As I sat in Goulding’s Campground I detected—from the multilingual chatter echoing off the red rock—half the campers to be Europeans in rented RVs and wondered about the Mecca-like appeal of such places as Monument Valley. Indeed I wondered about the appeal of the road trip as I sat muttering behind cars creeping along over the divets, exposed rock, and inches of red sand that compose the 17 mile loop drive accessible to the public through Monument Valley Tribal Park. I was muttering because I was being prevented from having my kicks with all-wheel-drive on a glorious rough road in deference to the white Honda Civic with California plates in front of me, the driver of which kept being smooched by the passenger and didn’t seem to be minding the potholes at all. Despite the minor inconveniences of ‘tourons’ however I was thoroughly impressed by the stone giants. It was a little dark for photography, but never mind that, film will never quite capture presence, which the valley has in spades. The reason for darkness was an incredible thunderstorm moving in the direction of the campground—where I remembered I had not put the rainfly on my tent… Forked lightning, ancient rock, the smell of juniper; a damp shelter was a small price to pay on the return.

After an epic tour of the loop road—having survived rez dogs looking for handouts, a Navajo guide looking for tourists to entertain on horseback, the aforementioned “city cars” on backcountry roads, massive crowds gathered around The View Hotel, and a few dollars lighter after succumbing to a Navajo jewelry vendor—I headed back to camp for the equivalent of cowboy pork and beans: Chicken Polynesian in a bag, just add hot water!

The Southern approach to Monument Valley is prefaced by Agathla Peak, an impressive volcanic neck thrust eerily into the sky; the guts of the earth exposing a hardened, herniated intestine. According to the Navajo, Agathla (meaning “much wool,” so named according to a legend involving a snake living in the vent who would toss antelope fur out “the door” after eating his fill) is the center of the world. The peak is thought to transmit prayers to the Holy People and to create more distance between the earth and sky. In other words, it’s hot here, and the peak holds the sky up at a higher altitude as to distance us further from the sun.

Upon arriving at Goulding’s General Store, a local, who was slightly inebriated, asked if I was Italian. I thought this was somewhat random, although explained by the drink, until he made the additional comment that “There are lots of fir’iners [sic] around here.” A true statement. Which brings me back to the pilgrimage aspect of road trips. We used to be nomadic people. Is the road trip a visceral reaction, a counterforce to ensconcing ourselves within a fortress of corner convenience stores? All our material needs available at strip malls and supermarkets—impervious to drought, locusts, raiders. If we aren’t out on the road to gather nuts and berries anymore, then we must be out to meet other “tribes.” People from North Carolina, Oklahoma, Navajo Nation. One’s worldview broadens as a result of these encounters, or rather brings home the fact that all people are out seeking liberty, justice and the pursuit of open roads.

Speaking of justice, since the majority of my road trip to the Four Corners area was spent on Reservation land, let me just say that you don’t need to travel to Afghanistan or Darfur to experience poverty; and before you say “what about casinos…” let me enlighten you: You will not find a single casino on Navajo or Hopi land. Land that is “held in trust” by the federal government I might add. This “trust” is a tenuous thing. While no property taxes are collected, nor is that revenue being generated in local communities for development and maintenance of infrastructure, although some tribal governments levy taxes on reservation land. For example I noted a sales tax on my receipt at Goulding’s Trading Post. You bet a federal income tax is imposed, and tribal members conducting business outside the rez are subject to state and local taxes like everyone else. The IRS even imposes a tax on powwow contestants who win $600 or more in prize money, but that shouldn’t be news to lottery winners or philatelic enthusiasts (stamp collectors) who are taxed on profit gain (I sold my Basel Dove!), but cannot deduct their losses (bummer, the washing machine ate my Inverted Jenny).

Those that know me know I’m not a numbers gal, but I was strangely drawn in to the (surprisingly) entertaining world of tax law after meeting a Navajo man who came on a Ranger-led tour of the Hubbell House in Ganado. He grew up next door to the historic trading post site and was doing research on Indian education on the rez. The building that currently houses the Visitor’s Center used to be a school, one that falls through the cracks in the Indian history books because it was not affiliated with the Bureau of Indian Affairs and the string of notorious boarding schools dotting the West. The school was started by Lorenzo himself who hired the teacher. Anyhow, the man proposed that economic development on tribal land is inhibited (among other things) by complex relations with the federal government including the limitations on land “held in trust.” Well, after bloody competition with the Spaniards, Manifest Destiny, Kit Carson and The Long Walk, and a roller coaster “stock reduction program” (that continues today) think about how much you would “trust” the government? Betty pointed me to The Rights of Indians and Tribes: the Authoritative ACLU Guide to Indian and Tribal Rights (Pevar, 2004). The title should read Rights AND Responsibilities as to avoid perpetuating the common misbelieve that Indians simply live off checks generated by the backbone of the non-Indian taxpayer. No so. I challenge you to consult your local librarian and do the research before making assumptions. My favorite Navajo artist, Shonto Begay, sums up the landscape of Navajo country in Reclaimed by Silence (2009). Does this look like the lap of luxury?

Further down the road I met a man in Chinle while waiting for the gas station restroom key who asked if I was traveling. He was sober, so I concluded that the locals are a curious sort, interested, even amused, when not suspicious of the white species. He was missing a few teeth, wore a bright red cowboy shirt, and looked like the sort of grandfather that would show you how to craft a sand painting or shear a Churro (sheep). Back at Goulding’s I went for a stroll to locate a “Hidden Arch” indicated on the campground map. I found it along with a group of five local teenage coeds chilling in a sandstone alcove. One hung back from the group to strike up a brief conversation, which I found useful practice as I will soon be re-indoctrinated into the world of the teenager. He announced that he had flunked 10th grade twice and had an Auntie who lived in Oregon. I have concluded that “Aunties” are in abundance and figure as prominent family members in Navajo culture, which after all is a matrilineal society.

Later, when I went to leave the area, the encounter took a slightly creepy turn as he too leapt up, and I could no longer distinguish whether he was simply hungering for new people to interact and demonstrating his reluctance for me to leave in an awkward way, or, er, hungering for something else. I have reasons to be suspicious. I once had an unfortunate experience on a Mexican subway, and a traumatic experience as a child where a group of men pulled up next to Mom’s Plymouth Duster in a grocery store parking lot, stealing the gas cap off it while my baby brother and I were inside. Along with that there are countless grandmotherly admonitions and Reader’s Digest “It happened to me!” tales, ingrained into me from cautious elders. You could say I was more than wary, despite my inclination to think the best. Would someone please buy me a Bowie knife for Christmas? The only knife I own to speak of (besides the kitchen variety) is a Swiss Army type multi-tool given to graduating seniors of my FFA chapter in high school. I need one that fits in a hand-tooled leather sheath with a belt attachment. No guns please. All NPS buildings have a prominently displayed “No firearms” sign on entrances. These appeared after our beloved George the Second deemed it necessary to allow loaded and concealed weapons into National Parks reversing a long-standing restriction…but let’s not go there. Back to the road trip.

