Starting Out
So here begins a year of uninterrupted travel. I set out Tuesday morning from Lawrence, Kansas and arrived in Denver, Colorado that evening. An old friend, Bryant, just moved to the area so I made plans to meet up with him at a place called Grandma’s House. But since I had some time to kill I ventured to Washington Park to paint the inside of my film camera. The black paint helps to reduce light bouncing off the interior wood of the camera during use. Soon I found myself at Grandma’s House; a hip bar where apparently Tuesday night is Bingo night. Our group felt the need to increase their bingo chances so we ended up with about 50 cards and only four people to check them. Eventually, with the odds so heavily tilted in our favor, we produced a winner. My first night would be spent camping in Jone’s Pass just an hour and a half outside of Denver near the Henderson Mine. Although the road up isn’t paved once you reach the mine, my little Jetta handled it well and I set up camp under moonlight. We’re off to a good start.
American Southwest
Wednesday morning I moseyed down the mountains from Jone’s Pass to take I-70 West heading for the Grand Canyon area. My friend Hector set me up with permits from a friend of his, Jim, to visit Havasu Falls in the Supai Native American Reservation. The permits were good for Friday and Saturday night so I had a day to spend before I could arrive. Why not swing by the Grand Canyon south rim on the way and camp a night? I’ve since realized that was an insane idea, but I’ll get into that in a bit.
I-70 West quickly turned into a serious detour. It was closed around Glenwood Springs, Colorado causing me to take a five hour detour. Once I arrived in Arizona I was delirious from driving fatigue. I pulled off the highway to fuel up in the Navajo Nation town of Kayenta. Here’s where things got weird, fast. I’m a Google maps user. They have taken me to the right spot far more times than not. The only time I’ve had Google maps fail me is when there’s some sort of construction or detour and that makes perfect sense in my mind. And honestly I don’t know if Google maps actually messed up on me or if I somehow changed the route without knowing it, or if a childish developer set up a prank on me. Whatever the cause may have been, it got me good. It was about 10:30pm local time. Back in my car after fueling up, I hear my phone chant “in 300 feet, turn right,” followed by “turn right,” as it had countless times before. I turned out of the fueling station and onto an unpaved road. There’s some doubt creeping into my mind but I look down at the route and it seems to be taking me back to the highway. “Why not?” I say to myself. Within 500 feet the road has gone from obvious to oblivious. Why I didn’t turn around is beyond me. Soon I’m wondering which part of the dirt is road and which is field. There’s a horse in a stall not 20 feet away and I turn on what appears to be road but soon find it dead ends at a pile of junked vehicles. Google maps shows me still on the route and I see a small dirt path. The path looks like it’s used for ATVs but still big enough for my car to roll through. At this point I’m pretty sure I should turn around. But on the map I’m basically half way from start and finish and I decide “I’ve come this far. Let’s finish.” The ATV road started off smooth but soon I realize my low riding Jetta isn’t going to be able to handle it. Paranoid that I’d get stuck going further, I finally decide to turn around. Soon I come upon a small ramp to take me off the road and up onto the field around me. If there were any spot to turn around this would be it.
I immediately regret my decision to drive into the field. It was a field reminiscent of Louis Sachar’s novel Holes. In the dark I could see huge pits certain to cause me to become stuck. Without realizing it I panicked and made a sharp turn. I see the ATV road again and make for it. A combination of misjudged height, angles, shadowing, and mental pandemonium is a recipe for disaster. Womp. My car was stuck. The front two tires hung over an embankment. The weight of my car no longer held by my wheels, but rather the middle. Stuck high-centered. In shock and unaware of my surroundings with no cell service, I made the decision to dial 911 for a tow-truck. A woman answered the line and tried to understand where I was stuck. “Where are you?” she asked. I looked around. Off in the distance I could make out a McDonald’s sign but little else. “I’m out in a field,” I said. “Can’t you just track my location using my phone?” “No,” she replied, “we actually aren’t able to do that.” She instructed me to turn on my hazard lights and make my way toward a residence to find out where I was and see if they would help. So I made my way toward what appeared to be a few trailer homes. Out of the six or so on the property only two had lights on. A figure, alerted by the now barking dogs, appeared in one of the windows as I made my way closer. I approached the trailer and knocked. Nothing. The person was no longer at the window. I knocked again, waited, and began pondering which trailer to knock on next. But then the door opened. A young boy stood in the doorway. Behind him his father. Putting on my best smile I greeted them and told them my situation. They seemed sceptical at first. “Why would you drive into our field?” they asked. “My GPS was extremely wrong. I just need to know an address so I can call a tow truck,” I told them. “There’s no addresses out here,” said the father, “Only mile markers. You’re on the Navajo reservation.” Luckily they were understanding and extremely helpful. “We can tow him out Dad,” said the boy. A few minutes later they pulled out in an old worn-out pickup truck. “We’ll pull you out,” the boy said. And they did. I was so relieved. At the edge of their property I thanked them and wished them well. What great people to help an idiotic stranger stuck in a field that obviously was not in any way headed to the highway. My car was battered but fine and I made it down to the Grand Canyon that evening where I slept in my car until early morning. I’ll never forget just how kind they were. They even asked if I wanted something to drink. I certainly lucked out finding Harrison and his son Darren. I’ll have to thank them again some day. What good people.
Grand Canyon and Havasupai
Early Thursday morning I awoke to find myself parked overlooking the south rim of the Grand Canyon. It took all my energy the night before to find a secluded place to park and sleep. I made my way to the Backcountry Information Center where I could grab a permit to spend a night in the canyon. Still a bit dazed and confused from my long day of driving, I arrived two hours before the office actually opened at 8:00am. My phone said 7:00am. But without coverage it hadn’t automatically updated to local time. And when 8:00am did roll around, I was still the only one there.
My route was about 5 miles each way. Camp would be at Indian Gardens and that afternoon I wanted to take a few pictures out at Plateau Point, another 3 miles total. Although it would be a 4,000 foot change in elevation over one day, I assumed it wouldn’t break me. For an extra challenge I decided to bring along my 4x5 film camera. This brought my pack to around 75 lbs. Believe me I packed light. No extra clothes besides socks and underwear.
