The night before we left Las Vegas, I lay awake. Everyone else was sleeping;  the five of us were packed in to a double-Queen room with a rollaway, and although I’d initially fallen asleep between Claire and Peter, when I woke, I couldn’t escape the gnawing anxiety about our drive the following day. 

I grew up in the foothills of Virginia, where the temps in summer rarely crest 90, and there are rolling hills from just about every vantage point. 

I just don’t “get” the desert. And while I understand that it must have its merits, that doesn’t change the fact that it scares the hell out of me. 

As I lay in the dark, listening to the people most precious to me breathing so peacefully, I imagined the worst – Bessie breaks down in the middle of nowhere and it’s 110 degrees – and then worked my way back to a vision of having a boring, uneventful 300 mile drive through Nevada’s most desolate terrain.

On the day itself, shortly before we crossed in to the most deserted part of the desert, we stopped at a gas station to top off Bessie’s tank. Andrew observed that everyone filling up there seemed to share a sort of grim intensity. This was not a stretch of road to trifle with. 

Thankfully, the drive was boring and uneventful. When we finally made it to Tahoe, I felt like we all burst out of the van like clowns from a clown car. That cold, clear air in our lungs! The crystalline blue, fifty degree lake! A culture that heavily supports the consumption of s’mores! Heaven. 

But that drive in the desert, and some other close calls, have brought into focus that what we are doing this summer is a little risky. Of course, things can happen wherever you are at any given time, but being on the open road gives more obvious exposure to vulnerability. 

When we were in Moab, for example, we’d had an awesome, full day at Arches and went to cool off at the pool that afternoon. After being there for a little over an hour, right before it was time to pack up and go to dinner, Peter attempted to do a “backwards jump” and somehow nailed his head into the corner of the pool. 

It was not a small cut. 

The hotel’s proprietor sent a guy to lead us to Moab’s emergency room – thankfully, a short drive – where seven shiny staples were placed in the center of Peter’s head. 

The ER doctor (who was very kind and thorough, and happened to have gone to Vanderbilt) said he didn’t *think* Peter had a skull fracture, and couldn’t do anything about it even if he did. 

No doubt, given the sort of extreme sports possible in Moab, UT, a kid’s 7-staple cut from a pool slip was probably no big deal. We were put on a 24 hour watch for intracranial bleeding and sent on our way. 

By the time we got back from the ER and dinner, it was getting close to 10:00. The kids were wiped, and so were we. But Andrew and I had two huge loads of laundry to do at the hotel coin op and needed to repack the entire car for our trip to Zion the next day. We also had to wake Peter up every three hours to make sure he was still “with it,” whatever that means for an exhausted four year old at 3 am. 

This happened on day SIX of our trip. 

We are not so brave or unflappable that this experience didn’t discourage us. I admit that as we packed our things that night, I felt like getting in the car and driving back to Nashville … Or, actually, buying a plane ticket. 

In Zion, I stressed about reinjury for Peter. In Vegas, a known hot spot for child sex trafficking, I was hyper aware of the kids’ proximity to us. At night, I calculated the number of gallons of water we would need, should we break down near Death Valley (15). 

I write all this not only because I’m keeping a record of our trip here, but also to let you know that traveling with three children aged 8, almost 6 and 4, is not always amazing, no matter how beautiful or unusual our surroundings, and no matter how great the pictures. 

We are having a great time. We are seeing the fruit of some serious sibling bonding time. We are watching our children embrace and appreciate the wildness of nature and the adventure in the unknown. We get to hear them giggle and sleeptalk; we get to watch them be brave, and they get to see mom and dad problem solve off the cuff. 

If you happen to get a post card from our kids, Peter’s staples (extracted, as of today) will probably be a feature in their writing, whether the card is from Moab or  Canada. In that moment, they seemed to grasp the vastness of our trip, and that “family” in this context doesn’t only mean sunny days and ice cream, but also the ability to overcome hardship and conquer fear, together.