The Sweet Smell of Sulfur: Chickasaw Nat'l Recreation Area 5/1/13

It all sounds so inviting on its face....waders and fishermen, shaded streams and swimming holes, wildlife calling you home for that much-needed escape. A relaxing ride aboard a mighty sailboat, or even a long walk through dense, endless forest. None of that appeals to us, needless to say, but in theory, such things could provide an afternoon of fun. And while one might associate cookouts, beer, and the roar of engines with weekends, summer, or any number of holidays, they should never be anywhere near a National Park. Indeed, there's a certain reverence whenever we see that arrowhead insignia; the assumption that one is not only on sacred ground, but that the standard for acceptance is so high, the NPS faithful are willing to ruffle a few feathers to keep out the rabble. And so we have the National Recreation Area - the admission that while one is technically inside a protected realm, it's okay to scream, wander with drunken abandon, and not really take anything seriously. No reflection and introspection required, just whooping and hollering in the face of dams, man-made lakes, and the sort of silliness usually found at the local level. And if this is the last one of these damn things we have to visit, so much the better. Maybe someone with authority will kick them back to the states at last and the leave the NPS to the worthy and the worthwhile.

Curiously, Chickasaw National Recreation Area, located an hour or so south of Oklahoma City, was once a mighty National Park, declared in 1906 in honor of some now unknown Senator who never even visited the damn place. It was also part of some deal with the Chickasaw and Choctaw nations, who wanted the land - and all of their mineral springs - protected from development and exploitation. Lucky us. And while the New Deal-era Civilian Conservation Corps built pavilions, roads, trails, and waterfalls in the decades following designation, the Park was eventually merged with the Arbuckle Recreation Area in 1976, creating what we see today. Which isn't much. But we had to come, and come we did. On a gray, cool day when the nearby casino would have been a far better bet. You see, Chickasaw just isn't worth it - not the drive, not the effort, and certainly not the review. Hell, I might not even finish. NRAs just piss us off to no end, and in all honesty, we wouldn't set foot within 100 miles of this place were it not for the passport stamp, magnet, and opportunity to poke fun at its limitations. I guess it's attractive in some twisted way, but mineral springs I've seen, and it sure seems beneath one of the government's most respected agencies to protect the smell of rotten eggs and the occasional picnic table.

After exiting the interstate and driving through the sad, broken down town of Sulphur, one enters the park with fear and loathing at the prospect of little reward. Pulling up to the Travertine Nature Center just after opening, we were greeted with a locked door and lights out. Of course. Fortunately, a ranger was just getting into his car at that time. Walking briskly to confront him about the outrage of denying us a stamp, I was met with a man either completely mute, or someone moonlighting as a mime. He shrugged and mugged and embarrased himself, but dammit all, he found someone to open the doors. Needless to say, the female ranger had been on the phone, and you know how them Sooner women love to gossip. Stamp secured, we watched the brief introductory film, which said little and educated even less. Still, we pretty much came for the shoddy taxidermy, and there's plenty of that in spades. The nature center also has a few turtles and snakes for the kiddies, but I wasn't leaving without a magnet. To no one's surprise, this all but took an act of Congress to accomplish, as the two layabout rangers in the back office had no idea how to work the cash register. What they were doing back there is beyond me, but it sure as hell wasn't anything resembling work. Such is life at a National Recreation Area.

Leaving with what we came for, we knew we had to drive around a bit to legitimately claim we had visited the site, even if nothing beckoned. The Platt Historic District had some charm, but the site's claim to fame, the waterfalls, weren't falling. Hell, they weren't even dripping. So yeah, all we had to look at were dry-as-a-bone creek beds and some wild growth. All we were left with, then, were the springs - Pavilion, Hillside, Black Sulphur, Antelope, and Buffalo - but any of their former glory was left to one's imagination. The area once hosted the wealthy and the damned, all seeking the healing waters of Oklahoma (!), but now it just stinks to high heaven, and any closer view requires stepping over animal dung and pounds of unsightly moss. I get that people ancient and otherwise thought this water cured disease, but surely common sense would tell you that if that same substance has a similar odor to your Grandpa Charlie's recliner, it's unlikely to accomplish anything restorative. So we walked, stared, rolled our eyes, and drove away. Maybe the lake would salvage the trip.

