Grand Expectations

“When going to hide, know how to get there. And how to get back. And eat first.”

My trusty new battery operated alarm only slightly disturbed me at 5:30…I had hoped for the sound of cymbals clashing or something, as I am impossibly difficult to awaken. Still, I tossed and turned enough trying to find the “off” button that I cracked one mucous-encrusted eye open to start the day. I was nervous and anxious, and I had not even had a cup of coffee yet.
Once pressed and dressed, I was surprised to see my hosts alert and enjoying breakfast already as I descended into the main room. I took the last of my belongings outside and carefully stacked them in the nook awaiting them in my newly organized passenger side of the truck.
With a hearty hug from Jenn and an equally hearty handshake from Chris, I thanked them again near the front door. Zoey just…looked at me with a tilted head, as down the driveway I went. As I approached the truck, the first rays of sun, which had silhouetted the quiet community of Summerlin, poked over the rooftops…I imagined sleepy Stepford Wives starting myriad perfect breakfast buffets throughout the town.
“Be careful!” called Jenn as I pulled away. I waved back in confirmation, and soon was gassed up, coffee prepped, and careening through the morning rush. The sun was blinding (for I was heading right towards the horizon) but, no worries, I had my trusty new sunglasses, which I donned over my own, making everything much more bearable. My hands were comfortably cushioned now as I gripped my extreme-makeover steering wheel.
I thought long and hard about this leg of the trip. My destination was a lifelong dream. Well, maybe not lifelong, but long enough: The Grand Canyon. Ever since the movie of the same title, I had been longing to see its majesty first-hand. It was still several hours away, and I tried to focus on my immediate tasks: the map, and passing inspection at Hoover Dam.
Boulder City was discovered to be a relatively small town in which I stopped for breakfast at Burger King, oddly enough. Here my brother Kevin called me to discuss my driving timeline and that I would be home in time for Mom’s 75th birthday, for which a surprise was being planned…nothing monumental, just close family, but still, he wanted to make sure I’d be there. I assured him I’d be back well in advance and would be happy to use my tax-free Delaware residency to procure the beer and wine. When I relayed my next destination to him, I sensed a pang of jealousy, but did not indulge it. “Great movie,” he said, and I chuckled with quiet understanding.
Rush hour through a small town is rather annoying, because the volume is only increased by 25 MPH speed limits and traffic lights. Still, Boulder City is a piece of heaven on earth; tranquil, small-town…very “Pleasantville.” One would never know that on the other side of town lies the enormous man-made triumph of decades ago.
The slopes and curves to which I’d begun to grow accustomed were less daunting now but the road signs were much more foreboding. Trucks in particular were frowned upon, and were detoured a good 45 minutes around the Dam. I assured myself that I was just a baby truck…just a baby truck…and that Jesse’s Girl was not a threat to Homeland Security, despite the clumpy, bungee-cord-bound, tarp-covered cargo in the bed. Police cars and roving rangers were everywhere; the Dam was under construction, and security was heightened as a result. When I arrived at the checkpoint, a non-descript ranger with a typical full-brimmed officer’s cap pulled me to one side to inspect the bed. I explained the cross-country thing and how everything was not only NOT personally packed by me, but was furthermore doubly-bound with contractor trash bags for protection from rain. He insisted I undo the tarp, as he looked at the various body bags forced together into a misshapen puzzle. He had me cut open several containers, which thankfully were clear and showed books and files and such, but when he got to the covered trunk, he insisted that he be able to inspect its opaque contents.
I was mortified when the first thing revealed on opening the lid was my teddy bear. Enough said. Ranger Rick said I was free to go.
With some diligence, I managed to piece the puzzle back together, and was traversing the Hoover Dam. There are one or two viewpoints, but they were closed during this time, so I was forced to continue without a moment to truly enjoy the scope of the sculpture; I took a few random photos without looking as I held the camera out the window, hoping that I’d captured something more than scaffolding and road work signs.
The one-way curvy crescents cascaded to a dull stretch of road where tumbleweeds jostled about, and before long I junctioned with I-40. Happy for Interstate speeds (and lanes…go ahead, pass me, I thought, I’m not in a hurry), I looked ahead to the mountain horizon. Is that it, I thought, is that the beginnings of The Grand Canyon? I sped along with glee, as the desert terrain started to melt away into a remarkably green vista. This was Arizona, right? What’s with all the trees? It was all too surreal, but after the bleakness of the last several legs, I was grateful for the foliage as I breathed it in.
Counting down the mileage on the highway signs, I could sense being less than an hour away; soon I had turned left on Route 64, heading north. My destination was near. The two lane highway was starting to brim with activity, school buses and tour buses, and I tried to center myself to not get caught in any tourist traps, of which there were many on the way. Within minutes of the main Grand Canyon village, I was startled by a helicopter that hovered across the road (a recurring image from the movie). I marveled at the thought of flying over the land in that manner, and as I passed the Grand Canyon airport (who knew?), I was shortly in line at the Lincoln-Log main gates. The admission drive-through booths were staffed with beefy ladies in knock-off ranger uniforms, and mine was no exception. She was friendly and informative, and with my receipts I received multiple maps and information packets. “First lookout is about a mile up on the right,” said Ranger Rosie, and I thanked with what was probably entirely too much fervor. I didn’t care. The gate rose, and I hit the gas before anyone else could get in front of me.
The “first lookout” was inundated with traffic and pedestrians, and there was nary a spot to be found. I could discern, between dodging the children running amok and the elderly taking their time, small pockets of the canyon through what seemed to be bonsai trees lining the crater…not enough to give me any real sense of scope, and after three times around, I decided to proceed further down the road to the main trap: the food court and souvenir lot. Here, I figured there must be more bustle in and out, and I was right, finding a spot near enough to get a bite to eat, and still cross the main road to take my first view. I took my time. I wanted to savor this, so I stepped inside for a sandwich and pulled out the map to get a comprehensive overview.
Feeling a little yucky from the sweat and heat, I entered the adjoining souvenir trap…um, store. After surveying the goods, I opted for a rust colored Kokopelli inspired cap and shirt, and ducked into the restroom to do my “supercanyon” change. Feeling a little refreshed (and looking oh-so-touristy), I grabbed my camera from the truck, stashed the map in my pocket, and headed across the main road into what looked like bonsai heaven. The white sand trail wound to and fro, and ahead I could see a small cabin surrounded by crooked stripes of red, rust and gold.
The trees parted and I looked to my left. There it was.
I couldn’t breathe.