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1999-06-25 - 23:54:50

Arizona: Red rock and back to Phoenix

Arizona: Red rocks and back to Phoenix

FRIDAY we wake to check out and return south, with a stop at Slide Rock and Sedona on the way. Arizona�s 89A is the most breathtaking drive I�ve ever experienced, cruising through the forest and along Oak Creek Canyon with its impressive cabins on the banks. Then the road dives down into the canyon, switching back until you�ve driven down a thousand feet or so. Slide Rock State Park comes up, and we pay the admission and head off to swim. We walk up the stream along the western bank, then find a spot in the east side we wanted, necessitating crossing the river, up past the bridge. The stream is narrow and shallow, but with a current. And not to mention the name. Slide Rock means slippery rock. With Stegner book in hand and my camera over my shoulder, I wade through the cold (60-65 degree?) water, slipping once but regaining my balance without my hands. After leaving our belongings on the slickrock bank, we go back to the stream, needing 15 or 20 minutes to build up strength to submerge ourselves by falling back into the water. Once done, we slide down the natural slide into the lower pool. Bryan joins many of the other swimmers in jumping off the side cliffs into a deeper part of the creek � not for me.

After the morning swim, we get back to the car at noon and continue south into Sedona, very much a one-main-street Western town of storefronts and expansive vistas. Finding a deli, we eat lunch on a sidewalk table and peruse the free tourist guides. After walking into a few shops on the way back to the car, Bryan suggests a hike or jeep tour. A little tired and ready to visit Bobby and Kathy in Gilbert, as well as seeing some of Phoenix � maybe even tonight�s Diamondbacks game � I would be happy leaving, but I know I�d enjoy a look around Sedona. There�s no way I wanted to hike, though, so we scope out the jeep tours and settle on Sedona Adventures� offer to ride up the Mogollon Rim.

Having to wait an hour, I sit in the shade, watching the tourists and a few of the Sedona locals pass by. Bryan snaps a photo of a man with long hair walking his dog, standing on the curb waiting to cross the street. He�s wearing a T-shirt and multi-colored shorts with a backpack on. Only it�s not a backpack, it�s a birdcage, with the bird under a sheet. Bryan and I leave at 3 for the tour with Ben our guide, a middle-aged couple from somewhere further west (Washington state?) and an old couple from Mississippi. Mrs. Mississippi doesn�t enjoy the bumps along the crude road leading up the rim, nor does she like the view when the jeep comes close to the edge, but what else can Ben do? As the afternoon wears on, she becomes a little annoying � I mean, what did she expect from this tour, which clearly said in the brochure that it would ascend the rim?

This road is Schnebly Hill Road, or at least that leads to this one is. Some Guy Schnebly named Sedona after his wife and got a hill, then a road, for himself. The road actually continues over the rim, meeting I-17 somewhere on the other side, according to just two road signs I saw on the way. On the drive up and back and as we pause at the top, Ben teaches us about the surrounding Red Rock country, the state and a little about himself. Early on he tells us, �The only two creatures ever to get water out of a cactus were John Wayne and Bugs Bunny.� Walt Disney, who would bring workers to Sedona for vacations, used one of the local rock formations for Disneyland�s Space Mountain (or was it the Matterhorn?) ride. The white, granite looking sandstone, at higher elevations, is the same sand as the Sahara has, only petrified. The red sandstone is what lay beneath the water when the ocean covered the area � fossils are still found there. Eight times the region was covered with water. The white sandstone is actually petrified sand dunes, only above us, unlike those I looked down upon from Arches in 1998.

The view from the rim is worth the nearly hour-long trip � which was fun in itself. Up here, Red Rock Country stands below us, the various formations, all named, stand out as characteristics and landmarks of northern Arizona. Many of them have been the sight of several commercials. In the distance, the semi-ghost town of Jerome glistens in the shadows of a far-off mountain and Ben tells us of the nightlife there � great for live acts. He also describes the tarantula wasp, which will pick up a tarantula after paralyzing it, injecting its eggs into the spider�s abdomen, then carrying it off, giving the appearance of a flying spider. The tarantula dies when the eggs hatch from its abdomen. After some water from the cooler on the jeep, we leave the rim and its black lava rock. The black lava is the result of a long-ago eruption of Mt. Humphreys � Arizona�s highest point at 12,000 feet, but believed to have been 18,000 feet before blowing its top. On the way down, Ben lets us know of the trials of being young and single in Sedona � with its average age of 65. Then we pass a Wrangler with two pretty young ladies in it � just one short. Ben asks if we would mind if he turns around. Bryan and I do not object.

