When we arrive at the campground, we set up camp and my dad cooks ramen with the camp stove, which I devour. Perhaps as a coping mechanism for being saddled with me, he usually finds my histrionics hilarious rather than irritating.
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My dad pulls out his video camera, which I can’t fault him for. My phobia doesn’t kick in until about mile two, at which point I start bawling about how I’m going to die. The Grand Canyons is nothing but heights. One thing my dad learns about me: I am mortally afraid of heights. My dad notices and makes me drink chocolate milk powder mixed with water, a concoction I loudly announce “looks like liquid poop.” I will insist on referring to it by this name for the rest of the trip. I love her so much it almost physically hurts, though that might be the dehydration.
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Nico Minoru, teenage Goth turned witch, discovers how to summon her magical staff and punches her parents in the face. We take a break and I read more Runaways. I’m missing an indoor ice-skating party for this bullshit? The dead squirrels are depressing me, I’m sunburned everywhere because my dad didn’t pack any sunscreen, I’m dirtier than I’ve ever been before in my life, and I never wanted to go on this trip anyway. I haven’t eaten anything all day except the Gouda, which made a return appearance about an hour ago because I’m lactose intolerant (a fact no one will pick up on for several years). I have to pee but there are no bathrooms in this area, so my dad tells me to go around the corner. Like, really hot.īy hour two, I am lagging almost twenty yards behind my dad and carrying nothing but the water. (Remember: I’m 9.)ģ) The Grand Canyon is hot. I learn a lot of things during that hike.ġ) Dead squirrels are everywhere and never stop being disgusting.Ģ) Mules pee a lot and never stop being hilarious. This isn’t the first time I’ve gone camping with my dad, and every single time, the trips last longer than he says they will.
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This doesn’t seem horrible, though I’m suspicious. My dad tells me we’ll spend the first day hiking down to the Indian Garden Campground, spend the next day enjoying nature, and then hike back up on the third day. He decides to find a worldlier conversation partner. I tried pork for the first time last weekend and tell him so. A white man in his 30s tells me about his journey to eat rare and exotic meats, including alligator, horse, and who knows what else. (Notably: the souvenir shop contains postcards depicting naked women. With a kid’s razor-sharp instincts, I home in on them instantly and show them to my dad.) We arrive at the Grand Canyon.
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In a room full of tourists, I am the biggest tourist of them all. I cheer up and insist on carrying all my gear, including the hiking stick and water bottle backpack, into the souvenir shop. This is starting to feel more like fun and less like torture. After driving for several more hours, we stop off at a store to purchase hiking sticks.
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Our total supplies include: a camp stove, a pup tent, one change of underwear each, one of those weird water bottle backpack hybrids, a video camera, and a lot of Nesquilk chocolate milk mix. We split the cheese and eat it in the back of his pickup truck and I feel almost happy about this weekend. After having been tossed out of bed at 5 AM and unceremoniously informed that I will not be attending my friend’s birthday party like I planned, I am ready to drown my feelings in dairy. He pulls over at a grocery store for supplies and emerges with enough ramen to feed us for three days and-more importantly to my eyes-a 1-lb hunk of Gouda. I spend the first three hours of the road trip alternating between sleeping and reading.
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This book becomes important to me in two very different ways.ġ) It’s the first comic book I ever read and enjoy later on, I will discover Tintin and Sandman and Spider-Man and Wonder Woman, but Runaways remains the first and best beloved.Ģ) This three-day camping trip to the Grand Canyon will last ten days.ĭespite the bribe, I refuse to talk to my dad. All in all, it’s probably a good thing that my tastes run cheap, although he sighs when he sees I’m clutching a copy of the first volume of Runaways, in which a group of teenagers discover that their parents are actually evil supervillains and run away rather than become complicit in their actions. I might be 9, but I’m well versed in the art of manipulation and guilt tripping, and as the non-custodial parent my dad is particularly susceptible. My dad only gets me into the car by promising a trip to Barnes and Noble.