I toured Harry and Leone (“Mike”) Goulding’s trading post and home turned museum. Just behind the museum is the “John Wayne Cabin” which was part of the set for his film She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, which housed his character, Cavalry Captain Nathan Brittles. Plenty of John Wayne paraphernalia in the modern “trading post” which is really a gift store with everything from John Wayne toilet paper, “It’s rough, it’s tough and it doesn’t take crap off anyone!” to exquisite Navajo rugs which I wish I could afford.

I got rained on in the wee hours at Goulding’s campground, so the rain fly finally came out. It was one of those storms you heard from a distance, with thunder and lightning moving progressively closer, but so snuggled in a sleeping bag it’s a difficult thing to rouse yourself in the predawn hours and fiddle with zippers, attachments, and stakes that don’t ever want to go deeper than in inch in oven baked Arizona ground. I love thunderstorms so after rain-proofing my shelter I crawled back in and enjoyed the sounds and smells from within. When I did rise for good I was rewarded with an amazing sunrise seen from the open door of the tent camper’s bathroom while brushing my teeth. That crepuscular light emerges quickly and fades, a short-lived phenomena defying capture, disseminating the vaporous nature of beauty. After an intentional shower I came out to find a full rainbow arching the sky, a coda to the first light storm.

After gingerly packing up my soaked tent I headed north through Mexican Hat a small settlement named after the head-in-a-sombrero-shaped rock nearby. A brief detour revealed Goosenecks State Preserve, a unique occurrence where the San Juan River takes three drastic U-Turns into the landscape. An intriguing sign marked “Valley of the Gods” beckoned, but I didn’t have time to explore, I was headed for Mesa Verde in southeastern Colorado.

The little corner of Utah I crossed provided no end to changing rock formations and variation in desert microclimates. Bluff, Utah is a remote outpost also taking its name from the winding geologic escarpment that shelters the dwellings. I passed through the Ute Reservation, distinguishing itself from its Navajo neighbor by the presence of a casino. The nightmarish bird shaped oil rigs pecking the ground on Ute land reminded me too of the dichotomy between economic subsistence and environmental sustainability that every tribe hashes out at countless chapter meetings and councils.

Only a few miles after crossing the border into Colorado the terrain evolved into a mountainous horizon, the Southern Rockies looming to the north while the barren plateau of New Mexico marked its territory to the south with the ghostly shape of Shiprock.

Cortez is the bustling “Gateway to the Southwest” where I stopped for gas and purchased passes at the Colorado Welcome Center for guided tours of ruins at Mesa Verde. The Center was staffed with lovely retired folk eager to share their knowledge of the area.

Mesa Verde, the Park Service’s first cultural park is literally a green oasis covering a labyrinth of tablelands and canyons the highest point topping out at 8,500 feet. I checked in at Morefield Campground and immediately put the rain fly on. Monsoon clouds seem to hover in perpetuity during the summer months. My next stop was the Chapin Mesa Museum and the self-guided tour of Spruce Tree House. There was an interesting tourist moment where we lined up to descend into a kiva (ceremonial room of the Ancestral Pueblo, or Anasazi). Those at the top waited for those in the room to come up the ladder and for a moment there it was like clowns in a car or mimes in a phone booth, they kept coming and coming…

I decided I had enough time to do the loop trail to Petroglyph Point, the trailhead enticing me on my exit from the ruins. I had a deadline to be at Balcony House for a guided tour—the only way you can see it. At 2.4 miles it was a quick stretch of the legs, but felt rushed due to my deadline. Unfortunate too, because the trail begged to be taken in slowly, with the rock arranging itself into tight passages, overhangs, and scenic overlooks into the valley below. While stopping for photo ops at the petroglyph wall I met a man with connections to Oregon who shared his trail guide explaining what all the symbols meant. The panel basically tells the migration story of the ancient people who lived there.

I made it to Balcony House with five minutes to spare for Ranger Castillo’s Indiana Jones adventure up ladders and through tunnels, which keep grandma and grandpa away from this experience. Another solo traveler from California emerged from the sea of Europeans on the tour and we traded Southwest experience stories while waiting in lines for the Indiana Jones archaeological experience. The tour ran long and I circled around to Cliff Palace for the next guided tour, considered the showpiece ruin of the Park’s 600 plus cliff dwellings. The Southwest travel enthusiast from So Cal emerged again, so that helped pass the time between tours. Cliff Palace is aptly named, it is definitely the largest structure of its kind. The tour took place in the evening but the sun never emerged to create that lovely glow you see in tour guides.

After a day on the road, a hike, and lots of standing I was ready for another meal-in-a-bag back at the campground. The weather just wouldn’t cooperate however and decided to pour just as I prepared to boil water. My new MSR Pocket Rocket however is much more efficient than my Dragonfly which seemed to take forever to reach boiling point. Vegetable Lasagna warmed the tummy and Mexican hot chocolate mix sent by a friend from Oregon served as the perfect night cap as I drifted off between the rain drops…

I skipped a shower the next morning in favor of getting on the road early. Next stop: Canyon de Chelly, jointly managed by Navajo Nation and the National Park Service. I was loathe to leave Mesa Verde, and Colorado as a whole. As I drove back through Cortez there were a group of hot air balloons launching from the back lot of a Wal-Mart. There was corn and even a mint field in the agricultural zone outside the city. Mint fields! Ever since I can remember, mint fields have played an important role in my summer experience.

On my way southward again I made a pit stop at Four Corners, paid my three dollars and proceeded to photograph a stranger standing at the famous junction instead of asking one of the hard ridin’ Harley clan to take a mug. Like I said, I hadn’t showered that morning and I wasn’t feeling very photogenic.

There were some bleak moments in the drive through the desert, but buttes and contours broke up the monotony. The best moment was the sighting of a free roaming pig trotting happily along the road. I had seen sheep, goats, cattle, horses and dogs beyond the white man’s fence line, but the pig was a new one.

