October 18, 2007
My dear friends,
I am sitting alone in a busy Flagstaff restaurant enjoying a pint having finished the Havasu Falls trip not three hours ago. I don’t mind eating alone at restaurants as I typically busy myself in reading or writing, except you always get the worst table, next to the kitchen door, where it’s so busy you end up directing waiter traffic (“table 5 is ready, and you forgot to bring 9 their bread basket-don't let it happen again”). From your own waiter, you first get a look of surprise as they see you alone, then of extreme pity. They get a little watery eyed and I know they want to pat my hand and hope they won’t read in the paper the next day about a woman who jumped off a bridge. (“If only I had asked her if everything was okay and offered a hug.”)
I am surrounded by people and their energetic chatter and mirth, and I feel quite alone—but do not be alarmed. This is a typical feeling felt at least once by a solo traveler on trip, but up until now, the lonely meal has always been pre-trip. Whatever trip I’ve been on, I have gotten along with the group and have been able to enjoy their company after it has ended. As you may guess, this is an indication of how Havasu Falls went. The feeling will pass, and I busy myself in writing to you, Team Awesome, about the peculiar group—the extremely peculiar group—on the Havasu Falls trip.
I should preface my description to say that the scenery and falls were absolutely stunning and nothing, not even self absorbed people who live in their own bubble, could put a damper on that. I should also warn you I am a writer and therefore predisposed to observation, and with observation comes unavoidable judgment. And once someone has crossed over to my bad side I don’t hold back in my description. No rose-coloured glasses. I throw those to the ground, stomp on it, stomp on it some more, put it in an envelope, mail it to the person in question with a note that says “HERE YOU GO” and then sit down to write.
“Who’s going for a swim with me?” I chirped. The initial polite smiles were wiped away when they realized I was serious.
“The water is cold,” Bob said. I raised my eyebrows and smiled.
Bob and Brian went to set up camp, carrying the gear with a wheelbarrow from where the mules dropped it off to our campsite, a ten minute journey. The group went to sit by the water and I gazed at the falls for a long time. The mist was cool on my skin.
I didn’t bother wasting my energy in encouraging the others to join me in the water. I took off my shoes and went to the right of the falls where the pool was deep and seemed most enchanting.
I dove in.
Yes, the water was cold—wonderfully cold; the type of cold that sucks your breath, numbs your skin but makes you feel more than you’ve ever felt before. I was alone in the world, hearing nothing but the pounding of the water and my own pounding heart flourishing and fighting the water pushing life into every pore. In the stillness, I was lifted.
I emerged from the water as ungraceful as a creature of the deep taking steps on land for the very first time, toes squelching in the primordial ooze, and I felt good.
I received funny looks from the rest of the group which I ignored. I told them I was heading to camp and left them to their complicated mobilization operation. I met up with Bob taking the last load of supplies to camp. I was sopping wet and dripping and he gave me a high five. Arriving at camp I was surprised to see the luxury compared to our Rim to Rim. They had already set up the tents—large, spacious two person tents (one all to my special self). We had air pads too, 3 picnic tables, and best of all, the creek and its turquoise waters ran beside the site. It would lull me to sleep each night with lovely chatter which was very welcome that night as dinner conversation was uneventful and dull. I felt tired and drained of energy by this group for some reason I couldn’t explain. I wanted to curl up in my sleeping bag on the comfy air pad and hibernate.
We departed for our hike to Mooney Falls, named after a miner who died trying to climb the falls in an attempt to rescue an injured friend. Immortalization seems but an act of courage/stupidity away. Mooney Falls is taller but thinner than Havasu. A ribbon of water plunges over the red travertine cliff into a turquoise pool. To get down to the bottom, you have to go through a couple of very narrow, steep tunnels, then do a semi-vertical climb down the rock, slippery from the mist, aided by tiny steps or toe holds and some strategic chains, handholds and ladders. Gina went no further than the lookout at the top and Nikki went down the first few steps before turning back. The climb was treacherous and dangerous, and therefore all the more thrilling and fun. I was not concerned about my own ability but the ability of those above me—I wasn’t keen on having this path named after me. In my mind I could see the guidebook blurb:
The bottom of Mooney Falls is reached by Cindy’s Ladder, named after a Canadian who fell to her death in 2007, after an obnoxious man dressed in camouflage slipped. Reportedly, her last words were “You idiot, eh!” There is currently a large petition for her canonization by the Catholic Church. St. Cindy, patron saint of solo travelers stuck in awkward situations.
The climb was very serious and intense. Not much was said except to communicate to the person above good places for them to step. We all made it to the bottom (by our own free will). Looking up at the rock wall, it was quite the feat. Julian certainly thought so.
“There was one point where I started, like, freaking out and then I was like Whoa! But then, then I was okay.”
“What time does it get dark?” Barney asked.
“Ah…around 6:30,” Brian replied.
There was a pause.
“It’s 5:00,” Barney said.
“Hey asshat! I know where you’re going with this and maybe you should trust the guides. I think they know what they’re doing,” I said. Not really, but I wish I did.
“Shouldn’t we turn back,” Barney said, more as a statement than a question.
“Ahh…why don’t we just see if we can make it to the end of this canyon,” Brian replied. I loved Brian’s replies. They kept me entertained. They were never confrontational (he doesn’t seem to have a confrontational bone in his body). He always maintained his super passive tone of voice (well, all except once, but we’ll get to that later), but sometimes there was a subtle underlying insult and sarcasm that didn’t register on the victim. I delighted in this. Much to Barney’s chagrin we continued on until we found the end. We hung out for a while before heading back, making it to the bottom of Havasu Falls as the sun was setting.
“Are you going swimming?” Bob asked me.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“I’ll go if you go.”
“I’ll go if you go.”
And so it was settled. We both had to go in the water now even though neither of us particularly wanted to, a textbook example of Groupthink, or an example of being plain nuts. We ran and jumped into the cold, cold water. Of course I was happy as a fish to jump in and I screamed with laughter. We were two lunatics who had been in the canyon too long with these people, bent on having a blast and enjoying life.
Dinner was the same. Bob made the mistake of asking Barney why he was called that instead of Bernie, as is usual for Bernard.
“Well,” Barney began. “My uncle Bernard, on my father’s side fought in the war. He entered the war in…” (Ten minutes later) “…there was also a General Bernard Montgomery in the war but that has absolutely nothing to do with why I’m called Barney I’m just throwing that in there because I want to bore Cindy to tears with my painfully longwinded, pointless nattering…” (And still later) “…but my parents have always been quick correct people. They’d say, ‘No, it’s Barney.” Really, I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m complaining or being mean spirited but listening to Barney tell a story made me want to jump up and start eating as many random canyon plants as possible in hopes of a quick death, which I guarantee would have been infinitely more fun. I think my head hit my bowl and I had to quickly wipe rice off my face before anyone saw. My last thoughts before drifting off to sleep that night, with the utmost sincerity: Man, I wish I had brought a bottle of vodka.
There were two hiking options on day three. There was the easier Navajo Falls or a more adventurous and challenging hike to Beaver Falls that required descending Mooney Falls once again and many wet crossings. Thank goodness there were two guides, perfect for dealing with varying degrees of physical ability. Bob took Nikki, Gina and Barney to Navajo while Brian took Mark, Julian and I exploring. We definitely were the odder group, but my plan was to keep enough distance from Mark so I could manage to have some peace. And I was feeling better about Julian since he made it down and up Mooney Falls the previous day. Something like that would boost anyone’s confidence and surely since he opted for this hike, his level of enthusiasm was up. Plus, his healthier diet on the trip compared to what I saw him eating in the van on the morning of day one—Redbull and candy—should have helped his energy levels.
We picnicked in this really lovely spot by the last waterfall of Havasu Creek before it joined the Colorado. On a low, small ledge outcropping from the rock wall, we ate. Then Brian and I climbed up to a high point and took turns jumping into the water.
When we headed back, I had a sneaking suspicion Brian took us through more water crossings than necessary and at deeper spots on purpose so Julian could “enjoy” the cold water more. At one point we were simply walking up the creek in the water. It worked out well as both Julian and Mark tripped and fell in. We also passed this very neat spot with a rope swing. It goes without saying that we enjoyed a few rounds. 
We came across a black and white striped snake on the trail. According to Brian it was non-venomous. It was the largest snake I’ve ever come across while on a hike but I surprised myself as I wasn’t perturbed at all, just excited. I was more freaked by a monstrously large neon green caterpillar, the size of a glue stick. One can only imagine what kind of evil butterfly that would mutate into.
