Changes In Rank

My Favorite National Park

Knowing that I am a national parks junkie, from time to time friends inquire what national park tops
my “most favorite” list.  Of course, since I recently gave up making lists (see “Forgotten,” August 2012), I rarely have a ready answer.  Sometimes the most recent park I have visited gets special billing, other times I consider which has been the most impactful to me, or to the country, or to history, or is most photogenic, or I have spent the most time, or with whom I experienced the site, or, or, or.  Then, also, the nomenclature of ‘parks’ may not be entirely accurate for the purposes of my sharing my favorites because I have equal affinity for national monuments, battlefields, historic sites, preserves, and memorials.

Truthfully, I never bothered to rank the various entities of the National Parks Service as favorites because each provides such unique experiences, offers spectacular and varied vistas, and holds special places in my mind and my heart.  Some I have seen only once, but I desperately want to return.  Others I have visited more than once, and the second time I have felt unbelievably fortunate to experience the places twice.  Still others I know I will adore, but I have yet to see them for myself.  Asking me for a favorite national park may be like asking parents who is their favorite child – I love them all for different reasons.

If Such A List Existed

I begin to rethink the question now that I am visiting Dry Tortugas National Park.  Such history, such remoteness, such tranquility – it all reminds me of what I love most about the national park system.  “Maybe,” I think, “maybe this is my new favorite site.”  And no sooner do the words cross my mind than I realize I have never really declared my favorite, so how could this amazing location unseat that which has not yet been established?  The time has come to select a favorite.  And within moments, some of my most beloved sites in America scroll through my mind: Grand Canyon, Glacier, Glacier Bay, Yosemite, Yellowstone, Carlsbad Caverns, Golden Spike, Gettysburg, Everglades, Channel Islands, the National Mall, North Cascades, Lewis and Clark Trail – oh, I cannot even think of them all as I stand in this idyllic setting.

So rather than think about one, I think about two and decide which one ranks higher; for example, Glacier Bay versus Channel Islands.  I have visited Glacier Bay twice and Channel Islands once, so Glacier Bay earns a theoretical hash mark.  Both involve riding a boat, so each gets a nod.  Glacier Bay takes more effort to reach, but I enjoyed the Channel Islands with Son #2, and I observed far more wildlife at the Channel Islands, so they are still pretty close.  On and on I go until my rankings take shape: 1) Carlsbad Caverns (see “Hidden Beauty” from March 2012), and then 2) Glacier National Park (see “Went-To-The-Sun Road” from February 2012), followed by my new favorite, Dry Tortugas National Park, although it nearly ties with 4) Grand Canyon National Park.  Next is Yellowstone National Park followed by Yosemite National Park – oh, wait, no, switch those – Yosemite and then Yellowstone.  And here I pause and remind myself this is why I gave up making lists: I cannot even count higher than four without being utterly confused.

Forgotten

Making A List

One of the hardest traits for me to give up is list making.  I truly like lists and I use them for a variety of tasks: organizing an office relocation, developing ideas and topics for future blog posts, and preparing for my upcoming vacations.  Someone once wrote of me that I am, “…terrifically responsible and well organized…” and the lists are my secret.   The people in my business life expect a level of performance, of quality, of perfection, of follow-through that columns of tasks enhance.  Whether or not my boss, my coworkers and my counterparts know that these simple catalogs exist proves inconsequential.  The results solely matter.  As for my blog posts, it may be years before every topic materializes online, and my cerebral skills cannot survive more than a couple weeks unaided.  Besides, just reviewing the inventory of ideas revives my passions for writing and travel.  My pre-travel rosters of clothing, sundries, electronics, and miscellaneous suitcase contents, once a staple, have vanished into a conscious yet challenging effort to loosen, release, and relinquish my organizational dependencies.

The result of my surrendering sometimes impacts me little, such as the cable that connects my iPod to the stereo in the rental car.  I find stores that sell this simple wired device and I know I have purchased one in Missouri and another in Nebraska when needed.  I now have several, which allows me to always have one stashed in my suitcase.  More challenging is stepping out of a refreshing shower before bedtime to discover the nagging feeling that I may have forgotten something held validity.  I question my relinquishing when the hotel heater lacks promise and my suitcase lacks pajamas.

Acknowledging My Shortcomings

On a business trip slammed into the middle of a hectic spring semester, I continue my efforts at packing from memory.  From textbooks to business requirements, I tick off the myriad of items I need for the three days across the continent.  From toothbrush to documents to child care, I confidently take flight to the west coast knowing I successfully manage my personal, professional and academic obligations.  As I settle into my hotel room, I discover the single missing item: my eyeglasses.  My contact lenses pull double-duty for nearly sixteen hours a day and keep me humble.

I do feel a sense of pride in my ability to let go of my lists.  Imagine a smoker giving up cigarettes or a barista giving up caffeine.  An accomplishment that others do not witness, but one with which I struggle, my willingness to find small ways to become less compulsive, less structured, and more accepting of my possible forgetfulness.  Even typing the “f” word irks me, frustrates me, and opens me to internal condemnation.  Nevertheless, it humanizes me in a way I have never before chosen to be careless, and graces me with fallibility of which I benefit from embracing.  I now travel listless.