The Mogollon Rim tour for Sedona Adventures is the best way to get up Schnebly Hill Road now that the government no longer maintains the road. Camping is no longer permitted up the hill because of all the damage people have done to the wild landscape. Four-wheel drive vehicles are really needed to go up there � Sedona�s was a �75 Toyota; we also saw one SUV with NJ plates and a Mitsubishi sedan. It�s a bumpy road and rocky and no longer cared for, in hopes that the surrounding hills will be rejuvenated with less use. Down in one gulch, near the top, Ben points to it as an automobile graveyard of sorts � the result of accidents, suicides and lovers� leaps through the years � all the way back to Model Ts. The road we use to climb the rim bends around the crevasse, hugging the mountainside on the east after approaching from the south. We curve around to the northern edge, where we can finally appreciate the view across Red Rock Country to the south. We look down into the gulch where we hope to see a glimpse of a fender, axle, tire, maybe a hood. But there�s no hope of finding any evidence of those romantic tales in the thick trees and shrubs of the gulch.

We bounce back down the road, much faster and with only one stop for more photos � I decide I�m done, though, because all that dust certainly can�t be good for the camera. On the way up, Ben pointed out the wash after Mr. Mississippi asked if it was a dry riverbed. Ben said that in the spring the wash is roaring and fly fishermen line the banks, casting their lines. The guides always stop and say they�ll give the fishermen $100 if they catch anything by the time they come back down in an hour. �We let them sweat for an hour, then tell them on the way down they�ll never catch anything in there.�

Rolling back into Sedona, I comply with the signs on the dashboard when we return to the parking lot: �If you enjoyed your tour, it is customary to tip your guide.� And the more amusing, �Tipping is customary if you enjoyed your tour.� or something to that effect which makes it sound like you could or should tip the Jeep, because the sign is mounted on the dash. I hand Ben $10 from the two of us; Mr. Mississippi handed him what looked like $2. What�s the point?

Bryan and I walk back to the car and we stop for gas � while Bryan pumps, I down a Snickers ice cream bar inside the food mart. �I can�t believe you�re putting ice cream on my credit card,� he says, since I�d left my wallet in the car. Now it�s my one and only chance to drive the Badass Mobile. Because Bryan is the only registered and insured driver on the car, he handles all the driving in the populated areas, and most of the driving overall. I do not mind, though � it allows me to gaze out at all the landscape, something I certainly couldn�t do to the same extent when driving on my own last summer. So I adjust the seat and set the mirrors and we head out of town like two traveling hombres, following the signs for I-17 and the highway to the city. Driving the twisting two-lane road, as well as the open � yet still twisting � interstate is exhilarating. I floor it at one point passing a truck, mainly just to say I floored a Mustang, even if it was an economy version without many of the accessories of a personal car. I reach 93 mph, ten under our high. It�s not much when the speed limit�s 75. We get a kick, too, out of the yellow caution speed signs mounted below the curve warnings � 70 and 65 mph, they suggest.

After an hour or so, we decide the sun is getting the better of us as we descended into the Valley � much closer to Phoenix than the point going up when we put the top down � and I take an exit and pull off the road to put the top up. We drink some water and Bryan douses himself before we turn around to head back to the highway. As we near the city and the road gets more congested, the scenery gives way to the buildings you find on the outskirts of any metropolitan area � the warehouses and strip malls and rundown commercial and private property. From the passenger seat, I focus on the other cars. One Honda has Arizona plates reading �7 4 RYAN,� which I take to mean seven no hitters for Nolan Ryan, and I ask Bryan to follow the woman until I can take a picture, something he�s done a couple of times for me in the past. And when Bryan passes an Explorer on the right and I notice the attractive young blondes inside � just two of them � I instruct him to slow down, and he agrees, trusting my judgment. He pulls behind them � �L LOFT,� from New Hampshire of all places � and we follow them until we have to exit onto I-10 to get to Bobby�s.

