Day #9: Grand Canyon to Williams Arizona (p.m.)
The East Entrance to the Canyon had always been my least favorite way to enter the Park. I usually arrived by the elevated and back canyon road from Flagstaff known as Arizona Rt.# 64. Alpine and rural, it was more than a mile up in the clouds. Today though, I had no other choice and would enter the park from the lowest depths of a barren landscape. It was dusty and hot (106’) when I passed the old Cameron Trading Post just before the Park’s entrance. I turned onto the park road and looked high up into the distance before me. The greatest sight visible anywhere on earth, and the standard bearer of all God’s creation, was just beyond my reach — but it wouldn’t be for long!
I climbed the twenty-six miles toward the rim, and as the temperature dropped, my spirit soared. The memory of Sam was now a spiritual bead on my Rosary to be remembered in my thoughts and prayed for every day. I saw two great hawks soaring overhead. They were not moving their wings and remained motionless as they went higher. I knew they were caught in the great updraft of something whose true height could not be measured and whose depths would never be fully explored.
The Comfort Zone Of Relative Size And Dimension Was About To Disappear
At the top, I saw at least 100 cars parked along the canyon’s edge. This marked the first series of rims and lookout points for what no first visitor was ever ready to see. As I searched for a place to park the bike, the returning vision of something I had never been able to explain rushed out and overtook me again.
I knew, after so many visits, you never looked into the Grand Canyon without permission. The only way to truly see what your eyes were about to embrace was to accept the changes happening inside of you as you stood in her presence. The Canyon took hold of all searchers and played with their sight while making it her own. Finally, she gave back to the lucky few a new vision of themselves, affirming those things that they had up until now denied.
It was a mid-August day, and I had never been here during the height of tourist season. As I walked to the Canyon’s edge, I had to weave through the packed in crowd of European and Asian tourists lining the rail. Looking off into her distance, a blessed transformance emptied my soul. It created space for what I was hoping to take with me, and with each visit I knew the cost increased. Each time I left, there would be an even greater part of myself left behind — a part that would call out when my confusion returned. The Great Canyon cared not about reasons or circumstance, she stood only as she is, a GIANT, isolated from all ordinary things, a connective force that allowed us to dream beyond ourselves … and to eventually see.
It led you beyond what you thought yourself capable of before. And without guidepost or roadmap, it brought you only and exactly to where you most needed to go. The Great Canyon began where your imagination ended and, by looking into her depths, you were at once changed and transformed. Transformation being measured by what you left behind.
The Great Canyon neither pretended to know what you know nor portended your future. Timeless and unchallenged, she stood guard over all that is. Your questions here were but echoes from a distant memory. It was, the one spot on earth, where you stood and heard the answers returned to you for what they were — disturbing reminders that much of your life had been spent in denial.
She neither blessed nor forgave, and her message spoke only of today. Whether you looked one time or stared into her unending depths forever, she treated you the same. All meaning was derived from what she taught and the immediacy of how that made you feel.
Like two things that must be shaken together to be truly mixed, the Grand Canyon joined your mind and spirit in a cocktail that intoxicated your soul. She inebriated your entire being. Yes, she was that big and more. To say otherwise only reinforced what you still needed to know. She continually poured all that she was, and is, into everything that you were not. Like the arid canyons and valleys that were overflowing with her waters, our spirits hoped to become a small tributary into what she had become.
Becoming was all that mattered in the Canyon, yesterday and tomorrow were for those already dead inside. I looked up again and saw the Great Hawk. Its wings were tucked back in dive position, and it was headed toward its destiny in the Colorado River below. All of life’s summation was contained within its dive, and all that would ever matter in my own life was contained in the connection I felt.
I stopped at ten different rims that afternoon, but one would have been enough. What stared back at me never changed until everything inside of me was again new. My first look into the eyes of my Spiritual Mother 30 years ago, and the one again today, released me from ever having to be in only one place. She called to me in the most distant reaches of my isolation and reminded me that whenever lonely or confused, with her — I would always have a home.
There was never a way to come ‘to terms’ or to ‘make peace’ with what the Canyon taught. The very best you could hope for was to live unguarded and within the message of her timeless beauty. Within your spiritual awakening there would be found an eternal connection, and in the release that it brought you … you could make peace with yourself.
