I inched closer to the patch of grass in the backyard pushed by the eggings-on of my old man. He spoke in a tone so excited anyone would guess the hidden surprise in the weeds was an easter egg light years before considering it may be an angry diamondback rattlesnake, coiled and ready to sink its fangs into any part of my body, preferably my face. Pa, calm and collected as a holy-rolling snake handler, urged me to creep closer. Closer still. My heart sat in my throat and threatened to tear its way out until I realized I wasn't sent into battle empty handed. Dad gave me a B.B. gun. So I shot the rattler in the face. Three times.
Several occasions throughout my childhood mirrored this same situation in danger level. On a terrorist threat level color chart, they were orange at the very least. Some, if I cried hard enough, crept into red territory. At such times, I convinced myself he wanted me dead. Any venture out of doors took on a dark tone laced with what I was sure had to be bloodlust. The thirst for some sick form of delayed infanticide.
Every summer, our family trekked to northern Arizona, southern utah, or somewhere in the Rockies. There, my parents proceeded to put my sister and I through a host of perilous trials I would later associate with challenges on extreme reality shows. Only instead of a cash prize, the only reward for our survival was a pat on the back and a tent to sleep in. Maybe we'd some mystery meat from the Navajo taco stand on the side of the road if we were lucky. In Zion National Park, they led us along a slippery trail covered in fine sand. To our left was a sheer rock face. To our right, a vertical drop of multiple hundreds of feet and no railing in between. At the Tonto Natural Bridge, they scooted us along a pathless trail underneath the bridge where the slightest misplaced step surely would have sent us screaming and flailing down the rocks into a freezing pool of murky water. Time after time we were forced into situations that made me want to run sobbing back to flat, solid ground and bury myself in a Goosebumps book. But of course, we lived.
In hindsight, I'm thankful for each of these scenarios. Not only did they give me a view of what I now consider some of the most gorgeous landscape I have ever seen, but also a good laugh. They got me out of the house. They cured me of my junkie-like cravings for Mortal Kombat and sour gel candy in a tube. They got me out onto the cliffs and into striking distance of poisonous pit vipers, but never without a hand to grab onto or a Wal-Mart caliber child's gun to keep me safe.
