Leaving Flagstaff

I'm writing today from the library of Northern Arizona University. With my backpack and casual clothes, I pretend that I fit in. But who am I kidding: I've barely seen any black folks during this entire excursion, let alone on this campus. Lot of Native Americans though.

Race stuff aside, I'm already missing Flagstaff. It's another perfect weather day, and the women at the Downtown Diner are as warm as ever. There's another waitress today that I hadn't met previously. She too is from Virginia, but Alexandria this time. We gab about her trek here, the relocation of her family and her siblings. "I couldn't raise my kids there," she says of metro Washington. I nod, as if I really understand.

Yesterday's trek back into the Grand Canyon was relaxing. I'd figured out the mile count of the previous day's hike: 5.7 of the 8 miles of the Rim Trail. No wonder I ached. My knee was throbbing, and I had to stop at a general store in Tucsayan to get band-aids for developing blisters. I worried about how I'd hold up for the planned descent into the Canyon. It was an easy excuse to simply sit and read after the long drive while I stretched the leg out.

So that's what I did for my first hours back on park ground. I sat first at Yavapi Observation Station, reading with the sweep of the Canyon and the beautiful day as my backdrop. A tour of Africans -- Kenyans maybe, but I didn't ask -- goes by with their white guide. One of the party gives me a long stare and I realize that I am drawing attention for simply sitting on my duff rather than peering over the rails into the Canyon like the rest of the tourists. It's around 12:30 and I'm hungry, so might as well go.

I find a precious parking spot right behind El Tovar. Plenty others decided to eat there too, so it was a half-hour's wait in the bizarrely decorated hall -- an historic hunting lodge with the required mounted animal heads on dark log panels. I'm finally reading Jonathan Lethem's Fortress of Solitude, which my book group took up some months ago. It's hard for me to tear myself away from it, honestly, so my salad and Indian fry bread / taco salad meal get picked at while I thumb through. (Um, I don't recommend the apple dessert there. Thick and gummy.)

It's near 3 p.m., and if I want to do that hike down into the Canyon, I have to let the book go. I shove my book into the trunk of the car, make sure I have two bottles of water and little else to weigh down the backpack, and I head off for the Bright Angel Trailhead.

The information guide states that hikers should plan two times the amount of time going down into the canyon for the return climb. I know that there is a rest house 1-1/2 miles down and I shoot to get there or turn back at a 45 minute mark. Frankly, I didn't think 45 minutes would be enough time to get there, but I didn't want to underestimate the labor it would take to climb back to the rim, even on switchback trails. I set off.

Hans had heartily recommended the below-the-rim hike for its perspective on the canyon and, wow, no kidding. Despite the mule droppings and the folks just walking a few feet in with small kids and flip-flops, it's easy enough to feel elated by a sense of accomplishment as the cliff walls shoot higher and higher above you. Everything about the hike charmed: the college-aged maintenance workers raking rocks (hey, someone has to do it), the color of the canyon walls, the fellow hikers breezing down and the fellow hikers wheezing up. I've got a goofy smile on my face most of the way down, but I'm seriously watching the path too. One trip on a loose rock and it's a busted nose or a slip over into the canyon.

Or, at least, that's what my wild imagination offers me.

All the water I sipped over lunch is nagging the old bladder. I skip the plan to just turn back at 45, and focus instead on getting to the toilet and water station. I stop a climber on the way down with "Do you speak English?" Not an unreasonable start as I've heard Japanese, French, Vietnamese, German and plenty else I couldn't recognize. Not only does she speak English, I'm just a few switchbacks above the station, she says. I'm excited...ABOUT A TOILET. I curse myself for not thinking ahead on that matter, but walk on.

Just before the station, the trail turns a beautifully rusty orange. It's soft, so I am kicking it up and practically dancing in it. It's the Orange Brick Road to my OZ reststop. I pause to take a photo of the toilet sign and climb the steep steps. My knee is still a bit sore but, oh well, no way but up!

It was little more than 45 minutes down, and I surprise myself with just over an hour back to the top. I creep the entire way, "just one foot in front of the other." (Indeed, the old Easter special with the bunny singing that line plays over and over in my head. That, and I am counting my steps, 1-2-3...) I am passed by expert hikers who've climbed from farther below the canyon; I pass people who believe they are expert hikers and who've pushed themselves too quickly. I imagine that my chubby-thighed self is an annoyance: "How can she do it?" they groan. My imaginings keep me motivated when my calves and thighs are burning.

