1 A Bone to Pick June 29 Eau Claire, WI â Bismarck, ND Because no asteroids are hurtling toward Earth, there''s no need to rush our goodbye. Nine-year-old Ellie and I take our time, loitering alongside the minivan parked in our driveway on another warm morning in a series of warm mornings in the hottest June on record. Eleven-year-old Henry and three-year-old Millie flank their mother Meredith, who is unsure how to proceed. Ellie and I are about to embark upon the adventure of a lifetime. Not another Thursday trip to the park, the library, or the grocery store, but Montana--the Treasure State--home to natural beauty, mineral resources, and, most of all, dinosaurs. We''re dedicating two weeks and 2,500 miles to complete the Montana Dinosaur Trail--a statewide trail of fourteen museums, interpretive centers, and dig sites--all dedicated to the mystery and majesty of the largest land animals ever to roam the earth. More than a few members of the Dinosaur Hall of Fame once called present-day Montana home, from the razor-toothed Tyrannosaurus rex to the duckbilled Maiasaura. Enter the Triceratops, the Brachylophosaurus, the Pachycephalosaurus, and more.
Anyone who was anyone in the Late Cretaceous lived and died where we''re now headed. Meredith shoots me her bittersweet smile: there''s no sense prolonging the inevitable. "Okay then," I say, beginning the proceedings. "I guess it''s now or never." That isn''t entirely true. The dinosaurs aren''t going anywhere. They''re either safely displayed in museums or buried beneath the ground. But if we want to make Bismarck by nightfall, we need to hit the road.
My anxiety about hitting that road is only offset by my anxiety about staying put, which would be much easier. But easy is not what inspires us. For the rest of our days, I want us to recall that time in our lives when we didn''t do the easy thing. The time we threw caution to the wind and were rewarded (fingers crossed) with memories more numerous than stars. When I broached the idea the previous fall, Ellie seemed thrilled. Dad and dinosaurs! What could be better than that? But as summer approached, she''d grown leery of the timeline and the company. "Two weeks is a long time," she conceded. "Not really," I replied, "not in a geological sense .
" "Well, it feels long," she added sheepishly, "especially when that whole time is spent with one person ." "No offense taken," I said. But I knew what she meant. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, though it can be hard to come by when cramped in a van. Meredith makes the first move, embracing Ellie like a Velociraptor on a small mammal--but less murderous. "Oh, I love you so much, my sweet girl," she says. Ellie--who has never been separated from her mom for longer than a mini-week at camp--sags into her mother''s open arms. At that moment, I suspect Ellie might have preferred the park, library, or store over our two-week trip to Montana.
What are dinosaurs, after all, but a bunch of old bones? Don''t get me wrong, Ellie loves dinosaurs (she''s a living, breathing child, after all). But she also loves her bunk bed, the backyard trampoline, and, often, her brother and sister. But it''s too late to turn back. Already, I''d spent the morning playing Tetris with our provisions, fitting coolers, sleeping bags, suitcases, and backpacks into their perfect places. So no, we are not turning back, and we are not opening the trunk. We''re fifteen feet from our living room, but our journey has begun. Besides, did dinosaurs throw in the towel when they missed their mommies? Did they pull their hybrid minivans back into their garages and return to the safety of their living rooms? They most certainly didn''t. Come hell or high water (and they endured both), they persisted.
For 165 million years. With a little luck and a lot of fast food, Ellie and I can survive two weeks together. Taking his cue from his mom, Henry musters the most heartfelt goodbye an eleven-year-old can. "Okay," he sighs, "see you later or . whatever." "I love you, Henry," Ellie says, latching onto him. Completing the sibling chain, Millie clings to Ellie''s leg like a barnacle--an extraction that requires both parents to peel her fingers away. "Bring her back safe," Meredith says, hugging me.
"And find lots of dinosaurs!" "Will do," I promise. "At least the first part." The previous night, under the cover of darkness, the entire family had tried to slow time by chalk-drawing in the driveway. One after another, as the moon gleamed overhead, we lay flat on the blacktop so Millie could trace our outlines with thick nubs of chalk. No matter that our chalky shapes resembled a crime scene; for Millie, it was a way to keep us close. Peering at our two-dimensional family in the morning light, I wonder how long our chalk versions will last. No doubt there''s a downpour somewhere in our future, though for the moment, it''s nothing but sunshine ahead. Millie--who seemed on the verge of collapse just moments ago--forgoes her freakout in favor of one last addition to her chalk drawing.
Reaching for a piece of chalk, she draws a top hat along Ellie''s chalked head. "There," Millie says proudly, turning toward us. "Now, Ellie, you a gentleman!" Laughing beats crying, so we do. Ellie and I enter the van, buckle our seatbelts, and begin the long, slow reverse out of the driveway. I catch Ellie''s anxious eyes in the rearview. "It''ll be fine," I promise. "Are you sure?" she asks. "Sure, I''m sure," I say.
Which is probably what some daddy dinosaur said to his daughter as an asteroid lit up the sky.