camp guide and announced there was a campsite right near us. It was on a reservoir and it had water, out houses, and picnic tables. Dad turned off 80 onto a long bumpy dirt road. When we arrived at the Big Sandy campground it was on top of a sandy bluff looking out over the Big Sandy Lake formed by the Big Sandy darn. From the top of the bluff the flat prairie land spread out for miles and miles. A road making a line across the prairie bisected the flat tan land. There were no houses, or they were to far away to see. Off in the distance was a city, but all I could see was the shapes of tall buildings against the sky. Our campsite had an outhouse standing off to one side, without any pretense of a modesty bush in front of the door, and a pipe that came out of the ground with a faucet at the end. Four picnic benches were scattered about patiently weathering in the sun. That was all there was. Not a tree, not a bush, not a blade of grass, nothing green was within 100 yards of the campsite. We were up on the top of a high plateau. From our vantage point we could look way down onto the road leading into the camp. We watched as an air stream camper, pulled by a truck, came along the road. It made billows of dry dirt fly up in its wake.

A farmer and his wife owned the air stream camper. We introduced ourselves and all got busy making dinner. My family had the added chore of setting up camp. My job was to blow up all the air mattresses and unroll the sleeping bags. By the time I had all six air mattresses blown up I was dizzy.

I went outside and sat on the hard ground to catch my breath. The stillness was startling to me. There was not a swallow swooping, a cricket cricking, a wave waning it's way across the reservoir, or a blade of grass bending, just quiet! It was as if I had jumped into a deep pool and was surrounded, both inside and out, by water: only now I was surrounded by stillness. This was quietness foreign to me. I never experienced this in the East, where if I awoke in the dead of night there were still sounds. I never was at a place where traffic sounds didn't cut the air, people's voices weren't off in the background, or normal suburban nature sounds, trees rustling, rattling garbage cans, and cats fighting didn't fill my subconscious.

The man from the air?stream came over to talk to me. I said "look at the sky, it is so beautiful and still.'� "Beautiful!" he said in shock, "that sky is a deadly sky, it means a storm is brewing and it looks like its gon'ta be a bad one." How could anyone think of this cloudless soft yellow sky as deadly? Maybe farmers are to busy tending their crops to know a beautiful day. I thought the. guy must be nuts, but didn't say anything.

The man went over and talked to my Dad. It turned out that they were headed up to the Grand Tetons also. He advised Dad to take the family and dash into town. He knew a nice clean motel we could stay at. Dad just thanked him and said we wanted to head up to the Grand Tetons as early as possible. The man said he would move his camper over beside our tent to make a buffer between the storm and us. We thanked him politely, but secretly thought he just wanted to scare us away so he could get the better campsite. The competition between campers was ever present, who caught the biggest fish, who climbed the highest mountain, who knew the most wild flowers scientific names, and who got up earliest and got the best campsite.

The sky across the lake was a still yellow. Nothing was moving, not a bird, not a bug, not even a breath of air. It was just dead still air. We had the sensation of being in an artificial land where everything was placed in a dome and kept perfect. There wasn't even a ripple on the water. We were gathering at the picnic table watching a black cloud go across the sky to a point on the ground way off on the other side of the lake. This was a strange black cloud. A foreboding feeling filled me as I watched this sinister black cloud's finger drop to earth. Chills flew down my spine seeing lightning bolts slash out their threats from an ever-widening top of blackness. Black foulness devoured the gentle yellow sky. Fat raindrops pregnant with an ominous message splattered and splashed on the gas stove causing it to sputter. Suddenly we were being petted with raindrops, but these had changed to hard sharp pricks, like little daggers. Within seconds the gentle raindrops became threatening. We fled into the tent grabbing our partially cooked meal and all the components to it. The man in the airs stream rushed into his truck and stared the motor. He managed to maneuver his camper right next to our tent.