The most disturbing part about talking with the group was how quickly the conversation derailed. We would be having what I thought was a normal conversation when some bizarre fact about someone’s life, a stunningly candid disclosure was seamlessly incorporated in. I would tilt my head to one side and think to myself, “Did she say what I think…nah.” They’d continue to talk, all the while their life story got stranger and stranger and I was left to nod my head and keep a smile plastered on my face and think, “Is anybody else hearing this? Someone please tell me I’m not crazy in thinking this is weird.” It was like watching Maury Povich. You’re watching a show parading bizarre people—anything from a man who is deathly afraid of peaches and cotton balls to a woman who has five men lined up as the possible baby daddy—and these people do apparently exist. So after three days of many did-I-need-to-know-that? revelations, why would final night be any different?
Talking to Gina about her family was opening a can of worms, the kind that give you a jolt as they shoot out everywhere. Politely asking people about their family is a basic enough question. She was the seventh of twelve children, the youngest girl (normal enough). Her mom was still having children at the same time as her older children so there were uncles the same age as nieces and nephews (okay, that happens). Gina became close to her mother as she battled cancer in the last five years of her life. Her mother went to live with Gina and Barney. Gina even quit her job to take care of her. Fifteen months before she died, her mother married a 21 year old man (here Barney adds: “He was black” before Gina shushes him)—okay, a 21 year old black man; her mother was 54. And while Gina was happy her mother was able to find someone to “fulfill her” before she died, this caused a rift with the rest of the family (here Barney adds: “Although he did cry at the funeral”). Originally the man didn’t want a funeral but Barney was able to convince him to have it since the family needed closure (here Gina whispers: “Barney’s such a good man”). Her siblings thought the man poisoned her mother (Gina shakes her head: “That’s just silly,” and at this point, I’m trying hard not to do anything—not to cry, laugh, shake my head, scream, run for the forest to never return.) She has a 28 year old daughter whose father is Hispanic. She was upset her daughter couldn’t get breast augmentation because she’s pregnant. I don’t think I need to point out to you how quickly things go off the deep end over the course of a bowl of rice and stew.
“But I know,” Gina said happily, “If there was plastic surgery in heaven, my mom would be the first one to get a face lift! God bless her.”
Amen.
I couldn’t let my last night in the canyon end like this. I asked Bob if we could do a night hike and to my surprise he said yes. When the group crawled into their tents, we took our flashlights and walked to Havasu Falls. Sitting in the dark, we watched the shadowy movement of the water, listened to the comforting rush of music in the night. We sat there for a long time, sometimes chatting, sometimes in silence as we looked for shooting stars. I tried to think of a wish to make and instantly felt foolish. I didn’t need to wish for anything. When we finally pulled ourselves away, as I said a silent goodbye to the falls, the brightest star of the night streaked across the sky. A perfect finale.
The morning of our hike out we had an early 5:30 start, the first time we had a wake up call. It was still dark as we got ready. We had to have our mule sacks handed in before we were allowed to have coffee or breakfast. We didn’t have to take down camp though. Another group would be down in a couple of days and Brian was only walking with us for a little while before heading back and cleaning up. He was guiding the next trip and would meet the new group at the trailhead.
My dear friends,
I am sitting alone in a busy Flagstaff restaurant enjoying a pint having finished the Havasu Falls trip not three hours ago. I don’t mind eating alone at restaurants as I typically busy myself in reading or writing, except you always get the worst table, next to the kitchen door, where it’s so busy you end up directing waiter traffic (“table 5 is ready, and you forgot to bring 9 their bread basket-don't let it happen again”). From your own waiter, you first get a look of surprise as they see you alone, then of extreme pity. They get a little watery eyed and I know they want to pat my hand and hope they won’t read in the paper the next day about a woman who jumped off a bridge. (“If only I had asked her if everything was okay and offered a hug.”)
I am surrounded by people and their energetic chatter and mirth, and I feel quite alone—but do not be alarmed. This is a typical feeling felt at least once by a solo traveler on trip, but up until now, the lonely meal has always been pre-trip. Whatever trip I’ve been on, I have gotten along with the group and have been able to enjoy their company after it has ended. As you may guess, this is an indication of how Havasu Falls went. The feeling will pass, and I busy myself in writing to you, Team Awesome, about the peculiar group—the extremely peculiar group—on the Havasu Falls trip.
I should preface my description to say that the scenery and falls were absolutely stunning and nothing, not even self absorbed people who live in their own bubble, could put a damper on that. I should also warn you I am a writer and therefore predisposed to observation, and with observation comes unavoidable judgment. And once someone has crossed over to my bad side I don’t hold back in my description. No rose-coloured glasses. I throw those to the ground, stomp on it, stomp on it some more, put it in an envelope, mail it to the person in question with a note that says “HERE YOU GO” and then sit down to write.
It began as the first trip did: me stumbling around in the pitch dark dorm room at 4:30 am, gathering my clothes and suitcase and throwing everything into the hallway of the hostel. I packed in the hall as to not disturb three other dorm mates. At 5:20 I began the cold walk, luggage in tow, down dodgy West Phoenix. I found my pace quicken as I made my way past a mumbling drunk. The FS Store was like a beacon of warmth in the desolate and deserted street, shining brightly and buzzing with activity. I was glad to see Bob’s familiar face and before slipping into the store I said “Good morning” to him just as I had done the previous four mornings. I eyed the other people waiting inside, wondering if they were the ones who I would be spending the next four days with, who would jump into the water with me, who would explore, who would share in the feeling of sweat and dirt. I started chatting with a woman from Eastern Tennessee, and then a woman coincidentally from Hamilton, Ontario, a city an hour southwest of Toronto. But soon I noticed they had large trekking backpacks and realized they were going out on another trip, Coyote Gulch.
There were calls for all the stuff sacks for Havasu Falls which would be carried in by mules. This time around I was confident in what I had packed. I handed my bag to the other guide.
“Wow. That’s light,” he said.
I smiled and looked at the other bulky, hefty sacks already in the bin and thought to myself, “I empathize with the mules.”
The other guide was Brian. You would have liked him. Reminding me of a big teddy bear, tall with kind, gentle blue eyes and backcountry scruffy beard, he seemed to have no cares in the world. But even his patience and laidback demeanor would be tested on this trip.
There were calls for all the stuff sacks for Havasu Falls which would be carried in by mules. This time around I was confident in what I had packed. I handed my bag to the other guide.
“Wow. That’s light,” he said.
I smiled and looked at the other bulky, hefty sacks already in the bin and thought to myself, “I empathize with the mules.”
The other guide was Brian. You would have liked him. Reminding me of a big teddy bear, tall with kind, gentle blue eyes and backcountry scruffy beard, he seemed to have no cares in the world. But even his patience and laidback demeanor would be tested on this trip.
The first person from our group that I saw was a man dressed head to toe in green camouflage: a t-shirt and cap of forest camouflage and army fatigue shorts. His ridiculous appearance was topped off by a large, grey handle bar moustache neatly twisted at each end. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing.
“Where the hell does he think he’s going??” I thought. The situation reminded me of the tragicomic newspaper photos of the severely under funded Canadian army when they first went into Afghanistan, soldiers in dark forest green marching in a whitewashed desert. At the time I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His name was Mark and it took me a few seconds to realize there was someone beside him, his wife lurking in his shadow. Nikki was a thin, very toned woman with hungry eyes and a mouth naturally down turned in a dour frown. What I could glean about them from their appearance in those few moments turned out to be quite accurate.
Mark was Yosemite Sam, bow-legged, gun toting, creature obsessed, “you varmint!” caricature come to life right down to the moustache. When he wasn’t talking about some critter they had in New Mexico, he was talking about killing it or death. In fact, the first words as we began our drive to the trailhead were not some pleasantry or question about the trip but the tragic news of a child’s fall in the Canyon.
“Did you hear about the girl that died from a fall in the canyon?”
“Yeah. It’s sad,” Bob said.
“What happened?”
I could hear Bob hesitate.
“It’s not a good way to start off the morning of our trip.”
“We don’t mind.”
“But I don’t want to talk about it now. I can tell you guys later.” He said it firmly, with finality. Nikki nudged Mark and said something to him inaudible to everyone else. She would do this often on the trip. It seemed like she did not have a voice of her own. I tried to make conversation with her but it was painfully unsuccessful. What little I extracted from her was that she was a personal trainer and her cliental was…anyone. Mark was more forthcoming. Presumably when he wasn’t trying to foil and blow up Bugs Bunny and shooting his pistols in the air, he held art workshops on his ranch, a sort of artist’s getaway where people could stay and paint, but he had recently retired.
