329: THE EAGLE HAS LANDED, NEAR CRATERS OF THE MOON

Tom’s alarm rang at 6:00am on the tenth day of July. The weather forecast in Southern Idaho was reported as cloudless skies and higher than normal temperatures. That forecast had a familiar ring to it; after all, the past few days of the trip have been identical – no clouds and hotter than Hades. But since I’m a “glass is half-full” bobble head, I’ve been thankful we haven’t had any days filled with rain. I can tolerate the heat, especially when I have a not-so-bright photographer who carries me everywhere he goes.

As Vicki drove the Jeep out of the Twin Falls Comfort Inn parking lot, I overheard Tom tell his wife we were headed for the Moon. I was stunned and in disbelief, and I think Vicki was as well. I didn’t know what believe, but I wanted to tell my photographer I had seen Jupiter yesterday and Uranus this morning, but there’s no way we’re headed for the Moon. When his wife questioned our next destination, Tom laughed and said we were paying a visit to Craters of the Moon National Monument and it’s only “90 short miles away”! Vicki has never been interested in space or the planets, and I could tell she wasn’t overly enthused about visiting that particular park. But since her husband had full control over the agenda, as well as the GPS, Vicki had little choice but to strap herself in and shoot for the Moon.

During the first half of the morning’s journey, the landscape in that part of Southern Idaho hadn’t changed much – the sagebrush-filled fields remained relatively flat, although we saw some lower mountain peaks near the horizon. But after we passed the small town of Carey, Idaho, the terrain seemed to change – the landscape became more rugged. We also saw what appeared to be some sporadic hardened lava fields amongst the sagebrush. It turned out the area was all part of the 618-square-mile Craters of the Moon, and we were in orbit around the National Monument.

As Vicki navigated our vehicle along US Route 20, which is the longest road in the entire United States, I heard my photographer suddenly shout out, “Look over there, on that rock! That’s a bald eagle!” After Tom’s wife brought the Jeep to a well-controlled halt alongside the roadway, we were offered an unobstructed view of the majestic bird – it was an incredible view that lasted for roughly ten minutes. Even though we were still ten days away from the 56th anniversary of Apollo 11’s landing on the Moon, I thought the sighting was an amazing coincidence. Tom must’ve thought the same thing when he recited astronaut Neil Armstrong’s historic words from 1969, “Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”

For the past half hour or so, my photographer’s wife had questioned her husband as to why we were driving so far out of the way to visit a remote National Park – a park she never knew existed. And with each passing mile along U.S. Route 20, Vicki’s demeanor was sliding downhill fast. But all of that changed when the three of us saw the bald eagle. That majestic bird of prey had somehow put Vicki in a state of tranquility, and it couldn’t have come at a better time. Fifteen minutes after we had admired the large raptor, we landed at the Craters of the Moon National Monument Visitor Center. Vicki was still abuzz after that close encounter, which meant Tom didn’t have to strongarm his wife into spending a few hours at the park.

Once Tom had produced his NPS Pass for entry, Vicki drove the Jeep along the Loop Road as we headed for our first site, the Lava Tubes, which was highly recommended by the NPS Ranger. The Lava Tubes were bat-infested volcanic caves that were open to the public for exploration. Little did my companions know, however, that getting to the caves would require a nearly one-mile-long hike through one of the vast lava fields. Even though there was a narrow, paved pathway that Tom and Vicki followed, the intense morning heat began to make their trek more challenging – especially for my rotund photographer with bad knees.

I had to admit; there were moments when I felt like an astronaut as I posed on some of the ancient volcanic rocks during our hike. And when I say ancient, some of the oldest hardened lava flows were formed over 15,000 years ago and were caused by cataclysmic eruptions from the massive Super volcano beneath Yellowstone National Park, which was roughly 200 miles to the Northeast.

Forty minutes after we left the Jeep in the parking lot, the three of us arrived at the larger of the two Lava Tubes – a cave known as Indian Tunnel. Immediately upon arrival, I noticed a look of disappointment on my photographer’s face, and I heard a sour tone in his voice when he said to Vicki, “We hiked through the hubs of Hell for nearly an hour to see this cave and there’s no walking path inside. I’d have to be a damned acrobatic rock climber with the agility of Simone Biles to go inside that cave. Like Dirty Harry Callahan once said, ‘A man’s got to know his limitations’ and there’s no way I’m going any further, especially since we’re hundreds of miles from the nearest hospital.”

