Scene Scapes: II Edition

Rolling hills have turned into jagged mountain ranges as far as my eyes can see. Pines are scattered along the Rockies making thin, crisp air inviting my brain to enjoy the scenery. Cotton clouds sat like pillars on invisible shelves in the pale sky.

Now three red bulls deep and 6,000 feet above sea level, this is majesty at its finest.



My usually cautious driving skills are twisted around winding curves and impossible declines. Warning signs show trucks barreling down seven percent declines. Adam attempts to rest while peppered hill-tops show signs of snow in August.

The original attempts to make Denver in one fell swoop failed miserably. Not a grand surprise since we tried to make the twelve hour drive from St. Louis to Denver after little to no sleep. After driving nine hours previous.

This is where things get hazy.

Adam admited defeat well after dark and I took over. Driving through the Great Plains, we both downed caffeine and took turns napping to get us by. Around three a.m. my eyes began to fail. A rest area in the distance shined like a beacon.

Ignoring the nagging suspicion that only the best horror movies start just like so, we parked beside many other weary travelers. Gratefully curling into my seat, I set an alarm for four hours later.

I awoke to dense fog encasing the surrounding landscape. Only a scattering of vehicles still lingered in the parking lot. Ignoring Adam’s slumbering body, I started off into the obscure blanket of clouds.

As daylight grew, so did the hills. I swallowed my panic as vehicles whipped past me ignoring the towering giants.

I stopped for gas and bought a Kodak disposable camera. Adam became photographer extraordinaire. Epic scene scapes surrounded our peripherals. The stacked clouds dropped dark mist onto the mountaintops. Adam explained that’s what rain looks like at these heights.

A smile lingers on my face.



I will never underestimate the usefulness of a road atlas. Who needs Tom Tom when you have a visual page-by-page representation of the U.S. of A?

It allowed us a sense of direction, location and purpose.

Denver could only offer Carl’s Jr. and a one-way ticket out of the city.

I became the paparazzi. Taking photos while driving is not as easy as it may sound. It is also dangerous and I’m sure illegal, so it is not recommended. I could not pass a scenic view of a crystal clear lake surrounded by peaks. Epic.



We forged on towards Utah. The towering Rockies gave way to broken plateaus. The earth became serrated, dry clay. Broken boulders were discarded and staked on the barren red countryside.

I had no idea about Utah. We landed on Mars.

Eventually we will become sick of majesty, Adam prophesized.

I am not so jaded as you, I said, eyes still wide.



Darkness crept back upon us.

Crashes of heat lighting exposed burgundy towers. My steadfast Saturn wheezed up slopes with signs labeled, CAUTION for the next 15 miles. The warning showcased a cow.

The Doors carried us through the desert. Thunder vaguely echoed in the distance. Adam promised to take us to our resting place. The canyon. My most anticipated destination.

We are gaining ground though the night forbids a scenic view. A nervous buzz reaches my gut thinking of the vague directions Google gave once we reach the South Rim.

I had checked and rechecked that our campsite reservations would be held for Friday despite our late arrival.

Although I warned the information helpline lady that we would not be there until midnight, she ensured me that the ranger would be able to point us in the right direction. The South Rim of the Grand Canyon is open twenty-four hours, 365 days a year, she said.

Still traveling down back road highways, road signs became promising. South Rim, take a left arrow. We have arrived.

Now you know how to get to the campsite, Adam asked, his confidence in me weaning.

There will be signs. The park ranger will let us know.

After a couple of miles, we approach the deserted entrance vestibules. We roll by the dimly lit ranger station feeling like we beat the system. No rangers mean no $25 entrance fee for this vehicle.

Jokes on us, who comes to see the Grand Canyon in the dark.

We follow down the road traveling around dark curves lined with pines of some kind. Spirits still high for getting to the site earlier than planned we contemplated how the canyon was just to our right behind all those trees.

Still traveling without any more reassuring signs, Adam then comments on the numbered highway signs still lining the road. One SUV passes us forging on ahead. My stomach getting in knots I realize that something feels off.

