It’s not just that they are tall (some of them reach 370 feet). They are also wide and thick. People get married inside them. We drove our rental car through one of them and I held my breath to make us skinnier. (Side note: I also held my breath while entering parking garages when we still drove the F250. Holding my breath shrinks the vehicle and helps us squeeze into tight spaces. This is just one of many contributions I brought to the big RV trip).

I also just did not realize how all-consuming the forest would be. I knew the ocean was a stone’s throw away but we could neither hear nor see it. We couldn’t see much of anything. Paige always skips ahead of us while hiking and I’ve never been concerned before but when she bounded down the path quickly in the Redwoods, I couldn’t see her at all. The forest devoured her, pink outfit and everything. It was disconcerting.

In 2004, I spent a week in Cairo staring at the Pyramids of Giza from my hotel window. That view is a whole other story which involves trading US dollars on the Egyptian black market and sleeping with one eye open the first night we were there. I’ll tell you about that another time. The point is, I stared because I couldn’t get past the mind-blowing idea that when Joseph brought Mary and Jesus to Egypt, they SAW the same Pyramids I was seeing. Jesus saw the Pyramids! It connected me to my Savior unlike anything else ever has and really makes me want to go to Israel.

Well, the Redwood trees are seriously ancient. We stood by trees that are over 1,000 years old. We saw cross sections of trees where historical events were marked on the ring. Here’s how old the tree was when Columbus came over. Here’s how big it was when the American Revolution was fought. Here’s what it was like the day JFK was shot. These silent, mighty giants have witnessed history like nothing else on earth and it was humbling to walk among them. I kept reaching out to touch their fire-resistant bark to somehow be part of them.

We did it all—the obligatory photo by Paul Bunyan and his ox, Babe; the ride through the sky and up over the trees (smooth; not scary at all) and a pleasant, continuous search for Wicket and friends.

About an hour into the woods, it dawned on me that I’d been in that forest before—a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. It felt so familiar! We realized that everything from the thick needles on the ground to the darkness to the fallen trees reminded us of Return of the Jedi! Of course, we wanted to grab our phones and check our theory but we couldn’t because there is no signal deep inside Redwood National Park. Once we cleared the woods, we looked it up and sure enough, ROTJ’s famous Ewok scenes were filmed right there in that vast, overwhelming forest. Suddenly, we felt even more connected to that big, ol’ clump of tall trees.

When we wound our back to the ranger station and out into the sunshine, we gasped at how bright everything was. I would not want to be lost in that dark, mysterious world but somehow I don’t think I’d be scared for long. It was so incredibly peaceful, comforting and knowing. Plus, an entire village of Ewoks is ready to fight the Empire and then party with us. Stormtrooper helmet bongos, anyone?

“Heck with it,” God said. “I’ll just use all of this stuff and surprise the socks off everyone who comes this way.”

And we were surprised…by whales, by white foam that sprays up when one least expects it, by how all the colors just seem to go together and how the seals show off their surfing skills and I swear to you, actually LOOK up at the camera to see if we’re watching them.

It’s hard to get from Point A to Point B along this road because we had to stop every 5.7 minutes to jump out of the car and run around marveling at all the gorgeousness. Good thing we planned an entire day for such behavior or we would have been in trouble. Our motto is to go slowly so there’s always time to digest one roadside snack before you stop for another.

One note before I share the photos. We were in Oregon and California almost two, full weeks and during that time, we did in fact, change Paige’s clothes but this girl has a FAVORITE outfit and that’s just always what she goes for time and again. Thank God (for Oregon surprises) and a HomeAway house with a washer and dryer.

I was surrounded by strangers, that first time. My friend Charisse was somewhere in the darkness and Tommy White and his wife, Jennifer were there, too but all I remember is these new kids, Oregon teens, who took my hand and ran.

Charisse and I flew out of Amarillo to visit the Whites in their new home, Florence, Oregon. I’d just finished high school. She was going to be a junior. Our youth pastor, Tommy, had left Hugoton the year before to work for a church in Oregon and we missed him terribly. I used graduation money, quit my job at the library three weeks before it was necessary and hopped a plane.

