Trip to the Grand Canyon by W. N. Eidson, a.k.a. Daddy Bill, 1986
Uneventful trip from ho, 4712, Vermack Road, Dunwoody, Ga. Across the bumper-to-bumper 7:30 AM traffic to the Atlanta Airport. Houston bound to pick up two fledglings for what I hope is a memorable trip to the Grand Canyon, hereafter referred to as “G. C.”
The idea for this adventure began two years ago when my company, Southern Bell Telephone Co. allowed me to attend an Engineering Conference at the University of Arizona. As a sideline to the conference, Kathleen and I rented a car and drove up to the G. C. Then the following year I was sent again to this conference and again Kathleen and I visited the G. C., only this time we rode the mules down into the canyon to a bluff overlooking the turbulent Colorado River. As our mules passed young hikers, with their backs firmly planted in the sheer canyon wall lest the passing mules bump them off the narrow trail, the idea came to me “Boy wouldn’t a hike down to the river be a splendid adventure for Clay, Cory and me!”
Step one and also the biggest hurdle was a call to mother hen in Houston for permission to take the fledglings from the nest. Surprise! Permission granted with only a few promises and signature in blood.
The other steps pale in significance but suffice to say many phone calls and deposits later the plans are laid.
Day 1, May 2, 1986
Well, Jeanie, Clint and Cory met me at the Houston Airport. Delicious supper, Turkey-dressing-giblet gravy, sweet potato soufflé and PECAN PIE. Clint most graciously allowed me to sleep in his bed. Excitement-Stan’s old Chevrolet quit on the way home from work. We went to pick him up.
Day 2, May 3 rd, 1986
Next morning we all hit the deck at 6 AM—good breakfast and we were on the way! Plane left 9:40—The adventure begins.
Good flight from Houston to Dallas—Boys played magnetic checkers and wowed the Stewardess. Switched planes in Dallas. One long 2 hour lay—over before plane to Phoenix. There in the Dallas International Terminal, as I’m sure Eidson forefathers did before us, we had to establish the Pecking Order. With this solidly established and grandpa seated precariously at the head of the pack we caught the plane to Phoenix. Good trip with the thrill of using the restroom on board—during flight—and the evitable question—“where does it go grandpa?” The Delta Stewardess presented both boys with “genuine” Delta pilot wings. Super!
Land in Phoenix and our luggage goes to the American West baggage area—15 minutes of panic before Clay spotted them across the room. Hooray! Pick up Buick Century at Alamo Rent-A-Car. Phoenix temperature at 105. A/C wide open we motor up thru the Sadona Valley—beautiful scenery only Cory slept all the way to Flagstaff. Clay and I enjoyed the weird desert terrain. Not like Georgia! Suppertime—Clay wants enchiladas, Cory wants Pizza—Bill wanted veggies. So, like any democratic government headed by a dictator, we all enjoyed a pizza at the Pizza Hut! Short two hour ride from Flagstaff to the G. C. with ole Sol dropping brilliantly in the west with long fire fingers streaking reluctantly up from the horizon—grasping uselessly to a few cotton balls in the sky, trying to prolong the inevitable.
Arrive at the G. C. with long shadows drooping down into the canyon. As the boys peep over the south rim at Mather Point and take their first look at the G. C., the expressions on their faces were ample reward for all Gramp’s efforts. The six year old sums it up most eloquently “This is a neat Grand Canyon, Daddy Bill!”
Check in at the “Bright Angel Lodge”, Room 6145 overlooking the South Rim of the Canyon. Cold! about 45, from 105 at 3 PM to 45 at 8 PM! Comfortable room with old log beams. Baths tonight in an ole iron tub on legs with lion paws at the bottom! The boys first then as I go in for mine I promise a terrifyingly horrible ghost story the minute I get out. But alas, when I return the terrible two were safe in the arms of Morpheus.
