Clerkmanifestoland Stories: Catcher in the Rye, The ride!

 

Here is another of these little first person fictional travel accounts from Clerkmanifestoland. This one is about a particular ride that our narrator liked (with a few references to their other favorite ride). It comes with (somewhat) matching illustrations. I think you'll find it self explanatory.

Voyage to the Catcher in the Rye

A personal account from Clerkmanifestoland

I read Catcher in the Rye when I was a teenager—sixteen, maybe. Like a lot of people, I thought it was brilliant at the time. I remember Holden Caulfield feeling like someone I knew, or maybe someone I was. Over the years, I’ve heard more and more criticism of the book—how it's dated, the main character is appalling, or that there's a self indulgence to it. It's been awhile, and I don't know about all that, but I’ve always remembered it fondly.

So when my family and I visited Clerkmanifestoland, and I saw there was a full ride called Voyage to Catcher in the Rye, I knew I had to go on it.

It ended up being just my wife and me who rode it. The kids were off somewhere else—maybe still in line for Kayaks on the Escalante for the third time. That one’s absolutely spectacular, by the way. There's a slow stretch through a redwood forest that’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in a theme park. Long ride, hard to get onto, but pure magic.

Anyway, we didn’t make it onto Fox and Skunk in Arles—the wait was just too much—and we couldn’t snag timed tickets for The Time Traveling Elevator, which I hear is amazing. But Voyage to the Catcher in the Rye had a manageable wait, maybe thirty minutes, and I was curious. Curious how they'd turn a dense, moody, famously tone rich, literary book into a theme park ride.

They did it. And it was wonderful.

The entrance to the ride is styled like a Broadway theater in 1950s Manhattan—Times Square marquee, glowing bugheart signage, old brick walls and city soot detailing. It’s right in the main center of New Saint Minneapolis, which is probably my favorite land in the park. There’s something about how it reimagines New York with a oddly Baroque, Midwestern soul—part poetic grit, part dream city.

The queue winds through vintage New York scenes—newsstands, brownstone stoops, cluttered dorm rooms, city parks in winter. There’s soft 1950s jazz playing—brush drums and smoky saxophones—and the whole line feels like a museum exhibit of Holden’s world. There are scattered personal artifacts from characters: a composition notebook with Phoebe’s doodles, a repulsive array of nail clippings labeled “Ackley,” even a glass case with a red hunting cap turning slowly under a spotlight.

Eventually, we boarded our ride vehicle—a beetle-on-a-valentine-heart buggy, of course. Classic Clerkmanifestoland. They’re a kind of mix between old-timey car and soft, breathing creature. Somehow, they fit the melancholy charm of the ride perfectly.

The experience itself unfolds like a living memory. You begin at Pencey Prep—old stone buildings under a cloudy sky, ivy creeping up the walls. Animatronic students walk past, sometimes waving. 

Holden appears in his dorm room, talking with Ackley, slouched obnoxiously on the bed. You glide silently past, like a ghost.

From there, you follow Holden’s journey: a conversation with a professor in a warmly lit office, 

a lonely train car that smells faintly of diesel and cold metal, a tunnel, and then, suddenly, you're in New York.

It’s not just a city scene—it’s the dream of 1950s New York. Blurred neon signs, cab headlights cutting through fog, snippets of jazz clubs and diners and cheap hotel lobbies. You move through it all slowly, scenes sliding open like chapters: Holden dancing with a girl in a half-empty lounge, an animatronic woman smoking at a window, a hotel bar clinking with glasses and murmurs.

The ride doesn’t push you along. It lingers. You smell cigarette smoke, oranges being peeled in front of a street seller, even sharp whiffs of gin and car exhaust. You hear music—muted swing tunes—and muffled arguments from behind half-shut doors. It’s rich, slow, and strange.

And then you reach Holden's house and Phoebe’s Room.

It’s lit in soft gold. Books are everywhere. There's a window open to the city, and a quiet animatronic Holden is standing there, lost and overwhelmed. The next scene—the “catcher in the rye” moment—is abstract, theatrical. A field. A cliff. Holden standing near the edge, arms slightly out. The light is warm but fading. I didn’t remember the book well enough to recall the exact meaning of the scene, but it still hit. I felt it.

The conclusion of the ride is at a carousel, just like in the book. It's turning slowly in twilight, and Holden is watching Phoebe ride it. His narration—I hear it was recorded by some famous actor, and is mostly lifted from the book—is soft and sad and oddly hopeful. The music is simple. The lights twinkle. And then back to the city where it ends.

You disembark quietly, as if stepping out of a dream. There’s no gift shop or big flourish—just a narrow alley with old posters, and the soft sounds of jazz fading behind you.

I loved it. I don’t know if it’s the best ride at Clerkmanifestoland—that might still be the kayaks—but Voyage to the Catcher in the Rye felt special. It reminded me why the book meant something to me when I was younger. And it amazed me that they turned such a complicated, quiet novel into a full experience—no superheroes, no big thrills, just feeling.

That’s the thing about Clerkmanifestoland, really. It trusts that if something is beautiful or strange or honest enough, it can be anything, even a ride.

 And somehow, it works.