Travel Biography - Week 20.

Some Grand Canyon Information.

The Grand Canyon of the Colorado River is one of the World's Natural Wonders, and another is the Great Barrier Reef, off Queensland. I had the incredible privilege to visit both, the latter in 1997.

My first visit to the Grand Canyon was in 1978, and my second visit was in 1995. During my first visit, the Instamatic 110 camera, which I had at the time, failed to take proper photos of the experience. Therefore the need for another stop in the next convenient year, which was in 1995. Therefore, the photos included in this week's blog are from the 1995 visit. Since I will be concentrating on the 1978 visit, again, like last week, I apologise if you feel that the originality of this article was compromised.

Grand Canyon 1995. In 1978, I looked a lot younger!

The Canyon is a 217-mile, 350 km long, steep-sided gash cut into the Colorado Plateau by the Colorado River. It's up to 18 miles, 29 km wide, and approx 1,600 metres, or over a mile deep. Because the whole of the Colorado Plateau, which extends into the States of Utah, Colorado, and New Mexico, as well as Arizona itself, slants towards the southerly direction, the North Rim, at 1,680 metres above the River, is about 300 metres higher than the South Rim which is approx 1,380 metres high. That means the UK's highest mountain, Ben Nevis in Scotland, peaking at 1,345 metres above sea level, if relocated inside the Grand Canyon, then both rims would look over the summit height of Ben Nevis.

Due to the southward slope of the Colorado Plateau, the River is considerably closer to the South Rim than the North Rim. This is due to the direction of the rainwater draining southwards, causing a greater rate of erosion of the north wall. Hence the mountains within the Canyon, knowns as buttes, along with the valleys separating them, are mainly on the north side of the river, thus the south wall, although lower than the north wall, is steeper.

One of the most remarkable features making up the Grand Canyon is the stratified layers of different rocks consisting of a horizontal, sandwich-like formation that applies to both rims and to all the buttes and the larger mesas within. The perfectly tidy yet distinct layers indicate that they were laid down by the water that once covered the area, a theory agreed upon by both secular geologists and Creationists alike.

Forming the upper rim edge is Kaibab Limestone. Below that is the Torroweap Formation. Next, the Coconino Sandstone rests on Hermit Shale. Below this, is the Supai Group of rock layers. Beneath is the Redwall Limestone. This rests upon Temple Butte Limestone, which itself lies on a layer of Muave Limestone. As the cliff lowers further still, next is Bright Angel Shale. Finally, Tapeats Limestone completes the upper section of the stratification. This series of layers, each bedding plane perfectly horizontal, was laid between 260 million years ago to 550 million years ago, according to secular geologists. However, beneath the Strata and forming the bedrock is the Vishnu Schist, along with Granite, both of volcanic origin which, according to geologists, was formed some 1.6 billion years ago.

Hence, where the water-laid Tapeats Sandstone meets the Vishnu Schist, there are around 550 million years of rock layers missing. This is known as the Great Unconformity. Yet the bedding plane between the Schist and the sandstone looks as normal and without incident as all the other layers above.

South Rim View. Tonto Plateau is centre-left.

Grand Canyon in the evening.

Grand Canyon Village on the South Rim marks the location of the Bright Angel Trailhead. This path, known as the Bright Angel Trail, is 9.6 miles, 15.5 km in length as it reaches Phantom Ranch on the floor of the Canyon. The Ranch is located a half-mile inside the mouth of Bright Angel Canyon, a side gorge leading up to the North Rim. Bright Angel Creek flows through it to join the Colorado River, a short way downstream from the Ranch. A couple of miles east of the Village, South Kaibab Trailhead begins a 7-mile trail which eventually joins the Bright Angel Trail at Phantom Ranch, then continues on for another 16 miles as North Kaibab Trail to the North Rim. Thus, this Y-shape trail configuration is known as the Corridor, and it's this part of the Canyon that's gazed upon by countless numbers of visitors at and around the Village.

Arrival at the Canyon Village.

Having arrived at the South Rim after a two-hour bus ride from Flagstaff, I was taken aback by the sight. Spread before me, was the Canyon in all its splendour. The North Rim appeared as a straight line on the horizon, totally unaware that it was at a higher elevation than where I was standing. When I arrived there in 1978, I knew virtually nothing about the Canyon. Thus, the information I can provide was learned since I visited the National Park, and not whilst there or beforehand.

Grand Canyon Village.

My plan was to spend just the day at the South Rim, absorb the glory into my memory and camera alike, and then return to Flagstaff to resume the long journey to Los Angeles. In the meantime, even as an untrained eye, I could make out, far away, what looks like a long side Canyon leading away from us and towards the North Rim, it was later that I learned that this was Bright Angel Canyon, a tributary of the Inner Gorge in which the Colorado River flows. On either side and below eye level, I would have looked at Buddha Temple Butte directly in front, to the left of it, Cheops Pyramid, with Isis Temple Butte just behind it. On the other side of the tributary gorge, Zoroaster Temple Butte dominates with Brahman Temple Butte next to it.

All these features were on the other side of the River, hidden from view at the Village area of the South Rim. If one is mystified by such Eastern names, then it was Clarence Dutton, a mid-19th Century geologist who had an interest in Eastern religions, who gave names to these pinnacles as he surveyed the Canyon.

At Indian Gardens on the Tonto Plateau.

Off from the South Rim and from where I stood, a small pinnacle, known as Battleship Rock overlooks Tonto Plateau, a level shelf of Bright Angel Shale on which Indian Gardens sits. A side trail branching off the Bright Angel Trail leads to Plateau Point, adding 1.5 miles to an Inner Gorge overlook over the River which is directly below, and the first sight of it after a downhill hike from the Village. Had I known about the South Kaibab Trailhead a few miles east of the village, I would have been taken aback by the impressive O'Neil Butte leading off the South Rim near Yaki Point.

Preparing for the Hike.

As I strolled west, I came across what looked like the start of a trail leading down into the Canyon. A flash of excitement took hold of me as I watched one tired and sweaty hiker after another reaching the end of their journey, exiting the trail and arriving back into the safety of the Village. This, I learned, was the Bright Angel Trailhead, and this was the most popular of all hiking trails within the national park.

