Love Tour 2011: The Climb

To the southwest, between Cowley and Byron there are what are known as The Sandhills.  Only now, as an adult, do I wish I had asked Kurt Talbot--a local geologist at one point--what formed them or why they are there.  To my adult eye, they seem quite a mystery, so unusual is their composition, but as a child I simply accepted their existence as our playground of sorts. 

My family spent a lot of time driving through and playing in The Sandhills.  Grandma Doty lived in Byron, and more often than not we made our way to her house through the dusty dirt roads of The Sandhills, sitting on the tailgate of a truck.  Those were the days when children were still allowed wicked, partly dangerous fun.  Our favorite tailgate game went like this:  Before leaving home, each of us would choose a toy--favorites, as I remember, were army men or tanks--and tie them to one end of a long string.  Once we hit The Sandhills we'd throw them out, and holding onto the other end of the string, drag them as far as they could make it.  The one whose toy lasted the longest was declared the winner.  Only once was there a near accident when Ken conducted an amature scientific experiment.  Apparently he'd lost his toy early on and had too much time to think.  In his young mind he began postulating that if he jumped off the truck backwards, running mid-air, he could, quite possibly, continue running once his feet hit the ground.  He always was sort of a strange kid.  Anyway, he soon found his theory dashed as he jumped, hit the ground, rolled, skidded, and landed in a dusty heap, the rest of us gaping in horror and surprise. The next thing I remember was him sitting on grandma's kitchen table, while mom bathed, cleaned, and bandaged his multiple scrapes.

That is the only time any of us got really hurt in The Sandhills.  The rest of my memories there are happy.  We had a lot of Easter Egg hunts in The Sandhills.  Their curious, sandstone formations made for fantastic hiding spots.  We hiked Castle Rock more times than I can count, inching our way through the crevice though there is an easier climb on the backside.  Somehow, to me, the view from the top is made sweeter by experiencing the claustrophobia of the crevice.  On a few of those trips, I carved my name in the rock at the top, along with everyone else in the area.  It serves as a veritable yearbook up there.  "Steve & Rhonda Forever.  Curt '85.  Travis 1991."  Hundreds of names and memories for the perusing. 

But the memory at Castle Rock that makes me giggle the most is the Memorial Day sometime in the early 80's when Ken, for whatever reason, brought along the giant, orange, plastic trumpet that resided many years in our basement.  I don't know where we got it.  Probably from some sporting event is my guess, but that thing really could blow,  especially when played by someone who was a fine trombonist.  Anyway, once we got to the top, we could see there were still visitors at the Byron Cemetery looking like mere ants to us hundreds of feet away.  No matter.  Ken stood on the top of that mountain and blew a few long, loud blasts, like some sort of angel announcing the Second Coming of Christ.  We watched as heads turned, looking for the source of such an announcement.  Surely it was not a reverent thing to do, but we thought we were very funny.  Our mother was not as amused.

Many afternoons were also spent at Slide Rock.  It was a popular keggar site, as witnessed by the burnt out ashes and myriad of broken glass bottles nearby, but for our family it was a kind of homemade amusement park.  "And why is this fun?  That's right!  Because it's free!"  Using pieces of cardboard as a sled, we took turns riding the well worn rut in the rock.  After a few turns, the sand started to break loose a bit and the path could get speedy.  One had to remember to wear old clothes to Slide Rock, as at least one person would always go home with a torn out behind.

As a teenager I played kick the can at Court House Rock.  I wish I could describe these places.  They seem to me other worldly, like something out of Luke's home planet in Star Wars.  It was a marvelous place to play Kick the Can.  This huge rocky structure surrounded by ridges, and divots, and indentions perfect for hiding, voices echoing back and forth off the walls.  Wonderful fun.

The Sandhills were also the site of the oldest joke in our family.  The ascent to The Sandhills from Cowley begins as you turn off the Cannery Road.  The pavement ends and the climb begins.  It levels out, momentarily as you cross the canal, but the final climb is steep, hugging the north side of the hill until the top where a severe right turn leads you to the flat mesa across the top.  Right there, there is a rock formation that, as far as I know, has no name.  It is large and rectangular.  To me it looks like a giant loaf of bread.  (But I love bread, so maybe that's just my belly talking.) Anyway, the reason this is important is because going the other direction, down into Cowley, and because of that severe turn, the road can look like it runs right into that giant rock formation.  And my dad loved, LOVED, taking newbies home that way, convincing them the whole time that he had lost his way in the dark.  "Boy.  I am not sure this is the right road.  Lee?  What do you think?"  He'd really play it up.  "The thing is, there is one road out here that leads to a dead end.  We sure don't want to be on that road.  If you're not careful, you can run right off the side of this thing...No.  We're fine."  Then he would kick up the speed just as we were approaching the turn, and it was some one's job to yell, "Dad!  Look out!" and scream just as the rocks came into sight.  Dad would "swerve to miss them" but actually make the turn down that steep decline.  For a brief moment, it did seem like we were roadless, and the poor guy in the back thought it was all over.  Obviously we are sick people, but we never got tired of that joke.  The more fear we could inflict, the harder we laughed.  We were all the newbie at one point.  In our family you had to learn how to take a joke.

The Sandhills are full of memories for me.  Wonderful, happy memories that define much of my childhood.  I think it is that way for all my family, nieces and nephews included.  Can there be childhood without The Sandhills?  I hope I never know, so we took our children there again on this trip.  This time to Castle Rock.  Even the baby made it up the monster.  It's not an easy climb, and when you get to the top there are no safety rails.  As a parents we see this hike a bit differently now, to which my brother Curt's constant worry can attest.  It is full of risks.  That is true.  "Be smart, and be safe," I repeated to the children.  But I remember this climb as a child.  Just like Logan I, too, was worried about the crevice.  Were we going to make it?  And if so, how were we then going to get down?  And just like her I climbed anyway.  She faced down her fear.  She felt the comraderie of her family. She made it to the top and carved her name in the rock to prove it.  She was proud of herself.  They all were.  Just like I was as a kid, in this place I love:  The Sandhills.

 Not all of us, but some:  Curt and his girls, Me, Thomas and our kids.