The return trip from the Indian Cave to the Jeep seemed worse than when we first headed out on our hike. My photographer was thirsty, exhausted, and terribly disappointed; and at one point, I heard him say to his wife, “This is the last hike I’m ever going on. I’m surprised the buzzards aren’t circling overhead.” I rolled my eyes and thought, “Suck it up, chubs. You always say that.”

It seemed as though we stopped to rest at every large rock Tom could find along the trail, which made the hike seem excruciatingly longer than it already was. There was a moment, however, during one of our stops when my photographer asked his wife to climb over the crags and unstable chunks of lava so I could pose for a photo. I held my breath as Vicki traversed over the unsuitable terrain with the precision of an experienced mountain goat, and then did it a second time to retrieve me. I had to admit, and I think my smiling photographer was forced to admit it as well, we were impressed by Vicki’s prowess and were surprised she didn’t drop me. But just in case disaster had struck during that brazen maneuver, Tom captured the entire event with his camera.

Back at the Jeep where my photographer and his wife enjoyed a cold bottle of water, I figured we had endured enough fun for one day. But I was wrong. Instead, Tom mentioned he wanted to get a close-up look at Inferno Cone; a 618-foot-tall cinder cone formed out of black, volcanic cinder material.

As soon as Vicki parked the Jeep in the lot near the base of Inferno Cone, I took one look at the mammoth monstrosity in front of us and knew there was no way my photographer could hike to the top. But a minute or two later, the overconfident fat man with the short memory had his hiking poles in hand and the three of us were enroute towards the summit.

I noticed the slope’s incline grew steeper with each step Tom had taken; and I could tell he was struggling to maintain his balance at times. During the hike, Vicki once again appeared graceful as a mountain goat; while at the same time, my photographer resembled an old goat who tried to save grace. Then to add insult to injury, when we had finally reached the area where Tom originally believed was the peak, he stopped dead in his tracks along the slope. He yelled up to his wife, who had passed us earlier, “I thought this was the top, but it’s not. I can’t go any further. There’s no telling how much further this damn mountain goes up and I’m out of gas. I’m satisfied here – there’s a great view from where I’m standing. Go on to the top without me, if you want. I’ll meet you back at the Jeep.” Vicki shouted back “Okay” and she was gone in a flash and never looked back.

I posed for a handful of photos from the side of Inferno Cone before Tom slowly made his way back down the slope. The small, black pebbles of volcanic ash beneath Tom’s shoes gave way at times, which caused him to slip a bit with each choreographed step he took. I quickly began to wonder if my photographer had enough energy to make it back down without rolling ash over tea kettle; and let me tell you, that was a lot of ash below his tea kettle.

Throughout most of the downhill hike, I thought the two of us were destined to die on the slope of Inferno Cone. But thanks to Tom’s hiking poles, which helped him keep his balance, and with the encouragement of his wife who had caught up and passed us again, the two of us made it safely back to the parking lot. As soon as my photographer chugged down a bottle of cold water, I heard him say to his wife, “That’s the last hike I’m ever going on. Talk about a Hike from Hell – that one rated nearly as bad as the hike at Hoover’s Rapidan Camp a few years ago. If I ever get a stupid inkling to go on another hike, please kick me square in the nuts.”

While there were still some possibly interesting sites within the park that we could have visited, like the Big Craters for which the monument was named after, Tom suddenly decided their mission to the Moon was over. Funny thing was – my photographer didn’t have to convince Vicki about his decision; she was already fuming because the ancient volcanic ash had stained her white sneakers. The dashboard clock had just hit 12 noon, my two companions were hungry, hot, and exhausted, and Vicki couldn’t get our mothership off the Moon fast enough.

Twenty-five miles into our journey Westward along U.S. Route 20, I overheard my photographer say out loud in his Clark W. Griswold voice that he was “so hungry, I could eat a sandwich from a gas station”. Those words were no more out of his mouth when Vicki pulled the Family Truckster into the parking lot of an Oasis Stop ‘N’ Go at an Exxon service station in the town of Carey. Vick must’ve been hungry too, as the Jeep seemed to be tipped up on two wheels as she pulled off the highway. I didn’t hear the tires squeal, but I also didn’t think she applied the brakes until she came to a complete stop next to the store. It was an impressive piece of driving, although I thought our cooler was headed for the front seat in a pure defiance of gravity.

