THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT THE GRAND CANYON

           

          THINGS YOU NEVER KNEW ABOUT 
                       THE GRAND CANYON

“You’re only as old as you feel,” someone once said.  “Sixty is the new forty,” touted another.  I’m pretty certain both these statements were spouted forth by some brain-donor lounging in a shaded deck chair on the sands out front of the Aston Waikiki Hotel while working on his fourth pink concoction with a tiny umbrella in it.  I promise you it is entirely possible to feel far older than your chronological age and today, at least, sixty is closer to the new ninety!

Having somehow managed to cheat death once again, and safely returning home from my hiking adventure into the Grand Canyon, I immediately collapsed on the couch in the den like a wet mattress off a roof.  Having now spent a day in a state of complete vegetation I've had a bit of time to reflect upon the experience and have walked away from it with… let me rephrase that; having hobbled away from the adventure still reasonably intact, I’d like to share with you some thoughts about a few of the things I learned while exploring one of nature’s seven wonders of the world.

I learned that crazy people with a sick sense of humor have apparently been around for generations.  Mainly I’d be referring to the twisted individuals who first saw the Grand Canyon and said, “Hey, let’s build a trail down there,” and of course, the other moron, who upon polishing off the last of their jug of whiskey, added, “Yeah, and let’s see how steep we can make it!”  We were told on this trip that a string of five pack mules had been lost over the side of one of these trails just two weeks before our arrival.  “That’s it?” I wondered, in all seriousness.  I now have a new appreciation for the longears who tote people and supplies into, and out of this incredibly rugged area on a year-round, daily basis.  It is impossible to fathom the steepness of these trails, and in fact, steep isn't even an adequate enough adjective to describe them.  There should be another word to convey what can only be described as steeper than a cow’s face.  I’ll work on it.

On my adventure I discovered that ground squirrels are unabashed thieves and masters of opening a backpack in seconds.  A backpack that took somewhere in the neighborhood of forty-minutes and two full-sized humans jumping up and down on it to cram the contents in and get the zippers closed.  These pint-sized pilferers can tear a three-hundred dollar backpack to shreds quicker than a new bride’s nightie comes off on wedding night, and often times, right before your very eyes as you stand in amazement mumbling to yourself, “he wouldn’t dare?”  They would, and they do.  Personally, and I realize this will come as a shock to the PETA pinheads out there, I am of the humble opinion these portly, puff-cheeked criminals would make for fine looking hats.  Not only that, it would create an entirely new industry, providing countless jobs for posterity, boosting the economy, and we could all make a fashion statement in the process by sporting sheikh, stylish squirrel bonnets in the process.

It is said there are about 656 muscles in the human body.  Nonsense!  I have discovered that biologists are incorrect; hacks, really, and that the number is actually far higher than previously believed.  I am confidently certain the number is closer to seven-thousand-and-twelve, and that nearly three-quarters of those muscles are to be found below the waist in ones legs.
     
I have learned that blisters can indeed grow other blisters atop themselves; a phenomenon biologist may wish to look into for future study.  I personally experienced nearly a dozen of these wonderful creations of friction, and in fact, am the proud, new holder of the current Guinness World’s Record for the largest, single, foot blister upon a blister ever recorded; approximately the size of a Hugo.

For the uninitiated, or those wise individuals who have peeked over the wall on the South Rim and wisely said, “I don’t think so, Buckwheat,” the trails in and out of the Grand Canyon are comprised of a series of steps or rock bars; tens of thousands of these gems, in fact.  The National Park Service would have one believe these steps, ranging anywhere from six-inches to three feet in height, were place there to help aid in reducing trail erosion.  Bull butter!  I have discovered that their primary purpose is two-fold; one, they actually aid in allowing the human body to act much as a Slinky would by causing an individual to quickly reach maximum velocity and the downhill momentum of a fighter jet should you stumble head over teakettle while sporting a fifty-pound backpack.  Thankfully, the Park Service and nature have strategically placed numerous, large boulders throughout the canyon’s trail system to aide in halting many of these supersonic tumbles.