The first full day we were there, we met Tommy’s new kids. I both immediately loved them and despised them because they had Tommy and we didn’t. They rode jet skis to each other’s houses and all of them smelled like sea salt, I swear. One of them drove a VW bug which could only start while going downhill. I asked about the beach. They gawked at me like I’d just admitted to never tasting chocolate.

“No, seriously, I’ve never seen the ocean.” Within minutes, they’d organized themselves and grabbed us. The sun had set but that didn’t deter them in the slightest.

“Carry your shoes! Run!”

We slipped into the deep, moist sand and nearly toppling over, stumbled forward at a less-than-safe acceleration. They held me up and we found our pace.

I could hear the ocean. No one had ever told me how loud it was and in 1995, I didn’t have YouTube to show me. I could smell it. Salt, dead fish, wet wood–yes, please. I could not see it. I’m pretty much blind anyway but at night? Forget about it. I didn’t really trust these new friends but caught up in the excitement and feeling the rhythm of the sea, I ran. We hit the shocking, powerful water and I screamed for a full minute, waves splashing up over my bare toes, soaking my barely-had-time-to-roll-up jeans. Charisse and I found each other, giggling from the chill and the thrill. Tommy and the boys built a fire. He brought out his guitar. Someone gathered halfway straight sticks and we roasted marshmallows on the Oregon coast.

I’ve always, always wanted to take my family there and last October, I did.

Ramona Quimby isn’t just a fictional character for me. She was my friend, my secret inner self (because my outer self has always been a strict rule-follower and an academic). She made me laugh. She helped me understand sibling relationships (though at the time I didn’t know that’s what it was called). I rolled my eyes and gasped out loud and shook my head and I loved her. She was the original (and better) Junie B. Jones. Her hair was a disaster. She was nearly-always covered in mud. Her feelings got hurt. She was real.

Well, Ramona’s adventures take place in Portland, Ore., and last fall, we ventured out to the West Coast for my not-so-baby cousin’s wedding. A friend (thanks, Dan!) recommended we follow Ramona’s footsteps and we took a morning to do so. The girls and I got more out of the romp than Daniel did but he humored us in his usual way. Danny hasn’t read a Beverly Cleary book and while my love for him is everlasting, this fault has certainly put a damper on our relationship. Girls, take note, if a guy doesn’t know who Ralph S. Mouse is, he’d better be a fantastic guitar player or just walk away.

We found our way to Klickitat Street where Ramona and Beezus grew up and fought and splashed in rain puddles. We checked out the statues of Cleary’s beloved characters in the park and drove past Ramona’s elementary school and the library where Clearly worked (of course she was a librarian). It was chilly and damp and very Oregonian. Reagan told her Dad the stories as we went along. Paige hugged Ribsy. I held hands with my man as we crunched fall leaves. When I think of that morning, I smile, much like I do when I think of Ramona Q.

The first place we visited was a total tourist trap. It was utterly cheesy and corny. I loved every minute of it. I don’t always go for tourist traps. In Cairo, our guide insisted on us taking this complete-waste-of-time boat ride through a “museum” and she actually finger flicked the back of my head because I was laughing (with my friend whose head she did not flick; I’ve always been a bit flummoxed by that) because the entire experience was so unsophisticated and ridiculous. Maybe Pennsylvanians do a better job with history-based tourism than the Egyptians do (though those pyramids were pretty impressive). Whatever it was, the largest battle ground diorama in the world captured our attention and held it.

We consciously visited the diorama first so we could give the girls a bird’s eye view of the battlefield and its proximity to town. I don’t know if it helped them or not but Danny and I learned a whole lot and I’m glad we visited it. At one point they had a little show and turned all the lights off. We sat on supremely hard bleachers facing the diorama which lit up here and there as a booming voice took us through the days of battle. Then we made our way downstairs past a huge gun collection to tour through the battle again but this time led by ghosts. Again, so silly but also very Americana. At the end we found ourselves on the battlefield with cannons and guns firing at us! We ate lunch in a local bar and grill which was severely lacking in excitement after all that.

