Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Underground Athlete


This story begins with me, sitting on the tailgate of my truck in a parking lot, crying. It gets better after that, but you should know from the beginning that things happen here that I am not proud of. Number one is that I allowed myself to have a mini-meltdown for the first time on the trip. I had thoughts I'm ashamed of, and I did things that I hesitate to confess. 

The crying occurred at Carlsbad Caverns National Park, one of the most amazing natural wonders of the world. It's a little bit out of the way--20 miles off my route, and then 7 miles of winding NP road to the visitors' center and entrances. Not a super-grueling trip, but I was eager to visit the caverns after my mother's enthusiastic endorsement, and hours of hot, hot, slooowww driving deserved a payoff—it was at least 90 degrees out again.

The only glitch was the threatening language on the caverns’ literature about animals: dogs were NOT allowed in the caverns and under NO condition were they to be left in vehicles. Inconvenient, but sensible. It was at least 90 degrees, and the parking lot was completely shadeless. The Caverns were right to employ a ranger to bicycle around the lot and check vehicles for cooking pets; all of these rules made for huge disappointment. I was stuck with the dog, and denied entry to a really awesome natural wonder. But then I read the fine print: the caverns offered a kennel service! For only six bucks! YAY!

The advertised "kennels,” I soon discovered, however, consisted of a series of metal cages located in a windowless storage room behind the gift shop. The space was managed, tangentially, by a gift shop employee who poked her head in hourly to check on the animals. “That’s a big dog,” was all she said when she saw Frida. That’s what almost everyone says when they see Frida. Except people who are natural-born dog-lovers; they immediately greet her with outstretched hands, ready to pet. This young woman, who sold postcards and plastic children’s miners’ hats for minimum wage, had no interest in dogs other than unlocking the cages and breathing a sigh of relief when their owners returned.

Frida, unsurprisingly, was completely unenthused about being caged, and resisted all of my attempts to coax, then gently push, then pull and then finally shove her in. After 10 minutes of attempts to incarcerate her without any assistance from the gift shop girl and the two people she had called to “help,” I went to the truck for Frida’s favorite toy, a red rubber bone with hollow ends that can be stuffed peanut butter, which she will greedily lick for 15 minutes or so. The perfect temptation.

Back at the “kennel,” I slowly spooned peanut butter tantalizingly into the bone. I held it out to tempt Frida, led her toward the cage, and dangled the treat inside while simultaneously pushing her toward the cage. She struggled, backed up, yelped, and finally, like a land-trapped, fur-covered shark, threw her entire body into an enormous twist that spun me around and nearly knocked me to the floor, my arms flailing, and the peanut butter-filled bone smearing against my arms, legs, shirt, shorts, and hair at every possible point of contact. “I give up,” I finally said through tears of frustration to the gift shop girl, who, with her co-workers, had stood and silently watched as Frida freaked out and I was molested by peanut butter. Now they all backed away from me, the dog, and our entire, smeary, sticky messiness.

I led Frida back to the parking lot, wiping away tears of frustration. Frida crouched under the truck in the shade while I sat on the tailgate feeling sorry for myself. Which is when I had the STUPIDEST THOUGHT EVER.  This wouldn’t be so bad, I thought, if were traveling with a guy. A boyfriend, specifically, someone who’d rub my shoulders in a calming, strong way while cheering me up by pointing out the funny parts of the situation, and then help me clean up my peanut-butter covered self, and then patiently come up with an intelligent plan that allowed both of us to see the caverns without turning the dog into a giant, hairy, car-cooked meatloaf.

But I don’t have this boyfriend. In fact (ladies), we all know 2 things about this scenario: 1) LOL; and 2) this man does not exist, and even if he does, he’s either in the clergy or Facebook-official with some woman who doesn’t deserve him. Even if I had a boyfriend with me, in the real scenario, everyone is mad. He’s mad because I’m crying. I’m mad because he’s mad because I’m crying. He’s mad because he didn’t even want to see Carlsbad Caverns anyway, it’s the kind of touristy shit girls like doing when he’d rather be doing some death-defying thing like white-water naked cliff diving or blindfolded bungee spelunking. I’m mad because he’s just standing there looking pissed off and NOT DOING SHIT-ALL TO SOLVE THE PROBLEM AND WE DROVE THIS WHOLE F-ING WAY TO GET STUCK IN A PARKING LOT COVERED IN PEANUT BUTTER.

It was this scenario that made me suck it up and get a strategy. Having a man here would not have changed the circumstances, even if he were the first type of boyfriend, although a backrub would have been nice. I made an executive decision and calculated how long I could leave Frida in the camper while I snuck a peek at the caverns. I pulled the NapCamper curtains tight, assured the screens were completely open, poured a giant bowl of water, and chucked the remains of the peanut butter bone inside. I called Frida over and (of course), she jumped right in.

The elevator ride into the caverns makes a 750-foot drop in only one minute, depositing visitors at the entrance to the Big Room, which has a paved walkway that winds through about 1.5 miles of cave. I was overjoyed but still nervous about locking the dog in the hot camper. The signs estimated that the walk took about an hour and a half, but I scoffed at that. An hour and a half to walk a mile and a half? I think not.


People walk WAY too slowly through natural wonders, I just want to say that. I'm all for appreciating the beauty of nature and gazing with amazement at all of the rare marvels that exist, but COME ON, people! Turn that cane all the way up to 11 and get a move on. You can buy some pretty pictures upstairs in the gift shop.

SACAR FOTO!
I'm not saying I knocked anyone over, but I created a slight breeze as I walked, and I got a decent workout in the process. I do want to apologize to the frightened Spanish-speaking boy I accosted. Shoving my camera in his hand and insisting SACAR FOTO POR FAVOR! RAPIDAMENTE! was not my friendliest moment. Lo siento, amigo. Lo siento.
So I saw the caverns. I even remember some of what I glimpsed as I dashed through in a (record-breaking) blur. And Frida, despite my worries, survived her hour in the camper. She didn't even seem to be panting as hard as I was. 

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