After my companions had gorged themselves on a couple of pre-packaged hoagies and a few Twinkies from our snack tote, we were back on the road. I knew we had roughly 150 miles of highway ahead of us, so I closed my painted eyes and tried to rest inside the camera case. At one point during the journey, I heard Tom joke to his wife about a ‘Game Crossing’ sign he saw along the shoulder of the highway. When my photographer said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if we saw a Monopoly box scoot across the road in front of us?”; I couldn’t get that image out of my head. Just a day earlier, I envisioned Wendy Peffercorn in a one-piece swimsuit. Now the ride had become so boring, the only thing I could think about was board games running across the highway.

Roughly three hours after we blasted-off from the surface of the Moon, our craft re-entered the atmosphere in downtown Boise, Idaho. It was a long and grueling drive, but my photographer’s wife quickly became exhilarated when she drove the Jeep past Albertsons Stadium, home of the Boise State University Broncos. Vicki loves college football, while her husband prefers the NFL.

Suddenly, yet not surprisingly, my photographer felt the need to add his two-cents-worth of opinion when he said, “I hate their stadium’s blue turf, and I think it should be outlawed by the NCAA. Buck the Froncos!” I laughed to myself because I didn’t care one way or another about that college football stadium. My eyes were scanning the horizon for the dome of Idaho’s State Capitol Building, which was our next stop.

A minute or two after we went over the Boise River, the dome of the Capitol Building came into view directly in front of us when Vicki turned onto North Capitol Boulevard. The building looked majestic, and I shook with anticipation. After all, this was my 39th different State Capitol Building, and I couldn’t wait to be carried around the grounds.

But there was more – and the news nearly made me fall out of Tom’s camera case. Once my photographer’s wife had found a parking place along the street, I heard Tom tell his wife he intended to go directly to the spot where Franklin D. Roosevelt was photographed near the Capitol; and he wanted to do that before we visited the statehouse.

President Roosevelt visited Boise only once during his 13 years in office, and that visit came on September 27, 1937 – which was exactly ten years before the birth of Rock and Roll star Meat Loaf. When FDR arrived that the morning, he was chauffeured around downtown Boise in an open car before he delivered a short speech near the Capitol Building. The 90-minute-long visit was a breath of fresh air for the President, especially when he saw the beautiful tree-lined streets and the throngs of excited children who stood and cheered as FDR’s car passed them on that Monday morning.

At 11:00am on September 27, 1937, President Franklin D. Roosevelt’s car was driven onto a platform at the intersection of North Capitol Boulevard and West Brannock Street where he delivered a brief, “inconsequential” address on the topic of natural resources and conservation.

FDR began his speech by saying, “I shall never forget this morning. When I look back on today’s visit to Boise, I shall think chiefly of two things – first your beautiful, tree-lined streets and, secondly, your children.”

Roughly 15,000 people gathered near the intersection to see and listen to the 32nd President, who had used the beautiful Capitol Building as a backdrop. FDR ended his short address with a heart-felt message to those in attendance. He said, “I wish I could physically take the time to spend more days and more weeks going around the country. There was an old mythological character by the name of Antaeus, who was supposed, every time his foot touched the ground, to redouble his strength. When I go about the country after long weeks and months tied up in Washington, which, incidentally, is one of the narrowest places in the world, I feel that I regain strength by just meeting the American people.”

Vicki sat in the shade and watched her granddaughter play softball on her phone app called Game Changer while Tom carried me to the two Presidential sites. First, I posed on a small monument near the intersection where FDR had delivered his 1937 speech. Then he carried me one block South along Capitol Boulevard, and I stood near the spot where FDR was photographed during his departure. Initially, I had hoped to stand in the middle of the street where Roosevelt had ridden in his car. But Tom held me instead – he didn’t want me to be killed by the heavy rush-hour traffic.

After my photographer had dodged oncoming traffic at the corner of Capitol Boulevard and Idaho Street, which was where I envisioned President Roosevelt driving past us in his open car, the two of us headed back to Cecil D. Andrus Park where Vicki waited patiently for our return. Throughout that entire fifteen-minute ordeal, I couldn’t believe how excruciatingly hot it was in downtown Boise. The temperature was in the high 90s and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. And the more I thought about it, I couldn’t remember the last time I saw any clouds above us. For the past five days, we’ve been baked, cooked, scorched, sauteed, and hung out to dry beneath the rays of the hot Sun; and there was no end in sight.