Day 3, May 4, 1986
Our timetables and watches off schedule, we rise at 5 AM and are first in line for breakfast at the Bright Angel Lodge. Cory and I have pancakes and Clay has French Toast. Quick trip to the Mule Corral to see the city slickers mount and start down the trail into the Canyon. But we discover from a kind tourist that it’s only 6:45 not 7:45 when the mules will arrive. Oh well, we walk down the trail for 30 minutes and then back up. The 6 year old speaks the very words that bring trepidations to my heart “Daddy Bill, my legs are tired!” And this after only 30 minutes up the trail. Tomorrow we start an eight-hour hike down to the Colorado. What do I do?
Well, first we laugh at the folks on the mules, Cory makes friends with one ole mean-looking mule. Then, when Cory is petting another mule—Another mule catches the seat of Cory’s pants with his teeth and as Cory relates the tale “Tried to pull my pants down”, with a howl that was heard 21 miles away at the North Rim, Cory scared the mule into releasing his grip. So much for friendship with mules, besides Cory sez, “they didn’t smell good anyway!”
With the wind gusting 35-40 MPH we make all the Look-out points from the Bright Angel Lodge—west to the Hermits’ Rest where Clay buys a cactus plant in a Navajo pot for his mom and a little turquoise bracelet for an undisclosed recipient. Cory won’t spend a penny of his twenty. Back to our room where Cory takes the train to Nappies Town and I beat Clay in five games of checkers. Delicious fried chicken for lunch and after all the morning exercise we put the ghost on it. Wind howling—we can hardly stand up.
For Sunday afternoon we make the Lookout points east of the Bright Angel Lodge. We arrive at a Yaki Point and get our first look at the “G-down” Trail—The KAIBAB Trail! We decide to go 20 minutes down the Trail and back up. To my horror we find the descent so steep and covered with fine gravel that we start the descent so steep and covered with fine gravel that we start sliding. Cory goes down several times and skins his hands. Clay decides he will squat down and slide. This results in disaster to the seat of his pants. We only traverse 10 minutes down and it looks worse! We meet some woe-be-gone looking creatures coming up the Trail who most certainly have come from Dantes’. When we asked, “how is it?” The guttural reply was weak and laced with venom—” This part of the Trail is ok but three miles back down is hell!” Now, what do I do? Give it up? We start back up and 30 minutes later we retrace the steps that took 10 minutes to make. Wind is screaming.
The boys want to hit McDonalds and me, I want to go home. After McDucks we catch a 7:30 slide presentation at the Shrine of the Ages by a most beautiful Park Ranger. Full of wonderful knowledge of the G. C. we retreat to our Lodge with the boys singing “On Top of Ole Spaghetti all covered with Smut—I shout my mean Teacher, she fell on her—“ The rest is censored but you get the gist. Me, I have a sinking feeling—deep down—and I ask myself, much as ole Christopher Columbus must have “What in the world possessed me?—how in the blue blazes did I get myself into this?” Well with baths behind us we fill our packs and go over and over an inventory of necessities. We leave a 5 AM wake-up call. The boys reach again for those loving arms that for the pure in heart come as easily as a shadow on the wall. While for a troubled, not so pure in heart old man she spurns all advances.