I learned a lot that day. Some of it has been very helpful and some of it I stored away in a dark place never to surface again. We all found a place to sit and Mother tried to give us dinner on plastic plates with silverware and napkins. The first lesson I learned was that if you are hungry enough you can eat anything. From that day forth I completely understand stories of people who had to eat slugs and rotten fruit so they could stay alive. You put it in front of me and I will get it down because I need food to survive. The people who come out with "I've never had it. I don't think I like it." are smug, suicidal snobs. How can you know whether you like or dislike something you have never eaten? I have eaten oysters on the half shell, chili that could burn you, even raw meat rolled in pepper and wrapped around a melon. Why anyone would want to encase a sweet delicious melon in salty slimy meat is beyond me. I will try anything once, and you will never know I hate your cooking, I'm not sure what we ate at that supper, but I think it was hamburgers. Don't hold me to it.

The food was cold, but no one cared. We had much bigger things to worry about. The wind was racing so hard it drove the raindrops right through the tent walls. Within seconds the tent became a part of the storm. The walls, formerly thought to be a heavy canvas, and waterproof, acted more as a screen of wide mesh. The wind whipped by so fast that the rain was being smashed into us. We could no longer sit up because the wind was so strong. We had to lay or recline. We were soaked. At first the tent only leaked if you touched the walls, but soon water was running down the poles and rain was being driven horizontally through the canvas into us. I was scared.

This was when I learned my most valuable lesson of all. It had nothing to do with taking cover in storms or only camping at a four star motel. It had to do with the roar of the wind and the whine of something outside the tent. The noise was so intense I started to cry, but no one could hear me. We were all in a tent right on top of each other. We weren't farther than a foot from each other and in fact we were a pile of bodies, but no one could hear me. The second lesson I learned was that if no one can hear you, because things are so bad, don't waste what little energy you have screaming and crying. Use your energy to survive. When people I love are in terrible pain and I am on the sidelines watching, when death comes to someone far too young, when suffering and hurt continue outside your reach; and the wind of anger is so strong it blows your voice away before the words come out, you need to use your energy to simply survive.

Survival is greatly underrated in this society. Everyone comes back on the next show and there is always a McDonalds to eat at. Let me tell you that real survival has to do with taking your next breath, putting one foot in front of the other, or just moving ahead. It has nothing to do with the next sensational TV season. Living is being alive the next day. I lay on that wet tent floor not wanting to close my eyes for fear I wouldn't see something, and yet so scared I couldn't move. It got so black you could not see your own hand. I could only see when lightning flashed, and even then I had to focus my sight on what I wanted to see. The sight of my Mother holding my little sister flashed in the white lightning. I saw her normally soft fluffy hair plastered, dark and wet against her head, and my sister had her face buried in Mom's chest. This flashed for an instant in the ghostly white light left by a lightning bolt, and then we were drowned in utter darkness.

Just as quickly as the storm started, it stopped. The man in the air?stream started his motor. Dad poked his head out of the tent and declared that we should go. We all emerged from the tent to eerie gray?thickness, too dense to be air, but yet it was, and a continuous whistle from the wind. The gray was thick like pea soup making it impossible to even see the reservoir. I have no idea where the picnic tables or out houses were.

Quickly we shoved everything into the station wagon, wet as it was, no one cared: we all piled in on top. This was long before seat belt laws. Mother was busily counting heads. My younger brother and sister crawled in on top of the wet tent, the soggy sleeping bags, the wet air mattresses, not quite deflated, but on the soft squishy side? the sodden blankets and pillows, the cook stove, plates, silverware, and the napkins. My poor brother was told to play with my little sister, and the suggestion had the distinct quality of a death threat behind it. He played paper dolls for about an hour until we got into that nice clean motel room, the one the farmer had recommended. To this very day my brother can fold little tabs on paper and make a perfect crease. We drove off into the gray thick air. Piles of snow appeared on the sides of the road. The road was slick with melting snow and ice, but we didn't care we were leaving Big Sandy.

