Solitude and Stories of the Kaibab

Flagstaff was still mostly dead the next morning, but I found a couple of cafes open. The one I chose was small, but there was a large group occupying about half of the tables. They were loud, but it may have been because the place was so small. No wireless or Edge service here, so I got the local paper and read it as I ate. But I also watched them and thought of how nice it would be to be with friends, having breakfast and sharing stories.

Here is the loneliness of the road: there are interchanges all around you but they usually remain outside of you. You are the observer, not the participant. There is a safety in that space, but also distance that breeds sadness. Part of me longs to be a part of these conversations, but then I know that if I were, I would be thinking of the road. It’s the old paradox of always wanting what you don’t have, the curse of Western civilization. The only thing to do is keep moving, keep listening, and when those moments of connection do occur, celebrate and sing them. And when those moments of loneliness and sadness occur, embrace them for these too are the road.

North on US 180 to US 64 and the Grand Canyon or Kaibab (”upside-down mountain”). Patty sings the blues, and I am quiet and contemplative on a sunlit day. I think of how many times I have made this drive, either from the south like today or from the east out of Cameron. I must have seen the Grand Canyon a dozen times, I guess, and each one was special. The first time I arrived here we camped in Mather Campground with about eight inches of snow on the ground. The first night it was zero degrees. The second night it was -8, and a wolf walked through the campground. We would get up and walk down to the Visitor’s Center where there was a roaring fire, and the Ranger would tell us about the wolves that had just appeared after many years. The only campers were a group from Prescott College, just south and west of here. It was their spring semester orientation, and they were hiking down the Bright Angel Trail to the river. Sharon was on that trip, and we ended up stopping in Prescott the next day where she spoke with the admissions office and ended up transferring the next fall. When she graduated from Prescott College, I flew out and presented her diploma to her, reading from Lao Tzu and Whitman.

A memorable visit was a trip that was extremely difficult in terms of weather but one of the best in terms of camaraderie and adventure. We came in from Cameron at the gloaming, and while we were playing around at the “Little Grand Canyon” just east of the Desert View entrance, it began to snow. A massive storm had blown in on us, and the sky darkened quickly as we began the climb. Of course the snow was already deeper and falling harder the more we climbed, and soon it was snowing so hard I couldn’t see the road. There was only an expanse of whiteness, and I couldn’t tell where the road ended and the canyon rim began. At one point I accidently found the edge, and the van screamed. But only one wheel was off the road, and I easily backed up and started again. Still, it was a tense moment. After this excitement Ryan and Bubba got out of the van and walked the edges of the road, and I kept the van between them. We weren’t sure how far away from the Desert View entrance we were, and we weren’t sure if there was a campground or any other kind of accommodations there, but the only way out was through, so we kept going. Headlights appeared from ahead, and a jeep coming down from the east entrance stopped. “What’s it like up there?” I ask. “Bad,” the guy says, “what about down below?” “Not good,” I say, “but at least you’re going downhill.” I tell him that he can follow my tracks, except for that one point where I drive off the road. He laughs and tells me I can follow his as well. I creep into the east entrance following the tracks of a jeep. I am in a fifteen-passenger van with eight students.

We arrive at Desert View to find a campground and a general store, but the store is closed, and the campground is pointless because there is over two feet of snow on the ground. We wake a ranger who lives behind the store, and he is completely unconcerned about our situation because he sees it all the time. Ryan wants to call the Arizona State Police from the pay phone there (this was before the cell phone revolution), and he does, but he gets the same explanation. We’re stuck, and we may be stuck here for a while. We can always sleep in the van, but it won’t be good. It will be cramped and cold, and we will have been together under these conditions far too long. If we try to run the heater, we will eventually run out of gas, and we don’t know if or when the station will open at Desert View. We also have to use the bathroom, so we walk to the lighted area and discover that the bathrooms are open. More importantly, they’re heated to keep the pipes from freezing. In less than a minute we decide that we will spend the night in the bathroom. We have sleeping gear, MREs (Meals Ready to Eat, from our very own GI Jane), and shelter. We choose the women’s bathroom because there are no urinals, and the intrepid Ryan plants his sleeping bag beneath the hand warmer. Throughout the night he reaches up to hit the switch and gets a minute or two of warm air directly on him. We are happy, warm, and fed, and we are sleeping in a women’s bathroom at the Grand Canyon.

The next morning the trading post opens, and the manager lets us in. We buy all kinds of food and other things, and since he knows no one else is coming in, he brings out a television and some movies for us to watch. We lie in the floor and snack as we watch a movie about a teacher who takes his students on a sailing trip and one of them dies. The irony is not lost on us, but we are alive and happy.

I walk among these and other amazing memories along the South Rim Trail, and I note that this time I am alone. It is an odd feeling, having always been here with a number of students, but now I am the solitary traveler, watching the families and friends repeat the same exclamations and observations while I smile like a coyote. But I’m not the trickster now, just a quiet and lonely traveler.

Two men approach me and ask in foreign accents where the presidents’ heads are. “Excuse me?” I say, confused. “The presidents’ heads–where are they on the trail?” I finally understand they are asking about Mt. Rushmore, and they think it is part of the Grand Canyon. I smile and tell them that Mt. Rushmore is about a thousand miles away in South Dakota. They are confused and say that they were sure the presidents’ heads were in the Grand Canyon. “Sorry,” I tell them, and they move along, disappointment registering on their faces. Smiling still, I hear the iPhone ring. It’s an odd sound here on the rim of the canyon, and I feel a bit bad about it, but then I am lonely and eager to talk. I look down and see it is Monique. She describes what she is seeing from the Chicago El, then asks me what I am looking at. “Let me tell you about the conversation I just had and what I am seeing,” I say, and suddenly, I am no longer alone.