As soon as Tom, Vicki, and I walked onto the grounds of the Idaho State Capitol Building, I posed for several photos with the 208-foot-tall dome rising up above us. While the building was only 105 years old, with its construction completed in 1920, there were three Presidents who each had planted a tree on the same grounds in front me. Benjamin Harrison had planted a red oak in 1891. During a 1903 visit, Theodore Roosevelt’s planted a rock sugar maple on the grounds. And during his time in office, William Howard Taft soiled the grounds with an Ohio Buckeye tree.

All three Presidential trees no longer stand, and not because of disease. Two of the three trees, Harrison’s oak and Taft’s buckeye, were destroyed in 2006 due to the new excavation project for the underground wings of the statehouse. Roosevelt’s tree had blown over in a storm prior to the construction project. Harrison, Roosevelt, and Taft all left their roots in Boise, but those Presidential roots were destroyed by progress, along with the teeth of a chainsaw and a strong wind.

It didn’t take long for the three of us to succumb to the afternoon heat and we couldn’t get inside the statehouse and its air conditioning fast enough. Once inside, my photographer carried me to Governor Brad Little’s office where I posed outside his doors. Then the three of us made our way to the Capitol Rotunda where I had a great look at the interior of the dome. Although I thought the compass rose embedded into the Rotunda floor was nothing special, the interior of the dome was a completely different story. And what took my breath away was the enormous American flag that hung above my head.

Originally, Tom figured we would spend the night somewhere in the Boise area. But since it was only 4:15 in the afternoon when we returned to the Jeep following our tour of the Capitol, my photographer had set his sights on a new destination. I didn’t think twice about his decision, until I heard him ask his wife to use her phone to find a hotel in Ontario. Immediately I thought the intense heat of the Sun had fried Tom’s brain cells, because I knew we were nearly 2,000 miles from the Canadian Province. And I think his request had surprised Vicki as well. But when my photographer said he meant the city of Ontario, Oregon, which was only 57 miles away, his wife breathed a sigh of relief. As for me, the news was music to my resin ears. The three of us had never stepped foot in the state of Oregon, and in roughly an hour, The Beaver State would become the 45th state I’ve visited since 2013.

At precisely 5:36pm, as Vicki drove our vehicle over a bridge that spanned the Snake River, we arrived in Ontario. Ontario, Oregon that is. It didn’t take long to find our hotel, which was the Sleep Inn, as it was located only a few blocks West of the Mighty Snake and the Idaho-Oregon border.

While Vicki registered in the lobby, I waited for Tom to load all of their gear onto the luggage cart. During that process, which lasted only a few minutes, I kept my painted eyes peeled for beavers. Since we were in the Beaver State, I wanted to see a furry beaver at some point during our stay – even if it meant spending time near the hotel’s swimming pool.

Unpacked and hungry, my two companions wasted no time in finding a place to have their dinner. They decided on the Country Kitchen, which was a local restaurant located across the highway from our hotel. While I had hoped Tom would order beaver for dinner, because I wanted to see the reaction on his server’s face, he opted for the turkey dinner instead. Vicki stayed true to course and had her usual patty melt.

The three of us returned to the Sleep Inn at 7:30pm – Vicki was fast asleep a half hour later. As for Tom and me, we watched a show on TV called ‘The Making of Jaws’, which was a tribute to the Steven Spielberg movie on its 50th anniversary.

My photographer turned off the television and extinguished the lights at 9:45pm. Once again, I was left to stand alone in the darkness for the rest of the night, which normally doesn’t bother me. But after watching that damned 25-foot great white shark devour Quint, I couldn’t get that image out of my mind.

Then it got worse – a lot worse. I had a horrible vision that I was wading in the hotel’s swimming pool, and I came face to face with a great brown beaver. It was a real snapper, and it had the jaws of a shark. Closer and closer it came; and with each move it made, I saw the beast’s lips quiver with anticipation. But just as the furry critter was about to devour my resin head, and the climatic music was hitting its pinnacle, a well-timed hand snatched me from the warm water.

I’ve heard of wet dreams before; and some even involved beavers. But that dammed dream was a wet nightmare. All I could think of when I regained consciousness was, “Welcome to the Beaver State – we’re gonna need a bigger Jeep!”