"Uh, you know, you and I are in the same business," I informed him. "How's that?" he said. "Well, ahem," I said, proudly examining my fingernails. "I'm your Guide to Humor." And he had a clever response for that. He hosed me down with cold water. He said it would help keep me cool in the afternoon heat. Yeah. Sure. All anyone else got was a moist bandana. Before long, we negotiated a legendary danger known as the Devil's Corkscrew, a convoluted section of the dusty, rocky course which, reportedly, extends 12 miles. The midday sun blazed, as we kept on the move, only stopping to witness some truly amazing biological feats of the mules. I'll spare you the gory details. Where the mules got the large movie theatre sodas, I dunno.
The guys seemed to think my loud winces of "OH! OW! OUCH! EW! @#%*!" were cries intended to entertain them. I knew better. I just let them point and giggle.
"What was wrong with that bridge?" asked Woody. The trail guide informed us that the distant second bridge was more mule-friendly, so we found ourselves climbing back up a path away from the water in a cruel extension of this excruciating ride. Eventually, some six hours from the top, we crossed the river and located our private cabin, part of these wondrous modern facilities, built in 1922. Here, after an enormous meal with the 20 or so other "mule skinners," we would spend the night, awakening to the next dawn and the promise of a different trail -- eight miles up and five hours out. And, making an educated guess, I suspected there might be more pain to come. Little did I know, those torments would be debilitating and take numerous days to subside.
Donna was ghostly pale and weak. I could see in her eyes that she had never been happier. Me? I had never been more exhausted and it was only three in the afternoon. I was ready to jump out of my skin to escape the aches. Besides all that, though, I had seen incredible, indescribable vistas most people will never cherish. To think I had avoided this trip for so many years and would have always denied myself, if it weren't for my wife's insistence and perseverance. I hobbled out of our cabin and slowly ambled to the showers. I reached for the doorknob, changed my mind, and stood alone, staring at nature's surrounding abundance. I heard myself whisper in disbelief, "I'm on the floor of the Grand Canyon." I let the words sink in a minute. I turned around, and went back for my floss. About Your Guide:
Mike and Mrs. the Guide are pictured Within a few weeks, her gallbladder was removed. She has fully recovered. The Durretts agreed during the hard, raw climb out of the Grand Canyon that their physical ordeal was a once in a lifetime event. By nightfall, they vowed to do it again.
All photographs used by
permission. |
Soon, it was time to
remount. I wobbled bowleggedly over to the trail guide.
"Comic relief," deadpanned Stan. He and Woody, my
hometown pals, had joined us for the Grand Canyon stretch of our elaborate western
vacation. The four of us, mule-mounted, looked like the worst episode ever of
"Bonanza."
After an eternity and a half, we reached the shore of the
Colorado. We could see our destination, the Phantom Ranch, across the river. Fortunately
for us, the bridge was several yards ahead. We reached it with smiles on our faces. We
passed on by it with smiles on our faces. Two minutes later, our smiles disappeared,
although I have suspicions there was a smile on my butt.
But for now, Woody and Stan were holding up nicely, and even dared to wade in
the frigid Colorado. 
on their way to the Phantom Ranch mess hall. Donna felt much
better at supper and refused to share.
Special recognition and thanks to Keegan, Cinnamon, Caesar, and
Sugar, our heroes.
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