I approached Bright Angel Lodge, which wasn't far from the trailhead, to ask more about the trail. The lady at the counter quickly responded that she had just received a cancellation at Phantom Ranch, and a bed has become available on the Canyon floor. Asking me if I would take it, without hesitation, I said, "Yes, yes, yes!" And so, I bought a bed reservation ticket, and my plan for the day instantly changed. My luggage will now have to spend a second night at Flagstaff Bus Station as I made my way to a nearby kiosk to hire a rucksack, the first one I ever wore over my shoulders, and a pair of hiking boots, both items marking a start to something of a personal revolution for future travel. I then found the site superstore, and in it, I bought various items for the coming hike. It was a while later, as clouds were gathering in the sky, that I set off on my hike down into the Canyon.

Zoroaster Temple Butte dominates the River.

As I zig-zagged down the cliff switchbacks, I encountered more and more hikers coming the other way. One of them even stopped me and asked if I had a Camper's Pass. I answered that I had a reservation ticket for Phantom Ranch which I showed him. He then let me go with a wish of good luck.

The switchbacks continued, back and forth, rounding bends as I descended the south wall. It wasn't too long before Battleship Rock towered over me. From the Rim, this pinnacle was way below me. Now I was below it. And from this angle, the rock actually resembles a ship. 

By the time the footpath began to level out at the start of Tonto Plateau, three miles into the hike, the area was deserted. There were no more hikers coming the other way. One can say that the Tonto Plateau resembles a large field, possibly a meadow. Yet, the sky was overcast and a peal of thunder rolled across the valley. I was alone, all alone in the strange environment. I paused to look around. Looming behind me were the high cliffs of stratified rocks topped by the South Rim. In front, the straight line of the North Rim has distorted, with Buddha Temple Butte now towering over me, along with Cheops Pyramid to the left of it. Nearby was a notice warning of flash floods in the area that can endanger lives. Wow! Just what I need. Alone in the desert, a clap of thunder rolled and fear gripped me. But would I turn back? No! Instead, I was determined to press on with the hike.

I approached Indian Gardens which had a rest stop with a water tap. A good source of refreshment. It was here, too, that the trail divided, with the Plateau Point path branching off to my left. Presently, the trail began to plunge into the Inner Gorge in a series of lengthy curved switchbacks known as the Devil's Corkscrew. Another thunderclap rolled, but at least it wasn't raining. As I again paused to look around, the high cliffs of the harder Vishnu Schist volcanic rock loomed high, making me feel like a tiny dwarf. I suppose this was why the Inner Gorge was considerably narrower than the Outer Gorge. The harder the rock, the slower the rate of erosion.

Bright Angel Creek.

Unlike at Tonto Plateau, here, near the bottom of the Canyon, the whole area was buzzing with life. Countless numbers of crickets were chirping in the bushes, their combination creating a continuous hum, backed by rolling thunder. It was quite a fascinating scene as I walked on.

After a while, about eight miles into the hike, I approached a hut. Two young men were looking as if preparing a meal on a camping skillet. Feeling relieved at the sight of another human, I called out as I approached the hut.

The two men, whom I could see were Frenchmen, warmly welcomed me into their company. We talked and I too was served a portion of their dinner. They said that they couldn't reserve a bed at the Ranch, so they decided to settle down here in the hut for the night, where it would be unlikely to be spotted by a passing ranger. After thanking them, I was preparing to leave, to complete the final leg of the hike. They begged me to stay for the night with them. Despite how tempted I might have felt to remain with them, my desire to finish the hike was stronger, and they had to let me go, but not without expressing my gratefulness.

It was the right decision. I rounded a bend and lo! There was the River, flowing at speed through the Grand Canyon. The trail, officially known as the River Trail but very much Bright Angel still, hugged the riverside as it wounded its way along the irregular surface of the Vishnu Schist valley. 

As I looked ahead, the looming shape of Zoroaster Temple Butte began to dominate the sky above the River. Resembling a white limestone head resting on red sandstone shoulders, this mountain, or so I thought, was all left of the North Rim. What a difference from when I looked at it from the Village! From there, the North Rim was a straight line making up the horizon. Down here, all that was left of it was a solitary mountain peak surrounded by the sky. At the time, I was still unaware that what I was looking at was a butte, a pinnacle rising well inside the Canyon, and not actually part of the North Rim, even though the butte is on the north side of the River.

As I was walking towards the butte, another appeared from behind the valley bend. This was Brahman Temple Butte, although roughly the same height as Zoroaster, it was much more stout in appearance.

Presently, Silver Bridge, one of only two that cross the Colorado River with the Canyon, appeared, just as it was getting dark. Silver Bridge was to first one to appear. The second one, Black Bridge, was about a mile further on and served the South Kaibab Trail before the twain joined Phantom Ranch to become the North Kaibab Trail leading to the North Rim.

Phantom Ranch.

Eventually, after another half-mile within the mouth of Bright Angel Canyon, I approached Phantom Ranch with its number of huts amidst a copse of Cottonwood trees. Nearby, the creek of the same name as the valley it flows through, gurgled along its course to join the Colorado River at the mouth of the gorge. The Ranch is classified as a hotel, with a restaurant house and eleven separate cabins, nine of them accommodating up to four people whilst the other two cabins took in ten guests, one for men and the other for females. At the Ranch reception, I handed in the reservation ticket and I was given the key to one of the larger cabins. When I got there, I saw that there was a young German hiker and two American hikers, making, so far, four occupants. We were to wait for the other six. 

After the German had a shower and then left the cabin to join his girlfriend outside, it was my turn to take a refreshing shower. After this, I took a stroll around the site before retiring to bed. The two American hikers, whom I found out lived in Los Angeles, the German, and I, all waited for the occupants of the remaining six beds to arrive. So far, no one else entered our cabin.

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Next Week: A Test of Endurance.

Travel Biography - Week 19.

