Travel Biography - Week 63

 Arrival at San Diego.

All photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

Having spent another night in the seat of a Greyhound Bus, I felt good about sleeping in a bed again. And for more than one night. As soon as I exited the Greyhound Bus terminal, which in the year 1995 was located on Broadway, I took a liking to the street and the harbour town straight away. I then walked west towards the harbour and came across a rather large, aged building that was once a military base before its conversion into a YMCA. The organisation then rented out one of its upper floors to HI-AYH as a backpacker's hostel, just the ideal place for me to settle in.

San Diego Skyline from Broadway Pier.

I entered through the main door and saw the hostel receptionist directly ahead, where I booked and paid for the next five nights, the venue for the most nights spent of the whole American trip.

I found the bedroom that was assigned to me. It was a small room containing two bunk beds and a washbasin. One of the beds was occupied by one other male, a man in his late twenties who was Australian. After we introduced each other, he explained that while he was in the States, he worked on a contract as a builder. After his contract ended, he allowed some time to backpack across America before arriving here in San Diego. In a few days, he'll be on the plane flying across the Pacific Ocean homeward.

This was not the first time I met and talked to a builder while on my travels. I recall just the previous year. While I was convalescing at the New Swedish Hostel in Jerusalem, I met this Irish builder who also finished his contract in the Holy Land, and was doing some backpacking before flying home. We spoke joyfully to each other for maybe up to an hour. These two, one in Israel and the other here in San Diego, opened my eyes to the reality that long-term travel wasn't restricted to students of middle-class backgrounds. Rather, by having served an apprenticeship and developed craft skills, the world was open to them.

This fellow in the bedroom shared with me some details of Australian life. Just when I was beginning to believe that I was becoming an experienced independent traveller, I felt that I was put in my place. Compared to this guy, I only just rounded a corner from home.

I found some time to sit alone and think, or should I say, reminisce. I recall 1991. Back then, I was a member of Thames Valley Triathletes, based in Reading, and one of the largest triathlon clubs in membership numbers in the UK. We all noted the arrival of a new member, Steven. What was remarkable about him was that not only was he a tall, sleek athlete and a good cyclist, but also from Australia. He was spending a few months here in the UK on a work visa, working at Mars Electronics International at nearby Winnersh Triangle. Although he was liked and well-respected by other club members, I was envious of his travel experience. Even his natural high-pitched voice tone didn't alleviate my envy of him. However, by the time I left the club in the Autumn of 1992, he had already flown home.

City's flower garden. The rail track is on the left.

It was through these encounters with two travelling Australians, each up to 6,000 miles apart and separated by four years, that a seed was planted in my mind. If these two could travel around the world so easily, why couldn't I do the same? Could this be possible?

Checking Out San Diego.

One of the first things I had to take care of was groceries. This was decided upon after exploring the single-floor hostel, a Monopoly board setting of rooms built around a central atrium containing the main stairwell. The combined kitchen, dining/games room and TV room were all clean and well-kept. The bath/shower room was also spacious, with military-style open-wall showers, but also with proper privacy at all other facilities.

The food storage pigeonholes were also clean after I gave an inspection (after what I saw in St Louis.) What I did notice was that every item stored in the pigeonholes was labelled with the owner's name. This was mandatory. When a jar of peanut butter was left on one of the shelves unlabelled, it was gone by the next morning. Indeed, the jar was either taken and destroyed by a staff member, or a fellow guest had a lucky day! Then I went and found a superstore nearby, and stocked up. Back at the hostel, I made sure that all items were labelled with my signature on a strip of adhesive tape provided by the staff. That will guarantee the safety of my stock whilst I am out.

Trolley Tram to San Ysidro

I left the building and headed west towards the harbour, where I had a splendid view of the city skyline resembling a smaller and more tropical version of Manhattan. From Broadway Pier, cruisers ferry people from the mainland to the Coronado, an offshore landmass connected to the mainland by a road, the Silver Strand Boulevard, built on a strip of land enclosing a lagoon, San Diego Bay. Heading inland and then turning north, I found Balboa Park with its superb Spanish architecture, rich in aesthetics and enhanced further with palm trees. As the park was also the home of the city's museums, I spent time visiting two of them, the hands-on Science Museum was one of them. The other was the Museum of Man. There was also the San Diego Zoo. But I didn't visit this venue until I arrived nearly two years later in 1997.

The beautiful central shopping mall didn't lack aesthetics either. The coloured masonry above the shops gave the proper atmosphere to a city set in the semi-tropics, with palm trees adding further enhancement. Nearby was a flower garden, and I was fortunate enough to arrive whilst in full bloom. But what I found very unusual were the railway tracks cutting straight through the garden and unfenced on either side. Anyone could step on the tracks or even walk along them. And perhaps some daring youths did. By the time I returned in 1997, the tracks were fenced off.

Bright red trolley trams ran along these lines. There were two trolley routes. One of them, I became familiar with. During my first visit to San Diego, I took a trolley all the way to its southern terminus, San Ysidro on the border with Mexico, with Tijuana on the Mexican side. This allowed me to cross into Mexico, as I had my passport on me, and spend a few hours exploring Tijuana. 

At Balboa Park.

Social Life in Southern California.