During our visit we took a self-guided tour through the battlefield with me reading off historical information and Danny pulling over for us to explore here and there. State memorials dot the battle ground, honoring each fallen soldier, no matter which color uniform he wore. The rain sputtered and threatened but for the most part we were ok. Until we weren’t.

We’d known for months we wanted to tour the battlefield on horseback with our little equestrians. It ain’t cheap but I’d budgeted for it and we decided one, last splurge before heading back to the middle of the country was a good idea. The girls didn’t have a clue what was happening until we walked up to the horses. We love surprising them with crazy, awesome experiences and this has to top the list.

The girls eagerly mounted their horses, didn’t protest when we insisted they wear helmets and patiently waited for all the other tourists to clamber up their beasts as well. We wore headphones and a certified battlefield guide rode along with us, pouring Gettysburg facts into our ears while our horses clomped along in a slow, orderly fashion. I always feel so sorry for the horses that work for these outfits. How many tours have they given today? But apparently, I don’t feel sorry enough not to do it.

Paige and Reagan glowed with happiness and I had a hilarious view of my very tall, lanky husband trying to lengthen his stirrups while also taking pictures and steering his mount. It was great. Paige had repeatedly told the guide up front (who insisted that Paige ride right beside her) that she knew what she was doing and could control the horse on her own, thank you very much. About 30 minutes into the experience, the lady finally realized Paige wasn’t kidding and let Paige do her own thing. Due to her size, strangers often underestimate our youngest but during their time together, Paige won a forever fan.

You remember the rain, though, right? Well, it remembered us. The thunder and lightning came first. Our guides got twitchy. A few sprinkles fell from the dark clouds. Our guides held a quick conference. The wind picked up. Our guides announced the end of the ride and we were probably only ¾ of the way through the scheduled itinerary. Disappointed but with a respectful understanding that sitting horseback in a big field is probably not the safest place to be in a rainstorm, we reluctantly followed them back to the beginning point.

One side note here, a couple weeks later the riding company called Danny and gave us a full refund with their apologies. We were so surprised. They couldn’t control the weather and took us off the battlefield for our safety but they went above and beyond to honor our agreement.

The rain had nothing on the visitor’s center so we spent a couple education-packed hours in that beautiful building. We experienced the Cyclorama which I don’t even know how to describe. I linked to a video that’s short and gives you an idea of what a Cyclorama is. We stood in the center of a large room way at the top of the visitor’s center. We were in the middle of a ginormous painting, created in a 360-degree manner. In front of the painting were various artifacts and props that make the painting feel 3D. A narrator led us through the third day of battle complete with smoke and cannon fire. I just reread this and my description is so lacking. It sounds silly and like something our Egyptian guide would force us to endure, not the super cool experience it was. I could not tell where the painting ended and the tangible wagon wheels, shrubs and cannons began. It was such a weird, eerie feeling. Paige kept putting her hand out to try to touch things and I didn’t know whether to stop her because she was actually standing close to a real object or let her lunge forward since the painting itself was protected from curious hands and separated from us by a “moat” that went all the way around the circular room. There I go again. Just go. Stop reading this.

We stood where Lincoln stood. Danny and I repeated as much of the speech as we could remember from eighth grade social studies. We read the rest aloud to the girls while they fought over who was going to hold the umbrella. We paused quietly in front of the rows and rows of white markers (by this time in the trip, both our daughters knew what they meant and definitely how to behave in their presence).

We slipped out of Gettysburg and pointed the big truck toward home. I think I’ve put off writing these last few adventures because somehow if I hadn’t told you about them, they weren’t over. Bear with me as I continue to share our trips in the future. This 10-month, grand, insane, wild, beautiful mess of a journey ended with Gettysburg, though.