The other purpose of these steps, or rock bars, is one of the National Park’s dirty little secrets.  They no doubt figure if you are stupid enough to hike down into the Grand Canyon, you probably should be prevented from breeding.  The NPS actually doesn't want you to leave and are trying to keep you in the canyon; forever!  You see, what they don’t tell you, as they cheerfully take your American Express Card and hand you a back country permit, is that if you are one of the fortunate souls to reach the mighty Colorado River alive and with most of your limbs intact, even though in theory, your backpack will become lighter from using up the four days of food you've hauled down there, gravitational forces of nature take hold and actually make your, now forty pound pack, weigh somewhere in the neighborhood of six-thousand pounds.  At least a hundred time during my four days in the canyon I heard voices screaming, Who the hells idea was this, anyway?”  I finally ran out of breath on my trek out and quit asking.

As Gus McCrae famously said, “It ain’t dyin’ I’m talkin’ about; - it’s livin’!”  That statement sums it up, I suppose.  I’m simply trying to live; to get all those things done I've yet to do, and one by one I’m slowly, but surely, checking those items on my novel-sized bucket list.

In short, I've manage now to check one more off the list, but the truth is, I can’t tell you how many times during my trek out of the canyon I sat down and said, “Screw-it; I’m just gonna sit right here on this rock, feast on squirrel meat for the rest of my days, and make sheikh  little hats to sell to tourists as they pass by on their trek out of the canyon!

Weighing it.

I like it when my wife, Cathy, laughs.  Most of the time her laughing is infectious, but on rare occasion it can be downright annoying; like when I’m standing naked in front of the mirror wondering what happened?    Such was the case when some time ago, upon informing my bride that I had decided to embark upon an adventure of sorts by checking off one of the items near the top of my bucket list and hike the Grand Canyon from rim to rim and back, she began laughing.  Now, considering my track record, a couple of haw-haws could possibly be considered in order, but rolling around on the living room floor like a New York City break dancer is, I think, a bit much.  Wetting herself in the process is definitely overboard.  After her excessive mirth had subsided and she changed her pantaloons, my sweetheart looked me directly in the eye and said, “Absolutely not, Buster; you can get that outta your head right now!”

Eventually, but not without considerable charm and a marathon effort on my part, she finally caved and gave me permission with one condition.  That condition was that step-son Jason must hike along with me for the trip.  I think her belief was that it would facilitate identification of the body by the recovery team.

At any rate, after several tries at obtaining a permit from the NPS, this year I finally managed to snag one of the coveted beauties, and after great anticipation (on my part, not the Park’s), the day has finally arrived, and in the morning we jump in the truck and head for Arizona’s Big Ditch to begin our four-day hike.  I have pared my pack down to forty-six pounds; underwear and an extra shirt are highly over rated anyway, I think?  

But the really odd thing here is that the more I decide I can do without on this trip; the heavier my pack seems to get.  I’m pretty sure that some foreigners are involved, and have somehow cleverly changed our nation’s system of weights and measures by making them much more than they really are.  I’m also pretty certain forty-six pounds didn’t used to weigh this much.  This pack is more like eighty pounds.  If my theory is true; I can’t wait to see how much they've added to fifty-four miles! 

See ya in a week! 

BON APPETIT

BON APPETIT

I am writing this month’s essay high atop Mt Kilimanjaro in Africa. The temperature is fifteen below zero up here and I’m freezing my keister.  Yes, they do have snow here in Africa, I didn’t believe it either: that’s why I’m here.  Maybe next time I’ll take Lilburn Merriwether’s word for it.  Lilburn is my neighbor, and he’s also a know-it-all.  The worst part is, apparently he really does.  He also told me the natives in this part of the country can get a bit testy at times.  That’s how I got up here so fast; they were in hot pursuit of me, their main purpose being to have me as their special guest for supper.  Damn that Lilburn, yes, he informed me there were cannibals here too.