Before confronting the mighty Lake of the Arbuckles, did we mention the Bison Viewpoint with no actual bison? Not even the beasts of the wild had the energy to feign excitement. It's fitting, as the lake itself is, well, just a lake. And lakes we've seen. A lot of 'em. All over, in fact, without the added pretense. A few boats were about, but the day was so dark and depressing that all we could hope for was some dude on a Sea-Doo crashing into the pier. Hell, we didn't even catch sight of any of the area's "wonders", whether roadrunner, wild turkey, bobcat, or hawk. We saw a dozen or so armadillos, but they were all dead and decidedly roadside. Oh well. At least Chickasaw has a history, and even a story to tell, unlike that similar NRA atrocity in upper Texas, to this day the most worthless patch of earth the NPS has seen fit to protect. No one with sense or love would ever defend Chickasaw, but at least it isn't Lake Meredith. Yes, I'm damning this place with the faintest of faint praise, but it's all I can do to stay in the fight.

 

FINAL RATING

2/10

Side Dish: Taos Pueblo 4/7/13

If your life course has taken a turn into despair and indignity and you feel overwhelmed by the slings and arrows of misfortune, visit an Indian reservation. If you're down and out, depressed and exhausted, or damned and doomed, visit an Indian reservation. And if you wonder what life might be like if you reached your wit's - and financial - end, visit an Indian reservation. Such patches of woe exist all over the United States, but they reach their peak in the American Southwest, and after dipping your toe in this pool, you're never going to feel so good about your own lot again. I use 'peak' ironically, of course, because few soaring heights are reached, sought, or even desired in this part of the country. Indian land is where dreams go to die, sadness goes to holiday, and, above all, where all that is right and good and true stop off for a messy suicide and even hastier burial. And that brings us to Taos Pueblo, located (naturally) at the edge of hippie haven Taos, a community that never met a 60s cause it didn't continue to champion, like piss in the proverbial wind. It's a beautiful spot, needless to say; that is, until one drives through the densely packed "downtown", past the state's lone smoke-free casino (I lost $20 in 35 seconds, so fuck that place), and into the standard-issue oblivion.

What is the Taos Pueblo? Only the oldest continuously inhabited community in the United States (and a World Heritage Site as of 1992), a fact that seems less romantic the more one realizes this means complete cultural paralysis. Living as their ancestors did over 1,000 years ago, the people of the Taos Pueblo forego running water and electricity, preferring simplicity, tradition, and the occasional Dodge Ram to keep things honest. Yes, there are big hogs of automotive blight at every turn, which do a wee bit of damage to the whole "authenticity" thing. Shitting in a kiva pleases the gods of wind and sun, apparently, but muffler noise and spinning tires are somehow acceptable alternatives to the kinder, simpler way. I mean, when a man needs smokes at 3am, you don't expect him to walk, do you? Hypocrisy and selective enforcement aside, the presence of modernity interferes with the tourist trade, and we the people have a right to bitch when we're paying $10 a head to walk the grounds, along with an outrageous $6 per camera fee. You see, it's a "privilege" to snap photos of a dusty, poverty-stricken community. But those are their terms. From where I sit, they simply don't want to admit that they're sneaking in a guilt tax for the whitebreads who visit this place after getting bored with antique shopping.

The two main structures of the Pueblo are called Hlaauma and Hlaukkwima, which mean North and South House, but could just as easily mean "The Pueblo Strip Mall." While no casino or neon lights block out the sun, there are dozens of commercial pleas hung about; ancient, handwritten shingles plying the usual trades of jewelry, cold sodas, and assorted weaving. We saw few actual entrepreneurs about, though the smoke flying from the chimneys indicated that food was also available. There's also the San Geronimo Church (built in 1850), which itself is a National Historic Landmark. I'm always confused by the presence of Catholic imagery anywhere near Native land, as few did less for these people as a whole, but according to the brochure, 75% of the Taos Pueblo share in some Catholic practices. Here's hoping it begins and ends with the fondness for lighting candles.