You should probably know a few details I wouldn’t normally share. First, when I planned where we would stay, I usually just called RV parks three or four weeks out so our plans remained pretty fluid. I realized in Florida that I’d made a huge mistake. It hit me in one pre-dawn jolt. I scheduled us to be in Gettysburg the last weekend in May…also known as Memorial Day Weekend. I completely freaked out, obviously. I called seven RV places in the Gettysburg area and people actually laughed at me (they’re forgiven for this because truly, I am an idiot).

“Honey, we’ve been completely booked since Thanksgiving,” said one chuckling campground owner. “It’s Memorial Day Weekend in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. What were you thinking?”

Well, I’ll tell you, sweet lady. I was thinking about Disney World and schooling these kids and where to get the oil changed and the five other places we’ll be before we get to Gettysburg including oh, ya know, New York City, Philadelphia and Boston. I was thinking about hotel reservations and Lady Liberty’s boat ride and how to find a ducklings statue.

I messed up. I admit that. And we paid for it a bit. In the end one RV place had mercy on our pathetic souls and let us park the RV (and unbeknownst to them, our cats) in a field on their property. We slept in a hotel 45 minutes away from town and were grateful for it but before we got there, this happened.

Please let me remind you that by this point in the journey we’d handled detouring through Princeton, New Jersey due to a bridge that shouted in indignation at us, “No way I can hold that big, fat RV. Turn around!” So we did. And we’d sucked in our collective breath as we squeezed into tunnels or under overpasses that aren’t that big of a deal when you’re in a minivan but matter a whole, heck of a lot when you’re driving a 14-feet tall 5^th wheel. We’d traveled thousands of miles, paid hundreds of dollars in tolls and taken pictures of alligators as we zipped along. We were experienced, road hardened. Traveling warriors.

Morons.

While chatting and following signs we cruised into Gettysburg one morning with our hearts full of Lincoln and the boys in blue and then realized we were in a teeny, itty, bitty town with streets to match. The GPS led us straight downtown where a Mini Cooper would have trouble taking corners. We nearly took out a stop sign. I’m saying we missed it by an inch. At one intersection cars had to back up to get out of our way. Passersby stopped to gawk at us. I’m sure they took pictures.

It was horrifying. I prayed the entire time and mostly had my eyes closed because not seeing the disaster as it approached seemed best. Danny gripped the wheel and muttered things under his breath and Reagan hollered her opinions from the back. Paige asked when we were going to eat again. Technically this lasted maybe eight or nine minutes but it felt like a dental visit and come to think of it, sounded the same, as well.

And then in what can only be described as a miracle, we were out of town and driving through the countryside. We left the 5^th Wheel in its muddy accommodations and hurried back to explore history.  We were frazzled, hungry and wet because did I mention it was raining?

Getting to Gettysburg proved to be half the adventure. Our actual visit was beautiful and memorable and I’ll share that next.

Paige has made us promise to take her back anyway because she was not allowed to climb the lighthouses due to her petite stature. She was bitter and insulted and even my explaining that she was small for age but really is eight and quite brave…did nothing to dissuade the keepers of light. They had rules to follow and that was that. We did get a voucher for her to come back some day and climb for free with her favorite parent so I guess that means I’ll be going back up those twisty, narrow stairs sometime in the future.

I’m glad of it.

Before traveling to this absolutely stunning state my knowledge was pretty much summed up by one line from “Summer Magic.” Do you remember that old Hayley Mills movie? Her cousin comes to stay and she says something like, “if you must live in Maine, why not some-place-I-can’t-remember or Bar Harbor?” (Exact quotes are not my forte). Anyway, the name Bar Harbor stayed with me and now I’ve been there and eaten there and loved every minute. We actually spent the night in Bangor, not Bar Harbor because a friend had recommended a Bangor bakery ran by monks (yep, actual monks) and we never pass up the opportunity to eat baked goods lovingly created by friars and also, to actually sleep in Bar Harbor was $300 a night. Where was our RV, you ask? We left it outside Plymouth, Mass., and just drove the truck up for our days in Maine. We found that despite the fact our F-250 has an extra long bed, it’s still easier to drive through mountains and over narrow bridges than our 39-foot Fifth Wheel. Go figure.