So as I sit here, huddled behind a large rock attempting to shelter myself from the unrelenting wind, its cold enough to freeze the flame on a lantern and I’m shivering like a hound dog trying to pass a peach pit.  I also realize this will probably be my last essay.
You see, the natives are very hungry.  If I don’t freeze to death, the taunting savages below are waiting for me to come down so they might eat me for supper.  I think they have designs of feasting on Filet mig-tom this evening.  Even if I do freeze to death, they’ll dine on my frozen corpse come spring thaw.  Either way, I’m well-done for because in this medium it is rare anyone escapes here alive.  I know, cold as I am, I’ve still got it.

At any rate, none of that matters now.  Oh, how I wish I were back in Anza.  Back home in my den, sitting in my recliner, relaxing in front of the wood-burning stove with my faithful dog, Mutt, at my feet.  It’s also funny how perspective changes when you are about to die.  Right now I’m not quite so upset about being passed up yet again for a Pulitzer Prize in literature.  What do those snobs know anyway?  The Potty Poem is a classic.

Now, more than ever, I look back upon my life and wish I’d pursued my passions and fought my causes a little more fervently.  I wish I’d taken a harder stance on getting those stupid “childs” urinals removed and the big-boy ones reinstalled at so many of the public restrooms one finds these days.  I can’t even count the times I’ve splattered all over my dark jeans at McDonald’s.

I wish now that I’d have left the spray bottle of water in my truck; the one I used to take into the theater and spray a burst on those poor souls who were talking down in front of me, while I pretended to sneeze.

I regret having never starred in a porn movie.  Of course that would have required surgery and I was afraid to travel to Mexico.

I also wish I hadn’t flossed before I went to the dentist.  I should have made them work for their money.

Speaking of dentists; I’m number now than a six-shot root canal.  I think my time has come.  Let me just say these last words before I go; Bon Appetit!  (I still got it...)

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME

IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA

AT THE TIME

My life is full of “it seemed like a good idea at the time” moments.  Like when Lecil Hadley and I packed into the Golden Trout Wilderness on our annual deer hunting pack trip, and on a steep section of trail with a drop-off steeper than a cows face to our right, I noticed the load on one of Leese’s pack mules began to shift dramatically.  Of course the load couldn’t tilt to the uphill side of the trail; that would make the situation considerably easier.  No, it began sliding to the right and it was just a matter of moments before things were about to turn western. 

I informed Leese of the predicament, and glancing back at his string, the old muleskinner grumbled something about some place in Florida with a sunny beach as he stopped to dismount.  He would, however, need some help as the boxes were heavier than Tammy Faye Baker’s make-up bags.  

With my three pack mules neatly in tow, I dallied the lead rope to my lead mule, Zane, and jumped off my horse, rushing ahead to help Lecil get his panniers off his mule and retie the load.  I overlooked one, minor detail, however, I failed to secure my horse’s lead rope to something simply because Cody is the good child of my herd and always stands quietly.  In other words, I don’t have to worry about his wandering off.  Besides, where could he possibly go?  He was on a narrow, mountain trail that wasn’t much wider than a well-fed needle. There simply was no way he could possibly turn around.  The brush on the uphill slope was so thick the snakes had to climb to see out, not to mention he had three loaded pack mules behind him that were all tied together and tethered to him.

In a jiffy Lecil’s load was on the ground and we were in the process of resituating the pack saddle when I couldn’t help but take notice of a mildly disturbing event unfolding behind me; that would be my riding horse leisurely waltzing up the trail away from us, and yes, the three pack mules were following; still tethered together.  Faster than a fat lady on a buttered handrail I left Lecil to his misery and shot up the trail in an effort to foil the escape of my four criminals. 

Upon reflection, I suppose it might have been the sight of my eyeballs popping out of my head at the terrifying thought of my remuda and pack gear scattered from hell to breakfast as the result of the potential wreck I was envisioning. Or maybe it was the curious cackling noise of my coughing up a lung as I raced up the steep trail, sounding much like a tractor trying to start on a cold Montana morning.  Even more probable was the fact that my riding horse had no doubt come to the sudden realization that my pistol was nestled in the horn bag that was secured on the saddle upon his back, and the thought probably crossed his pea-brain that I might well use it on him.  Whatever the reason, Cody began to quicken the pace as I closed in on the wayward felons.