Throughout the Pueblo, one will see hornos (outdoor adobe ovens), drying racks, the Red Willow Creek (the Pueblo's sole source of drinking water), and dozens of Canis Strayus, the ever-present stray dogs of the reservation. More than the adobe homes, wooden ladders, and ceremonial kivas, wandering pups define contemporary Indian life, and it never ceases to depress the hell out of us. It helps that the dogs are, without fail, sweet and kind and desperately seeking attention, but you're also bound to see dirty coats, hunger-induced rib cages, and the occasional mange. Of all the reservations we've visited, the dogs of the Taos Pueblo are the most "successful" by comparison, if only because they're tucked away in a community, rather than walking and dying roadside, as with any number of Navajo strongholds in Arizona. Leashes, bowls for food and water, and vet visits are apparently the white man's way, so short of stealing these sweethearts away in the night, what is left to be done? Hell, I'd pay $50 for a camera fee if I knew it might secure some shots now and again for the four-legged unfortunates.

So where does that leave the Taos Pueblo in our historical memory? On the one hand, Native peoples were in fact hunted down, marginalized, and exterminated by the American government, all for the betterment of the white ruling classes, but at the same time, where does tradition begin and utter stasis end? As Native languages and customs die out, or submit to widespread unemployment and alcoholism, is there an obligation to help these people make the transition from the past to a much better future? Can and should any outsider fight to help those who insist on the ways of the ancestors, when these very actions ensure economic instability for all? As it stands, the Taos Pueblo will join forces with the cash nexus to ensure its survival, but at what cost? As one walks about, one can't help think that despite the grandeur of history on display, we are treating living and breathing American citizens as museum pieces; musty relics to be displayed for our privileged amusement. Imagine a similar tourism in Detroit, Oakland, or the hills of West Virginia. Would there not be howls of racism, class exploitation, or at the very least, mean-spiritedness bordering on condescension? In the end, Taos Pueblo helps some remember that people lived here long before our pasty asses came aboard, but they also serve to remind us that if you're not moving forward, you're being left behind. It's a sad legacy, even with all the reminders of an unshakable pride.

Return to Custer: Little Bighorn Battlefield Nat'l Monument 8/14/12

Well before the NPS obsession took hold and all but destroyed our ability to go anywhere the passport stamps are not, Brooke and I visited Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. Summer of 1999, I believe it was, and not only were we both younger, thinner, and more wide-eyed, we could, without flinching, make the non-stop drive from Colorado Springs, CO to Sheridan, WY, even after spending a full day at work. We arrived at that long-forgotten rat trap well after midnight, and despite the fatigue and overall wear-and-tear, we were like obnoxious kids in more ways than one. Yes, to be young again. Well, to be anything again that isn't broken down and grouchy, but here we are, in the full flower of a return visit to America's most famous battleground not named Gettysburg. Everything remains in its place, with the exception of a few new memorials, and unlike those salad days in the waning hours of Clinton, we ventured into the visitor center this time around, finding the building a bit dated to be sure, but an introductory film more than up to the task. I'll say this for the NPS and Native American battlefields - they spare no expense in getting the story right. If only this attention to detail could find the Lincoln Birthplace, or perhaps Pecos NHP near Santa Fe.

