Just Deserts

“It is often better to mince your words just in case you have to eat them later.”
I was immediately in sensory overload.
The great Grand Canyon is simply a sight to behold; neither pictures nor words can ever do it justice. That is not to say I won’t try.
I was once told that when I’m feeling really good about myself, and people are shouting for my name in lights and can’t get enough of me, to talk a walk down to the beach and look out over the ocean just to see how small I really am. This was a similar experience. The vastness was overwhelming, and the silent stir, if you can call it that, was everywhere; I wondered if it came from the winds picking up on the hollowness of all the dropped jaws that have witnessed these views. The horizon was piercing blue in stark contrast to the multiple hues of orange and gold and amber before me; and yet to another side, dark reds and browns; still another view with whites and yellows; and still more with rich browns and rust. It simply…went on, and on, and on.
I was humbled. Amazed too, that the company of fellow visitors nearby were in just as much awe as I. Cameras clicked and folks solemnly milled about, sometimes positioning themselves as far out on a ledge as possible so as to try to touch what simply was unreachable.
I felt a little crass doing it with all this natural wonder around me, but grabbed my cel phone to text a few friends that I was here; a dream come true. And just so I could altogether remove modern technology from the experience as quickly as possible, I grabbed my point-n-click disposable cameras, positioned myself a few times, snapped a few photos of myself (not knowing how horrid they would be, nor how nerdy)…then tucked the modern world back into my pockets as I strolled along the various paths on the southern rim.
It felt as if time stood still as I carefully moved about, and the few moments I found myself alone with the Canyon filled me with an indescribable peace. I felt an inherent sense of trust and a connection with God, the Universal Mind…call it what you will…that I was part of a whole. I found a secluded area to rest under one of the bonsais, and laid there for what seemed like forever.
That’s it. It felt like I was part of forever. That’s really the only way I can say it.

# # #

I suddenly somehow became aware that I was walking back to the parking lot. Somehow time was starting to pass more quickly than I wanted, and I still had “miles to go before I sleep.” With great reluctance, my visit entirely too short, I drove around the rest of the southern rim, only stopping occasionally to take in yet one more magnificent view. And then, it was all behind me; I found myself winding back down yet another stretch of road, which would set me on my path across the Arizona desert towards the Four Corners Monument – my next stop, and hopefully, the end of the day’s journey.
I gassed up at the next junction with Route 160, and stopped in a charming Native American shop called Painted Desert, savoring the authentic merchandise. The shop itself had a sense of calm about it; a connection to nature, if you will, and a real respect for it…it’s a bit of a heady, ethereal feeling…different than a “new age” shop you’d find in a big city. I longed to purchase souvenirs for my friends back home; for it was here that I found “something for everybody.” At least the old adage is true; it’s the thought that counts, for I would have broken the bank if I had gone on a shopping spree.
Recharged somewhat, I targeted the 3:00 position of the sun, realizing my need to step on the gas. “Miles to go.” And they were to be rather bleak ones. Confounded by numerous construction zones on one-lane highways, I was delayed entirely too often awaiting for clearance from some worker with a reversible “Stop/Slow” sign as he or she corralled traffic like cattle to slaughter…the sun beat down in the desert, and I started to take note of the traffic signs, for already I was taken aback when I saw signs warning of bobcats in Grand Canyon Village…here they were a little different…pictures of coyotes, snakes and wolves dotted the plain terrain, almost as if to make it interesting to drivers, or at least keep them alert.
It seemed, however, that every time I started to make progress, another section of road work set me back. I was becoming very agitated; it was hot, and I was keeping my eye on the temperature gauge, which was starting to rise due to all the start/stop/stalling that was going on. I consulted the triptik at every delay, looking for some alternative, but alas, I was in…a desert…how many roads can one take? Seemed my only hope was to keep on, which I did, with gritted teeth and a constantly depleting source of Dasani.
Matters loosened up somewhat after Tuba City (don’t ask…or blink as you pass it), but I was still a long way off from Four Corners, and was entering Navajo Territory. The sun was doing its shadow play again, and I needed to find a suitable AAA city with approved lodging.
That city was Kayenta, an area comprised mostly of two major cross streets, lined with commercial hotels, gas stations…and a supermarket. Not much else. Opting for a Holiday Inn (probably an influence of my father, who stayed in them often when he was a salesman), I checked in as quickly as possible, longing for a quick sandwich, to have a few beers, and just chill out. Four Corners could wait, I figured, and my next destination, Denver, was a cattycorner coast through Colorado. Boy was I wrong about that on all fronts.
I wandered through the sleepy town, grabbing pre-packaged turkey- on- wheat at the convenience store, and upon checkout, I asked the clerk where I might pick up a six pack of beer. She was a fairly rotund girl, with jet black Native American hair, which descended strictly on either side of her face like a rigid waterfall. She looked at me as though I had six heads.
“Um…you’re on an Indian reservation. Alcohol is illegal here.”
Long pause as Patrick takes this in.
“Oh.”
Stupid tourist look from said clerk.
“I see,” I said, “Well, now I know.” And as I grabbed my bag I thought, Hmmm, okay, you can’t sell me a beer and yet you have no problem selling me any number of the tobacco products behind you. I decided it best to bite my tongue. Stranger in a strange land, and all that.
Back at the hotel, I felt uneasy; my brief excursion into the bowels of Kayenta, I noted on the way back, opened my eyes to a more impoverished way of life: I observed more easily the raggedly dressed children and elderly, noticed many of the boarded-up shops, the bare-bones convenience stores…not exactly Rodeo Drive. The Holiday Inn was paradise in comparison. I was concerned, however, for the exposed belongings in the bed of my truck; a silly concern, but one does hear stories. I tried to sleep, but often found myself looking out the window of my room to be certain everything was still intact. I slugged down two Advil to relieve my stress, and drifted away to the latest CNN report on Michael Jackson’s drug-addicted cause of death.
And here, I couldn’t even buy a beer.
When I woke up to my sort of somewhat trusty alarm, I had a freakish realization as I looked at my clock, and that of the morning news: I had driven through my first time zone.
I was already an hour late.