Now this particular section of trail is a corn maze of switchbacks for about the first mile or so, and being only slightly smarter than my horse, I cleverly hit upon another of those absolutely genius ideas I am so famous for; the thought being that if I could dash up the mountain through the thick brush to the trail above quickly enough, I could cut off the foursome’s getaway and be back in a jiffy, thereby avoiding the inevitable ridicule from Lecil that was sure to come.  Imagine my glee to discover, some twenty minutes later, that I had made an apparent miscalculation in regards to the exact location of the trail above. 

Upon this enlightening discovery I determined I couldn’t go back down hill from whence I came because, well, that would be embarrassing, so I calculated that if I changed direction and headed ninety degrees left, traversing the side of the mountain, I would have to encounter the trail reasonably soon.

Rocky Mountain sheep would have gazed in awe at my nimbleness and daring as I crawled, clawed, climbed, and leapt across the side of the mountain.  Suddenly, there in front of me, was the trail.  Woo-who, I had done it!

“Ah thought ya’ll went ta catch yer critters,” drawled Lecil, sitting on a rock and puffing on a cigarette as I stepped out of the brush and onto the trail not ten feet from where I had began my torture trek.

“Naw,” I said, brushing the leaves and dirt off me. “Had to use the bathroom; took longer than I thought.  Welp, guess I better go catch my critters!”

I must confess that after following my herd’s tracks back up the trail for another thirty-minutes, it was disturbingly comfortable to look up on the ridge above me and discover my renegade remuda standing quiet as a stone watching me trudge up the trail.  I then noticed something else.  My number two mule’s load seemed a bit askew.  In fact, the entire load was hanging as upside-down as cave full of bats.

Upon arriving at the scene of the crime I had to do a double-take.  Cody, my lead horse was now at the back of the pack.  Abby and Emma, my number two and three mules, were still tied to Zane Grey, but the number two mule was standing atop of Zane’s lead rope that had come unwrapped from my horse’s saddle horn and was trailing behind him as he led the parade up the mountain.    

Lecil was propped up against a rock, his hat pulled down over his eyes.

“Okay, ya ready to go,” I said, as I pulled up behind his string and stopped.

“Don’t it look like I’m ready ta go,” he drawled, scooting his hat back into position and grunting as he pushed himself up?  Lecil pulled his lanky frame up on his saddle mule and settled in.  Then he placed his hand upon his mule’s rump, leaned back and turned around.

“Ya know; Ah seen it right off and figured what wus gonna happen, but why azactly din’t ya tie thet horse-a-yourn when ya jumped off,” he asked, grinnin’ like a dog eating peanut butter from a wire brush.

“I don’t know,” I grumbled, a bit puzzled by his statement.  “Guess it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Half-an-hour later, as we stopped at the Little Kern to water our stock before crossing and heading up the canyon, it suddenly dawned on me as Lecil’s earlier comment rattled around my head like a BB in a boxcar.

“You mean to tell me you saw that I didn't tie my horse, not to mention you knew what was going to happen, and you didn't think that maybe, just maybe, it might have been prudent to say something like, oh, I don’t know, like, hey idiot; tie your horse?” I asked.  

“Ah, I dunno,” he said thoughfully, as he placed his hand on his mule’s rump, turned in the saddle and grinned.  “Ah suppose it wuz fer the same reason why ya din’t tie your pony ta sumthin’ in the first palce.”

“Yeah,” I grumbled, “And what might that be?”

“Welp,” he drawled, turning forward in his saddle clucking for his mule to move out. “Guess et jes seemed like a good idea at the time!”

FOCUS....

                     FOCUS

You probably won’t believe this, but I have spent an inordinate amount of time this past weekend putting together a tremendous essay for this month’s story.  The truth is; it’s been kind of a dry spell lately, and I’ve had trouble sitting down and focusing.

Anyway, I think I finally came up with something; a story, that is, not something as in a screwdriver, or a lizard, or a piñata, or something like that.  (Although a screwdriver does sound inviting right now,) but as I started to say, I’m not one to pat myself on the back, mostly because to perform that feat it is nearly impossible and would require incredible dexterity on my part due to the fact the arms are hinged in such a manner as to physically defy su….sorry, I’m just having trouble focusing.

