Travel Biography - Week 59.

Overview: The difference between the 1978 and 1995 Trips to the Grand Canyon.

All the photos here are my own.

In the late summer of 1995, I stood on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado River, Arizona. This was my second time, too. Seventeen years earlier in 1978, I stood at the same spot, looking across this natural wonder towards the North Rim. But with a difference. In 1978, I was offered a bed at Phantom Ranch, located at the bottom of the Canyon, like a bolt from the blue. This was due to a last-minute cancellation. However, upon enquiry this time, I was told that all the beds down there were taken.

Arrived at Grand Canyon, Sept 1995.

For an overnighter, I had to make my way to the Visitor's Center, a short walk from the Village. Here, I was given a ticket with a number on it and was told to return at seven in the morning for the Park officials to decide whether I could go down or not by using a lottery system. If my number was called out among a crowd of other hopefuls, I was then given a Camper's Pass (even if I didn't carry a tent). Otherwise, I either had to return 24 hours later for another attempt or leave the National Park altogether.

I wasn't putting up with this! For months, I was building up for this special day, even going out for long walks in the evenings to train up my leg muscles. Was my wish denied by a bunch of bureaucrats simply because others knew how to navigate the bureaucratic maze properly? Indeed, paperwork has always been a weakness in me throughout life! As for day hikers, they had full access to the trails at all times.

 

I remained on the South Rim for a few hours, admiring the vast chasm before me. Yet, there was another difference between the two visits, and that is my rucksack. In 1978, I left most of my belongings locked away in a left-luggage locker at Flagstaff. After arriving at the Village, I was able to hire a smaller backpack for carrying the goods needed for the hike. The load wasn't heavy. Together with the backpack, I also hired a pair of hiking boots. This time, with the lockers removed from the bus terminal, I had no other choice but to carry my own larger rucksack which was considerably heavier.

The Hike Begins.

By that afternoon, after watching a large number of tired hikers exit Bright Angel trailhead, I began my descent into the Canyon on the same trail I used in 1978. Looking back, I have some regrets about that. Now, I had wished to have made an effort to take the free shuttle bus to the South Kaibab trailhead near Yaki Point, about four-and-a-half miles east along the Rim. Although this trail was considerably shorter than Bright Angel, being more direct, it would have offered new vistas that would have been fresh to both my soul and the camera alike. The view of the dramatic O'Neil's Butte from Oo-Ahh Point, so I read afterwards, would have lived up to their names.

The Hike Begins.

But I was too obsessed to think about those things. And I also felt guilty. The guilt had arisen from starting the hike down instead of presenting myself to the Park officials the following morning. I was hoping that the trail wasn't policed by Park Rangers. I recall the first time when someone stopped me to ask if I had a Camper's Pass. I showed him the Ranch booking ticket which settled any argument. This time, I had nothing to show and therefore risked being turned back. Maybe this was the reason why I didn't take the shuttle bus to the South Kaibab trailhead. I was afraid the bus driver might ask questions.

As I descended, the trail began to turn back and forth along its long, endless series of switchbacks as it navigated the South Rim cliff wall safely. Many other hikers were still coming the other way. Some looked beaten as if walked all the way from the bottom. Others were day-hikers, having gone as far as the 1.5-mile rest house and turned back from there. Some had gone down as far as the three-mile rest stop and turned back from there. Unlike in 1978 when the sky became overcast and thunder rolled, this time the sky remained clear, bringing out the reddish/brown colours of the different rock layers in contrast with the rich green of vegetation. 

During the descent, I began to feel a little better as I hadn't encountered any staff members, nor had anyone stopped me for questioning. After a while, I was looking up at Battleship Rock, a small butte that, from the angle where I stood, did resemble a seaworthy war vessel. As I saw it, Battleship Rock of Bright Angel Trail was a much smaller version of O'Neil's Butte of South Kaibab Trail, but equally dramatic.

Battleship Rock as seen from the Trail beneath it.

After passing the three-mile rest stop, I reached Indian Gardens, (now renamed Havasupai Gardens) a green oasis and campsite at a level shelf separating the clifftop of the Inner Gorge from the base of the Outer Gorge cliffs. Havasupai Gardens is 925 metres below the Village in elevation. Known as the Tonto Plateau, from it, a view of the majestic Buddha Temple Butte rose from the other side of the River. Next to it, Cheops Pyramid, itself resembling more of a marque or large tent than a pyramid, rose in its splendour, turning the straight North Rim edge, seen from the Village to a sandstone mountain range on the other side of the Inner Gorge. From behind Cheops Pyramid, Isis Temple could just be made out as it pokes its summit into view. The Inner Gorge itself consist of two near-vertical cliffs of gneiss granite rock facing each other with the beachless River flowing through between the two steep cliffs.

It was here at Havasupai Gardens that the trail divided. The 1.5-mile section branched off from my left and carried along the level width of Tonto Plateau to Plateau Point, an overlook on the lip of the Inner Gorge, from which a dramatic view of the River could be seen directly below, with a close-up view of Cheops Pyramid and Buddha Temple buttes across the chasm.

Approaching Havasupai (Indian) Gardens.

I stayed with the main trail as it began to descend into the Inner Gorge at a recess known as the Devil's Corkscrew. I remembered from 1978 the wide switchbacks cut into the hard gneiss and granite bedrock on which the stratified sandstone and limestone layers rested. However, in 1995, the high cliffs of the Inner Gorge didn't seem as foreboding as they did before. I think the weather had something to do with it. This time around, the sky remained clear and there was no thunder as was in 1978. Also, it was quieter this time around as the trail levelled out near the Canyon floor. There was no constant buzzing of crickets in the bushes. The wrong time of the year, perhaps?

I hiked on until I arrived at a rest station seven miles into the journey. The last time I arrived at this location, I was invited to share some food with a group of French hikers who couldn't sleep at Phantom Ranch due to full bed occupancy. So they spent the night at this resthouse. They also wished for me to join them for that night but I refused, wanting to finish the hike properly and sleep on a bed I had already paid for. But this time, the place was deserted and lifeless as I pressed on. As a matter of fact, this hut may be the ideal spot to spend the night should I be sent away by a Park Ranger.

Zoroaster Temple dominates the evening River scene.