Like the Grand Canyon, Canyon de Chelly suddenly appears out of nowhere, a primordial crack littered with riparian growth at the bottom. What sets de Chelly, or Tseyi’ apart is the continued presence of the Navajo people, descendants of the Ancestral Puebloans. They graze cattle and sheep along the washes and streams running through the canyons. I hiked down the White House Ruins Trail, the only trail accessible to the public without the presence of a guide. On the way down I thought I heard singing from a member of a trail crew out laying stone steps. While it turned out to be a series of ballads from a radio, it had the otherworldly feel of the original inhabitants clanging stone upon stone as they carved out their dwellings, singing as they worked. The ruins are fenced off, but through the binoculars I saw that they had already been marred with graffiti, although the markings were distinctly local: Yazzie, Begay, Chee; common Navajo surnames. The equivalent of Thompsons, Johnsons, and Smiths.

I got my first close look at the sacred datura plant during the hike. They have a trumpet shape like an enlarged morning glory, but grow in clumps near the water. There were jeeps congregated near the ruins, at the ready to share the history of the area. A few vendors hawked paintings and jewelry. After having hiked the Grand Canyon, the hike out of Canyon de Chelly was a walk in the park. There was one very nervous man leaning into the cliff as he ascended, lacking confidence in the slickrock footing, which, contrary to its name does not really make for slick walking. He reminded me of myself crossing snowfields in the Tetons, focusing one foot in front of the other. Everyone has their threshold.

Spider Rock Overlook was a peaceful spot with great rocks for sitting and contemplating the navel of the world. Spider Rock is named for Spider Woman, responsible for teaching the Navajo people how to weave. I could have lingered longer, but I was only halfway home to Grand Canyon at that point and I had one more stop.

Hubbell Trading Post Historic Site is just inside the Ganado settlement boundaries (the only incorporated township on Navajo Nation is Kayenta). This was a great visit with a working trading post stocked with the usual rugs and silverwork, but also dry and canned goods. The locals still stop in to make trades for Arbuckle’s Coffee and Bluebird Flour. I have yet to attempt the making of Indian fry bread myself, but I purchased some Bluebird flour while at Hubbell. I think it may have been the most appropriate place to purchase said flour. I also picked up some damson plum preserves. Just the name implies sweetness. Frybread was born out of the Navajo imprisonment at the end of The Long Walk. With government issued flour, sugar, baking soda, salt, and lard frybread came to life. Something out of nothing. A means of survival. On the other hand, many tribal leaders blame frybread for the epidemic proportion of diabetes among tribal members. Here is a great article from the Smithsonian about frybread’s controversial presence on the rez. It IS delicious, but so are french fries, and we all know how good those are for you…

While waiting around for the tour through Lorenzo Hubbell’s house, el jefe as the young man behind the trading post counter referred to him, I watched a ranger bottle feed a bummer lamb, observed the horses flicking flies in the corral, and examined a Hogan down the lane. Inside the Visitor’s Center a woman sat weaving a rug, while she and the man behind the information desk spoke in the lilting Navajao tongue. The ranger who led the tour ended up being a Teacher Ranger Teacher (1st grade) from Albuquerque. You could say that the Hubbell home was comprised of an eclectic collection of Southwestern art; including red cont crayon drawings by Burbank, requisite deer and bison heads, a fortune in Navajo rugs and baskets, a small library, and a few Catholic icons, as Hubbell came from a family lineage in Mexico. The kitchen held familiar vintage cooking tools my Mom has collected over the years. Adjacent the kitchen was the cook’s quarters, spare in comparison to the lush art in the guest rooms. The single picture hanging on the wall in the cook’s room was a headless, plucked bird of some variety. I paid my respects to the chickens in their coop before I left. The goal at Hubbell is similar to that of the Grant-Kohrs Ranch in Montana, to demonstrate with as much realism as possible, what it was like to be there during the peak of its existence.

Instead of taking the major highway back to Grand Canyon I drove the less traveled road across the Hopi mesas. This was scenic…and sobering. The Hopi seem to have even less economic enterprises going for them than their neighbors. Old Oraibi on Third Mesa is arguably the oldest continuously inhabited settlement in the country. There was a horse trailer and decrepit truck broke down partway up a hill (the horses looked ancy) with a gentleman eyeing the exterior and a distraught looking woman in the driver’s seat. Further on I saw a man standing at the end of his driveway peering down the road, expectant of a ride is my guess. Hitchhiking men dot the roads all over the rez. Unemployment hovers around 45% for the Navajo. You thought 11% in Oregon was bad. I spotted some struggling cornfields among the sagebrush. They seemed so forlorn compared to the erect rows of tasseled fields in the Willamette Valley. The highway through Hopi country was so devoid of vehicles—excepting the occasional mini van and old Chevys—that it was a disappointment to return to Tuba City and “civilization.” I drove back into Grand Canyon after what must have been a recent rain shower, the roads were still wet, and the juniper ever perfuming the air.

Slept in, read a short story from Annie Proulx’s Close Range, and was then crestfallen upon discovering I only had two eggs left in the fridge—making Eggs Santa Fe requires five. Things improved when I reached Shoshone Point. There was one other car and the two occupants were walking out as I walked down the mile-long muddy dirt road. I have not seen true blue sky for about a week, but blue sky does not compare to the mysticism of a near white out. I’ve seen the canyon, or rather not seen it but felt its yawning presence in the black of star-gazing. Cloaked in night, the canyon gains additional power in what is obscured from view, but on a clear night that power felt benevolent. What I felt today was…two parts malevolent, one part awe. Half the attraction of Shoshone is that it is an unmarked viewpoint with a small dirt parking area and a sign presiding over the entrance of a gated roadway that advises use by permit only. The picnic area may be reserved by private parties, is rumored to be popular for weddings, and I believe it was a locale President Obama and his family visited the summer of 2009 (it’s a spot easily secured by men in black).

