Okay, now we're at Colorado's Dead Horse Point State Park. We've had trouble channeling Mr. Ed. So we contacted the spirit of his TV voice, Rocky Lane, who said, "more peanut butter." We assume he was referring to the "vocal" trick they used to make Mr. Ed's lips move, but it is certainly possible Rocky just wanted a sandwich. We understand the vending machines in the hereafter require exact change. Leviticus 20:28.
Okay, poof, look-it, we're at Mesa Verde National Park, Colorado. Cliff dwellers lived here 1400 years ago. Very sparse accommodations. Kinda like Motel 6 without cable.
"Hi, there, buckaroos. Mikey Durango with a rugged, flavorful, aromatic man's hankering for raw, wheezy lungs. That's why I wrangle Durangos in the crush-proof box. Durangos taste best, on fire in your chest." I know. I'm a charmer. Okay, we're heading home now in the cannonball rent-a-car to Atlanta. About 216 pit stops later (tabulations notarized and filed in the Gentlemen's Lounge at the Library of Congress), we're in Tennessee, having lunch with our niece, Deborah, at Elvis Presley's Memphis restaurant. I order the trademark fried peanut butter and banana sandwich. It is enormous, oozing, and tasty for sure, but gastronomically heavy. I eat two more. And a dessert. And I help the ladies finish off theirs. (Wimps.) I think I'm going to die. I see a bright light. I'm drawn to it. At the end of the tunnel stands Rocky Lane. He's angry. I ate his sandwich. He tells me to go back, and then -- hey, look! -- he swiped my pickle.
Outside the restaurant in the the scorching Memphis sun, this is the last image Mike sees before passing out hard onto the Beale Street pavement. Donna, a/k/a Mrs. the Guide (foreground), gives the ol' thumbs up! I live. So, Donna and I pile into the car once again, as we have done seemingly infinitesimal times over the past two weeks. I'm a hunka hunka disappointed I didn't encounter The King of Rock and Roll during my slipping away, near-death experience. I do vaguely recall a disembodied voice over an otherworldly loud speaker bark, "Elvis has left the purgatory. Elvis has left the purgatory." I really did want some rhinestone-encrusted flare-leg jumpsuit tips, too. We knock off the remainder of the 4409 miles we've odometered on this trip and park the dusty, bug-mosaicked car inside our tastefully cluttered garage. From the darkness, our cats run out to greet us. They keep on running past us. They are wearing shower caps. Connie and Lester, my clones, run out to meet us. They keep on running past us, in frenetic pursuit of the cats. I can't help but notice they are identically wigged and frocked like Norman Bates' mother, clutching sharp kitchen cutlery high overhead in their thrusting, outstretched fists. Yep. This is the place. Home, sweet home. Maybe I'll skip a shower.... About Your Guide: Actually, Mrs. the Guide and Mike Durrett did spend several memorable days in the Grand Canyon. For our next installment, their most amazing adventure, riding a mule train down a long, precarious trail to the shores of the Colorado River -- a sight for sore, uh, eyes. All photographs used by
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