The Ascension

 

“Tomorrow is another day.”—Scarlett O’Hara

 

When we were kids at St. Patrick’s School, eleven o’clock meant Religion Period, time to get out our shiny catechisms and read about God, the angels and Heaven, where everybody lived.  Well, for a while.  Then one day, the arcangel Lucifer had a run-in with The Big Guy and was cast out of Heaven and consigned to a new residence in a much murkier neighborhood.  Down, he glided, lower and lower, the temperatures rising with every sinking mile until he finally reached the bottom of the canyon.  “What the Hell?” complained Lucifer.  “It’s 107 degrees down here!”  If I was never able to relate to Lucifer in Religion Period, I could now, roasting at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.  Sympathy For The Devil?  I had it.  Fortunately for me, unlike Lucifer I had an exit visa named Maddie.  And, like Scarlett promised, tomorrow was another day.

Tuesday, June 28th, started out a bright, sunny morning, a few clouds scattered through the firmament.  Learning from the previous day’s inadequate meal, we enjoyed a generous breakfast and arrived at the mule corral promptly at 6:15.  The wranglers had decided to alter the processional order and now Siobhan was first after Noah and I followed her.  There would be no more chasing Twinky and I was grateful for that.  Today’s ride up the South Kaibab Trail was shorter in miles—seven—but just as long in duration, 5 1/2 hours, due to the steepness of the trail and the fact that the mules were now climbing and required more brief rest periods (24).  There was no water source on the South Kaibab so there was no refill point—every drop had to be hauled in the saddlebags, making them heavier than on the way down.

While temperatures rose on the ride down the canyon, they dropped on the way up, especially when the clouds gathered to eventually shut out the sun.  With the stress level reduced, there was more time and inclination to enjoy the scenery, and the extra rest periods allowed additional minutes for picture-taking.  The South Kaibab Trail is a tougher climb up than the Bright Angel but is also more scenic, with broader and more colorful vistas.  From the South Rim, the canyon might seem similar throughout to the average viewer but a hike into the depths will reveal many differences.  A first-time Grand Canyon hiker might prefer the Bright Angel, an experienced photographer will choose the South Kaibab every time.

Four hours into the climb, we enjoyed a light breeze and a hint of rain appeared on the horizon.  Forty-five minutes later, the hint was realized as the skies began to spit a few drops.  A few of us, including me, untied our yellow rain slickers with MULE RIDER inscribed on the back and put them on.  The rain picked up but never became more than a modest shower, not uncomfortable and relegating temperatures to the seventies.  The ride was not a walk in the park but much easier than the laborious slog down.  The wranglers called the climb up the canyon our reward for the previous day’s discomforts.  We rose to the rim on schedule, dispensed thanks and rewards to the wranglers and took the park shuttle back to the Bright Angel Lodge for a quick lunch.  The rains came again bringing winds and the fickle temperatures quickly scurried into the sixties.  “Tomorrow” was, indeed, another day. 

If, after serious reflection, I had a few brief sentences of advice to impart to future mule riders, they would be these:

(1) Treat the trip the same way you would a marathon or any other difficult physical test.  With prior training and carbohydrate loading.

(2) Go in the Spring or Fall, never in summer.

(3) Find some rubber underwear.

And most important of all: Don’t be on the mule behind Twinky.

 

Ooh Aah Point on the South Kaibab Trail.  One of the few places on Earth where it’s still acceptable to use the word “Awesome.”

 

The Sedona Experience

The discriminating vacation planner might weigh the implications of eleven hours on a mule in dubious weather conditions and schedule an ensuing rest stop, a quiet reprieve in a land of beauty and wonder and comfort, an eden where the spirits might climb and weary bodies undergo celeritous reparation.  We are nothing if not discriminating vacation planners so we hit the road for Sedona, a mere two hours in the distance.  Sedona is, after all, home to luxurious spas which shower you off in cavernous marble baths, wrap you in feathery white robes and summon in fleets of women gifted in the ways of shampooing, massage, reflexology.

Mysterious palm-readers will take your hand, ingest information and quickly put you on the right path.  Aura photographers will produce a picture which illuminates areas in need of improvement.  Crystal-bearers will wave their glassy magic wands over you and evict the evil spirits.  And then, for the ultimate refresher, you will take yourself to one of Sedona’s famed Energy Vortexes to power up.  And yes, that’s “vortexes,” not “vortices,” which is the plural in other parts of the world.  When they live in your town, you can call them anything you want but right now they’ve taken up residence in Sedona, and when in Rome….

Now, some people might have a tendency to dismiss these vortexes out of hand.  “Oh, pish-tosh!”  they might sniff, shaking their hankies at the absurdity of it all.  “Power vortexes?  PUH-leeze!”  But that’s because these doubting Thomases have not met Eddie and Marge of “upper” New Jersey.  We have.  We met them on the Airport Mesa Trail, one of the Big Four Vortex Areas of Sedona.  Eddie was scampering around like an orangutan.