I rounded a bend in the trail and arrived at the River - a dramatic climax of the Devil's Corkscrew descent. From the Rim, I have descended 1,524 metres in elevation, that is, a vertical drop from the Rim at the Village to the River which is, at that point, nearly a mile deep. 

(For the record, the height of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in the UK, is 1,345 metres high.) 

The trail I was on was the properly-called Riverside Trail, although it's still signposted as Bright Angel. I carried on along the south bank of the river until two prominent buttes appeared as I rounded a bend - Brahman Temple and the more famous Zoroaster Temple both towered over me. In 1978, I thought that Zoroaster Temple was what was left of the North Rim from where I was standing. It was soon after I arrived home that I saw that this natural feature was not actually the North Rim at all, but a butte, or mountain, rising near the middle of the Canyon, although it's connected to the North Rim side of the river.

I cross the Colorado River at Silver Bridge. 

Dusk was about to fall as I approached Silver Bridge, one of only two bridges crossing the Colorado River, the other being Black Bridge which carried the South Kaibab Trail. Riverside trail links the two bridges, and I could have carried on along this trail for another 700 metres to reach Black Bridge, which was accessible through a 20-metre tunnel bored through the rock. But it was already beginning to get dark, and furthermore, unlike in 1978, this time I had no bed to welcome me.

Settling Down for the Night.

Perhaps I could have asked the receptionist if there was a spare bed available at the Ranch. Who knows, a no-show could have freed up a bed in one of the huts. After all, in the hut a stayed during 1978, there were several unoccupied beds left by no-shows. But I was gripped by fear, itself fuelled by guilt. Just a little earlier, a lone hiker was heading the other way, up towards the Rim. I was wondering why he started his hike so late in the evening. We both talked as we approached each other. He explained that with nowhere to sleep, he was caught by a park ranger who ordered him to hike back up to the village. He also warned me to be careful.

If I was to approach the receptionist to ask whether any no-shows had freed up any beds, even if I was willing and ready to pay, instead, I could have been sent off with a flea in my ear. Therefore, I made sure that there was no one around, or couldn't be easily seen by anyone.

Evening River scene from Silver Bridge.

Why such bureaucratic restricting of numbers? Mainly to preserve the environment. But before the hike, I made a vow to myself that I would never leave as much of a candy wrap as litter anywhere in the Canyon. If only the authorities had a higher level of trust in us tourists! And indeed, anyone who defaces the environment, whether through litter or other forms of damage, should be rightly fined.

Well after dark, I found a secluded spot of grass to lay down for the night not far from Phantom Ranch. This was nothing new. Sleeping under the stars was something I did from time to time when in my early twenties. But to sleep under the stars whilst deep inside the Grand Canyon took a whole new turn.

After a while, I thought I heard the sound of a rattlesnake in the grass not far from where I was lying down. Nearby was a picnic table, the type with a built-in bench on each side. The bench kept me hidden, or at least, difficult to see by a passing Park Ranger. Now I had no choice. I quickly arose to lie on the sturdy table.

Phantom Ranch.

I looked up towards the sky. Never in my whole life had I seen such a wonderful display of stars, and that even with a full moon! Thus, here at the bottom of the Canyon, where Bright Angel Creek flowing from near the North Rim joins the Colorado River, it was not at all pitch dark. The millions of stars spanning the sky formed a white band stretching from horizon to horizon, although the sky from where I was lying down was restricted by the cliffs of the Canyon, and their silhouettes made a vivid black contrast against the bright starry sky. The white band was appropriately called the Milky Way. From the floor of the Grand Canyon, I was looking up into our own Galaxy, where our solar system silently orbits the central core of the star cluster alongside millions of other stars.

Never did I ever witness such a heavenly display! Not in the UK, nor in Europe, and not even in Israel.

I gazed up at the sky until I fell into a pitiful sleep.

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Next Week: When I thought my time here on Earth was over...

Travel Biography - Week 58.

General Overview: New York to Albuquerque.

What was it that I loved so much about Travel? Between 1993 and 1994, I spent a total of fifteen weeks in Israel, also known as The Holy Land. How I loved Israel! Its history goes back thousands of years, and as such contains man-made relics going back to the time of Abraham, and even beyond. Therefore, I would say that Israel, and particularly Jerusalem, has plenty of historical and spiritual significance. But as for natural beauty, it's continents such as North America that have some of the most awe-inspiring and dramatic, large-scale scenery one can imagine. Later in this Biography, I'll detail more, especially subaquatic.

In 1977, I flew across the Atlantic Ocean for the first time in my life to visit Canada and the United States. Indeed, I was intrigued by the mighty Niagara Falls on the Canadian side and the Great Salt Lake in Utah. 

Then a year later, I returned to the States to visit the Grand Canyon, where I had an unscheduled hike down to the Colorado River to spend the night at nearby Phantom Ranch before hiking back up the next day. The hike itself was an incredible success, but the failure of the Instamatic 110 camera to take pictures at a proper exposure setting resulted in disappointment after arriving back home. Therefore, for the next 17 years between 1978 and 1995, I had a longing to revisit this dramatic location to complete the photography task.

And there I was in 1995, back on the Greyhound Bus, heading west after leaving St Louis in Missouri. And this was after spending two nights at the worst backpacker's hostel ever. As the St Louis Huckleberry Finn Hostel was the first on the continent I ever stayed at, I was, in a sense, thrown into the deep end of American hostelling, leaving me to wonder whether this rodent and cockroach-infested guesthouse with its swinging saloon doors infringed on personal privacy, was the norm in American hostels, or whether this was an exception, I have yet to find out. Then, I suppose, the ins and outs of independent travel - a culture shock is never off the cards.

By mid-afternoon of the same day, a Saturday, the bus crossed into the State of Oklahoma and arrived at Tulsa for a service stop. This allowed me to quickly check out this lively town, populated with shoppers, not unlike any British shopping precinct on a Saturday. Most notable were two outdoor theatre stages, each not that far from the other. At least one of them was performing Gospel music, and I lingered for a while to enjoy the free show. I took a liking to Tulsa straight away, although, as I will see, to arrive on a Sunday might have been a very different scenario, as was with Albuquerque in New Mexico the next day. 

Street Concert at Tulsa, Oklahoma, 1995.

