We took a different route home from the coast that we took on the way there. I had no idea that Little Miss GPS was going to be taking us on Nehalem Highway, which I assume is the tribal word for "carsick."
Fortunately, I was in the driver's seat and was mostly immune to the hour of twists, turns, starts, and stops. Unfortunately, no one else was. Fortunately, the only thing spilling from the backseat was ANGER, and lots of it. Never were we all so glad to see a straight road back into town as we were on that day.
Shortly before the hills and the curves came to an end, I came across a yellow road sign that said, "ELK," and lo and behold, around the next (twist and turn) we saw this:
I remarked to another gal who had stopped by the road that we were quite lucky that the elk knew to rest just where the sign said to rest. And then she mumbled something about "wildlife preserve," or some such nonsense, and moved on. Huh.
Anyway, I stopped the van at the cries of mercy coming from everyone, thinking a little stillness and fresh air would help out. It did, sorta, but then of course we had to head out on the highway again. Poor Ziggy climbed out of his seat at the Elk Stop and laid down on the floor of the van, begging and begging to ride there for the rest of the way home. It was so pitiful but like a dutiful, law-abiding, safety-conscious mom, I made him sit back in his seat and endure.
Meanwhile, the Suz and Pa were having a rousing conversation about the elk. She insisted they were sheep; Pa insisted they were elk. Sheep, elk, sheep, elk, sheep, elk. Finally the Suz shouted out, "SHEEP ELK!" and we just left it at that.
I assure you, no one in our family ever wants to see that patch of Sheep Elk again.