Please note: Most of the photos I took in 1978 were slides rather than prints. Hence, with the projector at present in need of repair, I can only submit photos I took on the 1995 trip to the USA along with stock photos. I apologise if any originality is compromised. Just to remind you that all subjects taken in 1995 were exactly the same as in 1978!

As the Wheels of the Bus go Round and Round...

Perhaps some readers have wondered what it was like sitting inside a bus for hours on end whilst on a journey several hundred miles long. Actually, not that boring, as mini-dramas were quite a frequent occurrence on a long-distance Greyhound Americruiser.

Like a time in 1977 when a young 12-year-old occupied the seat next to me and then asked me if I wanted to smoke a reefer (marijuana.) I simply refused, but I still felt shocked at the request made by someone so young. Was he travelling alone? And why wasn't he at school? Such questions will remain eternally unanswered, as the least I wanted to do was to play the judge.

Greyhound Americruiser. Stock photo.

Then there was what I called The Gay Route, referring to finding myself boarding a bus and looking for what was left of a vacant seat. Then settling down next to a gentleman who eventually admitted his orientation. This occurred in 1978 on two stages of the westbound journey, first from Amarillo, Texas to Flagstaff, Arizona, and then again with a different passenger from Flagstaff to Los Angeles. Fortunately for those two, although I never had any interest in same-sex relationships, neither had I shown any aggression or avoided talking to them. Rather, I had found talking whilst on a journey to be very therapeutic whilst confined for hours on end sitting within a cramped space.

However, one of the most dramatic occasions occurred in Tulsa, Oklahoma service stop, also in 1978. After re-boarding the bus there for the continuation of the journey westwards, a hippie-like young man with shoulder-length ginger hair boarded just after me. He was angry as he refused to find a seat. Instead, he stood at the front, right next to the driver and saw the rest of us as his captivated audience whilst shouting invectives at the Greyhound Bus company, and even insulting the driver who tried to placate him. However, as he stood at the front, he was gazing straight at me, as if singling me out to receive special attention. He was thrown off the bus at Amarillo, and he was barred from reboarding at the end of its service stop.

Another incident occurred at the start of the overnight trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco, also in 1978. After settling in my seat I chose at random, suddenly a young black man arrived, and towering over me and in a raised voice, he ordered me to get out of there, as my seat was for his girlfriend. Shocked, and stunned for words, I rose up and took an empty seat directly behind. Then his girlfriend occupied the seat next to him. As the bus pulled out, a quarrel erupted between those two in front, which carried on for quite a while. Indeed, his girlfriend was not at all impressed with how I was treated!

Arrival in St Louis, Missouri.

Here, I will concentrate on the 1978 trip to the USA rather than combine the experience with the 1995 trip which was, up to this stage, practically identical. However, to avoid any possible confusion that might have occurred at last week's New York saga, from now on, I will try to keep up with the current ongoing holiday and comment on the 1995 trip later in this Diary. 

After an approx 22-hour journey from New York, I alighted at St Louis, a city on the west bank of the Mississippi River, and looked across the busy waterway at the western boundary of Illinois State. Dominating the city was the 193-metre-high Gateway Arch, marking the start of the trail set by the first pioneers to the West and ending at the Pacific coast in Washington State. Set in its own park, this striking monument is built of stainless steel. Inside the structure, a remarkable tram conveys visitors to the viewing gallery at the apex, to enjoy magnificent views of the city spread out, including the St Louis Courthouse. From the other side, the eye is drawn towards the eastern horizon, over the River which is almost directly beneath, into the State of Illinois which, surprisingly enough for me, includes the city of Chicago on the southern tip of Lake Michigan, less than 300 miles away.

St Louis Gateway Arch, Stock photo.

Cutaway diagram of the Arch Tram.

Inside one of the tram cars.

How each drum car is accessed.

The two trams, one on each side of the arch, are the most unique form of transport I had ever seen, and indeed, the most unique in the world. Each tram consists of eight claustrophobic drum cars strung together, and rather like the pods of any Ferris wheel, each remaining upright as they travel up the curve of the arch. Access is underground, within the museum, and as the stock image shows, each cylinder was accessible through a door reached by a stairway. Each drum accommodated five passengers, thus the whole tram conveys up to 40 people altogether at any one time. In 1978, I managed to ride the ascent on the north tram and return back to the ground on the south tram, hence travelling the entire length of the arch. Even the floor of the viewing gallery curved as it followed the contours of the arch, adding to the uniqueness of the experience.

Amarillo, Texas.

The name of this Texan provincial town was made famous by Tony Christie's hit song, Is This the Way to Amarillo, released in 1971 and well established in memory. As the overnight bus traversed the utterly flat, rather boring Texan landscape under the rising sun, I began to sing that song in my mind, aware that Amarillo was to be my next stop,

Amarillo's bus station was where we all alighted for its scheduled service stop before carrying on its westward journey. The ginger-haired lad who caused such a commotion earlier was banned from reboarding, and his luggage was removed from the vehicle, along with mine. We both made our way to the station bathroom, and it was he who washed his face at a basin in which a huge cockroach was resting. He was totally unperturbed whilst I felt slightly uncomfortable as I washed and shaved next to him. Although he still spilt out his angry invectives against the Greyhound Bus and how they operate, he wasn't hostile to me at all. Rather, he needed someone to listen to what he had to say, and so something of a nodding acquaintance developed between us.

However, after breakfast, he insisted on remaining at the station lounge to book a seat on the next bus out whilst I deposited my luggage in the left luggage locker and check out the town, perhaps staying at a hotel if one was nearby. 

But I didn't see any hotel, and even if I did, I began to doubt whether I wanted to spend more than a day here. Despite the warm sunshine illuminating a cloudless sky, the streets were deserted, and free of traffic other than an occasional passing vehicle. The shops were shut, so it seems, no other pedestrian was using the sidewalk, and furthermore, I believe it wasn't even a Sunday - something I would have understood in this area of the Bible belt where a strict Sunday observance would have been the norm. Could it have been a national holiday? Who knows. No wonder Tony Christie wanted to put Amarillo on the map! We might have enjoyed listening to his song, and record sales might have reached a million, but I bet that not many living in the UK would have realised that while I was there, Amarillo looked more like a ghost town, with me being the only visitor. Indeed, I was glad to settle comfortably in my seat as the Greyhound Americruiser pulled out of the station, this time without an angry hippie letting off steam.

