Flyin' Shoes

Rain. Again. Nothing sedates the fight for cheerfulness and action than a virulent sky and it’s viscose tears. As a victim of my own desires I’ve run amok these past weeks, through sun-washed landscapes like a fleeing prisoner, drunk with an ecstasy of golden freedom; I do not want to return to solitary or my emotional chains. Those moments now reduced to electrical impulses remain stored in my brain under ‘L’ for life… living… loving.

Restrained within a cube again, I’m resigned to making do for a while. How succinct the words have become; a lingering dialog from my previous life in England, a more disarming way of saying that the fires within are being suppressed. There are bills to be paid and savings to be acquired for the next round of travel, yet, making do should never be an option. Often we suffocate ourselves under the pressure of our own desires to engage something else, peer over the fence to the greener grass or just be a walking contradiction that will always argue the toss, no matter which side the coin lays. Life, as it currently appears, is a single shot of undetermined speed which ultimately will draw to a close when the metaphorical bullet reaches its target. Choosing an easier option of idling the mind and counting hours until the next event, robs us of taking part in the moment and filling our lives with meaning and growth.

There are many ways to conceive of life. One of many levels we need to elevate to, an education on Eden before the next metamorphosis, a rite of passage to enter some realm of afterlife, or as so eloquently put in the movie K-Pax, one existence that is continually repeated so that the actions we take now, will always be made again and again. It doesn’t matter how we conceive of life but how we use the tools that genetics, evolution and timing have handed us. It’s never enough to make do; be extraordinary, because we all are.

Bright Angel and Kaibab will resonate during conversations of best known trails within the Grand Canyon. Echoing tides of tourists that white-cap respective trailheads, also endears Bright Angel as the stormiest sea, until you submerge yourself toward the lower canyon and the crowds become muted from existence. The majority of these canyon-gazers hit an invisible wall at the mile-and-a-half rest area, psychologically or physically beaten as their brain finally interprets the expanse of a crack in the world, that doesn’t look so hard when you’re comfortable at the top. Technically, it’s not difficult to hike the canyon if you do it right. Heading down in the late morning crosses swords with a blazing sun, which torturously squeezes the thermometer levels as fast as your backyard gas grill. Heat, dust, dehydration, lack of shade when it matters, all suffered accusations as I barely made it out of the canyon on my first hike, three years ago. The uncomfortable truth of it was that I just didn’t respect the surroundings and let my ego dance around assumed skill and fitness. People die here and I seriously concerned myself with being another statistical trophy of nature, if I sat for longer than a minute and let sleep suffocate me. I’m still here, and more in love with the canyon than ever before.

The trail spoke to me that day and changed how I thought of myself. It changed how I prepared for this kind of trip and also how I engage descents and summits. Pre-dawn movement around 3am or 4am usually powers my legs back over the rim, long before noon threatens to transform delicate skin to a resemblance of spit-roast. Circumstance had this year’s descent later at 5:30am to allow my travel partner to view the South Rim sunrise and by time Indian Garden was passed, the sun already arched for the tops of our heads and fueled the dusty heat to 85F. Minimal groups of hikers heading to Plateau Point had long since passed my accommodating pace, not interested in viewing the scenery but instead talking about school, life back home and everything you come here to forget. Two groups of girls were in the smallest of t-shirts, revealing shorts and no other protection. Some people had no food or water and I develop a reflex concern, over the lack of respect shown to the terrain. I still wonder if they made it home without any damage to their body and whether they even conceive of the wonderland they’ve passed through. The mule train is taking respite and their overweight cargo sit in the shade, shoveling snacks into gaping mouths, expiring complaints of heat and tiredness with every other breath. I want to confront them, to demand they give something of themselves to the trail, before they can ever earn the right to bemoan it’s often harsh ecosystem. I want to make them stare at the aged mules, who have long lost their will to imprisonment and routine of hauling paying clients. Let me witness the smallest whisper of care, to know that I’m unjustified in my outrage. I look into the vacant eyes of the darkest mule and start to lose my anger; it looks like a smile is contorted to its long face and I understand. Empty your mind, let it all go and the canyon will free you.

I’m distracted by random pieces of garbage tossed into the cacti and carefully recover the items to place in my backpack. My mind is starting to empty again and gains communion with the path. Within those thoughts, I’m introduced to native tribes that once used this area as a source of living, not entertainment and picture silhouettes, quietly saddened in disapproval of invaders, who blindly pass through an abundance of spiritual growth. I want to ask some of these hikers why they’re here, why they took all the trouble and preparation to get to the trail, only to treat it as a business commute, shuttering senses until safely home.

Nearing the top, the crowds are again prevalent, some carrying babies, a dog in a bag, street shoes, black sweaters and layers of makeup; I’m never sure whether to laugh at the lack of intelligence, or be concerned over which one would be the next casualty. Attitudes change and people become less willing to interact or pass pleasantries – hikers lower on the trail will nearly always make eye contact along with generous words and a look, which communicates an understanding of what trails like this are for; they honestly and wholeheartedly get it.

Bright Angel is like a drug, revealing enlightenment for those who engage with its internal conversation. I’m still addicted and still in love, yet it’s not an adolescent crush or childhood needs from a parent, it’s a bi-directional transaction accepted by each party on the day they joined in mutual respect. Leave some piece of your heart and spirit within the canyon and it will forever leave something within you.

“It’s so much better than flying,” or so I’d overheard on a few occasions. Just how valid could that statement be, against a trip that was the same cost of flying but took almost forty hours longer? This, I needed to find out.

Amtrak has been around for 29 years, the name chiseled out of American interstate transport culture, along with Greyhound. Like its roadworthy kin, it has long since become an afterthought of travel planning, with crippling blows being hammered home by quick and cheap air alternatives. To set the record straight, pricing for an adult is not favorable if comparing with budget flights and online deals. Booking in advance and opting for a la-z-boy recliner as a bed, does reduce the Seattle to Chicago fare to the exact same $150 deal found for the flying alternative.
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