I'm not sure why this isn't a National Battlefield, or a National Historic Site, but here's to the powers that be who, in 1991, finally acknowledged that it wasn't enough to commemorate George A. Custer alone. No, Cheyenne, Lakota, and Arapaho also fought here, and rather than assume their lives meant little to the American narrative, Little Bighorn has at last given them equal billing, including the establishment of an elaborate Indian Memorial in 2003 (appropriately enough, on the anniversary of the engagement). In addition, there are numerous red granite markers to give tribute to the Native people where they fell (a practice begun in 1999). Sure, it's long after the U.S. Army started the tradition for their dead (1890, to be exact), but historical sensitivity is often as hard won as the battles we choose to chronicle. As such, this latest visit, coming over a decade since our last, now feels complete, as if a hurried pace at last yielded to care and reflection.

Despite being late afternoon on a Tuesday, Little Bighorn was packed to the gills, a testament to the power of the Custer myth, as well as its convenient proximity to a major interstate. From the usual blue hairs pouring out of their RVs to chugging tour buses, the site was a striking contrast to the other stops on our latest stamp run, which were lucky to have parking lots even half full. Getting the stamp at the VC's front desk was our first priority, of course, and from there, we hit the theater, which was showing a comprehensive 17-minute movie about the battle. As stated, the film was a fantastic, densely packed piece of history, more than adequate for sending us on our way into the battlefield's interior. Before the driving tour, however, is the centerpiece for all park pilgrims - Last Stand Hill. The sheer concentration of markers gives voice to the doomed enterprise of Custer's retreat, speaking further to the wisdom of adding "reminders" that would otherwise be lost on an empty hillside. One can almost picture the panic that set in once the soldiers were forced to shoot their horses in order to erect breastworks.

From there, it is a short hike to the Indian Memorial, which, unlike the Army's impersonal slab, actually conveys nobility and sacrifice. Perhaps therein lies the biggest difference between the two sides, outside of their competing visions of civilization, of course. The driving tour then begins in earnest, allowing visitors to listen in on their cell phones for further information. Early stops include Calhoun Hill (where Custer's command briefly reunited), Keogh-Crazy Horse Fight (markers represent where soldiers were killed as they retreated from Crazy Horse and White Bull), and the original Indian Encampment where, on June 25, 1876, approximately 7,000 Native Americans, including 1,500-2,000 warriors, awaited their fate. Battlefield Road continues on for several more miles, hitting Medicine Tail Coulee, Medicine Tail Ford, and Weir Point (where Captain Weir led his company in an attempt to locate Custer), before ending at the Reno-Benteen Battlefield site. The logistics and troop movements are intricate and fascinating, but this is no place to recount them. Instead, it's enough to present one of the more chilling dispatches from Custer to Maj. Reno, via Benteen: "Come on; Big village, be quick, bring packs." Let it also be said that the site's unigrid and audio tour are essential in understanding what happened on that bloody Montana day, even if you'd be best served by any number of books on the subject.

It's no exaggeration to say that at the time, the unparalleled rout of American soldiers by the Lakota and Cheyenne forces electrified the world. In addition to the shockwaves sent directly into the heart of assumed white invincibility, the killing of a respected Civil War hero further solidified the U.S. position that co-existence was no longer desirable, if not impossible. Eradication and pacification were the orders of the day from then on, and despite being a source of pride for Sitting Bull and his people, Little Bighorn, like so many "victories" of the day, proved to be short-lived and hollow. The white man would have his gold and his territory, damn the cost. Certainly, Little Bighorn resonates then and now because of those involved (imagine had U.S. Grant been shot down on the plains), but on few patches of ground in the whole of North America is so one-sided a battle remembered. We tend to erase our failures, and here, with federal recognition, is one of "our" most humiliating defeats. As such, it's a remarkable place to stand, and the NPS does a great job of withholding judgment. It seems so long ago, indeed, and so removed from our daily experience, to be so utterly consumed with irrational fear and loathing for an unseen, misunderstood enemy, perceived as savage and unyielding. Or, in light of current events, perhaps it doesn't seem so long ago after all.

