The Best Day Ever!

I know this sounds contradictory to the title, but sometimes bad things happen.  Sometimes a bunch of them happen right in a row.  And sometimes, there is nothing you can do to stop them.

When I woke up at camp on a geology field trip in college, ready to explore some really neat rock formations in West Texas, I didn’t know how the day would really pan out.  My professor’s field trips were always interesting, so I had no reason to think that his (he had to be in his 80’s) energy and enthusiasm was about to be the death of me.  At that point, I also didn’t fear goats or horses or the bright warm sun, and I had never been knocked…you get the point.  I did not fully understand what was about to happen, but now that I do know, you are probably wondering – what would I do differently.

Let me tell you the story and then I will answer that question.

Early one summer…
In cars fully packed with gear and students, we headed to a farm my professor visited with his summer classes every year.  It was pretty far out and though it had no main fence, we had to enter through a type of gate I had never seen before.  Each driver pulled his car right up to it and bumped a little panel in the middle that unlatched it and swung it open just long enough for one car to pass through.  Very cool.  New things happening already.  (I am easily impressed.)

Through the gate, we drove to the farm house and watched a rather large group of goats eat while the professor let the farmer know we were there.  The goats turned their heads to watch us, like they all worked from the same mind.  Kinda cute.

Back in his van, the professor led us around a hill to the base of a cliff with a flat face and a small ledge that looked like a ramp leading you along it all the way to the top.  The ledge looked quite thin, but this was a class trip, so how dangerous could it really be?

“We’re going to look at the rock layers on the way up, and the hike will start when we reach the top,” said the professor. My group and I went to the trunk and retrieved our backpacks and our maps.  These maps were actually ariel photographs taken of the farm so we could see all of its features and find our locations as we hiked.  The professor had mounted them to thin, wooden boards so that we could each have our own.  They were three feet by two feet, and while they were difficult to carry, they were very detailed.  Shouldn’t be a problem. (I am also optimistic.)

Here’s where things got tricky.

The ledge actually was thin, but no problem.  We went single file, backs up against the cliff wall, photo boards held facing out.  This is where the saying “everything looks higher when you are actually up there” comes in to play.  I didn’t remember it looking so high from the ground.  No problem.  Close the eye farthest from the cliff and focus on the person in front of you.  This worked well until that person stopped, went to great pains to rearrange his belongings so that he was facing the wall and then flew two steps ahead.  What?  I opened my other eye. The ledge had a gap where it didn’t actually exist anymore and in this gap was a very small “tree” sticking out of the rock. My friend had actually grabbed the branch with his empty hand and swung across the gap. SWUNG ACROSS THE GAP!!!

“Professor,” I called. “I believe someone forgot a section of the ledge.”
“Ah, that’s the beauty of geology! You never know what you will find. Luckily the sediment caught a seed, so grab on and jump across!”
“Um. (Seriously, my grandma could have knitted a sweater in the time it took me to come up with a reason.) I can’t, professor. I am still holding the map.” (Who could argue with having to hold a map the size of a small child?)
“Good thinking! That’s what the other hand is for!”
I did not see that coming, but I probably should have. Unfortunately, I still didn’t believe I could do it. We were really high up at that point and I could not muster the courage. (Or the insanity.)
“Professor, thank you for the advice, but I really don’t think I can get across.”
“No problem! You’ve got your trusty map. Do you see where the top of this hill slopes down to a creek?”
I did.
“You go back past the farmer’s house, follow the path, and meet us there.”

That sounded like a plan. It happened to be a plan that involved me, my backpack, and my map, retreating down a ledge the width of a number two pencil, while somehow passing each of my classmates that had the misfortune of being behind me in line, but it was a plan, nonetheless, that didn’t involve me being Tarzan on a field trip. Retreat I did.

At the bottom, I pondered ways to become more graceful, as my trip down the ledge could not truthfully be described that way, all the way to the gate. The same gate that required the bumper of a car to bump the little plate. I was not in a car. But how hard could it be? I hit the plate. Nothing. I kicked it. Nothing. I karate kicked, body slammed, bull ran, and rammed my body into the gate. Nothing. Looking around in despair, I mocked the sign…which I then noticed referred to a hand lever. Sheesh. Really?

So I entered the field in front of the house and was greeted by the ever watchful herd of goats. They were so cute, and were not only chewing their grass in unison, they were watching me in unison. Cute little goats. So calm. So peaceful. Look they’re coming over. Hmm, all of them at once. Wow, I didn’t see all of the ones behind those tall bushes. That probably makes them an even hundred. And look at that, all coming to see me at once. That’s ok. I’ll just speed up. Hmm, who would have thought goats could walk that fast while chewing?

That is how I found myself running across a field, being chased by a hundred, chewing goats, and wondering just how deeply my maniacal entrance at the gate had offended them. Fortunately, while it appears I cannot outrun goats, I was able to reach the other gate before they caught up with me. This time, I chose to hurl myself over it, and although I used my usual lack of grace, it was quite a bit quicker than the other way.

