When I was a kid, one of the very best vacations my family ever took was an extended trip out West. We flew to Chicago, took an overnight train to Denver, and from there, rented a van and set out to see all kinds of things most people simply fly over. Each of us had chosen three places where they wanted to go, and my mom scheduled it all into an epic road trip that spanned three weeks. We saw everything from Mount Rushmore to the Alamo to the Grand Canyon to Yellowstone Park. It was outstanding.
It was during that last leg to Yellowstone that we went to a most unusual place: the source of the Missouri River. It was a tiny little stream, smaller than many of the creeks I played in back home. It was so small, in fact, that I could stand astride it, and got a chuckle when my brother pointed out that I had one foot on both banks of the Missouri River. And then, to one-up me, he pushed a big rock into the water, momentarily stopping the stream entirely before my dad informed us that we were not there to vandalize one of the greatest rivers in the world. Together, we removed the rock, and restored things to their rightful place.