The motel was a strip along the road, and our room was big. We made a huge green glob out of the wet tent by draping it over poles and chairs. The sleeping bags were sent off to the local Laundromat. We got to take showers and watched TV. We ate in the diner. We slept in beds. After two days we were dry, and clean, and ready to go to The Grand Tetons again.

Everything in the station wagon was carefully put in it's proper place without an inch to spare. We started up the long climb up to The Grand Tetons. Each turn of the wheel would bring us closer to the place where we could really and truly enjoy nature. As we passed Big Sandy we all looked to see if anything was left. Oddly, the place looked untouched. The out houses were standing ready for use and the picnic tables were patiently weathering in the sun. Did we ever really live through a terrible storm? Was it just a dream like Scrooge says "from some undigested beef." The place leered back at us daring us to come again.

Two hours into our climb up the great divide Dad said, 'Where's my camera?'� A search of the car, even demolishing the careful packing job and disemboweling all the suitcases didn't produce it. I bet those people in that motel stole it," he declared. This was the very camera he had bought just to take pictures of The Grand Tetons. It had knobs, and dials, with gizmos and gadgets on every inch.

Packing the station wagon was hard, but not as hard as enduring the chilling silence of Mother as Dad ranted and raged about people stealing. We turned the car around and headed down the mountain. When we got to a gas station Dad called the motel. A woman assured us that the camera would be waiting for us behind the counter in their safe. This did not stop Dad from his declaration that all of society was out to get him. He would not go back to his optimistic self until he held his camera.

Once again we passed Big Sandy looking deceptively calm without one sign of the violent storm we had endured. The place now looked hot and uninviting, devoid of any beauty or amenities to salve a weary camper's spirits. We all looked but even being in a station wagon, with two warring parents going the wrong way, was better than camping there.

Once again this small motel set out along the highway was our salvation. My Dad went into the office alone. We were told to wait in the car. Soon he emerged with the camera on a black strap around his neck and a smile on his face. He was shaking hands and everyone looked happy. He got in the station wagon and up the mountains we went. We passed Big Sandy for the fourth time but we were not fooled by its serene look.

Mother said, "Now wasn't that nice of those people to keep your camera for you?" Dad acknowledged that it was and drove on. Mother sweetly commented "You don't often find people honest like that, maybe you should have given them something?"

'Don't worry, I did." was Dad's casual reply. "You did!" said Mother "What did you give them?" "I gave them $50." came Dad's answer. That was like an explosion in the car. "You what!" Mother huffed. "That camera is several years old and isn't even worth that. How could you do such a thing?" The fight was on.

I watched the hard earth slowly change into forest with trees, trees and more trees. The hot air grew cooled and grass grew along the side of the road, not a lot of grass, mostly grassy weeds, but it looked good to me. The woods were the kind you look into and can see moose or squirrels: cool dark soft earth covered with pine needles for a soft carpet underfoot. Somewhere the arguing stopped and the family began enjoying the quiet woods. Calm settled in. It was a reverend quietness.

The only event of any interest that happened at The Grand Tetons was a mysterious bad dream my poor brother had about my little sister. After all his careful paper doll training something must have snapped. In the middle of a still cool night surrounded by pines reaching up to the sky, he suddenly awoke in a sweat. He had a bad dream that my little sister was rolled up in the tent and stuffed into the station wagon. In his dream Mother was calling for her but couldn't hear her, then from deep inside the wet tent came a little voice. "I'm here.'� Mother sat in the front seat saying, 'I think we should just cut her out and that would be easier.'� Dad responded with "no need to ruin the tent, it'll just take a little while." In his dream it seemed to take an eternity to dig her out. He awoke grabbing and clawing at the floor of the tent.

None of us remember one thing about The Grand Tetons, but boy do we remember Big Sandy. Sometimes the best lessons are not from being kept safe and comfortable, but from facing the reality that life is very fragile and worth every second.

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