There were no rooms, either inside or outside the park, as I passed by Canyon Village. I gladly bypassed the tourist frenzy that happened at both sunset and sunrise and pointed the bike further South. I did not resent or begrudge the tourists for what they did or for what they thought they wanted. I just needed to be alone with my mother, but for today that might have to wait. As I left the Park, I spotted the long gravel road that was used only by the park service. It was open and still had not been paved. I turned left and traveled its half-mile length to a ****** rim which faced off to the East. I had worried, when coming up from Cameron, that it might no longer be accessible. It was here that I had always been able to talk to my mother alone, and the place where her voice had always been loudest and strong.
As She Sensed My Approach, The Ancient Memories Returned
It was a private access road, and by design was restricted to all trespassers like me. My mother had called loudest to me from here, and I liked thinking of this place as hers and mine alone. After less than five minutes in her presence, two hikers came out of the bushes saying: “WOW, the view is really spectacular from here.” I realized at that moment that the concept of ownership was still one of my many faults and one that I had to work on if I was ever to become totally free. I shared my mother with the two German hikers, as we celebrated in communal reverence an unspoken reflection.
An hour later, and having made two new friends, I was again on my way. I eased the bike down the old service road and made the left turn onto Rt.#64 toward Flagstaff. From this spot on the Canyon’s Far South Rim, I had only eighty more miles to go. In her neither giving nor taking away, my mother had put me at rest about Sam. As she said goodbye she left me with the words: “Your sympathy will never change what only your empathy can set free.”
I exited the Park in a southerly direction and saw no other people. The only sound I heard was my mother’s heartbeat. It was from the current she carried deeply inside of her so far below. I thanked her again for having kept me close and reminded her of how much my father loved her. By returning me to her this week, he reaffirmed his deepest feelings. And from the High Northern Regions that fed her each spring, he stood forever vigilant and on-guard. She smiled back at me from her great distance and expressed with her silence the things that only he could hear and the things that a son, no matter how dutiful, could never truly understand.
The high pines that lined this back road out of the Canyon made it one of my favorite rides. It was getting to be late afternoon, as I rolled past the cattle herds and cut timber that filled this high mountain plateau. Most would never associate this landscape with Arizona, as it more resembled Idaho or Northwestern Colorado. This part of the Great Canyon State was atypical of what you expected and special unto itself. In thirty miles, I came to a major fork in the road. To the left was Flagstaff, but to the right was Williams. Both towns sat on Interstate Rt.#40, but Williams was closer, and since I had never spent the night there before, I took the fork to the right.
Newness Was Always Birth Mother To My Anticipation
In a long hour I was in Williams. It was one of the old original stops along the Mother Road. At one time, Rt#66 was the main artery East and West across America. It was along its corridor, and before the interstate highway system was built, that the great motorized migrations of Detroit iron began. Williams was still trying to eke out a living based on the myth of the old road, and a resurgence and hunger for 1950’s glory kept the tourists coming … especially those fifty and older. It was quaint and touristy, but then it always had been. It was also mostly authentic and looked just as it had when the autos were carbureted, the air-conditioner was a hand crank on the inside of the car’s door, and families were large.
After I circled the town twice on its two parallel (and 1-way) main roads, hunger overtook me, and I was in search of good food. I was lucky enough to get the last room at the Red Garter Inn where I parked the motorcycle for the night. After a quick fresh up in the bathroom, I left my helmet on the bedside table and hung my Kevlar riding jacket on the back of the closet door. I was still in the lower half of my riding suit, with my boots on, as I headed into town. It was something that I had learned years ago and was now a rule that I carefully observed. Staying in my riding suit prompted conversations with strangers and other motorcyclists that would never have happened otherwise. Tonight turned out to be no exception.
It Also Allowed Me To Travel Out From Pennsylvania With Only One Small Bag
As I walked up a side street from my hotel into town, I heard one of the two things I was looking for, ‘Live Music.’ The guitar player was halfway through ‘Gentle On My Mind,’ by the great Mississippi River banjo player, John Hartford. Most people thought Glenn Campbell had written the song on his famous Ovation 12-string guitar. He did have a big hit with it back in the 60’s, but it was actually written by John Hartford and a song that I had always loved. As I followed my ears, the guitar player morphed right into the great instrumental, ‘Classical Gas,’ by Mason Williams. By now I could see the café/restaurant at the next corner, and from all outward appearances, it was everything I had hoped for.
It Was Called Pancho McGillicuddys, And The Food Smelled As Good As The Music Sounded
The waitress seated me at an outside table with a view of the street. I was less than thirty feet from where the guitar player sat, as he started to play the great Harold Arlen and Yip Harburg song — ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow.’ This is the greatest American song ever written, and he performed it well. Upon finishing, he took a break, and the waitress came back for my order. The quesadilla combo, refried beans, and local micro-brew, sounded perfect, as the sun disappeared behind me and off to my left. The last table was being seated, as the gas lights came on that lined the streets, and darkness became a backdrop to a magical sky.
