Have You Ever Had That Feeling You’ve Been Somewhere Before?

Take Two

When I first pulled up to the Wawona Hotel at the southern end of Yosemite National Park, the late morning sun brightened the western-facing front of the gleaming white 19^th century inn.  Nestled just down the road from the towering Sequoias, the beautiful Victorian lodge provides me with the perfect opportunity to slow down and enjoy a leisurely lunch.  On my first outing through Yosemite, I have the remarkable sense of déjà vu as I drive around the curved road along the main steps of the veranda and as I pull into the tree-shaded lot and leave my rental car to cool off from the winding, twisting excursion I have completed from Tioga Pass.  As I stroll slowly on this autumn day, I have this remarkable sense of being in this time and this place and this moment somewhere previously.  I stop for photos looking out at the lush lawn that enjoys its final month before the winter snows begin their annual visits.

Inside the café, with only a few tables occupied, I marvel at the detailed architecture that surrounds me.  The lighting fixtures, the ceiling, the tall windows, all augmented by the pristine white table linens and the illumination from the perfect morning light welcoming a similarly lovely afternoon, remind me so vividly of another meal in another hotel in another vacation.  Yet this unique structure, built when the national was merely a hundred years in age, gracing the jewel of the Sierra Nevadas, provides a singularly unique turn-of-two-centuries glimpse into the earliest efforts of a country to relax and unwind.  And on this day, I continue to take advantage of its original expectations for its guests, but still I feel I have been here before.

Take One

When I first pulled up to the western-facing Lodge at Cloudcroft hidden within the Sacramento Mountains, the fading twilight provided just enough illumination to confirm that an early summer storm neared its moment of impact.  Perched in the elevations rising high above Alamogordo, the historic inn built as a resort terminus by the nineteenth century railroad company allowed just enough cover to bring some of our luggage inside before the lightening, thunder, and hail descended on the small New Mexican town.  I had pulled past the grassy lawn and found a spot between the pines before ducking back inside dodging the large raindrops beginning to pelt me – I would get the last of our bags after the menacing storm wandered along its way to the southeast.

The next morning we awake early, before the sun even has a chance to glisten on the rain-drenched furs and grass and blooms, and descend to the gypsum slopes to sled and roll and explore White Sands National Monument.  We cross paths with another early riser: an elk crossing the road and headed back into the forest before those pesky humans invade the thoroughfares.  And when we return to the mountain top for our late-morning Sunday brunch, we drive around the curved road along the main steps of the lodge.  As I pull into the tree-shaded lot and leave the rented SUV to cool off from the winding, twisting excursion we complete up from the sandy slopes, we stroll inside and sit for our relaxing midday meal.  Surrounded by perfectly appointed lighting fixtures, the tall windows, and the historic stained glass, all augmented by the pristine white table linens and the illumination of the late morning sunshine, we enjoy a fabulous brunch before the next leg of our epic family vacation.  What are the chances that I will ever experience a moment like this again?

Traveling with Boys

My Love Affair with the Atlas

As a tween traveler, my favorite part of a road trip involved monopolizing the atlas.  I watched highway signs near, knowing what town or junction we approached.  I searched for the origins of creeks and rivers long after we had traversed their bridges.  I estimated how far and how long each leg of our drive would take and knew without asking that we weren’t there yet.  Better still, for my sisters the bound book of maps mattered little, so unless someone in the car’s cockpit needed it, I occupied myself in combining my sense of direction to my geographic curiosity.  I easily could have earned the title of Backseat Navigator had my family realized how intimately I studied and adored its pages.

Of course, the road trips with my own children possess three features that the family station wagon of the seventies lacked: seat restraints, a solo driver and ADD-diagnosed boys and their bladders.  I possess an atlas of my own, but I doubt my cartographic fascinations genetically transferred to my two passengers.  Still, my boys rarely ask the classic road trip query, “Are we there yet?”  My secret: when we stop for a meal, I fill the tank – mine and the car’s – and the boys unload theirs. They detour for a pit stop on arrival and before departure, but in between they burn off energy on the playground, whether at a rest stop or a restaurant.  We grab their food to go, I’d buckle back in the driver’s seat, and they feed their faces without driving me crazy.

No Services for the Next Fifty Miles

But despite the skills of a master navigator, boys will be idiomatic, and on the fifty-mile stretch between Las Cruces and Alamogordo through the White Sands Missile Range, Son #2 announces his need to leave his mark in the sandy shoulder of the road.  The occasional portable men’s rooms strategically placed to aid motorists with like-minded boys appear just slightly less frequently enough than needed, and distinctly less frequently than the “No Stopping” signs.  During his sixty seconds of unauthorized precipitation, the only passing vehicle, a Wal-Mart diesel rig, honks in salute of his raining on the military proving ground’s parade.

Back in the car and back on the road, we resume the journey and commence the familial razzing that the situation warrants.  Laughter about his “moment of glory” in the New Mexico desert, another feature missing from the old days in the family station wagon, continues long after we catch up to the discount store semi, which again honks at our family’s follies.  We certainly aren’t there yet, but traveling with my boys distracts us from how far we have traveled, and makes how long each leg of our adventure will still take blissfully unimportant.