Gear list:
Tent, sleeping bag, tripod, digital camera, film, three film holders (six shots), flashlight, three water bottles, knife, peanut butter, honey, bread. If I could do it over I’d just make the sandwiches I ate for lunch and dinner before hand. Without the peanut butter and honey I would have saved 5 lbs. I’m not sure it would’ve changed the outcome much. Hiking down was relatively easy. My descent started around 9:30am. Two hours later I found myself at Indian Gardens. I took my time to set up camp while I waited for the desert heat to subside for my hike out to the point. Old ammunition boxes served as food boxes. They weren’t meant to protect your food from bears, a rarity even on the rim let alone in the canyon; but rather from smaller critters such as squirrels.
I was napping in my tent when a park ranger woke me to check my permit. At first all I could see were her feet in what appeared to be flats. I was a bit surprised to see such shoes in the middle of the canyon. Park rangers are so official in their forest green uniforms speckled with badges, patches, and whatever other flair they may have. I’m always surprised how clean they appear in the middle of these harsh environments. But the flats gave off an extra sense of formality. She asked what I planned to do for the day and I mentioned my camera. Immediately she knelt down and asked if she could take a look. Her name is Megan and she had studied film in college. She was tall, not only in person but also personality. I couldn’t tell you exactly how tall because the entire conversation I sat in my tent. Her hair was pulled back to a ponytail and her bright eyes and smile always seemed intensely engaged in our conversation. Now she worked seasonally for the park service as a break from her paramedic career. Talk about qualified. And here a few years back I wondered why I hadn’t been interviewed for a few national park ranger positions I’d applied for. With people like Megan applying, I had no chance! We talked about my camera, photography, and my journey. As most do, she said she was jealous of my trip and wished her and her husband could do something similar. She gave me best wishes and then left to check the other campers. In my short stay I met a few other groups camping in Indian Gardens that evening. The first I met was an older gentleman, probably in his mid to late 60s. He was one of those overly friendly types who seem to find you at fundraiser events where they just have to get to know you so you might like them enough to write a check to their cause. His cause came up rather quickly after I told him I’m from the Kansas City area. “Ever heard of IHOP?” he asked. “The International House of Pancakes?” I first thought to myself. “The International House of Prayer.” “Oh,” I giggled, “yes I have.” “It’s a great place. Lots of great young folks there just like you. They all have a great time.” “Sounds great,” I retorted. I did know of this particular version of IHOP. But it had about the same effect on me as the other IHOP’s sodium packed omelettes. A weird bloated stomach with some slight feeling of regret. My experience with IHOP lasted only a few weeks. It all started when I met a girl in Kansas City last fall. We were both in line at my now favorite Mediterranean market, Olive Cafe. It was my first time there and I asked her what she thought of the hummus. “It’s my favorite,” she’d said. Soon I had her number and a week later I was scheduled to meet up with her on a date. Without any plans I met her at her apartment. At first we talked about music, Kansas City, and our lives. We were the same age. Eventually we started talking about drugs and addictions. I told her my struggle with alcohol at times of depression and she related with stories of substances much harsher. As the conversation lightened up we began to drink some vodka she had. Eventually she brought up religion. “Have you heard of IHOP?” she asked. At the time she was attending in part to help her with her addictive past. I gave her my views on life and she immediately wanted to impress upon me the many flaws in my logic as well as the undeniable truths in hers. Drinking more vodka was all I could do to continue to listen without walking out. Let’s be honest, I wanted to see how far things would go for the night, and there was still plenty of time. As the conversation came to a close she acted as though she no longer wanted to attend IHOP. She talked about going back to school for a psycology degree. I encouraged her to do so. Education from public institutions aren’t nearly as brain-washed if at all. I’ll spare you the details of the evening, but the next morning we awoke and parted ways, never to meet again. Since then, I’ve kept up with her over social networks and the like. IHOP, in my opinion, can be a great help to people with abusive personalities. But it certainly isn’t something I need to find happiness in my life. I suppose I wanted to write about it at some point and this seems as good a forum as any. So as soon as the old man mentioned it I tuned out and went back to my tent. I spent the next few hours avoiding him and his group as I wait for the evening to come along with cooler temperatures. The hike out to the point was relaxing and I met a fun group who had hiked in from a few days camping in the back country. Their guide offered me food and I obliged. It became dark sooner than I hoped. Without a flashlight I made my way back to Indian Gardens and slept only a few hours before I awoke early to climb out. 2:30am I crawled out of my tent. Sunrise was about 5:30am. It was necessary to start so early to avoid the extreme heat. Signs were posted both at the office up on the rim and in the camp I stayed warning of record temperatures. My hike up started with relative ease but I could tell it would be difficult. On the way down my pack had felt heavy but manageable. In ascent, it felt as though I was carrying another person. Each step seemed to get more difficult. I avoided looking at my phone to see how long I’d been going. Besides, it was probably an hour off anyway. My legs began to tire after a few hours so I decided that every switchback I’d stop and take a break. Some switchbacks were longer than others bringing out the most I could muster. Eventually the sun peeked out over the canyon walls. Nobody came from behind me heading up the hill, but a few were heading down. Some would comment on how large my pack was; while others would just offer a wide-eyed look or perhaps a quick gasp before passing on. I took my pack off a at each of the two water stops on the way up at 1.5 miles and 3 miles, respectively. It was 9:00am when I arrived at the trail head. My legs were numb from exhaustion. I couldn’t feel my feet except for the blister forming on the back of my right heel. My car was only a few hundred feet away, but I decided to stop and rest before continuing on. I hadn’t planned to spend six hours hiking up the canyon. My permit for Havasupai would be good for tonight (Friday) and tomorrow. And still it was a four hour drive from the south rim entrance. The road to Havasupai was much less travelled. It led through a few small tourist focused towns before spanning what seems like an eternity of desert and ended abruptly at the edge of the Grand Canyon at what is called Hilltop. This is where you park before hiking or riding down to the Supai Indian Reservation. A helicopter landing zone sits close by as well as a staging area for mules. Mules in teams of six carry down vital supplies to the village. I arrived around 2:00pm. Typically one wouldn’t dare begin a descent about this time as the desert heat could easily cause fatal conditions for someone who wasn’t prepared. And I had just nearly exhausted myself climbing that very morning.
