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DAY
TWENTY-SEVEN COMMENTARY (Page Two)
So after leaving the schoolgirls on their own in the village of
Hotevilla, AZ,
I was finally back on the road, and --
let's face it -- somewhat sadly. I headed back out along the mesa
towards Tuba City
and beyond. Riding due north out of town, I passed a sign which had
arrows pointing in opposite directions, indicating “North Rim”
and “South Rim” of the Grand Canyon. You see, in the course of
some eight hundred miles, there are only three points where one can
drive across the Colorado River, and this was one of them. I had been
to the South Rim before, but this time I was headed to the North.
There
was more incredible scenery on
Rte. 160 on the way to the crossing. Mesas consisting of similar
underlying formations
rose at regular intervals on the right side of
the road over the course of dozens of miles, whereas on the left
there were sand dunes perched upon rocky bases instead. Eventually,
Rte. 89A branched to the left, while 160 climbed its way up along the
face of the cliffs on the right and disappeared into a narrow notch
high up and very far in the distance. I was heading down the slope
towards a valley floor and in the direction of the ridge on the other
side. I was soon to arrive at the Navajo
Bridge near Lees
Ferry (click here for a history of the
bridge crossing).
Once
on the other side of the Colorado -- which, some fifty miles ahead,
would begin to carve the Grand
Canyon in earnest -- I passed through small “towns” along the
way, tucked in against the cliff faces of the mesas behind them.
Sporting names such as Vermillion Cliffs, Cliffdwellers, etc., some
consisted of little more than a cute inn or two, a restaurant/tavern,
and possibly a general store, but each looked extremely inviting in
that inexplicable, “on the road” way. Naturally, being on a
timetable I had to resist the temptation to drop anchor, but there
were some opportunities to capture some unique photographs.
The
road began to climb, overlooking
the broad plain
and its narrow vertical slash somewhere down below; the topography
gave way to hills and pine trees. It began to get much cooler here as
well -- and that came as no surprise when I passed a sign indicating
that the elevation was nearly 9,000
feet! When I
arrived at
the town of Jacob Lake, where begins the road to the North Rim, I was
more than a bit disappointed to find that I still had some 45
miles to go!
I
dealt with some curious/annoying
driving by a maroon Ford pickup in front of me and covered the
distance as quickly as possible. There were stretches in which many
of the trees had recently burned in a fire, which lent a spooky feel
to what otherwise would have been lovely scenery. Past these areas
were lush, green pine forests rolling down into meadows on either
side of the road. Eventually I reached the entrance to the camping
area and eyeballed the campsite I had reserved, before checking in
with the park ranger, who was away from the station for a few
moments. The site was nicely wooded, but it slanted at a rather
extreme angle, and holy mackerel was
this whole place like Grand Central Station! Campsites everywhere,
and without a doubt mostly RV's and trailers, rather than tents.
Gotta be honest, I wasn't digging it much at all. And so my general
lack of enthusiasm for the scene helped determine a course of action
I had been mulling since the first days of planning; that is, rather
than stay here for two overnights and spend the in-between day hiking
about, I would plan to load back up in the AM and head out to the
Toroweap Overlook.
Toroweap
is a small
collection of undeveloped campsites further west along the North Rim,
but which can only be reached via a sixty-mile, three to four hour
drive over maintained, yet mostly washboarded dirt Bureau of Land
Management roads. More
information (and excellent pictures) can be found here at the National Park Service website,
which I strongly recommend visiting. For the
moment, however, the question was, should I relinquish my (pre-paid)
reservation for tomorrow evening when I formally checked in with the
ranger? What if I didn't get as early a start as I had wished? What
if I found the road too demanding on the bike and trailer? Sixty
miles over dirt is a long way; while I trust the bike (and the
trailer that I built by hand myself), as I utterly must, else
launching myself cross-country was an unwise decision -- perhaps it
would be a good idea to just keep the reservation, in case I had to
come back and use it, wouldn't it?
People,
as they say in the trading business: nothing
done!
Here again, the decision was sort of made for me.
When the ranger returned to the station, I overheard him telling the
gentleman in front of me -- who must have made his reservations far
later than I had -- that he could not use the same campsite for two
consecutive nights, so he and the family would have to pack up the
gigantic trailer and move it to the second night's site. Meanwhile,
here I was, entitled
to the use of my own site for the same length of time, yet thinking
of not using it, so I figured this was as good a reason to head to
Toroweap as any. I interrupted and explained the situation to the
ranger and to the would-be camper, told him he could have my site for
the two nights, and I'd take the one he had for only the first night
and get out of there in the morning. Funny thing was, he too wanted
to make sure I thought I'd definitely hit the road, considering I'd
be giving up my next night's reservation in a full campground if I
changed my mind or ran into issues as outlined above. Never mind all
that, I said, let's do it. Problem(s) solved! And let me ax you, how
thoughtful was it of the guy to come over to my “new” site and
hand me a $20 bill, as a nod towards my non-refundable cancellation,
and to the assistance the change was to him and his crew? I'll answer
that one for you: extremely thoughtful, and fantastic all around. And
it helped make my dinner
-- all acquired back in Hotevilla -- go down in even more pleasant
fashion!