Day 4, May 5, 1986
“Once more into the breech” We get a wake-up call at 5 AM. Last minute packing of items that will stay in the suitcases at the Lodge. Haul everything to the lobby. Snobby little clerk says “I’m sorry the bellboy doesn’t get to work until 7:30 AM and he’s the only one authorized to store suitcases.” We put everything in the trunk of the car and eat breakfast. Clay goes bacon & eggs—Cory goes pancakes again & Daddy Bill just coffee. We meet a very nice gentleman name Walt Smith who works for Western Electric in Richmond, VA who offers to drive us the six miles along the rim to Yaki Point where the KAIBAB Trail begins. We start down at 7:30 AM—so much wasted time—We wanted to be on the trail at 6 AM sharp—Oh well, the best-laid plans of mice and men. The trail exceeds my worst fears. Steep—very steep grades for the first 3 miles. Cory has gone down 8-10 times. Skinned hands, knees and bottom. No wind. Weather perfect for hiking! About 45 at the start. At 9 we come out of the jackets by 10 we are out of long pants/sweat suits. We stop often to rest and to take on water and vice versa. Occasionally professional hikers pass us in their $200 Northface hiking shoes. Clay’s turf shoes, Cory’s jogging shoes and my K-Mart brogans are doing A-O-K. The double sock trick (thin pair first then the thick ones) have done the job. Not a sign of a blister on any of the six. Cory was elected “Guide” shortly after we started. This position he readily accepts with all the pomp and circumstances befitting the title. Clay and I are instructed to call him “Mister Guide” otherwise you get no response. He dutifully announced each curve with “turn left/right here” as well as “watch the mule doo” at the top of his lungs much to the enjoyment of other hikers we are passing and meeting. This is spring in the Canyon and everything is in bloom. From cactus, blue belles, yucca, to goodness knows what. She has put on her finest for we three. Rock formations that defy description. We rest and walk. Rest and walk. The first 3 miles are a blessed nightmare. Clay has gone down several times and Cory a dozen. Scenery magnificent. We near the bottom and can hear the roar of the mighty Colorado a good 3 miles before we get there. We go thru a tunnel much to the delight of the boys and then the swinging bridge begins as we exit. The bridge is 480 feet long built in 1928 with all the material brought by mule and the 2 dozen 500 feet main support cables brought by hand—The Havasupai Indians, space at 10 foot intervals, carried these from the rim down to the river. Bless Them. Prior to this accomplishment, hikers had to swim the river. After crossing the bridge we walk down to the water—ice cold—most refreshing. The boys skim flat rocks and Daddy Bill rests. All three made the trip down much better than expected. One mile along the river and we check in at Phantom Ranch Lodge. We purchase 2 ice teas, and one Bud at exorbitant prices but worth every penny. We go to men’s dorm #12—Wash our feet and the boys greedily embrace their lover for a 1 ½ hour snooze. Daddy Bill lays in his bunk and ponders if Solomon with all his wisdom could have refereed any better? Keeping one in front and one in back worked for a while but as they kicked the powder red dirt on the trail into dust storm I caught the brunt of it. Well, what else are grandpas for? As I write this Z’s are deafening.
Naps over, we explore the mysteries of the Canyon. In a stream cascading over the boulders thru this oasis with beautiful trees nestled alienly in a barren, boulder-strewn canyon bottom, we take off our shoes and freeze our weary feet. “Whoever picked this spot for the Phantom Ranch sure knew how to pick em” sez one of the awestruck Texans. We walk down (100 yards) again to the ole Colorado to chunk a few. We also collect odd rocks for various lucky recipients. A bell peals back at the ranch house calling hungry tenderfeet to a scrumptious meal of CANYON STEW. We sit at long tables boarding house style and as we gulp down volumes of this priceless nectar we meet the people at our table one by one. All are impressed by Cory and they ask as we were asked all the way down the trail “how old is he and how in the world did he make it down the KAIBAB?” This from professional hikers who seem genuinely impressed with his feat. Have three fools rushed in where angels fear to tread? Three good baths await us at the men’s dorm. Then one by one our other seven companions for the nite arrive. Clay venches top bunk and I don Solomon’s cloak and do my best. As we sit around and chew the fat—where do you work? What state are you from etc., etc.? I hear the Z’s begin from both top and bottom bunk of the Texans’ corner. Her soft wings have once again settled protectively over her fledglings.