FINAL RATING

8/10

Mild Mild West: Grant-Kohrs Ranch Nat'l Historic Site 8/13/12

Our visit to the Grant-Kohrs Ranch National Historic Site in, and I do mean in (more later), Deer Lodge, Montana, is less a tale of what was actually seen than what was studiously avoided. First of all, full disclosure - after burning rubber upon leaving Big Hole, we checked the NPS website and discovered that yes, the site was open until 5:30pm, giving us just enough time to blast through the visitor center and wander the estate for a bit (no sense in doubling back the next morning). Hell, maybe we'd even catch a demo or the tail end of a tour. After all, there was much ground to cover, what with the sprawling vistas, wide open ranges, and crystal blue Montana skies that reduced the ranch to a speck of humanity amdist an endless sea of pasture. But as we pulled into Deer Lodge, our hearts began to sink. You mean the ranch is nearby? How could that be? Didn't the pictures present a wonderland of detachment and isolation? An awesomely historic example of a working cattle ranch that would, at bottom, invite city slickers to leave modern life behind and escape into a bygone era? And wasn't there a long, quaintly-hidden back road somewhere, where the dust would fly as we ambled to nowhere in particular? We wanted whipping wind, wandering beasts, and leathery men with straw between their teeth. We could not have been more disappointed.

We'll be as blunt as possible, perhaps as blunt as we'll ever get on our blogging journey: Grant-Kohrs is the worst NPS site of them all. Some are less exciting, and some are even less understandable, but none match this level of silliness. When we hit the front gate to the site, there before us sat the ranch. Not out there, or anywhere, frankly, near the range. It was plopped down, shoehorned, if you will, right in the middle of town. Within earshot of a McDonald's and a gas station, for crying out loud. A busy road was out front, a prison museum just down the street, and bustling commerce and city living everywhere it's not supposed to be when we're dealing with a cattle ranch. It was absurd. Ridiculous. And for the first time we could remember, we openly laughed at the prospect of even going in. I mean, really? Sure, this is the actual spot of the historic estate, donated to the NPS back in 1972, and I get that the buildings are the real deal. So? From all appearances, this was going to be about as authentic as a beans-and-brisket supper at the now-deceased Flying W Ranch. Where were the speakers blasting Ghost Riders in the Sky? And would I find a horse trough from which I could pan for gold? So surprised that we damn near drove out for fear of being associated with a place so embarrassing, we looked at the site, looked at each other, looked again at the site, and parked with no real idea of what to do next. This warrants federal protection while the August Wilson Boyhood Home rots away with neglect?

We know what you're thinking - those pictures are pretty cool, huh? It all looks so serene and ready for exploration, right? No, ma'am. Or sir. Or whoever the hell is unfortunate enough to be stuck here for more than a half-hour. No picture could ever accurately capture how unimpressive Grant-Kohrs really is, as again, we were originally among the fooled. The bamboozled. The hopelessly led astray. At that point, I could not have cared less if Zombie John Wayne stumbled out of the shadows for a lecture on bareback riding. This was Pioneer Village. A side attraction at Disneyland. A reproduction that could not be further away from life as lived. And hey, we usually enjoy such sites - and it would likely have made a brilliant Side Dish - but not here, not with the National Park logo so painfully close to the action. As vital as the ranching life was and is to the American experience, there's got to be a better way to remember it all. Push it out, back it up, and for chrissakes, give it some breathing room. As it now stands, it's like going to the Paris Hotel in Las Vegas and thinking it's as good as standing beneath the actual Eiffel Tower. Or confusing hologram Tupac for the man himself.