A couple I had seen earlier in the store now sat behind me, fiddling with their cell phones. I had seen the woman with long blond hair and black streaks talking to the owner about whether she needed a warm hat before giggling, “Hold on, let me get my credit card. Barney!”
Barney turned out to be her husband, a tall and rather large lumbering man, as you would imagine a man named Barney might be. He whipped out a fat wad of a wallet to Gina, and she whipped out that card just as quickly and expertly. As we all waited outside for the van to finish loading Bob pleasantly asked them how they were; they complained they were cold.
Gina’s son Julian sat next to me in the van. He was pale, awkwardly skinny and lanky. He wore glasses. A toque was pushed over his long, curly brown hair. He sat slouched, hands buried in his pockets, lost in the world of his iPod. He looked miserable and surly. I pegged this as 14 year old teenage angst. He didn’t say anything for the first half of the drive except to snap at his mother, who doted on him excessively, or to make sarcastic remarks to Barney, who I later found out was his stepfather.
“Where the hell does he think he’s going??” I thought. The situation reminded me of the tragicomic newspaper photos of the severely under funded Canadian army when they first went into Afghanistan, soldiers in dark forest green marching in a whitewashed desert. At the time I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His name was Mark and it took me a few seconds to realize there was someone beside him, his wife lurking in his shadow. Nikki was a thin, very toned woman with hungry eyes and a mouth naturally down turned in a dour frown. What I could glean about them from their appearance in those few moments turned out to be quite accurate.
Mark was Yosemite Sam, bow-legged, gun toting, creature obsessed, “you varmint!” caricature come to life right down to the moustache. When he wasn’t talking about some critter they had in New Mexico, he was talking about killing it or death. In fact, the first words as we began our drive to the trailhead were not some pleasantry or question about the trip but the tragic news of a child’s fall in the Canyon.
“Did you hear about the girl that died from a fall in the canyon?”
“Yeah. It’s sad,” Bob said.
“What happened?”
I could hear Bob hesitate.
“It’s not a good way to start off the morning of our trip.”
“We don’t mind.”
“But I don’t want to talk about it now. I can tell you guys later.” He said it firmly, with finality. Nikki nudged Mark and said something to him inaudible to everyone else. She would do this often on the trip. It seemed like she did not have a voice of her own. I tried to make conversation with her but it was painfully unsuccessful. What little I extracted from her was that she was a personal trainer and her cliental was…anyone. Mark was more forthcoming. Presumably when he wasn’t trying to foil and blow up Bugs Bunny and shooting his pistols in the air, he held art workshops on his ranch, a sort of artist’s getaway where people could stay and paint, but he had recently retired.
A couple I had seen earlier in the store now sat behind me, fiddling with their cell phones. I had seen the woman with long blond hair and black streaks talking to the owner about whether she needed a warm hat before giggling, “Hold on, let me get my credit card. Barney!”
Barney turned out to be her husband, a tall and rather large lumbering man, as you would imagine a man named Barney might be. He whipped out a fat wad of a wallet to Gina, and she whipped out that card just as quickly and expertly. As we all waited outside for the van to finish loading Bob pleasantly asked them how they were; they complained they were cold.
Gina’s son Julian sat next to me in the van. He was pale, awkwardly skinny and lanky. He wore glasses. A toque was pushed over his long, curly brown hair. He sat slouched, hands buried in his pockets, lost in the world of his iPod. He looked miserable and surly. I pegged this as 14 year old teenage angst. He didn’t say anything for the first half of the drive except to snap at his mother, who doted on him excessively, or to make sarcastic remarks to Barney, who I later found out was his stepfather.
Even in the darkness of the van, I noticed something strange about Gina’s face. It looked…stretched. She had had so much work done to her face that when she talked or smiled her face didn’t move. Her eyes were so pulled back they looked feline and gave no expression. Her lips were fish lips—puffy and swollen with injections of agar or craft glue or whatever the hell they are injecting these days.
Reaching the trailhead after a three hour drive, it was great to be out in the crisp air looking at the clear blue skies and the beautiful expanse of the canyon below. The rock and the formations looked different from what was at the North or South Rim. I was anxious to get started but everything was quite the circus operation for the family of three. Barney needed to be told what to do by Gina. Barney needed to look confused. Julian needed to be unresponsive and moody. Gina’s long hair (extensions) needed to be braided. She needed help taking off her jacket since her large fake breasts and presumably everything else above the waist that was plastic got in the way. It reminded me of when I was a child dressing a Barbie doll, trying to maneuver the tight outfit over unbendable arms and disproportionately large breasts.
Accompanied by res dogs, we started down the long series of sandy, rocky switchbacks. It was exciting to go down (and easy without heavy packs) as we had to stop and skirt out of the way of the mule trains making their way fearlessly down. They were loaded with everything from our stuff to horse feed to town supplies. I even saw one carrying a box marked ‘Eggs’. The switchbacks ended and the trail crested over a hill, before smoothing out and down.
Reaching the trailhead after a three hour drive, it was great to be out in the crisp air looking at the clear blue skies and the beautiful expanse of the canyon below. The rock and the formations looked different from what was at the North or South Rim. I was anxious to get started but everything was quite the circus operation for the family of three. Barney needed to be told what to do by Gina. Barney needed to look confused. Julian needed to be unresponsive and moody. Gina’s long hair (extensions) needed to be braided. She needed help taking off her jacket since her large fake breasts and presumably everything else above the waist that was plastic got in the way. It reminded me of when I was a child dressing a Barbie doll, trying to maneuver the tight outfit over unbendable arms and disproportionately large breasts.
Accompanied by res dogs, we started down the long series of sandy, rocky switchbacks. It was exciting to go down (and easy without heavy packs) as we had to stop and skirt out of the way of the mule trains making their way fearlessly down. They were loaded with everything from our stuff to horse feed to town supplies. I even saw one carrying a box marked ‘Eggs’. The switchbacks ended and the trail crested over a hill, before smoothing out and down.Mark, aka Yosemite Sam, hustled to the front of the line. He began chatting with Brian. He seemed fascinated by the helicopter that made regular trips from the rim to the town and watched it each time it passed. He talked to the dogs. He talked to Brian some more. Before I knew it Mark had led us off trail into a field of cacti and thorny bushes.
“Bob! Mark’s taking us on a new trail!” Brian called behind him. We had a good laugh about it but as I maneuvered my way unnecessarily around cacti, I learned NEVER to follow Mark. It meant a little effort throughout the whole trip, interrupting my reverie and taking my eyes off the soaring canyon walls and the swirls in the gorgeous red rock to look ahead to ensure I was following the right person: Mark scrambling over rocks to some unknown, perhaps a cliff edge or pit of snakes, or Bob or Brian clearly taking the better route. At that point I pretty much had Mark figured out: He had the alpha dog complex; he needed to be in front and on top. He would probably jockey for leadership, try at power plays with the guides the whole trip. Sadly, I was right.
We took a few short breaks, once for lunch in the shade of the canyon, then once again in the centre of the town of Supai that consisted of a grocery store, post office, café and school. We continued on the trail which ran alongside a creek of the bluest, clearest water giving us a tantalizing hint of what was to come. I approached Julian and engaged him in a conversation about music since I knew that was what he liked. In the van, the only time he emerged from his teenage coma was to declare that he loved music and if he didn’t have his MP3 player on this trip he’d die, speaking in italics as only a teenager can. Our “conversation” actually consisted of me naming a band and him giving me his detailed opinion on them, their albums, his favorite songs and which songs were overrated. It was boring but at least I had got him out of his shell and walking faster, not dragging his feet like he was on a march to a firing squad. I found out he was in community college and wanted to write music reviews.
Wait, I thought. Community college? How old was this kid? Something’s not right. He continued to drone on about some band when I began to hear the growing roar of water. I got excited and could barely stop myself from breaking out into a run.
“…it was on their 2nd album. That song changed my whole life because—”
I broke off from him and went ahead to the edge. I looked over and saw Havasu Falls.
Havasu was majestic. It curled over the red rock and dove into a large pool of calm and clear and effervescent blue, which then lovingly cascaded down into smaller glassy pools. The tangle of mist only seemed to enhance its allure and beauty. It certainly wasn’t the largest waterfall I’ve seen, nor the most commanding or powerful, but it certainly was the most sacred one to experience. I could understand why the Havasupai believed they emerged from its waters, a pristine oasis in a rocky and harsh landscape, a pure liquid jewel set in stone. I would want to born from there.