First I approached a hut where two women sat. I had no idea where to pick up my permit and hoped they could give me information. “You need a confirmation number,” one said after I told them my permit was under Jim’s name. Both of them seemed irritated that I would even ask. I ran back to my car and grabbed my phone to screen through Jim’s messages. There wasn’t anything about a confirmation number. Back at the hut, the two women seemed even more upset that I was asking them. Finally one said to just go down there.
I was low on water but the two women had left me feeling alienated and offensive. Not wanting to seem like some entitled traveler, I didn’t ask around for water and just started hiking with the one bottle I had.
Deciding the film camera would be too burdensome, I cut it from the packing list. My pack was about half as light around 40lbs. Fortunately it was overcast so the temperatures stayed about 85 degrees. It was 2:30pm and I was completely unaware of how far I had to go. My memory thought back to the conversation I had with Megan. Did she say it was farther than the south rim hike? Shorter? I couldn’t remember. Either way, I would have to do it. Did it really matter much?
At first the trail was simple. All downhill as it meandered along the edge of canyon. Steep switchbacks mellowed into slightly angled twisting trails. None were ‘the’ trail but all led the same direction. Hoof prints and manure dotted the way as the trail sank deeper into the canyon. I felt as though I was walking in an abandoned city. Smooth layered rocks took the place of skyscrapers.Dry cracked trees acted as street lamps. Each turn would reveal deep crevasses on either side of me acting as side streets which poured into the main drag. But this city of rocks had no inhabitants. At least none I could see. A few hours into the hike I ran out of water. At least if I were in dire straits I could hail on one of the mule teams as they passed through. They were the only interaction I had as I walked along. You could hear them far before they came within view. The echo of their hooves causing a great crescendo off the canyons walls as they trotted along. At first I thought it was a vehicle. It was so loud after a few hours of complete silence.
One team passed me about two hours in. A man dressed in a navy t-shirt, matching hat, and black jeans rode along on a black mare with his mules in tow. Each mule carried two banker’s box sized loads that hung on either side of them. The man looked out of character with his modern clothes. White earbuds trailed down from his head to whatever device he’d pocketed. He looked like just another highway commuter back home. The mule trail was easy to see and the animals had done it so much they knew the way. He was really just along for the ride. He spotted me as I stood there watching. Tipping his head slightly, he gave affirmation to my route by pointing on ahead. “It’s just that way,” he appeared to be saying. And along he went. I didn’t feel I was desperate yet for water so I watched them quietly as they passed. Not soon after they disappeared around the bend along with the sound of their ever softer trot I again felt paranoid for my safety. Why didn’t I stop him and just ask? What would that have hurt? I’m sure it happens all the time. But, I decided if I was in real trouble I would feel different. At least I hope I would. The trail would disappear at times, but never for more than a few feet. And at other times it would seem as though there were more than one trail. Some of the side streets had hoof prints and manure. Perhaps there was more than one way to get to Supai. For me, I couldn’t chance trying what might be a shortcut and instead finding a dead end, or getting lost.
Walking on dry riverbed made following the trail easy but caused walking to be more difficult than a dirt path. Similar to walking in deep gravel, my feet would sink with each step. I found myself looking for any part of the trail that would bring me onto the more sturdy red soil. Only patches of the trail offered such ease and often soon after I found them they would end at another length of gravel.
It had been about four hours of walking and my legs were feeling tired. To conserve moisture I focused on breathing through my nose instead of letting my mouth hang open causing it to quickly dry out. I was mulling over whether or not to stop the next person I saw when something odd under a ledge caught my eye. At HIlltop there had been signs saying not to litter along the trail. But not many people must’ve paid much heed. Trash was as common as vegetation. Empty Dasani and Aquafina bottles could be seen tossed amongst the small bushes and placed in holes within the layered ledges. They’re emptiness teasing me and their existence caused me anger. What sort of assholes leave bottle waters just lying around? It’s not like they’re heavy. It’s not like you came down here not knowing there are no recycling or trash bins along the trail. Did you think nobody would notice? Obviously they were just tired and didn’t care. The Supai should just make it a requirement that every person who walks into Havasupai bring with them at least one empty plastic water bottle they find along the trail or else they don’t get in. That’s how bad it was. But I noticed something under this ledge that was different. There, in the shadows, lay a whole case of water. Not just one, but two cases. Was I delirious? Is this mirage? I almost passed them, but as I left the trail and could see the scene for what it was I became excited. Along with the water was a black garbage bag full of empty bottles. This must be left for thirsty travelers. Most likely many people who do this trail do not bring enough water and find themselves in my situation. Although to be honest I was never in any real danger because I would’ve made it to the camp just fine. Since I did find them, I decided I would take a few. I filled two water bottles and drank an entire bottled water there. I put them in the garbage bag, which was nearly full of empty bottles, and continued on.
Now without fearing for my life I zipped along the trail. A few wandering horses came through. They were brown with a white spot on the middle of their foreheads. Three of them walked together with their heads hung low, smelling the ground as they went along what must’ve been a familiar path. I wasn’t sure if they were wild or tame, but they followed the trail as if they were heading back to Hilltop. Perhaps the Supai had sent them back knowing they’d find their way.
Not long after another team of mules rolled through. This time the man leading them was dressed more for the part. He wore a wide-brimmed western hat, leather chaps, boots with spurs, and a studded leather vest. He appeared focused on his ride. His hands held a firm grim to his horse’s bridle and the horse reflected the same aura of control as he did. In his face you could see a serious intent look. This man was the sort of macho 1950′s Western cowboy you wouldn’t want to be on the wrong side of a shootout with. His family had been walking and riding this route for generations and he was the culmination of all those trips thus far in time. The modern cowboy is an improvement on the past. His family’s evolution still occurs. Repetition. Over and over generations. Here, I could see the best of the best. A real cowboy. As he passed I watched from a ledge above. I felt as though I’d been transported three hundred years back in time. It gave me inspiration. It wasn’t long before I came upon a sign pointing further on down the trail with a message written: Supai You’re almost there. Trickling water was within earshot of the sign. Around the bend the river ran in full force. It was a sight for my tired eyes. Nearly running to the river, I threw off my pack and dropped to my knees. Taking off my hat, I bent down and let my head fall into the rushing waters. They were so cold. I let them soak my hair. I wanted to drink the waters but couldn’t for fear of Giardia.