At Albuquerque, New Mexico.

It was very early on a Sunday morning when the bus stopped in Albuquerque, New Mexico. I had thoughts of spending at least one night at a hostel if I could find one in this city. A night's sleep in a proper bed on the eve of my arrival at the Grand Canyon would have paid dividends! After freshening up and having breakfast at the bus terminal restaurant, I wandered through the deserted street, the air still cool after sunrise, and really, it was like walking through a ghost town - a massive contrast to Tulsa on the previous day. It reminded me of my day visit to Amarillo, Texas, in 1978. That too was like a ghost town, although I can't recall back then being an early Sunday morning - and also this time around, the bus had a service stop at Amarillo in the middle of the night. But I stayed in the station restaurant and didn't venture out.

As I approached a hostel in Albuquerque, there were three or four middle-aged gentlemen, I would say in their fifties, sitting at a table on the sidewalk, each deeply involved in playing cards. That was the only clue I saw that life did exist in this otherwise desolate town. Also, the main street was so traffic-free that I could have had a picnic in the middle of the dead straight road and still live to see another day!

I approached the backpacker's hostel, more of a wooden shack than a brick-and-mortar building. The doors were closed, and I was pondering whether the shack was full of sleeping backpackers or whether it was empty, even abandoned, as I was warned before take-off that often those American hostels, especially those not affiliated with HI-AYH, have short spans and tend to close down quickly and the property sold. I knocked on the door. No answer. Not a sound of stirring within.

As the morning passed, with my awareness that it was a Sunday, I felt that it would be nice to visit a church and partake in its service. Presently, I saw a crowd of people entering a Methodist Church near the city plaza. I actually wondered where all those people suddenly came from. Holes in the ground, perhaps? Other than the four card players I saw earlier, maybe there is some human life in this desolate-looking city. Although not a Methodist, attending a church of that denomination was better than not attending any church.

The service itself was a very run-of-the-mill liturgy with a sermon that failed to inspire - me at least. Yet the church was packed. However, it was the after-service lunch held in the more inspiring church hall. Many in that assembly were students, and there was a group of Chinese or Korean students who, seeing that I was a lone stranger, invited me into the dining hall and actually bought me a meal as I sat at their table. It was one of those very rare times as a lone backpacker, that I enjoyed a taste of fellowship. If only I had some of this fellowship while I was volunteering in Israel just a year earlier! Instead, suffering devaluation to a state of worthlessness brought me to the ace of destroying my faith completely.

After the meal was over, we all dispersed, and all the churchgoers seemed to vanish back into obscurity and once again I was alone in a dead city. I wandered around the beautiful but deserted shopping plaza until the evening when I boarded another Greyhound bus for an overnight journey to Flagstaff in Arizona. This time, I was glad not to have spent a night in Albuquerque, although my curiosity about how alive the city would become on a Monday morning remained unfulfilled, along with a lack of proper sleep before the hike.

Shopping crowds on a Saturday, Tulsa.

Arrival at Flagstaff.

I arrived at the Arizonian town of Flagstaff at four in the morning, a bit of a shock that I had gained an extra hour's waiting time after entering the Pacific Time Zone. The very fact that my arrival here was identical in the time of day as my first arrival in 1978 meant that the bus schedule hadn't changed over seventeen years. Like in 1978, I was the only one who alighted at Flagstaff. Except for the night staff, I was the only customer left to wait there. Upon enquiry, I found out that the connecting Greyhound Bus to Grand Canyon Village no longer operated. Instead, a private minibus service operated to the South Rim from Flagstaff. And I had to pay the fare directly to the driver when the minibus arrives - four hours after my arrival.

Also, another change was made here at the terminal, the removal of luggage lockers. Such a locker was a big bonus in 1978, as with a much lighter load, I was able to hike a round trip into the Canyon with hardly a hitch. This time, without a locker, I'll be carrying a much heavier load on my back. I was hoping that I will be able to cope with a demanding trek fully laden.

At the small terminal cafe, a bored-looking female assistant was at the counter. I asked her,

Excuse me, but if I was to buy something, would you be able to cash a US Dollar Traveller's Cheque?

She looked at me with an element of surprise. She then answered:

Yes, I'm able to cash a Traveller's Cheque. You are the first tourist who asked me so politely whether I can cash a cheque. All the others demand as if taken for granted.

I ordered a coffee and a bar of chocolate, and with my passport as proof of identity, one of my cheques was exchanged for a much-needed wad of cash. I then returned to the waiting lounge with the refreshment.

Sunday at Albuquerque, New Mexico.

By eight that morning, a few other travellers arrived at the bus terminal. Eventually, the minibus also arrived. We all paid our fares for the driver to transport us to the Rim. When he saw that there was one person too many, he approached me and asked if I minded waiting here at the terminal while he took the others to the Village, and then he'll come back for me.

I stood my ground, and firmly replied,

I have just paid my fare. And you are taking me to the Rim. NOW!

The driver baulked, as if shocked at my reaction. He then answered that he can take me as long as I'm happy to sit on the floor. I preferred to accept his concession rather than endure a further three-hour wait on top of the four-hour break in the journey I had already endured. After all, a single journey to Grand Canyon Village from Flagstaff was close to eighty miles, an approximately ninety-minute drive one way.

Arriving at the Grand Canyon!

The drive through the near-barren Arizonian desert was long and somewhat tedious, and I was unable to see much out of the window except an expanse of a clear, cloudless sky, I felt relieved that I was at last on my way to my destination and not stuck at Flagstaff and wondering whether this guy would have returned to collect me, forget me, or not bother - after having received his money and not wanting to refill his tank. However, by stretching my neck, I was able to catch a glimpse of the horizon, a vast expanse of countryside with areas of pine forests and semi-desert scrublands.

Eventually, directly in front, there appears to be a distant gash in the ground. As we were actually driving a very gentle and barely noticeable uphill gradient, the Colorado Plateau, through which the Canyon cuts, slanted southwards, hence the North Rim is higher than the South Rim, to where we are approaching. Hence, even from a distance south of the National Park, the Canyon appeared as a narrow gash in the ground. I was intrigued, and becoming excited.

