My mom and I just returned from a trip with John (age 7), Joey (age 5) and Garry James (age 2). On Wednesday, we began our journey at the dentist office. Garry James had his first checkup. I thought for sure this would be like stuffing a cat in the toilet, but to my surprise, Garry James was the perfect patient. The teeth cleaning and dental exam went great for all three boys. No cavities, and our new insurance covered the cost. The only hitch happened in the reception room after the exams. Clutching his toy for good behavior, Garry James tried to pee on the reception room plant. When Garry James dropped his pull-up and aimed for the palm, my mom screamed. I was speaking with the receptionist when this happened. The receptionist jumped out of her chair, her mouth agape. My mom grabbed Garry James and dragged his bare backside down the hall to the restroom. The receptionist informed me that in all her 18 years at this office, she’d never seen such a thing. I wasn’t sure if she meant a two-year-old trying to pee on the palm, or a grandmother screaming and then towing a toddler with his pants around his ankles past her desk. Needless to say, I should have known right then this was going to be a difficult trip.

My mom and I have taken trips together with the children in the past, but always with Cami and Lacy, and not since Garry James joined the clan. Scott and Luke are at canoe camp for the week. Cami and Lacy are back east visiting relatives. With three little boys and no help from our built-in babysitting sisters, my mom and I had our hands full this time.

Our plan was to drive four hours north to Montague after the dentist visit. My parents have a vacation ranch up there in the middle of nowhere. Driving to Montague is like heading into the wild west. High desert, rolling hills, Mount Shasta rising in all her snowy glory overseeing this open, endless land of deer, antelope, and cattle. My parents idea of a vacation is ranch work. Getting your hands dirty doing something useful is what my mom and dad enjoy.

Things went relatively well on the highway for the first hour and a half until we stopped in Red Bluff to buy an apple tree. My mom has retired and all she thinks about these days is growing fruits and vegetables. She has a garden at her house, a garden at my house, and a garden in Montague. On top of that, she’s been planting fruit trees all over the place. She’s a regular Granny Appleseed.

So in Red bluff my mom buys this tree and has some guy place it in the bed of the truck. Then we drive on to the Ide adobe historical park on the Sacramento River. As the boys race toward the water’s edge, my mom informs me that the ice chest containing all our food is missing. My main concern at the moment is the boys tumbling into the river. The water’s flowing high and fast right now. Even low and slow, a small boy landing in the Sac would be a disaster. I race through picnickers at the park to catch Garry James while calling for John and Joey, who are running ahead to the river, to return to the truck.

A trip back to Red Bluff does not retrieve our ice chest. The guy claims he never touched the chest, so we continue on without any food or drinks.

In the town of Mount Shasta, we stop at the headwaters of the Sacramento River. The sign beside this crystal clear creek flowing out of the side of a mountain says “no bathing, wading, or swimming in these headwaters.” Tossing aside his flip flops, Joey plows right in before I can stop him. Garry James plops down at the edge of the water wrestling to unfasten his sandals to join his brother in the stream. John fretfully points to the sign and then to Joey dancing in the creek.

“I don’t appreciate feet in my drinking water,” says an ancient hippy with waist-length gray hair and a jug in her hand. She’s glaring at Joey as he jumps around in the icy water hollering about how cold it is. My mom loudly orders me to get Joey out of the stream as she heads back to the truck to collect every drinking vessel available to fill with Mount Shasta’s finest. My concern is that Mom’s rounding up a pee cup or two in this process. Potty-training a two-year-old is no fun on a long drive, actually the four hour drive, that in the end, will take us over six hours even with Mom running truckers and other grandmas off Interstate 5 as I hold a cup for Garry James to pee in every half hour.

Now that Mom has replaced our lost water that was in the ice chest, we search for a grocery store in Mt. Shasta. The only one we find is a “whole foods” joint where a single cucumber costs $2.69. I’m surprised the milk is sold in a carton, not from a goat that customers can milk themselves to insure its “wholeness.” The woman who took offense to Joey jumping around in her drinking water must shop here. The store is full of old hippies. After looking at the prices, I buy milk and a bag of popcorn for the boys. My parents have a pantry in Montague. Knowing my mom, there is Rice-A-Roni and jello stocked there, if nothing else.

Sure enough, we have Rice-A-Roni for dinner. This is after several more hours of John and Joey fishing with my mom in the oldest rowboat I’ve ever seen on a pond out in the pasture. Five inches of brown water rolls back and forth in the bottom of the boat while Mom and the older boys catch one perch after another. Garry James tromps around in the mud along the shore. I try to read one of my summer books I’ve brought along, but there is no enjoyment to be had. Ants attack me and Garry James throws mud in my direction. The boys do their best to convince me to cook them perch for dinner when they are done fishing, but I refuse. With the sun going down on nearly the longest day of the year, my fun-o-meter is pegged.

The next morning we drive forty miles to Walmart. We replace the ice chest, and buy some packaged food that doesn’t cost us the farm. We also stop at the feedstore/nursery in Yreka to buy another apple tree. Then it’s another long drive up to some remote high desert lake for another round of perch fishing. Not a single fish is caught, but both Garry James and Joey fall into the lake fully dressed. Garry James ends up running around in nothing more than wet sandals and a hat, peeing wherever he pleases. While Joey keeps his wet jeans on and continues to fish, casting his worm into my hair on several occasions. I lay Joey’s shirt and shoes out to dry along with Garry Jame’s wardrobe while wiping worm guts off my face.

My mom, in her drooping straw hat, keeps fishing out on the dock where thirteen-year-old, chubby-cheeked country girls in bikinis are trying to sunbathe. Mom claims this fishing excursion is all about her grandsons, but I have decided she is the one who secretly loves to fish when she’s not planting apple trees. We look like the Okies from Muskogee, but fit right in with these rural families camping around this lake. I feel a sunburn coming on and spend most of my time untangling the lines the boys keep casting everywhere but the water.

Mom finally decides fishing is better back at the pond in the pasture. Off to the ranch we go, another hour in the truck with the pee cup. Once there, she and the boys fish until the cows come home. Up here cows really do come home at night, back to the barn where they are safe from mountain lions, bears, and coyots. Mom and the boys decide to save the perch they are catching so they can transport these fish alive to a smaller pond closer to the house. I’m the lucky girl who gets to pack this heavy bucket of water and two dozen perch to the next pond when they are finished.

As I dump the perch at sunset, clouds roll in and thunder booms in the distance. It really is a gorgeous night with a breeze from the thunderstorm breaking the heat. A turtle cruises across this spring-fed pond. I think my arms are out of their sockets, but for a moment I am alone not holding a pee cup. Mom and the boys have finally settled down in the house for another round of Rice-A-Roni, along with Walmart pizza pockets, and sure enough, jello. Tomorrow the long ride home looms. I realize my thoughtful mom has purchased me a new ice chest that I like better than the one that was taken in Red Bluff. The boys have had a great time fishing their hearts out. I hear coyotes yapping in the golden hills of this nowhere place, and it hits me: I am somewhere. I am smack in the middle of God’s will for my life and I am suddenly grateful.