I arrived in Supai just before the office closed in time to get my permit. It was still another mile to walk to camp. My clothes were drenched with sweat. When I walked into the office a man was in line at the counter where a woman was running the desk. The man carried hiking poles and had long black hair in a tight pony tail. “Air conditioning!” I exclaimed to no one in particular. I took off my pack and stood there in front of the window units, hoping my body odor wasn’t causing offense to the others in the room. The man was acquiring a mule for his backpack to be carried out the next day. He told the woman he had visited several times before but that this was the first time he’d been able to stay overnight. As I stood behind him in line he gave me a friendly glance. He left and told the woman how much fun he’d have and that he’d soon be back. I left the office with my permit and strolled through village. The woman gave me firm instructions. Follow the path and go straight to the campsite. Do not bother the villagers. Supai is small. Only about 200 people. In the middle is a helicopter landing zone. As I approached it, a fight broke out between two dogs. Before five seconds had elapsed between six and eight dogs were in the fray. It turned into more of a mauling than a fight, as most of the dogs ganged up on one unlucky mutt. At one point the unfortunate hound was being pulled from both ends. I was certain I was about to witness a death. These dogs were unforgiving. Onlookers stood silent as the hound whimpered and pleaded. The main aggressor of his tormentors continued to bite deep into his snout and face. Eventually he broke free of the mob. His tail so far beneath him you couldn’t tell he was a male as a means to protect his most vulnerable areas. As fight dissipated slowly approached a few of the onlookers. “What a fight,” I yelled to one. “You didn’t even have to pay!” he exclaimed, with a broken smile and a few gold teeth. “Free dog fight!” He laughed. It was certainly exciting, but I’m not sure I could stomach anything more gruesome. The losing dog appeared to be okay. He stood far from the others, rubbing his snout incessantly in the dry dusty road. Pawing at it, acting as though he needed to pull something out of it, or off of it.
During the fight I spotted the man I’d seen in the office. He was on his cell phone. I glanced at him and gave him a look as if to say “Holy shit.” He finished his conversation and greeted me. “That was scary man,” he said. “Thought that dog was going to get killed.” He introduced himself as Dee. I shook his hand and asked how far the camp was. “Not far. Wait for me, I’ll walk down with you.” Dee was a tall Native American. He had a brace on his right knee and walked with a limp. He stepped inside the general store just next door and grabbed a few Gatorade’s, offering one to me. Dee explained that he had been staying in Supai for a few days to enjoy the falls with his family. His wife, two daughters, a niece and a nephew were back at camp. Dee is an architect who focuses on health sector buildings. The Supai wanted a new medical office and he had been visiting with their board to discuss it. Every time prior he had flown in for a meeting and left that same day. After a few visits he decided he needed to make a point to actually stay. To make sure he did, he promised his daughters he would take them this summer. Unfortunately, Dee had to have surgery on his knee just two weeks prior. “But I couldn’t let me little girls down, you know? Once I told them we were going, there was no going back.” Dee flew down on the helicopter. There was no way he could walk the 8 mile trek in. “It was so worth it,” he said. With walking poles in each hand, he felt he could get around easily enough. As we walked a couple of younger kids joined us. Craig and his girlfriend, whose name I can’t quite remember. Dee’s camp was a much shorter walk from the village. I thanked him for the drink. “Here I’ll take your empty, man. Have a good trip.” Dee’s kindness set the stage for the rest of my experience in Havasupai. Everyone I met was extremely happy. Then again, how could you be anything but in a place as beautiful as that? I spent the next two nights in paradise. Pictures soon to follow.
Havasupai and San Diego
By the time I reached camp it was nearly dark. The woman at the permit office had said I need to camp with the other people in my group. As I approached each campsite I asked for Jim, hoping someone would know him. At first I thought it would be pretty easy to find him. Although I had never met the guy, there were only 300 available permits for the day. Someone would surely know him. After no luck at the first few sites I met a pair of gals, Elena and Katherine, who were walking water back to their campsite. Katherine jokingly said they would help me look for Jim if I carried their water jug. But I was on a mission to find Jim and to her surprise I grabbed it. After a few sites we parted ways. I didn’t want to miss any on my way.
So many campsites. They just kept coming one after the other. Just when I thought I was at the end of the line more became visible through the foliage. My patience broke when I stepped out of a thicket and found myself in Elena and Katherine’s camp. Their site was nestled on a small island surrounded by the vibrant turquoise river on either side.
Between my tent and theirs sat a large pile of drift wood where a den of squirrels made their home. Unlike the Indian Garden campsite back at the Grand Canyon the Supai did not provide food storage boxes. I quickly learned their value, as I returned to my tent to find squirrels gorging on the loaf of bread I’d brought for sandwiches. In just a few minutes this squirrel ate nearly two slices! Elena and Katherine weren’t surprised. The squirrels had already bit holes through their tent to get at food inside. To save my tent I put the loaf in my pack and let it hang on a tree outside. That would be the last time I saw my loaf.
On my return from my first trek away the entire loaf was gone. From what I could tell there were only two squirrels living in the brush pile. That’s like eating a car with your friend. My only regret is not seeing them after stuffing their bellies so full. I’m sure they would only be able to squirm slowly away. Elena kept emphasizing how fat these squirrels looked. She was right. They were so chubby!
Elena and Katherine camped with their friend Anette. All from San Diego. Friday they made an attempt to hike to Beaver Falls, but were cut short when Anette injured her knee. She took a fall trying to cross a narrow log. Elena and Katherine felt guilty because they crossed first and encouraged Anette to follow. The worst part was it wasn’t even part of the trail! It was completely unnecessary. A good lesson for me to learn from. On this trip I do not want to take unnecessary chances. There are too many people, places, and things I want to visit.
Saturday we planned to hike to Mooney Falls, about a half mile out, and then Beaver Falls. Beaver Falls is an 8 mile trek from camp. Before we could begin we needed to reserve a mule to carry Anette’s pack back up the next day. She would have an extremely difficult time if she tried to walk out. Luckily the helicopter was scheduled to run Sunday.