“Bob! Mark’s taking us on a new trail!” Brian called behind him. We had a good laugh about it but as I maneuvered my way unnecessarily around cacti, I learned NEVER to follow Mark. It meant a little effort throughout the whole trip, interrupting my reverie and taking my eyes off the soaring canyon walls and the swirls in the gorgeous red rock to look ahead to ensure I was following the right person: Mark scrambling over rocks to some unknown, perhaps a cliff edge or pit of snakes, or Bob or Brian clearly taking the better route. At that point I pretty much had Mark figured out: He had the alpha dog complex; he needed to be in front and on top. He would probably jockey for leadership, try at power plays with the guides the whole trip. Sadly, I was right.
We took a few short breaks, once for lunch in the shade of the canyon, then once again in the centre of the town of Supai that consisted of a grocery store, post office, café and school. We continued on the trail which ran alongside a creek of the bluest, clearest water giving us a tantalizing hint of what was to come. I approached Julian and engaged him in a conversation about music since I knew that was what he liked. In the van, the only time he emerged from his teenage coma was to declare that he loved music and if he didn’t have his MP3 player on this trip he’d die, speaking in italics as only a teenager can. Our “conversation” actually consisted of me naming a band and him giving me his detailed opinion on them, their albums, his favorite songs and which songs were overrated. It was boring but at least I had got him out of his shell and walking faster, not dragging his feet like he was on a march to a firing squad. I found out he was in community college and wanted to write music reviews.Wait, I thought. Community college? How old was this kid? Something’s not right. He continued to drone on about some band when I began to hear the growing roar of water. I got excited and could barely stop myself from breaking out into a run.
“…it was on their 2nd album. That song changed my whole life because—”
I broke off from him and went ahead to the edge. I looked over and saw Havasu Falls.
Havasu was majestic. It curled over the red rock and dove into a large pool of calm and clear and effervescent blue, which then lovingly cascaded down into smaller glassy pools. The tangle of mist only seemed to enhance its allure and beauty. It certainly wasn’t the largest waterfall I’ve seen, nor the most commanding or powerful, but it certainly was the most sacred one to experience. I could understand why the Havasupai believed they emerged from its waters, a pristine oasis in a rocky and harsh landscape, a pure liquid jewel set in stone. I would want to born from there.
“Who’s going for a swim with me?” I chirped. The initial polite smiles were wiped away when they realized I was serious.“The water is cold,” Bob said. I raised my eyebrows and smiled.
Bob and Brian went to set up camp, carrying the gear with a wheelbarrow from where the mules dropped it off to our campsite, a ten minute journey. The group went to sit by the water and I gazed at the falls for a long time. The mist was cool on my skin.
I didn’t bother wasting my energy in encouraging the others to join me in the water. I took off my shoes and went to the right of the falls where the pool was deep and seemed most enchanting.
I dove in.
Yes, the water was cold—wonderfully cold; the type of cold that sucks your breath, numbs your skin but makes you feel more than you’ve ever felt before. I was alone in the world, hearing nothing but the pounding of the water and my own pounding heart flourishing and fighting the water pushing life into every pore. In the stillness, I was lifted.I emerged from the water as ungraceful as a creature of the deep taking steps on land for the very first time, toes squelching in the primordial ooze, and I felt good.
I received funny looks from the rest of the group which I ignored. I told them I was heading to camp and left them to their complicated mobilization operation. I met up with Bob taking the last load of supplies to camp. I was sopping wet and dripping and he gave me a high five. Arriving at camp I was surprised to see the luxury compared to our Rim to Rim. They had already set up the tents—large, spacious two person tents (one all to my special self). We had air pads too, 3 picnic tables, and best of all, the creek and its turquoise waters ran beside the site. It would lull me to sleep each night with lovely chatter which was very welcome that night as dinner conversation was uneventful and dull. I felt tired and drained of energy by this group for some reason I couldn’t explain. I wanted to curl up in my sleeping bag on the comfy air pad and hibernate.
Before falling asleep I reprimanded myself for not being more friendly and outgoing. I should be making an effort to know them, I thought, so I can understand and get along with them better. It wasn’t fair to them if I didn’t show an interest in them. I thought about Julian, thought maybe it wasn’t as simple as teenage angst. He came from a divorced family and perhaps grew close (a little too close) to his mother and was now retaliating. I’m sure there is a normal person underneath, I thought.
Boy was I wrong.
The next morning I woke having slept comfortably without frequent waking for the first time. Though dark in the tent because of the rain fly, I could see it was light out through the small window. I heard voices so I rose. I emerged from the tent refreshed, with a positive outlook on things. I can get along with these people.
The men were up and waiting for coffee so I sat there, patiently listening to Barney relate a story, the subject being the most compelling topic universally known to mankind: the dream. (I am, of course, being sarcastic.)
He dreamed he was stumbling around camp and he accidentally crushed a box full of eggs, so he tried to cover it up and walk away before anyone saw. (Anyone care for a go at Freudian interpretation?) My summary took less than 30 words; his description took 10 minutes. He also told us that Gina had accidentally taken his XL sleeping bag and he slept in her woman’s small. That news made me giddy with glee. My resolution to be nice was already off to a bad start. I needed more coffee, fast. The highlight of that breakfast was, by far, when Mark asked Bob for a mirror so he could wax the ends of his moustache. Bob later confided in me about the monumental nature of that request: He had never been asked for the mirror for the purpose of waxing a moustache. I wish we had hard liquor to celebrate. Just as Mark was responsible for the highlight of breakfast, he was the cause of the lowlight.
Boy was I wrong.
The next morning I woke having slept comfortably without frequent waking for the first time. Though dark in the tent because of the rain fly, I could see it was light out through the small window. I heard voices so I rose. I emerged from the tent refreshed, with a positive outlook on things. I can get along with these people.
The men were up and waiting for coffee so I sat there, patiently listening to Barney relate a story, the subject being the most compelling topic universally known to mankind: the dream. (I am, of course, being sarcastic.)
He dreamed he was stumbling around camp and he accidentally crushed a box full of eggs, so he tried to cover it up and walk away before anyone saw. (Anyone care for a go at Freudian interpretation?) My summary took less than 30 words; his description took 10 minutes. He also told us that Gina had accidentally taken his XL sleeping bag and he slept in her woman’s small. That news made me giddy with glee. My resolution to be nice was already off to a bad start. I needed more coffee, fast. The highlight of that breakfast was, by far, when Mark asked Bob for a mirror so he could wax the ends of his moustache. Bob later confided in me about the monumental nature of that request: He had never been asked for the mirror for the purpose of waxing a moustache. I wish we had hard liquor to celebrate. Just as Mark was responsible for the highlight of breakfast, he was the cause of the lowlight.
Eventually the women came out, Gina wearing dark sunglasses, complaining about her puffy eyes as if anyone really cared. Get to know these people, I repeated to myself. Over breakfast, I nearly choked when I discovered Gina trained people on how to sell plastic surgery for a nation-wide clinic. She was once a salesperson herself and recently got promoted. She loved going to Beverly Hills the most because it was such an easy sell. She also loved going to the Beverly Hills clinic and asking the surgeon “What do I need done?”
“Omigod Cindy, you should have seen my lips a few months ago after the Restylane. Omigod, like Angelina Jolie.” I felt my breakfast eggs rise to my throat. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of the body mutilation in the guise of plastic surgery. Imagine selling plastic surgery. Imagine viewing the world through those lenses. I wondered if all she saw were flaws, the imperfections of people’s bodies, what she thought should be bigger, smaller, lifted, tucked, pushed, pulled, sucked away, cauterized. I absolutely think there are situations where plastic surgery can be good. Maybe that’s how she viewed all plastic surgery, that she was helping people improve. And who knows how I will feel 30 years from now after giving birth to 12 children. But at that moment, as I sat across from her talking about the work she’s had done, I was never prouder of my body. It had taken me in and out of the Grand Canyon, and it would take me out again at the end of this trip, far, far, FAR away from these people. It was currently making heroic efforts to keep the eggs down. I was loving its quirks: I loved it for all the scratches and scars and bruises on my legs, its persnickety intolerance to dairy, even that single blister on my little toe.
“I had a 97 year old get work done. Get this: she asked me how long it would last. Isn’t that hysterical?” Gina was yukking it up like Joan Rivers.