“I have COPD, emphysema, you name it,” reports Eddie.  “When I’m back in Jersey, I can’t do nothin’.  But when I get to Sedona, I’m all over the place.  I can breathe and I never get tired.  Don’t tell me the vortexes don’t work!  Marge and I are moving here next year.”  Marge replies with a bright smile and a spiffy thumbs-up.  Okay, we know all that stuff about mind over matter—but mind over emphysema?  Tell me how that one works.

 

It’s All In the Magnetite

According to their advocates, the vortexes are either electrical (positive), magnetic (negative) or electro-magnetic (a balance of the two).  There are seven vortexes scattered throughout the red rock hills of Sedona, but four are paramount.  The largest is at Boynton Canyon, electric with a powerful energy that promotes physical and emotional healing.  Cathedral Rock is an astral, magnetic vortex promoting past life recall as an extra-special bonus (Ma and Pa Kettle live on the property as their original selves, Caesar and Cleopatra).  The earlier mentioned Airport Vortex is electrical and particularly responsive to people from New Jersey.

Bell Rock, however, is the most interesting vortex.  It is electrical and powerful, not only resembling a bell, but also—according to experts in the field—the Gemini Space Capsule, of all the dang things.  Energy emanates from the center of the rock straight up to the heavens.  “It is a goddam BEACON!”  says Luke Fowler, a True Believer from West Sedona, and who’s to argue? 

For over ten years, Phoenix-based electrical engineer Benjamin Lonetree has examined many of the claims promoting the powers of the vortexes using various scientific instruments and methods.  His conclusion is that there are actually measurable outflows and inflows of magnetic energy in the Sedona area that do affect the environment of the region, including human consciousness.  Whoa!

Lonetree opines that the area’s geology is a key factor.  The high content of iron oxide which causes the red rock and soil around Sedona combined with substantial quartz deposits seem to play important roles in this phenomena.  Lonetree has attempted to correlate connections between magnetic energy activities in the Sedona area and human consciousness.

By measuring human brainwaves including his own in the vortex areas using a portable EEG device and matching that data with real-time measurements of environmental magnetic energies using a magnetometer, Lonetree has deducted what appears to be clear relationships between the vortex energy and human brainwaves.

Since the human body and the bodies of many other mammals contains magnetically sensitive magnetite, there is a logical mainstream explanation for some of the possible effects on people from Sedona’s magnetic energies.  Magnetite in the beaks of migratory birds is critical in avian navigation.  It is only in the past 20 years that magnetite has been discovered to be present in the human brain.  Researchers have documented the presence of magnetite nanocrystals in the brain using magnetometric methods and transmission electron microscopy.  While their exact role on human cerebral physiology has yet to be determined, scientists suspect magnetite plays a significant role in the human nervous system.

If one were to travel about Sedona seeking anecdotal evidence to confirm or deny the power of the vortexes, he would get a murky montage of evidence.  The average visitor with ten minutes to spend in search of his own expectations of nirvana may well claim the vortexes were a disappointment.  The people who live around Sedona mostly feel different.  One after another, they describe a subtle buoyancy which elevates their existence, smooths life’s rough edges, lessens the stress.  “I wouldn’t live anywhere else,”  is a common reply.  These are mostly intelligent people not given to foolishness.  And even the cynics have a vortex tale or two to tell.

The Ultimate Cynic, blushing bride Siobhan Ellison, even traipsed down the Airport Mesa Trail, an octet of newly-bought candles in hand, seeking the blessing of that particular vortex on the gifts for her Thursday night yoga group.  Each candle held its own unique aspect, one offering “courage,” another “determination to prevail,” etc.  Finding a likely spot in a little garden, she sat down with her properties in hand and let the power of the vortex wash over her little collection, enhancing the innate power of each candle, as vortexes are wont to do.

After a few minutes, she smiled, arose and exclaimed, “The deed is done.  There is no turning back.”   I was surprised at her endorsement of the vortex.  “You are the ultimate scientist,”  I thought to mention.  “You don’t believe in any of this stuff.”

“Well, not really”  she replied.  “But the yoga group does.” 

It’s Another Sedona Sunrise

You won’t have any trouble staying busy in Sedona, vortexes or not.  The tour entrepreneurs are ready at the crack of dawn, dispatching fleets of little pink jeeps into the hinterlands, most of them chock-full of tourists.  There are galleries galore, many of them in the fastidious Tlaquepaque Village, there are shopping opportunities in the expansive uptown area, there are spas of all descriptions.  But maybe you came for the psychics.  In Sedona, you can’t walk down the sidewalk without bumping into a psychic.  I kept trying to see Madam Alexandra, but she was never in.  Madam Alexandra did leave a phone number on her door and promised to respond immediately but I figured a really good psychic should know I was coming.  If you’re not satisfied with a mere run-of-the-mill psychic, you can get a guy who will read your Akashic Records.  Who even knew I had any?  There are psychics who will lure you in with a free three-minute-chat.  I can see it now: “Oh-oh, we have BIG problems here!  This could take an hour or more.  Better sit down, we’ll bring you some chai tea.”