Trivia aside, it is not the common tourist that will note the spot in a guidebook, locate the turnoff, then trek the (gasp) one mile to the jutting cliff peninsula. The second part of the attraction is that there are no retaining walls, no fences, just you and empty space. Anyway, I was alone at midday in a boiling fog walking out along a well-worn path to the tipping point. A large stone the shape of a mushroom cap, presided over the view. But there was no view, or with some patience the fog would occasionally part to reveal distant buttes and pinnacles, flanked by white ghosts, mummified cotton, death shrouds. As I sat on a slab of cold stone the clouds enveloped me to such a state that I felt mildly claustrophobic. The air was heavy, thick. Willa Cather writes in Death Comes for the Archbishop, “Everywhere the sky is the roof of the world; but here the earth was the floor of the sky. The landscape one longed for when one was far away, the thing all about one, the world one actually lived in, was the sky, the sky!” On top of this suffocating white presence there were ominous rumblings to the north, directly across the canyon. This was thunder that mumbled rather than boomed. This dark gossip, coupled with the sky filling up my throat riveted me to the spot, as if to move would tear a hole in the atmosphere. Other than the northern vibration, there was no sound, like being suspended inside a box filled with liquid styrofoam on a cosmic mail truck. The penetration of the light brought amoebas out to play on the lenses of my eye. Maybe it was due to the slight distortion of vision that a contact lens wearer will never escape from, but they were there nonetheless, swimming under the titan currents of molecule and atom. After an adequate period of white hypnosis I left. To my knowledge the movement did not cause damage to the ozone.

My next stop was the Tusayan museum and ruins. Getting there involved more exposure to white—the white of my knuckles as I braked for parts of the road lost beyond 10 feet ahead. Appropriately there were some orange construction signs left out that read “Use Caution. Smoke/Fog Ahead.” These were meant for a controlled burn of steepled undergrowth, stacked and cut. Every third oncoming car had their hazard lights on. The ruins were a series of shin high rock walls, ancient foundations of storerooms, living quarters, and a ceremonial kiva. The museum had atlatl, awl, mano and matate. A coyote pelt, velour shirt worn by the Navajo, a bored NPS employee smiling through his teeth at the wet tourists. Wait, velour? I had no idea that velour was a fabric used by tribes of the Southwest. It was introduced by the Spaniards sometimes in the 1500s.

After the museum I decided to check out the Cameron Trading Post since I was already halfway there. I went to the Gallery first where a Navajo man was enlightening a couple about assimilation and cultural loss. A marvelous collection of rugs, jewelry, pottery, and a smattering of vintage buckskin clothes and bags. I don’t recall seeing anything under $1,000. True works of art. The majority of the parking lot was milling about in the ginormous souvenir shop adjacent to gallery, post office, gas station, and hotel. The merchandise was just about the polar opposite of the gallery contents. Cheap trinkets, mass production, shot glasses, tacky wallets, hideous “pottery” with unnatural colors and cliché patterns. It was sacrilegious really after having just seen black on black fired clay, shining with the care of one-of-a-kind craftsmanship. I purchased what I always do—paper and food stuff: postcards, a calendar for a family member, red chile jelly for a friend. I did look longingly at the turquoise inlaid silverwork beneath glass. Dead pawn is affordable, but I have yet to see a pawned Navajo rug—a genuine one appreciates in value. There was a huge rug-in-the-making on a loom, but the artisan was not at work while I was there. Curiosity satisfied I returned to Highway 64.

I made a stop at the Little Colorado Scenic Overlook on the return trip. About five of the 30 makeshift wooden vendor shelters were occupied. No sign welcomes you to Navajo Nation, you simply know by the presence of these faded corrugated structures lining the roadside. Scenic overlook and artisan booths are synonymous on the reservation. When headed toward Cameron I had caught a brief glimpse of rust-colored water tumbling over a precipice along the gorge in a long ribbon. The rain had subsided upon return however, but orange puddles sitting in a wash gave evidence of recent torrents.

Three dogs sat forlorn in the parking area. My week-long roommate and I had almost rear-ended a mini van that had braked suddenly for a pair of Rez dogs abruptly crossing the road on a return trip from Flagstaff. Ranger Lori, wrote a children’s book, The Adventures of Salt and Soap at Grand Canyon, about the discovery of two Rez puppies discovered at the bottom of the canyon. Lori eventually adopted them. I met Salt and Soap, now full grown, at a Fourth of July barbeque last month. Tribal custom is that animals are free agents, like the land, beholden to no one. Ownership and domestication is regulated to herds of sheep, cattle, and horses, wherein lies economic benefit. To date I have heard of no monetary undertaking produced by packs of dogs—at least in the southwest. The Innuit may feel differently. For a person indoctrinated into the opposite custom, the cultivation of animals as pets, I cannot help but see sadness in their canine eyes. Whether this is my own ethnocentric lens or real anguish on the part of the dogs I cannot say. 

I stopped at Grandview Point upon re-entering the Park. Too many people, too windy. Shoshone drew me back again, my intention to observe another canyon sunset. Again, only one car besides my own. A French couple, perched on the very edge of the point, now cleared of white, arms entwined peering over a map. At least two other parties came after me, but they retreated quickly. Whether it was the obvious privacy that the French lovebirds sought, or my solemn gaze to the West silently declaring all within sight my sanctuary. I actually brought out my binoculars for the first time on the trip in the desperate hopes of spotting a cougar or bighorn. No such luck, although I did see what may have been a backcountry composting toilet.

It was apparent the sun was not going to break through for a final goodbye to the first of August so I left the embracing couple to their Fate. My impatience prevented me from being apart from vehicle however as the sky lit up lavender and coral just as I hit the turnoff to the village. I should have used the elk jam as an opportunity to document the blazing colors with photographic evidence…but I didn’t. It is not possible, nor moral, to capture every passing of the sun. Nor is it right to use flash on a calf nursing mother elk at dusk, put the lenses away people! Live in the moment. Although I have to wonder why the elk insist upon hanging out along the road. I may have misstated the elk story at the canyon in an earlier post. There were Roosevelt elk endemic to the area, but they dwindled to a few bleached bones. The elk you currently see roaming the lawn of El Tovar are imported from the Rocky Mountains. My evening ended with the eating of a hard little nectarine imported from California. The land of milk and honey has curdled…or what we should be doing is cultivating orchards…and elk in our backyards.  

Yesterday I hiked first to Dripping Springs then to Santa Maria Springs via the Hermit Trail. There had been a good downpour the night before, replete with thunder and lightning. I know this because it woke me from a deep sleep. A monsoon. The day however brought steady fog, and variations between mist and drizzle. A fine distinction perhaps only made by residents of the Pacific Northwest. It’s all rain to Arizonans. The trail bore marks of having posed as a temporary stream, with deep rivets and fissures parting the sediment. There were moments where the path seemed in danger of washing away altogether in areas where slide met sudden exposure. Deer and coyote left printed evidence of their passing in the red slope. The Navajo distinguish between “male rains” and “female rains.” I struggle with these categories. The phrase “hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” comes to mind. Hard and soft. Black and white. Where are the nuanced mists? The stinging pellets of hail in all of this? Biological truths do reveal themselves in these simplified categories. Men do seem to be responsible for a majority of pillage and destructive force. Gandhi was fascinated by the lives of soldiers. Yet, men have slaughtered in the name of Helen, Cleopatra, Isabella, Elizabeth, and the gentle monikers of wives, daughters, mothers, and great-aunts. Are women not capable of rage? Have men never cried? At the same time, the Navajo and Hopi are matrilineal societies; women possess a great deal of power in that regard. At least where traditional values are still regarded. Internal debate within the tribe considers the painful choices of compromise versus economic stability. Mining, water rights, tourism. It was a picture of a woman on the digital page of The Navajo Times newspaper standing alone atop a mesa, stalwart in her convictions about preventing another heli pad for fat white tourists to be built on her homeland. Hers were not the eyes of a fragile mist, I saw monsoons of hardship and endurance. Okay, so you can't really see her eyes in the picture, but her bearing implies it.