Day 5, May 6, 1986
A loud banging at our door at 4:30 AM sends 10 aching bodies to the floor. I honestly can’t stand without holding to the upper bunk—moans fill the bunkhouse. We all dress with many longing glances back at the sack. But as the Ranger had said “Anyone not showing up at 5 o’clock, don’t eat.” We again are seated at the long table and hot pancakes, eggs, bacon, O. J. and coffee that could do battle with Mr. T! Good camaraderie—and with full bellies we hurry to #12 to fill our packs for what will probably be the longest day. We shake hands all around and the boys glow as praises are heaped on their broad shoulders. Clay boy was magnificent on the trek down carry a full, heavy back pack with not one whimper. When I offered to hand carry his pack for a while, his reply carried a justifiable rebuke “This is my pack!” Well, this morning we start with a full load plus 3 box lunches to be consumed at Indian Gardens, the half way-point. We leave our little oasis and as we head out looks searchingly for “Miriam” a wild turkey that has been tamed (sort of) by campers feeding her. But alas, no sign of her so we ease down to the Colorado and cross the swinging bridge (Cory had fallen on the bridge the day before and carries tow splinters from the wooden floor—all attempts at surgery are laced with howls that discouraged this amateur and they must remain until a specialist at Foxwick Memorial can perform this delicate operation). Well back to my tale. We cross this morning with no accidents albeit these are three wobbly pairs of legs. A short, level, 2-mile hike along the banks of the Colorado bring 3 awestruck pardners along the deceptive beginning of the Bright Angel Tail. Now a sharp left brings fear to this heart as we see our trail wind upward, every upward thru an opening of the sheer walls that corralled the Colorado. Cory’s legs hurt, as mine do. Clay boy shows no sign of the previous day’s hardships but continues to chunk rocks into the streams that meanders from this small canyon that our trail leads us into. Upward, ever upward. Over 6,000 feet vertical rise in the 10 miles we must climb. The ranger said allow 8 hours. We had crossed the bridge at 6 AM with no sign of the sun, only a vampire misty morning with gloomy shadows everywhere. We are bunched pretty tightly as we dutifully place one tired leg after another, upward—ever upward. “How many more hours is it now, Daddy Bill?” We go thru some breathtaking country—this ole tired brain can’t begin to describe in words the pictures our eyes watched go by ever so slowly. As the grade increases so do the rest stops. The box lunches are much lighter now although it’s just 9 AM. Three hours gone and we have hardly left the banks of the Colorado. Twisting turns through one inner canyon after another going upward, ever upward. All along the way hikers ask with credulous voices—“Did these two hike all the way to Phantom Ranch?” By our dust covered clothes and faces, they could tell us from the “day packers” that just make tenuous sojourns into the upper reaches of the G. C. Plainly they could tell that these three apparition’s had come from the inferno itself! There is a pained countenance that we carry that answers them without our saying a word. One by one we overtake our table companions and bunkmates from the Phantom Ranch as we sail thru the lower section of the Bright Angel Trail. After all hadn’t we blistered the might 8 mile KAIBAB? What’s a 10 mile B. A. T. to us three? The people we meet are genuinely impressed with the boys. All asking the same “How old are you” Clay spits only one word “Eight” with the professional air of a matterhorn conqueror—only giving a patronizing side glance as we plod upward, ever upward. Cory follows Clay’s lead as he spits out “six” and sneers with venom not sharing even a side-glance as we plod upward ever upward. The box drinks are gone, as are the raisins and most of the granola bars. Some of our Phantom buddies that we blazed by earlier have begun to pass us. Each with encouraging words “you can do it boy—Keep it going—see you at the top” etc., etc. As we get into the half way country we must appear striking as every eye we meet is glued on the boys and the same question “How old are you boys?” Sometimes they are graced with terse “8”, “6” and I, having felt so left out am adding “56”. To the snickers I hear as we fade out of sight I just think “turkey.” A bend in the trail and to our delight we ease into Indian Gardens. The halfway point. Off with the packs. Light Lunch. Fresh water in our 1-quart shampoo bottles (How’s that for economy?”). A brief and only brief respite as rain clouds and thunder make a shudder. The trail is 2-3 inches deep in powered dirt thanks to daily mule trains excursions for sissies. Can you imagine what a slippery mess the rain would make on the trail? Cory’s protestations are becoming more urgent now with tears that have flowed for more that two hours, interspersed with moans and incantations that are uttered so low that can’t decipher but know, with guilt in my heart that they are directed at me. Surely that last one will make my car explode, or at least, my house burn down. I have pulled him-hand-to-hand-for the last hour since we left Indian Gardens. Poor little fella. My heartstrings are stretched to the limits. My recent hernia repair—less than eight weeks old prevents me from carrying him. On the dozen creek crossings, I taxied him across, as his short legs could not span the flat rocks placed for creek hopping. Several stream crossings had no rocks, so Clay boy and I just waded. My scar stings from those lifts so I just can’t carry him.