Arriving at Flagstaff, Arizona.

I boarded the Americruiser at Amarillo at 4.00 pm for a 13-hour journey to Flagstaff, with a service stop at Albuquerque, New Mexico. When the bus pulled into Flagstaff, I was the only one who alighted. I collected my suitcase and as usual deposited it in one of the left luggage lockers. My intention was to arrive that same evening, pick up my luggage, and proceed overnight to Los Angeles. Instead, it was not to be.

Except for the overnight desk clerk, I was the only person in the bus terminal. I checked the time. And my heart fell. I had already crossed into the Pacific Time Zone, which was 4.00 AM Daylight Saving Time. That means I had a four-hour wait at the deserted bus station instead of the intended three hours before a special Greyhound Bus service took me to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon.

Sometimes I just sat in the waiting lounge and watched the lights flash at the amusement machines, each standing in line like a row of soldiers, and each waiting for a coin to be inserted. Along with the flashing lights were matching sounds, giving some form of life to this deserted bus station. One of those machines intrigued me. The player would select a fighter to represent him and fight the machine's opponent in the street. A free replay would be awarded if the player wins. Another machine was about a fast motor race track, and yet another was for something else. But all were for amusements, a way of parting with your cash whilst enduring a long wait.

Outside was dark, the town of Flagstaff as still and as quiet as a picture postcard image, but I managed to leave the bus station for a short stroll.

Flagstaff, Arizona. I remember walking through here.

As the time for the transfer approached, a crowd of people began to build at the bus terminal. By then, I had already purchased my ticket to the Grand Canyon, as this special service didn't honour the Ameripass. Around 8.00 that morning, the empty Greyhound Americruiser pulled in. By the time we pulled out, the bus was full of anticipating visitors, the majority planning to return later that evening, including me.

Arrival at the Grand Canyon.

The distance between Flagstaff and the South Rim Village is about ninety miles. As the road traversed across a semi-desert environment, spirits were high as the driver gave a running commentary of the Canyon. The sky was cloudless, and the sun was reaching high in the sky as the bus, having entered the perimeter of the national park boundary, made its way to the car park. We all alighted, and with my Instamatic 110 camera ready, I made my way to the rim to see for myself this magnificent wonder of nature.

Travel Biography - Week 18.

Travel and Phobias Don't Mix.

Sometimes, travelling on a tight budget means finding yourself in an uncomfortable situation. Such was the case of finding myself in an upstairs room of a seedy hotel in the heart of Manhattan on the first night after landing. Squalid is the best way to describe this hotel room. Although the bed was properly made up and the sheets appeared clean, on the tiled floor beneath the bed, some cockroaches scurried across from one side of the room to the other, as if my presence disturbed them.

Generally speaking, I don't have much of an issue with insects, although a floor populated with Goliath beetles may be enough for me to make a quick exit. But facing a colony of bugs, none of them more than a centimetre in length, I had a choice. Either tolerate their presence or flee from the room. If I had fled, then what? A night spent in the street of an unfamiliar city? Or find a hotel that would dry up all my financial resources even before I step out of the city? Nope. It was neither. Instead, I just have to grin and bear it. And refrain from complaining at reception. At least I had a place to stay.

Night view from my New York hotel window, 1995.

Indeed, if a brochure advertising the hotel was available with the description of - a venue you always dreamed about and remember - hmm. Remember? Yes. But dreaming about it? Perhaps only in a nightmare, after eating cheese immediately before bed. I had to face it. This hotel was one of the worst I have ever stayed in.

Therefore, I pulled myself together and crawled into bed, shutting out the creepers from my mind. This was TRAVEL. Like when some of my friends warned me about rattlesnakes and other dangerous wildlife I might have encountered whilst hiking the Grand Canyon. Or that there was a huge, 4cm cockroach nestling in the washbasin after arriving at Amarillo in Texas, or watching a mouse scurry across the kitchen floor of a backstreet hostel in St Louis, Missouri.

It was like any fear I had to conquer the first time I ever had to climb a ladder on my own to inspect the outside of an upstairs window. No one was below to stand on the lowest rung. Rather, this ladder was an old wooden one I borrowed from the church I regularly attended. And it creaked and groaned as I climbed up.

That was my new job as a self-employed handyman-turned-window cleaner back in August 1980. Along with getting to feel at home up on a ladder, I also had to contend with a community of garden spiders - the type with short legs and a wide abdomen - as part and parcel of my job, along with a variety of bugs. Either that or remain on the dole and go hungry whilst struggling to pay the rent and bills. And believe me, living entirely on meagre benefits paid by the taxpayer was no honour!

Therefore, I remained in the Manhattan hotel room for the whole night whilst outside there seem to be some commotion. If only I felt alert enough to go outside and check for myself. Had I, I would have seen a building on fire with the street blocked with fire engines and red cars, along with a crowd of spectators. And that was what I saw the flowing morning after checking out of the hotel, except that by then the street was deserted.

That was 1978. This wasn't the last I see of the hotel. Rather, in 1995, I was at the same hotel and I believe, in the same room after landing at J. F. Kennedy Airport, and some failed attempts to find a vacant bed in one of the city's backpacking hostels. This time, I only saw a couple of bugs scurrying across the floor, an improvement from 1978. 

A Day in Manhattan.

I left the hotel and walked through a street where fire engines were parked outside a scarred, smoke-blackened building, I arrived at Port Authority Bus Station, the New York terminus of the Greyhound Americruiser reaching to all parts of the States as far as Los Angeles and San Diego. Here, I deposited my suitcase in a left luggage locker and booked an overnight seat on a bus bound westwards using the Ameripass, and after having breakfast at the station cafeteria, I was free for a whole day to check out the city. This was in 1978 but very much the same schedule was repeated seventeen years later in 1995.