Back at the hostel, I got on well with other backpackers, including one young man, taller than me and slimmer, who, on the following morning, chose to sit opposite me at breakfast and announced quite loudly that he was gay. When I asked him if he was travelling around in the same way I was, he denied that and explained that he was temporarily residing at the hostel until he had found a more permanent residence in the area. Sensing that I wasn't after any relationship, his attitude towards me cooled, and we went our separate ways. Yet, while we were still talking, I could sense the underlying anger and frustration brought about by his orientation and society's attitude towards it. I couldn't help feeling sorry for him.

Other friends I made included a young Jewess who was eventually heading for Vancouver. Although we didn't stay together while I was in the city, when it was time for me to leave San Diego, she asked when and where I was going. By then, I had arranged my next stop to be at a HI-AYH Santa Monica. When I told her that, she booked a bed for herself on the same night as mine, and then she asked me to accompany her to downtown Los Angeles, and then to Santa Monica. Her reason was that while we were passing through L.A. - she felt protected by my presence.

Balboa Park's fascinating architecture

A couple of other guests suggested visiting Mission Beach, SeaWorld, the Old City, and even Little Italy, all of which I will describe later. However, one evening, the third evening after arriving myself, two young British men arrived, I believe from Scotland. I had to chance to speak to them while I was cooking dinner. They turned out to be brothers and like me, they were backpacking across America. The only difference was they travelled together as a pair, thus sharing their experience.

They looked to be in their mid-twenties and the better-looking one closely resembled the son of one of my window cleaning customers, except that this one had longer hair. Along with getting to know me, they also got to know my roommate, the Australian who slept on the bed directly under mine. Eventually, we became a foursome for that evening. After we had eaten, washed the dishes and cleared away, we gathered around the table football, paired with each other and created havoc with the game. With my reflexes being slow, it was little wonder that the other team won most of the time, flicking the ball at lightning speed into our goalmouth!

And here is the psychology behind this scenario. What made me, a man in his forties, team up with people half my age and partake in their way of entertainment? Despite the rich fulfilment in this American experience, deep within the depths of my heart, I was lonely and found verbal communication in a group difficult. As I have mentioned earlier in the biography, I'm on the spectrum. At least that is not as dramatic as saying that I have autism, albeit in a mild form (formerly, Asperger's Syndrome, or Aspie for short). Therefore, I enjoy travelling alone rather than risk having disagreements with a companion or with the rest of the group. This difficulty in communicating was the cause of the rejection I felt over a year earlier when I volunteered at Stella Carmel Christian Conference Centre. 

How I love those palm trees!

However, is being on the spectrum really a disability? This depends on one's opinion. For me, I have turned it in my favour. This survival instinct includes a sense of adventure. For example, it was autism that drove me to travel on my own, exploring faraway, dramatic places after receiving warnings of the dangers of wildlife, especially in the Grand Canyon, from concerned friends. If I were a normal communicator and a keen team player, the chance is that this biography might never have been written. But with all this comes a desire to be loved, accepted, to fit in. Hence my mixing with these guys. Yet, I'm not ashamed to say that being on the spectrum has pushed me into territory not many can boast about. I't the matter of having control over it rather than it over me.

The four of us left the hostel after we were through with the football. We walked through the street, acting more like football hooligans rather than backpackers, and already I was beginning to wonder whether we could have the Law on us. The other three may be happy with what they were doing and the noise we were making in the streets of San Diego, but I wasn't that happy. I would much rather relax in the hostel lounge, or even watch American TV, despite the plethora of commercial breaks interrupting the programme every five minutes.

Looking south at San Diego Harbour.

Like the second evening in San Diego, the day before those two brothers arrived. I felt a fever coming on, and I knew that if left untreated, I would go down with a temperature. So, I left the hostel and walked to the superstore. Fortunately, like in British stores, there was a medicine shelf. I searched for and selected the American equivalent of Lemsip which contains Paracetamol. Back in the kitchen, I took a dose of the medicine and relaxed as I watched a news report of snow falling over Arizona. By heck! I was at the Grand Canyon region less than a week previously. And it's only September. Freak weather, perhaps? Freakish enough to make it into the national news? Gradually, as I sat and watched, I felt the medicine do its work towards my recovery.

Bed was a welcoming sight, with or without the Aussie.

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Next Week: The Areas Around San Diego.

Travel Biography - Week 62.

In a Midst of a Contrast.

All photos here are my own, taken in 1995.

This week's blogger post, like any other, was written on an ordinary weekend, except that this time, we're amid a rather spectacular contrast between two women who have made or will make headlines in the media. One is Sarina Weigman and the other is Lucy Letbe. Maybe, you're not so familiar with Sarina. She's the manager of the England Lioness national women's football team. And for the first time after 57 years, she has succeeded in leading England to reach the World Cup finals. And so, by tomorrow afternoon, we'll know whether or not England won the cup by defeating Spain. (Final update at footer.)

The other female is graduate Lucy Letbe. By contrast, she has already made headlines after the jury convicted her of seven confirmed killings of newborns during her five-year career as a nurse in a neonatal unit of a Chester hospital. The destinies of these two couldn't be any different. One is destined for national glory. The other will be locked up for the rest of her life. According to the media, she would never be freed and will die behind bars.

