Vacation horror stories: Part 2

I used to love Spring Break. Spring Break was one of the four times a year I would see my family. We had Spring Break, Summer Break, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Thanksgiving and Christmas it was always too cold to do anything, so we just sat around and ate. But in the spring and summer, it was time for a trip.

We never did trips like other families. I remember my friends in school telling me about their family going to Europe or Asia or South America. My family wouldn’t do that. Our trips were always going to be based around how far we could drive. Spring Break is 9 days long; my family would pick a direction, drive for 4 days, then turn around and drive back. Planning basically consisted of “this year, I think we should go... south.” We’d bring along maps, sure, but they were never maps for the state we were in; we’d have maps of Nevada, Rhode Island, Brazil, colonial Africa circa 1910, the human genome... nothing that would help us navigate where we actually were. We’d try to make do with what we had, only driving at night so we could use our star chart to find our way, like some sort of land pirate in a minivan. Not that it mattered; we never had a destination beyond, “whatever we find along the way.”

One time we ended up at a park in Southern Oregon that promised a nature trail and caves. The “nature trail” portion of this park was about 300 yards of wood plank that had been carefully laid out by a violent wind storm. They took you on a lovely walk around a copse of Douglas Fir, Oregon’s state tree. Let me tell you, Douglas Fir is not Oregon’s state tree because it’s rare. Our neighbor had a Douglas Fir that stretched into our yard; these are not hard to come by. If there had been some redwoods or palm trees, I could see getting excited. But one of the most common trees in the state? Who cares?

This didn’t bother me of course. I was not stoked about hiking anyway. When you are a kid, your primary mode of transportation is walking. You may have a bike or skateboard or something, but for the most part, if you need to get somewhere, you’re hoofing it. This explains why hiking doesn’t appeal to children; it’s just doing what we normally do somewhere else. It’s like an adult deciding that for their vacation, they’re going to drive around in a new place for a few days, then drive home. I was not in this trip for the hiking; I was waiting to see the caves.

The “caves” at this particular park turned out to be a single 2 foot wide hole that someone had drilled into the side of a hill. The sides were lined with concrete. It was certainly an incredible imitation of how caves appear in the wild; I couldn’t believe it wasn’t natural. Against my better judgment, I let my uncle convince me that I should crawl into this “cave” to see where it went. I obliged, thinking, “Well, it’s either this or walking in a circle around some Doug Firs” (my mother was determined to get a real hike out of this park, so she had taken to doing laps around the trees). I figured the cave was a better bet; boy, was I about to be surprised.

I had to crawl on my belly to get into this cave. I got about 10 feet in and thought, “OK, I’ve seen it.” This wasn’t true, of course; in my haste, I had forgotten to bring any object capable of producing light. Kids are surprisingly stupid at times. I was an intelligent child, an exceptional student, in all the hardest classes at school, and in the gifted program offered by the state. Yet for some reason, I couldn’t figure out that even though it was light outside, the light would not necessarily permeate this subterranean tube. I was happy to just crawl in thinking, “I can see fine, I don’t need light! Why is it so dark in there anyway?”

So I’m 10 feet in and I’m bored with the tube and I want to come out. I try to turn around but I can’t. I try to back up, I just end up skinning my elbows on the concrete. Oh fuck. Apparently, this is a one-way tube, and I, against my better judgment and will, am going to find out where it leads. I’m crawling through, keenly aware that I am crawling through all sorts of cobwebs and bugs. I am afraid of insects at this point in my life, but my fear of spiders is legendary. If I see a spider in the bathroom, I won’t shit for a week. Now I’m crawling through a mess of spider webs in pitch black underground in a tube... This is not my idea of a great time. At this point, I’m wondering who came up with the idea for a “tube cave” as a place to bring your family. Was it someone escaping from prison through the sewers thinking, “Wow, the wife and kids would love this”?

So I’m sick of the tube and I want to get through it as quickly as possible. I am moving as fast as I can crawling on my belly. I’m hauling ass. My elbows are getting cut to shit, I don’t care. All of a sudden, *CRACK*, I run headfirst into a wall. Apparently, this isn’t just a straight tube, it’s got turns in it. I’m blind, my elbows are cut, and now I have a concussion, and I’m lost in an underground labyrinth designed by some sociopath with a giant drill and an unbridled hatred for small children. I carefully maneuver through this bend, only cutting 2 knuckles open, and continue on. I have a hand out in front to make sure I don’t smash into any more walls as I haul ass through this tube. So naturally, when I come to the next turn, I smash my hand into it.

But this is the good turn. This turn leads to daylight. I can see the end of the tunnel. I can also hear a ringing in my ears, which I take to be the voice of God, and I’m prepared to accept that I have died as long as it will get me out of this tube. I am racing forward at nearly two miles per hour, when a figure, a great behemoth of a man who could block out the sun, crouches down in front of the tube and begins to crawl in. I lose it. “Get the fuck out of the fucking tube you goddamn fuck!” The figure quickly diminishes and I make my way, sobbing, to the light at the end of the tunnel.

As I emerge from the tube, I am keenly aware of the sound of crying. But it’s not just my own. My 5 year old cousin is bawling her eyes out. Apparently she had been the giant man who had been crawling into the tube. She was screaming, “There’s a monster in there!” Now the whole family is looking at me; my mother’s eyes do little to hide that she is running through all the ways she could murder me and get away with it. I am crying, bleeding from several places on my body, a giant knot on my head, and I’m public enemy number one. Nothing to do now but go crazy.

“Fuck that fucking tube! Fuck the cave, fuck the tube, fuck the trail, fuck the trees, fuck the car, fuck this fucking trip, fuck Spring Break, I want to go fucking home, I’m fucking sick of this fucking shit! I am fucking bleeding, I cracked my fucking head, my fucking hand hurts, I am covered with fucking bugs, and I just fucking escaped from being buried the fuck alive! I fucking hate this place! Fuck this fucking fuck fuck shit fuck piss fuck FUCK!”

In the years since that trip, I don’t think I said “fuck” around my mother but 4 or 5 times. In that rant, I must have said it 50 times. We didn’t talk about it when the rest of the family came back to the car. We haven’t talked about it since. All I know is, the next time I’m asked if I want to go on vacation with the family, I’m slashing their tires and flying to Rio.