Dark cloudy skies threaten to rain out our anticipated plans. My husband, three children, and I cram into our Subaru to climb into the mountains of the Mesa Verde National Park in southwest Colorado. We have been at the park for three days, but this will be our first viewing of the cliff dwellings nestled under the eaves of the flat-topped mesas for which this park is known. Ranger-guided visits are difficult to come by, and this is our ticketed time. The kids have been talking about it for weeks.
Leading up to today, I didn’t know how the kids would do on this trip. And let’s be clear, notice I said “trip.” Vacations are for quiet, child-less relaxation. Trips are with the family. They might as well be called relocation before they are called vacation. Kids are still kids no matter where you take them. When they pack up their bags, they also bring their whines, tantrums, neediness, and grumpiness. It’s exhausting, but if you choose to travel with kids, you must also accept this reality.
I am excited to explore a new part of the world, get outside our familiar neighborhood, and learn about another culture. But just like convincing them to clean their room or eat broccoli, I knew I needed to sell this trip hard if I wanted to enjoy even a moment of the experience.
Before leaving home, I became the trip’s hype woman. I checked out books from the library and showed videos on YouTube. I took advantage of their love of forts and tree houses to sell the cliff dwellings. “Look, kids! Secret hidden houses! We get to go here!” I squealed, hoping I made the visit to a National Park learning about history sound as exciting as meeting Mickey Mouse and riding the Tea Cups.
I could tell my plan was starting to work as their conversations around the trip accelerated. “I wonder if it will feel like a maze,” Caroline, the curious eight-year-old, pondered. “There’s even a ladder to climb!” my adventurous six-year-old Elliott told his three-year-old brother Leo. Always ready to jump in on his siblings’ excitement, Leo responded with, “yeah, a ladder!” I wasn’t sure how the letdown would be if the tour didn’t live up to my Disney-like spin, but at least they weren’t whining in the car ride on the way.
The fact that the cliff dwellings hid from plain view added to the allure of it all. First, we make the forty-five-minute drive from the campground, winding up and over mountains with views that get even the most adventurous heart racing. Then we hike three-quarters of a mile across a flat brushy mesa to meet the ranger guide for the tour. While we walk, the kids pretend to be the settlers from centuries ago out on a hike, watching the clouds roll in, wondering if there could possibly be a place to take shelter. With the wide expanse of flat ground, it is impossible to imagine something so majestic awaiting us. Had we been tricked?
After rattling off the rules and regulations, the ranger opens the gate to the trail, and we make our way behind the rest of the visitors. The path begins winding downhill immediately, but still, there is nothing to see. Finally, at the first switchback, the expansive open canyon comes into view.
“Whoa, ok, freeze kids. Mom needs to take the lead.” I know I’m supposed to let my children learn to be brave by taking risks but maybe falling from a cliff into a massive canyon wasn’t the time to practice that skill.
The smooth path turns into rocky steps. It’s a delicate balance to watch each step while not wanting to take my eyes off the incredible view. I find myself wondering, just like the children, what it must have been like to be the first to discover such majesty. Did the early explorers have chills in their hearts the way I did at the moment, anticipation pounding with each careful step? Were they enjoying the view or just concerned about their families and seeking shelter?
I find history so much more enticing when I can humanize the experience. No matter the time, humans are built for curiosity. It’s how we progress, how we survive. It’s also the easiest to leave out of our lives. Wonder is too often forgotten in the minutiae of daily life. Particularly after a year of uncertainty and lockdowns, getting out and exploring feels energizing. By the way my children hurry down the path, I can tell they feel it too.
Eventually, the steps level out to flat ground once again. I sense the cliff dwellings are close but not yet in our sight. I let the kids move ahead of me with the safer ground, allowing their eagerness to take the lead. I don’t know who spots it first, Caroline or Elliott, but after a few paces down the path, they both shout almost simultaneously, “LOOK!” So I do.
“Wow,” is what I say, which is an embarrassingly lacking description for someone who should be good with words. But words will always be limiting.
You can see something a hundred times in a photo. You can know what you will see, know exactly when you will see it, and yet still, it can take your breath away. Carved into the underhang of the canyon is a village—square peaked dwellings, recessed rooms, ladders and windows, and doorways and steps, all stretched out like a little city under the earth. It is majestic and quaint at the same time. I understand now why the Pueblo people called this home.
I stop in the middle of the path to take a photo, and then I notice the park ranger behind me.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I suppose you want to go ahead of me,” I comment.
“No, it’s ok, actually. I like to hang back. This is my favorite part. I like getting to witness everyone’s first oohs and ahhs.” A smile spreads across her face like she knows something we don’t.
Her look is familiar to me, and I remember why. There’s a meme often passed around at Christmas time. It’s a kid sitting on the couch holding a cup of coffee and wearing the slyest grin. The picture is captioned, “Every mom on Christmas while you’re opening up that gift they swore they weren’t getting you.” It’s the most relatable feeling—witnessing joy on your child’s face that you had a part in creating. We don’t want to miss it. We want to be there for the shouts, the squeals, the oohs, and ahhs. We want to witness those first sightings of something amazing. It might be our favorite part.
I think about how many times this park ranger has made this journey. She knows these cliffs better than anyone. This is her job, and it could be easy for her to get caught up in the minutiae of completing that job like the rest of us do in our daily lives. And yet, she was taking a moment to witness the wonder. It was, in fact, her favorite part.
I realized then this is why we are here. Not just in this park, but on any trip as a family. This is why we cram our whole lives into a single vehicle and drag our family across the country only to manage all our daily tasks in unfamiliar territory.
We travel for this moment. We travel, even when it’s hard and uncertain because our curiosity tells us we must. We travel to see our children’s eyes light up when they first discover something so new and amazing they can’t help but shout “LOOK!” We travel so we can experience the world through their wonder, like the first time, again and again, leaving us with nothing left to say but “wow.”
At the end of the tour, after the maze of rooms, the ladder climbing, and, thankfully, the cliff dwellings delivered, we make our way back up the hill together. The sun makes its first peak from behind the clouds, and I sigh with relief that the weather cooperated. The children buzz with conversation about their favorite parts and what they are going to tell their friends. I wonder what they will remember from this trip. They are so young it’s likely only pictures will jog their memories.
But as I walk behind their energetic bodies up the path, I am smiling. This moment—the oohs and ahhs and excitement so big it propels them forward—this is why I travel with my kids. It’s my favorite part. And no matter what memories they retain, I know for certain this I will never forget.
