I Came to the Prehistoric Garden Alone...

I became quite fascinated with dinosaurs during my early childhood. As an adult, I have come to realize that this isn’t necessarily unusual, as I’ve since witnessed any number of children who seem so-smitten; however, the age at which the obsession overtook me (prior to and then including the first years of elementary school), and the fact that so few “locals” seemed to share my interest became merely the first in a continuing list of examples that conspired to set me apart as “different than the rest.” This early academic interest became the catalyst for my lifelong love affair with both libraries and book stores (and for research in general). I could enter into the dark and cool cave-like interior and go straight to my seemingly unfrequented section, grab the largest, most information-laden tome, pick a secluded table, and spend hours gazing in wonderment upon the collection in the Smithsonian’s Natural History Museum, fantasize about being a paleontologist at the Dinosaur National Monument, and/or become lost in the foreign worlds depicted in the detailed illustrations and vivid paintings spanning the Cambrian to the Cretaceous. In fact, such daydreams also helped spark my early creativity and pursuit of the arts, as I would also feel compelled to create my own visual expressions of these worlds, as well as explore my own hypothetical enactments therein (and also led to my rather bold conceptual career path of becoming a “Scientific Illustrator”…maybe someday I will finally figure out how to enable that, exactly). When my time was up, I would put the massive reference books back on the shelf for my nearly-assured enjoyment on my next visit, then select and check out whichever books proved the most fact-filled and portable (it was, after all, a long and often adventurous walk home from the bus-stop) to also grant me more potential study-time in the evening.

My interest was further fueled by the geology of the surrounding mountains which formed the Rogue Valley. The Siskiyous are composed of buckled and upthrust ancient geologic strata, and these layers (as well as their distribution) can range widely from such diverse rock types as blue basalt, serpentine, granite, marble; a perfect example of which can still be viewed within the massive limestone quarry that dominates the mountaintop behind my childhood home, where such layering consists of a calcite base, varying grades of marble in the middle, and transitioning to limestone at the top. Within this capping limestone (karst) layer, not only caves (another early obsession of mine as the Oregon Caves were only 30 miles distant), but also fossils might be found. However, as it is essentially just an ancient upthrust seabed, no Brontosaur femurs might be seen poking out of the ground thereabouts (nor will Allosaurus teeth ever likely be washed into local streambeds), but shells, bony detritous, and coral can certainly be uncovered aplenty if one knows where to look; although such objective facts certainly wouldn’t stop an obsessed and creative young mind from elaborating any number of fantastical outcomes, and many a “one-boy Paleontology expedition” formed seeking just such unlikely treasure.

My parents, having already been conditioned to expect my rather persistent questioning (it is most certain I was sent into the public school system at the age of 5 for a reason), likely found great relief in my new, entirely quieter distraction: reading. There was so much yet to learn! Soon I could recite any number of Latin names referencing prehistoric genus, species, and era. I could laugh smugly and confidently at one relating a Pterosaur as an “early bird” (“…everyone knows that would be Archaeopteryx…”), and would certainly have taken exception seeing a T-Rex depicted in a movie called ‘Jurassic Park’ (“…everyone knows they lived in the Cretaceous…”): although I doubtlessly would certainly have gone to see it, repeatedly, if allowed. Of course this all occurred decades before public support for the published theories of Robert Bakker (his book “Dinosaur Heresies” was originally considered quite radical-it took well over a decade for his ideas to receive any real consideration by his peers) which associated modern birds as evolutionary descendants of the so-called “thunder lizards”. Had I then been privy to such theories, it is quite possible that either:

1. my love of dinosaurs would have extended at least some of the awe, respect and fascination towards fowl as well (“…but, of course: they are simply smaller, feathered Velociraptors…”)

2. my love for all things ‘dinosaur’ would have come to a rather abrupt and nefarious end (“…perhaps we might learn more regarding their evolution by plucking the rooster of its feathers while it still lives…?”)

…But I digress (even if I still find the latter point quite compelling)…

My obsession soon came to encompass my young life, and perhaps was merely a glimpse into the personality to come. If a movie came on TV that had dinosaurs in it, WE HAD TO WATCH IT. If a movie played at the Rogue Theater or at the Drive-In that had even the possibility of a dinosaur in it WE HAD TO SEE IT. And if I saw an actual identifiable dinosaur for purchase anywhere, I HAD TO HAVE IT. Even when I somehow managed to be so indulged, I could still be quite insufferable. For instance, when I received a “Dinosaur Playset” one Christmas, I became quite upset that it included “cavemen” (such was even enough to sow real doubt regarding the claimed omnipotence-or existence-of a certain Mr. Claus). Even years later, after this “dino-fever” had long since run its course, I remember getting to see “the Land That Time Forgot” at a Saturday matinee (I had by then moved on to reading Science-Fiction and Fantasy classics such as those written by Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, J.R.R. Tolkien, and, of course, Edgar Rice Burroughs) and suffered something akin to an existential crisis trying to conceptually justify the co-existence of both early Homo-Sapiens and Dinosaurs upon the fictional isolate island of Caprona: all at the “rather sophisticated” age of 9. I think at this point one gets the basic idea: once engaged in a subject of study, I could become rather insufferable.