At any rate, I really outdid myself by creating a hysterical tale about the time Lecil Hadley loaded up all his dirty saddle blankets, pack-pad covers, cinches, and canvas manties and headed into town to the local Laundromat for his yearly pack-gear cleaning, only to discover the proprietor had received prior warning of the impending visit and locked his door just as Leese pulled into the parking lot.  Then I wondered if Lecil could actually get all of his pack gear into the back of his truck?  It’s important for a writer to construct his stories in a manner that they are believable, and at the time, Lecil owned a pack station and had probably twenty-or-so mules.  Do you realize how much pack gear that really is, considering packers always have extra gear on top of what they use on a daily basis, and it’s probably physically impossible to get all that gear into the back of a pick-up?  Then I realized I’m not really a writer anyway; more of an ink slinger, really, having never actually had any formal training, unless you count Ms Ridenhour’s incessant, “I before e, except after…” whatever.  Then I realized I was wandering again…focus now, I gotta focus…

“You not weowcome heow!  You go way!  You crog my macheens; you go way, you go way NOW!” screamed the feisty little Chinaman who owned Ling Wey Laundromat.
Then I wondered if I was stereotyping Chinese people, not only with the pigeon-English Ling Wey was speaking; but do Chinese really own Laundromats anymore?  Of course not, I realized.

“You go way,” screamed the intimidating Korean, as Lecil stood in front of Hyung-Soon-Jung’s Laundromat.

At this point I was stumped.  What would Lecil do now, after all, a rational person would turn around and leave; but then I wouldn’t have a story.  Besides, a story has to have conflict.  You know, guy meets girl, guy loses girl, guy gets girl back.  I had to have conflict to make this story work.  Focus, Firth, focus…
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Lecil’s steamy affair with Mayleen Trefflecoop had been a longtime, on again, off again affair.  The voluptuous beauty was deeply in love with Lecil, and the feeling was mutual.  Lecil just had one problem; he couldn’t commit to the relationship.  Actually, he had two problems, as he stood timidly on Mayleen’s porch, his legs buckling and his arms burdened under the weight of his dirty saddle blankets, pack-pad covers, cinches and canvas manties that were in desperate need of cleaning.

“You go way, you go way,” screamed Mayleen defiantly, as she produced a pair of whirling numchucks and sprang nimbly onto the porch from behind the screen door.
Wait a minute, I thought, just two problems?  Nobody has just two problems.  Life is full of problems; mortgages, work, bills, family emergencies? Standing on a porch, cowering in fear before a numchuck wielding, Dolly Parton look-a-like surely isn’t one of them.  Besides, Mayleen is a red-head, not a blonde, and a blonde couldn’t have the dexterity and where-for-all to wield numchucks; but that would be stereotyping, wouldn’t it?  Focus, now, focus…it’s got to be believable, Firth.  Try again…
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Lecil stood at the edge of the steep precipice overlooking the ocean.  “This ought to do the trick,” he thought to himself, as he surveyed the foreboding, jagged rocks below.  All Lecil had to do was jump and it would be all over.  The misery would disappear, the rejection eliminated, the fear gone; it would all mercifully come to an end.  No more numchuck wielding redheads, no more crazy, irate Chinese or Korean Laundromat owners, no more wondering how he was going to get his pack gear cleaned by next year.
“You go way, you go way from criff.  You no can jump,” ordered the Irish-born, New York cop, waving his baton at Lecil while angrily nudging him away from the edge of the cliff.
Wait a minute; no one is going to believe such an outlandish tale as this for even a minute; Irish cops are only in the movies…focus now, Firth, focus…make it believable.
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Lecil pulled up in front of Wally’s Water World and Natural Hot Springs Resort, and set the parking brake on the rented 40’ U-Haul truck containing most of his accumulated pack gear.  Lecil lifted the sliding door open and began unloading his dirty saddle blankets, pack-pad covers, cinches, and canvas manties and headed toward the resort’s gate for his yearly pack gear cleaning.