For the Navajo, The Rez being labeled “the third world” is an ironic one. In Navajo creation myth the Diné have emerged from three worlds and are currently living in a fourth. The poverty is striking. How could it be anything different to a privileged middle class school librarian? I still live check to check, I’ve been laid off, known the misery of not having my skills valued. I recently took a new job at a lower rate of pay, but it was on my terms, my choice. Or at least I tell myself that, as it may really have been preventative paranoia about being bumped around by public politics. We are taught in white culture to value the number of zeros attached to a paycheck. Each year I grow older I value happiness over the social imperative to “get ahead.” In reading the introduction to a travel guide on the Four Corners, the author relates an encounter where he picked up a hitchhiking Navajo man who told him about his work herding horses, then simply stated, “I am happy.”

Returning to the idea of the genders being reduced to rainfall intensity, maybe it is that simple, but it isn’t about genders, it’s about state of mind. Male or female we rage and caress with the same hand. There is a time for righteous anger and a time to console. Then there’s the problem of reducing acts of nature to human situations. Nature simply is. Indifferent to the human condition, that’s its draw, its lure. The imperative is then to know thyself. Know when to rage and when to caress.

The words of my favorite song (“Librarian,” from My Morning Jacket) about unrequited love come to mind, “Everything’d be great, everything’d be good, if everybody gave like everybody could.” Give like a monsoon and not a drizzle I might add.

Three minutes of a 30 minute Ranger Program on water conservation with 2-6 year-olds. Flip video has a "magic movie" feature, seen here, which randomly splices together clips from a longer piece.

Day 21: S. Rim to N. Rim via trans-canyon shuttle

Go forth and conquer! Packed up my gear and headed to the Bright Angel Lodge to await the shuttle to the N. Rim. My pack feels good but I might have to lose the two Gatorade bottles I planned on bringing as a treat. It’s also a treat to have a light pack in 90+ degree heat. I had to wait for a string of mules topped with tourists crossing the tracks. Oh the irony. I yield to them standing there in midday heat with 40-some pounds strapped to me as they sit high and mighty in an assortment of city slicker cowboy hats and Ray Bans. Made it to the lodge without getting hit by a tour bus and plunked down my $80 for the shuttle. Sat down to wait on the porch, where other backpackers were assembling. It was somewhat tortuous to watch a tourist on the bench next to me eat a giant bowl of ice cream as I was about to purge body and soul for the next three days. Gear stowed and on our way I was one of seven people: our driver, Rick, a 30-something couple from Quebec, and a trio from North Carolina—one of them leaving behind a spouse with bad knees. Christine, the woman from Quebec, was a forensic toxicologist and her male partner a math teacher. Mitzi, from Carolina, was former Navy and retired high school teacher of computers/business/economics. I don’t recall what her husband did, but their friend Jerry was former construction, attempting to get in as a shop teacher, and was rumored to be a marvel craftsperson with wood. He and his wife own a bed and breakfast in Richfield, North Carolina.

So assembled, the ride was uneventful, broken by a couple of stops for gas, and a slow crawl over Navajo Bridge to admire the Little Colorado. Navajo Nation lies to the east of the park, and the roadside was dotted with wooden lean-tos built by the enterprising Dine, selling an assortment of pottery and jewelry. Crossing the Painted Desert was desolate, but I was dazed by the pinks and reds of the Vermillion Cliffs. Approaching the N. Rim we crossed alpine meadows, an occasional deer plucking the sweet grass. Obnoxiously placed signs were the only mar to the landscape reminding equally obnoxious tourists to not drive off road onto the meadows. Someone surely attempted this otherwise there would not be signs for it. Not that the general populace ever adheres to signs, limits and warnings.

Rick dropped the couple from Quebec at the trailhead, the folks from Carolina at the Lodge, and me in the employee housing near the General Store where I hunted down Addy’s Tennessee plates. She has the best one person cabin facing a side canyon with a bit of a view from her kitchen window. We took a driving tour of the N. Rim facilities. As everyone had said, due to it being more remote, it was significantly more relaxed than the mad hordes swarming the S. Rim. One of the GCNP “branch libraries” Betty serves when she can is located in a brown, sliding door shed/barn/office/meeting/rec room building—a typical multipurpose structure to prove to the taxpayer that their dollars are being stretched. Not that the taxpayer cares what Rangers do, they are more concerned with where the Skywalk and the restrooms are located. The N. Rim branch library had a surprising number of books along with a rotating rack of magazines and a shelf of paperbacks…It’s a long drive to Flagstaff from up there.

The Grand Canyon Lodge, operated by Forever Resorts (as opposed to Xanterra, who runs all concessions on the S. Rim), was better than all the lodges on the other Rim put together. Situated right on the edge of the canyon, the buttes and mesas jutting above looked closer and I could imagine some truth to John Hance’s cloud-walking story. Every so often an inversion happens in the canyon, and all the clouds above the canyon fall into it. An old cowboy guide with a fondness for tall-tales (most of which involved himself) loved to impress visitors with his tale of being stuck out on one of the buttes when the inversion suddenly dissipated. He was stuck out there so long, the story goes, that he lost enough weight to walk back on the clouds without falling through.

The interior of the lodge reminded me some of Jackson Lake, with its big picture windows, dining area, rock walls, and fireplaces. This lodge had an outdoor fireplace however. Huge! Huge! Huge! Addy showed me the “moon room” a stone alcove on a lower level of the lodge accessed from a paved pathway. Two glassless windows provided human-sized sills to sit and look.