Downtown Flagstaff.

I have opened this blog with such news, as both occurred on the same weekend. And amid such a contrast, I stand in the middle, perhaps, knowing full well that on one hand, I will never lift a trophy high among a crowd of happy, cheering supporters and TV cameras. On the other hand, neither would I ever see the inside of a prison cell for committing a crime and suffering as a social pariah and outcast.

Maybe, I'm like an imaginary flat plain of a wide landscape wedged in between a very high mountain range and a deep valley like the Grand Canyon. With either landscape contrasts, both extremities attract attention and have become well known. A featureless flat plain may not be so well known or touristy, but at least it is put to good use - whether by nature itself or cultivated by man.

And here, I'm referring to the semi-desert of mid to south Arizona, especially on the route between Flagstaff and Phoenix. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

At Phoenix, Arizona.

Arrival at Flagstaff from Grand Canyon NP.

That evening in September 1995, I alighted from the coach that had stopped at Flagstaff bus terminal and checked out the Greyhound Bus departures for the next day. One was destined for Phoenix, leaving mid-afternoon. I booked a seat for the next leg of the journey. Next, I began to look for accommodation preferably a hostel, to spend the night. The Motel de Beau was a suitable backpacker's hostel that catered mainly for those who are on their way to or back from the Grand Canyon. I entered and enquired whether a bed was available, not forgetting my failure to find a hostel bed in New York City due to student and gap year tourist overcrowding.

I was offered the last bed available, and I took it without hesitation. After locating my bed in one of the dormitories and preparing it, I went to the kitchen and I was told that free coffee was offered at all times. I almost jumped for joy, declaring, Wow! This is just like in Jerusalem! - I remembered the availability of free coffee throughout the day at the New Swedish Hostel in the heart of the Old City, and therefore I was able to compare.

I felt elated as I strolled through the street of Flagstaff to buy some groceries, just as the last of the daylight was fading. I was also looking forward to a bed for the night. I had not slept in one since I left Huckleberry Finn Hostel in St Louis, Missouri, and that was five nights previously. Whether I did this the right way or not, this was backpacking on a shoestring, spending five consecutive nights either seated in a Greyhound Americruiser or as with the case of the Grand Canyon, sleeping under the stars or in a trail rest-stop hut. Despite the roughness, I believe all this made the whole experience a lot more adventurous and rewarding, let alone saving money. After all, I would have never felt fascinated by the display of stars above me had I slept in a hotel room, or even in one of the huts at Phantom Ranch.

The following day, after checking out of the hostel, I strolled through the town of Flagstaff. It wasn't a large settlement but more of a spot on the road. I entered a bar and watched two players at the pool table, the loud crack of the coloured balls struck gave an atmosphere of a Western movie.

On to Phoenix.

That late afternoon, I boarded the Greyhound Americruiser for a three-hour journey to Phoenix. Unlike most of the stops, this was a new place to visit. It had the right climate for cacti to flourish abundantly, and Papago Park Desert Botanical Gardens, near Scottsdale, proved a worthwhile visit. Throughout the route, as it was a daytime ride, I was able to see plenty of cacti, mainly of the tall Saguaro species, flourishing in the otherwise semi-desert countryside. Such a scene provided quite an astonishing difference in roadside vegetation from a typical English scene of Oak, Silver Birch, Spruce, and other native trees and hedgerows. 

Indian Park, Phoenix.

After arrival, I found Metcalf House Hostel which was HI-AYH affiliated. The property, an average-sized house in a residential estate, was owned by a single middle-aged lady, who reminded me at the reception that duties were carried out in the morning by all guests. But unlike Huckleberry Finn Hostel in St Louis, this one was clean and well kept as well as more comfortable. Again, I stocked myself with groceries and settled in for the evening.

After I had dinner, I sat in the lounge with the owner and some other hostellers, including a couple of young Jewish men. We talked for a good part of the evening and then came a bit of a shocking surprise. The owner wanted to go out for an errand. She said she will be out for quite a while. Then she asked me to do her a favour and take charge of the hostel whilst she was away. It was a bit of a shock, having just arrived. But I said that would be okay and took on the responsibility.

All I had to do was make sure that everything was secure before retiring to bed. It meant a tour of the whole house and ensuring all was well and the kitchen was in order. Later that night, the bed was a welcoming sight.

The Ride to Papago Gardens.

The next morning, which happened to be my birthday, I made breakfast before I was assigned a duty by the owner. Earlier, before breakfast, I made use of one of the shower cubicles, as was my custom when travelling. There were two cubicles, and she asked me to clean the inside of one of them, the one I used earlier. This task has set a record for being the most remote hostelling duty I had ever carried out. All other hostel duties were wholly within the United Kingdom. However, not everyone favoured these duties - I believe one of the main causes of hostel decline and the need for change, as narrated earlier in this Biography. Therefore, it came as no surprise that before the rest of us got up that morning, a couple of hostellers arose, dressed, packed their bags and sneaked out, thus avoiding the duty altogether. 

 

Saguaro Cactus, Papago Park.

