~:: The Explorer Bike Club ::~

The last of it.  The catch-all.  The round up.  How many times can you say, “That baby is SO adorable!” before you start feeling – I dunno – used.  Worse – repetitive.  This is the problem with people who have children and actually like them.  Or grandchildren (even more likable because you can hand them to their parents and go ANYWHERE YOU WANT without finding a babysitter).  They just bore you to death with the pictures.

But a solemn thing happened those last days of the visit: the grand organization of the Explorer Bike Club (made famous by the title of this essay).  It began as nothing more than the bud of an idea: sleeping with Grandpa out in the new very old Airstream Trailer.  Way out there in the desert.  At least fifty feet away from the house.  Powered by an orange extension cord.

The forest is to the right, here.  The airstream is hidden in the trees, actually down to the right of the photographer.

Add to that several GP-Max bike journeys.  Notably the one near the house of that scary dog that actually bit GP on one of his morning bike rides.  Evening bike rides?   And the fact that you have a virtual wolf as a pet.  And top it off with this frightening scene:

There you have it.  Explorers Supreme.

I, personally, wasn’t aware that the club had been formalized until after the boys had retired – with pillows and sleeping bags – into the night, and we found this sign, freshly built by both, leaning in the hallway:

Early the next morning, I hurried to document the new club, in case National Geographic should ever take interest and need an article.  Which would be cool.  I’ve never been published in National Geo before –

They led me solemnly back out into the wilderness.

Over the club bridge.

And I was allowed to take this portrait of them, right on site.

This one, too – although there was some objection arising from the fact that the handshake is supposed to be quite secret.

Here is a demonstration of the fact that this is a serious, useful club with many sides to it.  Even the sign is dual purpose.

With reluctance, the club disperses, sad at the thought that almost half of the members will be flying out to the mountains in just a few hours.

Up the hill in the early light.

Still conversing.  It was at this point it was decided: I would be taken into the club as Club Photographer.  In my absence, Gin was to step into the position.  I was official.  I felt good.  Especially because the decision had been made AFTER the sleep-over.

Accompanied by wolves.  Or wolf.  Or Sully.

And there it is: pretty much the end of a marvelous trip.  I’m sure Max is glad to see the back of us.  Doesn’t he look glad?

Yeah – there.  That’s better.

Now, because I suspect this essay has left you mostly speechless, I will prompt discussion with the following question: what clubs did small YOU belong to in past years?  I, myself, remember being part of a conspiracy to break open my red metal cash register savings bank (I was – maybe four?  If that?) so my friend and I could go to the circus we were pretty sure was two blocks down from the house.  But I don’t think you could call that an actual CLUB per se. Actually.  And I was part of the Pep Club in 7th grade – with a uniform that included a red pleated skirt and a white collegiate sweater with one of those letter-sweater-letter-type megaphones sewn to the front of it.

And I swear I was part of the Mickey Mouse Club at one point – but – you know – on the user side of the screen.  But I can’t come up with any other clubs.  But I bet YOU can –