It Sucks To Be Short

So the long-awaited drive up the mountain nearly wiped out our toddler and about made our pre-schooler curse.

An old hotel had been restored into a gorgeous inn and the entrance to the cave was beautiful with layered rocks, ponds and waterfalls. Being a National Monument, having a season pass to all the national parks gave us free admittance. We were all in line to join the tour when bad news arrived from a Happy Forest Ranger that small children were not allowed under five years of age due to steep stairs and tight crawl spaces.

Now Fionn, being a small kid but smart enough to understand the concept of a cave and its "cool factor", was gently told that he couldn't enter. The disappointment was so great and the rejection was so heartfelt, he held his head upward to not let the tears fall from his eyes. He turned his face away to hide the humiliation. With that, they offered us to join the group for the first 50 feet to see the entrance but then we were turned out afterward.

Fionn's head hung low and I tried to comfort him, but it was no use. I took him and Bono to the restaurant at the Inn and ordered them each a tall milkshake with the works. Fionn ate it slowly and quietly. His disappointment lingered. It downright sucked big time.

About an hour and a half later, the family returned from their tour, all fired up and excited from their journey. They were hungry and Fionn smiled and said, "I had a giant milkshake!"

"What!" the older kids said, "NOT FAIR!"
Fionn beamed with pride, "Uh huh! And it had whip cream and chocolate and stuff and it was THIS BIG!" and he held out his hands smiling with delight.

So, the older kids went for a milkshake with dad and I took the younger three for a walk along the paths along side the cave, peering through the mouths, but never going in. My Fionn needed an adventure. Dammit, it sucks to be short.

The Way to Oregon Caves

After romping in the forest a few days, it was time to head back north through Oregon but to new destinations. I picked out the Oregon Caves National Monument just west of Junction City, which is off Highway 199. The drive became more prairie-like, a much dryer climate with sparse vegetation and tumble weeds. Dusty gas stations stood along the small town road with locals fueling up with gas and cigarettes. The earth and nicatine drank years from their skin. This place felt untouched from the world around them and I wondered how they survived in a town without a pulse.

"Junction City!" my man announced, "Want to stop for anything?"
"Naw, I want to find a place to camp before it gets dark. I hate parking in the dark," I replied.

We arrived at a state park seven miles from the caves. It was near dusk and the camp hosts quickly welcomed us in. Overly thin, neither husband or wife had enough combined teeth to eat a cob of corn. They smiled broadly as they asked us what our needs were for the evening.

"Just running water will be enough," my husband inquired, "We can make way without sewer or electric hookups for the night."

"I'm sorry, man," said the man, "but lets ask our neighbor if he's got a hose."

An older, shirtless man came scurring through the dry dirt pulling a hose to our camper as we idled in the check in lane. I felt a little embarrassed. I was afraid to look at his teeth, or lack thereof. A circus of help and soon our camper had water.

That night the children waded in a creek, built a campfire, enjoyed a rustic dinner followed by gooey smores afterward. There was no sound or site of traffic for many miles. We were at the base of the mountains. Home of critters, crawlers and mountain folk.

The next morning we unhitched the trailer for the seven mile drive up the mountain to visit the Oregon Caves. It was a gorgeous morning, sunny and 70 degrees. A light breeze stirred the tall canopy of conifer trees. All the children were excited to see their first cave. Bono sat in his car seat next to Keegan in the first row. I sat with them to monitor Bono's activities with the baby...Bono, our two year old, is known for slugging, biting, kicking and being a terror to the other children.

The road turned and twisted in and out of every part of the mountain. Sean was anxious to get to the top so he drove at a quicker speed. Bono was quiet. Very quiet. I watched ahead to the road so not to get dizzy as my head was already pounding for the day. I could hear some strange noises from Bono, kind of like he had too much spit in his mouth and was trying to swallow it.

Now I don't know what it is about that kid, but the few times in the past when he had the stomach flu, he would refuse to throw up. If he did, he wouldn't open his mouth. He would swallow it back down through locked jaw. This half hour trip up the mountain felt like an eternity of nautious hell. Bono's face was gray. His eyes rolled around and his head drooped from one side to the other.

When we arrived, all the other kids jumped out with a big, "Hooray!" while Bono oozed out of the van and held onto the door while he upchucked into his stubborn cheeks.

"Oh my god, Bono! Are you okay?" I held him and rubbed his back. He was too young for words but he looked up through his sour face and swallowed hard some more.

The breeze set him straight in a fast moment and with that, he marched forward to claim his walking stick that his brother held for him. We were off to find ourselves a cave!