Arizona: Grand Canyon loop

Three a.m. Thursday morning, Bryan and I wake in 55 degree Flagstaff for our hour drive north to Arizona�s tourist treasure, the Grand Canyon. Flying through the dark desert � though first light shone on the horizon around 3:45-4 a.m. � we keep the top up and I look off into the shadows at the hills and trees. Signs warn us of animals for the next 20 miles, and shortly after Bryan pushes the Mustang to our top speed of 103, we blow by a shadow I see not two feet off the road on my side. �Woah! Elk!� I shout, not really sure what it was but somewhat convinced it�s more alive than a tree or road sign. Bryan screams too, and admits later, �I only saw a quick glimpse, but after that, I was shaking.�

He quickly recovers, and we continue our flight as the light begins to cast definition on the flat stretches of desert. We come to a small town, perhaps Valle as the map says, also known as Bedrock City (it says in parentheses) � and turn right from 180 to 64 for the final miles to the south Rim entrance station. The roads converge in a T with a left and right turn lane, so Bryan sarcastically puts on the turn signal and comes to a deliberate, exaggerated stop at the sign, pausing longer than necessary with no other vehicles in motion anywhere we could see. We turn right and head north.

North on 64, we coast through the entrance station � a $20 discount for arriving before sunrise � and join several other cars in searching for the rim to watch the Earth turn.

I select Mather Point, the first observation point we come to on the road, and we turn in to join three dozen others for the show. A couple of tour buses arrive, unload their Asian tourists (just an observation) and are gone as soon as our nearest star has cleared the Northern Rim. Before sunrise, I walk a few yards east to find a more secluded, quiet spot with a twisted tree for the foreground of my photos. Down below, on the ledge overlooking the Canyon, the bus tourists applaud as the sun makes its ascent over the horizon. So much for the sounds of silence.

As soon as the sun comes up and the temples and spires of Colorado formations take on new shapes with light and shadow, the tour buses are loaded and off again, heading to the next destination for another quick-stop, fast-food visit to the next � though this time figurative � tourist abyss.

Bryan and I linger, snapping off frames and putting away rolls while we still have a shred of solitude before the crowds return. A middle-aged couple comes down the steps behind us.

�Oh man,� the woman says in her Texas drawl.

�This is awesome,� her husband replies, and I picture a human version of Hank Hill. �I tell you what.�

We return to the car and head toward the village, stopping to photograph the Mustang by the sign at the not-yet-open-for-the-day Visitors� Center. A little further we come upon the lodges and park to take a shuttle out to Hopi Point, leaving us a two-mile walk along the West Rim to return to our car.

Hopi Point, chosen only with regard to its distance from the lodge and its being one stop beyond the Powell Memorial, turns out to be the first spot (along this West Rim tram trail) with a clear view of the Colorado River. It sits 5,000 feet down on the Canyon floor, matte and meandering, only a small segment visible before it bends back behind another wall of the Canyon.

We spend some time at Hopi Point, shooting more and more photos of the world�s most famous hole. A midwestern family disembarks at Hopi Point with us and, gazing down looking for the river (none of us saw it right away), the teenage daughter says in her Wisconsin or upper midwestern accent � �I don�t see the river. He�s full of crap.� But Mom points it out, wide and short, down in the Canyon shadows.

From Hopi, it�s a short walk to Powell, the spot selected for its proximity to the rapids below where Powell lost two rafts during his trip down the Colorado. The memorial faces away from the Canyon, and the view here is wide and expansive, without the obstruction of trees or other points reaching out from the ridgeline.

Powell Point itself stretches out a peninsula of high ground in the sea of Grand Canyon expanse, and to the east the above-ground remnants of the last active mine shaft in the Canyon � or any National Park I believe � are visible. A scaffold rises several hundred feet from the rim and a diagram shows what the operation looked like. Down below, inside the Arizona earth, remain the shafts and caves of a former mine which yielded, among other resources, uranium. Presumably because of an accident, a near-accident or the threat of one, the rim trail is blocked off around the mine, and visitors have trampled through the surrounding trees to get to the next viewpoint, Maricopa Point. From here it all blurs together, various vistas, several photos, pictures of other couples with the Canyon behind them. As we walk, we stop occasionally to see if there might be anything new (not usually) and take another drink. We look out, amazed at what lies before us, and how far off and remote the trails below appear. The busiest, easiest and most popular � Bright Angel Trail � becomes consistently seen, the hikers, mules, rest houses and switchbacks plainly visible.

