Jeff and Ricky were flopping about, flailing their arms and puffing their faces up with gulps of air they playfully held in their mouths. The sign at the beginning of the subway trail stated that if we were to encounter any cougars while hiking, the best defense is to appear to look big. That's quite literally all the instruction they offered: look big. The sign boasted a picture of a stern hiker waving his hiking sticks in the air and holding his breath. The outdoors community clearly couldn't summon up an acceptable plan A, so they decided to jump directly to plan B and advise the fated travelers to annoy the cougars into retreat as opposed to frightening them. My step-father Jeff and my brother Ricky were practicing. In no time they had perfected the art of annoying all types of life within a five-mile radius into exasperated retreat.

I don't wish to paint a deceitful picture, however; Jeff was hardly the family-man. In our family of 5, he was the largest child of the bunch. The only reason he was acting remotely playful and tolerable at the time was because Ricky is the type of kid anyone can play with. My perception is tainted, I realize, but I don't really wish to relieve the situation of my biases. Jeff and I never got along well, to say it nicely. Many different types of personalities dwell in this world: there are those that bend, adapt, that see the best in others, that are quick to forgive- Ricky fits this mold spectacularly, like a pleasant bit of silly putty that one can't help but adore- there are also those that don't always see accommodation as a priority, and this is the category that fits me the best. There are also the questionable, curious personalities that can only be explained by psychological disorders and the DSM, the ones riddled with loud, pro-Bush opinions, the ones clad in horrible plaid and Tiva sandals- worn, might I add, with equally horrific socks- the ones that never learned to clean up after themselves and think it a great idea to collect empty boxes and cement bricks. This is how I see Jeff. As I said, he and I never got along quite well.

One can imagine, therefore, how brilliantly asinine an idea a family vacation is for a family like mine. Passing each other in the hallways of the house proved to be a challenge for Jeff and me; he'd always manage to utter some stupid comment about the current domestic policy, I'd always end up screaming that he made me want to renounce my American citizenship. So, following traditional Stefanussen mentality, the family resolved that a 5 hour car trip was an apt solution to our cohabitation woes. I dramatically objected, stood strong, and vowed that such a thing would never happen even if the prevention of such meant bloodshed. Needless to say, this story begins in southern Utah, some 5 hours south of Salt Lake City.

I suppose one of the reasons my mother married Jeff was because he was “outdoorsy”, if I might be so bold as to use such an ugly-sounding expression. Jeff was fantastically active in all the wrong ways; he participated in the Iron Man competition- and no, you gullible easterners, it's not this awesome, ritualistic pastime of glory that everyone thinks it to be; if stupidness were to materialize into an overrated event, the end result would surely be an “iron man” competition- he owned all the expensive R.E.I gear that sat in the basement and collected dust, and he wore those beastly short shorts that doubtlessly revealed the most lurid unmentionables to innocent passersby when he went jogging. My mother must be the only individual in the entire world who appreciates “outdoorsy” people, these flamboyant creatures of immodesty, because she married Jeff. I'll never understand it; my mother also enjoyed being active in this way, but only to the extent of the normal individual; she appreciated it, admired it to some apathetic degree, and even considered buying a kayak until she became distracted by a shiny object lying on the ground and decided to go to lunch instead. Though the woman was always in great shape she never bothered to actually go jogging or anything. Why her admiration for the “outdoorsy” folk of the underworld would actually inspire her to marry one is completely past me. This tepid “outdoorsyness” of hers, however, is the reason I was forced to go to southern Utah to go hiking. Against my will, mind you.

It's not that I mind the hiking, truly I don't. Though I enjoy whining when outdoors, somewhere deep, deep inside of me is a sliver of appreciation for the experience. The one good thing about having pretentiously “outdoorsy” caretakers is that mandatory family activities tend to be intense. Jeff had submitted a bid to secure a permit to hike through the Subway slot canyon in Zion National Park (Yes, one must bid to hike here. Quite pretentious, as I have previously noted). The 9.5 mile hike slithers through the west side of Zion and requires its hikers to rappel, swim, and rock climb as they traverse the slot canyon. Though Jeff and I occasionally found our ways to squabble despite these obstacles, the rappelling, swimming and climbing kept the family busy enough to forsake the usual bickering. I'm not the type of person who talks as they hike. I'm not sure why, because it wasn't as if I was concentrating on the hike, or what surrounded me at that time, I simply slid into my thoughts and remained there for most of the seven hour hike. It took me three and a half hours to realize that no one quarreled when I was silent.