With heads bowed like the old man with the hoe, --we walk across the ages, bent with the load of time. We now have reached the sheer canyon walls with the last three miles on switchbacks carved into the walls. Cory’s wails are heart rendering and the passers-by are cutting dark looks at me. Clay has offered brotherly sympathy only to be rejected by Cory’s cutting tongue. We both have explained to him that there is absolutely nothing that we can do—other than leave him with food and water and race to the top and get the ranger rescue service to mule him out. This service carries a $100 price tag which I don’t mind, but Cory will have nothing to do with this idea. So with slow measured steps we crawl upward, ever upward. The last three miles are completed in three hours. No words can describe what we went through. Bright Angel Lodge at last, sitting squarely at the end of the Trail. Arrival time 2 PM, eight hours on the trail! Upward, every upward. We get room 6145 back again and Cory is the first into the steaming hot bath. Clay next. Before Clay gets out Cory has embraced those loving arms. Clay out—Daddy Bill in! Talk about LIFE’s Pleasures. I don’t remember a more exhilarating experience. Clay waits with the checker board loaded and waiting. I beat him 3 quick ones and then he lucks up with a draw. His eye lids droop and he abandons me for more amorous arms. They went to bed at 3 something PM and now as I write this it’s 8:50 PM. Do I wake them after a six hour nap, or do I let them go ‘til morning?
I am so proud of both of them. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. Their parents have done their job well. While Clay was bathing, Cory slipped up beside me while I was writing in this Journal and put his arms around my neck and whispered softly, “Daddy Bill, I love you” and then a gentle kiss on the cheek. I turned to reciprocate and met one of the most searching looks of my life. Did the say “All is forgiven”—my heart bounds with this hope—or did the hug and kiss speak forgiveness and the soul searching look test for any sign of condemnation in my countenance? If my rib cracking hug in return and my kiss left any lingering doubt then as you read this with 20 or 30 year old eyes, let me assure you that the travels that we have gone thru these last few days, have given me a greater understanding of who you are, what you will be, and tied an unbreakable bond between us. I love you Cory-O-Dory. I see so much of myself and my father in you that it scares me—but I see an intelligence that exceeds our line—would that my daddy’s love and compassion blossom in you as you mature—would that my mother’s sensitivity and grace become your mantle.
Clay boy, you know that I have loved you always. Sorry that the miles have kept us apart. The compassion and concern that I pray for Cory is most evident in you. I’m so sorry that the hectic timetable of this much too big adventure caused me to snap at you. Your mother and I so wanted this to be a “buddy-buddy” trip—kind of like our Six Flags trips where we just casually meandered about. This adventure was something for seasoned hikers. But we gave it a hell of a shake, didn’t we”
You win the prize for blazing the trail, carrying a heavy adult pack that bumped your butt each step you took, without a single—not one—sour note. Forgive me for not making this more fun rather than—“hurry”—“don’t do this”—“don’t do that.” Maybe the 48 year age gap prevents such a relationship? But nothing prevents or dampens the love I feel for you two and for the two that follow you. Watch each step that you take—both of the wee ones are walking in your path. Maybe, if I’m granted the time, we four can retrace the steps we have made these last few days.
