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July 15th, Yes Trek Day 5
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Yann and I awoke first, and it was
becoming apparent to us now how well Chris loves his sleep. So we
took a hike up the mountain path.
walk me high as
I walk the mountain
hand in hand the
mystery light
afraid of
nothing nothing can touch me
We didn't have water with us and the
day was growing hotter by the moment, so I doubted we would get far
enough to see the nicer scenery I knew might be dressed up and ready
to meet us around any one of the bends ahead. According to the
Internet description, there was a red canyon just over a crest
somewhere. I was also aware that this kind of exploring and
glorifying the natural world was maybe not Yann's cup of tea,
although he was being very polite about joining me. We did have a
quest though, a challenge: he seemed to like those. All morning I was
enjoying a distant birdvoice I'd heard once before, and I wanted
badly to capture it on audiotape. It was an ethereal spiraling song
that you only hear west of the Rockies. (I would
later identify the bird on an Audubon CD: Swainson's
Thrush.)
There were some very strange
mushroom-like plant formations thrusting bunches of pods everywhere
out of the dry earth. I stooped to touch and study them. The sand was
strewn with Pinyon and Bristlecone pine needles and the harsh
environment softened every so often with dainty and exotic colors
courtesy of exotic mountain flowers. The air was sweet with sage and
the stunted conifers gave a unique character to the place. Back at
camp, where Chris still slept, Yann and I thought we saw an
eagle.
I went to the tent on the side where
Chris was nestled, still deeply asleep. I waved Yann over to crouch
with me and whispered his orders. Then we both belted out:
CHA CHA CHA
CHA-CHA OOM !
After a few laughing repetitions,
the sleepheavy head sprang up. Sorry Chris: how could we resist?! I
made a fruit salad for breakfast, but didn't heat water for tea and a
shave because we were already getting started so late.
chris, merry, yann
We packed up and left Cibola
National Forest, descended the mountain and found a restaurant in the
town of Mountainair. The Hummingbird Cafe is one of those welcoming
hippy outposts you happen upon unexpectedly in remote areas out west.
A bulletin board out front displayed colorful flyers of community
happenings. The area held an annual "Hummingbird-Garlic" festival.
Inside was a comforting sign that read "Poetry Spoken Here." The menu
board had vegetarian cuisine and burgers, Mexican as well, and the
dexterous chef was also the owner. Running hot water in the rest room
was very much appreciated and the coffee seemed like a reward for all
the austere hardship we'd endured on the mountain.
Chris didn't care for coffee, Yann
liked his black and mine was creamladen. Celtic folk music was
playing and a traditional song from Jon's Promise Ring came on, the
one he used for "Timing of the Known." The clientele all had an air
of suspect character about them, so we fit right in, and there wasn't
a single party of men in business suits. The green chicken enchiladas
were my first greasy meal since Nashville and I wasn't quite up to
finishing, so packed up the rest in Styrofoam to take along. The
waitress kindly obliged me by filling my container with ice water,
while a UPS delivery man (weeks before the strike), asked where we
were from and questioned Yann about his U.S. Navy hat, disappointed
that he hadn't served in the States. The man was from Michigan, like
me, and we reminisced momentarily about the Detroit radio station we
both listened to decades ago.
how we dance
awake this song of the earth
come
along
I got behind the wheel as we moved
out, west toward the Rio Grande, and could now admire the change in
scenery that had transpired in the dark the night before. Rocky
ridges were stretched and resting in all directions upon an otherwise
flattened landscape. The visual spheroids of green shrubbery
contrasted nicely with the reddish earthtones and they spaced
themselves out fractally: closer plants being larger and the more
distant appearing as dots, with all the gradations of bush sizes
between. The flora was arranged in that magnificent way that forms
for the eye moving bands of color across a canvas of land. The
patterns got curvy and whorly in the hillier areas and we weren't
even ingesting hallucinogens. When the desert road straightened out,
I offered to let Yann try to drive -- pardon my American arrogance,
but a man of 28 who had never operated a motor vehicle? Unheard of!