A rushed dinner of grapes and leftover chicken nuggets, a quart of Gatorade and to bed on the floor of Addy’s cabin.
                                                                                                                    
Day 22: N. Rim to Cottonwood Campground

I woke up almost every hour checking my watch, paranoid about being late to the General Store where Rick was going to pick me up after stopping for the threesome from N. Carolina. Very dark. Got on the trail about 4:30am Headlamps were necessary for awhile. Pack felt great, less two quarts of Gatorade and various granola bars I left with Addy. Stopped for breakfast at Supai Tunnel. Mmm, peanut butter. Nice to hike with people. Gorgeous views, red rock, steep, but not uncomfortably so.  Second stop at Roaring Springs, soaked my feet in the creek and counted water skippers. A bold dragonfly sat on my shoulder for awhile. I left the group there, preferring to hike at my own pace for a change. The clouds broke up and the sun warmed things up quickly. The cicadas buzz like lightbulbs gone bad. Cottonwood is near Bright Angel Creek amidst mesquite, lizards, and sandstone. After scoping things out (all the sites were virtually empty) I picked one of the 11 sites, #7. It had a perfect tree cave for lounging on my thinsulite pad. Hung my pack from the pole provided to keep scorpions from napping in pockets, and stashed contents in metal boxes to prevent nocturnal animals from consuming plastic bags.

Ate hearty and napped like a cat, one eye on a rock squirrel who would have liked to have some goldfish crackers, one ear out for rustles, which could be biting, stinging things. Just a lovely lizard doing his head bob, undoubtedly in pursuit of the flies annoying me. Hard to sleep for long. Some raindrops roused me, so I put the rainfly on the tent, probably a compulsive Oregonian thing to do as the precipitation never amounted to much. It doesn’t really rain, it spits, unless it’s a full on monsoon thundershower. I’ve only experienced one such deluge since I’ve been here. Since it was overcast and I heard the Carolina folk stirring I though I would join them. We had both stated our intentions of going to Ribbon Falls…magical place.

Ribbon is one of those falls you can walk right up to and touch, It falls off a cliff of Shinumo Quartzite and onto a cone of travertine (a limestone crystallized from fresh water). When you place your hand against the carpeted dome of moss glasses of water squeeze out. At the base of the rock a grotto has been hollowed out, a tiny cave opening behind a veil of water. The sort of place that entices you to come in, soak yourself, look jealously at the maidenhair fern who have permanent residence. Alas, I am only a visitor. There’s a path that walks behind the falls as well, but it was occupied by another traveler who popped up and asked me what the time was. I almost said I didn’t know, but for the watch on my wrist. Time does not exist in magical places.

It was with reluctance I tore myself away and returned to camp, but not before one last dunk in a mini falls on the creek I had spotted en route to Ribbon. Ecstasy and delight. Back in camp I used some hotel sized conditioner to comb my hair out. Rat’s nest. Dinner of jerky, assorted crackers and nuts, dried fruit. Mitzi came to visit for awhile. Talked about men right off. Funny how that happens. I suppose I’m somewhat conspicuous being a woman traveling alone.

Went to bed early, had a 3:15am alarm. Woke up multiple times in the night hearing strange night creatures attempting to break into the metal storage bins. Thankfully the ringtails haven’t figured out the concept of teamwork. A little thunder, a little rain, barely worth the rainfly, plus it always increases the temperature…

Day 23: Cottonwood to Bright Angel Campground/Phantom Ranch

My headlamp was ornery this morning, but thankfully got it working again without needing to replace batteries I didn’t bring. Checked cautiously for scorpions as I folded up my groundcloth, but none in sight. I felt lizard eyes watching me from the bushes. Packed up and began chasing down the group from Carolina, they had beaten me to the trail. Finally saw them from around a bend and they looked like Gandalf and crew walking through the mines of Moria. Apologies for the nerdy reference but it’s impossible to think of another when surrounded by the ancient stone shadows of 4am light. Cicadas don’t ever seem to stop buzzing. Electric wires of nature’s heater.

The canyon drainage for Bright Angel Creek eventually narrowed to a series of marvelously high walls, all made of schist. A favorite word of middle school aged boys. Stopped for breakfast after about two hours of hiking. Small stone in the back of my boot caused some skin breakage, but otherwise blister free feet. Muscles however beginning to wonder what I’m doing to them. Peaceful white noise, more soothing than the din of any cosmopolitan cafeteria. A snake! A rattler! Saw it prior to breakfast. It took the third person walking past before making itself known. Startling. Fascinating. I was slow at breakfast, so before catching up with the Carolinas a second time that morning I found an abandoned lizard tail along the trail. Almost as cool as the snake. Soft and flexible to the touch. I wonder how he lost it.

Came to an area called ‘The Box,’ which might also be known as ‘The Oven’ at the wrong time of day. Still felt like a boiled egg at 7am. Into Phantom Ranch and civilization. We arrived so early the canteen wasn’t even open yet at 7:30am. Moved on to claim a campsite at Bright Angel, but not before milling about the potable water spigot, meeting a group bent for a day trip to Phantom Falls, a bushwack up a side canyon somewhere in the direction we had just come from. Also met a crazy Rim to River to Rim runner, ultramarathon type, tanned and toned carrying two bandanas and two water bottles. Our jaws and muscles all stood in awe of either stamina or lunacy.

A marvel of a campsite. Right on the creek with a rock wall forming a pool in the stream. This architecture dots the stream all along the campground. I spent innumerable sessions partaking to waters in 100 degree heat. I brought a plant ID book along, but I hate to say it doesn’t make for the most compelling reading. I needed Tony Hillerman. Slept on my thinsulite in a patch of pre-mushed reeds. If I’m tracing the trace of a previous human am I still leaving no trace? At some point even the novelty of sleeping wears off. More eating, soaking, took 2pm tea with Carolina neighbors. Weird to be drinking something hotter than the air temperature, but somehow refreshing.

The canteen was smaller than I thought it would be. Lemonade on ice worth all $2.50 worth. Leather mail bag solicting the most uniquely mailed letters in the United States. Not the world because I’m sure mail travels by horse, camel, and elephant somewhere on the globe. Invested in the tiniest, most expensive plastic spray bottle ever: $6.25 emblazoned in blue, “Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the Grand Canyon.” You think? Where else in the world do humans go around spraying themselves with objects usually reserved for toxic household cleaning agents? Okay Death Valley, the Sahara, Chihuahua… Air conditioning inside the canteen was addictively dangerous. Didn’t spend a whole lot of time there as I didn’t want to become accustomed to the luxury.