The van stopped at a shop as we approached the park boundary. We all got off and had a look around. There was all sort of trinkets, including Grand Canyon calendars for 1996, jigsaw puzzles, pictures, and specific food needed for hiking. I managed to buy several calendars, one each for three friends back home, one for my parents as well as one for myself. I also bought some nuts to feast on. Later, I'll learn how important it would have been to eat those nuts during the hike, especially whilst climbing back out.

The minibus at last pulled into the village. The driver told us to meet at a certain spot at a given time for a return journey back to Flagstaff. When I said that I will be spending at least a night here as a hiker, he offered a lift to the North Rim for an extra fee to cover a 200-mile, 4-hour drive. I refused. He then drove off, and I never saw him again.

At Albuquerque, 1995.

I made my way to the Rim lookout and beheld nature's workmanship in front of me! The sheer beauty the glory and splendour. Already, I felt a partial fulfilment of my dream. The sky was clear, the sun was bright, I was already feeling warm, and the chasm in front of me was so foreboding, yet I felt that it was tugging at my emotions, enticing me into its mouth as if ready to swallow me into its depths.

But as reality goes, reality hits hard! I approached the Bright Angel Lodge and asked whether there were any beds at Phantom Ranch. Any cancellations like in 1978? No, there weren't any free beds at the Ranch this time. And this was my mistake. A properly-planned night spent at the Ranch calls for a booking made several months in advance. I didn't realise that in 1978, I was offered a place like a bolt from the blue due to a last-minute cancellation. However, I was instructed to visit the Visitor's Center. There, I would be assigned a number on a ticket. The following morning at seven, all of us would gather at the Center, and a small selection of numbers would randomly be called out, like that of a lottery. Those who held tickets with those numbers were given a Camper's Pass and allowed to hike down for the night. The others either waited until the next day or go home. In turn, any day hiker was able to descend without the lottery draw. The Camper's Pass was for overnighters only. 

I thought: By heck! What am I going to do now?

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Next Week: I Make a Decision.

Travel Biography - Week 57.

General Overview of 1995 Journey across the States.

I was born and grew up at just the right time in human history. Indeed, I could have married during the early seventies when I entered my twenties. But having had a girlfriend around 1971-1972, and after I was dumped by her, it turned out that I was not yet mature enough to take on married responsibilities. Just as well as the old saying, Marry in haste, repent at leisure, would have applied, and I might have regretted it later in life.

On the opposite end of the timescale, I was already married and the father of our first daughter when on September 11th, 2001, a terrorist attack on New York's World Trade Center forever changed the outlook on travel, especially long-haul.

Entry into the United States from the UK is a good example. For my first and second visits in the seventies, I had to apply for an entry visa at the US Embassy in London, a procedure which took quite a bit of effort to complete. Then in 1986, the Visa Waiver Scheme was introduced for all British and European tourists for visits not exceeding three months. However, as a consequence of 9/11, the US Government now require an ESTA, which the applicant would have to pay for. Therefore, I was able to take advantage of a fifteen-year window of opportunity, enabling me to enter the USA with nothing more than a valid passport with a stub of a green card stapled inside.

And so, there I was, leaning out of the window of a side-street hotel on the day of arrival from the UK, looking out into the night. However, I had one special target to aim for - to hike the Grand Canyon for the second time to bag some outstanding photos.

St Louis 1995. The Gateway Arch

The Journey Begins. Arrival at St Louis Missouri.

After spending much of the next day in Manhatten, I boarded the Greyhound Bus at the Port Authority Bus Terminal, which I remember well from 1978. Although the bus was destined for Los Angeles, my first stop on the route would be St Louis in Missouri, on the west bank of the Mississippi River, with the west shore of the State of Illinois lining its east bank. 

The ride brought flashbacks from 1978 as the bus cruised through the Hudson Tunnel and opened out into New Jersey. This section of the whole trip was "fast" - that is, I didn't make any overnight or extended day stops between New York and St Louis, although there were a couple of cities where I had an hour's pause whilst the bus was given a service. At one point I was humming to myself Simon and Garfunkel's song America. Its lyrics were about a young couple on board a Greyhound Bus out looking for their destiny.

The fact that the distance from New York to St Louis is nearly as long as from London to Rome reveals the sheer size of the country. On the Americruiser, it took 21 hours to complete the journey, approximately a third of the way towards the Pacific Coast. 

After alighting at St Louis, I felt relieved to be walking on solid ground again. Looking for a hostel in St Louis wasn't easy, as I was about to find out here in America. North American HI-AYH-affiliated hostels tended to be privately-owned properties which were registered by the association rather than owned directly by the administrative body as were the YHA England &Wales properties. Thus, they tended to be located out of town for running cost reasons. One hostel that appeared on the guide I had on me was the Huckleberry Finn Hostel, an AYH-affiliated but private property some distance out of town. (This was 1995. The hostel has closed and gone out of existence long since then.)

Not knowing where to go, I asked a taxi driver to take me to the hostel. The driver pulled a face as if I was wasting his time. Then it became apparent. The distance was short, a five-minute drive to a residential estate south of the city centre. Right outside the hostel was a local bus stop for services into town. Hoping a bed was available this time, I entered the empty property. In searching around, I strayed into the owner's apartment, but the fellow wasn't rude or unkind. Instead, he reserved a bed for me and asked me whether I had a fear of mice. Reassured, he then told me to come back later, as the hostel was closed for the day.

After checking in that evening (having remembered the route from the City Centre, approx a twenty-minute walk) I claimed my bed. This was my very first hostelling experience across the Atlantic. Although I was already well experienced with British, European and Israeli hostels, this was to be a new and exciting experience I call The American Dream.

Nearby was a small superstore, and I found this to be convenient for stocking up. With other backpackers having arrived, I made my way to the kitchen and found the food storage pigeonholes near the cookers. I stooped to look inside. There were several dead cockroaches within the pigeonhole. Feeling disgusted at the sight and of the odour emanating from the tiny corpses, I decided to keep all my groceries in the rucksack next to my bed and only take out what I need for that evening.

 The courthouse from the crest of Gateway Arch. 1995.

While I was cooking dinner, I began chatting with another backpacker from Germany, who eventually began lightheartedly to refer to me as That crazy Englishman - although I had never considered myself English, but a full-blood Italian who happen to be British by law, and a holder of a British passport. Unfortunately, although he got to know my name, I never asked what his name was, so for the convenience of this biography, I'll refer to him as James.