I should clarify that although the view becomes monotonous from a photography standpoint, I never get tired of pausing to gaze out into this Colorado River masterpiece. Every foot a visitor takes down into the Canyon takes him or her through 10,000 years of Earth history. The Canyon was created over time so mindbogglingly long, that we cannot ever being to fathom a notion of that time in our impatient world today.

A little after eight o�clock in the morning, Bryan asks if I have the sunscreen. �I thought you brought it,� I say. He had it out on the car to apply before we left the parking lot. I didn�t think to bring it, and I�m not even sure where it went � somehow it got back into the car. �Oh great,� he says. �We�re going to fry out here. We should get moving. It�ll be getting on to high noon soon.� I look at my watch. �Um, Bryan ... it�s 8:30 in the morning.� Waking at 3 a.m. the morning after flying in from the east, our bodies are still used to our Eastern Time Zone, and a 3 a.m. wakeup felt nothing like it should. By 8:30 in the morning, we are ready for lunch � as most of Arizona business opens its doors for the day.

We finish our walk, by this time joking about whatever comes to mind � the hot desert sun, the tourists and donkeys on Bright Angel Trail, how 8 a.m. feels like noon � and return to the lodge, having accomplished more in the six hours before 9 a.m. than ever before in our lives. All along, the time confused us, having been up so early the day after arriving from the East Coast, three hours later on our body clocks. We finish walking about 8:30 (maybe 9:30 � I forget) and, disappointed no lunch is available, we head for the car for our snacks, and depart.

Taking the East Rim Drive out of the park, we stop for a shot of the car with the Canyon behind it and made a stop for drinks at the crowded Desert View point, with its 1932 tower that looks much older. There, the Colorado runs close and apparent so that the rafters could be seen as they approach the rapids. We also see � I did, actually � two pairs of gorgeous girls, but, as always, nothing came of it. We leave the park at 11:16 a.m. and again find ourselves speeding through the desert on Arizona 64, coming to Highway 89 and the power lines crossing the plateau, likely stretching from Glen Canyon dam up at Page, forming Lake Powell. Top down, music on, sun shining � �Dan, I think we�re badasses,� Bryan says.

Cruising along 89 skirting the Painted Desert, we hit the Navajo Reservation and the roadside shacks appear, advertising Native American crafts and jewelry.

�Chief Yellowhorse,� one says. �Nice Indians Behind You. Chief (heart) you.�

We stop at a scenic overlook with a view of the Little Colorado River Gorge we need to walk to see. It might still be called the Little Colorado River if it still had water running through it. On the property lie three wrecked cars � the highlight of the drive home, really � sitting in the field, one down a small ditch we don�t notice until returning from the gorge. Imagine how much fun it would�ve been to put those cars there.

The drive back along the fringe of the Painted Desert. At one point, I look back over my shoulder to the northeast and see the pink sand that gives the landscape a painted look. A bright salmon colors the desert floor off in the distance.

Since my last trip to Arizona, I�ve often thought about those drives through the desert � the two-lane roads stretching off to the horizon, where they disappear over the edge until you top the hill (butte, plateau, ridge ...) and see it all over again on the other side. The roads are scarce, and unless points A and B are on the same highway, there�s no direct way to get there. Out there, under the high sky, day or night, you feel free, engulfed by the rushing wind and rejuvenated by the summer sun. Driving alone, the desert is the perfect place to find yourself � I feel free out there, like I could do anything � just stop the car and walk towards the horizon to see where the desert goes. But I don�t, because the desert can fool you, kill the careless and inexperienced, the unfamiliar. And I�m reminded of my limits. Still, those limits seem further away. I think the best way to find yourself is to get lost, to learn how you handle the anxiety of an unfamiliar, undesirable situation. Sure, I knew where I was, where I was going and how to get there, but with nothing for miles but the painted blacktop between you and the horizon, and nothing above you between you and the sun, there is no feeling of home for a suburban-raised boy. The exhilaration Powell and Pike and the other western white explorers felt must have been astounding, for they were some of the first new people to these lands, some of the men to map the West for the western world.

