Biking Through Bryce

 It was 2003 and time for my annual biking trip, this time through Bryce, Zion and the Grand Canyon. As usual, I rifled through old socks, tee shirts and underwear for a batch of “one last wear” clothes that I could sweat in and toss at the end of each day. Admittedly, that collection would repulse a homeless bag lady but it worked; returning home with a suitcase of newly purchased souvenirs and no malodorous laundry was worth giving up my Barry Manilow tee shirt.

I hit the road and drove and drove to the music of Earl Bostic. As I passed through Las Vegas (ah, the days of Frankie, Dino and Sammy), I contemplated the wisdom of wearing Depends on long trips and made a mental note to write to Kimberly-Clarke about alternate marketing strategies; forget June Allyson, market to the long distance traveler. A short ways out of Vegas the road took an abrupt turn and I found myself in the midst of the canyons; wide eyed. These were no ordinary reds, purples, browns or pinks - this was Claude Monet territory; burnt sienna, aubergine, mocha and salmon. And this was just the appetizer course. I couldn’t wait for the rest of the week’s colorful menu. Six hours later (yes, my little Saturn could do 90+), I arrived at the Crystal Inn at St. George, Utah where I was to meet the rest of the tour group. 

The next morning heralded the official beginning of our trip. I was treated to a free continental breakfast. Plenty of coffee but no non fat milk. What is it with the other 49 states. There’s an obesity epidemic; would it kill these people (no pun intended) to switch to at least low fat. I stared at the gargantuan waitress in disbelief when she said no to non fat. The heifer had the temerity to glare back as if I had asked to share her toothbrush. The lead story in the local paper was about David Letterman’s Montana cabin being illegally occupied by a bear. Personally I would have found an article on the virtues of non fat milk much more compelling, not to mention that at the time Letterman’s girlfriend was knocked up. He had much bigger problems than Yogi’s visit. 

The tour group members finally gathered. We all introduced ourselves and then we piled into two vans and spent the next couple of hours heading for Bryce while telling each our life stories. One man’s name was Thold. His wife Ruth said to think of shopping with a lisp: sold, Thold. After hearing other people’s names I circled back and, while I didn’t exactly remember his name, I remembered shopping so I called him Thale (as in ‘sale’) a few times. I thought I was cute until his wife took me aside and remarked: “Linda, he’s married, which makes him no longer on the market, not for sale, he’s sold!”. Ohh. The hazards of being single in the midst of married couples. There were two other single ladies, utterly adorable and, like me, not nuns.

We began with a four mile hike into the canyon, along the Rim Trail, down into the Navajo Loop Trail. The canyon was surrounded by hoodoos and fins. Hoodoos are the pillars of rock that are left by erosion, which reminded me of an old Cary Grant routine about who do and you do but only one other person saw the movie so the whole schtick was lost on the group. Back at our hotel, I tossed my sweat drenched clothes into the trash. During dinner I reiterated my philosophy on wearing and tossing old clothes, after which a couple of men took me aside and asked if I would have a private chat with their wives because their bags were huge. 

Bryce, I was told, is one of the best places in the country to view the sky at night so after dinner I walked onto my room’s back patio and found myself staring at the expansive white ribbon that is the Milky Way; so magnificently cosmic and low in the sky. I was sure that if I was a foot taller, or even stood on a chair, I could touch those glowing stars. Here was the mystery and marvel of the universe, the wellspring of awe. I stared up at the stars as long as my neck would let me. It was the second time in two days that nature filled me with wonder. I guess there is something to be said for the natural wonders of the universe. I always thought it was shoes. 

The next day we hiked four miles to the highest outpoint and it wasn’t even lunch yet (with a hint of a whine). Once there I looked straight down at the very vertical drop, silently grateful for the guard rails and then spent the next 15 minutes looking out over the sheer breadth of color palette before me.

While waiting for one of the tables to finish lunch, one of the ladies and I moseyed on over to the nearby buffalo ranch. She took one look and snorted “we make much better ones in Colorado”. They looked fine to me but my only claim to fame is distinguishing between paper cocktail umbrellas. 

Back in our vans we headed to the north rim of the Grand Canyon. About 30 minutes from our final destination we were stopped by a couple of forest rangers. Apparently a control fire had gotten out of control and no cars were allowed on the road “for now”. Smokey the bear quips ensued. We headed back to Kanab, which we had passed through earlier, with raised eyebrows and a slight shudder. Best guess, this place was a stagecoach stop back in the olden days. The lovely village of Kanab featured a reasonable Best Western, which our tour group took over (the smoke signals confirmed our stay) and boasted a Chinese restaurant (not even if I were starving), a tee shirt shop (is nothing sacred, they’re right up there with cockroaches) and the Rocking V Cafe, where we were to dine that evening. 