The Center For New Age is in Sedona, as is the Mystical Bazaar, as well as a flock of other places.  On the move?  You can get a telephone reading while you drive.  Looking for a soulmate?  It’s a snap for psychic Nirup.  Oh, and don’t forget those Intuitive Past Life Readings….you might find out you were once Gene Autry.  They even have big discounts on off days so make sure your bring in those coupons.

If you travel to Sedona, it’s best (and more fun) to go there with an open mind.  Negativity reduces your opportunities for new adventures in self-discovery.  You could approach it like minimal gamblers approach Las Vegas—reserve a couple hundred dollars for token gambling and then go about your business.  Two hundred dollars for psychic consultations might be a lot more fun.  And who knows, maybe you’ll be one of the lucky ones boosted up by the vortexes.  Maybe the doggone things will cure your lumbago, eradicate your hives, dispatch your hypertrichosis.  Maybe you’ll meet Marge and Eddie on the Airport Mesa Trail and hoist a glass or two to the wonder of it all….to the magical red rock canyons, to the exotic mysteries of life, to our capacity for wonder….oh yes, and don’t forget….to the possibilities of magnetite.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

    

Living On The Edge

 

 

Yo-ho, yo ho, it’s off to the canyon bottom we go. Just give us black coffee and a plate of hardtack. Who the hell knows if we’ll ever come back?

Waiting for our mounts to arrive at the mule corral hard by the Bright Angel trailhead, we welcomed a pair of German ladies, vintage 65 years-plus, to the upcoming party.  “Is this where the horses come?” one of them asked in her passable English.  Her partner spoke none.  We answered in the affirmative but inquired if they had brought their gear, the canteens and rain slickers like the ones we’d obtained the previous day at the trail office.  They didn’t get the drift so we let it ride.  Eventually, when the mule wranglers showed up, they directed the two women to the Bright Angel Lodge and they returned with the requisite supplies.

When Wilford Brimley’s evil twin Hardboil showed up to dispense his wisdom to the riders, he was immediately concerned with the couple’s limited understanding of the language.  He asked them several questions about riding experience (little to none) and their ability to understand instructions and react rapidly, finally turning them down out of concern for their safety.  The ladies were crushed but it was hard to argue that Hardboil wasn’t correct.  A little mistake made riding horses through the meadow is one thing, an error under stressful physical conditions on an extremely narrow trail is another.  It was nonetheless sad to see the two of them slouch off into the distance, their dream of twelve months or more shattered in an instant.  I thought of the women several times during the latter stages of the ride when death felt near.  I wanted to rush back and find them at the top of the canyon, give them big hugs and tell them, “Damen, ausgewichen Sie nur eine Kugel!”  That would be, ladies, you dodged a bullet.  Their Gott was looking out for them.

 

(Above) Bill at the South Rim, (Below) Mule wrangler Noah with Siobhan on the Bright Angel Trail.

 

The Descent

MANDATORY FOR TRAVEL: (1) a wide-brimmed hat which must be worn at all times while on the mule.  The hat must tie underneath your chin; (2) a long-sleeved shirt, lightweight, to protect from sunburn and dehydration; (3) Long pants, no shorts or capri pants allowed; (4) solid, closed-toe shoes with a smooth, hard sole.  Don’t even think about those flip-flops, dimwit! (5) sunglasses are strongly recommended, as is a neckerchief which can be dunked in water.

PERMITTED: one camera or binoculars, but not both.  Either must be on a strap or string around your neck.

A small plastic bag is provided for a minimum of overnight needs like medication and a change of clothes.  Cell phones are useless in the canyon but you may bring flares to summon your friendly local helicopter rescue.  If it comes to that, bring several thousand dollars, too.

The mule wranglers, having limited memories, will refer to you by the name of your mule, so Siobhan was Mabel, I was Maddie and the 6-2, 195-lb. guy in front of me was Twinky.  Fortunately, Twinky was a good sport.

Our caravan consisted of a mere six people, Siobhan, myself, Twinky and his wife, Randy, and their two kids, Aaron, a teenager, and Connor, about ten.  Both Siobhan and Connor wore GoPros on their hats and most of the trail pictures here were culled from her video.  The mule caravans usually number ten but the granny disqualification lowered it to eight.  Nobody knows what happened to the other two but they may have gone the wrong way on Las Vegas Boulevard and never recovered.  I’ve heard it happens.

The Bright Angel Trail, the most popular and widely-used in the Grand Canyon for hikers, is a 12-mile, 5 1/2 hour mule ride to the Canyon floor, then across the Colorado River via suspension bridge to the Phantom Ranch, where riders spend the night in one of six Spartan cottages with ancient air-conditioners and few amenities.  Okay, make that no amenities.  The showers are a short hike down the road and the bathroom doors will chafe against a toilet-sitter’s knee if he is over 5-8.  The trail, itself, is slightly wider than most in the park and not as steep as some.  Water is available about three hours into the ride at Indian Gardens, where lunch is served and everyone is encouraged to soak himself with a hose.  After three hours in the saddle, we were all feeling good.  The scenery, of course, was terrific and no one had as yet broken any pelvic bones.  The temperatures, which were about 62 at the rim when we started, were clearly in the nineties three hours later more than halfway to the bottom.  But hey, we were only a couple hours from paydirt.  Who said five-and-a-half hours in the saddle is a problem?  Well….