One summer day in midst this elementary dinosaur madness, my family was on a drive along Coastal Highway 101, although why exactly, is a matter of speculation: it is possible we were returning from or venturing out on a weekend escape from the valley, via the Redwood Highway (or even Bear Camp road), although more likely were coming back from a visit with my great Uncle Ernie who was the very definition of a free spirit, a bit of nutter, but who held my father (and us by proxy) in very high esteem (tales about my “King of the Road Uncle,” however, will need await another time). Regardless, In the course of our travels we came to a roadside attraction which lay about mid-way between Gold Beach (at the mouth of the Rogue River) and Sixes (a town we became quite familiar with during our later motocross pursuits) called “the Prehistoric Gardens.” You might well imagine my reaction to seeing this compelling signage: WE ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY, HAD TO GO THERE. Surprisingly, my dad immediately pulled into the ample parking lot without any prompting; perhaps he wanted to save everyone else from hours of nagging and complaining, was in a fine and generous mood after seeing his favorite relative, or (rather uncharacteristically) actually had a compelling interest to see the attraction himself…but the end result was the same: WE ABSOLUTELY, POSITIVELY WERE GOING THERE!!!

Leaping out of the car, I immediately bolted over to the life-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex which was action-poised on the verge of the parking lot as if to wreak vengeance upon such sacrilegious burning of his kinfolk’s refined remains. Marveling at its size and abuzz with anticipation, I rapidly paced figure eights in/out/between its legs and tail. Ushered in through the ticket booth, I could barely contain my excitement as I waited for dad to pay the admission that would grant us entry into the hallowed rain-forest halls. This was, without a doubt, the best day of my up-to-then young life! As if a coffer full of knowledge had finally reached capacity, my mouth began spilling over in anticipation of all the prehistoric wonders that we might soon encounter. Entering the primeval rain forest via the well-established trail, I defaulted into our family group’s tour guide (even though there were placards aplenty to inform visitors), so that when we came upon the Brachiosaurus I might have been overheard saying:

“…a plant-eater whose larger forelegs allowed them a foraging advantage by gaining them access to the upper canopy of trees much like we see in modern Giraffes. Another interesting distinction of the species is they could also breath through nostrils at the top of their head; and, while approaching the massive weight of their cousin Brontosaur, the latter’s longer torso and shorter legs are presumed to have been a result of spending most its lifespan at least partially supported by water such as a modern hippo…”

And upon coming to a Dimetrodon:

“…technically a pelycosaur, and not actually a dinosaur, it was a carnivore living within a generally arid, Permian habitat, and it is believed that the great bony neural fin upon their back helped them regulate body temperature, as well as offering protection from attack…”

And so it went: an unending monologue on Triceratops, Lystrosuarus, Anklyosaurus, Trachodon, Struthiomimus, Cynognathus, Stegosaurus, Pteranodon…all patiently witnessed by my family; only the sea dwellers such as Ichthyosaur and Elasmosaurs caused me any distress, garnering ire and criticism for being so uncharacteristically and unflattering displayed in such a beached, land-locked state.

The self guided and (in my families case at least) self lectured tour ended, as do many such entrepreneurial roadside endeavors, by having one walk through the gift shop to exit the attraction. While attempting to do so I was, for the first time in nearly an hour, momentarily stunned into silence. The room seemed filled floor to rafter (only in my childish imagination perhaps), with any number of coveted prehistoric wonders: Pterosaur kites hung from the ceiling. A far rack held paleontological, geological, and historical books and magazines. There were models, games, rubber and plastic prehistoric animals (both real and fantastical) of every shape, size and color: there were even fossils under glass near the register! And as if the day couldn’t get any better, I heard these seldom spoken words utter from my father’s lips: “…both you boys can each get one item.” Had I been predisposed to such, I would likely have spontaneously combusted right on the spot! My brother found something that fit his personality rather quickly; I believe it was a rather inexpensive cut and polished Thunder-Egg (astronomy was his quiet obsession, but he also liked geology quite a bit), but I began to be tormented by indecision. Lap upon lap I ran around the giftshop, hoping to find something I hadn’t already seen- something rare and precious…

…and then I spotted it.

Tucked in between what I think were models and some other type of boxed-items (puzzles, perhaps?) was my prize: a remote-control Triceratops. Now, realize that this was the 1970’s; back then, “remote control” for toys generally meant “attached by a cord” (although, that didn’t really matter much as anything “radio controlled” was generally considered “unobtanium” anyway). It had a 3-C battery pack/controller that offered forward movement, reverse movement, and a ‘bonus button’ which promised to make the eyes flash red and a mysterious sound utter from deep within (I think it was supposed to be a “roar”). I WAS HOOKED. Like a pearl diver surfacing with his prize, I strode smugly to the counter and set down my selection, literally beaming with pride at my success up at dad…then my rosy vision cleared and my heart sank.

