I know I said I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, but one of my goals has been to get out and explore more of our area. I wanted to break out of my normal routine and go beyond the usual “hang outs” — Wal*Mart and Fred Meyer (but sometimes we get all crazy and go to Yoke’s or Safeway).
Last weekend, Hubby and I found ourselves without plans. He didn’t want to sit in front of the TV all day and I couldn’t play Dance Central because I dropped it a little too low trying to five star a Missy Elliot song without realizing that my body is kind of going all geriatric on me. I was faced with the options of taking a break from getting my freak on or pricing out a new hip. New hips are expensive, so I chose to chill until I could walk up the stairs without using the bannister as a support.
I suggested we drive somewhere. Anywhere. Somewhere where we don’t normally go. He wanted to go buy an appliance. I won and, a few minutes later, we were packed into the car with Powerade, Red Bull, some unbelievably stale Skittles.
We drove east, looking at fields and old barns and farmhouses scattered along the countryside. When I was a kid, I can remember my dad taking me on drives and telling me stories about the land and the people who used to live there. That was years ago, though, and my memory rarely retains things for long periods (like 5, maybe 10 minutes MAX). I filled the silence by asking important questions like.
“How do people live out here?”
“Do they even get internet out this far? Like real internet. Not dialup.”
“Do you think they get cell phone reception?”
“What happens if someone has a heart attack…or gets attacked by rabid rock chucks or bitten by a cult of Amish zombies? Wouldn’t it take a long time for police or ambulances to reach them? That just seems incredibly dangerous.”
Obviously, I’m not completely a city girl or I wouldn’t know the difference between a rock chuck and wood chuck.
This is a wood chuck. Wood chucks are funny and star in Geico comercials.
This is a rock chuck. Rock chucks are suicidal and throw themselves at oncoming cars in front of my in laws’ house.
Sad pants.
Which leads us to our (previously undetermined) destination: The Whitman Murder Park Mission.
If you want a history lesson, you can click on the link (it’s actually a really interesting story). If you want a simplified (but mostly accurate) overview with commentary, keep reading.
The park is located at the site of a former mission (no way hu?) established by white pioneer religicals (Marcus and Narcissa Whitman) during the whole “save the savages” movement of the 1800’s. Because their motives were mostly altruistic, I won’t hate on the culturally imperialistic d-baggery. They built a community among the local Native American tribes and served as a low-end B&B for other pioneers passing through the area.
A shitton of pioneers. All at the same time.
Soooo, what happens when you put a crapload of people in tight quarters? It’s much like working in an office during flu season. Contagion! Disease! Pestilence! Instead of the flu, it was measles. When the white people caught it, they recovered. When the Indians caught it, they died. And got really, really pissed off (well, the families of the ones that died. Not the dead – although I imagine they weren’t singing “Kumbaya” in the astral plane). Because they didn’t have an established legal system in which they could sue the britches off the missionaries (not that they had much) to compensate for their pain and suffering, they did the next best thing: retaliate. They shot the Whitmans and several other people at the mission.
Like I said, that’s an oversimplified and mostly true story.
So, yeah, we day tripped to a massacre site – but it was in the name of history so it wasn’t that weird. Actually, the weird part was that Hubby and I both came here for elementary school field trips, yet we had never really thought it was a little strange that so many schools in this area shipped their classes to a crime scene in the name of education.
What were they teaching us? Do not eff with Indians? They will eff your shiz up, yo! It could’ve been a subliminal anti-gambling message. Or maybe it was just Washington State history? Whatever.
It seems weird to me now.
(Of course I’m being snarky here. I get why they brought us to the site – because it has really cool history about pioneers and the founding of our state. Very little of it is about “the end.” Still weird.)
Anyway, it was a blistering cold afternoon, but Hubby and I powered around the park like tourists and not people who live 45 minutes away and had already been there twice.

The Oregon Trail. (Well, sort of. I'm pretty sure this road was made by four-wheelers, but it was WHERE the trail used to be. It counts).

The Hill. I don't need to say anything else to anyone who has been there (especially as a fat kid -- like Hubby and I both were in elementary school). If you haven't been there, it's a steep hill you have to walk up to get to the memorial marker.

On your way up The Hill, you pass by several graves. This was an actual marker, but most of the graves were unmarked and they don't really know who is buried in them. This would be an inappropriate moment for a "your mom" joke... Right?

The Hubby playing a frozen version of himself with the monument in the distance. Up The Hill. OK, I'm not going to lie, I made him stop for a picture because I needed a break.