“You go way, you go way… ya’ll” bellowed the burly, Alabama redneck proprietor, clad in bib overalls and brandishing a double-barrel shotgun…

HOW FAR WE'VE COME.

HOW FAR WE’VE COME,
AND HOW DO WE GET BACK?

When events happen such as Hurricane Sandy, Katrina, or any other of nature’s occurrences come along, they don't happen in a vacuum. They aren’t events that rush in, wreak havoc and then go away, leaving us to pick up where we left off.  In fact, they change our world at the most basic levels, leaving us vulnerable and with the sudden understanding that we are among the tinniest of creatures, left helpless and on our own to fend for ourselves.

The truth is the real tragedy here isn't Hurricane Sandy, but rather it’s the lack of planning prior as it pertains to the aftermath of any given catastrophe’s devastation, and even worse, the faith that the people living in these areas have come to put in the almighty, take care of us, government, a government with an outstanding record of ineptness in regard to past performances in nearly every arena, and now these folks are seeing first hand just how limited that help really is.

When I was growing up in the fifties, America was still primarily a rural nation and even many of those that had moved to the urban areas after World War II were from a rural background.  Back then, folks in rural areas were survivors; they were survivors by nature.  Families grew their own food, they slaughtered their own animals, they canned and put up supplies to get them through the tough times.  And when a disaster did strike, it was neighbors, churches, and others just willing to help that came to their aid.  Now that mandate to help our fellow Americans has been turned over to ever-inefficient big government agencies.

The layers upon layers of bureaucracy are staggering and woefully incompetent in supplying help and needed supplies.  No food, water, fuel, electricity, or trash pickup has caused sanitation to become an issue of real concern as people are using the bathroom wherever they can.  From utility crews arriving to help restore power to victims of the disaster being turned away and sent home because they are non-union, to FEMA closing their doors because of the adverse weather conditions that have affected the restoration of the infrastructure, if you're one of the victims, it's pretty much tough tittie right now.
Get used to it, folks; this is how big government works and this how it affects its subjects when they come to depend on it from the cradle to the grave.  Folks need to wake up and realize the inadequacies of big government.  Hurricane Sandy is a peek into the future and the direction our nation is going.  It’s also a clear vision of what people need to do to prepare for the next Sandy, or heaven forbid; something worse!

GOT NUTTIN'

GOT NUTTIN’

Every so often I get slapped upside the back of the head with an overwhelming urge to write.  It’s an uncontrollable feeling that wells up inside me and demands to substantiate itself through the power of words.  When I sat down to write this month’s blog, I was in the throes of just such a feeling.  Thankfully, it has passed.

So here it is; this month’s official, "I got nuttin’ worth writing about" blog.  I have decided I will put it in whenever I have nothing worth writing about.  Don't be surprised to see it quite often.  From here on out, when my schedule requires me to deliver a new monthly blog and I don’t have anything, I'll simply say, "Ain’t got nuttin’."  I know that is incorrect grammar.  I know it just as sure as I am haunted by the ghost of Ms Ridenhour, my 3rd, 4th, and 5th grade teacher in grammar school.  And quite frankly, (if I can call you Frank) as I look over some of the other nonsense I’ve previously put up here on this blog spot, I should have written this blog a long time ago.  “And why,” you ask, “didn't I?”

I suppose it boils down to nothing more than ego and vanity.  I was bound and determined to write a new blog each month because, well... I don’t really know why, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  My life is full of, “it seemed like a good idea at the time,” moments, and after all, that is what I write about most of the time, isn’t it?

At any rate, I'm older and wiser now and I know when I have nothing to say.  This is one of those times.  I also know that possessing this powerful knowledge is also freedom of sorts.  A freedom that allows me to get up from my chair and walk away from a blank piece of paper or computer screen that’s screaming loud enough to de-wax ear canals, that annoying voice in the back of my head hollering, “Write something, Firth!”  Its freedom from this incessant need to win your approval, and even more importantly, it is freedom from this deep-rooted, obsessive compulsion and the irresistible impulse to end each blog with a silly joke.  Joe Biden!