This first visit included asking how to get to the Statue of Liberty, New York's most famous landmark and that of the whole of the USA, and known around the world, too. The statue was a gift to the nation made by A. Gustave Eiffel, who was also responsible for the famous Paris monument. I was directed by a subway ticket seller to a fast underground train and alighted at Battery Park, from where ferries sailed for both Statue Island and Staten Island.

Inside the head of the Statue of Liberty, 1978.

In 1978, entry to the inside of the Statue of Liberty was open to visitors all year round. A tight spiral staircase led to the inside of her copper head, which, by this time I was soaked in my own sweat. There was hardly any reward for a view, as the only opening was a grated slot at her headband crossing her forehead. With such restricted ventilation, the interior was a heat trap, and by 1998, when I visited the statue again, the interior was closed to visitors during the summer months, as the trapped heat brought illness, including fainting, to the more vulnerable victims.

Returning to Midtown, another famed landmark was Times Square, brightly lit up at night by a variety of neon adverts. Not truly a square in a traditional sense but more of a six-pronged star as West 45th Street intersects at right angles with 7th Avenue, and Broadway also intersects at a narrow-angle from 7th Avenue. In 1978, several cinemas were lining Broadway, all advertising XXX movies, and I wondered who would be entertained by such erotic films. However, by 1995, there seem to be far fewer of these theatres, either that or they have modestly been less showy.

Times Square, taken 1995.

Since 1978, I stopped in New York in 1995 and again in 1998. The 1995 visit was basically a replica of my 1978 visit, arriving from London in the evening, and after failing to find a bed at the city's several backpacker hostels, I remembered the hotel I stayed at my first arrival, and I found it without difficulty. As for the hostels, I was surprised at how full they were. It was early September when I arrived, purposely timed just after all the schools in the UK had re-opened after the summer break. But I failed to take into consideration that universities open later in the year, and September is the month when many students have ended their summer work contracts and were free to explore before returning home. So I was told by a hostel staff member.

And so, the first night of the 1995 trip was spent in the same hotel as in 1978. As I looked out of the window over 8th Avenue, across the road and to my right was Goldilocks Deli, a grocery store. I was amused by the name, typical American. Between times of quietness, groups of Afro-Caribbeans sauntered along the street, their Saturday night stint over as they made their way home. However, sometime later, a crowd of them began to amass just outside the hotel and a brawl broke out. I thought this was the right moment to make myself invisible and crawl into bed.

With such drama, who needs to be in a luxury hotel near a Mediterranean beach at the height of summer? This was much more exciting!

Back in 1978, it must have been a late afternoon or early evening when I boarded the night bus bound for Los Angeles, where my next city of call would be St Louis in Missouri. With the help of the departure board, like at any main railway station, I was able to work out my arrival into St Louis was to be by lunchtime on the next day.

On to St Louis, Missouri.

Both the 1978 and 1995 trips to the USA began with a bus journey of nearly a thousand miles or 1,620 kilometres, taking between 20-22 hours to complete. That's approximately a third of the USA from New York. It goes to show how huge the continent really is, especially when compared to the size of Europe. 

The Americruiser's final destination was Los Angeles but I chose to alight at St Louis, not only the first city across the Mississippi River but one with a remarkable monument, a 192-metre-high steel arch whose two stems are also 192 metres apart at its base, hence, the distance between its two "feet" is the same as the height of its apex.

St Louis Courthouse and Gateway Arch, 1995.

But a word on the journey itself from New York. It was the second longest bus journey in North America after the Winnipeg-Toronto route I completed the previous year in 1977. New York to St Louis is almost the same distance as London to Rome, and I recall the early to mid-1970s when travelling by train, along with a ferry crossing the Channel, was an adventure in itself, and indeed, I would use the same train route tomorrow if given the chance - ferry and all, instead of the Eurostar!

The train journey from London to Rome took about 24 hours to complete, give or take. This compares with the journey time on the Americruiser bus. This goes to show that despite the train being faster than the bus, the waiting times involved with the trans-Europe journey, especially when boarding the ferry, the wait before the continental train departing from Boulogne-sur-Mer, along with the two long stops at Paris, and then at Modane, before another at Torino, Genova, and other major cities on the way. 

The terrain east of the Mississippi was not unlike a typical English countryside, as the road passes through cities such as Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Columbus, and either Dayton and Indianapolis in 1978 or via Cincinnati and Louisville in 1995. Therefore, on both trips, I didn't consider exploring cities east of the great river. To me, America - the America that had inspired me - begins after crossing the Mississippi.

View of the Courthouse from the arch viewing gallery, 1995.

During the 1978 trip, I spent just a few hours in St Louis before boarding the evening bus to my next destination, rather similar to Chicago a year earlier in 1977. In 1995, however, I spent three days and two nights in St Louis before heading off. However, on both trips, my attention was centred on the Gateway Arch, the underground museum beneath the arch and the nearby St Louis Courthouse, where an 18th Century negro slave has bidden for his freedom. However, ascending the arch to reach the apex observation gallery was the most unusual means I had ever seen and experienced.

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Next Week: My Experience at St Louis and my approach to the Grand Canyon.

Travel Biography - Week 17.

Psychology for World Travel.

In 1972, whilst still 19 years of age, I thought this was the end of the road for me when my girlfriend said goodbye. At that time, which was the spring of that year, I still had the tickets for a holiday together in Spain - on the Costa Brava to be more precise. So I contacted the Cosmos Booking Office to ask for an amendment. The result was that a male college friend accompanied me on this package instead of my ex.

At my peak. How I looked in New York 1978.

By the end of 1977, I had come a long way. Perhaps ironic in a sense, my desire for travel was borne out of that broken relationship experience. Here I was, as a teenager, already thinking about courtship, marriage and having children. To be the "average guy" like a couple of ex-classmates I had seen pushing a pram in the street, and the very thought of being left on the shelf seemed foreboding.

Just this week, a couple of evenings before this week's blog was written and published, the BBC documentary Ambulance highlighted a case of a man in his early thirties who was recently dumped by his girlfriend. This left him feeling suicidal, and he called 999 after an overdose of drugs that had left him in a hysterical state, even lashing out at the vehicle furniture around him. He had to be gently calmed before admission into the hospital.