After the duty was done, I set out to check out the city. At the shopping plaza, I was impressed with how the square was laid out with shops, palm trees, and a decorative canal winding through, the clean pebble bed seen through the clear water flowing above it. However, for the first time, I saw notices displayed in some shops warning us that a shirt or top must be worn when entering the shop. I felt a slight unease. Being hot, I was wearing a singlet, a coloured vest. Was that permitted? Apparently, it was, as I was browsing, no one approached to turf me out or to chide me. It became apparent that it was toplessness that was forbidden - perhaps due to a strong Spanish/Catholic culture in the city.

That afternoon, I strolled into Indian Park, a series of low buildings baking in the sunshine, the whole environment giving an impression of Little Mexico. Although the square was deserted and the shops closed, I was half-expecting to come across a sleeping gentleman reclining outside his residence, the huge-rimmed Mexican hat shielding his face entirely from the sun. But no such luck.

General view of Papago Park from the trail.

In the evening, after dark, the city was alive with people attending a free open-air concert, like the one I saw at Tulsa. As I looked around, the scene was so like that of a Western movie, that I could almost sense the ghosts of old-time cowboys riding into town on their horses, with the leading rider holding a rope and swinging a lasso. The sensation was strong enough for me to wonder whether the atmosphere was really telling me something, as the historic square had that authentic look and feel.

The next morning, after a second night was spent at the hostel, no duty was assigned to me this time. Maybe this might have been due to having completed the duty once, and instead, they were assigned only to first-nighters. However, I didn't complain! Instead, I saw her talking to two students I saw for the first time. They were asking the warden about where to visit a botanical garden. The hostel had some bicycles stored for hire. When the two students accepted the idea of riding into town, I felt keen, and I asked them if they minded me accompanying them. They seem keen and said that they were about to visit the Papago Botanical Gardens near Scottsdale.

The three of us set out, and we rode on the path which parallel the straight road. It was already sunny and warm as I followed the lead rider, as he seemed to know where the park was. I certainly didn't.

The walk around the gardens was a worthwhile experience. Here, cacti grew to their full size, and there were a variety of species, from the impressive Ball Cactus to the tall Saguaro variety. There were notices explaining how water, being naturally scarce, is maintained through conservation methods. But what intrigued me most of all was the walkway through the gardens. Here in Phoenix, the path was known as a trail. Yet, when I imagine a trail such as the Bright Angel down into the Grand Canyon, this looks nothing like it.

Ball Cacti - spectacular.

After the walk around, we had some refreshments at the site's cafe. However, maybe it was due to being old enough to be their father, or perhaps not, but no special friendship developed between these two students and me. Maybe, I was seen as a hanger-on or someone who couldn't gel into their way of thinking or feelings. But they weren't hostile and made sure that I was okay. Whilst riding both to the park and back to the hostel, they made sure that I didn't fall behind. After returning to the hostel, we parted, the students went their way and I went mine.

This was to be my final evening at Metcalf Hostel, as later in the evening, I was due to board the Greyhound for an overnight journey to San Diego, another "virgin city" that is, I hadn't visited before. As I will find out, for me, San Diego was the best city I had ever stayed at in the whole of North America, and second only to Jerusalem in the world.

Once again, I found myself preparing for another night spent sitting upright in a seat instead of lying flat on the bed and my head resting on a comfortable pillow. But by now I was well used to it.

The following morning, the bus pulled into San Diego Bus terminal, back then located at Broadway. I freshened up and walked west towards the harbour. There was a large building, once a military centre, but by 1995, it was bought by the YMCA. However, on one of the floors, perhaps the third one up (from the ground, as in America, the ground floor is also the first floor) was the HI-AYH hostel, a set of bedrooms surrounding a common atrium. The hostel, like all other hostels, included a kitchen and dining room combined, and a large, military-style shower and bathroom. I checked in and paid for the next five nights. This hostel will set the pace for future travel.

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Update on Sunday, August 20th, 2023: England lost to Spain by one goal to nil. Therefore, Sarena Weigman won't receive her honours in full glory, as predicted above.

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Next Week: Life in San Diego.

Travel Biography - Week 61.

Mad Dogs and - Hikers?

Lately, there has been quite a bit of publicity in the media about walking 10,000 steps daily to stay healthy. For a man of average height, this is approximately five miles, or between two to two-and-a-half hours, depending on the pace. However, within the last couple of days, there was some talk of a 5,000 or even a 2,500-step walk without compromising on one's health and well-being. Translating all that into the reality of life, I have wondered just how many around here go out voluntarily for a five-mile walk. Sure enough, where I live, dog walkers abound - quite a nuisance for a passing cyclist like me who has to put up with Towser's barking whilst pulling on its lead. But I doubt that they cover five miles in one go.

Grand Canyon at Sunset. The Shadow of Eve is to the right.

When living in a car-centred society, where frequent motorised journeys can be as short as a hundred metres, without a doubt, these health promoters have a point. But for me at least, there is quite a difference between a five-mile walk on flat territory and a 23-mile round trip into a ravine which is deeper than the height of Ben Nevis from sea level, the highest mountain in the United Kingdom.