“Omigod Cindy, you should have seen my lips a few months ago after the Restylane. Omigod, like Angelina Jolie.” I felt my breakfast eggs rise to my throat. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of the body mutilation in the guise of plastic surgery. Imagine selling plastic surgery. Imagine viewing the world through those lenses. I wondered if all she saw were flaws, the imperfections of people’s bodies, what she thought should be bigger, smaller, lifted, tucked, pushed, pulled, sucked away, cauterized. I absolutely think there are situations where plastic surgery can be good. Maybe that’s how she viewed all plastic surgery, that she was helping people improve. And who knows how I will feel 30 years from now after giving birth to 12 children. But at that moment, as I sat across from her talking about the work she’s had done, I was never prouder of my body. It had taken me in and out of the Grand Canyon, and it would take me out again at the end of this trip, far, far, FAR away from these people. It was currently making heroic efforts to keep the eggs down. I was loving its quirks: I loved it for all the scratches and scars and bruises on my legs, its persnickety intolerance to dairy, even that single blister on my little toe.
“I had a 97 year old get work done. Get this: she asked me how long it would last. Isn’t that hysterical?” Gina was yukking it up like Joan Rivers.
I’m tempted to write to her now and fake an interest in plastic surgery just to see what she would say. I can see her reply now: “I’d thought you’d never ask! I’m so glad you did because, honey, you need…” I would probably laugh, laugh some more, then take three sleeping pills and cry myself to sleep.
The group lingered after breakfast and chatted while I half listened, growing listless. I drifted off into a daze before being rudely thrust out of it when Mark made a racist joke about Muslims. My heart stopped and I sat frozen, unable to truly believe I had heard what I had indeed heard. When it finally sank in that it really happened, I got up abruptly and walked off in an unknown direction, head spinning, incredulous that oafs like him existed. I had to pace for ten minutes before I could collect myself and return to camp without the risk of unleashing a tirade on Mark. I would take a few steps in the direction of camp and have to turn around because the image of Bob and Brian pulling me off Mark as I tried to claw at his face kept popping up in my head. If that happened, things would have been mighty chilly within the group over the next three days. It was the first of several moments where I kept a stiff upper lip (without the help of collagen). For the guides’ sake, I didn’t say anything or else it would have put them in an awkward situation. I ignored his jokes about Iraqi people, his 18th Century anthropological observations about Mexicans and Hispanics.
The group lingered after breakfast and chatted while I half listened, growing listless. I drifted off into a daze before being rudely thrust out of it when Mark made a racist joke about Muslims. My heart stopped and I sat frozen, unable to truly believe I had heard what I had indeed heard. When it finally sank in that it really happened, I got up abruptly and walked off in an unknown direction, head spinning, incredulous that oafs like him existed. I had to pace for ten minutes before I could collect myself and return to camp without the risk of unleashing a tirade on Mark. I would take a few steps in the direction of camp and have to turn around because the image of Bob and Brian pulling me off Mark as I tried to claw at his face kept popping up in my head. If that happened, things would have been mighty chilly within the group over the next three days. It was the first of several moments where I kept a stiff upper lip (without the help of collagen). For the guides’ sake, I didn’t say anything or else it would have put them in an awkward situation. I ignored his jokes about Iraqi people, his 18th Century anthropological observations about Mexicans and Hispanics.
There is simple divide with racial humor: people are either laughing with you or laughing at you. When we joked about Canada, we were joking. When Mark made jokes, I always got this creepy feeling he actually believed that Canadians were stupid and lived in igloos. What really gets me is the way he treated the dogs. He would talk on and on about them like they were people. He would address them affectionately. He and Nikki would pooh-pooh over how they thought the horses looked poorly taken care of or overworked, and yet, if you heard how he would talk about Muslims or “the Hispanics in New Mexico”, it was derogatory, like they were animals. I can’t wrap my head around people’s skewed perspective of the world sometimes.
We departed for our hike to Mooney Falls, named after a miner who died trying to climb the falls in an attempt to rescue an injured friend. Immortalization seems but an act of courage/stupidity away. Mooney Falls is taller but thinner than Havasu. A ribbon of water plunges over the red travertine cliff into a turquoise pool. To get down to the bottom, you have to go through a couple of very narrow, steep tunnels, then do a semi-vertical climb down the rock, slippery from the mist, aided by tiny steps or toe holds and some strategic chains, handholds and ladders. Gina went no further than the lookout at the top and Nikki went down the first few steps before turning back. The climb was treacherous and dangerous, and therefore all the more thrilling and fun. I was not concerned about my own ability but the ability of those above me—I wasn’t keen on having this path named after me. In my mind I could see the guidebook blurb:
The bottom of Mooney Falls is reached by Cindy’s Ladder, named after a Canadian who fell to her death in 2007, after an obnoxious man dressed in camouflage slipped. Reportedly, her last words were “You idiot, eh!” There is currently a large petition for her canonization by the Catholic Church. St. Cindy, patron saint of solo travelers stuck in awkward situations.
The climb was very serious and intense. Not much was said except to communicate to the person above good places for them to step. We all made it to the bottom (by our own free will). Looking up at the rock wall, it was quite the feat. Julian certainly thought so.“There was one point where I started, like, freaking out and then I was like Whoa! But then, then I was okay.”
We poked around. Bob and Brian led us to a small waterfall you could walk behind into a moss covered grotto. It looked like something you find in Hawaii. And some of the travertine formations we hiked past looked like a waterfall had suddenly turned to stone. Sometimes it had solidified around a tree that was no longer there and you could see the bark impressions in the rock, or it had coated branches and formed what looked like coral reef above ground.
We walked into a small canyon which got trickier to progress the further we ventured in. We scrambled over large rocks until finally we came to a section completely blocked by a wall of massive boulders. To pass, we squeezed between two boulders and hoisted ourselves over using a creative combination of shimmying and climbing. By the end I had scrapes on my legs, bumps that I knew would be devilishly purple by morning. On the other side was the dead-end of the canyon, a towering wall with a water mark, like a giant paint stroke in the rock, which my eye followed from the bottom up to the top. I saw where the water would gush forth during flooding. It was a neat little spot and it felt like a secret, like something a child would discover and make into their own special fort.
We walked into a small canyon which got trickier to progress the further we ventured in. We scrambled over large rocks until finally we came to a section completely blocked by a wall of massive boulders. To pass, we squeezed between two boulders and hoisted ourselves over using a creative combination of shimmying and climbing. By the end I had scrapes on my legs, bumps that I knew would be devilishly purple by morning. On the other side was the dead-end of the canyon, a towering wall with a water mark, like a giant paint stroke in the rock, which my eye followed from the bottom up to the top. I saw where the water would gush forth during flooding. It was a neat little spot and it felt like a secret, like something a child would discover and make into their own special fort.
We sat on the boulders eating snacks. I perched on my own rock, marooned from the others. Actually, it wasn’t completely mine—I shared it with a large grasshopper that I made a silent agreement with to stay on our own individual sides. I was quite happy to sit there in silence, queen of my rock, and enjoy the moment. Then the most remarkable thing happened. Although there was no wind, two green leaves, joined together in a V, blew in from somewhere. I watched it come from afar, swoop over the others without touching them, lift up again, fly across before it came to land gracefully on my lap. Only Bob saw this. It was like nature giving me a kiss.
It is these little private surprises, as silly as it may seem, that fill me with such wonder and joy, these little private moments that keep me hitting the road time and time again. Don’t worry, I’m not going all soft and hippie on you, but when things like that happen, I have to believe there are ways the world communicates with you and it is up to you to pay attention, sit up, take notice and be amazed. I knew it was this difference between the group and I that made the gap unbridgeable. They were too preoccupied: with being first (Mark), their husband (Nikki), their appearance (Gina), the time (Barney), how much life sucked (Julian), the snack bag (all). I wondered if they noticed how the mist felt on their skin, the shooting stars at night, how evenly Bob diced the veggies.
The climb back up Mooney Falls was just as fun and we were able to move much faster. Back at camp I crawled into my tent and tried to relax for a while, listening to music, not thinking about anything or anyone. It did the trick because when I stepped out for lunch, Brian exclaimed, “There’s the smile!”
Had I really been looking that miserable? It was hard not to feel down. Perhaps I was spoiled from being with mid-Westerners for four days (I love you Minnesotans—don’t you ever change!), but when people rub you the wrong way, it’s hard to look past their faults. I found some of the things they did unforgivable. Their manners were terrible. They had this thing with grabbing food and always helped themselves, generously, first. I refuse to compete with vultures. The snack bag was a feeding frenzy. Julian would belch, long and loud, without apology, at the table without a single word of reprimand from Gina until the fifth time. Inside I shook my head in disbelief and felt the same reaction to seeing Mark dressed in full on Rambo-wear: should I be laughing or crying? I found the way Mark talked to his wife particularly appalling. Mark took a patronizing tone with Nikki, like a smarmy father to a child. After dinner one evening, Nikki went to clear his bowl and he said, as if to an eight year old, “Now, did I say I was finished?” He in fact was—I didn’t see him take a third helping, he was just being a certifiable asshole. Another instance was at breakfast. Mark had poured two cups of coffee and was adding creamer to both just as Nikki was joining the table.