Therefore, Christian devotionals such as Enjoying Being Single by Elspeth Stephenson are unlikely to wash with him. With a female author, this book was probably geared more toward women than toward men and therefore, unlikely to have impressed the male patient in the ambulance. However, what she had written struck a cord in me. For example, on the cover is a photo of a young muscular man controlling a sailboat at speed. Although I had never sailed in my life, I can still see a connection between this marine activity and international backpacking.

Although, I refer to my travels as backpacking, during those early years, if I say that the luggage I was carrying throughout the 1970s was a suitcase rather than a rucksack, then how the term is defined, I leave it to the reader. But to me, backpacking is defined as a constant move from one destination to the next, rather than staying at just one hotel throughout the entire vacation, as was the 1972 Spanish getaway, which is defined as a package holiday.

With the breakup of our relationship in 1972, a bid to explore the world was the answer to such feelings of foreboding. This is where the difference lies between the ambulance patient and me. Rather than escape into a world of oblivion, the desire to travel demanded determination and hard work. Literally.

The factory making ball-bearing races (the two rings in between the tiny balls roll) closed during the Autumn of 1977 to transfer over to Plymouth in Devon, making us all redundant except for the few machinists with the greatest skills. After working there for over four years and putting in weekend overtime to save up for the first trip across the Atlantic, I was advised to apply for a post at British Aircraft Corporation in Weybridge, Surrey. These works covered a much larger area than the former works and had a larger number of employees. And the wages were good, despite a daily commute from Bracknell to Weybridge by train.

As such, I was able to work hard and save up hard for my next trip, this time wholly within the USA, in the following year, 1978. This trip, built on the experience of the last trip, was to be a life-changer.

But first, the renewal of the entry visa after the first one had expired after a year. With experience behind me, it wasn't difficult for the personnel officer of BAC to write an official letter endorsing my employment with them. So, off to the Embassy in London once again. This time, it was straightforward. I was already on their records. With no further ado, I walked out of the building with a multiple-entry visa lasting the life of the passport, stamped inside. With quite a few years of validity left on the document, plus an agreement made in the 1980s between our PM Margaret Thatcher and the current US President Ronald Reagan for the Visa Waiver Scheme to be put in place, this meant no more visa applications ever, despite three more trips to the USA after 1978. They were in 1995, 1997, and 1998.

Both in 1978 and 1995, I stood here, Colorado River.

Summary of the 1978 Trip to the USA.

Having given a day-to-day running commentary of both Israel 1976 and North America 1977, this time I wish to centre this and future trips on the highlights. This is due to both 1976 and 1977 being first-time experiences, yet each so different from the other. By contrast, all five trips to the USA are very similar, hence of no need for day-to-day repeats. Also, the 1997 journey on the Australian Pacific Coast from Cairns to Sydney had taken the same formula - a bus pass valid for unlimited travel for some time. The same applies to Israel in 1993, 1994 and 2000. Although each was slightly different in detail, each was also broadly the same as the initial 1976 experience.

Being the case, from now on, instead of concentrating on one particular trip, I will jump from one to another when it's called for. For example, the Grand Canyon. I hiked this natural wonder twice, the first in 1978 and the second time in 1995. They were the same hikes but each had some differences that are worth mentioning together.

When I arrived in Toronto, the first item I had to buy was a Kodak 110 Instamatic camera to replace the one given to me by Dad which broke down during the outbound flight. All the photos from the 1977 trip were taken with the Instamatic. But for the 1998 trip, I made a decision to try transparencies or slides shown on a projector and thrown onto a screen as a dramatic image fitting a slide show for family and friends. Therefore, the photos published here are mainly from the 1995 trip, as for example, the Grand Canyon does not change in appearance over seventeen years! Also, the Instamatic failed to take good photos at the most crucial part of the hike, mainly due to poor daylight, and this was the reason why I repeated the Grand Canyon visit in 1995 in the first place. I wanted a photo album of such an adventure and I was prepared to take risks in repeating the challenge.

However, the bus route taken in 1978 was very different from the 1977 route. On the second trip, not only had I landed in New York instead of in Canada, but the Greyhound Americruiser route was a much longer figure-of-eight course starting at Port Authority Bus Station and taking in St Louise Missouri, Amarillo Texas, Flagstaff Arizona, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Portland Oregon, Denver Colorado, St Antonio Texas, New Orleans Lousiana, Miami Beach Florida, and then back north to New York. Like on the previous trip, my arrival in New York from Miami Beach was on the morning of the same day I took off back to London a month after my arrival, with the day spent on the roof of one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

On the 1978 trip, I spent more nights on a bus than on the previous trip. There were two reasons for this. First, I should have brought more funds. Like in 1976, I made a miscalculation on how much to take in Traveller's Cheques. This was due to not taking into consideration the rate of inflation over the past year. But rather than panic, I used the experience to learn how to travel on a shoestring. And travel on a shoestring I did, and not only did I have an astonishing experience, but I took in a much wider scope of the USA than I could ever imagine.

How a French Air Traffic Control strike brought hysteria.

The day finally arrived for me to depart. Excited but very nervous, this time I made my own way to the airport by train. After arrival, I checked in as normal, aware that there is a French Air Traffic Control strike affecting all flights into France and all routes passing over France, such as to Spain, Italy and much of the rest of Europe, and maybe some long-haul flights for Asian countries and beyond. Only the Americas were unaffected.

At the boarding gate, we waited there for the Jetsave agent to let us through. Opposite our gate was one for a flight to Spain. A crowd of people were standing there waiting to board. Apparently, they should have boarded the previous evening, but a night spent alternating between the gate and the departure lounge has worn their patience to razor-thin. And it showed.

Just then, the tannoy came to life with a request for all on this particular flight to Spain to return to the departure lounge, just as the Jetsave agent arrived to allow us to board our transatlantic flight.

