Time with Dad

Morning bike rides with dad up the desert trails, tan-grey sand, yellow flowers frosting the scrubbrush and the silver sage lit by the sun. My first day here, jumping to 4,500 ft elevation from my comfortable sea-level, he took me on an 800 foot bicycle climb to the Mormon Temple. Its a sacred place for him and he wants it to be sacred for me, too - wants desperately for the "spirit" to speak to me. I've felt the singing of the spirit before, but not here. I see the boxy building with its brutal spire and golden angel as a sign of strangely personal and invasive oppression. Its claws and hooks burrow deep through years of logic and rational thought, seeking out the tender, irrational indoctrination of childhood. It has its nettling hooks deep into my father. The god is not, as its bishops and elders preach, a god of love. This deity demands guilt, teaches us to be ashamed of some vague and terrible inner failing over which we can only grovel and apologize and never be fully absolved. When we disagree with the dogma, we must pray to have our sinful rational thought purged and replaced with faith.Not the god I like or worship. I have to be careful not to inadvertently direct my prayers to him.

I've spent the past few days in the high mountains of Wyoming - another jump in elevation: this time to 9,000 feet. The last time I was here was the year I finished grad school when mom and I drove up to Yellowstone. It looks much the same as it did then; strange contrast when my internal landscape has changed so completely. The trees have mostly lost their leaves, but the snow hasn't fallen. Its cold and bracing. At night the temperature dropped ten degrees below freezing.

Dad drove up to winterize the cabin. I went with him. So of course we hiked the trails around Cottonwood lake, and then drove past Smoot, Afton, Thayne, the Snake River, Hoback Junction and Jackson Hole, to arrive at the Teton National Park. Beautiful. We set up camp near Signal mountain.
 We hiked through the remaining daylight around Jenny lake, then back to the tent as the temperature dropped. The stars came out in their billions.

With dad, camping is always a tricky proposition: he rarely comes prepared, and he doesn't find rules to be worth following. I've inherited key portions of this character but in me it manifests as a healthy skepticism for authority and rule-questioning. But I recognize the value of many rules. Here is one:
There are bear boxes: large steel containers cemented to the ground at each campsite to store food. There are black bears here, and Grizzlies. A sign on the table reads, "Bears are attracted to odors and packages. Keep all food and toiletries in the bear box when not in use."
Of course I remember every news story of a bear attack between Utah, Idaho and Wyoming: bears attacking hikers to get at toothpaste tubes - or the two teenage boys killed in Spanish Fork because one of them was stupid enough to bring candy in the tent.
We eat foil packs and, breath frosting in the dark night, prepare to put our things away and go to bed.
"Lets get this loaded in the bear box," I say.
"Bear boxes are gross," says dad.
"Yes," I say. "But they keep the bears out."
"We'll put the food in the car," says dad. "That will be my bear box."
More fighting. There are good reasons not to use the car. We don't want to train the bears that human vehicles are receptacles for snacks. But dad won't budge. He's not going to use the bear box.
I'm careful to keep odors out of the tent. Toothpaste goes into the Tupperware container I brought for the purpose. And face lotion. Even that has a fragrance that might attract bears. All of these I store in our "bear box".
Its a cold night. Well below freezing. The ground is hard and unforgiving. Nothing we brought seems quite adequate to keep us warm. The best we hope for is to keep the important bits toasty and let our legs and rear ends become quietly frigid. I use the chemical hand warmers I brought along. Stick them onto wool socks to keep my toes warm. Give some to Dad, as well. He's skeptical at first, but later calls them a "lifesaver".
In the morning, light coming into the tent, I wake and sit, look around me. There, at my feet, at the end of dad's sleeping bag, is a plastic bag: full of candy bars and loose chocolate pieces: Whoppers and Junior Mints and Toblerone. Dad brought the chocolate bag into the tent for safe keeping. There's really nothing I can say to this.

Back in Star Valley, we clean the cabin, winterize it, and go out back to shoot dad's 22 and Colt, using targets and cans, and the hillside to absorb our stray bullets. This has been a ritual since childhood and probably the reason I wasn't a bad shot when Rogier taught me how to aim a 9MM handgun. Breathe in, out, squeeze the trigger between heartbeats. My aim is still pretty good. Competitive with dad.

Back in Draper Utah this morning. Ready to spend time away from dad. Love the guy. But done for now. I need time alone. He's an extrovert, doesn't understand the need for solitude. So I'm careful with his feelings. Or at least I think I am. I need to get okay in my head again.