The Joys of Traveling With a Grandchild

An uphill climb

Eager to do more exploring, Marshall wakes up early the next day, much like a giddy kid does on Christmas morning, excited to check out the haul from Santa. Today’s challenge: the Pyramid Trail in Red Rock Park, just outside of Gallup, our home base for the trip. Venturing on the deserted trail with cell service a distant memory, we begin the gradual ascent that rapidly becomes a taxing uphill climb. I grow breathless; my pace slows. Marshall forges ahead, turning around periodically to ask, “What’s taking you so long, TerBear?”

Marshall's first steps on the Rocky Mountains.

Courtesy: Terri Marshall

Old age doesn’t seem like an answer he would understand, so I quicken my pace, gasping all the way. I reach Marshall as he balances himself on an inches-wide ledge.

“Wait!” I shout.

“Why?” he asks.

“I don’t think that’s the right way to go — it’s too narrow.”

He assures me it’s a safe way to the next level, then scrambles up to a rock with ease, the invincible nature of youth on full display. I take a deep breath and gingerly step out onto the ledge myself, only to quickly freeze. To my left, a drop of more distance than I care to calculate looms. My legs begin to tremble as my latent fear of heights returns with a vengeance.

“I can’t do this, Marshall,” I say.

“Sure you can,” he responds, as he comes back down and coaxes me up the rock to safety. When I look down I spot a slightly larger ledge. “Marshall, that’s the correct trail,” I say, pointing to my discovery.

Lesson learned (for both of us): Sometimes Grandma knows best.

With the angst behind me, I’m rewarded with 360-degree views of the high desert, peppered with glorious red rock cliffs. We both stand still a few moments, overwhelmed with the landscape’s majesty.

Another morning, we drive about an hour south of Gallup to the El Morro National Monument, a prehistoric pueblo preserved atop a sandstone promontory. It’s Marshall’s first exposure to petroglyphs, and he’s captivated. Later, time spent with an elder from the Zuni tribe reveals a fascinating culture and lifestyle previously unfamiliar to both of us.

A learning experience

We learned a lot about each other during our four-day journey, growing closer with each new shared experience. Marshall became acutely aware of my fear of heights, and I now know he’s not a fan of going airborne in anything small, a fear that came to light when he vehemently nixed my booking a hot-air balloon ride.

It also became apparent that neither of us minds a long drive if it leads to new discoveries. That revelation prompted us to expand our itinerary to include Four Corners Monument, the spot where my budding young wanderer could add three more states — Arizona, Colorado and Utah — to his been-there-done-that travel résumé. From there, we drove another 100 miles into Arizona to experience the beauty of Monument Valley, where majestic sandstone bluffs tower above the sandy desert floor.

These long drives revealed so much more than enticing landscapes, as we engaged in lengthy conversations that continued for miles. Marshall loved hearing eye-opening stories about his dad, Chris, as a boy. He particularly liked the tale about a 6-year-old Chris, dressed in camouflage, hiding in a tree in our Florida front yard and watching from above as I ran around the yard searching for him, calling his name in a near-panicked state. Imagining the scene, he laughed and noted, “I think I get my prankster side from my dad.”

Always curious about my travels, Marshall asked me, “What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?” My quick response: fishing for piranhas in the Peruvian Amazon with four other women. Baiting our primitive fishing poles with raw meat, we caught 48 of the legendary fish with razor-sharp teeth. When we’d had enough angling, our guide suggested a swim. Not considering that we’d be in the same water where we just reeled in the feisty flesh-eating fish, I eagerly jumped in to cool off.

Laughing hysterically, Marshall asked, “Seriously, TerBear, why would you even think about going into that water?” In that moment he learned that his supposedly wise-with-age grandmother is capable of inexplicable antics. He may have even thought, Grandmas don’t always know best.

Memories to cherish

On our final day, on our drive from Gallup back to Albuquerque, Marshall asks if we can continue another hour to Santa Fe, an idea that gets a thumbs-up from me. He had read that the Sangre de Cristo Mountains — a subrange of the Rocky Mountains — form a portion of the Santa Fe National Forest outside of New Mexico’s capital. Winding our way up the peaks, we arrive just before sunset, as the moon is beginning to emerge, the fading light casting shadows across the fir trees clinging to the rocky cliffs. Taking in the view, Marshall grins from ear to ear. Tallying up the wildlife we spotted throughout the week, including a herd of elk and one entertaining road runner, he declares his affection for the American West.

As darkness falls we slowly snake our way back down the road, stopping a few minutes to stargaze. Moved by the brilliant celestial show, Marshall turns to me and says, “I’ll never forget this.” Tears of joy fill my eyes, and I reply, “Neither will I.”