(Fast forward through the next hour where I walked in the wrong direction, panicked, and drank all my water. I found out later that the photo map I was carrying had been taken approx. ten years earlier when there was still a small stream to follow. Would have been good to know.)

The next lovely set of wildlife I met was a pair of magestic looking (albeit mutantly large) horses grazing on the other side of a barbed wire fence. I looked on my map (this where I realize I am lost) and recognized the large rock formation in the middle of the pasture. I quickly figured out where I was and where I was supposed to be…on the other side of the pasture. No problem. It’s a long way off, but I’ll just cut through the pasture. Horses are pets, right?

So through the barbed wire I went. Snag. Wow, my backpack is much larger than the gap in the wire. That’s okay. That pocket was so small it was quite useless. Rip. No problem. I wore my worn out shorts, and a few years ago, a hole that size would have been fashionable. Scratch. Oh, that reminds me, I forgot to pack a first aid kit. Horses aren’t attracted to the scent of blood are they? Surely not.

Twenty minutes later, I was through the fence and I started to cross the field. More chewing. These horses had an uncanny resemblance to the goats. People don’t ride goats though, and these horses had long flowing manes. So pretty. I decided to walk around them and not disturb their meal. Hmm, seems as if they are curious. Hope I was right about them not being attracted to blood. As they approached, I realized that they are even larger, close up. I know I can’t beat them across the pasture, but I figured I could beat them back where I came from. So, backpack flapping, shorts blowing, blood running, I start thinking that getting to the fence might not be the problem…getting through it will be. No problem. I’ll just go over.

The story of me getting over the fence is too brutal for young ears, but I did learn a valuable lesson. Just because you don’t see the barbs on a barbed wire fence, doesn’t mean they aren’t there. My hands matched my leg by the time it was over, but I also confirmed that horses can’t climb fences. This is lucky. I’ll just walk around.

Two hours later (it was a freakishly large pasture – very spoiled horses), I found a hill that actually did appear on my map and it was the one I was supposed meet my class at. And yeah! There was the teaching assistant waiting with a big cooler of water! I hobbled up the hill to join her.

“Where have you been?” she asked.
It was a long story, so I just said, “I took the long way. Can I have some of your water?”
“Sure. You’re really red. Are you okay?”
“It’s just blood, I’ll feel better when I get a drink.”
“I didn’t mean the blood, I mean your skin. You are really red.”
I hadn’t noticed, but I was having trouble listening because of a strange tap, tapping noise right above me.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
“Yeah, what is that?”
We looked up. Little black dots were raining down on us. What could they be? One landed on my hand. Closer look.
“Ticks!”
Within seconds they are all over us. They were already trying to climb in the top of our socks and under our belts. We were brushing, flicking, flinging, swatting, to no avail.

They tried to get in my shoes, so I flung them off. In my socks, toss them. The teaching assistant was doing the same thing and as we saw them squirming to get in our belts we tossed them too. It looked like we were on Little House on the Prairie and we were getting ready to go in the swimming hole – and this is the site that greeted my class as they finally made it over the top of the hill. Seriously.

We did what we had to. “Ticks!!! They’re everywhere!” At first I think they thought we were joking, but when we didn’t stop yelling they rushed over and pulled us out from underneath the trees and helped us “de-tick” ourselves (which is more humiliating than “de-cactusing” yourself – just trust me on this).

Cleaned up, packed up, watered down, and ready to go, the signs of heat exhaustion began to set in. I was dizzy and nauseous. The assistant wrapped my head in a wet towel and I envisioned getting back to the cabin and getting some rest. This is probably why I was able to muster the energy to half-jog to the cabin when we got back. Had I known how hard working the prairie dogs in West Texas are, I would have taken the time to look where I was running. I did not know that. It was fortunate that the prairie grass was high because I do not think the way I bounced when I hit the ground looked graceful. Not to worry. The towel acted as a helmet, so no problem there. Very lucky.

At the cabin, I showered (no remaining ticks thank goodness) and headed to the upper bunk I would call home for the night. There was only the slight obstacle of having to keep my luggage on the bed (thanks to the scorpion incident the night before), but no problem. A little hop over the bags, and… I am unclear as to exactly how it happened, but witnesses say I jumped directly into the ceiling beam and knocked myself out. It is amazing how deep you can dent your forehead without actually breaking the skin. That was lucky.

Anyway, that is the end of the story for my best day ever. How, you might ask? It’s simple. If I hadn’t had gone through everything I did that day, I would never have thought I could have survived it. Turns out, I am more resilient than I thought. And resilient is a pretty good thing to be.

Two months ago I began a picture book called The Best Day Ever, where Penelope Paloma Piper falls into the Grand Canyon. Anybody want to make a guess at some things she survives?