Mule reservations had to be made all the way back at the village, a two mile trek one way. By the time we reached the village and reserved her mule we decided we needed some nourishment. A restaurant operates in the middle of Supai. They serve breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Most of the fare is your typical American: biscuits and gravy, cheeseburgers, tater tots, etc. A few Indian tacos and Mexican options were also available. It was still early so we had to stick to the breakfast menu.
As we mulled over our options, a couple of guys the next table over asked about my camera. I showed them a few shots. They had just hiked in that morning after spending the night out on the trail. Darren and Frank, both of the Navajo Nation, were visiting for just one night. At the moment they had their eyes on the lunch menu but couldn’t yet order because lunch wouldn’t be served until 10:30am.
The girls split a breakfast sandwich and some tater tots while I filled myself with a rather large breakfast burrito. Perhaps it was in part to the fact I’d done about 6,500 feet of change in elevation over the past two days, but the burrito was quite good.
We finished our food and bid farewell to Darren and Frank before we began the hike back to camp. Upon our return we decided to take a quick rest before heading off. On the eastern side of the island a picnic table had been placed directly in the middle of the water. We napped on the table; I lay on one seat, Katherine the top, and Elena sat upright laying her head on the table. I should’ve asked Anette to grab a picture. Before we knew it half the day was over. Our trek to Beaver Falls began about 2:00pm.
The tallest falls in Havasupai are Mooney Falls just half a mile down the trail from camp. Descending down to the falls proved more treacherous than I imagined. A patchwork of chains, ladders, and bolts offered a less than encouraging framework to climb up and down the cliff near the falls. Certainly, this is a climb I would advise for only the able-bodied. My descent went well. Only a few moments did I fear my next step would cause me to slip to my death. At the bottom I noticed a stretcher lying close by. I’m sure a previous event had caused the Supai Natives to decide to leave one handy. Although I would bet you’re more likely to need a coffin if you took a tumble on this climb.
A large group of people were at the bottom. It felt as if we were walking up current on the trail. Person after person passed us by. Then a few we recognized. Darren and Frank. The two were energized and ready to join in on our trek to Beaver Falls. It’s an 8 mile hike to Beaver Falls. Leaving so late in the day put us on track to arrive with only a few hours of light to enjoy ourselves before we would head back. Each group we encountered on their way back gave us false hope as to how much further we had to go. “You’re just 45 minutes out,” one group told us early on.
Elena and Katherine pointed out the log Anette hurt her leg on. It was definitely not a sturdy looking log. I wouldn’t have tried it myself. Up to that point Elena and Katherine had guided us along. But now we were in unfamiliar territory. The pace slowed. Fewer groups were passing by. Much of the trail consisted of walking across the river itself. Prior to the trip I’d fixed my boots with a few glues. But I hadn’t planned to hike in water for so long. Halfway through the hike my right sole nearly fell off. The boots meant a lot to me. I’d had them for about ten years. They’d been through quite a bit. Havasu would be their final trek.
One of the last people we crossed paths with was a local Supai Native. He warned of a chance for rain which could cause flash floods. If rain came, we would have to turn back. We decided to double our efforts.
It took about three and a half hours to reach the falls. We had them all to ourselves. We played like kids. We swam against the currents. Darren and Kathrine climbed to the top and jumped into the upper falls. Elena, Frank and I sat below, waiting to see them pop back up. A few minutes went by. Elena began to worry. We yelled for Katherine but there was no response. Only the unyielding roar of the falls. “They’re probably just making out,” I joked. “It’s been three minutes,” Elena said. We asked Frank to climb up since he still had his shoes on. Frank disappeared over the top and we waited for some sort of confirmation. A few moments passed and Katherine poked her head over the top wearing Frank’s hat. “We’re fine!” Relieved, Elena and I relaxed in the shallow edge of the falls while the others tried out their best jump poses. The light began to dim and we decided it was time to head on back. There’s something unreal about the hike back from Beaver Falls. It flew by. On our way back the girls insisted we stop by Chicco and Jill’s site to plan our hike out. We would begin around 3:00am. Chicco and Jill’s group were cooking all the food they had left when we arrived and invited us to join in. “It’s like visiting our awesome Aunt and Uncle!” Katherine exclaimed. We dined on spam, roasted chicken, curried chicken, a Mediterranean beef marinade from the camp next door, and potatoes.
My body was fed up with me. I could barely keep myself upright to sit, so instead I let myself lay on the ground, picking myself up only to grab another bite.
Katherine and Anette were set to fly out the next day. Elena planned to wait at Hilltop for them. Helicopter rides were prioritized first to tribe members, then to campers on a first come first served basis. Meaning Katherine and Anette would likely be there in the afternoon.
The hike out took about six hours for me with a 40 pound pack and three full water bottles. Although they were completely empty even before I started the steepest part of the climb. Along the way our group separated, Chicco, Jill and I in the back, while Darren, Frank, Elena, and the rest went on ahead. Hiking with Chicco and Jill was the perfect speed for me. Chicco let me use his portable speaker to crank out some tunes while we trekked along.
Our group emerged unscathed, but tired. It was still an hour’s drive to town where Darren, Frank, Elena and I agreed to meet for food and drinks. We settled on a restaurant in Peach Springs. On their table was an ad for a food challenge. One colossal indian taco, the Devastator, could be had for $25.99. Enough to feed six. If one person ate the entire thing in under an hour they could have it free of charge. Our group decided to split it. The size of a large pizza but nearly twice as thick; this monstrosity was too much for even the four of us to handle. By the time we each ate one slice it became apparent we would’t be able to finish it.
Prior to sitting down Elena asked if I could do her a favor. Katherine and Anette wouldn’t make it as soon as she had hoped. Citing engine trouble, the helicopter was not running as fast as usual. It might even stop for the day. Elena needed a ride back to San Diego. My trip had me heading to Carson City and Lake Tahoe, but I was fine with the change in plans and agreed to help her out. In return, she said I could stay with her in San Diego. Why not? We parted ways with Darren and Frank, and began the seven hour drive.