Suddenly there was a scream, a loud masculine scream of demonic rage and frustration coming from a young man of about my age. As the crowd began to saunter back to the departure lounge, this man was lying on the floor, beating it with his fists and screaming out his rage. I pitied him as I walked down the steps to board a transfer bus to the waiting aeroplane. I couldn't take my mind off him as I settled in my assigned seat, looking out of the window and watching others alighting from the bus to climb the steps to board, including a tour group. I was relieved when the plane finally took off for New York Kennedy Airport.

I sat next to the window and the port side of the plane. As I looked down at the Irish Sea directly below, I gasped as if with astonishment. For a glancing moment, I thought I saw an outline of a submerged settlement just before the east coast of Eire came into view. Oh well, just put it behind and let's look ahead.

Arrival in New York.

Once having arrived at New York airport, I was preparing to board a shuttle bus to Manhattan, when a young man from the same flight took a liking to me. He told me that he was heading straight to San Francisco and asked me whether I would be willing to accompany him all the way. I refused, even though San Francisco is on my agenda. I was slightly bothered. If he wanted to go straight to California, then why didn't he fly direct to San Francisco? Jetsave does flights to all major cities in North America.

New York as I've known it - before 9/11. Taken 1998. 

The journey into Manhatten was trouble-free, and I managed to find what looks like a seedy hotel on 8th Avenue and West 44th Street in a district apparently inhabited by Afro-Caribbeans. Indeed, the receptionist of the hotel was a young Afro-Caribbean, but he welcomed me as he assigned me a room upstairs. I entered the room, only to find beetles running across the floor as if my entry had disturbed them. There seems to be a lot of commotion outside with the wailing of sirens. If only I was aware! At one of the city skyscrapers was a fire, and fire engines blocked the street from traffic as they attempted to put the fire out. But having jet lag. being six hours behind British Summer Time, the only energy I had was to crawl into the rather manky bed and get some sleep.

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Next Week: Travel has no time for nursing phobias.

Travel Biography - Week 16

Last week I was away at the Creation Ministries International Third Conference, held at the Emmanuel Centre located near the Palace of Westminster. One of the issues at the conference was the probability of a cell of any living organism evolving from a molecule to its present form purely by chance and without any divine guidance. This turned out to be one chance out of 10 raised to the 340,000,000th power, or in plain English, one chance in one, followed by 340 million zeros!

By comparison, if we mark just one grain of sand so it stands out from the rest, then mix it thoroughly into a ball of sand the size of our known Universe with all its galaxies of stars, then the chance of a blindfolded man being sent into the ball and picking out the marked grain on his first attempt would be once chance in one, followed by only 96 zeros. With such a dramatic comparison as this one, to look into a volcanic crater that wiped out a civilisation nearly two millennia in the past, and to float on the surface of the Dead Sea, as well as swim in the Great Salt Lake, to stand near the edge of the mighty Niagara Falls, and then to experience the Redwood trees of Muir Forest in California, all of these has raised my appreciation of Creation, highlighted in last week's Conference.

And all that is only a part. Still to come is the Grand Canyon, the live crater of Mt Etna, the Great Barrier Reef, and the Blue Mountains NP. Indeed, I encourage you to keep reading this Travel Diary, as some astonishing events affecting personal experience are still in the pipeline.

Arrival in Vancouver.

The six-hour overnight journey on the Greyhound Americruiser from Portland in Oregon to Vancouver, British Colombia, covers 316 miles or 512 km. However, my re-entry into Canada from the USA at the Washington State town of Blaine was uneventful, unlike the chaos in our preparation to enter Detroit more than two weeks earlier. Back in Canada, I travelled east toward Toronto on the Trans-Canadian Highway, a single road that connects Vancouver with Toronto. Unfortunately, by not having a car, I missed out on most of Banff National Park, let alone the promising-sounding Jasper National Park further north. However, the highway passes through the Rockies, and I was intrigued by the mountains as the bus journeyed one late afternoon.

After arrival in Vancouver, I found a suitable hotel straight away, as it was like all other budget hotels, near the Greyhound Bus station. Like at all other times, I was offered a room after presenting myself at reception.

I explored the town which lines the southern bank of Vancouver Harbour, itself part of the Burrard Inlet. This Pacific inlet is partially barricaded by a natural peninsula jutting out of the city, bearing the name Stanley Park. This was one place I was intrigued by. When I visited this site in 1977, this was a virgin forest, except for the main highway passing through it before crossing the narrow neck of the inlet on Lions Gate Bridge. This was the original land before Vancouver was ever built, and thus the trees making up the forest were in all conditions, from young saplings to mature trees, including logs of dead trees that had fallen and were eventually covered with fungi. Amid the forest was The Lost Lagoon, (now called Beaver Lake) a large, weed-covered pond surrounded by trees.

The Lost Lagoon, Vancouver. Stock Photo.

The park is approx 2 kilometres across and it's crossed by the highway. It was during one early afternoon that I started to walk from the city to Grouse Mountain, on the North side of Burrard Inlet and visible from the city. This view inspired me to hike to the mountain summit to take some panoramic photos of the city below. Alas, it wasn't quite meant to be.

However, crossing the narrow neck of Burrard Inlet on Lions Gate Bridge was an experience in itself, and on the other side, I began to follow the road leading out into the wooded countryside. The sky was overcast but it wasn't raining. As I made my way along the road, a car approaching from behind gave me a blast from his horn. As he overtook me, he told me to walk on the other side of the road and face oncoming traffic. Here we go again! A repeat of the Walnut Creek incident, only this time on foot. I might have left Britain, but the UK is still very much in me, especially with the road traffic regulations.

Much to my surprise, I arrived at the lower terminal of a cable car system taking passengers to the summit of the mountain. At that time, I was aware that the only alternative was to stay on the road and walk up. Instead, this was far more adventurous. And it wasn't expensive either. Yet, if only I knew then what I know now, that there was the start of a hiking trail snaking through the forest to also reach the summit, it would have been a toss-up whether to hike the trail or ride in the cable car. Quite likely, the trip would have consisted of a hike up and a ride back down.