James wasn't alone but had a companion with him. As we cooked, we chatted, and it was then I realised that I had forgotten to bring the Greyhound route map of the USA with me before taking off. It was still resting on the dining room table in my apartment. James took out his copy of the map and gave it to me, and he said that I could keep it. This, with my anticipation to hike the Grand Canyon, might have earned me the title of crazy Englishman.

I was talking with James when, all of a sudden, a grey mouse sprang out of a mousehole in the kitchen, then hesitated as it paused to look up at us, then sprang across the floor to a hidden corner. I wasn't startled, as I was already aware of its presence, having been warned of it when I turned up earlier that afternoon. But I have wondered how many females in the past, and even some males, had let out a whoop at its sudden appearance? And I also began to wonder how the AYH accepted the owner's application for registration after what was meant to have been a vigorous inspection.

It was during the following morning that what I saw and experienced made me decide that the Huckleberry Finn Hostel was the worst hostel I ever stayed in, and no other establishment anywhere around the world had ever eclipsed it. And that was the row of toilet cubicles. For me who had a pressing urge, the Western saloon bar type of swing doors was an awful embarrassment! Any individual passing by can turn and look straight in. But like any living organism, nature's call had to be answered. But fortunately, hardly anyone passed by on that occasion and nobody looked in. 

Toilets with doors like this!

A little later that morning, I stood with three other backpackers at the bus stop. Presently, a saloon car driven by a middle-aged gentleman stopped at the bus stop and explained that his wife ran a grocery shop downtown and needed helpers for the day, whom she was willing to pay. All three of us climbed into the car after waiting a good while for a (non-existent) bus to turn up at the stop. Once in town, the car paused not at the shop but in a parking bay. The driver told us all to sit and wait while he got out of the car and slammed the door shut, leaving us four alone.

That's when I said,

Listen, all of you. What we're doing is illegal. If caught by the authorities, it could mean a jail term or thrown out of the country.

Immediately, the guy on my right flung open the rear door, and so did the fellow on my left, and both of them climbed out, with me following the chap on my right. However, the backpacker who sat in the front passenger seat remained in the car to await the driver. Probably the prospect of some extra cash in his pocket cancelled out any fears or apprehensions of tampering with the law, thus willing enough to take the risk.

I made my way to the 192-metre-high St Louis Gateway Arch, and I remembered it as it was in 1978. Nothing had changed, except that this time, I was swimming in deep curiosity about the reaction of the car driver when he sees that three of the four passengers legged at the first opportunity. Indeed, I would have loved to have seen his face!

Like I did fifteen years earlier, I boarded one of the eight cylindrical pods that make up the tram operating in one of the arch's curved legs There is a tram on each of the legs, making a total of 16 pods, thus a total capacity of 80 people are carried at any one time, five people in each pod. However, during my 1995 visit, the tram in the south leg was out of action, thus only the north leg gave access to the curved viewing platform at the crest. I also spent some time in the underground museum, learning why the arch was there in the first place and the trail that would lead from it westward, towards the Pacific coast in the Oregon area.

There were sofas here and there in the museum, and one, in particular, faced the entrance. Some people entered and they were messing about. Then they saw me looking up at them and they suddenly started to behave. They thought I was a staff member and carried authority. I watched as they made their way to the tram doors.

I also paid a visit to the famous St Louis Law Court, I visit I didn't make in 1978. This was the place where a slave named Dered Scott sued for his freedom in 1846, and won the case. I managed to see the interior.

Interior of the St Louis Law Court, 1995.

Later that evening, I made dinner and began to wind down. James and his mate had already moved on. The next day, I would vacate my bed and make my way to the Greyhound Bus terminal to continue the journey west. The journey, which includes sections of Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles, would, from Missouri, cross into the State of Oklahoma, where the bus has a service stop at Tulsa, a town whose name was made famous by the late Gene Pitney's 1963 chart-topping song, 24 Hours from Tulsa. 

The bus then would journey on and cross the border from Oklahoma into the northern square of Texas, where a stop would be made at Amarillo. After leaving the town whose name was also made famous in the pop song world by Tony Christie's 1971 hit, Is This the Way to Amarillo, the bus would eventually cross from Texas into New Mexico, where I made a day stop at Albuquerque. From New Mexico, I travel on to reach Flagstaff in Arizona, the start of the branch journey to the Grand Canyon.

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Next Week: More details on the St Louis to Grand Canyon Greyhound Bus travel.

Travel Biography - Week 56.

Preparing for the 1995 Flight to New York

The day before I returned home from Israel in 1994, I stood on the crest of the Mount of Olives looking west towards Jerusalem. As I pondered over my future and wondered whether I'll be returning, I had a kind of vision. This was to make another journey to the USA sometime in the following year, the third trip in my life so far. I believed this was something of a divine revelation. Exactly a year to the day after flying home from Tel Aviv on September 5th, 1994, on the same day in 1995, I was on board the plane heading west to New York.

Manhatten Skyline from Central Park, 1995.

Even while I was contemplating the trip whilst on the hill, I knew why I wanted to fly back to the States. I wanted to revisit the Grand Canyon and hike the Bright Angel Trail over again. But this time, the hike was not the end in itself, as it was previously, but this time a means to an end. On the first trip in 1978, my camera failed whilst I was deep inside the valley and next to the Colorado River. This time, I wanted to make sure that my mission was made complete - the return to the UK with a pile of photos good for an album. Photos I treasure right up to the present day.

After arriving home from Israel, one of the first things I need to find out was whether I need to return to the US Embassy in London for visa renewal. This could prove difficult, as a document of proof that I was working for a British company was required before a visa was granted. By 1995, I have been self-employed already for fifteen years. However, having held a valid visa in the seventies might have given me an advantage, on the other hand, not having an employer could have scuppered my application.

I wasn't aware that during the 1980s, our Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher and US President Ronald Reagan hammered out an agreement - the Visa Waiver Scheme, which means that all that was required for entry for a maximum of three months was a green card, which was given out mid-flight and filled in by the time I arrived at the passport control at J.F. Kennedy Airport. Thus, form filling, getting official documents, extra trips to London and waiting around and wondering whether my application was successful or not, a bane for the 1977 and 1978 transatlantic trips, were all avoided, making preparation so much easier and tourism more appealing.