Now, I will close today’s entry and reach for her myself.
Day 6, May 7, 1986
Cory went to sleep at 3 PM yesterday, awoke at 9 PM and ate a granola bar and promptly went back to sleep. This morning he awoke at 4:30 AM—13 ½ hours of sleep. Having missed supper last nite, he is famished. I shave and Cory and I pack. Something keeps peppering our window pane. Cory pulls the drapes back to investigate and with a squeal he announces SNOW! And sure ‘nough, everything is covered with the deepest, pure white snow I have ever seen. Born and raised in Houston the boys have never seen real snow before. What a beautiful present from the ‘ole G. C.! Clay sez that he saw a heavy frost once—but couldn’t make a snowball. At this early hour it lies unmolested by footprints. We open the suitcases and dig out the sweatshirts and pants and gear up for this once in a lifetime treat. Terrific winds on Sunday, beautiful on Monday, windy, cool and overcast on Tuesday and now Wednesday, SNOW. The boys attack it with a vengeance. By the time the Bright Angel Lodge Restaurant opens at 6:00 AM, they are frozen and Cory is starving. We all order “old fashion pancakes” with bacon. The boys get the world’s best hot chocolate with a tall stack of whipped cream and a cherry on top! We visited a minute with David Newton and his wife whom we made friends with at Phantom Ranch. We also crossed paths several times coming up the trail. Cory named him “Fig” and delights in antagonizing David. He gives us his business card and if we are ever in Seattle, Washington, he has invited us to visit with them.
Breakfast behind us, we hit the snow again. Cory has never seen snow before only a heavy frost when he was about one year old. Both boys go hog wild. Snowballs fill the air with piercing screams from Cory when ‘ole dead ey Clay scores. We go to a genuine Hopi Gift Shop with the wildest assortment of real Indian made items from rugs, dolls, jewelry, peace pipes to tomahawks. Wow, decisions, decisions, as they select for Mom and Pop. Choices made, we hit the snow again. During the height of a snowball battle and picture taking venture the gift package with its priceless treasure is lost from Daddy Bill’s care. It represents Gammys contribution to the boys’ great G. C. adventure. Thirty minutes later and a mile away Daddy Bill panics when a body search reveals the tragedy. We sprint back to the gift shop where no one has turned in the treasure. What to do? Mother Hen’s gift was a one of a kind—genuine Indian crafted turquoise silver bracelet. With dejected countenance, Daddy Bill slowly walks toward the sheer drop into the Canyon. It’s the only honorable thing to do. But wait, don’t jump—Clay boy saves the day! After doing cartwheels thru the snow, he lands on the gift bag in a snow drift—right where Daddy Bill had dropped it! Covered with congratulatory hugs from Daddy Bill, ‘ole Clay Boy beams with pride.
Back to the snowball battle. Two hours later, tow wet and cold boys give it up. We dry off—put on dry clothes—load the suitcases and head out the east end of the Canyon for a last glimpse and some snow pictures. Fast trip to Flagstaff with both boys asleep all the way. A cold drink in Flagstaff with some Fritos and Oreos driving along I-17 from Flagstaff to Phoenix, represents today’s midday repast. Arrive in Phoenix, turn in Alma car, bus trip to airport where we board Delta for Dallas and Houston. Both boys in surprisingly good physical condition. No blisters—no sore legs, skinned places mending well—and only Cory’s souvenir from the wooden floor of the swinging bridge across the Colorado yet to be attended to.
With fond memories etched in gray granite we bid adieu to those stately walls deep in the old G. C.’s inner womb with this reflection from Tennyson—
“Dreams of Mountains
As in Their Sleep
They brood on things eternal”
Alfred Lord Tennyson
W. N. Eidson
Daddy Bill
1986
|
|