Elena and I reached San Diego around 9:00pm local time. On our way we drove through Joshua Tree National Park. Joshua trees can be found throughout the southwest, but at the park they grow en masse creating an almost unearthly looking landscape. To me, it all seemed a bit underwhelming, but sounded like a fun place to camp after Elena talked of how her group spent the day rock climbing on the large rock formations sticking out of the ground.
Elena’s boyfriend Lucas met us at her house. He works in the financial sector and actually hails from the great state of Wisconsin. After a shower I was ready to call it a day. Elena would need a ride in the morning to get her car.
After dropping her off I spent my first day in San Diego recuperating from the strenuous canyon climbs. It was refreshing to hang out with her little dachshund Pocky and do some laundry. I met Elena and Kathrine for drinks at the Waterfront Bar and Grill, a bar claiming to have the oldest liquor license in San Diego. I ordered us some chicken wings, the daily special. Katherine and Elena wouldn’t let me buy drinks, instead generously insisting to pay for me. We talked about relationships, heard how horribly delayed Katherine and Annette’s helicopter flight out of Havasupai was, and then decided we ought to grab Italian for dinner. Katherine knew of a spot close by, but first she wanted to drop off her car. She lives in an apartment right downtown. Rent in downtown San Diego is really high. Elena and her are interested in moving in together so they even went to look at a place around the corner before we sat down for drinks. Rent was $2,800 a month. Yuck.
Our crew dropped off Katherine’s car and walked to the Italian restaurant, Petrini’s. Katherine’s friend John met us there. John works for a company that makes eye wear for sports. I think specifically triathlons, but I could be wrong. John and Elena immediately connected over previous working experiences and struck up a conversation about working with children with disabilities. Katherine and I talked about what to see in San Diego. She encouraged me to visit the beaches, specifically Ocean or Pacific. We ordered wine and appetizers. I was rather hungry and ordered a spicy pizza. The girls split a pasta and salad. John had already eaten, so he stuck to a glass of wine.
Katherine invited me to join her and Elena at her apartment to grill and hang out in the hot tub with her friend Frida later in the week. We decided the food was not par for the course at Petrini’s. Katherine voiced the most disgust, in part because the food was only so-so but also because her favorite Italian restaurant had closed before we could make it. I was content with my pizza. It was exactly spicy, but it had a good flavor. We ended the night there with plans set to meet up again Wednesday evening.
Elena encouraged me to spend a day or two in Mexico. She recommended I drive through Tijuana straight for Rosarito, a small beach town just down the highway. “It’s a quieter town. The beach is very close, and they have lots of restaurants and bars. If you want to spend more time in Mexico, keep going south to Ensenada. You can get a hotel for cheap.”
I scoped out a few places in Ensenada on AirBnB, but nothing really stuck out to me. A day in Rosarito would give me at least a taste of the culture. Perhaps I could find some soccer players there too. Tuesday I left around 10:00am. The drive to the border was quick. And when I arrived the traffic was much smoother than I anticipated. In fact, I never stopped or talked to any Mexican border authority. Lines of cars simply flowed across. Armed border police stood in groups scanning the cars as they passed. Likely a few cars would be pulled over and inspected, but I didn’t see any as I drove through. As soon as I crossed I had to adjust to spanish road signs. Drivers acted generally the same as in Southern California. I wasn’t sure what to expect. I had no preconceived notions of how driving was in Mexico. Traffic felt a bit slower. Drivers didn’t seem to be in such a hurry. Tijuana is right on the border. Driving through, it certainly looks the part of a big bustling city. Colorful building signs border the streets advertising an unbelievably diverse amount of services. Dental surgeons next to small lenders followed by a taqueria. Many of the signs are in English. Especially the medical businesses and pharmaceuticals. Obviously these services are cheaper in Mexico than in the United States. Being so close to the border, they surely attract Americans looking to pay a fraction of the price for lasik eye surgery or a root canal.
The differences from America were minor, but noticeable. Buildings were less manicured than back in San Diego. More garbage littered the curbside. More pedestrians bustled across the streets. Cars were dustier and older for the most part.
Navigating through Tijuana was no different than any other new city. My phone GPS still worked and I had little trouble reaching Rosarito about 30 minutes drive down the coast. The highway morphs into a busy beach street. Bars, restaurants, and tour hungry businesses lined either side. It was about noon when I arrived. A beer on the beach sounded like the perfect way to start off. I spied a supermarket and found parking. Unsure of how common smashed car windows are I left nothing of value in plain view. A car with Kansas tags might attract unwanted attention. Then again there were plenty of California licensed cars. I tossed a soccer ball into a mesh drawstring bag and headed for the mercado. Restaurants along the way looked quiet. Only a few patrons sat at the bars. There didn’t appear to be many tourists out. Upon entering the mercado I was greeted with “Buen dia” by the cashier. Completely out of my element, I stared back blankly and continued to walk toward the drink aisle. She met my eyes and seemed to understand that I was not a spanish speaker. Mexican beers lined the refrigerated shelves. A six pack of Tecate caught my eye. The price read $82.99. That’s gotta be in pesos. It was. Pesos use the same currency symbol as the dollar. This six pack cost roughly $4.25 USD. The cashier ran my card and I headed out.
Exiting the mercado I met eyes with a young man standing just outside the door.
“Hey man, you a surfer? Or a skater? You look like a skater man.” I told him I was not, but I would like to learn how to surf. He introduced himself as Jesus. He wore a blue tank top, baggy cargo shorts and a dark baseball cap. He introduced me to the couple standing next to him. Their names I cannot remember. The man was his roommate, and the girl was Jesus’ girlfriend. This was their day off and they had their kids with them to go to the beach. An infant lay in the woman’s stroller. At her side was a little girl. Delilah. She wore a black and white striped one-piece swimsuit with pink frills. She stood there quietly watching me while her mom held her hand.
After Jesus and his friend bought a few beers we made our way to the beach. It was only a city block from the mercado. On our way Jesus explained that he and his friend work security for a local event company. They like the job alright and the pay is okay for the area, although they only make about $100 USD per week. Unfortunately there is less work than there used to be. The American political climate is causing fewer tourists to visit from the USA. Rosarito depends on tourism, as do a lot of Mexican economies near the border. Jesus was confident things would pick back up but for now they would have more time off than they would prefer.