An excellent Travel Agent which I discovered by chance while I was at Kensington High Street, was Trailfinders, a business originally set up to help Australians working or studying here in the UK return to their homeland without the need to pay an exorbitant airline price. However, with an ever-growing market for long-haul travel already at their fingertips, it didn't take long for the business to capitalise on cheap flights to distant destinations around the world. And that includes selected cities in the United States. It was here at Trailfinders that I learned about the Visa Waiver Scheme, as long as I tell them where I'll be spending my first night.

One necessity was a pair of strong hiking boots I bought from Millets Camping Stores several months before take off. In the months preceding the hike, I had to break the boots in. This I did in the summer evenings after I'd finished a day's work. From my apartment, I set out on a long walk of three to four miles, to exercise my leg muscles as well as breaking in the boots. However, what I didn't realise was even with the training, I was already overestimating my abilities, a dangerous situation if deep inside the Canyon. I recall one female hiker who was rescued by a ranger in 1978. Her mule overtook me whilst ascending out of the gorge. Annually, up to a dozen fatalities occur within the Grand Canyon National Park.

However, I kept up the training. Although I was beginning to feel better about myself after the 1994 disaster, I was by no means over it. Anger, fear, regret, and general sadness still form an emotional vortex within my soul as I kept on wondering why all that happened to me and what were the reasons for them all.

Also purchased was a new rucksack, one of a full body length. It was designed to carry everything I need for the entire journey. Rather than hire a lightweight knapsack like I did in 1978, I was to carry this heavy load down into the Canyon. Little did I know that the left luggage lockers found in all Greyhound Bus terminals in the seventies were removed during the 1980s for security reasons. Hence, fully laden, this would have a profound effect on the hike. 

The excitement for the coming trip helped me cope with my emotional state. After my 1994 flight home, I returned to my church, back then, Ascot Baptist Church led by our former pastor, the late Barry Buckingham and his team, and managed to settle in as a regular member.

Just two weeks before take-off, my airline tickets arrived in the post along with the Greyhound Ameripass ticket valid for a full month. However, throughout the seventeen years since my last trip to the States, various changes were made. One was the Ameripass ticket itself. In the seventies, this was in a form of a book of vouchers, with each voucher torn off when boarding the bus to commence a fresh leg of the journey. In 1995, there was one single voucher which was kept on me until its expiry at the end of the holiday. Thus, the need to renew the book halfway through the month's trip became obsolete.

Turtle Pond, Central Park, 1995.

Another big change over the years was the style of accommodation. I wanted to carry the experience of hostelling into the States. Especially when it came to buying ingredients for a meal, cooking (and socialising with others in the kitchen) and enjoying the meal in the member's dining room. Indeed, this experience was meant to be quite different from the seventies, when I stayed in hotels and ate at the Greyhound Terminal restaurant.

Also, the itinerary would be different in 1995 from the seventies trip. Instead of starting and finishing at the same venue (Toronto in 1977, New York City in 1978) this time, I would begin in New York and finish in San Francisco, a one-way journey that would allow for longer stops at selected venues. 

Also, a couple of weeks before take off, I dialled New York in an attempt to reserve a bed at one of the city's hostels. There were quite a number of them. What a shock it was when I was told by the receptionist that on that particular date (the evening of September 5th, 1995) all the beds were taken. I felt very discouraged. However, when I asked, realising the season was coming to an end and whether beds should have freed up once the summer vacationers had returned home, I was told that September saw a peak in the backpacker population, as many of them had ended their summer work contracts and were roaming across the country as tourists before returning home or to college. Therefore, I was left to the old hotel bed-hunting tactics after arrival. 

Arrival in New York.

September 5th 1995 arrived at last. Unlike in 1978, there were no industrial disputes affecting flights, and mine took off from London Heathrow on time. The transatlantic flight was smooth and itself a pleasant experience, and also therapeutic. It was exactly a year to the day after boarding a plane at Tel Aviv Airport for a flight home while feeling in a wretched and broken state. Also, it's worth noting that spending a night in London was very beneficial when it came to arriving at the airport in good time. In 1994, I spent a night at YHA St Pauls, in the heart of the City. In 1995, I also arrived in London a day earlier and spent the night at YHA Earls Court. I was surprised by how long the Piccadilly Line Underground journey took to transport me from Earls Court Station to Terminal 3 of Heathrow Airport. But with a morning take-off, I couldn't afford the risk of a journey to the airport direct from Bracknell.

The plane finally landed in New York after over five hours of an airborne journey. Some distance to my left (hence, to the south) another airline was also flying from London to New York, and it kept up with us. The other airline landed first, then us. As a result, after alighting, I found myself at the back of a slow-moving queue for passport control, with two planeloads of passengers, each waiting to have his passport stamped.

At the arrivals lounge, the first thing I need to do, after arriving in Manhatten, was to look for a bed. Therefore, with the help of an American Hostel guide I had on me, I arrived at a couple of backpacker hostels. Both of them turned me away, with the explanation that all the beds were taken. It was at the second hostel that the receptionist asked me if I had made a booking. When I admitted that I didn't, he was apologetic but not unkind in saying that he was unable to offer me a bed, as if he saw me as an ideal customer, yet had to be turned away for someone less desirable.

I knew that there was just one place left, a seedy-looking hotel on the corner of 8th Avenue and West 44th Street. This was the same hotel I stayed at seventeen years earlier in 1978, also straight after arriving in New York at the start of the holiday. I recall the cockroach city in my room, and it was either put up or walked out. My memory of where to find the hotel must have been good, as I had no trouble finding it. I took the chance and inquired at Reception.

I was served by an Afro-Caribbean like I was before and given the keys to the same room I occupied in 1978. This time, there weren't many cockroaches scurrying across the room, but I still saw one or two. Like in 1978, once I settled in, I was too tired to go back outside. That part of New York was quiet, almost deserted, quite unlike the night in 1978 when a fire at a city building created chaos, keeping the city alive and noisy well into the night.