And so, there I was, lying face down on a bench at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, amidst the wooden huts built by Fred Harvey which make up the Village. It took me around 45 hours to complete the hike, starting two days earlier at the South Rim trailhead, then taking in Phantom Ranch for the first night on the Canyon floor, Havasupai Gardens and Tonto Plateau vistas on the way back up, and an unscheduled second night spent in the hut of the 1.5-mile rest stop, nearly 21.5 miles from the start of the whole hike.

The overnight stop was necessary after developing severe cramps down my left thigh to my lower leg muscles, thus temporarily immobilising me. After a couple of passing hikers carried my rucksack to the rest station, they carried on towards the Rim whilst I had a fitful sleep in the hut. After daybreak, I managed to finish the hike by struggling up the final 1.5-mile incline until exiting the trailhead.

The Cause of the Muscle Cramps.

Presently, a Park Ranger approached me and calling me by name, asked if I was okay, as I looked unwell. He then asked me if I would see a doctor. The fee for a visit would be $200, the Ranger informed me.

I cried out that here in America, no way would I see a doctor! Then the Ranger offered me a lift in his car to the Park Clinic, where I would be seen by a nurse free of charge. I accepted his offer as I first loaded my rucksack into the car and climbed in myself.

The ride was very short, only a couple of minutes. During that moment, he announced that when off duty, he was an active triathlete, his multi-discipline sport of swimming, cycling, and running was not unfamiliar to me and goes well with his duties of policing the trails and rescuing distressed hikers.

We arrived at the clinic and I was met by the nurse, and after collecting my gear, the Ranger drove off. When I told her what my symptoms were, when and where they occurred, she immediately recognised that I had suffered from hyponatremia. This means that the salt level in my bloodstream had reached a dangerous low, due to drinking too much water whilst on the move. With the blood diluted, the muscles react, causing severe cramps. She told me to climb onto the bed and lay down for an hour. She also gave me a cup of Gatorade, an electrolyte drink meant to restore blood-salt levels. 

After offering me the drink, the nurse departed, leaving me alone in a quiet room, away from the hustle and bustle of Canyon Rim activities. I rested for the full hour as instructed. Although the whole of my body felt "weird", at least the pain had gone. I was very fortunate. At least I avoided the dreadful humiliation of being rescued - to be seen riding a mule uphill behind the Ranger's mule and perhaps behind the beast carrying my rucksack as well, as I saw that poor, unfortunate female hiker rescued after overestimating her abilities back in 1978. Indeed, I could have ended up like her, with memories scarred for life, and made even worse by an astronomical bill to pay afterwards.

But worse than all that, had the blood diluted further, that would have affected the heart and resulted in a fatality. Apparently, hyponatremia might have killed a few hikers throughout history, but it's well below the main killer, heatstroke. Despite the discomfort and the inconvenience that came with it, I believe that I got away with it lightly. The entire hike was a success, and as I was still to find out, my photography mission was also successfully completed, making up for the dire loss suffered in 1978.

The first visit was in 1978. Plateau Point is lower left.

In 1995. At the River.

I returned to the main Village without waiting for the nurse to dismiss me. My walking was okay as I made my way to the overlook near Kolb Studio. Looking down into the Canyon, it was hard to believe that just 24 hours earlier I was way down there, at that thin line emerging from a narrow strip of greenery now called Havasupai Gardens, then crossing the flat shelf to end abruptly at the rim of the Inner Gorge. Indeed, although it looks so far away, Plateau Point is up to 974 metres below the Village in elevation, or 3,195 feet, and a 4.5-mile hike one way from Village to Point. 

Those two dreadful words then came into my mind. IF ONLY... IF ONLY... If only I had a better understanding of human biology about desert hiking! In my rucksack was a bag of nuts I bought at a store on our way to the Rim from Flagstaff. Most of them were still there, uneaten. If only I ate them for lunch whilst sitting at Havasupai Gardens just before setting off to Plateau Point. Or, better still, snack on them while I was admiring the views offered. Who knows, I might have exited the trailhead unscathed the previous evening. The Bright Angel Trail taught me some lifelong lessons this time in 1995.

I could have bought a ticket at Bright Angel Lodge to board a public coach back to Flagstaff, but instead, I decided to spend one more night here at the Rim. I wasn't up for travel just yet. Instead, I wanted to recover further before moving on. However, there was more to see and admire. That evening, I watched the sunset over the Grand Canyon from the view of the Rim. How remarkable the buttes threw their shadows across the landscape, creating a vista which was quite different from the daytime view. From Battleship Rock, a shadow is cast known as Eve's Silhouette, taken from the Biblical character where all other names were taken from Eastern religions. 

Later that night, I lay on the floor in a restroom, using the rucksack as a pillow. However, a short time later, someone came in and saw me resting there. He then said,

If I were you, I wouldn't try to sleep here. If caught, you could end up in jail for vagrancy.

After thanking him, I rose and made my way to Mather Campground, a half-hour walk east from the Village. There was no one at reception, so I made my way in and settled down near a group of campers. But shortly after, a Ranger approached and asked me to move to another area of the campground, after receiving a complaint from one of the campers who was near me. So I moved to a less comfortable area on the grounds.

My Final Day at Grand Canyon N.P.