I told the group about my travel plans. Jesus said he hadn’t traveled much, but he did spend some time in the USA. He took a few classes at Boise State University in Idaho, but things didn’t pan out. He took time to visit New York City, Utah, and Arizona. At some point he overstayed his visa and was deported. When he came back to Mexico he decided to move to Rosarito because an uncle works as a police officer there. Jesus found a job and thought things were going well. But one day his uncle called Jesus’ mother to tell her he believed Jesus was abusing drugs and recommended he go to rehab. Jesus was surprised his uncle turned him in, but said he wanted to do things right, so he went along with it. He admitted he was doing meth at the time. Eight months later he was clean, but homeless. Living on the streets, Jesus worried he might slip back into drug abuse. After a few weeks he met his friend at the security business. His friend got him a job and offered to split rent with Jesus.
“It’s not a lot but we’re happy.”
As we crossed the last intersection before reaching the beach I could see a man riding a horse down the street on the left. He was older, his hair mostly white and grey. He wore a decorated sombrero and colorful Mexican styled cowboy clothes. Jesus’ friend approached him and asked if we could take a picture. He agreed, but took things a step further after the photo by offering to give quick show. We stepped back a bit and watched. He began to sing and started tapping his heels to his horse. The horse responded with a stuttered trot. It became a sort of dressage dance, a salsa of sorts. It lasted just a few seconds but by the end of it the horse was foaming from its mouth from the exertion. They continued on down the street and we waved as they went.
At the beach we kicked the soccer ball around, drank, wrestled, played with Delilah, and discussed the state of Mexican affairs. Delilah didn’t speak english so at first it was hard to communicate with her. After hanging out for a bit she began to warm up to me. Jesus translated for me when I offered to carry her into the ocean on my shoulders. She excitedly agreed. We walked out into the ocean. Pointing ahead, Delilah yelled something to me in spanish. “Grande” I replied, assuming she was referring to the large waves heading toward us. It wasn’t much, but it would lead to a rough system of communication for the rest of the afternoon.
Delilah shrieked with excitement as we walked further out. The waves were now to my chest at their peak. I’d brace myself in anticipation just before they struck; each one strong enough to knock me over if I had not. Each time a wave hit us Delilah would tense her body and scream. She’d yell a few more unfamiliar words and tighten her hold on me. A few of the waves touched her feet, dangling down from my shoulders. I couldn’t safely go further. Turning around, Delilah began to yell more. From the tone it sounded as if she were slightly upset. She seemed to want to turn back around to the ocean. “Cuidado,” I said, hoping she understood that we had to be careful.
When we got back to dry sand I placed her back on land. She turned to look up at me and, while raising her arms, began to hop up and down in an attempt to get me to pick her back up. Jesus’ friend, her father, told her to calm down in spanish. She continued to complain for a bit, but soon she was back in the water with her father.
I walked back to where Jesus’ girlfriend sat with the infant and stroller. Our beers lay beneath the stroller. The only shade we had. I gave a beer to his girlfriend and stretched out in the sand with one for myself. The sun was bright but it wasn’t too hot out. I asked Jesus if they wanted to get some lunch.
“Let’s show you some real Mexican tacos,” he said.
A man with a cart full of candy passed us by as we left the beach. Jesus’ friend stopped him to purchase a few gummies for Delilah and some tart cherry flavored candies for himself. Jesus’ friend led us to a taqueria a few blocks down the main street. At the entrance to the restaurant was the chef and his kitchen. Further on a line of people had formed to order from a window where you could see a few workers preparing food in the back. A large basin of grease with slightly disgusting looking cuts of cooked pork floating in it sat closest to me. To the right a cone of shawarma style meat spun in place. Jesus’ friend asked me how many and what kind of tacos I’d like.
“Two pork and two beef,” I told him. I wanted to make a point to eat the least appealing food, so I could give it a truthful judgement.
“You want everything on them?” “Everything.” He beckoned to the chef and ordered. The chef immediately grabs a paper plate and begins to make my tacos.
“Did we just skip the line?” I asked. “Yup. Don’t worry bro. I got you.”
The tacos came fully loaded. At the condiment station several salsas sit out to choose from ranging from mild to hot as well as verde. Radishes and sliced cucumbers are piled next to the salsas. Jesus comes over to the condiment station and grabs a small plate. He piles on radishes, a few cut limes, and in a small paper bowl he places a few stacks of sliced cucumbers. I follow his lead, but not in such large quantities. We walk over to where the rest of the group are sitting. It’s an open air restaurant. The chairs are those flimsy plastic lawn chairs. The tables are covered with a red and white checkered cloth. Delilah is sitting with her head resting on an outstretched arm across the table. I sit across from her and wait for everyone to receive their food. Jesus places his plate of radishes and bowl of cucumbers on the table and begins to squeeze the limes over both followed with a bit of salt.
The tacos were fantastic. Even better than I expected. And my expectations had been high. Even though the grease vat of pork looked gross, it kept the meat extremely moist. The meats were topped with onions, chives, tomatoes, and guacamole. No cheese here, nor sour cream. But the flavor was exquisite. The fresh radishes and cucumbers with lime and salt were crisp and refreshing in between bites of spicy taco. Most other customers had them as well. They aren’t common in Mexican restaurants back home, or perhaps I usually overlook them.
We finished our lunch and Jesus invited me to walk with them back home.
“Come see my crib homie.”
“Can I park my car outside?”
“Sure man.”
Only two blocks from the restaurant, Jesus’ apartment occupied the second level in what appeared to be a piecemeal apartment complex. From the outside I could see the texture of painted plywood. Several holes were visible near the window and on one corner. Jesus led me through a gated entrance to the complex to the wood stairs leading up to the apartment. At the base of the stairs sat an old washing machine. Clotheslines covered in colorful garments stretched across a large open space on the other side of the stairs.
The group continued on up the stairs and into the apartment. “Welcome to my home,” Jesus said. Inside was one room about 15x10 feet. A queen size bed took up most of the floorspace. Opposite the bed a mini-fridge acted as counter space for the microwave. Two large speakers sat on a nightstand near the bed. Balancing on top of one speaker was a laptop which was plugged into a modem hanging off the wall. Everything was plugged into a power strip hanging next to it. Along the walls piles of clothes were strewn about. I couldn’t see any toys or books. My thoughts went to Delilah.