“Oh, I don’t want that.”
“Want what?” Mark said.
“I don’t want creamer. There’s milk.”
“Well this is what you are going to get,” in that condescending tone again.
I think it would be very hard to wake up one day and realize your husband or wife was a giant pecker head. I fully acknowledge that four days is a very short time to be judging these people (but undeniably a very, very long time to be traveling with them). I am definitely the last person to be commenting on relationships (I travel alone, remember?). And I’ve traveled enough to see that the best and longest of relationships get seriously tested on vacations. Travelling together is the true test of compatibility. I’ve seen people not speaking after a three hour car ride together. I’ve seen people signing divorce papers as they check out and settle their room service bill. And there may be many reasons why that person loves that pecker head. I just think that it would suck to be spoken to in that way. But I can’t speak for Nikki.
Only Mark can do that.
After lunch, all except Gina and Julian went for another hike which required wet crossings. To cross at the bottom of Havasu Falls, we walked on the lip of the pool, where it cascaded over a drop not more than three feet and flowed into the creek. Bob and Brian took us walking in an incredible narrow canyon. The entire ground was covered with river rock and boulders. It was hard to imagine that whole section could be flooded during the rains. We headed further and further in, and the canyon became narrower. My sense of adventure was ignited. We were going until we could go no more.
Had I really been looking that miserable? It was hard not to feel down. Perhaps I was spoiled from being with mid-Westerners for four days (I love you Minnesotans—don’t you ever change!), but when people rub you the wrong way, it’s hard to look past their faults. I found some of the things they did unforgivable. Their manners were terrible. They had this thing with grabbing food and always helped themselves, generously, first. I refuse to compete with vultures. The snack bag was a feeding frenzy. Julian would belch, long and loud, without apology, at the table without a single word of reprimand from Gina until the fifth time. Inside I shook my head in disbelief and felt the same reaction to seeing Mark dressed in full on Rambo-wear: should I be laughing or crying? I found the way Mark talked to his wife particularly appalling. Mark took a patronizing tone with Nikki, like a smarmy father to a child. After dinner one evening, Nikki went to clear his bowl and he said, as if to an eight year old, “Now, did I say I was finished?” He in fact was—I didn’t see him take a third helping, he was just being a certifiable asshole. Another instance was at breakfast. Mark had poured two cups of coffee and was adding creamer to both just as Nikki was joining the table.
“Oh, I don’t want that.”
“Want what?” Mark said.
“I don’t want creamer. There’s milk.”
“Well this is what you are going to get,” in that condescending tone again.
I think it would be very hard to wake up one day and realize your husband or wife was a giant pecker head. I fully acknowledge that four days is a very short time to be judging these people (but undeniably a very, very long time to be traveling with them). I am definitely the last person to be commenting on relationships (I travel alone, remember?). And I’ve traveled enough to see that the best and longest of relationships get seriously tested on vacations. Travelling together is the true test of compatibility. I’ve seen people not speaking after a three hour car ride together. I’ve seen people signing divorce papers as they check out and settle their room service bill. And there may be many reasons why that person loves that pecker head. I just think that it would suck to be spoken to in that way. But I can’t speak for Nikki.
Only Mark can do that.
After lunch, all except Gina and Julian went for another hike which required wet crossings. To cross at the bottom of Havasu Falls, we walked on the lip of the pool, where it cascaded over a drop not more than three feet and flowed into the creek. Bob and Brian took us walking in an incredible narrow canyon. The entire ground was covered with river rock and boulders. It was hard to imagine that whole section could be flooded during the rains. We headed further and further in, and the canyon became narrower. My sense of adventure was ignited. We were going until we could go no more.
“What time does it get dark?” Barney asked.
“Ah…around 6:30,” Brian replied.
There was a pause.
“It’s 5:00,” Barney said.
“Hey asshat! I know where you’re going with this and maybe you should trust the guides. I think they know what they’re doing,” I said. Not really, but I wish I did.
“Shouldn’t we turn back,” Barney said, more as a statement than a question.
“Ahh…why don’t we just see if we can make it to the end of this canyon,” Brian replied. I loved Brian’s replies. They kept me entertained. They were never confrontational (he doesn’t seem to have a confrontational bone in his body). He always maintained his super passive tone of voice (well, all except once, but we’ll get to that later), but sometimes there was a subtle underlying insult and sarcasm that didn’t register on the victim. I delighted in this. Much to Barney’s chagrin we continued on until we found the end. We hung out for a while before heading back, making it to the bottom of Havasu Falls as the sun was setting.
“Are you going swimming?” Bob asked me.
“I’ll go if you go.”
“I’ll go if you go.”
“I’ll go if you go.”
And so it was settled. We both had to go in the water now even though neither of us particularly wanted to, a textbook example of Groupthink, or an example of being plain nuts. We ran and jumped into the cold, cold water. Of course I was happy as a fish to jump in and I screamed with laughter. We were two lunatics who had been in the canyon too long with these people, bent on having a blast and enjoying life.
Dinner was the same. Bob made the mistake of asking Barney why he was called that instead of Bernie, as is usual for Bernard.
“Well,” Barney began. “My uncle Bernard, on my father’s side fought in the war. He entered the war in…” (Ten minutes later) “…there was also a General Bernard Montgomery in the war but that has absolutely nothing to do with why I’m called Barney I’m just throwing that in there because I want to bore Cindy to tears with my painfully longwinded, pointless nattering…” (And still later) “…but my parents have always been quick correct people. They’d say, ‘No, it’s Barney.” Really, I’m sorry if it sounds like I’m complaining or being mean spirited but listening to Barney tell a story made me want to jump up and start eating as many random canyon plants as possible in hopes of a quick death, which I guarantee would have been infinitely more fun. I think my head hit my bowl and I had to quickly wipe rice off my face before anyone saw. My last thoughts before drifting off to sleep that night, with the utmost sincerity: Man, I wish I had brought a bottle of vodka.
There were two hiking options on day three. There was the easier Navajo Falls or a more adventurous and challenging hike to Beaver Falls that required descending Mooney Falls once again and many wet crossings. Thank goodness there were two guides, perfect for dealing with varying degrees of physical ability. Bob took Nikki, Gina and Barney to Navajo while Brian took Mark, Julian and I exploring. We definitely were the odder group, but my plan was to keep enough distance from Mark so I could manage to have some peace. And I was feeling better about Julian since he made it down and up Mooney Falls the previous day. Something like that would boost anyone’s confidence and surely since he opted for this hike, his level of enthusiasm was up. Plus, his healthier diet on the trip compared to what I saw him eating in the van on the morning of day one—Redbull and candy—should have helped his energy levels.
It’s hard to describe Julian to you. Even while Bob and I exchanged glances and tried to suppress our laugh at something bizarre Julian said, I pondered to myself how I would be able to convey to you how slightly off he was. The only way I can try to describe Julian to you is Napoleon Dynamite and Roman Stanescu. If you have seen the off kilter movie Napoleon Dynamite, the reference is self explanatory because Julian is Napoleon Dynamite. If you haven’t, then I’ll refer you to Roman.
Roman was in my grade nine French class, but I’m certain there was a Roman in everyone’s high school class. Roman’s social crime was being uncool—not only not cool like most of us were but anticool, worse than catching the bubonic plague because at least with the plague you die rather than suffer through four years of being a leper. His social faux pas was trying to be funny and failing miserably. At the worst possible moments he would make a joke which would have had a class of ten years olds cracking up but with a classroom full of new high schoolers terrified of committing social suicide, it was met with a long, painfully awkward silence before Madame Currie would usher us back to conjugating verbs. Roman was in his own world. He was known to break out into an air guitar performance in class. God bless Roman and those kids who marched to their own drums. If anything, they drew attention away from your own teenage awkwardness. But to compare Julian to fourteen year old Roman is a big deal since Julian is eighteen. Bob uncovered this and when he told me you could here my “What? No way!” echoing throughout the canyon.
Hiking with Julian was painful, literally and figuratively. He dragged his feet and lagged behind so that we had to walk slowly and stop every few minutes for him to catch up. He whined when we walked through the water. I, of course, loved every minute of the wet crossing. We waded the crystal clear creeks, at times with water levels up to my hips. He made a fuss about getting wet, about how cold it was. I thought if I took the last position and walked behind him it would encourage him to go faster but I only ended up with branches thwacked in my face as Julian let them go without so much as a thought that I was there. Brian looked back once and saw me catch a big cluster of thorny branches and I waved my hands incredulously, sharing my best WTF expression with him. Julian went slower and slower, dragging his feet like a man lost in the desert for four days. I tried not to give any sympathy or attention but at one point he looked as if were going to collapse. I caved.