The Cafe exterior looked doubtful but once inside we were agape at our surroundings. The place had all the color and ambiance of a Sedona art gallery. While we were being seated I looked over at the next table to see what those diners were having; their food looked good. The table was patronized by four of the dearest little white curly haired ladies I had ever seen. I could almost smell the lavender seeping from their cuddly size bodies. They all sported pretty flowered dresses and slightly pink cheeks due to the margaritas they had been daintily sipping. I asked how they had enjoyed their fare, and all four emitted the most charming British accents extolling the virtues of the victuals. I remarked on their darling accents and was sweetly told that it was I who had the accent. Properly chastised, I agreed. They went on to say that they had left their hubbies behind, on the sofa in front of the telly, to live their vacation wild and free. Listening to their delightful stories and giggles I was absolutely sure that I had entered an alternate universe, asking myself the salient question: you left the hubbies to run wild and you chose Kanab? Then again, entire TV series had been built on less. As they got up to leave, one of them hugged me. Truly, she was pillow soft and smelled of lavender. After our quite successful dinner, the owner came by to chat with us. He was an Italian from Jersey who tired of the cold weather so came here. Wait, what! Here? I had to wonder: What the hell was in our water? Or was this where the Criminal Protection folk dropped off their 'clients'?

We spent the next two days hiking canyon trails ten miles this way and biking twenty miles that way and then the last two big days arrived. We were to hike through the Narrows; make our way into the inner gorge of the Snake River as it wound around the rocks. I knew the hike through river water would destroy my trusty leather and gore-tex boots that fit like sleep socks so, before leaving L.A., I had hied myself down to the local Big 5 Sporting Goods store and purchased a pair of boots for $13. In keeping with my travel style, I would wear them once, allow their destruction through the river and toss them afterwards. We trooped in to the gorge, enjoying the fantasy of keeping our boots dry for about five minutes, after which even our feet became wet and numb with cold. The next 2.5 hours saw us trudging deep into the Narrows, observing one astonishing sight after another: small waterfalls, hanging gardens of fern, other delicate vegetation cascading down the canyon walls. At times the walls were over 1K feet high and sometimes only 40 feet apart. We slogged from bank to bank, veering sideways rather than straight through the water. In short order we learned to step on the white spots in the water, which indicated a more stable sandy bottom, rather than the green spots that were rocks, slippery with moss. Likewise, we learned that brown water meant shallow and warm, whereas green water meant deep and cold. I found it all very exciting and forged ahead. By lunch, the wimps had turned back and there were only eight of us left. Sometimes the water was ankle deep while other times it was knee deep. I didn’t want to think about what manner of microscopic wildlife had found its way into my socks and boots. It was the longest, toughest water aerobic exercise that I had ever endured. Yes, the boots were tossed at day end, valiant Gunga Dins.

Our last day was the best and the worst. We were to climb Walter’s Wiggles, to Scout’s Landing to Angel’s Landing. Walter’s Wiggles consists of a series of switchbacks carved into the cliffside, pretty much straight up. There were three of us valiant souls who always seemed to be at the front of each hike but even we three sounded like asthmatic race horses on occasion. A lot of water and gatorade was consumed. After hiking to Scout’s Landing, we enjoyed a picnic lunch. 

And then we were ready for the trek to Angel’s Landing, which is the supposed locale for the upcoming return of the messiah, who will deliver his message to the angels, who will, in turn, deliver his message to the world. Again, I had to ask myself: Aren’t the angels and the messiah together already? Don’t they have conference rooms up there? Why here? Anyway, only three of us were daring, or foolhardy, enough to trek to Angel’s Landing. Usually half a mile is not a big deal until one considers that this trek takes place on a sheer wedge of rock 2K feet above the valley floor with only a chain bolted to the rocks to give the handhold needed to reach the Landing. I remember looking down into the yawning abyss and thinking that this trek could kill me now or I could lay on my deathbed in another 60 years and regret not having taken this hike when I had the chance. Then again, it was a straight drop down, no net, no guard rail, no nothing, just me and the hope that the traveler before me hadn’t weighed 300 pounds and had loosened the bolts holding the chains that would keep me alive. Off I went, on a wing and a prayer, except that the prayer was more often akin to ‘holy crap, jesus christ, oh damn, what the hell was I thinking’. Even worse, I couldn’t turn back because someone else was right behind me. But I did it, stood on the Landing, experienced the panoramic view and probably was two pounds lighter for the adventure. One and done. Well, there was the return, but that's another story.

On the shuttle back to the lodge the driver called out points of interest. One formation apparently was said to look like the virgin Mary. A lady in front jumped up and agreed: “wow, it sure does look like her”. What? I could only ask myself: What was in that woman’s water? How would she know what Mary looked like; was Mary over for dinner the week before Easter? 

Two of my dinner partners, both named Barbara (Babs and Baba) were from NYC and had never been to Vegas so wanted to stop there before returning to the big apple. We reiterated the “whatever happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas” mantra. Both ladies were divorced and wondered about the number of men roaming around that town. I allowed that the odds were pretty good but that the goods could be pretty odd. 

The next day, we all said our goodbyes. Traveling back through Vegas I noticed a group of hitchhiking Elvises. Enough, the song in my head was “six days on the road, and I’m a-gonna make it home tonight”.