Not quite up to the challenge, he graciously declined. I put the
pedal to the metal on the desert straightaway and the Yestrek
careened through the 100 degree heat at 100 mph.
chris, merry, yann, Rio
We stopped at the bridge over the
Big River for a group photo and turned north along it's green valley
to drive toward Albuquerque, where we would hop on Interstate 40 West
again. Yann was beside me the while and we listened to some tapes
he'd made of Jefferson Airplane and Starship. I seized the
opportunity to remind him of the primary way in which cars and trucks
communicate on a long haul, the fisted-bent-arm-horn-cable-yank
simulation, a way of saying"hello" to a passing trucker. If
successfully executed, the gesture would elicit an accommodating
HONK! from the grateful Joe Mac Truck. I'd showed it to him in
Tennessee and laughing Yann was successful in soliciting many such
blaring salutations along I-40.
yann
You may recall that in the dark the
night before Yann had told me on the mountain that he loved me. He
had seemed out-of-sorts with me just before professing his love, so I
took it more as an apology for complaining than as a profound
declaration of any kind. I hadn't immediately believed him and asked
sincerely if he were being honest. He'd said it twice. Now I began to
grow curious as to the number of persons to whom he had made this
claim, in order to gauge my rarity as an individual in his esteemed
estimation. We had a laugh or two with this and I assured him I had
never met anyone like him.
All along the Trek, Yann had been
obliging me with the odd French lesson and by now we would often say
"si vous plait" and "merci" and "pas de quoi" as when we needed to
request a beverage from the cooler, a rest stop or photo op, or to
thank one another for providing the same. I was ready to hear him
speak at length in his accustomed way and requested he say a few
things in French. "A good white wine," I remembered, contained all
the nasal-vowels-with-"n" unique to his language, silly sounds, you
know, so we began with that. "What else can I say?" he asked. "I told
him, "Say 'the hair on your legs is very beautiful.'" That made him
laugh 'til he snorted. He taught me "beau" and exquisitely so, spoken
in reference to the butteful reddening landscape that was now
featuring unlikely carved sandstone formations.
A first close look at the same came
at a stop in early Arizona for a driving switch, at a trading post
beneath one such towering rock sculpture bedecked with big plastic
animals. Inside, the tourist trap featured a real dead stuffed
panther, on display above a spread of Tribal Nation (Indian)
blankets, jewelry, dream catchers and maracas which tempted this
weary traveler seeking only the comfort of a clean restroom and maybe
a free map. I had promised Wendy a souvenir and got us both some
silver/turquoise earrings. Then the gourd maracas summoned me and
spoke clearly -- katickety -- promising to shake up future settings
with a dimension of festivity. How could I not respond?
Chris steered us on through the
Painted Desert and Petrified Forest, toward and into the mountains of
Flagstaff, Arizona. Encounters with with food while driving, days
ago, somewhere or other, had lead to some interesting observations by
Yann regarding the contrasts in textures of fruit and cheese (I felt
these were further enhanced with an added shake of cayenne, AKA
capsicum). Yeah, we were desperate for conversation topics: so what?
Now, and truly fascinating, indeed, in the fast-acting desert heat,
was the sly, subtle, surprising way the chocolate surroundings of a
Ben N' Jerry's Cookie Dough Peace Pop would loosely fall into your
lap as your teeth attempted each frosty invasion into its cold doughy
sweet vanilla ice cream center. Chris had purchased one for each of
us at a gas station in Winslow and he manned his many napkins,
prepared.
The sky had been the deepest blue
all day with clouds around that tried unsuccessfully to rain, gray
spray evaporating before it reached, to touch, to quench, the arid
earth. We did get a sudden smattering of splatters which ended as
soon as the windows went up. The heat would build up quickly in the
van in the desert when the air wasn't coursing through, so we'd
coasted along in the hot dryness most of the day with the windows
down. Now we switched to AC. I shared with the young men remnants of
my Hummingbird Cafe Mexican leftovers. Descending the Kaibob National
Forested area of Flagstaff we had Going for the One blaring while
darkening hilly mountains shifted their bulks, sliding, advancing,
retreating, before us and after, all in the glow of the lateday sun.
I was glad to be in the back, sightseeing. We stopped on the road at
sunset and stepped back out into the elements to photograph the
desert dusk.
I would drive the last leg, to Las
Vegas and beyond. In Kingman, Arizona, we left I-40 to travel
twilight on a "Blue Highway." Yann took a picture of a sudden,
jutting thrust of mountains and I asked him,
"would you like to go and shoot the mountain
masses?"
We were heading north now and Venus
was gliding along low ranges to the left of us. Once the road curved
toward the range as it tapered downward and it appeared that Venus
was walking down the mountain. Was I the only one who noticed these
things? "Look, it's Venus!" Chris and Yann knew seemingly little
about the subtle wonders of the natural world we were passing
through, and the Earth Mother in me took it upon herself to instruct
them whenever possible. They were mostly accomodating at the many
intrusions, fragments of nature thrust into
their faces. "Smell the eucalyptus!" "See the vulture!" "Taste the honeysuckle!" "It's the moon!"