The canyon was, I'll admit, extraordinary. The sandstone met the ground in the most peculiar places, and soared up sixty feet on either side of you and cradled you, and the air between the two walls was heavy yet comfortable. It wasn't a cheerful place; it was damp and aggressive; the pools of water sat like glass between the walls of the canyon, and though they were a bright emerald green, there was something menacing about the water. The shapes were bizarre; the stone curved round the stream and grasped the mouths of caves that loomed grandly to the side. At times I felt as if I had fallen into an obnoxiously gaudy science-fiction novel from 1953.

We came upon a log twenty feet in length that rested on the side of the canyon and slopped down into a pool of water.

“Ah, the famous log,” I mused. Of the thousands of Subway pictures Jeff had insisted on showing us previous to our departure, ninety percent of them boasted this slender log, which, might I add, holds no significance whatsoever, other than the fact that it struck some 900 hikers as original and worthy of a picture. We all stopped to take our pictures under the log o' fame, and for a brief moment I wished I had been wearing a hawaiian shirt and burmuda shorts. I said this out loud, and everyone looked somewhat offended that I would so irreverently mock the log. Ricky didn't mind, though, he rarely does; nothing bothers him, and he's always ready to sport a smile and laugh at whatever stupid thing you have to say. That's who he is, at least that's who he used to be; he takes a little after my older brother Rob and me now, and he's grown a little cynical, a little stubborn, a little callous. In a sense I think it's good for him, because now he's more honest about what he wants as opposed to agreeing to what everyone else has to say. On the other hand, though, it's a bit sad; every once in a while I see a bit of my belligerence flash in him, like a sharp reflection on the glass of a car as it speeds through the night, and it simply doesn't suite him. He's so good at being kind. I suppose I shouldn't feel guilty. In Salt Lake, where everyone masterfully pretends that they care with great big smiles and twinkling eyes, with voices so fake that their words drip out of their mouths and down their white shirts, I pride my cynical self on my well-placed indelicacy. Each vigorous scowl is simply another satirical victory for me, you see, in this battle against needless pretension. I am the only counterbalance, and each scowl and hearty witticism is for the good of the general populace, I tell myself. There are times, however, when I look at Rick and I wonder if I've fallen off the edge of the other extreme.

We probably sat down and had a name-brand overpriced granola bar at this time. I don't remember. We continued our hike, and the scenery grew more elaborate. The puddles of green grew deeper, and the bends in the stream became more vast as we crept out of the mouth of the canyon. I'm sure that Jeff sputtered some complex yet utterly useless (and probably misquoted) statistics about the rock formations at one time or the other. I have no idea; that man is so full of useless statistics that I stopped listening three days after I met him. My mother once told me that I stopped listening to Jeff before I met him, and I replied by informing her that her statement wasn't half as profound as it sounded. I remember that she smiled after I said this, and laughed. Though she doesn't enjoy the fact that I so stubbornly oppose optimism, my mother laughs at the dry humor in my opinions. When she laughs she smiles, and I always feel as though she understands me when she does this. We slowly exited the slot canyon and began the steep 400-foot climb straight up the loose talus hill to the canyon rim. The sun shone- it must have- in that piercing way that bathes you so deeply in yellow light that it's difficult to see. The dust of the desert rose up, embraced us, and clung to our damp bodies that were moist with the perspiration of the hike. The subway was visible yet distant, and without the pressing weight of the internal décor of the canyon it felt as if I wasn't looking at the same expanse of land I had just explored. I placed my hands on my hips and asked for a drink of water.

I'm not sure how long we walked before we reached Jeff's Chevrolet blazer. Jeff's car bore manifest to the fact that his all-encompassing “outdoorsyness” was of apocryphal proportions; Chevrolet blazers, in all their versatility and ability to be simultaneously sporty yet semi-ego-friendly, are only appointed to the supremely “outdoorsy” of all the “outdoorsy” folk. I smirked at the rarely-used bike rack that was perched on top as I tossed my gear in the back and climbed in the car. I threw myself on the seat and let my legs fall limp. I stretched my arms behind me, crossed them, and rested them on my forehead. I exhaled and yawned, searched the ceiling of the car with my eyes, ignored the sounds of the others as they clamored in. Jeff had just begun talking about the vegetation of Mt. Kilimanjaro when I fell asleep. I was exhausted in every which way, wholly and completely, inside and out.