Smoky Mountains

Smoky Mountain National Park: Camera Aneurysm

We made it. Winding down mountain cutbacks, not at tire-screaming speeds, but averaging at least five miles per hour over the suggested rate.

"There is no way we are going to make it," Colette cried through taut vocal chords every time we took a two-wheeled turn.

"We'll make it," false confidence etching each syllable into the cloud-drenched air.

To be a Junior Ranger, Evan had to attend a ranger program, and on this particular day there were only three offered. We could have made it to 10:00 a.m., but it was about bears. We had done bears at Shenandoah, and honestly, it was a little below his level. There was a talk scheduled at 7:00 p.m. that definitely did not fit our schedule. So we were resigned to the 2:00 p.m. stream life activity.

"We are not going to make it."

"If we don't, I will sweet talk the ranger, but we will make it."

"Have we passed the picnic area?"

"I don't know. I think so."

We barreled on to Smokemont Campground. At 1:56 p.m., we were technically not yet late. I could not estimate an arrival time considering my lack of experience with the park and knowledge of the map scale.

We may fishtail into a parking space with a minute to spare or not even find the entrance until fifteen minutes after it commences. A third option of driving in circles in a sprawling campground, scanning nervously for a flock of children surrounding a ranger, finally happened at 2:03 p.m.

"Why the heck don't they have a sign? I don't see a ranger."

"I know, but we are going to make it. See, there they are. Evan unbuckle."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? We are here. We are late. Unbuckle. Get your hat."

"Why?"

"Just get out and go."

Evan leaped from the car and sprinted to a gaggle of kids crushing a picnic table and two rangers explaining how to use a variety of nets to scoop up bug larvae and other creek critters. Colette and I gathered the cameras, the expensive Fuji, the Droid, and Evan's Toys-R-Us Christmas special. We also got his ranger book and hustled to the gathering to secure a seat on a stump.

After instructions that went on much longer than needed, Evan took the biggest net available, which had to be used in coordination with two other kids. Though he is well trained in photo posing, the excitement of netting creek critters meant that he was paying little mind to the location of the camera.

"Here," I said, holding my hand out for the camera.

I left the security of the bank and ventured out into the creek to get a better angle of Evan. Every time I positioned myself for the perfect shot, either he moved or some other child, oblivious to the fact that I was trying to photograph the only thing that mattered, crossed into the frame.

I stumbled around a while and finally decided to give up. Ambling back to the shore, I placed my foot on a water worn stone and fell face first into the creek. Did I say face first? I meant camera first. The entire camera had found a pool deep enough to submerge itself. It could have hit the rock to my right or come down in the shallow gravel just an inch further ahead, but no, it dove beneath the surface only to reemerge and pour water from the battery compartment, lens casing, and any other orifice.

"Take out the batteries!" Colette screamed.

"I know, I know." And I did. We had a similar incident at Niagara Falls while riding on the Maid of the Mist. Our old camera had inhaled enough of the mist to spawn a psychotic break, during which it stubbornly refused to take photos until it was sufficiently soothed. In the intervening months, we learned how to best prevent camera aneurysms. It is, however, difficult to perform these medical procedures when you are suffering from an accelerated heartbeat and sudden-onset heat flashes of anxiety.

Colette later told me that many of the other parents were concerned about my physical well-being. She assured them that I was fine and that, in her expert medical opinion, I just felt really, really stupid.

I quickly obtained the towel from the car that had previously been used to clean up Evan vomit (that is another story), opened every openable compartment on the camera, and took it to the sunniest spot in the tree-filled campground.

Dabbing did little.

I tried blowing. It worked for dust in video game cartridges but had little effect here.

I checked to make sure that the strap was secure and spun the camera as if I were preparing for a knockout punch against Yosemite Sam. Drops of water gleamed in the shaft of sunlight that I had managed to find.

Then to the hand dryer in the campsite outhouse. Then an older guy told me that the other restroom across the way had an Xlerator XL-W automatic high-speed hand dryer. He didn't use those words. What he actually said is, "They got one of them really fast one over there in that other bathroom."

I felt confident that we had most of the moisture out of the camera, but you are not supposed to use them for at least 48 hours, and we weren't even done with the Smoky Mountains. Pictures are monumentally important on our vacations. We average well over 100 photos a day, and the cell phone and Evan's camera from Toys-R-Us were not going to cut it.

We finished the ranger program, but clouds loomed over us. It was not the cool "smoky" kind, but the ominous tornadoes and flash floods kind. I had ruined vacation. Only 45 minutes later, we were at the visitor center when a herd of elk wandered into the river. We had to have a picture. I risked the camera, but the LCD screen came on briefly and then did a neat little sizzle fritz thing like screens do when a ghost encounter is imminent and EMF readings spike.

We ended up buying a similar camera at a Wal-Mart in Waynesville. I was assured that there was a fifteen-day return policy, and for the next two days we took pictures with our "borrowed" camera. We eventually went back to our camera when we made it to Charleston. Of course, we immediately took it to the beach.