A compilation tape of meditative
music by Jon Anderson and friends was now providing the soundtrack --
"Bless This," it is entitled, made for me by Jon sympathizer, Paul
Pettengill. Entranced we surely carried on, the mysterious mountains
sneaking around us now in the starry darkness. As we neared Vegas,
however, the mood gave way to a strange anticipation. When the tape
ended we tried the radio and found a local station that played Elvis
and Sinatra and Tom Jones. Hearing them sing was not unusual in these
parts and we left it tuned here to prepare us emotionally for the
sights of Vegas.
We arrived at the Hoover Dam and
stopped at two scenic turnouts in the deep heat still radiating from
the severe desert day at 110 degrees or more. As we wound through and
around and away from the immense manmade marvel, I was having doubts
about the need for such an extravagant device to power, primarily, so
empty an enterprise as the phenomenon of Las Vegas. A passing
equestrian farm was emanating the distinct pungent reek of hot
horsepoo as I haughtily pondered.
A way down the spiraling, curvy,
hilly road we found a tourist welcome center, closed, but with an
outdoor phone. We called to inform Wendy, who eagerly awaited our
arrival, of our progress and passed the phone around. A kindly,
flowering Oleander bush provided cover for some, um, "comfort." We
were ready for Las Vegas, or so we thought. As we wound through the
last of the low, dark mountains we went over a rise and were
delighted to suddenly see the lights of Vegas, glaring and glimmering
in the heat all along the horizon ahead. We pulled over and piled out
for a photo and to just take in the spectacle from afar. My automatic
shutter was staying open for a long time, so I spun the camera
around.
Las Vegas
The descent into the city was far
less spectacular for me. The place gives off an aura of vice that is
more conspicuous to behold than the sum of all its neon. We were at
first wowed by the lights, but then gradually grew numb with the
passing signs offering cash in exchange for wedding rings, money for
car titles. There were cheesy chapels, people in hoards, or herds,
raging unnatural color, unlikely images of every icon to anything
ever imagined in glowing, glaring, excessive absurdity. I was driving
and Chris climbed into the back with a sick stomach. He later
described the sensation as having a piece of his soul sucked out of
him.
Yann was looking to the end of "The
Strip" of most outrageous illumined structures in search of the MGM
Grand Hotel. He needed a photograph of the building because of a
reference in a Stephen King novel. When we got to the precise spot, a
stoplight pause provided the perfect angle, only Yann's camera
malfunctioned and Yann's composure went out the window. His film
exploded out as he checked to see why it wasn't advancing, and as I
calmly snapped a photo on his behalf, he threw the whole works, film,
camera and all, into the trash can. So, Chris was sick, Yann was
flustered and I was growing uneasy and queasy and wanted to get out
of town fast. I looked at the map while U-turning and Yann navigated
me away, north into the silent dark expanse of desert. We needed gas
but didn't stop, hoping the next dot on the map might provide a
filling station.
Yann couldn't or wouldn't share with
me his impressions of Vegas. It seemed an appropriate time to play a
CD he had given me as a gift of meeting. The shrill sounds of Chinese
opera pierced the silence. Chris, my relief driver, fell asleep, and
I wearily I screwed up my eyes to discern the local Pacific time
while staring at the van clock, still set to Eastern Daylight Time.
My biological clock was confused and I was overwhelmed and tired in
surroundings that were strange, surreal. A lopsided moon was coursing
through a chiaroscuro sky and the low ranges were prowling along.
Earlier, we had discussed the possibility of driving into the night,
knocking miles off the desert distances while it wasn't as hot. But I
didn't want to disturb Chris, couldn't go on myself any more, and
began hoping the town of Indian Springs had a motel as well as a gas
station. It did and Yann expressed a strong interest in stopping as
well.
It was a seedy dive. No non-smoking
rooms were available, but I was too spent to mind and offered to take
the floor, let the guys have the beds. On my way down to the van to
get bedding, I noticed a pick-up truck with it's red tail lights on,
motor running, which I'd seen out in the parking lot when we first
arrived with a woman behind the wheel. A guy got out the passenger
side nervously, averting his gaze, zipping his pants, and he
high-tailed it up to a room. I followed warily and heard him fumbling
with the doorchain as I passed. Our room had a bare light bulb and a
faint aroma of Aqua Velva, quintessential elements in any seedy dive
experience, I felt. The guys were suddenly awake and drinking beer
and I was pretty keen on getting some serious rest for our last leg
tomorrow. I requested that we curtail the usual evening celebration,
down the brews and dim the bare bulb. They obliged me and sleep came
like a drug in God's country.
my
merry tale ****
Day
6