So what did we do? Even if the drive had not been worth it, I was not about to neglect the precious passport stamp. But as I pressed firmly in that little book that means more to me than most human beings, the ranger tapped his watch and informed me that at best, I had 15 minutes to look around. No problem, my good man, and from what I see, that just might be 13 minutes too many. I didn't actually say that, but I could have. Should have. Will, as I speed away in the night. Down a short trail and through an overpass, I came upon an exhausted female ranger, who also reminded me that I didn't have a lot of time, and that she had just spent several hours with screeching children. I smiled as she passed, then went hunting for pictures. My god, I have to prove the Cales were actually here, right? So I checked them all off, one by one: a barn, a house (closed for repairs and tours, so whatever), a field, and a wagon. I'd be lying if I say I cared, and not an ounce of me cried out in frustration at the live blacksmith demonstration I might have missed. There's a buggy shed, a chicken coop, a granary, and bunkhouse row, and no, I won't think about any of it in the days and weeks to come. I love the Old West, and we're both tickled by the past, but we couldn't escape the overwhelming rage of crushed expectations. We thought we'd do precious little at Minidoka and left with a new best friend; at Grant-Kohrs, we had our hearts set on a great affair, leaving instead bereft and slightly ill.

So is there legitimate history at Grant-Kohrs? Yes, but it's not overly important at this point, and I'm not about to spend more time discussing a site that looked and felt more unreal than Old Tucson Studios. At least they had a staged gunfight. The whole enterprise goes back to the Civil War era, encompasses several families from all points east and west, and is inextricable from our economy and culture, but when a man has only a few minutes, what could he ever hope to learn? Especially when - I shit you not - the allegedly hallowed ground on which you walk features chuckwagon dinners and campfire sing-alongs. I know, I know, it's a working cattle ranch - that fact is pounded home again and again, from the VC to the unigrid, I'm guessing because you'd be otherwise tempted to snicker. And hell, I'm certain Conrad Kohrs was one hell of a man, but this spread is little more than a political favor made good; protected for prosperity in order to celebrate a powerful Montana family. But no matter. Off we go. And damn it all, it's too late to catch a tour at that prison museum down the road.

FINAL RATING

1/10

Montana Massacre: Big Hole Nat'l Battlefield 8/13/12

Let's be clear: Big Hole, tucked along the North Fork Big Hole River just beyond the Bitterroot Mountains, is not a battlefield. It is not the place where, as some might say, two equally matched armies clashed amidst a larger, more ideological war for king and country. No, Big Hole was and is a massacre site; a bloody patch of earth where an obvious aggressor, armed to the teeth with purpose and unmatched devotion, slaughtered at least 60 (and as many as 90) members of the Nez Perce Indian tribe, most of whom were defenseless women, children, and the elderly. In its ferocity and dubious pretext, it is no less a scar of shame than My Lai; a day of murder and atrocity to be lamented for as long as historians chronicle our human past. But a National Battlefield it remains, one imagines because members of the U.S. Army died here, even if they fell, at best, in service of greed and prejudice. At worst, they are war criminals; their names damned evermore as examples of the foolhardy ways of man. To our credit, however, and as yet another cap tipped in the direction of the NPS, our commemoration is suitable, somber, and more than sufficent.

Thankfully - and atypically for the Cales - our timing was perfect this time around, as Big Hole National Battlefield just finished a $1.5 million renovation on its visitor center (the freshly scrubbed building re-opened on June 2, 2012). In addition to the long-overdue improvements on the roof and entrance, a new theater room, along with updated displays, welcomes visitors with dignity and a well-placed sense of honor. The film itself, a 26-minute mini-masterpiece called Weet'uciklitukt: No Turning Back, Battle at Big Hole, deserves to be seated at the NPS adult's table, choosing context, insight, and comprehensive detail over the dry, musty lessons such films usually offer. Moreover, the Nez Perce people themselves are granted a voice; not as detached relics, mind you, but complex, fully-realized human beings. Once viewed, no visitor can claim ignorance regarding the logistics of Big Hole, and all can understand why an otherwise obscure, isolated spot in Montana - all 655 acres of it - deserves protection and interpretation. More to the point, though, the film spares no horror, and it's all there as it should be - the skulls of infants smashed in, grandmothers blasted in the back - even if we'd rather turn away.