Near the top, I get an ungodly burst of energy. It's like my lunch-fuel decided to kick in. I ride the wave to the top, and quit only when I am back past the trailhead. Two women in their mid-forties stop me with "How far'd you go?" To the rest station, I reply with a big smile. "You did that?!" I respond with an even cheesier grin, if you can imagine.

I'm in a wicker chair on the patio of the El Tovar looking over the canyon just a minute after that exchange. I've fallen asleep just one minute after that, and don't wake for 20 minutes.

Guess the hike tired me out.

I decided against staying for dinner. The previous night, I'd driven back in the dark. I had the iPod playing, but -- damn my wild imagination -- I worried about hitting a stray deer. Ok, not so imaginative, as one did leap into the road in front of my car on the way up. I had plenty of breaking room, and was more pleased than scared at the time. But that was daylight.

Despite my fear, I had pulled off the road shortly before the small town of Valle to take a look at the night sky. I must admit it: I was terrified. The road was COMPLETELY dark, COMPLETELY silent and the sky was brimming with stars. I was out of the car for just seconds, looking up into that expansiveness and feeling very, very small. I dashed back in.

I figured that I would redeem my cowardly-ness, by taking into the Lowell Observatory open house. They were starting at 7:30, so leaving the Grand Canyon shortly after 5 should have given me plenty of time. All would have been on time, but I spot what I thought was a very realistic elk statue near a Tusayan hotel. It turns its head and I realize THAT'S NO STATUE.

I turn the car around and join the throng of shutter-happy tourists. I take a picture from my window, and then a couple walking near ask me "What is it?" and takes my camera to get a closer shot. I yell, Not too close! and shake my head in amazement as some big guy strides up. I'm driving off and watching him in my rearview mirror. He's gotten even closer and I wonder if I will read about him in the next day's news: Grand Canyon tourist gored by elk.

Film at 11.

My phone just rang, and I'd forgotten it was on. It was Mark who, learning that I am sitting in front of a computer screen, chides me for being a geek. "Can't you do that when you are home?" It's all about discipline, I reply.

Ok, ok. Let me sum up by saying that, after another nap and a quick shower back at the hostel, I took the dark road drive out to the observatory as planned. It was beautiful, and a lot less frightening to share the night sky with other admirers. I even met some people: Alexis and Greg who were traveling from Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and Jay, who was driving through from seeing his son in Pomona and heading back to Hastings, Nebraska. I even got to hang out with Jay back in Flagstaff and hear about his near-retirement joys and old-musician blues.

If you're listening, Jay, here's a shout-out.

Off to Sedona...

That can't be real...

I skipped back to the Downtown Diner for breakfast before heading out for The Big Day. There was just one other table occupied when I arrived and the waitress was a chatty blond. Turns out she is from Virginia Beach, and just arrived a few weeks ago. Small world.

Backpack, water, a salty snack and a book -- the basics for any outdoor excursion -- and I was on the road. According to the signs, it's just 87 miles north to the Grand Canyon from the Museum of Northern Arizona. Despite the 75 mph postings, it seemed to take forever. Of course, I stopped along the way to take a few photos, so that might account for the length of the trip. But who could resist? The landscape between Flagstaff and the Canyon is just STUNNING. It's a varied picture of pine forest, scattered shrubs, fields of flowers, farms with mountains rising in the background... Just amazing.

I arrived at the Canyon shortly after noon, parking just past Mather Point and heading first to the toilets. I didn't want to spoil my view of the Canyon by doing "the bathroom dance" on the rim.

I have just a few more minutes on the computer this morning before heading back up there, so let me just say that the Grand Canyon is as otherworldly as many travellers say. Indeed, my first impression was that the distant rises and drops were a massive and shifting backdrop to an equally unreal canyon in the foreground. Bizarrely, it reminded me of a Star Trek episode. Um, I'll stop there.

I spent a good hour doing the typical tourist thing of drifting between the lookout points and the ever-cheesy gift shops. Knowing that I would return on Sunday, I figured that I should get that out of my system early.