I could immediately tell by the rather stoic look on his face that I was not going to like the words that followed: “We can’t afford that, Kirky. but you can pick something else that’s less expensive…” my already sinking heart hit bottom. I didn’t want anything else now- I had found my prize, I had already made my choice. The tears welled up, and I tried to speak, but the words that flowed so easily only minutes before caught in my throat. My heart was breaking, and the world that had seemed so full of beauty before had become all-too harsh and cruel. I completely melted down and caused such a scene that I’m convinced the cashier still feels compelled to mention it anytime the subject comes up: “…yeah, that’s nothing. There was this one time that a little brat of a kid desperately wanted a remote-control Triceratops…” Dad held his composure at first, but soon his normally stern voice started to lower even further into that all-too familiar pitch of barely-contained impatience (although thankfully never reaching the “…I will give you something to cry about…” point), and realizing the Grand Prize was now truly lost, I stormed outside and collapsed upon a bench near the exit in a heap of rejection, misery, and self-pity.

After a few moments of dramatically displaying my displeasure for anyone who might care to listen, I came up for air, and glancing across the parking lot to the T-Rex that I had so eagerly danced beneath upon arrival, fully remembered that moment in a brief flash: a snapshot of clarity. Another snapshot quickly followed of us walking the trail, my family enduring my exited and self-absorbed monologues (not really all that interested, but enjoying nonetheless this carefree day and our time spent together). A flash to the moment dad had rather uncharacteristically pulled off the highway unannounced…the unexpected joy and thankfulness I had felt then…my gleeful disbelief hearing him say both my brother and I could pick out something…and then it dawned on me in a final flash of epiphany: we were there for me:

The only reason we had stopped was for me.

Suddenly I was overcome with a deep and inescapable feeling of shame. Shame on me for being selfish, shame on me for embarrassing my brother, mother and father, shame on me for taking them for granted, shame on me for ruining this otherwise magical day…I started to cry anew, only they weren’t ‘crocodile tears’ this time, they were true, warm-blooded tears of remorse.

It was around this time that dad came out, obviously still irritated, and snapped “You still pouting? Get in the car.” I tried to form words to explain what I had just realized; tried to say I was sorry, but it just made me cry all the harder. Now both self-shamed and broken of spirit, I staggered to the car, got in, and tried my best to compose myself again. I simply didn’t want to continue making this worse for any of them: my own selfishness had already caused them enough damage. As my tears dried, I cradled my head into the window sill, and watched the coastline pass by-although my brain registered little of the scene: I already had so much else to consider. The car remained uncomfortably silent for quite some time until my brother (perhaps it was my mother, but such seems more in his wheelhouse) finally broke the silence with a comment as nearly unrelated to the previous overly-dramatic scene as could be possibly conceived, considering: something like “…I wonder if sea lions sleep in the water?” (or, perhaps) “…did they really find gold at Gold Beach?” Regardless, the tension was finally broken, and the day allowed to resume as it had been…for some.

As for me, I have never allowed myself to forget that moment; either as memory, nor as deep, lingering personal truth. It was the first time I remember walking across the bridge between “self” and “other” wearing another’s shoes. In that seemingly mundane childhood moment I had made my first profound connection between “you” and “I” and realized -if but for a moment- how the two are so inexorably entwined as to make the distinction meaningless. As I grew up I can’t say I always kept this deep insight in the clearest of focus (and in my teens we certainly all got to experience egomania’s over-hyped sequel at times), but there was ever that kernel of memory, that mustard-seed moment that ever brought “me” back into balance with “we.” That moment was truly the first step on the path that led me to myself, my truest self, and although the perspective has likely caused me significantly more social discomfort/difficulty than say, the average “dyed in the wool western narcissist,” I am eternally grateful for whatever perfect synchronicity and/or divine intervention that allowed it to occur in the first place.

And as if to drive this latter point home a bit further: as we pulled away from the coastline for the Rogue Valley, the car settling back into a relaxed atmosphere with music now playing and the adults talking amongst themselves, my solemn side-window contemplation was interrupted by a poke in the arm from my brother. When I turned to look his way, my vision became obstructed by some flopping amorphous shape; he pulled his hand back and in it was a rubber Pteranodon -similar to those bats you get at Halloween with the bungie string in their back for hanging- which he then set in my lap. “I got this for you at the gift shop…I thought you would like it…” and in a moment so typical for my brother, that was it. Point made. “All’s well.”

…and in case anyone might now be harboring feelings of resentment towards my parents, perhaps it should also be noted that for Christmas that year I received nothing less than a certain remote-controlled Triceritops (with special flashing red eyes and un-discernible noise-making). And no, it certainly wasn’t a gift from Santa…

Sources

Robert T. Bakker, “The Dinosaur Heresies,” William Morrow/Citadel Press (1986)

The Prehistoric Gardens

36848 US-101

Port Orford, Or, 97465

…and special thanks to Xplore Film for the use of their video (www.XploreFilm.com)

Kirk Torren Smith

Real Tales and Tall Stories

A collection of first-person accounts that chronicle life changing and/or noteworthy events that helped influence the development of each author's unique identity.

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