The following day proved more to my liking as we once again headed into a park. I had never before seen Mt. Rainier and was truly awed to view the spectacle created by the superior snow-capped mountain. Though surrounded by other mountains and lushly forested valleys, Mt. Rainier dominated one's attention like a bejeweled lady among serfs.
June 23, 1977… Went into Rainier. At this one place this jay would come down and take a peanut out of Dad's hand (in mid-air). Went to Paradise (visitor center) and hiked up near Mt. Rainier. I never felt so good in my life. Had to walk through snow in around 3-5 places. It was real neat.
The day was the highlight of the entire vacation. Separating myself from my parents, I sped up the trail, spurred onward through a boundless source of energy and excitement. I felt as if my heart would burst, for never had I experienced such a profound closeness with nature. I enjoyed the beauty, but basked in the ecstasy which swelled from within. My sense of reality had heightened and every inch of my body was alive with incomparable sensations. I listened to the world, to the breeze tossing the fragrant pine; I absorbed every detail and mourned the journey's end, whereupon the noise and clutter of civilization would scour away the feeling which I so desired to prolong. Seldom was I entranced by emotion; I slowed my pace and then stopped to breathe a final breath of tranquility before surrendering my blissful state of mind to the realm of the ordinary.
Retracing my steps, I eventually met Mom and Dad ascending toward the direction I had climbed. "There's quite a bit of snow up there," I told them. Sporting only tennis shoes and sweaters, they quickly re-routed their steps and chose a down-hill trek; they had exercised enough for one day anyway. The three of us ambled down the mountain-side, stopping once for a snowball fight which could not be resisted. It was amazing how rapidly one's mental state changed with the introduction of various sensations or the presence of other people. My previous feeling was now only a memory, firmly implanted, yet miles from my grasp. It was a gem, secure in my mind, and I knew that I was somehow wealthier than I had been.
Two days after Mt. Rainier, we were driving down the Oregon coastline. At several intervals we stopped so I could test the breakwater beneath my bare feet. The shore was beautiful, despite the gray clouds and ocean mist that eventually obscured the farthest cliffs from view. I seemed to be walking in a colorless world where all things grew only darker or lighter shades of silver gray. The water was icy and forbade me enter; even the foam which rushed up the sand to enrobe my toes was too frigid to withstand, and sent me sprinting from the constant waves to higher ground.
The following day we continued through Oregon to Crater Lake, a magnificent sapphire body of water which left my eyes agape; then, between destinations, we met a trucker who took us on one of his lumber runs. As we mosied down the long state of California, we toured a lumber company and then were awed by the magnificent stands of Sequoia Redwood trees which soared above all else with an aura of statuesque grandeur. The giants were some of the oldest living things on earth, and it seemed incredible and obscene that anyone should desire to cut them down for timber. Compared to the trees, my life seemed a mockery, a dwarfed and highly insignificant thing. All did not depreciate with age.
Our stay in Santa Monica encompassed eight nights and as many days, as we enjoyed a variety of sights. We stayed with relatives who knew the area quite well and therefore provided a guided tour through some of the attractions, including Universal Studios, Huntington Gardens, Will Roger's Ranch, and shopping mall, and of course, Disneyland. No trip to the west coast would be complete without a jaunt to the latter amusement park and we made ours an all-day affair. On our own we traveled to another amusement park, Magic Mountain, which boasted a vast array of rides better suited to my suicidal whims. At the day's end, my dad and I had been whipped, jolted, plunged, riveted and lost as many stomachs as cats have lives to have satisfied my boldest cravings for at least a month. Mom, as usual, was most content to sit and watch. Had she indulged in some of the wilder rides, I fear she would have at best, suffered from acute hoarseness and at worst, been carried from the park on a stretcher.
Leaving California, we stopped at one of their famous "Date Farms" and to my utter disappointment, saw no date trees. At least the place did not charge admission or try to plaster a revolting bumper sticker on the car while shopping within the "supermarket."
Skirting the southern route through Arizona on our way home, I discovered the meaning of "hot" when referring to weather. At 112 degrees I was extremely pleased that we had an air-conditioned car; ventures into the sunshine were like tiptoeing through a blast furnace. Sweat dried on the face, forming a sticky glaze with the dust floating on the hot air currents. I would not have been surprised to see spit dry before hitting the ground.
Two days into the blistering heat we stopped at White Sands National Monument. The sand was so blindingly white that attempts to gaze at the drifts without sun-glasses were hopeless endeavors. On that particular day I was unable to walk bare-foot on the fine sand due to its scorching heat, and we finally decided to duck into the visitor center before shriveling into sun-ripened prunes.