These mule rides have been a staple at the national park for more than a century and it is estimated in excess of 600,000 travelers have made the journey without a casualty. That fact didn't strike me as too encouraging. I figured the odds were heavily increased for me to become the first. I was apprehensive until I realized the mules are on "auto pilot" and they simply move forward, avoid stumbling, and try to grab a snack wherever they can. I felt an instantaneous kinship with my mule because that's basically how I write these stories. (For example, I chose to move forward; although I'm quite aware I stumbled on the Zsa Zsa passage. I'm enjoying a cup of coffee at the moment and some yogurt. These treats make up my fourth snack of the article. Well, back to work...) Besides, whoever heard of a suicidal mule?
Within about 10 minutes, I fully trusted my four-legged transportation, whom I learned is named Cinnamon. I took this as a sign from Heaven. If I survived the trip or not, I would never have to cinnamon floss again. A deal is a deal, even with God. I avoided acknowledging the extreme altitude of the cliffs we teetered along. The scenery was breathtaking. I had been wrong about dreading this trip. The mule train was a piece of cake. (Cake? I do believe there's cake in the fridge. Be right back...) I found myself slipping into a trance of sorts, even to the point of forgetting about Cinnamon. It was terrific to be alive. Nothing could spoil this gorgeous, perfect day in the wilderness -- except the moaning. Where was that moaning coming from? "Ew! Ew! Ew! Ow! Ow! Ow!" Oh, no, it was coming from me. My bottom was sore. And with each step the mule took, I suffered incremental pain, until by the end of the first mile, what I was feeling was sheer torture. I had expected some annoyances, but nothing like this. We had many miles and hours to go before we reached comfort in the canyon's bottom -- an irony also nibbling at my rear.
At times, we jostled along inclines so steep, I felt like I was standing up in the stirrups. Those pangs were the worst for the knees, but good for the tailbone since it was possible to shift some weight around. We stopped for a box lunch at Indian Gardens, a cozy, shady rest area. Our guide helped me off the mule. I did an ancient Milton Berle silly walk as I fought to regain my balance and with effort, I was quickly back to normal, doing a more contemporary Monty Python silly walk. I rushed to Donna's side. She had turned seriously ill overnight and almost canceled her ride. After frantic long-distance phone calls to her doctor and a discussion with the trail boss at the starting point, she decided to chance the expedition. And to make things a wee bit more fun, there was the very real possibility she was having a gallbladder attack. Yes, to say the least, I was very concerned. "Are you gonna eat those peanuts?" I asked. "Ugh, no," she winced. "Granola bar? Fruit cup? Cheese wheel, crackers? Box o' juice?" I said, hating to see good food go to waste. In emergencies, have no fear, I take control. I always go to my strengths. All photographs used by
permission. |
Well, I agree Francis the Talking Mule should've never consented to
"Francis in the Haunted House" (1956), but that was career suicide -- quite
different from going berserk and taking a fatal airborne leap with some manly city slicker
in a humongous cap.
Then, a fresh surprise kicked in. The odd, foreign twists demanded of my legs,
so my feet would stay in the stirrups, caused sharp, searing pains to surge through my
knees -- unbelievably intense, white hot pains.
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