I couldn’t remember the last time I felt this hungry. The waitress brought my food as the guitar player returned. The first song of his new set was ‘Fire And Rain,’ by James Taylor, which is my favorite song of all time. I knew at that moment, that on this night, and in this town, I was exactly where I was supposed to be. I decided to give my mind the night off and just go with the music. If you’re ever in Williams, and in need of a travel break, I can’t recommend McGillicuddys highly enough.
Sometimes, Like Tonight, The ‘Road’ Presents You With A Special Gift
A big smile was permanently implanted on my face, as a family of four came in and was seated at the table to my left. It was a father and mother in their late forties, and two teenaged boys. The father was wearing a lacrosse t-shirt from a school I didn’t recognize, so when he looked over and smiled, I said, “Nice to see a Lacrosse shirt so far from home.” He answered: “We’re from Portsmouth Virginia and out here on vacation, I played at Woodberry-Forest, and both boys now play at their respective schools.”
He then said, “So what are you riding?” The boots and the riding pants were a dead giveaway, as the guitar player started ‘Cheeseburger In Paradise’ by Jimmy Buffett. He was sure it was a Harley, as I explained I was riding a Honda Goldwing. I told him that after 40 years of riding, the Goldwing was the best touring bike that God, or any engineer, had ever made. As I explained to him the benefits of shaft drive over a belt or chain, his eyes widened, as he finally grasped where my travels had taken me during the past ten days.
“You went from Vegas to the Canadian border and then south to Arizona, all in a long week?” Yes, I answered him, and every mile was a joy to ride. I wish there had been more time because then I could have gone further north, maybe even to Alaska. At this point his wife’s eyes glassed over, as women’s often do, when mentally picturing their own husbands riding a motorcycle. They often saw only the danger and not the thrill and joy of riding to new places. It was a shame, but it was a reality and a major hurdle that most men had to get over at home when they made the decision to ride later in life.
We continued to talk while they ate, and I came to find out that their oldest son’s high school coach had been a teammate of my sons when he was in high school. They were both on a team that had won the Pennsylvania State Lacrosse Championship back in 2000. Sometimes, the very best things in life also had the smallest following. Small, in terms of the numbers they produced, but large in the effects that their participation created. Both long-distance motorcycle touring and lacrosse had been two of those special things in my life. They created a spiritual and permanent bond between all those who had either played or ridden together and resulted in lifelong friendships that are cherished to this day.
On 9/11, Almost 100 Of Our Beloved Lacrosse Alumni Lost Their Lives
His wife then asked me where my son had gone to high school. “Haverford School,” I told her. She brightened up immediately and said, “I went to Haverford College which is right next door.” “Amazing,” I said, “how small the world really is.” She then wanted to know what the college lacrosse recruiting process was like during the third year of high school. I was glad to share with both her and her husband what my son and I had gone through only ten years ago. That small world we rediscovered through our common experience continued to get smaller throughout the evening. We continued to share more of where our lives had taken us and, in being together in this remote spot along old Highway Rt. #66, we grew bigger inside.
As the waitress passed my table again, I realized that I had already had one beer too many and was enjoying myself entirely too much. I said goodbye to my new friends and started the walk back to my hotel glad that I didn’t have to get back on the motorcycle again tonight. After four beers, I knew that I would never try to ride, but the removal of temptation went a long way.
Sleep came easy on that night, and I did not dream —the effects of having lived beyond what on most days I only hoped for. I thought to myself while still awake in the darkened room, with only the light from the train-yard filtering through my window, how truly lucky I was … even if everything ended tonight.
Just then, the high-pitched whistle of a distant train approaching Williams, came through my wall. It was a fitting exclamation point to another day beyond all planning and another example of why without a fixed itinerary, I continued to ride. Just before sleep, the immortal words of Crazy Horse and the Oglala people flashed before my eyes. “HOKA HEY’, it is a good day to die.” The Lakota knew that a good day to die was an even better one to live, and on this incredible day that ended in Williams Arizona, so did I.
My Prayer That Night Was To Avoid All Future Mediocrity, As The Back-Half Of My Life Continued To Unfold
Authors Note:
These chapters became longer as the sweetness of the days they told of increased. Each one built upon the other until blockages were unstopped — with all knowledge running back to its source.