Thereafter, I set my sights on reaching Hermit's Rest on foot from the Shrine of Ages. It's the farthest point of the Rim Trail, paved nearest the commercial sites and then rough and railing-less for the bulk of it. I will have to calculate how many miles I did in those many hours, but know I did work-off the brownie I had treated myself to back at Bright Angel Lodge. LOL.

I did that, and then some.

Still, I didn't make it all the way on foot. The sun was just setting when I reached the Abyss, and there was nothing but more largely-solitary and close-to-the-cliff trail ahead. I hopped a shuttle from the Abyss to Pima Point and then hiked and ran the trail to Hermit's.

Yes, ran. Who knew that trail running could feel so liberating?

Wait 'til you see my victory photo... :)

My first canyon

I was well rested after a deep sleep. The earplugs worked perfectly, leaving just the faintest trace of a passing train whistle and the occasional shout of a drunken college student. I showered, dressed and made a brief sketch of what I wanted to see for the day-- mainly Sedonna, but I gave that up after just minutes at the Downtown Diner in Flagstaff. Great staff, an ever-full cup of coffee, and the "no worries" atmosphere that simply begged for me to just hang out in town. I spent hours there, reading the local LIVE paper, studying German (yep, brought the textbooks with me), scribbling out the "wish you were here" postcards, and thinking of what I'd write in yesterday's blog.

I eventually walked back over to the hostel, dumped the study gear, blogged, and headed out for the Museum of Northern Arizona. It's just about 5 miles from downtown on a lovely winding road and nestled amongst the pine trees. The museum was quiet, as it was a weekday. I noticed that a class of high school students made their way through, forced, no doubt, by a well-meaning teacher to look at and appreciate the museum's anthropology collection. They looked like teenagers do: bored, and wishing they were elsewhere.

Too bad, because the museum had some really nice offerings. I was very taken by the weaving samples, which were surprisingly well-preserved for their age and so intricate that I wanted to dash off with one as a prize. Gotta look into a basketweaving class. (Just kidding.)

The museum had two special exhibitions. One hall was taken by the large-scale oil paintings of Joella Jean Mahoney. I'd never heard of her, and couldn't tell if she'd garnered an audience beyond Arizona's borders. But her work was very impressive, with an incredible savvy for portraying the oranges, yellows and browns that make a desert landscape. Ha, I speak like I am well-aquainted! Well, no, but I certainly appreciated her obvious awe and long-time love of the place. She made me want to take more time here to see what she had seen.

The exhibit on petroglyphs and pictographs was not as nice. Too many rock art pieces crammed into one place made my head ache. Too much! But I did like the part about the role it played in early time-keeping and the tracking of the seasons. We humans are an ingenious lot.

After a little more browsing and the prerequisite stop in the gift shop, I ditched the museum for an afternoon lunch at a local cafe about a mile from the museum. Yum, had a great turkey club with avocado. I stayed just long enough to plot my way to Walnut Canyon National Monument.

About Walnut Canyon...wow. My photographs will never do justice to what it was like looking over into that canyon. Ravens were wheeling about on the great breeze, the sun was shining but not burning and the few other visitors were in great spirits. (I overheard a couple gabbing in German! I resisted the urge to try out my few classes worth.)

There are 200+ steps down into the Canyon along the Island Trail. I stopped some folks on the way down, asking them to snap my picture. It's the one downside of travelling alone, complete with the looks of pity or concern when the rangers, waitresses or other travellers get that you're out hoofing solo. I don't think men would get the same, but that's mere speculation.

In any case, I had a FANTASTIC few hours at the Canyon and highly recommend it. I imagine that my view of the Grand Canyon may eclipse it to some degree, so I am glad I saw it first.

The rest of the day was just as perfect. I took a self-guided tour book for a walk around Flagstaff's historic buildings. Nice! And I ate at THE BEST restaurant, this place called Racha Thai. It's new in town, and I was persuaded to go by the recommendation of the hostel staff and the posted review of a local food critic who said it was the best she'd had since leaving Bangkok. I've eaten a lot of Thai food, but I've never seen the dish I tried on any Washington menu. It was ground chicken with basil leaves, red pepper strips, cabbage and onions topped with egg and baked casserole-ish in a coconut curry sauce. Spicy and outstanding. I saved the leftovers to take with me to the Grand Canyon for lunch.