The next morning, after daybreak, I arose and made my way to the exit, where someone was at reception. He was talking to someone else, so I had to wait a moment. I then approached and offered to pay the fee for the overnight stay. He looked rather surprised but took the money anyway. Then I made my way to the nearby shower room. Here, a one-dollar slot machine inside the cubicle paid for five minutes of running water. I was rather surprised at how long the five minutes took to elapse. I had a refreshing shower, washing away all the hiking stress, sweat, and dirt, without the need to hurry. When I looked at the lifesize mirror, I was startled at the sight of my tummy abs showing through! I must have lost weight during the hike. But I also knew that I won't remain that way for long. I also had a ravenous appetite.

At the Village.

At a large cafeteria, I ordered the Big American Breakfast, which was very similar to the traditional English breakfast, consisting of bacon, lashings of scrambled egg, sausages, breadcrumbed potato, and baked beans. It was very satisfying and added the finishing touch to the whole Grand Canyon experience. Then I made my way to the village.

I spent most of the day just relaxing and wandering through the Village, and gazing into the Grand Canyon. Somehow, I had an instinctive foreknowledge that I would never return. I was already in my forties, and I knew that I couldn't just return to this natural wonder without attempting another hike. For one who had to traverse across the Atlantic Ocean and then make my way across much of the USA to reach the Canyon floor twice in my lifetime, I would consider myself very fortunate. Of all my church and secular friends, I know of two or three families who had visited the South Rim but didn't hike down. Another good friend of mine, who is a computer expert, hiked down to the 1.5-mile rest stop, I believe with a colleague, then turned back. On another occasion, a father and son, whom I got to know at a local sauna, drove across the USA to visit the Grand Canyon during the thick of winter, and they too remained on the Rim. These two visited the Canyon as a direct result of listening to my experiences a few months earlier while the three of us were sitting in the sauna.

But nobody had ever shared with me their experiences of hiking all the way down to the Canyon floor, crossing either the Silver Bridge or the Black Bridge, and then spending the night at either Phantom Ranch or the nearby Cottonwood Campground. No one I knew had ever told me about how impressed they were with their close proximity to the flowing waters of the Colorado River cutting through the gneiss and granite bedrock of Inner Gorge geological fascination.

Yet, at present, Google YouTube has opened a new world of Grand Canyon hiking and river rafting experiences. Most of the videos were shot by "locals" - that is - resident Americans who didn't have to travel so far (by global standards) to visit the Canyon. They can testify of the half-dozen completed hikes, including the elusive Rim-to-Rim, along with other treks completed in other National Parks in the USA, including Yellowstone, Zion, and Yosemite National Parks. Sometimes I wish I was young all over again! Such places would have offered hiking adventures that would have thrilled the memory and graced the photo library for life.

I spent the fourth day taking everything easy, as I was still recovering from the hike. Actually, it took several days to recover. After spending some time further admiring the Canyon, I bought a ticket for a bus journey back to Flagstaff. There, I would reconnect with the main route to California.

To Conclude...

That evening, I boarded the coach that would call first at Williams, then travel east to Flagstaff. This was a far better service than the minibus I initially boarded to get here. This time, there was no overcrowding and no request to wait until the vehicle would return to collect me. I turned to look back once more. The mighty Grand Canyon. That would be the last I would ever see of it in person. But my mission was accomplished, and memories, both good and bad, along with all the photos, will remain for life.

Once arrived at Flagstaff, it was already getting dark. I checked for buses for the next day stopping here and heading west. Indeed, there was one heading westbound at four in the morning, but I wasn't interested. However, there was one for Pheonix later in the afternoon. I thought, why not. This would be my first visit to Pheonix.

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Next Week: Flagstaff, Phoenix.

Travel Biography - Week 60.

The Unusual Layout of this Week's Blog.

This week's blog is about the second part of my 1995 hike into the Grand Canyon, where my task of taking photos of the Inner Gorge is complete. Therefore, instead of interspersing several pics within the text, as I usually do, on this occasion only, I will place all the photos and their captions in an uninterrupted row beneath the text.

As I have written about these hikes in the past or are familiar with my Facebook page, some of you may already be familiar with these photos. For others, they may be seen for the first time. For everyone,  I hope that after reading the text, you will also enjoy browsing through the pics. Also, note that all the photos displayed here are my own, to fulfil the main purpose of the hike. There are no stock photos posted here.

The distances are given in miles. To convert to kilometres, multiply the number by 1.62. For example:

3 miles - 3 x 1.62 = 4.86 kilometres.

The Morning After.

After a successful descent into the Grand Canyon on the Bright Angel Trail, I settled under the stars. This was due to the hike being "illegal" in the sense that I wasn't carrying a Camper Pass, a document I should have gotten if I was lucky in the lottery draw at the Visitor's Center in the Village. The lottery draw decides who will go down to spend the night deep within the Canyon from those who won't. The draw was still yet to take place at seven o'clock that same morning. In other words, had I conformed to the Park rules, I would still be at the South Rim village, most likely having slept under the stars, or found an ultra-expensive room at one of the Rim hotels, which according to my budget, would have been very unlikely. As it was, I took a chance and completed the descent to a spot near where Bright Angel Creek flows to join the Colorado River.