Now that we’re all up to speed, let’s talk about Acadia National Park.

You know that ice breaker game where you have to choose between the beach or the mountains? Well, Acadia is the end of that twisted, sadistic challenge. We got sand between our toes and breathed heavenly pine all in one day and it was good. We also learned about beavers and held the teeniest, sweetest little turtle ever. We felt the power of Thunder Hole and stood on Otter Point and wished the whole time that we could stay longer.

Around every turn, we saw something that made us gasp (in a good way). The girls ran ahead and doubled back to tell us, “this is really cool! Hurry up!” Danny and Paige climbed rocks over a narrow ledge where water falls into the ocean and the two of us who don’t like to court death, roamed the beach and climbed a small, non-scary hill.

Only 116 names are known for sure because it’s not like people bragged, “Oh, I helped toss British property into the ocean last night; it was super fun!” Regardless of whether they made it public, it took guts to do what they did. Guts seem so rare these days. We all go with the flow or only whisper our real thoughts to trusted friends or hide behind our screens. I guess plenty of people ducked back into the shadows then, too. I’m grateful for the ones who didn’t.

So there’s this museum in Boston where we learned about the most famous tea party ever thrown. I loved everything about the experience. We heard Sam Adams rally patriots at a town meeting (where we got to participate and yell at King George which really, every American should do on a monthly basis, it was so very cool). Each of us received a card that told us about a real tea party participant so we could learn his fate at the end.

We used feathers to disguise ourselves and all caught up in mob mentality, we raced out to the boats and slipped on board to trash some property. In reality, the 1773 party was highly orchestrated…as a last resort but one they all pretty much knew was coming. Our girls threw tea boxes into the harbor (they’re also connected to the boats by rope so later the actors pull them back up). Amazing holographs showed us what common Bostonians thought about the evening’s activities. A couple talking portraits shared actual letters exchanged between two key players.

We stood in the same room with a 1773 tea box which a young boy found on the shore and hid the morning after and which then was passed down in his family for the last 240 years (at one point it was used to store dolls and a little girl painted flowers on it). Of course ain’t no way they were letting us flash our cameras at that, so you really MUST go to Boston. We watched a fantastically well-done movie that put all the action into chronological order and helped sear the significance of those first revolutionary events into the minds of our children. Afterwards, we dined in Abigail’s Tea Room and Danny sipped the five different kinds of tea the patriots dumped into the sea all those years ago. It was great. I know I end all my posts the same way telling you to GO, for crying out loud, but please listen to me. Boston is a must see for every American.

I’ve wanted to do this for years and not just because following a brick road seems like a good idea to a Kansas girl but also because my love of history is rivaled only by my love of Star Wars (which technically also happened a long time ago and therefore is also history).

We stopped by the visitor’s center for a map and headed out into a glorious, sunny day to learn more about the people who decided to start a country. Along the way we enjoyed an incredibly talented percussionist who used 5-gallon buckets to create fantastic, dance-worthy vibes outside Faneuil Hall. I ate pasta. Paige had Chinese food. Danny and Reagan wolfed down huge, greasy sandwiches. We learned (again!) from national park rangers. We saw Paul Revere’s house and heard horse hooves pounding on cobblestone streets as a patriot raced into the night to warn his fellow Americans. Did you know that the USS Constitution first sailed in 1797 and our navy still runs it today? We climbed all over that ship while imagining fighting pirates or those sassy British who came back in 1812 for another smackdown.

We cruised through Boston Harbor gazing up at skyscrapers while seeing old church steeples, taverns, fishing boats, people just trying to make a life for themselves. Both worlds are alive in Boston–current life hustles along but always right in step with it is our nation’s story, kind of faded but still visible along the periphery.

The entire time I wished I could go back to 1773 and toss tea overboard or sneak around with Sam Adams or be “British-free since March 1776” or die for my country on Bunker Hill. I hope Bostonians don’t take their history for granted. I hope they are proud of it because they have much to brag about, so much that it was hard to take it all in and remember. One region, one group of united, brave men and women–today owes immeasurable gratitude to yesterday.