“Julian, how’s it going?”
“Ugh. I’m tired.”
“What’s the matter?” Brian asked.
“I’m just really tired,” he droned.
“Maybe we should take a break and have a snack,” I volunteered.
Brian took us off the trail way down to the creek at a lovely part where it broke into a set of mini waterfalls. Again, it looked like a tropical oasis. Brian and I went for a swim in the cool water. I waved up at the large REI group, mostly older hikers, walking by and they smiled and waved back. We had passed them earlier at the creek. They were all carefully taking off their hiking shoes and socks and putting on their sandals to cross. I had taken a cue from Brian’s personal anti shoe policy and hiked in sandals as well, and as we passed they were amazed at my bravado. There were bruises and fresh scratches from the branches all over my legs. I got a lot of quizzical stares because of my day pack. I had decorated it with the eight large, fluorescent orange permit tags our group had been issued the day we had arrived. It made my bag very…loud and festive. I also had decorated my bag with a large Ziploc bag that had once contained my first day’s lunch sandwich. Whoever had packed it wrote in bold, black marker “Little Dairy” to clearly mark my lactarded status. I took this on as my Indian name and proudly attached it to my bag. I kept tissues in it just in case I had another nose bleed. Come to think of it, too bad I didn’t get blood all over my shirt and put Datura flowers in my hair and run screaming like a banshee into the bush because then the REI group would have thought I had gone native. To see their expressions would have been positively wild.
We dried off on the rocks and ate snacks. Then the biggest squirrel I’ve ever seen—the Schwarzenegger of squirrels—popped up on the rocks. The size of a gopher, it perched there very still, looking at us with its beady eyes.
“What critter is that?” Yosemite Sam asked. (Oh, here we go.)
“Uh…that’s a Rock Squirrel,” Brian replied.
“We have them in New Mexico too.”
“Yeah, their all over the Southwest.”
Then before I knew it, Mark broke off a piece of his granola bar and tossed it to the squirrel. I couldn’t believe it. The appropriate cliché to describe this is that my jaw hit the floor.
“Are you fucking stupid?” I said (no I didn’t, but I really REALLY wanted to).
Brian, in his calm way, immediately said, “Ah…you don’t want to do that because they become used to humans and lose their survival instincts. It’s not a good thing.”
He was being nice about it but Mark, in a smarmy chuckle, said “Well I’m sorry, for feeding that li’l ol’ piece to him.”
“You giant prick,” I thought. “You just couldn’t fully apologize.”
“That’s okay Mark,” I said sweetly. “It’s a good learning opportunity.”
I sincerely hope that pissed him off.
“Julian, how’s it going?”
“Ugh. I’m tired.”
“What’s the matter?” Brian asked.
“I’m just really tired,” he droned.
“Maybe we should take a break and have a snack,” I volunteered.
Brian took us off the trail way down to the creek at a lovely part where it broke into a set of mini waterfalls. Again, it looked like a tropical oasis. Brian and I went for a swim in the cool water. I waved up at the large REI group, mostly older hikers, walking by and they smiled and waved back. We had passed them earlier at the creek. They were all carefully taking off their hiking shoes and socks and putting on their sandals to cross. I had taken a cue from Brian’s personal anti shoe policy and hiked in sandals as well, and as we passed they were amazed at my bravado. There were bruises and fresh scratches from the branches all over my legs. I got a lot of quizzical stares because of my day pack. I had decorated it with the eight large, fluorescent orange permit tags our group had been issued the day we had arrived. It made my bag very…loud and festive. I also had decorated my bag with a large Ziploc bag that had once contained my first day’s lunch sandwich. Whoever had packed it wrote in bold, black marker “Little Dairy” to clearly mark my lactarded status. I took this on as my Indian name and proudly attached it to my bag. I kept tissues in it just in case I had another nose bleed. Come to think of it, too bad I didn’t get blood all over my shirt and put Datura flowers in my hair and run screaming like a banshee into the bush because then the REI group would have thought I had gone native. To see their expressions would have been positively wild.We dried off on the rocks and ate snacks. Then the biggest squirrel I’ve ever seen—the Schwarzenegger of squirrels—popped up on the rocks. The size of a gopher, it perched there very still, looking at us with its beady eyes.
“What critter is that?” Yosemite Sam asked. (Oh, here we go.)
“Uh…that’s a Rock Squirrel,” Brian replied.
“We have them in New Mexico too.”
“Yeah, their all over the Southwest.”
Then before I knew it, Mark broke off a piece of his granola bar and tossed it to the squirrel. I couldn’t believe it. The appropriate cliché to describe this is that my jaw hit the floor.
“Are you fucking stupid?” I said (no I didn’t, but I really REALLY wanted to).
Brian, in his calm way, immediately said, “Ah…you don’t want to do that because they become used to humans and lose their survival instincts. It’s not a good thing.”
He was being nice about it but Mark, in a smarmy chuckle, said “Well I’m sorry, for feeding that li’l ol’ piece to him.”
“You giant prick,” I thought. “You just couldn’t fully apologize.”
“That’s okay Mark,” I said sweetly. “It’s a good learning opportunity.”
I sincerely hope that pissed him off.
The desire to feed the animals is one instinct of human stupidity that requires early reprogramming, years of rigorous training and brainwashing. Other instincts of human stupidity that necessitates serious mental readjustment: carving your name in pristine places, taking things from nature as souvenirs/trophies, touching fire, sticking fingers in staplers, squeezing your head in between two posts, gaping your mouth when applying mascara, speaking English louder in a foreign country as if they would understand you better, the desire to poke all gelatinous substances and jamming objects up your nostrils. Maybe his parents didn’t teach him not to feed the animals. Maybe he’s never been to a zoo and therefore never seen the “Do not feed the animals” signs. Maybe he was taught that feeding animals energy bars was a good idea. Maybe his mother didn’t breastfeed him, or maybe his mother breastfed him until he was five. One can only speculate.
We pressed on with our hike. After a few more minutes we were out of the trees and like a curtain pulled back, the canyon floor, covered entirely in canyon grape bushes, was revealed to us. It was like walking through a vineyard but without the orderly, rigid, self-important rows. It was untamed, natural, magical. Wild, unruly vines grabbed at my legs and tugged at my shirt. Things could and probably did lurk in these bushes.
“When are we going to get there?” Julian asked.
“The faster we walk the sooner we’ll get there,” Brian replied.
“But how much further do we have to go?”
Silence.
“Brian, when are we going to get there?”
“You know what Julian, I don’t like that question,” Brian said loudly. “If we walk faster we’ll get there faster. If you walk slower we’ll never get there.”
Julian stumbled over some words, then shut up and picked up his pace. That put him in his place. On that sobering note we hiked on.
“When are we going to get there?” Julian asked.
“The faster we walk the sooner we’ll get there,” Brian replied.
“But how much further do we have to go?”
Silence.
“Brian, when are we going to get there?”
“You know what Julian, I don’t like that question,” Brian said loudly. “If we walk faster we’ll get there faster. If you walk slower we’ll never get there.”
Julian stumbled over some words, then shut up and picked up his pace. That put him in his place. On that sobering note we hiked on.
The trail was high and the water now ran far below. We walked to the edge. At the bottom was Beaver Falls, a series of step falls which were pretty but not spectacular. We wouldn’t be going down, Brian explained. He would take us to a nicer spot for lunch which would actually be outside the boundaries of the reservation and in Grand Canyon National Park land. Getting there required scrambling up rock walls and ladders (which sometime disappear with the floods…Brian seemed genuinely happy to see they were there), sliding down boulders, swinging on vines, battling apes, those damn dirty apes.
We picnicked in this really lovely spot by the last waterfall of Havasu Creek before it joined the Colorado. On a low, small ledge outcropping from the rock wall, we ate. Then Brian and I climbed up to a high point and took turns jumping into the water.