The tiredness I felt was due to the five-hour time-lapse during the flight. Although I was now behind British Summer Time by five hours, my body clock was telling me it was bedtime. But I couldn't sleep. Instead, I was able to open the window and lean out towards the street outside. Directly in front of me were several shops, all closed and the shutters down. Nearest the corner of 44th Street was a liquor shop, or what we would call an off-license. Next to it was a pharmacy. And the third shop was Goldilocks Deli. It was at the latter that I cracked a smile. I realised that this was America. And I jokingly found it hard to believe that the average New Yorker can pronounce the rather fragile word, Delicatessen fluently. So it was cut short - Deli. I even laughed. If only I realised back then that the pharmacy was in the right place. Whether suffering a hangover from the alcoholic drinks sold at the off-license or suffering indigestion after scoffing at the product sold at the deli, the pharmacy had a cure for both!

However, later that night, a large group of young Afro-Carribeans arrived near the hotel and the late evening guffaws eventually deteriorated into a street brawl, with angry swear words shouted along the street crossing. Although the noise was disturbing, at least there was no sign of entry into the hotel. It was at this point that I stayed away from the window and crawled into bed. I didn't want any of them to notice my presence.

Weight gain since 1978, at Central Park, 1995.

The next morning, I arose and after a shower, vacated the hotel. Fully loaded with a heavy rucksack on my back, I made my way to Fifth Avenue and in one of its lofty banks, I cashed a Traveller's Cheque. Further on, I arrived at the British Consulate (not to be confused with the British Embassy in Washington DC). As I stood outside the Consulate, directly across the road and bang opposite, was Tie Rack, a British business. Typical, I thought. Along 5th Avenue, I continued walking, until A arrived at Central Park. It was here where I spent the next few hours. The Lung of New York. The peaceful serenity of Central Park was a recluse from the traffic noise and the city din of street life. Turtle Pond, with its quaint footbridge nearby, offered a scene as contrasting from Manhatten as any parkland could be.

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Next Week. The Journey to the Grand Canyon.

Travel Biography - Week 55.

Settling Down in Jerusalem.

It was August 1994. I had just been dismissed from Stella Carmel Guesthouse and Christian Conference Centre, not as an employee, but as a volunteer. And it wasn't because I was lazy or my work was below standard. Rather, it was due to bad relationships with the other volunteers. If anything, the work provided a recluse from interacting with others, as once a task was assigned to me, I always carried it out alone.

But here I was, at a hostel in Jerusalem, 150 km or 92 miles south of Haifa, the northern city being near the village of Isfya, where the guesthouse was located. As I lay on one of the beds in an empty dormitory during the middle of the afternoon, I was broken, my spirit shattered. And this lousy feeling remained in me for the next twelve months.

I spent my time sauntering aimlessly through the Old City's narrow streets. The accommodation I was in was New Swedish Hostel on Souk David, where I stayed a year earlier in 1993. Heading west from the hostel would have brought me to Jaffa Gate with the Citadel right next to it. Opposite the Citadel was Christ Church, the only Anglican Church in Jerusalem and one of the centres of ITAC. 

Thousands of Jews Pray at the Wall, 1994.

From the hostel, had I sauntered in the opposite direction, eastwards, I would have arrived at a crossroads with Souk Han Az-Zeit leading north to the Damascus Gate, and south as the Cardio towards the Western Wall Plaza. Had I carried on eastwards from the crossroads, I would have passed through Bab El Silsith Road to Bab El Silsith itself, one of the gates into Temple Mount and facing the beautiful golden Dome of the Rock. Back in 1976, I recall entering the Temple Mount via this gate. But for security reasons, in 1994, as at present, the only public access to the area was via Bab Al Magharbeh, south of the Western Wall, and approached by a tightly-secured ramp.

A Special Gathering at the Western Wall.

It was while I was on one of these walks that I saw what looks to be crowds of Orthodox Jews passing through Souk David after entering the Old City via Jaffa Gate. Not just a few, but thousands of them. It looked to me that the Arab-owned market streets were suddenly taken over by Jews, nearly all dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, and each head capped with a yarmulka or skullcap. They poured en masse through Souk David, heading east towards the Temple Mount. But it wasn't the Mount they were heading for, but the Western Wall. Also, it was a Saturday, the Jewish Sabbath.

Later that afternoon, I made my way to the Western Wall Plaza and reached a lookout that gave a panoramic view of the Plaza. From my vantage point, I saw thousands upon thousands of Jews cram into the Wall area in prayer. Just behind me, a couple of crew members set up their TV cameras at the Plaza and began filming. Some ultra-Orthodox Jews also assembled at the same overlook. They didn't look very pleased. One or two of them had stones, and they began to hurl the stones towards the cameramen. They consider working on the Sabbath a capital offence, punishable by stoning to death. Although only a few stones were thrown, fortunately, none of them hit the cameramen or me, rather it was more of a token and a warning that the most orthodox among the Jews still took their beloved Torah as their rulebook for daily living.

There was no start or end of prayer. As the first crowd poured into the Plaza, they made their way to the Wall and prayed there as long as each saw fit. Then as each individual left the area, more piled in. And so it went on, leaderless yet everyone kept in order. As more poured in whilst others left, there were no scuffles, no loud protesting, no partying in the way I saw the Sabbath initiated, and no form of trouble. From where I was standing, I felt safe as I watched on - despite the few stones that flew through the air right behind me.

I spent quite a while standing at the lookout as the mass prayer continued incessantly. Never in my life had I witnessed such a large crowd gather at the wall for prayer, and so continuing without interruption throughout the afternoon. Despite my combined feelings of brokenness, crushed, fear, and anger over the dismissal from the Conference Centre, a spirit of journalism began to take over, the strong sense of curiosity filled my soul with the ever-spinning question turning within my head - What's going on?

At the Demonstration.

I made my way back to the hostel to cook dinner, as was my normal custom whilst I was in Jerusalem - or for that matter - whenever I was away from home. Some other backpackers were also at the hostel combining kitchen and dining room. The conversion was centred on a demonstration that will take place in the New City after dark when the Sabbath was over. I tried to get some answers from those in the room on the reason for the protest and whether there was a connection between the coming demonstration and the mass prayer at the Western Wall. I was given a clue. Apparently, the Palestinians wanted to establish East Jerusalem as their State capital. But the Israelis were hard against that. Having claimed back the region during the 1967 Six-Day War, no way would they have been keen to hand it back to the Arabs, even if peace was promised.