At Bobby�s we�re greeted by three barking dogs � Tank (or Miss America, the bulldog), Petey, and Maggie (Kathy�s cocker spaniel) � along with Bob and Janet. Bryan and I stand around for a while talking with them and looking at Tank�s eight bulldog puppies � which look a lot like Beanie Babies. Kathy says later, �All we have to do is attach red tags to them ...� Having left my suit for the wedding in New Jersey (when Dad drove away with it), I ask Bobby if it had come in the mail. �No,� he says at first without thinking, and my face goes white as I say, �It didn�t??� But when he starts walking toward the back bedrooms, I know it must�ve come. There it is, hanging on Bryan�s door in its blue bag. Then Bobby whispers something to Bryan, at which they both laughed, so I ask � �I said, �Another dumb Polack,�� Bobby answers. Which is what I thought too, back in New Jersey. After showers that wash the Red Rock sand from our bodies, Bryan and I grab dinner at Pizza Hut on Baseline Road, then pick up some beer at a 7-11 on our way to Courtenay�s and Cande�s house.

There�s no problem finding the Augusta Whatever development, but because it it�s dark out, we cannot see the golf course, which Courtenay mentioned in her directions. We drive past Lobo, mentioned on Courtenay�s directions, but off of another street, so when I notice it (thinking it was Loho because of the poor lighting), I don�t realize it. We drive to the end of the development and turn around when the road becomes dirt. �Courtenay would�ve mentioned that,� Bryan says. We turn around and I realize Lobo is where we belong, then find Coventry, or whatever the other street is, and we come to the house after one more confusing run down another street because their house sits on a corner. We�re the first to arrive, but at that moment after we return from the jaunt down the street looking for their house number, two trucks from New Mexico pull up � CJ�s friends � and we park behind them and wait. Then Kelli and Kimberly arrive and walk over, so Bryan and I talk with them until CJ comes home and lets us in about 15-20 minutes later. We introduce ourselves and get to know each other, talking about our jobs and histories and where we grew up. We talk like casual, not quite old friends, but certainly not like strangers.

Inside, it�s just the few of us to start � Kelli, Kimberly, Bryan, CJ, his friends. It takes some time before some more ND people arrive, and Bryan and I wait for Courtenay to give us the tour. We take it with her and then the rest of the gang we know arrives � Michelle, Mindy, Jen, then Barb and Mike. Also Megan and Sara, two ND grads Courtenay (and most of the others) know from London. I spend a lot of time in the kitchen talking with Mike � thinking how it�s really nice to see him, as it is everybody in our first group get-together since graduating more than a year ago. I find the relationship with this whole group interesting � much different from my Observer fraternity pals and our group that includes the Girls, our neighbors senior year. And it truly is good to see all them, as short as the time will be. Friday evening passes so fast and is over before I realize � before I get a chance to talk with Kim, or maybe even Cande�s beautiful sister Diana (or something close to that) or even really Courtenay. But to being here with everyone, and seeing everyone, is simply great. Special in the way all things Notre Dame are. It�s a wonderful group, and it hurts to be spread out so far from all of them. This weekend in Arizona reminds me of that, of how much I miss them. Before we leave the house, Mike takes the car for a spin around the development, then Bryan and I return home in time to see what it�s like to feed eight bulldog puppies.

We missed the actual feeding, but Bob fed all eight by hand on Janet�s bed. Then, because bulldogs aren�t the smartest canines, he has to help them go to the bathroom. �They�re so stupid, they�ll just hold it in until they explode,� he explains. �So you have to put a wet towel on their bottoms to make them go.� He goes through this process with each of them except the runt � the name escapes me � which, while Janet holds him, just decides to go. And go. He really lets it out. All over the bed. After catching the show, we all head to bed.

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