Trail photos from Siobhan’s GoPro Video.

 

Are WeThere Yet?

Yo-ho, yo-ho, it’s off to the canyon bottom we go!  Our asses are tired and our arses are sore.  The temperatures sit at 104.  If we don’t espy the Phantom Ranch quickly, our fine dispositions will promptly turn prickly.

After about four hours, the fun is gone and the battle for survival begins.  My 75-year old body is asking me to explain the plan and I’m sure it won’t accept “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”   Adding to the anguish is a lack of ambition on the part of Twinky, who sees no reason to hurry.  The riders have been instructed to keep their charges nose-to-butt but the animals have protested that this is clearly not in their contracts.  Twinky is particularly resistant, being fat and lazy and having been advised by his parents to always remain three mule-lengths behind the onager in front to prevent serious traffic accidents.  His rider, known in some circles as Adam, is reluctant to use his crop on him, particularly on narrow pathways, so Twinky often falls significantly behind, irking the wranglers no end.  When Adam finally gives him the whip, Twinky zips to comply and my mule, Maddie, who is quite aware of the rules, jogs along to catch up.  I stand up in the stirrups during these bouncy flurries of activity to prevent further derriere damage, but after a couple dozen little romps it gets a bit taxing.  When Noah, the wrangler riding behind, notices my water intake is getting a little too frequent, he advises against too much drinking.  Geez, you just can’t please some people.  We stop, Noah dumps some water in my hat and on my neckerchief and we continue.  Siobhan, directly behind me, asks me 75 times if I’m okay and I reassure her that I will not die for at least 2 1/2 hours, so call back then.  Finally, we spot the narrow bridge we will cross to get to Phantom Ranch.  It seems to take forever, but we finally negotiate the crossing and arrive at our destination.  A kindly old lady is waiting with tiny glasses of fluid which she tells us include electrolites and taste suspiciously like diluted dromedary urine.  We comply, grateful to be standing on solid ground.  Siobhan goes to the store for supplies and I collapse into the bed in hot and humid cabin No. 1.  Phantom Ranch, indeed.  The Phantom wouldn’t be caught dead here.

 

Adam on Twinky, wife Randy in front during a meditative moment.

 

Yeah, But It’s A DRY Heat.

What that means is you’re just as hot but you don’t sweat as much.  Unfortunately, the air-conditioning in cabin No. 1 had only signed up for night duty.  It didn’t work in the daytime.  Oh, it huffed and puffed and pretended to be functioning but it was all a cruel charade.  It began to stir when the sun went down and the moon came out and the people gathered ‘round and they all began to shout.  I staggered off down the road to the showers, then Siobhan and I went to dinner.  Dinner was steak, like it or not (Siobhan didn’t), with a large baked potato and assorted vegetables.  Oh, and a nice piece of chocolate cake if you were a good diner and pushed your dishes to the end of the table to expedite cleanup.  After that, I went back to bed and Siobhan went off to listen to a ranger talk, after which she prodded him about the location of the canyon elevators, which he denied existed.

I got to thinking she might exaggerate my feeble condition, looking for an easy way out, and word might get back to Hardboil, who would render me unfit for travel, leaving me in the dank recesses of the Grand Canyon forever.  When I went to the dining area, the presumed location of the ranger talk, and told a waitress about this, she advised me that if I became a permanent resident they were always looking for dishwashers, so that was good.  Eventually, I got to the proper spot where I gave acceptable answers to probing medical questions and was cleared for takeoff the next morning.  The ranger provided good news: a cloudy day was expected with lower temperatures.  I’ll believe it when I see it, I told him.  Five-and-a-half hours down the canyon one day, five-and-a-half hours up the next.  Shouldn’t we get a rest period in there somewhere?  What happened to “Stop and smell the roses?”   Is there any chance we might get a snow day?

Yo-ho, yo-ho, it’s down to the canyon bottom we go!  The flesh isn’t willing, the body is weak.  I ask them if we can go back in a week.  I offer them all I can beg, steal or borrow.  They say nope, we’re back in the saddle tomorrow.

 

That’s nowhere near all, folks.  Tune in next week to learn what perils await our heroes as they attempt to escape the Giant Maw.  And assuming they do, what exciting adventures await in their search for Truth, Justice and another bizarre road to follow?  Yo-ho, yo-ho, a minuscule seven more days to go!

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

The Valley Of Fire

 

“And what is so rare as a day in June?