I woke up from my meagre sleep around five, just as the dawn was breaking. The sky was clear, and the Milky Way became obscured by the velvety blue of the cloudless sky. Soon afterwards, human life began to stir as both the Ranch and the campground began to empty of hikers starting their trek towards South Rim, mainly on the Bright Angel Trail. Also, I watched the campers at the official campground pack away their tents into their rucksacks and also began their hike back to the Rim.

I rose from the picnic table on which I lay, and taking my heavy rucksack, made my way to Phantom Ranch, a little further along the trail in the direction of North Rim. The whole night was far from pitch dark and silent. The millions of stars making up the Milky Way, along with the full moon, kept the Canyon floor well-illuminated with natural light. Added to that was the constant sound of the Bright Angel Creek waters flowing as if in a headlong rush to meet the mightier Colorado River.

I got chatting with one of the staff members who was in charge of the Ranch dining room, a slim, bearded man who supervised a fairly large room in which parallel rows of tables were arranged with their seating. All the places were vacant. As I bought some breakfast and made my way to a chair, I was stopped by the bearded supervisor without any explanation for his move. However, he wasn't hostile, and with just the two of us in the restaurant, we kept on chatting about how the Ranch was managed whilst I was eating standing up. Somehow, I was able to sense that he enjoyed talking to me. I have wondered how many visitors saw him as a human being loyal to his duties rather than always on the beck-and-call of impatient customers.

Most, if not all, hikers had left both the Ranch and Campsite. That I wasn't permitted to sit for breakfast indicated that there were more customers to have made an appearance, to whom the seating was reserved. But they weren't individual hikers. Rather, they were more likely a party of mule riders. There was also a possibility that there was a party of river rafters. Their inflatable boats, designed to ride more smoothly over the rapids, were known as dories. Both were actually escorted groups, therefore, I didn't find it too surprising that they took priority in the restaurant.

The Ascent Hike Begins.

One big difference I felt after arising that morning, and that I was no longer concerned about meeting a Park Ranger. Thus, there was no longer the humiliation felt if ordered back to the Rim, or even worse, faced a fine set by the Park authorities of several hundred dollars. However, I wanted to linger around the Canyon floor for a while rather than set off so early, like I did in 1978 when I left around 5.00 AM. However, I also wanted to have a taste of the North Kaibab Trail that linked Phantom Ranch to the North Rim and the Lodge near the trailhead. But, as I found out from the Ranch supervisor, a landslide had closed the trail for several months in 1995. This meant that even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have been able to hike to the North Rim, although that idea appealed to me.

Instead, I hiked a little way up along North Kaibab Trail. How far, I never recorded. But it must have been a few hundred metres. If the diversion was up to 400 metres, then I could say that the 9.6 miles from Rim to Ranch would have rounded up to ten miles. Realising the trail blockage, I then turned back to the Ranch and passed through. Where the creek, or stream, joins the river, I lingered, admiring Zoroaster Temple towering over me and looking so near. 

I then made my way to Siver Bridge and crossed the River to reach the South side of the Inner Gorge. Looking towards the west from the bridge, a section of the South Tonto at Plateau Point was just visible as it juts into the Inner Gorge, backed by a section of cliff resembling a pyramid. To the east, Zoroaster Temple, the now most familiar butte, dominates the skyline.

The trail ran along the bank of the River for up to two miles before reaching a turning at the mouth of Bright Angel Trail proper. Opposite the trail turning was a small incline to a small sandy beach. How lucky I felt when a passing hiker took a picture of me sitting on a boulder with one foot in the freezing water! That photo became the hiking classic.

I carried along the trail, leaving the River for good, fording Pipe Creek, and passing the seven-mile rest station. I then proceeded to the start of the Devil's Corkscrew.

Still cool as the morning wore on, I didn't find the wide switchbacks too overbearing as I carried the heavy rucksack on my back. Throughout, I kept sipping at the gallon water bottle I filled at Phantom Ranch. I was doing well. The Corkscrew offered fantastic views of itself as the sun shone into the recess of the Inner Gorge through which the trail runs. Both in 1978 and the previous day's descending hike, the switchbacks were under shade. The sunshine brings out its glory.

At last, I arrive at Havasupai Gardens, formerly the Indian Gardens of Tonto Plateau. With such a nice atmosphere created by visitors and passing hikers, I thought about resting here for a while and soaking in the experience. I sat, drinking water and facing the North Rim. Just ahead of me, the trail divided. The main trail, from where I had just come, dropped into the Inner Gorge, from it a 1.5-mile trail branch terminated at Plateau Point, on the rim of the Inner Gorge.

I decided there and then to check out Plateau Point, adding a total of three miles to the hike. But it was worth every step of the way! Yet, what I found astonishing was that despite the crowds, I was totally alone. I walked across the level desert scrubland to the Point. The view offered was absolutely breathtaking!

I was looking down the near-vertical walls of the Gorge. Directly below was the river, a ribbon of brown, murky water twisting its way through the Canyon. Directly ahead, Cheops Pyramid Butte stood as a giant formation towering over me, whilst Brahman's Temple and Zoroaster Temple formed the two pinnacles defining the eastern horizon. Behind me, to the south, the cliff wall of the South Rim loomed above, and warning me that the hike was far from finished.