The moment was now upon me to
visit the North Rim
for the first time, so I headed out along Bright
Angel Trail, named for the Bright
Angel Fault it provides a direct view of at its end. As I
distinctly recall feeling
when I had first visited
the canyon, at the South Rim, way the heck back in 1986 (!), the
spectacle of the scene is truly, truly awe-inspiring. Rows and rows
of layers and layers of rock, different in color (and even notably
changing as
the evening sun
was setting), billions of years old and exposed to the elements;
cliff faces plunging over a mile down to the upper “plateaus”,
with the gorge channeled by the Colorado River another thousand feet
further down. The quiet majesty of these timeless formations is
utterly humbling, and rightfully so, yet, to me, it is all somehow
re-assuring as well. The constancy? The ultimate stoicism? The
countless seasons and sunrises and rain storms these unflinching
sentinels have presided over? Perhaps it's this very permanence that
makes the human concept of “life” almost comically frail, and yet
simultaneously so enjoyable, so estimable, so worth living to its
fullest. Perhaps there's something to these forms that tell you,
without any doubt, “there's still time.”
They tell you that as you watch them today, like they'll do tomorrow,
like they did yesterday, and like they've done every moment of every
day since they were created and shaped, whether anyone or anything is
standing there looking at them or not. You can't pull your gaze away;
you have to tell yourself you must eventually
leave, or else you'll be there all night, just looking down, looking
at them, trying to get the message, hoping that you are;
wondering if everyone else is, hoping that they all are too. I'm sorry
to
bore you; I just don't know how to describe it any other way. I could
stare at them, agape, for hours.
Click here
to see a sequence of just some of these images.
Meanwhile,
back here on Planet Earth, there was a funny situation developing.
Naturally, everyone wishes to have his or her pictures taken with the
Canyon in the background, so eventually one must ask a stranger to
snap a photo for them. Considering, as we have, how many Europeans
were traveling across the west in the late summer, the chances were
excellent that there'd be a European either asking, or being
asked, the question.
What's so funny about that? Well, the truth, as I observed, was that
-- given their sheer numbers -- it was far more likely for one European
to ask another
to
do the deed on their behalf --
perhaps leading to a German asking a Spaniard, in
English,
to take his picture! Nothing but accented English all around! Now,
once I got caught
up
in the rotation, I became the go-to photographer, and I would ask
aloud if, say, there were any Italians who needed their picture
taken, because I hadn't been asked by one yet. Someone from Denmark
jokingly asked if I would accept dollars as pay for all this work,
and I said I only accepted Euros, but would happily give change back
in USD. Meanwhile, as exotic as the idea of travel from the Asian
nations would reasonably seem, I reminded myself that we were about
2,500 miles closer to them where we stood, and as such the visitors
from South Africa would have to take the award for longest distance
traveled to get here.
On
my walk back to the campground, I
passed by the lovely North Rim Lodge, which had an outdoor seating
patio arranged to face the canyon. I thought this would be a good
time to (1) locate and purchase a bumper sticker for the trailer, and
(2) enjoy a frosty adult beverage while watching the last of the
sun's rays illuminate the peaks below. Walking through the cavernous
(and crowded) indoor dining area, I noticed that the bar loomed up
ahead, so I ducked in and prepared to order a Sierra Nevada draft.
The bartender -- not necessarily slow, not necessarily indifferent,
just...not that great?...eyeballed me, and then another party of
about eight, and went to the group first. What a jerk! So, what, now
I have to wait for eight people to order eight different drinks?
Forget it. I continued on, found the gift ship and bought a bumper
sticker, then returned
to the
bar, for nearly instant service as it turned. Great thinking,
n'est-ce pas?
I scooped up
said frosty Sierra Nevada and snapped a wonderful picture from the patio's edge. The
light was definitely beginning to fade, but it made
for beautiful colors
against the clouds in the sky to the southwest.
Sun now down, time to get back to camp, but wait: here's the camera,
here's my beer -- “yo, I said where's the bumper sticker at?”
(props on that one to the Beastie Boys -- Ed.)
Uh oh; the bumper sticker is MIA, and the only place I can think of
where I might have left it is in the bar. I go back in, angle towards
the area I had ordered from, and see no sign of the thing.
Hmmm...what's all this commotion down at the other end of the bar? The
dude is asking someone, “is this your bumper sticker?” Before
that goes any further,
I yell over, “No, that was mine,” and point at the spot where I
had been standing. It all adds up in the guy's head, so he hands it
to me, thus gaining back some credibility, even if due merely to
circumstance.
Thus having
averted disaster, I am back
at camp and, remember, fully committed to Toroweap in the AM.
In
my mind this will almost undoubtedly be without the trailer, which
will likely shake itself to pieces over the washboard road. I must be
prepared for backcountry camping (no water, no electricity, no
nothing), but I must also be prepared to hike in over
the last three miles or so, in
case the bike itself
cannot safely negotiate that most difficult
stretch of the BLM
road. I jot down a short list of things that need to make it all the
way to the Toroweap campsite (the bivy, food, water, camp stove,
shovel, minimal lighting, spare clothes, etc.), then remove it all
from the trailer to put into my backpack tonight, thus allowing a
quick morning departure. It occurs to me that this will be the
backpack's first use on the trip just
as I discover that the thing is
somehow all wet! So I hang it up on a tree to hopefully dry out
overnight, but nothing seems to go back into the trailer in the
normal packing arrangement, and it doesn't really all fit. All told,
removing everything, then re-aligning and replacing it all wastes
nearly two hours. Two hours during which I could
have
been sleeping, and waking up earlier! And although I forgot
to
mention it when I first used the bivy back in Manitou Springs (see Day
Twenty-Three), the term “self-inflating” -- as it
describes the sleeping pad that fits inside of it -- does not mean
what you think it might: if you really want
padding, you gotta blow it up yourself. Huff, puff, huff, puff, good
night!
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