To complete the evening, I headed back to the museum to catch a one-man show that I'd seen listed in LIVE for the amazingly low price of $5 per adult. The show was Tortilla Heaven, and starred a comedian who'd had some time on Comedy Central and the brother of the actor who was supposed to perform that night. The show was well-worth the price, painful and poignant and hilarious. I was surprised by how much of it was in Spanish, and pleased to pick up a few phrases and get the gist from the staging. Kudos all around.

I'd say more but it's time to pack my bags for the Grand Canyon. Adios, tschuss and ciao.

And on to Arizona

I'm writing from the Grand Canyon International Hostel in Flagstaff, Arizona. I've wanted to get out to Arizona for years, and finally treated myself for my birthday. Glad to share the joy of my new adventure with you folks.

The morning's start was difficult. On the eve of my departure, Cori and four others were performing at mothertongue at the Black Cat. Expecting that they would arrive around 10ish, I had offered my place to crash for the night. Egads, they arrived after midnight, barely eliciting grunts and directions to the living room before I crept back to bed and sleep. At 4 in the morning, my alarm clock was practically deafening. I leapt from bed, called Vicki (Mr. Woofy's Taxi Service!), and grabbed my bags for a dash out the door.

I slept all the way to Phoenix.

The Phoenix airport was little improvement over the Philadelphia transfer point. Thankfully, I was warned of the area around the airport: it looked just as blighted and unwelcome as LAX. I had already decided to nix Phoenix from my "see Arizona" plans, but that definitely confirmed it. It took about an hour for me to pay for and pick up my rental car, and to get on the road out of there.

I was well on the road listening to a wonderful classic rock station (100.7, I think) when I realized that I didn't have my iPod's radio transmitter for the desert north of the city. Meine Gute!

I would love to say that my first stop in Arizona was a lovely national park but, alas, I couldn't do without a constant stream of music for the nearly 3 hour drive to Flagstaff. So, sigh, I stopped at a Super Wal-Mart. Yeah, yeah, I know. But with 100+ degree temperatures, it made sense to also stop for water to keep in the car.

Watered and with music, I hit the road again in search of a local place to eat. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw a sign for Byler's Amish Kitchen? Amish? In Arizona?!


Turns out that the restaurant was opened by an Amish couple that migrated to Arizona sometime in the 70s. The "formerly Amish" line was thin and I can't recommend the decor, but the food...ohmygod. For 8 bucks, I got a simple salad, a still-makes-my-mouth-water-at-the-thought chicken and dumplings entree, and a scrumptious apple betty. The woman who served me (the owner? a relative?) was so Southern Hospitality that I think my own ya'll and ma'am crept back into my language. YUM-E!

Up the road a ways, I found the signs for Montezuma Castle. No, Montezuma had nothing to do with the place, but the early assumption that Aztec's had built the cliff dwellings stuck.

My pictures don't do it justice, but it's a lovely place, and the home of about 50 Sinagua (yes, without water) residents many hundreds of years ago. Despite their name, the Sinagua lived next to a creek and used irrigation techniques for farming. There was more evidence of their handicraft another 7 miles north at Montezuma Well, a naturally replenishing spring with some beautifully shaded areas down near the water's edge.

Still, these areas of water are in otherwise dry land. It reminded me of Colorado, and I feared that the expansive brown would only make me long for the green East Coast. But about 30 minutes outside of Flagstaff the landscape makes a dramatic shift to lush greenery. Indeed, with the 30 degree temperature drop, the incredibly blue sky and the evergreen trees, it became just what that Arizona reporter said to me last week: "God's country." (It reminded me of New Zealand. Sniffle!)

Flagstaff itself has the feel of a college town or a ski resort: the route in on the highway has its Denny's and McDonalds, but they give ground to an historic downtown of local bars and craft shops. The very active train station -- some 5 trains pulled through while I was still awake! -- only ads to the charm.

Although my plan had been to drop things off at the hostel and head right back out to Sedona for the evening, I decided instead to leave the car behind and simply hoof it around town to see the shops. I made a guilty purchase of some Simple tennis shoes. (See the picture; aren't they just the cutest?)


And I had dinner at Charley's. (Julian, I do NOT recommend their steak. Ugh.)

By the time 8:30 rolled around though, my wacky sleepless night and hikes about the area had worn me out. I put the ear plugs in (those trains!) and called it a night.

P.S. You know who you are, and you know you are missed.