I boarded an Alaska Airlines flight Wednesday evening after work, and deplaned in Phoenix around 1:30 a.m. When I got there, I immediately took a shuttle to pick up the rental car.
"Looks like you're not scheduled to pick up until 10:30 a.m." Said the agent. "The airline reserved this on my behalf, I thought they aligned that with my arrival?" I argued.
"I can see that, but something must have been missed. We can get you a vehicle now, but we will need to cancel your order and reprocess. But that's going to cost $500.00."
While I mulled this over, disheveled after a full day of work and a turbulent flight under my belt (this was physically evident), the agent offered a bargain.
"I can't adjust the pricing for if you pick up now, but due to the inconvenience, we can upgrade you to a Volkswagen at 10:30 a.m."
I figured it wouldn't hurt taking an Uber to a nearby hotel for cheap and then drive a brand I trust for the rest of the weekend and have it still be way less than half a grand.
"Sure, that's fine."
Thursday at 10:30 a.m.
After breakfast and a return trip to the Rental, I set off on a mini roadtrip. First stop was Cottonwood-Sedona.
I've been there before, multiple times in fact. This would be the first of my being there alone. I walked around and rekindled my sense of the place while piecing together vague memories. I noticed tourists toting heavy-cameras, photographing quirky signs that seemed to pander, not to the genuine spirit soaking up and aweing for the red rocks above and the lush smattering of juniper trees, but to the visitor intent on gathering tchotchke souvenirs.
"Looks the same, feels different." I muttered under my breath.
Strange what four years will do to how one perceives.
I ate lunch at Coffee Pot Restaurant and then resumed my movements along the highway. The day was young, and I didn't want to head straight to my hotel in Tusayan. Off the cuff, I made way to Page, farther up north.
"The next tour will be at 4:15 p.m., and costs $48." The attendant manning the Upper Antelope Canyon office declared.
"I don't remember it costing this much." I replied.
"We've been getting a lot of visitors, so management decided to increase the price." The attendant vouchsafed, ostensibly implying that the price hike was issued for crowd control.
I suppose it would be wasteful driving all this way and not do this.
So I did it. I paid the hefty entrance fee and revisited the slot canyon.
"Looks the same, feels different."
The sentiment above would sustain itself after Antelope Canyon but would end after a visit to Horseshoe Bend on my way to Tusayan.
Much has been said about Horseshoe Bend. How it strikes the viewer with a hard-to-imagine measure of awe. How it inspires a greater sense of respect for the earth. How its unmatched beauty enriches the soul of those that behold it. Although all of that was true, it was difficult to overlook the crowd. Some even found it necessary to haul along portable speakers to blare against unsuspecting others.
I realized I was either feeling curmudgeonly or that the trip down was set off to an inauspicious start. A lot of changes are possible in a span of so little time and being there in Sedona, Antelope Canyon, and Horseshoe Bend seems to have supported that. I ate a Kind Bar inside the VW and headed for my hotel in Tusayan.
The drive was a near-straight motion south on AZ-89. The weakening daylight was rapidly evident and flurry of cloudy orange tendrils were visible to the right, towards sunset. The sky was immersing into a gradient of chartreuse and violet, and the colors were, as if an instant, swallowed by a field of darkness. Blazing through a highway seemed like quite the mundane task at the time, but the spectacle was reasonably interesting.
After veering right on AZ-64, west off Cameron, the car punctured through the dark night. Highway hypnosis was in full swing, and the tremulous white road marks convinced my brain to look ahead and nowhere else. To borrow words from Annie Dillard, while my mind was left like a blank slab of asphalt, I neglected to realize that twenty miles had past. In my stupor, a sharp light pierced my eyes through the rearview mirror. In a state of nervous surprise, I assumed that a motorcycle's lone headlamp was speeding up towards the VW.
Maybe I'm driving too slow.
I hastened to up the gauge over 80 mph. A gentle road curve approached and the light disappeared. I scanned the surrounding from within the car and found a massive orb hovering just above the horizon. That wasn't a motorcycle I saw just now, the blinding flash of light was the full moon.
Friday, 08:30 a.m.
With my gear readied the night before, I checked out of the Grand Canyon Plaza Hotel early. I figured a generous head start on the trail was a nice choice.
It was a pleasant sunny day, like an early-summer afternoon. Except, the snow on the ground belied this thought.
"This place looks the same." I mused silently.
Of course it did. The Grand Canyon might never change at all while I amble through this life. But that's what makes it special to me. It sets the reminder of who we are and how we came to be; a constitution of change
"I think I've felt this before. I think this is how I always felt when I'm here." I continued.
So I started hiking. The trail was packed snow and slippery ice for three, or so, miles. It thinned out and disappeared just before the fork between Horseshoe Mesa and Hance Creek.
When I did my research on Hance Beach, notes on unmaintained trails were abundant. Although one might approach it several different ways, there was no straightforward or easy-to-find route available.
I turned right at the fork and followed the washed out path towards Hance Creek. The tread was heavily eroded. However, boot tracks became beacons that pointed yours truly to some form of direction; sometimes conflicting. I tried to follow the path that seemed well trodden. Although, I would later discover that the path I took looped back over at the fork. I had walked farther, yet no progress was made.
Life's like this sometimes.
I retraced my steps and searched for a better direction; the point of error was near a steep scramble that cut through a washout - hence the shortage of boot tracks. Thereon, the tread became slightly more clear and brought the trail past mining equipment and bolted up shafts. I read about seeing these online and knew I was headed in the right direction. The trail sliced through loose screes, sands, and the occasional bush overgrowth but would later connect with the well-groomed Tonto Trail; this would be two miles from the fork.
The hike on the Tonto was very exposed. Although it was mildly cool at the rim, halfway down was inching closer to 70 degrees Fahrenheit. When I arrived at Hance Beach, the thermometer was 80 degrees.
"I should have packed shorts and another T-shirt." I realized, in light of the warm weather below.
Exhausted, I pitched my tent at a campsite near the Colorado. The spot had remarkable views of Red Canyon to the south, Desert Tower high up to the east, and various gorges to the north and west. The air was dry, wind was light and it cooled off the sweat that profusely cascaded down my temples. There was no one else there.
The night came quickly like it did yesterday. The short golden-hour was followed by complete darkness which segued to the slow-rising full moon. By 09:00 p.m., the moon had gotten so bright that the land was visible without the aid of my headlamp. I laid on the sand to count the stars, map out constellations, spot the occasional meteor, and listen to the tranquil serenity of the whirring Hance Rapids.