When we headed back, I had a sneaking suspicion Brian took us through more water crossings than necessary and at deeper spots on purpose so Julian could “enjoy” the cold water more. At one point we were simply walking up the creek in the water. It worked out well as both Julian and Mark tripped and fell in. We also passed this very neat spot with a rope swing. It goes without saying that we enjoyed a few rounds. We came across a black and white striped snake on the trail. According to Brian it was non-venomous. It was the largest snake I’ve ever come across while on a hike but I surprised myself as I wasn’t perturbed at all, just excited. I was more freaked by a monstrously large neon green caterpillar, the size of a glue stick. One can only imagine what kind of evil butterfly that would mutate into.Despite being stuck with Napoleon Dynamite and Yosemite Sam, it had been the most wonderful hike of Havasu. Back at camp, it sounded like the other group enjoyed themselves at Navajo. When they got there and looked down at the falls, they stumbled upon a crazy scene of what looked like a nudist colony—naked men, women and children—all over the falls swimming and basking. It was all there to see. Although I would have enjoyed a good chuckle and would have a good story to tell, I’m glad I went on the other trip. Who knows what I might have done with that canyon fever in the air. I probably would have joined them.
The most disturbing part about talking with the group was how quickly the conversation derailed. We would be having what I thought was a normal conversation when some bizarre fact about someone’s life, a stunningly candid disclosure was seamlessly incorporated in. I would tilt my head to one side and think to myself, “Did she say what I think…nah.” They’d continue to talk, all the while their life story got stranger and stranger and I was left to nod my head and keep a smile plastered on my face and think, “Is anybody else hearing this? Someone please tell me I’m not crazy in thinking this is weird.” It was like watching Maury Povich. You’re watching a show parading bizarre people—anything from a man who is deathly afraid of peaches and cotton balls to a woman who has five men lined up as the possible baby daddy—and these people do apparently exist. So after three days of many did-I-need-to-know-that? revelations, why would final night be any different?
Talking to Gina about her family was opening a can of worms, the kind that give you a jolt as they shoot out everywhere. Politely asking people about their family is a basic enough question. She was the seventh of twelve children, the youngest girl (normal enough). Her mom was still having children at the same time as her older children so there were uncles the same age as nieces and nephews (okay, that happens). Gina became close to her mother as she battled cancer in the last five years of her life. Her mother went to live with Gina and Barney. Gina even quit her job to take care of her. Fifteen months before she died, her mother married a 21 year old man (here Barney adds: “He was black” before Gina shushes him)—okay, a 21 year old black man; her mother was 54. And while Gina was happy her mother was able to find someone to “fulfill her” before she died, this caused a rift with the rest of the family (here Barney adds: “Although he did cry at the funeral”). Originally the man didn’t want a funeral but Barney was able to convince him to have it since the family needed closure (here Gina whispers: “Barney’s such a good man”). Her siblings thought the man poisoned her mother (Gina shakes her head: “That’s just silly,” and at this point, I’m trying hard not to do anything—not to cry, laugh, shake my head, scream, run for the forest to never return.) She has a 28 year old daughter whose father is Hispanic. She was upset her daughter couldn’t get breast augmentation because she’s pregnant. I don’t think I need to point out to you how quickly things go off the deep end over the course of a bowl of rice and stew.
“But I know,” Gina said happily, “If there was plastic surgery in heaven, my mom would be the first one to get a face lift! God bless her.”
Amen.
I couldn’t let my last night in the canyon end like this. I asked Bob if we could do a night hike and to my surprise he said yes. When the group crawled into their tents, we took our flashlights and walked to Havasu Falls. Sitting in the dark, we watched the shadowy movement of the water, listened to the comforting rush of music in the night. We sat there for a long time, sometimes chatting, sometimes in silence as we looked for shooting stars. I tried to think of a wish to make and instantly felt foolish. I didn’t need to wish for anything. When we finally pulled ourselves away, as I said a silent goodbye to the falls, the brightest star of the night streaked across the sky. A perfect finale.
The morning of our hike out we had an early 5:30 start, the first time we had a wake up call. It was still dark as we got ready. We had to have our mule sacks handed in before we were allowed to have coffee or breakfast. We didn’t have to take down camp though. Another group would be down in a couple of days and Brian was only walking with us for a little while before heading back and cleaning up. He was guiding the next trip and would meet the new group at the trailhead.
We set off from camp as the sun rose in the crisp, cool air for it was a long ten mile hike ahead of us. As we passed through Supai the school bell clanged merrily and children ran along the road to get to school. Soon we said our goodbyes to Brian. It was a lonely ten miles for me. Mark bolted ahead with Nikki chasing behind while Bob hung back encouraging Gina, Barney and Julian like he did with me on our Rim to Rim although I doubt they swore under their breath every five steps. We all became so far separated that I couldn’t see anyone in front or behind me. I enjoyed the scenery of the walk but after being forced to live within my own mind for four days (kind of a crazy place, trust me), it was a long hike to make. Eventually we regrouped and snacked before starting the 2,400 ft climb, child’s play after Rim to Rim. I was really excited for it which is absolutely unheard of for me. It’s part of a longstanding tradition that I show nothing but loathing for uphill climbs and I was secretly breaking it. This was the grand finale, the strongest, fittest, healthiest I would be on the entire trip and I wanted to pick a pace that would challenge me and stick to it. Not before long I passed Mark.
“Are you planning on making it first?” He asked
“Oh, shut up you twit. Who gives a shit?” (Sigh) No I didn’t say that but that really would have been the time to let it all out or the perfect opportunity to push him off the cliff.
“I’m not planning on it. I’m picking a challenging pace for myself,” and I left him coughing in my dust.
Going up was still hard even if there were no heavy packs to carry. The switchbacks seemed endless and there was a constant stream of mule trains to avoid. Sometimes I would have to run up the length of the switchback to avoid being trampled. I made it to the top and was quite please with myself but had to sober up for Mark’s appearance. I just knew he would 1) make some smarmy ass comment 2) ask me my age to make himself feel better. As soon as I saw him reach the rim:
1) “Well, aren’t you the queen of the trail.”
2) “How old are you?”
Sometimes my ability to read people frightens me.
The van was still parked where we had left it on Day 1 and Bob was genuinely glad to see no one had siphoned the gas. The contents of the cooler were still ice cold and we sat on the bins and ate sandwiches. On the drive back, I sat in the front seat writing in Bob’s journal while the others slept. I drew funny little cartoons of our Rim to Rim trip, reminisced about Team Awesome. The only thing of note on the drive back was all the tarantulas on the road making the slow, treacherous cross to the other side. Maybe the females were sluttier there. I told Bob to avoid running them over because the poor things just wanted to get laid. He did his best to swerve around them. Julian woke up and was suddenly full of energy and would not shut up. He kept going on and on laughing at his own joke. It was a very long three hour drive back. But suddenly, as I saw how close we were to Flagstaff, I didn’t want it to end. It would mean the end of my trip, the end of waking up with a whole day of adventure and discovery laying before me, the end of sharing a laugh with Bob, the end of my time in the canyon, a place enchanting, mysterious and beautiful. I felt at peace and open and true to myself there. I was heavy in my heart. It was hard to let go.
“Are you planning on making it first?” He asked
“Oh, shut up you twit. Who gives a shit?” (Sigh) No I didn’t say that but that really would have been the time to let it all out or the perfect opportunity to push him off the cliff.
“I’m not planning on it. I’m picking a challenging pace for myself,” and I left him coughing in my dust.
Going up was still hard even if there were no heavy packs to carry. The switchbacks seemed endless and there was a constant stream of mule trains to avoid. Sometimes I would have to run up the length of the switchback to avoid being trampled. I made it to the top and was quite please with myself but had to sober up for Mark’s appearance. I just knew he would 1) make some smarmy ass comment 2) ask me my age to make himself feel better. As soon as I saw him reach the rim:
1) “Well, aren’t you the queen of the trail.”
2) “How old are you?”
Sometimes my ability to read people frightens me.
The van was still parked where we had left it on Day 1 and Bob was genuinely glad to see no one had siphoned the gas. The contents of the cooler were still ice cold and we sat on the bins and ate sandwiches. On the drive back, I sat in the front seat writing in Bob’s journal while the others slept. I drew funny little cartoons of our Rim to Rim trip, reminisced about Team Awesome. The only thing of note on the drive back was all the tarantulas on the road making the slow, treacherous cross to the other side. Maybe the females were sluttier there. I told Bob to avoid running them over because the poor things just wanted to get laid. He did his best to swerve around them. Julian woke up and was suddenly full of energy and would not shut up. He kept going on and on laughing at his own joke. It was a very long three hour drive back. But suddenly, as I saw how close we were to Flagstaff, I didn’t want it to end. It would mean the end of my trip, the end of waking up with a whole day of adventure and discovery laying before me, the end of sharing a laugh with Bob, the end of my time in the canyon, a place enchanting, mysterious and beautiful. I felt at peace and open and true to myself there. I was heavy in my heart. It was hard to let go.
No comments:
Post a Comment