Eighty-nine brings us back into Flagstaff from the northeast � past GIRLS RANCH ROAD (�Yeah! Let�s stop!�) � and onto the former U.S. 66. Nothing like Steinbeck�s Joads, we pulled into Flag with the railroad on our left and the stores and restaurants and cafes of the Mother Road on our right. After a quick hotel stop, we go back downtown and have lunch in Collins� Pub, I believe; if so, an appropriate tavern to eat, considering our reason for coming to Arizona in the first place -- the wedding of our friend, whose last name is Collins.

After lunch, a stop at Starrlight Books (15 N. Leroux St.), just a tiny sidestreet store where I buy a book on Route 66. The owner, co-owner, or the owner�s wife, takes my debit card, which wouldn�t register in their scanner.

�Do you want to use another one, or should I punch it in?� she asks.

�Punch it in, it should work,� I say, �that happens occasionally.�

So she did; her husband sat nearby, silently surfing the net or engrossed in some other task on what appeared by his interest to be a new � if not a first � computer.

�You don�t have an eel-skinned wallet, do you?� he asks. �I read that, because of the eels� natural electricity, eel-skinned wallets can sometimes erase credit cards.�

�I don�t have one (a credit card), so I wouldn�t know,� the woman offers.

It�s the kind of conversation you�d expect in a small, couple-owned bookstore in the West just off Route 66. Just before I�d approached the counter, a man walked in from the street to buy a used copy of Steinbeck�s �Grapes of Wrath� � appropriate, again, near the Mother Road.

Later that night, back at the motel, I�m pleased to find that our $44-a-night Saga Motel is listed among the sights along Flagstaff�s stretch of Route 66. It�s now, of course, part of the Budget Host chain, but the flashing neon sign survives on the side of the office of the privately-owned motel.

Interstate 40 has replaced the original old highway route, but there are a few tangible remnants of Beale�s Road, the old National Highway, and the Mother Road. The course of Route 66 is called Santa Fe Avenue through Flagstaff, and for years scores of motor courts and cafes had a captive audience thanks to the swarms of visitors. In early July when Flagstaff�s annual All-Indian Pow Wow, highlighted by parades, rodeos, and tribal ceremonial dnaces, got underway, the town was filled with cowboys, Indians, and tourists. Choices of places to find food, drink, souvenirs, or a bed were limitless � ... the Skyline Motel (�In The Pines�), the Grand Canyon Cafe featuring Chinese and American food, Wigwam Curios, Kachina Cafe (�Good Meals and Courteous Service�), the Saga Motel, the Timberline Motel, and the Lumber Jack Cafe, offering �Heavenly Fried Chicken� and �Delicious Pancakes.�

The afternoon involves only swimming and a nap leading up to the Women�s World Cup kickoff for the U.S. and Nigeria in Chicago. We miss Nigeria�s goal that puts the visitors up 1-0, but we watch the next six U.S. scores before halftime and then shower before dinner.

Dinner that night: back near Route 66 at the Beaver Street Brewery and Whistle Stop Cafe, just south of the railroad tracks in a long-standing building that used to be a Foodtown. Bryan asks for a table near the window, but we move because he must stare at an intensely amorous couple that does not appear to have dinner plans, or if they�re finished, they�ve decided to use the otherwise secluded (save for the window and us) end of the bar for foreplay.

Another stop at Collins� Pub for a couple of pints before bed. The Grand Canyon Cafe � pictured in the 66 book � has shut off its neon for the night, a certain disappointment since I wanted a photograph and Bryan wanted a beer there. But Collins has an abundance of beautiful women dressed for the night, perhaps part of the summer enrollment at nearby Northern Arizona University.

When it�s all over, the day ends about 20 hours after it started for us.