Then, if ever, come perfect days….”—J.R. Lowell

 

“Eons ago, the limestone hills surrounding the Valley of Fire were the floor of a mighty ocean.  They were lifted and twisted by tectonics and volcanic action, and the ocean receded.  During the Jurassic period about 150 million years ago, a vast desert developed.  Great sand dunes grew.  Through time and compaction, these dunes became sandstone.  During this process, the groundwater flowed through and carried iron oxide as well as various other minerals.  As the water passed these petrified dunes, the iron oxide, lime, silica and other minerals painted the stones various shades of red, white, yellow, purple and more.  The water also caused fractures in weak areas of the rock, which helped mold the unusual shapes and patterns.  All this took forever but the result was spectacular and a startling contrast to the gray hills nearby.

Sandstone is a relatively fragile rock and as the groundwater continues to flow through the rocks they are constantly changing and eroding.  The wind carves sculptures from old rocks.  Small new sand dunes form downwind as the rocks erode.  With each breeze, the sand forms a new page that records the ongoing drama of desert animal life.  Following the tracks of roadrunners, lizards, ring-tail cats and others becomes as fascinating as viewing the red rocks and studying the geological story.

As interesting as the geological history is, the human history of the Valley of Fire is just as fascinating.  Early Americans recorded their lives at many places in the park.  Atlatl Rock is a pictorial record of migrations, hunts, early tools and weapons carved in the black patina of a large sandstone formation by Native American artists as many as 2000 years ago.  The rock is named for the pictograph of an atlatl, a notched stick used to add speed and distance to a thrown spear.  It was a predecessor to the bow and arrow.  Many more are found along the Petroglyph Canyon Self-Guiding Trail, which is a half-mile round-trip walk to Mouse’s Tank through a sandy canyon.  Trail markers are in place to point out interesting features which include numerous prehistoric Indian rock writings.” (Wilcox)

The Valley of Fire State Park, dedicated in 1935, is Nevada’s oldest and largest state park.  VOF is located in the Mojave Desert, approximately 58 miles northeast of the Las Vegas strip and covers an area of about 35,000 acres.  The Valley was named for the spectacular red sandstone formations which can appear to be on fire when reflecting the sun’s rays.  The Valley of Fire Road, a small, two-lane strip extending 10.5 miles, connects the east and west entrances to the park.  Daily temperatures in the summer often exceed 100 degrees but plunge at night.  Average annual rainfall is four inches.  It was here that Bill Killeen and Siobhan Ellison decided to go in their warm wedding costumes to get a few photos.  There’s just no explaining some people’s predilections.

If the wedding is at one p.m. and dinner is at 6:30, there might be a need for noshing along the way.  Alice (the Republican) was funded and dispatched to round up food and drink for the trek.  Unfortunately, Alice seems to have inherited the notorious Killeen misdirection gene which causes members of the family to travel in the wrong direction whenever in Las Vegas.  She wound up somewhere near Henderson and scrapped the trip, now laden with vittles enough to feed a salvation army.  The bride and groom, closely followed by Jack and Barbara Gordon, marched on.  Our group was to meet Las Vegas photographess Dawn Sims at the Valley welcome station somewhere in the neighborhood of three p.m., spend about an hour scurrying about the red rocks getting pictures, then hightail it back to the Venetian Hotel for the wedding dinner at 6:30.  We were a little late and the telephone opportunities were spotty but Dawn is as pleasant and unflappable a photographer as you’re likely to meet--at least as long as there are no snakes lingering about—so all went well.  The results, if they made it in time, are scattered through this week’s exciting episode.  If there are several photos of Pinky Lee on a unicycle instead, well, you’ll know what happened.

 

Dinner At Canaletto’s

One of the many benefits of using a wedding venue like Chapel of the Flowers is that most aspects of the pre- and post-wedding foofaraw can be attended to in one place.  The Glam Squad girl is delegated by the Chapel, the restaurant of your choice is contacted, the cake is shipped over from the bakery, etc.  We decided to have the dinner at Canaletto’s, overlooking the festive St. Mark’s Square inside the colossal Venetian Hotel, which is connected to the Palazzo, where we were staying.  For wedding parties or other large groups, Canaletto’s offers a private room looking down onto a busy street scene, ala Venice, where wandering minstrels ply their trade and charming gondoliers hustle nervous customers.  For a couple bucks extra to the boatsmen, you might get a stirring rendition of O Sole Mio, but there’s no guarantee you’ll get Pavarotti.

The dinner went swimmingly, my sisters resisting the No Gifts embargo to present the happy couple with extra-large glass champagne flutes which were put to use immediately.  The lemon wedding cake, all 15,000 calories of it, arrived in due time and was properly demolished with not a crumb left over.  Hugs were administered, goodbyes were spoken and the long weekend, which began with a rousing performance of Cirque du Soleil’s “O” at the Bellagio on Friday, was finally over.  For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, Bill and Siobhan were finally a legal unit.  What therefore God has joined together, let no man put asunder.  Jesus said that (Matthew 19: 1-12).  Check it out.