Went to the ranger program at 4pm beneath a big cottonwood. It was on early exploration of the Rio Colorado from Tio to Coronado to John Wesley Powell. As I turned to go after the program I saw Marc (from Seychelles) and Jacob (Dept. Head of EE) had been sitting behind me the whole time. I took off my disguise of shades and wide brimmed hat so they recognized me. Jacob introduced me to a third man, Ricardo, now onboard with an international ranger exchange, the site manager for Karukinka Natural Park in Tierra del Fuego, Chile near Patagonia. Since Grand Canyon is a UNESCO World Heritage site, Jacob has been trying to improve and expand the international exchanges that the park and its staff are involved in. Almost half our visitors are from foreign countries as well. To put in terms of my home school, Sabin, we’re so IB! A fourth man, Wayne Ranney, was introduced to us as a geologist, world traveler, and author of about half the books on rocks available in the GCA bookstore. Turns out I had purchased one of them, Carving Grand Canyon: Evidence, Theories, and Mystery. He had been to Seychelles, and had heard of the Wallowa Mountains in Oregon. Ho, mighty Eagle Cap. A true geologist. He has a great blog www.wayneranney.com

Jacob invited me to dinner at the Ranger’s bunkhouse at Phantom and I gladly accepted at the prospect of a hot meal and vegetables. There I was introduced to Mandy, the woman who had given the 4pm program, and Randy, a maintenance worker, in addition to Ricardo, Marc, and Jacob. I had previously met Steve at my campsite, going over the rules about leaving trash around for ring tails and using vegetation as clothes hangers. Marc and Ricardo talked about their purposes at Grand Canyon—Marc is interested in developing more educational programs and Ricardo wants to develop a management plan specific to his park since they don’t have one. We discussed survival literature and I discovered that Betty’s boss, Sissy, was at King’s Canyon and Sequoia during the time the subject from The Last Season, Randy Morgensen, went missing. In a later conversation with Sissy, she confirmed that Eric Blehm, the author, gave accurate accounts and descriptions of the characters involved in the investigation.

After pasta, Mandy took us on a brief scorpion hunt in the mule corral. Sure enough there was one on a rock. They glow under blacklight, but without it they are camouflaged so well that it made me glad about being so careful when rolling up that groundcloth. After the hunt I got a refill on lemonade for a buck and made my way back to my 90 degree tent.

Day 24: Bright Angel to S. Rim

Up at 3am and on the trail by a quarter to 4. Dark, still, hot. There’s no such thing as “cooling off” in evenings at the canyon bottom in summer. I beat the Carolina crew on the trail and they never did catch up, nor did I wait for them as I knew if I stopped for too long my momentum would fail me and I’d never get out of the canyon by 10am.

Hiking across the suspension bridge over the Colorado River was both spooky and thrilling. The river is about 300 yards across and seems even longer in the dark as you contemplate the bridge suddenly snapping and you sinking like a stone to the bottom, weighed down by leftover beef jerky and those items one brings on a backpack trip and never uses. The “just in case” items like extra batteries, compass, and Dad’s 1960s era snake bite kit, that I would not have used even had I been bit by venomous fangs. It was somewhat unfortunate to be walking with only the glow of my headlamp, as even in the dark I could tell that there were some spectacular views along the river from the Bright Angel Trail. On the other hand, when hiking in the dark amidst columns of stone one develops a surreal sense of presence. As if royalty were lined up to review your meager progress and snicker at your struggling pace. More like indifference. Those cliffs, washes, and slides know not of emotion, but I’m convinced they experience.

There were long stretches of sand after the bridge until the Pipe Creek drainage where I turned uphill away from the River. I had my chance there to stop and go to the beach to stick my big toe in the mighty Colorado, but I’d already stopped to turn off an annoying cell phone alarm clock that I didn’t shut off properly. Who knew it would still ring after I had turned the phone off? That’s one persistent alarm.

Ahh, so much cooler along the creek compared to the sweltering night at Phantom. A frog even hopped across the path. Canyon treefrog? Also scared two deer (we scared each other actually, as usually happens when to creatures come around a bend out of sight and sound range) headed toward the creek. As it grew lighter I kept hoping to see desert bighorn, but no luck. Did see an old mine shaft opening in the side of a cliff near Jacob’s Ladder. Near the top of the Ladder I spotted the Carolina three at the bottom. I thought about waving or yodeling, but it seemed irreverent somehow, especially with dawn breaking, a subdued time of day. Yodeling is best done in afternoon with the sun in complete control of the sky.

The rock formations are impossible to accurately capture on film, either with my camera or my rudimentary photographic skills. The light is tricky too. Predawn light isn’t enough, and even the earliest rays proved to wash out some of my attempted efforts. I met two wranglers on the trail leading strings of mules down to Phantom. No tourists, too early, just supplies. I made it to Indian Garden about 7:30am, far before I had intended. There wasn’t a soul around. I contemplated waiting for the trio, but the Rim kept beckoning, so I pushed on after a refill on water. Passed 3 mile rest house, 1.5 mile rest house, the tourists increased, my peace was shattered. The switchbacks seemed longer and more arduous, “heartbreak hill,” they call it. I started fantasizing about showers, milkshakes, and swimming. The tourists were in flip flops, no shirts, carrying small plastic bottles of water. Many whined, “Whose idea was this to hike the canyon?” Most grew silent when they saw me, perhaps it was the potent smell I was giving off. I don’t think there was a dry spot left on my shirt when I topped out on the South Rim. No one was at the top to congratulate me, I turned around and looked at the Bright Angel drainage I had just traversed. Pretty cool. Not so cool for a man, or body, that was helicoptored out by the Park Service as I came up those last few miles. I sat and watched it from the shade. Rumor had it he had died of heat exhaustion. A woman had died earlier in the weekend on the trail to Lava Falls, and a man was found 250 feet below Moran Point—he was rumored to have jumped. The only place I was jumping was in the shower.

Addy and I drove in to Flagstaff today. It was just today I noticed she had a patriotic colored mudflap girl decal on the back of her rig. Plenty of red white and blue wearing citizens in the city, and everyone was out on the street in the downtown area.

