Volume VI - The Other Half
by Dan Rowley, Copyright (C)1998 Dan Rowley - all rights reserved

   The sense of smell is legendary for it's ability to evoke memories and influence emotion, but I'm consistently surprised at the depths of memory into which my mind delves in response to smells that I regard, at least on a conscious level, as purely ordinary. Here I am, riding up to the Mogollon Rim for a weekend of "camping," and trying (as has become my habit) to capture memories of a trip which is receding into the past faster than I can transcribe my thoughts, and I cannot, despite superhuman attempts to the contrary, banish thoughts of scratch-and-sniff stickers, Lego "window" pieces, marbles, and (God help me) smurfs from my mind. This seemingly mixed bag of memories (of which I have only scratched the surface here, I assure you) barged into my mind, completely unbidden, in the bathroom at the SuperPumper. The prevailing scent was not, as you may expect, organic in nature, but was due (apparently) to the heavy-handed application of a disinfecting agent which smells *exactly* like the "mint gumdrop" scratch-and-sniff stickers which were my particular favorite when I went through the phase of collecting such things. This, of course, leads directly to thoughts of all the different kinds of smells the bright chemists at the sticker companies tried (without much success, I'm afraid) to capture on their insidious little self-adhesive pressure-sensitive marvels of technology. Classics like "buttered popcorn" and (I swear I'm not making this up ) "gasoline" come to mind, as do, inexplicably, the exact situations in which I first experienced them (apologies to Dave Barry for stealing his catchphrase). Thus begins my journey down the slippery slope of childhood memories. Before long I'm pondering all-day long marble battles which spanned entire houses (no doubt it was many years before his mother stopped finding hidden caches of marble "armies" hid behind her potted plants), smash-up lego ship competitions where the object was to be the last ship with remaining "window" pieces (the definition of which seemed to have more to do with relative scarcity than actual function), and my best friend's brother who preferred to take his allowance in smurfs rather than cash.

   So, amidst these swirling thoughts of the indestructibility of Legos and of little-blue-singing-gnomes as legal tender I try to extract memories germane to the subject at hand - in this case, the Grand Canyon. The trip is now more than 4 months past, yet the sense of wonder and accomplishment still remains - that's pretty good value for my vacation dollar, I think. Each time I look again at the photographs we took, huge swathes of memories return, and it's hard to supress a smile. As long as we're on the subject of photographs, what is it in the human psyche that causes us to want to take roll upon roll of film OF THE VERY SAME VIEW? As I thumb through the photographs I took, I have about 4 group photographs, another 4 very pretty and unique scenes (sunsets, sunrises, etc), and about fifty identical shots of "scenic views." These same fifty shots are duplicated on the rolls of film taken by everybody else in our group, because I watched them take the pictures right beside me! Now, when we knew (or probably surmised) that we would be exchanging pictures, why were we all photographing the same thing? I suppose this is one of the great mysteries of life that man was never meant to solve. This and why my cats insist on licking the photographs so much that they stick together. eew.

   When we last checked in on our weary band of canyon explorers, they were preparing for the short trek over to Phantom Ranch to throw back a cold one or two, and see how the other half lives. It occurred to us later that despite our protestations of extreme exhaustion, we still managed to make the half mile or so walk to Phantom Ranch something like four times that night and the next morning. The walk was pleasant enough, as long as you watched your step and tried not to breathe too deeply as you passed the mule corral. The mess cabin was unimposing - the dining room was perhaps the size of a one-room schoolhouse. Most of the space was occupied by a handful of long tables, a small bookshelf graced one wall (right below the mailbag which would ride to the rim the next day on an actual mule), and the snack bar/gift shop counter filled one end of the room. It was immediately apparent on entering the mess-cabin-cum-beer-hall that not all present had taken the same route to the bottom. You could tell just by looking at the faces and mode of dress who rode a mule down, who walked down under their own power, and who was probably going to need a helicopter to get them back out. The place was packed - standing room only, in fact, but all seemed to be in good spirits - nobody seemed to mind that those of us who hiked down were probably overdue for a shower - no doubt it would have been worse if this had been any but our first night out. We met some really nice folks - some fellow hikers, as well as those who imagined that they were really roughing it with their rented cabin and shared community shower. We also encountered a pair of ladies whose age I cannot begin to guess, but must have certainly been more than 60, and were surprised to learn that they had actually hiked down, and were in fact camped in the site directly next-door to ours. I hope that when I reach that age, I can do the same. Anyway, it was a pleasant evening, though I don't recall a single conversation from that night - of course it's no problem at all for me to remember the dewey decimal call number for Garfield comic books at the Greenwich public library (741.5), at which I worked as a page for a while in Junior High. Go Figure.

   I admit it. I'm a beer snob - I thumb my nose at mass-produced American beer. Although I stop short of asserting that all microbrews are worth drinking just because they're made in small batches, I do tend to favor a more full-bodied brew. I'm not ashamed to admit, though, that the Coors Light I had at Phantom Ranch was pretty damn near the best beer I've ever tasted. Several of our number chose not to make the trek back to the beer hall, and I assure you they have no idea what they missed. I can't find enough superlatives to describe the cute little packet of Oreo cookies I bought to go along with my beer, and my memories of the salty trail mix I bought to balance out the beer are overwhelmingly positive. I suppose I could natter on endlessly about how frightfully good the beer was, and how the people were ever so nice, but that much sweetness makes my teeth hurt, so I'll fast forward to the part where we walked back to camp, discovered our compatriots already snuggled comfortably in their tents, and turned in for a well-deserved rest. After all, we had only completed the "easy" part of the hike. We still had to climb back *out* of this mile-deep hole into which we had trekked, and for this, we needed to get some serious rest.

stay tuned for part VII - Are we there yet?


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