 

All bride & groom photos by Dawn Sims, Yellow Dandelion Photography, Las Vegas

 

Canyon Bound

The trip to the Grand Canyon from Vegas is a 4 1/2 to 5-hour glide past Hoover Dam, around Kingman, take a left at Williams, Arizona and head straight north.  Siobhan started the driving so we made sure not to go the wrong way.  We pulled in to the South Rim area in mid-afternoon, dropped by the Visitor Center, took a few pictures and headed for the mule ride headquarters, tucked in a corner of the Bright Angel Lodge.

As mentioned in previous articles, the mule trips to the Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the canyon must be reserved and paid for one year in advance of the descent.  Riders are requested to confirm two-to-four days before the event and check in the day prior to be weighed, given instructions for the trip and provided with drinking canteens and yellow rain slickers.  No one over 200 pounds is allowed on a mule, even if his name is Sancho Panza.  Our new possessions in tow, we headed for our one-night digs at the El Tovar Lodge,

The El Tovar is the premier housing facility at the Grand Canyon, located directly on the South Rim.  Designed by Charles Whittlesey, chief architect for the Atchison, Topeka, & Santa Fe Railway, the place opened its doors in 1905 and has not changed much since.  Whittlesey envisioned the hotel as a cross between a Swiss chalet and a Norwegian villa, attempting to appeal to the tastes of the elite from that era, who at the time considered European culture the epitome of refinement.  The hotel was built with local limestone and Oregon pine, cost $250,000 to construct and for many years was generally considered the most elegant hotel west of the Mississippi.  In 1987, the El Tovar was designated a National Historic Landmark.  Such a diverse cast of characters as Theodore Roosevelt, Albert Einstein, Zane Grey, Bill Clinton and Paul McCartney have spent time there.  That doesn’t mean they were all comfortable.  The air-conditioning is uneven and a little loud, and a fat man will have trouble squeezing into the tiny bathrooms.  We made do with a fan and opened the windows.  Whatever amenities it might lack, you can say one thing for the old El Tovar: nobody is beating the view.

The ET’s restaurant, allegedly a four-star dining room, was having problems that night.  A water pipe in the canyon had fractured and H2O was scarce.  Rather than waste water on dishwashing, the El Tovar served meals on paper plates, which made for an expensive picnic.  But what do we care about fancy food—we’re hardy mule riders, right?  “Yo-ho, yo-ho, it’s off to the canyon bottom we go!  Give us some water and a fistful of jerky; we’ll get to the bottom and we’ll still be perky!”  We hoped so, anyway.  The next day’s high temperatures were expected to be over 100.

The Big Day Begins

We were up bright and early the next morning, earlier in fact than the mule wranglers who struggled in twenty minutes late, enough time for a couple of mule riders to chug down a hearty trip-sustaining breakfast instead of orange juice and a sugary pastry had they only known.  The guides were Noah and Alicia, the former an affable cowboy-lite type, the latter a formidable farm girl, terse and tough.  If you were choosing up sides for a bar fight, Alicia would be the first person picked.  When the mules were saddled and ready to go, the trail boss appeared to give final instructions.  He looked just like Wilford Brimley, but in reality it was Wilford’s evil twin, Hardboil.  Just in case you thought this trip might be one big happy lark through the meadows, Hardboil was here to tell you different.

“You will NOT get off your mules,” he said, “no matter WHAT happens!  If your mule stumbles to its knees, you WILL stay on your mule!  If your mule puts one foot over the edge of the cliff and knocks some rocks loose, you will STAY on that mule!  If your mule wants to lay down in the creek, prepare to get wet!  If your mule jumps off the cliff, you will STAY on that mule because the mule is valuable and has a parachute and last time I looked, YOU don’t!”  In case you haven’t figured it out, Hardboil would prefer you remain on your mule.

Wilford’s evil twin would also have you experience “The Cowboy Way.”  He has his own religious beliefs, after all, and one of them is that nothing that was not at one time alive should be a part of your saddle.  No pads, no foam-filled cushions to soften the rocky ride.  And you WILL drink water every time the mules stop and sometimes when they don’t.  “You will drink water until it’s coming out your EYES!” says Hardboil.  Are those tears of which you speak, mi amigo?  We were thinking that everyone on this ride was from the East Coast and they might prefer the Spa Treatment to the Cowboy Way.  I mean, everyone likes repeat business, right?

“Okay, is everybody ready?”  Hardboil wanted to know.  “Then mount up, riders!  Good luck to every one of you!  And don’t forget your little song!”   And so, off we went, a brave band of brothers, bold and unafraid of the perils which lie ahead, the rocky trails, the narrow switchbacks, the blinding heat, the scorching sun.  For, in emergencies, we had our song and we sang it loud and proud:  “Yo-ho, yo-ho, it’s off to the canyon bottom we go!  Give us some grits and a tin full of snuff; we’ll prove to the world that we’ve got the stuff!  They talk about heatstroke and hyponatremia but we’ve conquered gallstones and hyper-bulimia!” 

To be continued.  Hopefully.