After dinner, it was already dark as I made my way to the protest. I exited Jaffa Gate and after navigating across a junction, I walked up Jaffa Road into the Jewish New City. Soon, I began to see the large crowd of protesters gathered at Zion Square, a wide pedestrianised space from which Ben Yehuda Street, also fully pedestrianised, branched off. Quite a contrast from 1976, when both Zion Square and Ben Yehuda Street were motor traffic thoroughfares.

Zion Square. Ron Hotel is on the right. Stock Photo

Facing Zion Square was the Ron Hotel - the very place I stayed for my first night after arriving in Jerusalem in 1976. (For the record, it's now the Jerusalem Hostel.) The centre of the huge crowd was the hotel. Inside there were two important officials and their attendants, Yitzhak Rabin who was the President of Israel before his assassination on November 4th, 1995, and Yasser Arafat, leader of the Palestine Liberation Organisation, or the PLO. In the same hotel where I slept 18 years earlier, these two men were sitting facing each other across the table and discussing whether Rabin would allow Arafat to make East Jerusalem the Palestinian capital. Apparently, the agreement was signed, a move that would cost the President his life just over a year later.

I mingled in the large crowd of angry Israeli protesters, probably numbering several thousand. It felt claustrophobic, as each person was pressing hard towards the hotel. I stood right in their midst, facing directly at the hotel. Not that I was actually protesting. Rather, I was a bystander looking in and identifying with the Jews. In comparison with the staff and volunteers at Stella Carmel, I felt at one with this crowd and protested along with them.

Here and there there were TV cameras and their crew. This time, there was no stone-throwing, as the Sabbath was officially over and they were allowed to do their job. The sight of the TV cameras made me wonder whether this protest would appear on BBC News in the UK.

But more striking was the huge banner that was held up high behind me, being waved to and fro above the heads of the crowd and visible to all. What was on it was a professional piece of artwork that had me stunned, not knowing whether to feel shocked or burst into laughter, as it might have been unlawful had it appeared at a London protest. As I write this biography, I want to express exactly what I saw, therefore, I write with the hope that the reader can understand the implications of the demonstration and what it means to retain what was won during the 1967 Six-Day War.

The banner showed the President of Israel, stark naked, and bending down whilst looking behind with a degree of nervousness. Directly behind him stood Yasser Arafat, also stark naked and with an erect penis, ready and about to sodomise the President. The artwork was professional enough to recognise the two characters instantly. The banner remained high in the air for a while, among the loud chanting and shouting, along with the cheers brought about by the presence of the motif. A while later, the banner was deliberately set on fire, turning the artwork into ashes among the cheers of the onlookers.

As the protest continued, the claustrophobia began to get the better of me, and gradually I began to worm my way back out of the crowd. With everyone else still fastened at the hotel, making my way back out from the pressing crowd wasn't that difficult. Back out, I felt relief to feel the cool breeze of the fresh night air as I made my way to the almost deserted Jaffa Gate of the Old City. Within its walls, in contrast to Zion Square, the Old City was quiet, empty of people, all the shops closed, and deserted.

Back then, although I knew why the incessant prayer at the Western Wall and the demonstration at Zion Square were about not making an agreement between Israel and Palestine over East Jerusalem for a false promise of peace, I never found out the result of the talks in that hotel until much later. This got me to think about all those prayers - thousands upon thousands of them - and all at the Jewish holiest site as well, which apparently remained unanswered, as the agreement was eventually signed. Had I found out back then, with the Stella Carmel disaster so fresh in my mind, that could have dealt a fatal blow to my faith. Yet an important lesson was learned: to listen to what the land is telling me.

Other Places Visited.

However, during Post-Stella Therapy Month (as I now call it) there were quieter, more "mundane" venues to visit. One venue was the Israel Museum which includes the Shrine of the Book, itself near the Knesset, the Parliament of Israel. Although the Canaanite coffins looked rather humourous, decorated with a mask resembling those of the Egyptian coffin, however, the figure of the Canaanite dead engraved on the cylindrical coffin was shown as a cheerful guy sticking both his thumbs upwards, as if cheering a victory.

The Shrine of the Book was built to resemble the clay jar in which it was found within the Quram Caves near the Dead Sea. Among the Dead Sea Scrolls (which includes fragments of Genesis chapter 1) there was a complete scroll of the prophet Isaiah, this manuscript copy dates back to the Hasmonian Period, approx 100 BC. By comparing it with modern Hebrew manuscripts, the copying accuracy was so astonishing, it's proof that the contents of the Hebrew and Greek Bible can pass through thousands of years without any tainting of the original manuscript! Hence, a shrine was built to house the scroll, which was displayed in a sealed glass case.

One other venue that's worth mentioning here. That was Christ Church, opposite the Citadel which is next to Jaffa Gate. It's the church where the Reverend John and Christine Claydon worshipped. This couple were members of the ITAC Committee, and it was Christine who accepted me when I first applied to be a volunteer. When I turned up for the morning service for the third Sunday since my dismissal, they expressed surprise that, after all this time, I was still in Jerusalem. However, without being rude to them, I made known to them that I refuse to be beaten by the early dismissal from Stella Carmel. However, despite my weekly attendance, I didn't warm up to the church, especially the Church of England.

The Shrine of the Book, Stock Photo.

However, on Sept 5th, 1994, after passing strict security, I boarded the plane for the return flight home. Leaving Israel nine months earlier than I originally planned, I was still feeling gutted and devastated, even though the month I spent in Jerusalem was therapeutic. It has helped me set my focus on the next flight, the one to New York J.F. Kennedy Airport exactly a year later in 1995. Amazingly enough, my funds lasted right up to the moment I waited at the departure lounge of Ben Gurion Airport. It was there where I had spent the very last shekel. However, in my wallet, I still had the £10 note I purposely left intact throughout the trip. It would pay the train fare from Gatwick to Bracknell. And so, after spending the longest uninterrupted duration I ever experienced outside the UK, a total of 13 weeks altogether, I finally turned the lock on my apartment's front door.

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Next Week: What it takes to prepare for a flight out to the States.