Mom, my ear is filled with sand!

I know, baby, there's sand in mine too. And my nose and my eyes and my teeth.

I remember playing the Oregon Trail in elementary school. It was some sort of reward or time killer for the teacher I suppose. Anyhow, my oxen would always get lost or die in a sandstorm. I'd be delayed in some godforsaken place for days hunting down the damn oxen. All the while thinking: Yeah right, oxen are the size of a refrigerator and move at a lightning speed of .01 MPH. There's no way I lost four in a little wind and sand. Then I'd have to kill off my family, bury them on the side of the road and start over to get a competitive score. Damn sandstorm.

We were guests this week at the fantabulous city of Cortez, Colorado for the State Swim Meet(more on that later). Cortez, we soon discovered, is a bit more rough around the edges than one might think when picturing an idyllic mountain town. Apparently, it's smack dab in the middle of Indian Native American country. The town was literally filled with what Tommy called "Hobo bad guys." These were some serious drinkers and man were they mad at us white folk for invading their peace. They approached us screaming with arms flailing continuously yelling at us to "get the %$^# off their land!" The police became our good friends.

I'm sure they were as shocked to see the hundreds of swimmers converge on their "home" in the city park as we were to see them. It certainly opened the eyes of my children who have had little to no experience with alcoholism, profanity and violence. Although, most of the hobo (I'm sure that isn't the correct term but that's what the police called them) fights were: stagger, punch, miss, fall, cuss, and repeat, a few of the brawls got a little scary. My children, much to their dismay, were not allowed outside the pool gates without a parent.

I digress, back to the sandstorm. Seeing as we will probably never, God willing, return to the area we snuck in a quick trip to the four corners.

The only thing between Cortez and the Four Corners is the reservation. I've never seen that type of poverty. The living conditions were absolutely horrendous. The scenery was breathtaking. Those poor people. It's so sad.

We passed 1,498,521 empty bottles of booze on the side of the road during the 30 minute trip, arriving at a pleasant 104° with a gentle breeze.

Opening the car door was eerily similar to opening a huge oven door, only with wind and sand.
We noticed the breeze picking up speed as we approached the monument, hot air smacking us in the face.
The breeze turned quickly into a strong wind.

The sand began to pelt our skin as the air was replaced with brown dust. I instinctively grabbed Megan’s arm. Visibility was so bad I couldn’t see her. I screamed for Joey. He was only three or four feet away but I couldn’t blindly reach him. I yelled “run to the car!” Joey replied, “I CAN’T!” As I got closer I could see him flapping his arms and shaking his head in the wind. I pulled him by the shoulder and we ran in the direction of the car. My mother grabbed me from behind screaming, “Don’t run! A car can’t see you either!” We crouched down to the ground huddled together. A woman’s hat flew off her head. Her husband began to chase it as she yelled “JUST LET IT GO. SAVE YOURSELF, HONEY!” Notice how tattered and torn the flags are in this pic compared to the first?

As the wind began to subside we ran to the van and got the heck out of there. We looked at each other all brown from the sand and began hysterically laughing. Megan said, “I don’t think we got our $3’s worth.” I agree. Thank Goodness we left the three little ones with dh at the hotel!

I’ll admit I would’ve totally lost my oxen had my covered wagon been at the Four Corners that day. I’m sorry Oregon Trail no hard feelings, okay?