The longest day - april 21

Roused by the sun's warmth beating through my curtains, my dreams of crawling bedsheets were interrupted at an hour normally reserved for military personnel and I stepped outside to a shimmering, completely still river. Like a slate wiped clean, the ugliness of the night before had vanished with the dark to be replaced by a scene of pure beauty.

Reflecting on the night I found solace in my thoughts. I was thankful that, though hellish, the flies were not mosquitos; the tearing of skin, though bloody, elicited no pain and I was prepared with an arsenal of band-aids and ointment - gifts from a thoughtful five year old concerned about my well being; and, though nasty the night before, no bugs roused me from my slumber nor were waiting to greet me in the morning.

The campground's store being closed, I left without buying a bumper sticker for my desired collage and ventured towards Hoover dam. The dam itself did not call me, but a sense of guilt at being so close to one of America's marvels of engineering propelled me down the highway.

My wheels' vibrations echoed off the canyon walls as I weaved my way to down to the dam and I found myself awed more by the towering buttresses of cable and concrete slowly becoming the new highway bypass than the dam itself.

Hoover dam turned out to be much smaller than I imagined, the picturesque filmmaking of Transformers obviously skewing my sense of size. I had envisioned a quarter mile stretch of concrete, towering over a river below, but was sad to see what felt like a minituarized version, worthy more of a train set than in American folklore.

My camera's memory card near full I ventured back across the dam, marveling at the high water line so vibrantly contrast in white against the dark cliff walls, and drove into Arizona. Pulling into a parking lot buttressed against a hill of stone, I set about taking a picture of the "Welcome to Arizona" sign to add to my collection. Sitting there fumbling for my camera I was approached by an elderly couple looking for a coat hanger. Struck by the seemingly randomness of this request, I stammered for an answer until I recalled the vehicle I was in.

Though all cultures have many different traditions, locking your keys in your car is definitely a worldly phenomenon. The elderly couple had been searching for the coat hanger to help a wide-eyed Chinese couple from Shanghai that had accidentally left their keys in their late model Mustang while out taking pictures.

I used my AT&T wireless card to find a locksmith in Boulder City, a trick of technology that surprisingly amazed the Chinese (it seems I am not knowledgeable about what is available in China). A quick call and a $100 quote spoke to the greedy nature of businesses praying on tourists and the couple instead chose to try their luck with their car company, Hertz, in hopes they had a service for this type of ordeal.
Leaving them to voluntarily fend for themselves, a handshake of thanks and a 'good luck' waved out the window, I headed Bessie in the direction of the 350 mile drive to the Grand Canyon.

Coming to the intersect of Highways 40 and 66 I was forced to make a quick decision between a seemingly more and more common choice: do I take the route of speed and stay on 40 or do I veer off into the history of one of the most well know Highways in the land and choose 66? Indecisive, and oddly feeling like a 'meant to be moment' was imminent, I flipped a coin: Heads practicality, Tails history.

Within miles of passing the turnoff for 66, and countless cars zooming by, I longed for the slower pace of a less used highway and pulled over to see if I could find a connecting road. Perhaps the 'meant to be moment' came when I noticed my oil light on and realized that Bessie needed sustenance.

My research turned up a little connecting road off of highway 93 just a short jaunt south of the 40; the only hesitation was that the atlas did not show what type of road this connector was. Being that this was my only means of getting back to 66 without backtracking 15 miles, I pulled off of the 40 for what I thought was a couple mile drive south. Ten minutes later, and hardly a turn in sight, I decided to back track instead of continuing on and looked for the next available turn.

As luck or intervention would have it, the turnoff I chose proved to be paved. Sensing something, I pointed Bessie's nose north and drove off. Within a few miles the pavement began to give way to dirt, the dust and sand from the desert lining either side obviously blown by a constant wind. Within eight miles the dust and dirt had completely taken over and the road was no longer a road, rather it had become a dirt trail rife with dust, cattle, and the guards necessary to keep the livestock from roaming too far from their owners.

Worrying that Bessie would die out here in the middle of the desert, and not having seen a car or person for miles, my mind began to conjure all of the worst case scenarios it could muster. I again realized that I was living my life in fear and, angry at myself and at God again for this turn of events, I yelled as loud as I could five times out the window and decided to stay the course, my outburst of emotion calming my mind for the moment.

Perhaps intervention and luck are the same, either way my guess proved right and I arrived at 66, car dusty and heart aflutter with the giddiness of another adventure overcome. Turning East I soon came upon a middle aged man in search of a ride jogging to the side of the road from his old Mercedes. Picking him up, he introduced himself as Bob Gerschweitz and told me he was headed back to Peach Springs, a little town 15 miles up the road.

As soon as I set the car in motion Bob's mouth began to match the pace of the engine and he weaved tale upon tale about the land around us. Proudly professing to be the only white man on the reservation, I felt obliged to ask him how a member of the Gerschweitz clan ended up here in the middle of the desert on Indian land, but decided that his tales were far too entertaining and instead relaxed down into my seat to listen.

A couple of miles into the drive we saw the flashing lights of police cars ahead and feared a driver had fallen asleep at the wheel and crashed. It turns out we had come upon an Indian relay honoring the "Trail of Tears" and we passed members of local tribes lined up every quarter mile on the street's edge ready to take their part in the ceremonial relay. Gauging off of what I could see it looked like each member's part was to carry for a quarter mile an honorary flame as a symbolic gesture to all those that had suffered along the journey that brought them to this place.

