On the Road Again Though I Missed Alien Creek

    

We sit side by side in a former movie theater in Cody, Wyoming, which is now used for what has been billed as a “Branson-style” variety show. As we wait for the show to begin, I broach the subject with my brother. “You know,” I say, “Tomorrow is our last day of vacation.” I hesitate an instant and he  actually growls at me. I tease him, “You’re the first bear I’ve seen on this trip.” He scowls. “You missed dat,” he says accusingly. “I missed what,” I say, bracing myself. My brother is really good at pointing out things that I forgot, although mostly it’s things that he wanted for his birthday or Christmas that I couldn’t find or drew the line at. “Alien Creek,” he sputters. I am truly puzzled. “Alien Creek?” “No!” he sounds indignant, “ALIEN Creek.” I take a deep breath. “Dave, I am sorry but I don’t understand what you are trying to tell me.” My brother puts his flat hand over the front of his mouth and makes a monotone noise as he pumps his hand in and out. Ah-wa-wa-wa-wa, comes out. I get it. “Indian Creek,” I exclaim. “Yes,” he says, again indignant, as if I am a moron. “Alien Creek.”

I can feel my blood pressure rising. “There’s no Indian Creek.” I am feeling mad myself. I have just spent six days and a lot of money doing everything on this vacation to please him that I can think of….. a float trip on the Snake River, a chuck wagon dinner with western show, a chair lift up a mountain and an alpine slide down the same mountain, miniature golf, finding a 4^th of July parade, sitting for 3 hours listening to bluegrass and patriotic music, fireworks, and at least six hours of driving for several of those days in Yellowstone National Park stopping at almost every overlook, waterfall, and geyser so he can take photographs. I don’t want to hear about Indian Creek.

I repeat, “There is no Indian Creek.” “Yes there is,” he accuses. “Is in the book.” Oh for heaven’s sake, I think. “The book” could be any one of a number of slick, glossy travel enticements and brochures that he’s been picking up along the way all week. He loves them and delights in showing me what he wants to do. So I am used to saying, “Yes, of course we can do that.” Or “No, that’s across the state, we can’t go there this time.”  But Alien Creek, I mean Indian Creek is news to me. And since my brother is very concrete, I also surmise what else he’s thinking as he accuses me of missing dat.

I take another deep breath. “There may very well be an Indian Creek, David,” I say slowly because I am trying to control my irritation. “But we don’t have time to find it, AND there-are-no-Indians-in-Indian-Creek.” I emphasize this last clause. My brother is a western movie fanatic. Cowboys, Indians, horses, guns, bows and arrows. He loves it all.

“Yes there are,” he shoots back at me. Now I feel like growling. Another deep breath leaks out of me. It’s hard to argue with someone who’s concrete. So I say what comes to mind, “There are no Indians in Indian Creek just like there were no snakes in the Snake River, and no yellow stones in the Yellowstone River.” We have been in a raft on the Snake River together so I feel safe drawing this analogy and I add the part about yellow stones for good measure.  

For once, he doesn’t argue. He puts his head on the back of the padded burgundy seat and stares up at the ceiling, ignoring me. I stifle a giggle. Let him be mad, I think. He’ll get over it. After a couple of interminable moments, he puts his head up and gives in, “OK, Dee,” he says (that’s what he’s always called me, go figure), “no aliens in Alien Creek.”  “Good,” I say, “I’m glad you see it my way, you old bear, you.” He giggles and then goes serious. “I love Yellowstone,” he says. “I do too,” I assure him. “And we’ve had a lot of fun, haven’t we?” “Yes, Dee,” he says. I tell him that we do still have tomorrow and we’ll drive slowly back through the park from Cody to where we are staying in Jackson and stop at every place we didn’t have time to stop earlier that day.

  

This is an annual event, this vacation we’re on, the sixth one since our mom passed away. It is his time to ride shot-gun in the front seat beside me, his time to be the partner in any conversation that takes place in the car, waiting in line, sitting in a restaurant, or relaxing in the motel. Our time is planned around things I know he’d like to do and experiences I want him to have. Yes, there are occasional frustrations – he can’t read a map so everything has to be planned out carefully ahead of time (though this year I carted my GPS on the plane with me); the conversation isn’t always particularly stimulating and sometimes feels like playing charades (see above), and I always have to be on my toes, thinking for two, but I relish this bonding time on the road with my brother. And maybe next year, we will find Indian Creek.