We did the mundane stuff first: Deposited my check at the bank, went to Safeway for staples. I had gone to the Backcountry Office the day before for a permit, with the intention of doing the cross canyon trek this weekend. So we also went to Babbit’s Backcountry Outfitters for a few items. After getting advice about where to eat from the tattooed man behind the counter we ate the best fish taco in a little alley-way eatery. On our way to an art show in the Flag park we couldn’t resist popping into a vintage clothing store complete with costume rental and pulp fiction postcards. We were due at a barbeque later in the day so it was tempting to think about what we could go dressed up as. This much fringed suede jacket and replica badge saying “Tribal Police” could have made things interesting, or I may have ended up as a badly drawn character out of a Tony Hillerman novel. No dis to Hillerman’s work. He’s my Nevada Barr murder mystery this summer. Strange deaths in breathtaking places. The art show in the park was average, with the most unique booth being a photographer who specialized in long exposures to create “spirit shadows” www.sheerentertainment.com Some free music in Heritage Square caused us to take pause in the warm Arizona sunshine. A trio specializing in surf rock (Bonsai Pipeline!) and early rock n’ roll provided entertainment—after we got over the fact that he was blaming women for taking over television. He had been trying to derive audience participation with the theme song from Bonanza with little success, so he tried the old trick of pitting men against women. Apparently women are to blame for the (feminine?) comedy of Frasier and the loss of shows like Dragnet, Gunsmoke, and Bonanza—where it’s okay to be 50 years old and still live with your Dad. The singer then tried to rile the crowd with insults like: “the six senior citizens in wheelchairs we played for at Aspen Peaks last week were livelier than you,” or “three drunk golfers would make more noise than that.” At any rate his music was fun.

We moved on to the 77th Annual Hopi Festival of Arts and Culture at the Museum of Northern Arizona where I had been hoping to see some Hopi reggae, but sadly realized that their website was on “Indian Time” and hadn’t been updated since 2007. It was up-to-date the day before the festival when I logged in to the internet to verify times, but no reggae this year. Instead the big attraction was Kiowa Gordon, born in Germany, but a member of the Hualapai tribe--of Grand Canyon West Skywalk fame, remember the Skywalk is NOT managed by NPS people! Kiowa landed a role in the Twilight saga's New Moon film, so he was there signing posters and looking pretty. I preferred the, er, high art, the Hopi clowns and the Navajo jewelry on display in the museum collection. I also discovered the work of Ed Mell, painter of the new west, similar to Serena Supplee in style.

We made it back to the Village after narrowly missing the back end of a mini van who thought fit to slam on its brakes in the middle of the desert for two roaming dogs. The dogs were cute, but twisted metal would not have been. Hopi spirits protected us. Our barbeque was at a permanent resident’s house, with the ulterior motive (besides being the 4th of July) being to show off the work of some local artists. There was a Pabst Blue Ribbon mosaic, some disturbing work involving manatees, and my favorite which was the perspective of two bison looking out from the purple-curtained window of a train, long rifle barrels pointed at the prairie, which was littered with, er, men. Call me a sick puppy but there was some deep commentary going on about how the West was lost. Speaking of dogs, Ranger Lori showed up at the BBQ, author of The Adventures of Salt and Soap in the Grand Canyon, sold in all the GCA bookstores. Salt and Soap were found wandering around the inner canyon, most likely dogs from the neighboring Rez (much like the ones we almost hit out on the plateau). Lori ended up adopting them and writing a children’s book about their discovery. Salt and Soap were also present begging Cheetos and bits of chicken. I thought about doing one of my Ranger Storytime Programs on Salt and Soap, trying in the problem of animal abandonment in Parks, but thought later I didn’t want to take on the cultural challenge of First Peoples perspective on “pets.” Just didn’t think that conversation would sit well with 2-6 year olds.

No fireworks were needed as a campfire sufficed, and entertaining stories and personalities won out over a trip down to Tusayan for their famed 32-float parade. The parade of humanity is always worth celebrating.

A Ranger led Fossil Walk revealed sponges, trace fossils (prints of marine creatures), brachiopods, and insight into family behavior (albeit nothing new). Just as bivalves (clams, for example) share common traits, so did the Old Navy T-shirt wearing family, the USC colored clothing of another, the little girl pouting about being drug out to look for fossils, while Mom, Dad and big brother try to have a good time despite frowns and sighs.

So I have to brag on Betty a bit. She was named Interpreter of the Year for 2009 at Grand Canyon. This for an interpreter in a back corner of Park Headquarters in street clothes as opposed to the flat hats in the front lines. I think this speaks volumes about how successful Betty has been marketing her services, improving visibility, and educating staff about the added value an onsite research library can bring to a Park. I mentioned the fact that her term is up this September and must reapply to continue working. She pointed out a Reference Librarian opening at San Francisco Maritime History Park to me, encouraging me to apply. Wouldn’t hurt since I now live in dread of a call from my principal mid July—I mentioned why in my last post. Cataloguing sea chanteys and sailing vessels has appeal. Reminds me of this symposium I went to at UO which included about 15 of us around a table discussing obscure folk ballads from the 18th and 19th centuries. My paternal grandmother was a US Women’s Marine during World War Two, stationed in San Francisco.

                                                                                                                    

I shall henceforth be known as the “mean Ranger” who makes little kids lug gallons of water in midday heat to reenact the historic experience of first settlers and first peoples of the canyon—actually, I’m sure the first peoples had the sense to go for water in the cool of early morning and evening—only white folk run around in the heat of the day attempting to accomplish things. When is the siesta movement going to change labor practices in this country? Siestas would do wonderful things for public education. It would do wonderful things for the economy, get people’s priorities straightened out. PPS is currently debating what subjects and services to take away from students. Cutting the usual things that do not just enrich but are essential to a young person’s educational development. I detest the terms “special,” “enrich,” and “supplemental.” We need a social revolution people, complaining to the TV isn’t going to do anything, get up and take to the street. Exercise your right as a US citizen—protest.

Back to storytime—being in the flat hat certainly garners you looks from the tourists, mostly curiosity, jealousy, respect, and signpost to flag down for extraction of the secret knowledge about where restrooms are located. There was some lovely elk scat and a perfect print in the mud near the tree where we spread out. Teachable moment. The first folks I talked to were from none other than Portland, OR. Adorable respectful bunch, with the inquisitive 3 year old who piped up periodically why I was reading to ask important questions. We read Snail Girl Brings Water: A Navajo Story, retold by Geri Keams. I passed around laminated prints of all featured characters (otter, beaver, canyon treefrog, desert tortoise, snail), and a wooden frog that supposedly makes the sound of a frog croaking when you stroke its ridged back with a wooden stick. My lesson plans are posted here under “Environmental Education Resources.” The gallon jugs of water were a hit, only four out of about 14 kids were up for my little relay, but considering most of them were probably worn out from sightseeing it went well. As I was walking through the El Tovar parking lot, one tourist said to me, “You’re living the life aren’t you?” I replied something like, “Well, I am carrying 32 pounds of water right now, but besides that…”