Without diving into a full-tilt history lesson (you really should visit), it's enough to know that Big Hole's massacre resulted from the expected "need" to round up the Native peoples like cattle, forcing them to live on depressing reservations and away from sacred tribal lands. In this case, during the summer of 1877, the Nez Perce (five bands of around 800 people), began a doomed journey from Oregon and Idaho, herding horses and carrying as many belongings as possible. U.S. troops, under the command of Gen. Oliver O. Howard, were under orders to push these bands to a less desirable part of Idaho, or at least one not sitting atop vast mineral wealth. Naturally, the Nez Perce resisted (with a few attacks and counter-attacks along the way), a process that inevitably led to the encounter at Big Hole. The Nez Perce arrived here on the morning on August 7, setting up camp out of a belief that there was no immediate danger. Instead, during the pre-dawn hours of August 9, a Nez Perce warrior named Natalekin stumbled onto the Army skirmish line (he was checking on his horses) and was killed. U.S. troops, led by Col. John Gibbon, pushed across the river, firing as they came, and in the smoke and din of battle, many were shot without regard for their status as mere civilians. Retreats and defensive positions ensued, with a resulting siege lasting for the next 24 hours.

In some sense, the battle was a victory for the Nez Perce, as they managed to dismantle a large howitzer cannon and fought sufficiently to allow many of the families to escape. Still, they were a wanted people, and the exchange of gunfire only stiffened the resolve of the U.S. Army to kill first and ask questions later. More importantly, Big Hole was, for the Nez Perce, the beginning of the end, and full confirmation that their future was not one of freedom, but servitude and surrender. From Chief Looking Glass (later killed at Bear Paw) to the legendary Chief Joseph ("I will fight no more forever"), the resistance, while spirited and warranted, was slipping away for good. A way of life would be a matter of memory. And while the Medal of Honor was awarded to seven of the men at Big Hole, the Nez Perce were thrown atop the ash heap of the forgotten, assumed to have been mere roadblocks in the push West. This National Battlefield, while not at all changing that outcome, serves at least to ease the emotional toll.

Thankfully, the smoke had largely disappeared by the time we reached the site, and I was able to drag my lazy bones along one of the several walking trails. Believing that the Nez Perce Camp (where the battle began and most died) was the best option, I walked the full 1.6 miles of flat dirt with the river by my side. The day was hot but not oppressive, and once I arrived at journey's end, I knew I had made the right choice. While fully dressed tipis might have made for a more authentic encounter, the "nakedness" of the wood seemed more appropriate, as if they had been set aflame by the invading army and left to the winds. Their empty, abstract quality made them more lonesome; a full and lasting tribute to a people long erased by time. Sure, the area's drought made the setting less than idyllic (this place would be stunning with a lush green coat), but beauty should be a trivial consideration when faced with death. It's an ugly site at bottom, and an eye towards the region's peaks is an eye away from the Nez Perce themselves.

General William T. Sherman once said of the Nez Perce War of 1877: "One of the most extraordinary Indian wars of which there is a record. The Indians...displayed a courage and skill that elicited universal praise...and fought with almost scientific skill." Fine words, perhaps, from a hard man, but hollow in the end. Military men often praise those they have recently killed, if only to set their own endeavors on a higher plane. A worthy opponent, yes, but a necessary end. Big Hole National Battlefield corrects many of the misconceptions we continue to have about those unique, diverse tribes we collectively refer to as "Native Americans", but as with any jewel in the NPS crown, it is but one piece of a larger puzzle. And though no story is ever really fully told, we can be glad that at the very least, thanks to the park service, we have a good start.

FINAL RATING

8/10

One Small Step for the Cales: Craters of the Moon Nat'l Monument & Preserve 8/13/12

That damned wildfire smoke, stalking us like some demented psychopath in a cheap horror flick, was largely irrelevant during our first day of Idaho excursions, if only because obscured visibility means little when there's little to see. At Hagerman, easily our most forgettable stop, the damn thing could have been shrouded in a pea soup of London gray for all we cared, just so long as the passport cancellation station itself wasn't on fire. The next morning, skies still daunting and campfire thick, we ventured to Craters of the Moon National Monument & Preserve, certain that while we couldn't stray beyond the air conditioned comfort of the car for very long, the landscape promised to be unique and bizarre, with an intoxicating rhythm all its own. And so it is, even without the blissful blue contrast of a clear day. Craters of the Moon, for all of its lifeless appearance and barren beauty, is enhanced by the inherent charm that radiates from any patch of earth affected by volcanic lava. Whether dormant or excitingly active, volcanoes are among the natural world's most rip-snorting formations, reminding us that while the world can be beautiful, said beauty is usually accompanied by risk, danger, and the possibility of mass destruction. What's pleasing to the eye, then, will likely end our days on this planet.