I boarded the cable car with a group of other people and enjoyed the smooth, noiseless glide up the mountain. By the time we reached the summit terminal, it was raining. I crossed the outside quadrangle and made my way to the summit cafeteria and found myself in a queue, waiting to be served.

A tall, slim man was a place or two behind me in the queue and he looked as if he was one of the Spaniards from the Los Angeles area. Like me, he too was on his own, and I wondered whether he would help me pass the time here on the summit of a mountain where all views were obliterated by the wet weather outside. I wasn't far wrong. During the ensuing conversation, I found out that his name was Craig, and he was from San Bernardino in Southern California.

We stayed together for the rest of the afternoon. His original intention was either to use the ski slope or partake in some other outdoor activity. He had an interest in clocks, and we both looked at some on display in the corridor outside the cafeteria. Indeed, we were both frustrated by the rain and the mirky air outside. Rather than clicking at the shutter, my camera remained packed away. Really, I shouldn't have been surprised at the weather, despite being August. British Colombia has an identical climate to that of the British Isles - mild winters, cool summers and plenty of year-round rain. Later, after a ride down the cable car together, he offered me a lift in his car to my hotel, having told him of its location. After I alighted, he drove off and I never saw him again.

At Calgary

Onward to Calgary and Winnipeg.

After three nights spent at the Vancouver hotel, I boarded the bus for my next stop along the Trans-Canadian Highway, Calgary, in Alberta. From Los Angeles to Vancouver, I was within the Pacific Time Zone, eight hours behind British Summer Time. But as we headed east into Alberta, we lost an hour as we entered Mountain Daylight Time.

From the bus, I was able to admire the Rockies as the road winded its way through the valleys, as it was still daylight when I boarded the bus. The journey took over twelve hours to cover 663 miles or 1,074 km. Up until one of the early morning stops, the seat next to mine remained vacant. Then, whilst at the Banff area service stop, another tall, slim young man boarded the bus and took the seat next to mine.

We started talking, and I found that this blond was from Holland or possibly Denmark, and his name was Henry Gebbineck, and he was alighting in Calgary to meet a married couple, Graham and Shirley Brown. But, as we talked, I noticed a slight stutter which, I believe, led him to ask a favour of me once we had arrived in Calgary. No, not to ask for money, but to make a phone call on his behalf for the couple to come to the bus station to collect him. After some hesitation, I finally agreed.

As soon as I made the phone call at the Calgary bus station, I handed the handset to him and he paid his fee. After the conversation ended, we both filed to the station cafeteria for breakfast, as it was now my custom. Henry was very happy and grateful for the favour I did for him. He then invited me to meet Graham and Shirley. Eventually, when they arrived, I saw that they were all my age. The couple took to me quite well and the four of us made a short trip to Graham's house.

Whether Henry's arrival was specifically timed for this or not, that day was to be an Indian Reservation festival held in a field or a park outside the city. We mixed into a crowd of American Indians as they danced and celebrated. This also included a visit to the Heritage Museum where, at one department, a blacksmith was at work, demonstrating his skills to us all.

Indian Festival, Calgary

Calgary was one city where I did not look for a hotel as I originally intended. Instead, I was taken to their house until the evening, when I expressed my desire to travel onwards. They then dropped me off to begin my next leg of the journey, a fourteen-hour, 822-mile or 1,332 km journey to Winnipeg in Manitoba. This overnight journey would cross Saskatchewan, with Regina its capital on the Trans-Canadian Highway, for an hour's service stop in the middle of the night.

Calgary Heritage Museum

On this leg of the journey, gone are the Rocky Mountains, and the view is one massive flat plain stretching for miles on end. From time to time, I could see those characteristic Canadian grain silos as we passed by them. Else, much of Canada is a flat semi-desert with little to offer any vistas and I imagine, a pretty cold and hostile environment during the winter months.

With my arrival in Winnipeg, I booked into a nearby hotel, the very last hotel of this 1977 North American trip. The final leg to Toronto would be a 1,280-mile or 2,075 km journey lasting over 22 hours - the longest continuous leg of the entire holiday. And just as well, as I am to arrive in Toronto on the same day as I take off on a flight back to London. Never mind that there is an industrial dispute at Toronto Airport that would delay my flight for six hours, I still need to be there on time.

I spent just two nights in Winnipeg. Unfortunately, without a car, I wasn't able to see the nearby Lake Winnipeg for myself, but I guess that once you see one freshwater lake, you've seen them all. Therefore, I wasn't too bothered.

Flowerbeds at Winnipeg.

However, Winnipeg had one highlight, a roller skating rink not far from the hotel. On both evenings, I went there and hired a pair of roller skates. Here, I let my hair down! By keeping to the outer perimeter of the rink, I was able to accelerate and speed around the edge of the floor whilst the music played, especially some of Abba's greatest hits. Perhaps for the first time since I was a boy who roller skated up and down St Georges Square in Pimlico so many years earlier.

The second evening, whilst I was skating, a group of young men and women entered. After starting a conversation with them, I found out that they were from a local church fellowship. Thus we stayed together, sharing both our social and spiritual experiences until closing time when everyone dispersed and I made my own way to the hotel.

The next day, I boarded the Greyhound bus for the last time and for the longest leg of the journey back to Toronto. It was during this journey that I made another friend, a resident of Toronto who recommend a visit to the Toronto Science Museum before heading for the airport.

The journey took two nights, arriving in Toronto on the morning of the third day after leaving Winnipeg. During the morning of the day after boarding, the sun rose as we skirted the north shore of Lake Superior. The view was excellent, as I sat on the side of the bus facing the coast. With the straight horizon, I could have been next to an ocean shoreline. With the lake so large, there was no real difference.

We arrived in Toronto early the next morning. After breakfast, at my friend's recommendation, I spent a good part of the day at the Science Museum, where hands-on exhibits made the visit more exhilarating. I also stood once more at Queens Street, looking across Nathan Philips Square at the two tall skyscrapers as if guarding the City Hall between them.

That evening, it was to Toronto International Airport, the "Holiday of a lifetime" coming to an end.

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Next Week: I Prepare for the 1978 Trip to the States.