Eventually, as evening was already drawing near, I headed back to Havasupai Gardens, passed through and carried on to the start of Jacob's Ladder, the first section of a long series of switchbacks that would eventually lead me back to the village. It was at the three-mile rest hut that I refilled my water bottle.

I took on one switchback after another as I struggled uphill with a heavy rucksack on my back. It was getting dark, and I realised that I spent too much time at Havasupai Gardens and Plateau Point. Yet, I had no regrets. I actually believed that I bargained more than most hikers. After all, I was all alone at Plateau Point and had all the wonderful views to myself. But the cost? Three extra miles added to the hike, making the whole round trip some 23 miles long.

Then it Happened.

The trail was deserted as I struggled along, sipping water. Suddenly, somewhere on the cliff, a sudden very sharp cramp pain hit my left thigh, right down to my lower leg. I felt my muscle tighten as if squeezed by a huge, invisible hand. I couldn't move. 

I struggled further despite the pain. It was dark by this time and the trail was deserted, lifeless, as if long abandoned. A big contrast to a typical summer's day when the trail is crowded with hikers and casual walkers. Eventually, I couldn't keep going any longer, the cramp pain was so severe. Compounded by the heavy rucksack, I laid down on the trail, my damp shirt getting covered with sand. I was no longer able to move. I thought that was it. My time had come. I began to recite Scripture, mainly from the Gospel of John. I thought that this was a good place to die as anywhere else. I closed my eyes and waited for the moment.

I felt defeated, blasted hope further dashed. Not by the hike but by life in general. Still single at 43 years of age, the very thought of marrying and raising a family was as remote as a tiny oasis in the huge Sahara Desert. I know what it's like being ridiculed by two young women in the church, treating me like some bogeyman. The haunting of Josephine and her hateful attitude only a year previously, I had not fully recovered from. Uneducated, if to be educated meant to have a University degree, I was just a pleb, rejected and kept in place by society, worthless, a manual labourer living on moderate wages. Failure. A life of failure. As a youngster, even my own parents were unhappy with my slow learning, surviving in the most dunce classroom of the entire school. Who knows, maybe the afterlife will offer something much better.

The pain seared mercilessly through my left leg and spread to my right thigh.

After an undetermined while, two hikers were approaching from below and saw me lying there, face down. One of them tried to speak to me and I gasped out an explanation that I was in severe pain, that of a muscle cramp.  One offered to contact the Village and arranged to be rescued. But I vehemently refused! I was still determined to finish the hike, no matter what it takes. No way would I live the rest of my life with a lie in my spirit. I could never bring myself to admit the failure of this hike.

However, as a concession, I accepted their offer for them to carry my rucksack along with their own. I was amazed at how they could have done that! I couldn't determine the distance they walked, but it wasn't at all long before the 1.5-mile rest station came into view. I couldn't have been that far from it in the first place.

The two hikers pleaded with me to rest here overnight whilst they carried on as before. I was given my rucksack and they left with a goodbye and well-wishing. I was alone once again as I lay down inside the rest hut. The pain eased slightly. In the stillness, I fell into a troubled sleep.

At daybreak, and another promise of a fine day, I woke to find that the pain had eased, but not gone entirely. I arose, positioned the rucksack on my back, and carried on with the hike. In no way would I allow the humiliation of a mule rescue like that poor woman back in 1978. The vision haunted me. 

I looked up to see Battleship Rock still above me. My heart sank. The end seemed further away than I first thought. But I kept going, determined, but allowing for short breaks. Back and forth, back and forth the trail went constantly upward. Gradually, the North Rim began to look much straighter as I passed through the first tunnel. By the time I passed through the second tunnel cut through a rock ledge, I knew that I was almost there.

The relief I felt when the trailhead finally appeared! I made the exit and I was back in the village. So, how did I perceive the entire hike? A success or a failure? Well, I started it on my own without aid, and I finished it also on my own effort, and not escorted out. Therefore, even if my rucksack was carried a short distance, the hike was deemed a success.

I laid face down on a bench. Presently, one of the Park Rangers approached, with the Question,

Frank, are you okay? You look unwell.

I gasped. "How do you know my name?"

It's written on the label attached to your backpack, you pillock!

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Next Week: "Yes, it could have been fatal" - so I was told.

Havasupai Gardens and Plateau Point are just left of the centre.

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View of the South Rim cliff wall from Plateau Point.

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The Trail just past H. Gardens. Buddha Temple is ahead.

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Looking into Bright Angel Canyon from Devil's Corkscrew.

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View of Devil's Corkscrew from Plateau Point.

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Gneiss Granite rock cliffs of Inner Gorge.

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First view of the River.

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I took off my rucksack to pose on Silver Bridge.

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Bright Angel Creek near Phantom Ranch. Facing Downstream.

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Another view of Bright Angel Creek.

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Granite Rock feature, near Phantom Ranch.

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Mules in readiness, Phantom Ranch.

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Phantom Ranch.

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At a Bridge crossing the Bright Angel Creek

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Brahman's Temple and Zoroaster Temple.

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Fully suited and ready to go.

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At the lowest point of the Canyon!

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View of the River from Plateau Point.

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Rock formation as seen from Plateau Point.

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View of Cheops Pyramid from Plateau Point.