In 1992, my wife and I first gazed into the Grand Canyon. It was, for me, as close to a religious experience as I have ever had -- excepting that time in a nightmare I was tossed off the ark. I must've been two or three when I had the dream, because I remember Noah threw me into the baby flood. The Grand Canyon is simply beyond description. Its beauty and spectacle are infinite, and it remains essentially untouched by human tinkering and Popeye's Fried Chicken franchises on every coyote den. During our glance down on the abyss which culminates into the Colorado River, we noticed a line of tiny moving dots. At home in our kitchen those dots might have been ants foraging for sugar. In the Grand Canyon, those dots were mule-riding sightseers. Donna, also known as Mrs. the Guide and Hey Are There Any More Reese Cups?, grabbed me and screamed, "Looky, Mike! Looky! It's a mule train! C'mon, we've got to do that!" I opened my mouth to speak -- she yanked! I left my gum behind, hovering in mid-air. While my wife tugged on me to seek mule reservations, I decided to make the most of my time and have a full-out religious experience -- the one theologians refer to as the Sweet Jesus! Oh, Sweet Holy Jesus! Mary, Mother of God, Help Me! Oh God! Oh Please God No! No Mules, God! Please God, No! I Promise to Floss! I'll Floss, God! I'll Do It! More Than One Tooth! The Cats! I'll Floss My Cats! Just Keep Me Off the Mules! God! Oh, God! Help Me God! Syndrome.
1992, 1993, and 1994 passed with few mentions of the mules at our house -- or, at least, that's my recollection. All of my spare conversational time was taken up administering dental hygiene to my cats. This chore took longer than you might expect because they had to chase and swat the strings. By '96, Donna had discussed her mule team wishes with friends who expressed an interest in joining us if we ever made the trek. I laughed the idea off, patted her cute wittle head, and bought her some Borax. One 1997 April morning, the kitties and I were in the middle of our communal daily ritual -- Lindsay with her catnip-flavored gentle care floss, Kelp with his whitefish unwaxed, and me with my cinnamon waxed -- when Donna burst into the bathroom. "GUESS WHAT?!" she exploded! "My head bounced off the ceiling?" I answered her question with a question, upon returning to Earth. "I got reservations! We're doing the mule train next year!" "Golly," I said, with a haphazard grin, as I mentally flipped on my personal Doomsday Clock. I was toast. I knew my days were numbered. I was going to die in the Grand Canyon. Why my concerns? Well, that should be obvious.
I only had one year to prepare for the inevitable descent into Hell and I did so with a vengeance. I knew I would be on a mule for hours on end, so whenever I saw a chair, I'd sit on it. If I saw a sofa or a bench, I'd sit. Soon I could sit pretty well -- enough to bluff the animal, I was hoping. My acrophobia was another matter entirely. After five months of counseling, I managed to wear two pairs of socks simultaneously, which lifted my entire body into the air and changed my perspective, causing me to admit, "the view is magnificent from up here." I've always looked down when I walk, which prompted my therapist to suggest I raise my head up high. This effect forced me to acclimate to the ground seeming seven or eight inches further below me; however, with my nose in the air, my vocal mannerisms took on the snooty tones of Zsa Zsa Gabor. I was morally compelled to regress, lowering my head in shame. I continued to struggle and by vacation time, I made great progress conquering heights. I could walk into any restaurant and use a booster seat. As early as several days before we were to leave town, I was resigned to endure the canyon. That's when Donna hit me with a new bombshell. "You'll need a hat." "What?" I chuckled, as I have never been a hat person. "It's mandatory. You must wear a wide-brimmed hat on the trail," she said. I eased out of my extra socks. "I ain't going." The next thing I knew, I was staring into a mirror at Bucky Buckaroo's Cowboy Corral and Spittoonery. I was wearing the largest Stetson in the place. It looked like a Dixie Cup. I have a giant cranium. I don't mean to sound conceited, but my skull needs to be big to contain my brain and all those Styrofoam peanuts cradling it. Shopping through several more locations, we finally found a hat I could squeeze and fold my head into at an Army surplus store. I think it was once a tent. I like a hat that can sleep six.
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It turned out the mule tours were so popular, there was a
one-year waiting list to accommodate the demand. I did some quick calculations. We
couldn't stay an entire year equals we couldn't ride the mules. Darn the luck.
In no time, I struck a dashing pose with the Quonset hut hat planted on my
noggin and my quivering haunch clutching a strange mule atop the Grand Canyon's south rim.
We were off on our adventure along the Bright Angel Trail.
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