“You want to take a shower man? We’re going to take showers.” “No thanks. I might get my camera and take a few photos, if you don’t mind.” “That’s cool man.”
I retrieved my camera from the car. On my way out to get it a group of young boys walked into the complex. Following close behind was a boy in a wheelchair. He rolled up to the complex, stopping just outside the entrance. He sat there a moment, then yelled out a name. There was no response from inside. He yelled again. Still nothing. I walked by him with my camera and we briefly made eye contact. His eyes said “Ugh. I am not being heard.” Part of me wanted to attempt to help but I decided my spanish was too weak. The boy stayed out there a moment longer as I climbed the stairs. When I reached the apartment door the boy turned his wheelchair back down the street and began to roll away. Did his friends ignore him? Were they excluding him? Or was he in need? Or did he just forget to say something to them before he had to go home?
Delilah was excited about the camera. As soon as I pulled it out she asked to hold it. Her father told her she couldn’t. I showed her the digital screen and then the viewfinder. Along with the camera I brought up a bag of pistachios. Delilah reached for one and tried to eat it still in the shell. Taking another one from the bag, I showed her how to split the shell open. She watched my hands, then looked down at hers and tried to emulate. The shell was too hard for her so I opened it myself. She watched me open another, and then another. After watching me open four she grabbed one out of the bag to try again. A small struggle ended with a satisfying crack and she was soon ready to do it again.
But it didn’t hold her attention for long. Delilah began tugging at my shorts asking to play with the camera. I took the camera off from around my neck and placed it on hers. With one hand held underneath the camera and another tight on the neck strap, Delilah and I made our way around the room, taking pictures of whatever she decided. We left the apartment in the same manner. “Cuidado,” I’d say when she would lower the camera from her face. I took a few shots of Delilah on the stairs and of the colorful clotheslines. She took me along to another stair opposite of the ones leading up to Jesus’ apartment. We climbed them and found ourselves in an empty hallway. Two doors looked to be the entrances to other apartments. Faint noises came from inside the one on the left. The door on the right had a window pane at head level and I could see the empty apartment through it.
“Vamos casa?” I asked.
Understanding, Delilah led me back down the stairs. Back at Jesus’ place, the guys had showered and changed and wanted to go back out.
“Let’s go back to the beach and kick it,” Jesus said. But before we left he wanted to show me something.
“Check this out.” He went to the corner where the microwave and mini-fridge were. From behind them he produced a bulletproof vest. “Take a picture of me in this, man.”
He then took a few of me in the vest. As we were getting ready to leave a young couple came up to the apartment. It was Delilah’s mother and her boyfriend. They had spent the day across the border to shop for things they couldn’t find in Mexico. The boyfriend said hello and then left. Delilah’s mother has a blunt personality. She introduced herself to me and then started to chide Delilah’s father about how dirty the apartment is and why would you have company in this place. She asked about our day, making sure to ask how much Delilah has eaten.
“She ate a taco for lunch.”
“Only one taco?” With a scowl.
“She had two but she wouldn’t eat the second one.”
Jesus and Delilah’s father were ready to leave. We jumped into my car and drove back to the main street. We stopped at a different mercado than where we met. It was a bit cleaner and brighter. The workers abided by a dress code with similarly branded shirts. Delilah’s father shook with a few of the workers he knew.
“What kind of beer we want?” I asked.
“High Life, bro.”
Three 40oz Miller High Life’s in tow, we hopped back in the car. Delilah’s father recognized a few other people on our way out. He did the same handshake with everyone he knew, a quick shake followed by a fist bump. Driving further south than where we accessed the beach earlier, we parked on a sidestreet near a ritzy looking beach resort hotel. A man at the gate came out to greet us. Delilah’s father did his signature handshake. He later explained that he used to work security for this hotel. Now he had a better job.
We made our way to the beach. This section had many more people than where we were earlier. It also had more restaurants and bars. Chairs and tables were set up in the sand for customers. Waiters buzzed from table to table like busy bees, hoping to extract monetary pollen from each. A few merchandise carts selling anything from fresh fruit to jewelry were strewn about the beach crowds.
The three of us found an empty table. We cracked open our beers and made conversation about where I would be heading next. Not long after we had sat down a waiter came up to us. Delilah’s father spoke to him in spanish. The waiter switched to english, saying “I do not mind if you sit here, but if my boss says you cannot because you aren’t ordering anything, then I will have to ask you to move.” He left with a smile and a “Gracias.”
It was getting late in the afternoon. Walking back to the car, Delilah’s father made sure to handshake with everyone we had greeted earlier. I dropped them off near the apartment and made my way back to the border in Tijuana.
It was about 6:30pm when I reached the line for the US border. Elena had warned me it can take a few hours to cross back over. Cars were backed up in all the lanes. Locals stood in the street with food carts and merchandise. Not wanting to spend more money, I avoided eye contact. As the line crept forward I began to notice more permanent structures along the road. Stores full of stuffed Mexican themed animals, foods, art, phone accessories, and anything anyone could possibly think of lined the road.
Traffic crept forward at a snail’s pace. Two hours later I was still in line. Several drivers succumb to their wants after such a long wait and bought churros or tacos. A few others were beginning to become upset with the hours long wait. As darkness rolled in one or two began honking. Long sustained honks of frustration broke the monotonous drone of the peddlers. On my sideview mirror I could make out a few cars cutting line. But the line wasn’t having it. As the line cutters rolled up the shoulder, a few cars poked out to impede them.
I waited for three hours to reach the border crossing. A uniformed border patrolman took a look at my passport and ID before asking me to pop my trunk. He asked where I was going and why I was in Mexico. I ended up crossing without any issue.
On the drive my mind tried to make sense of everything I’d just experienced. Delilah’s situation brought me grief. I held back tears while thinking of how much harder she has it than I did at her age. How it’s not fair. I thought of the apartment. How Jesus had explained that he worked very hard to make $100 USD per week, and rent was $100 USD per month. Part of me wanted to stop traveling and help them immediately. Another part of me wanted to just rent a place in Mexico and live inexpensively until my trip money ran out. Maybe someday I’ll do both.