Here Comes The Bride

 

Wise men say only fools rush in

But I can’t help falling in love with you.

Shall I stay...would it be a sin

If I can’t help falling in love with you?

 

There are all kinds of weddings.  Some people get married in the county clerk’s office without a single witness, others in a festooned cathedral filled with hundreds.  Some people get married in the chilly mountains of Katmandu, others on the florid beaches of Maui.  People get married at sunrise and sunset, on boats and airplanes, under the sea, even in gondolas at the Venetian Hotel.  People get married by priests and rabbis and government officials and ship’s captains and Elvises and the ubiquitous ministers of the Universalist Life Church.  And every year, 115,000 couples get married in Las Vegas.  How come?

Well, for one thing, it’s easy.  You just go downtown to the marriage bureau, plunk down your $77 (cash, please), fill out a simple form and wait for Froggy to plunk his Magic Twanger.  No blood tests.  No waiting.  No fuss.  No muss.  There are about 50 wedding chapels in town—exclusive of churches—and most hotels will also accomodate you.  A happy couple can get married for as little as $75.  In a hurry?  Try our expeditious drive-thru wedding.  We’ll tie the cans on your bumper while you spit out your vows.

There are two preeminent chapels in Las Vegas, the Church of the West, across from the Mandalay Bay hotel near the airport and the vintage Chapel of the Flowers in the old part of town not far from the Stratosphere Tower.  The latter has three different chapels, each with a different seating capacity.  Dennis Rodman and Carmen Electra were married there, but let’s not hold that against the place.  I checked out both venues and the latter was the more accomodating, allowing us the time and date we needed.  From the day the marriage appointment was scheduled, chapel rep Robin faithfully called me every thirty days to impart advice and get updates on the number of guests, dinner arrangements, etc.  Also, it being Vegas, Robin usually tried to sell me something, most of which I turned down.  One thing I did not turn down, and thankfully so, was a wedding-day visit by the Glam Squad, a representative of which arrives at your hotel room three hours before the wedding to either invent or repair the bride.  They choreograph hair, they airbrush makeup, they apply eyelashes, then they wave a magic wand and a girl is as dazzling as she’s ever going to be.  Our white witch was Nicia, and we were only one of ten clients she would see that Saturday.  The whole intervention took a mere 45 minutes, pretty good when you consider it took God six whole days to create the world.

 

The Wedding Crashers

This whole affair was supposed to consist of myself and Siobhan, a quick marriage stop on the way to a mule ride at the Grand Canyon.  But you know how these things go.  First, I told my sister Kathy in New Hampshire, and she instantly decided she’d be going.  She had missed my first two weddings, having had little warning of either, and, well, after all, it was Vegas.  Since Kathy was going, my other sister Alice (the Republican) decided she’d just motor over from Camarillo, California, and join the party.  If all this was happening, I might as well have a best man, so I called my old pal Jack Gordon in Laguna and he promised to perform the duties.  And finally, two weeks before the grand affair, Siobhan’s niece, Ashleigh, found out she could make it and instantly became the maid of honor.  We were up to nine and counting.  Just before we left, Siobhan’s brother, Stuart and his wife, Mary, asked us which we’d like more—12 days of house care or their presence at the wedding.  We opted for the former or it would have been eleven.

Back in tiny Fairfield, Florida, however, the plot was thickening.  Our aviator friend, Richard Helms, who will use any excuse for a romp in his jet, was conspiring with Stuart and another friend, Greg Poe, to fly to Vegas the day of the ceremony, take in the nuptials and fly back later that afternoon.  You can do these things if you’re a wealthy bon vivant with your own air fleet and time on your hands.  When we got to the chapel, there they were—Richard, Greg, Stuart and Mary—delivered as if by magic carpet ride.  There are friends and there are friends.  It’s not your average buddy who foots the bill for a round-trip’s worth of fuel and takes the time and trouble to fly 4400 miles to your wedding, so I don’t know what we did to deserve that.  Once upon a time, we did Richard a minuscule favor and he told us, “I owe you.”   I think we’ll call that one paid off in spades with a gallon of credit left on the account.

Limo photos by Ashleigh Ellison

 

