How Much Is That Rock In the Window?
HUMOR COLUMN By Charley Daniels

Among the adventures handed over to me this summer was one at Zion National Park in the close-to-Las-Vegas corner of Utah. Zion will go down in history as the last summer vacation destination of my pre-graduate-school life. And what a destination! According to the park's official Web site, rocks are its main attraction: "The Park is characterized by high plateaus, a maze of narrow, deep, sandstone canyons and striking rock towers and mesas." That stuff is true, but it does not change that this list is just a fancy way to say "lotsa rocks." Not that I'm complaining-I feel in awe of any nature that I get to experience, even the stinging types. Of course, it is lucky that Las Vegas is so close, as rocks are only below alcohol and gambling on my list of exciting things to encounter on vacation.

The plan is to start and end the adventure in Las Vegas, since that's the closest airport to Zion we could think of. Rather than being a Vegas vacation under the auspices of an educational, geological field trip, the boozing and gambling aspect was more like a decompression chamber-a transitional waypoint for those of us who don't care to get past the first step of our twelve-step program.

I arrive at McCarran International Airport in the late afternoon, hung over from the previous night's study for this article. My parents and cousin are here to pick me up and we head to the hotel-New York, New York-where my 19-year-old brother is napping in the room. The casino floor of the hotel is cramped, with narrow walkways through the simulated streets of New York and hundreds of big bellies wrapped in faux-leather fanny packs bumping about, ready to rub against me. It is an exercise of frustration to get through the simulation, as folks from all over the heartland snap worthless photos of "genuine" New York eateries. The layout is more than an inconvenience, but this sense of tightness is probably intentional, since the designers of the casino were catering to the popular notion of what life in New York is really like, according to the official Web site (www.nynyhotelcasino.com). The press release doesn't tell me if it is an authentic Big Apple experience to mingle with tank-topped tourists who have been wandering about in 110 degree weather. That's a whimsical Las Vegas adventure, not an imported New York idiosyncrasy, I suppose.

Despite being in a vibrant, stimulating atmosphere, three hours of sleep from the previous night are not compelling me to get funky like I'm supposed to in Las Vegas. In the spirit of the trip and perhaps to liven things up, I order a Ketel One. On the rocks. Get it? The bartender is unsure what I'm chuckling at, but she gets a good tip anyway. Unfortunately the drink only makes me sleepier, so it's off to bed. I don't feel like I'm wasting a good opportunity because I have one more night in Las Vegas at the end of the trip, one more night that will be needed more than it is now.

In Zion we are meeting my mother's brother, his wife, and their 11- and 14-year-old boys. They live all the way across the country from us Oregonians, so my mother and I were the only members of the immediate family who had even met them. There is unspoken anxiety about how the initial meeting will be because nobody wants to spend two nights in a rock-filled park with a bunch of people who hate each other. In my mind, once the geology has been appreciated that first 45 minutes (slightly less for the kids), all we have is each other. I struggle to remember a time that went smoothly when all that we had was each other, and I realize that there is usually a funeral involved. No such luck on this occasion. Now add a bunch of strangers for whom we must have unconditional love and something has to give. Maybe there will be a funeral by the end of this.

We are up in the morning and ready for a drive. The trip from Las Vegas to Zion is about two and a half hours heading northeast on Highway 15. Staring at the desert, I am reminded of all the gangster movies set in Vegas, where unaffected mobsters buried loose-lipped associates under the sand, sometimes without the benefit of being already dead. Arguing with my 19-year-old brother, Nick, is like pleading with a determined hitman. He has a way of defending a ridiculous point so perfectly that rebuttal is pointless. We stop for a meal at a restaurant and Nick decides he doesn't want the tomato from his salad and the best place to get rid of it is in my father's water glass. It might seem like it would be easy to convince him that he made a mistake by putting it there, but he is very persuasive. "Do you want me to make a scene?" he asks, the rise in his voice getting us halfway there already. I said his method worked, I didn't say it was elegant. But if causing a scene were a valid legal argument, my brother would be the perfect lawyer.

There are two or three little towns for the last 20 miles on the road to Zion, jammed into a canyon like beans in a taco. Sheer rock walls rise up on either side, seemingly very close, although I cannot say what the actual distance is. The image gave way to us affectionately calling the area "the butt crack of Utah." It is a tourist destination, to be sure. Hotels, restaurants, and gift shops make up at least 75 percent of the buildings in Utah's butt crack. Since the area is famous for rocks, it is simultaneously a surprise and a foregone conclusion that there are an extravagant number of gift shops selling rocks. Every other building is a rock shop. One rock shop sign said "Largest selection, lowest prices available." Oh really? It seems to me that the largest selection of rocks can be found on the ground and at the best price, too-unless you count the personal cost of muscle power it takes when bending over to pick them up. Rocks in Zion are like dates in Las Vegas; you can get one fairly simply if you put in a little effort, but why not just throw down some money and skip all the formalities?

We arrive on time at the hotel, despite the urge to stop and buy some rocks. We check in and crank the air conditioners in our adjoining rooms to fend off the 111 degrees of desert sunshine that is permeating the walls. My mother calls up her brother, making plans for the big meeting in the lobby in 10 minutes. As if on cue, the power goes out, relieving us of cool rooms and the use of television as an excuse not to talk. Our Zion adventure, less than an hour old, has 47 to go.

To be continued. . .

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