The relatively short drive from Twin Falls gets you to Craters of the Moon with ease and comfort, though it's a bit jarring how quickly the landscape changes from typically Idaho to atypically eerie. Things start to get weird well before you reach the visitor center, and whether your eyes dart from left to right or back again, little remains distinguishable from a pre-dawn age of darkness and lunar loneliness. And while everything appears vast and endless, one has no real idea of the actual size - 750,000 acres to be exact - especially since you'll be lucky to catch 1% of the total. Silent Cal Coolidge, thanks to public curiosity and lectures by an eccentric taxidermist, as well as federally-sanctioned geological studies during the early part of the 20th century, finally declared the site a National Monument in 1924, with much of it protected as wilderness by 1970. Then, in 2000, most of the Great Rift and associated lava fields were added to the acreage. Now a joint venture between the NPS and BLM, Craters of the Moon is, against the odds, one of the quirkier additions to the park system. Still, it's why we travel the country in search of those elusive stamps. I mean, where else would one see such a thing?

Having mentioned the Great Rift...what is it? In sum, it's why the park exists at all, and, as the handy unigrid tells us, "These vast volumes of lava issued not from one volcano but from a series of deep fissures that cross the Snake River Plain." The process began around 15,000 years ago, with the most recent eruption a too-close-for-comfort 2,000 years in the past. Most geologists believe future events are likely, and the park's visitor center tracks the area's seismic activity, as if people could forget that they are having a good time on extremely turbulent ground. No tremors greeted us on this day, though I must admit I was hoping for a little jolt, if only to shake me out of the funk that the smoke had ground deep into the pit of my being. Still, the mood was light and fun at Craters of the Moon, even if I lacked the lungs, heart, and legs to light out for the territory and carve away a bit more of that massive acreage.

If there was a disappointment outside of the smoke, it remained with the all-too-brief auto tour, with only a 7-mile loop to get you going. From the visitor center, the road stops first at the North Crater Flow, which features two main walking trails through the vent of the North Crater, exiting at the Spatter Cones/Big Craters parking lot. Next, the road hits the Devils Orchard, with lava fragments amidst a sea of cinders. Following that is the Cinder Cone, with a steep 1/2-mile walk to the top, which was not exactly on the agenda with those particles circulating around us. Still, from the peak one can see Big Cinder Butte, which is one of the world's largest basaltic cinder cones. After seeing more spatter cones and the like, there are additional trails to the Tree Molds, Broken Top, and Wilderness. All were self-guiding and long, so....well, you know the score. The driving tour wraps up with the Cave Area and those glorious lava tubes. Dewdrop, Boy Scout, Beauty, and Indian Tunnel are all at the end of the 1.6-mile trail, though one needs a permit to enter. No prizes for guessing whether or not I had secured such a thing. In all, I wish the road had gone deeper into the void, but part of me also understands that if we're keen on preservation, let's keep the lion's share away from prying eyes and greedy hands.

Craters of the Moon may not have taken the time we had initially expected, but in all, we felt comfortable with our visit. The visitor center is roomy and not embarrassing, which is a high compliment indeed, given what we've encountered over the years. The film was up-to-date and informative, and the ranger so very helpful in pointing out that there were more fires in Idaho than we first thought. But she said it all with a smile, so we kept our bitching behind clenched teeth. We were stamped, sated, and ready for Montana.

FINAL RATING

7/10