Get Me To The Church On Time

Everyone who knows me realizes that I’m a maniac for punctuality.  I am never late and I will sometimes leave if you are.  When I operated the Subterranean Circus, the first time an employee was late I sent him or her home to think about how much they wanted the job.  The second time, I sent them home permanently.  Okay, except for Debbie Adelman, who was really cute and kept it within three minutes.  I can’t even remember the last time I was late for anything.  So you’d think I’d make it to my own wedding extremely early, especially with the aid of the chapel limo.  That vehicle arrives only 30 minutes before the ceremony, however, and takes twenty minutes to get there, allowing time for pre-wedding instructions from the chapel crew.  I foolishly decided to take our own rental car and follow the limo since we were going directly from the chapel to the Valley of Fire for post-wedding photos.  BAD idea!  The valet parkers at the Palazzo got in a terrible muddle and took about twelve extra minutes to deliver my car.  Then, with no time to spare, I zipped out on to Las Vegas Boulevard and went the wrong way.  Yeah.  Really.  When I didn’’t see the Stratosphere Tower two blocks later, I made a spiffy U-turn and hauled ass in the other direction, but it was too late.  I called Siobhan, who was amazingly calm, and told her the cold, hard facts.  The chapel nabobs were apoplectic, suggesting the whole affair might have to be postponed until nine that night.  Siobhan reminded them we had purchased our half-hour and nobody was going anywhere.  Meanwhile, back at the dragstrip, I was ripping down the boulevard at mind-numbing speeds, zipping from lane to lane, scaring the bejeezuz out of everybody.  Ashleigh called me at 12:55 and asked me where I  was.  When she told the chapel crew, they moaned, groaned and told Siobhan I had until 1:05 to make it.  Ashleigh dispatched her husband, Flo to the parking lot to grab the baton when I wheeled in.  I made it at 1:03, swerved into the full lot and saw a tall man running beside me.  It was Flo, come to park the car.  I ran inside at 1:04 and the day was saved.  Siobhan never batted an eye.  “I knew you’d make it,” she said.  “And if not, there’s always the drive-thru.” 

 

Jack and Ashleigh lead the parade.

 

The White Dress

I asked Siobhan to marry me at a Valentine’s Day dinner in Cedar Key in 2015 after 29 years of living in sin.  I’m not sure why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  Unlike some girls, she did not do cartwheels in the dining room.  There were no “whoopees!” or teary-eyed acceptances.  She merely said “Sure.”  With three failed marriages between us, two for me, there had never been any talk of weddings.  I just thought it might be a nice starting point to this year’s vacation, which would start in Las Vegas anyway.

As time went by, however, Siobhan became more enthusiastic about the whole affair.  When it came time to order her ring, she gathered up her parents’ two wedding rings and had the jeweler melt them down to be integrated into her own.  When a sparkly cocktail dress we had bought in December was finally deemed unweddingworthy, she ordered a traditional white gown from China ($99) and complementary shoes ($70) from the same place, then had the dress slit up the front by a seamstress.

I had reservations.  A wedding dress from China, of all places?  China, the defective merchandise capital of the universe.  Maybe the thing would be full of….oh, I dunnow, asbestos!  Maybe it would disintegrate during the ceremony.  Maybe it would give her hives or beriberi or Jumping Frenchman Disorder, you never know.  But nope, none of this happened.  The dress retained its good manners and performed perfectly, providing the first white dress ceremony for either of us.  I guess every girl wants one of those in her lifetime, and now, thanks to our Asian brethren, Siobhan has hers.

Here Comes The Bride

When Jack Gordon and I were kids back in Lawrence, we spent many a night on his front porch listening to rock ’n’ roll on the radio, pulling in deejays Arnie Ginsburg from Boston and Allan Freed from New York.  Elvis was a big hero, of course, and who better to lead off the parade in Las Vegas?  Still, the singer was just a happy coincidence—it was the song that counted.  “I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You” is a lovely number and a perfect way to start a wedding ceremony.  I tapped Jack on the shoulder as he stood with Ashleigh, ready to lead the small procession.  “When Elvis sings,” I said, “you’re on.”

If a person were to hold Best Man tryouts all across the country, he would not come up with a better candidate than Jack Gordon, eminently distinguished, dressed to kill, ultimately competent.  Siobhan’s Maid of Honor, Ashleigh Ellison, recently married herself, is Serenity in the face of the storm, a warm and gracious being, always handy with a positive remark and a smile.  These two marched in like they owned the place and took their respective positions.

I had expected Jack and I would be standing at the altar waiting for Ashleigh and Siobhan, but the Chapel of the Flowers has its own way of doing things, and that’s fine.  When we rounded the corner into the chapel together and saw our collection of family and friends where once not a soul was expected, it was heartwarming.  The minister, a robust African-American fellow, was warm, thoughtful and well-spoken.  “I thought it was going to be corny,” said friend Harry Edwards later, “but it was a real wedding.” 

A couple of friends thought I looked nervous during the vows.  I am seldom nervous, but I am often emotional.  This time, it was unexpected.  As I looked at this woman, however, glorious, palpably happy and excited in this element, I thought of all the time we had spent together, the storms we’d weathered, the kindnesses bestowed, the remarkable character and strength and compassion she unfailingly displayed, and I was grateful that I could give her this moment.  I momentarily faltered reciting the vows and was grateful there was little for me to say.  Fortunately, the kiss came soon after and I am pretty good at that part.  We turned, acknowledged the crowd and meandered out to the traditional recessional.  It was done, but it would never be done.  The inside of Siobhan’s ring held the promise: “Always.”  

Who needs superheroes when you’ve got your own Justice League of America?

 

That’s not all, folks.  Next week, we head out to the Valley of Fire for more shenanigans.  Thanks for all the cards and good wishes, and a special bravo to Richard Helms and the Wedding Crashers.

bill.killeen094@gmail.com