Being that Bob's stories never ended it did not surprise me to hear him profess that he knew all of the kids in the relay. Sticking his head out the window every 30 seconds to yell a hello he then popped back in to let me know what student, relative, or friend's kid was standing on the side of the road. His lack of knowledge about the relay's set up, as well as the lack of response from most of the kids he yelled at, made me wonder about the validity of his statement, but I again let him weave his tales, the entertainment value far too great.

Pulling into Peach Springs, a tiny town that he claimed his father had once owned half of, I let him out with a thanks and a handshake. I noticed the ceremonial potluck, celebrating the end of the relay, and wanted to stay as the locals were dressed in the traditional garb more native to a time long ago. But, with no real offer of invite, save for from the mouth of a man seemingly so out of place, I instead continued on towards the Grand Canyon.

Many hours and countless miles later I pulled up to the south rim's gate and was greeted by an overzealous park ranger who obviously was bored and wanted to chat. Politely bantering back and forth, I quickly found my National Parks Annual Pass and sped along my merry way to the south rim, his questions and comments trailing off behind me.

Parking in a prime spot right next to an overlook, I stepped out and headed for the canyon's edge. No more than 10 steps into my journey I was approached by the same balding, plaid shirted elderly gentleman who had earlier asked me for a coat hanger. We walked over to his wife, a lovely, short little plump lady who's high pitched voice gave her comments a cartoonish flair and their 30 year old son who looked comfortable tagging along with his parents for Spring break but, probably only because he knew it made them happy.

We began to chat about the craziness of timing and I inquired as to their home, her shrill voice carrying a distinctive southern twang. Finding out that they were from Tennessee and knowing that I would be headed that way with absolutely no knowledge of what I was in for, I asked them for any suggestions. After countless answers, and in a genuine gesture of kindness, he handed me his business card and told me to call when I had reached that far East.

Thanking them and wishing them well on their journey home, I stepped out onto the canyon's edge and I was stopped in my tracks by the unbelievable views of towering cliffs of red, white and vibrant orange carved over the ages by the lonely river far below.

I had visited the Grand Canyon once when I was 14 but was more caught up in a revenge plot - the product of a fistfight the day before my family's vacation with an oversized, friendless oaf - and did not recall any of this beauty. Words cannot describe, nor can pictures adequately portray, the grandness and vast power spread out before me in so many colors.

Ambling away from the rim, my mind still processing the images etched into my eyes, I set off to embark on my journey to the Park's campsite a few miles away and ran smack into the Chinese couple I had attempted to help at Hoover. Wide-eyed for a different reason, their awe at what was spread out before them obvious, we stopped to talk and they filled me in on the friendliness of the Hoover dam police and their amazing door opening toys, and we took pictures of each other to commemorate the day.

While holding this conversation I could not help but wonder about the workings of the world. How is it that with 350 miles of distance and starting times from Hoover at least two hours apart (not to mention the six hours of driving and many side trips and roads we invariably all took), multiplied by the Grand Canyon's ample number of places to view the vastness, did I run into not only the elderly couple, but the Chinese couple as well, all within a 20 minute window of time?

Lost in thought, I started Bessie up and backed her out of her spot, accidentally shifting her into third. Gassing it when I felt her lug, she died on me and started to roll down the parking lot's hill, my furious attempts at starting her back up failing.

Finally coming to rest in front of the only open spot in the entire lot, I was honked at and then sympathized with as car after car drove past and saw me struggling against my rage. Knowing that I flooded her, Bessie's 28 years coupled with the low oxygen content of a higher elevation making for a difficult ignition, I called Katie. My frustration was obvious and she quickly set about talking me down.

There is something about a voice of familiarity and reason that soothes, and within seconds I was able to forget about my misfortune and just fell into talking. 20 minutes later the gas had settled and I fired her back up, finally able to clear the parking lot of Bessie's bulk.

My plan was to stay that night at the Grand Canyon's campground but the $18 charge to sleep in my van pushed me on. I drove south towards Williams recalling a beautiful looking campground in Kaibab National Park and set my sights on a night amongst the pines.

Pulling in amongst the trees I came to a lake as brown as chocolate and envied the people fishing as they looked as though stress was something that gauged fishing line durability rather than patience. Wanting desperately to stay here and hoping to learn some techniques of relaxation, I drove around only to find every campsite closed. It seems that the Arizona Parks department, in its infinite wisdom, had their parks closed for the season, even when the mercury pushes 80 degrees.

Weary after another long day, filled again with more driving than relaxing, I pushed on the additional 25 miles to Flagstaff and pulled into a Motel 6, the thought of a real bed and actual shower sounding like the only fix for my tense body.

Stepping into my room on the second floor I was flooded with images of shady drug deals and hourly rates and almost chose to crawl back into Bessie for the night. Knowing I could shower and charge my phone and computer, I decided to stay and treated myself (if clogging one's arteries can be considered a treat) to a dinner of Burger King - though stress again befell me as I had to worry about a spitter, the HS aged kids cooking my meal looked bored and laughed as I took the bag.

Exhausted and worn, I shuffled off to the shower and let the warm water wash away the dirt and grime from three days of hiking and travel. Watching it wash down the drain, I was struck with the oddity that had been my day. Filled with moments of pure joy as well as absolute frustration I longed for ease of travel and prayed the next day would grant it to me.