I don’t know if this is the right way, Adam says. We have gone too far.

I don’t what else to do. This does seem pretty far, I say. I figured there would be signs.

A car passes us in the opposite direction.

That was the same car, Adam says. Maybe we should go back to the ranger station. They might have maps or something.

Are you sure? I don’t know. I don’t remember seeing any maps, do you?

Well not really, but maybe we should turn around, he says.

I falter. So we do.

Traveling back another car passes us on the road. This causes more doubt. I finally suggest I take over driving. There is no point going back to the deserted entrance, I say. I am following the road wherever it takes us. Even if it’s nowhere.

We drive and drive and drive. I start to speed up and gain confidence on the dark road. More travelers join our search. After almost twenty minutes, I see a sign.
Campgrounds that-a-way.

Adam surveys the printed Google directions, yet does not find any familiar roads nor advice from the search engine. New sign: Tent camping, turn right. I start to laugh at our panic.

This park is so vast, the canyon is so vast, that we started to think we couldn’t possibly be going the right way. It really is just that big. We happened to come in on the wrong side.

Exhausted I pull up to yet another abandoned ranger station this one for the designation of campgrounds. I walk up to the building leaving my brave companion in the car.

Moths the size of Bic lighters fly around the information window. I examine the list of late arrivals conveniently posted, only to fail to find my name. I look again. No name.

Ignoring the fluttering bugs, I scrutinize the campground map and locate where all the open sites that are listed for late arrivals, such as us can go. I pull off the tab for site eighty-six and jump in the car.

Despite all my best efforts, I say to my counterpart, the site has not been reserved. We decide to drive past the spot to see if it is indeed occupied with site eighty-six as back-up.

I will explain in the morning to the camp ranger to avoid any cancellation fees and give them a piece of my mind. It’s too late for me to care.

We quickly set-up camp on the area with the least amount of rocks. I wrested out tarps, blankets, sleeping pads, pillows and towels for cushion. My car is packed tight enough for any Tetris aficionado to be impressed.

I set an alarm for dawn before we settle in. Stretching out in the cozy tent feels like Christmas morning. Tomorrow’s agenda, the Grand Canyon.

Manifest Destiny: I Edition

Size twelve shoes hang out the window while my body aches with back spasms that started 200 miles ago. We float along the highway through serene plains that stretch toward the sun in adoration. Normally I welcome silence. My ability to write almost depends on it.

Yet, when trapped inside a plastic Saturn going across the United States, silence can mean the difference between an epic journey and a plunge off the edge of an overpass.

Adam merely nods his sleeping head in agreement.

I pry out Pet Sounds while attempting to keep my eyes on the road and the car in its designated lane. After bumper to bumper traffic in Chicago then getting lost on the north side only to reverse gears and travel back through bumper to bumper traffic, Bat for Lashes lulled me into submission. I believe this is where the yes man began to slumber.

This is not to mention, though I must, departing from Kalamazoo, MI by turning the opposite way on the express way. You can thank yours truly. I turned to Adam to inform my imprisoned travel companion, “I warn you, I am not very good with directions.” He merely looked at me with a Cheshire grin.

“I sure hope you’re not expecting any help from me.”

This from the man with the map.

We carried on with The White Album Disc One and Two, followed by Violent Femmes, a remastered Led Zepellin compellation and too many burned mixes with witty names. My car doesn’t even have power locks let alone access to an Ipod. Thriller echoed in my ears as I travelled ever faster towards St. Louis, the first stop on our wayward journey. Despite all the sun, my eyes began to fog.

I decided to travel by car for many reasons, mostly due to my lack of travel throughout the west. This is my exodus from bleak Michigan winters, my manifest destiny.

In order to travel from Kalamazoo, MI to Venice Beach, California, with multiple exotic detours along the way, one must drive 2,506 miles. According to Google, that is about 1 day and 16 hours depending on traffic.

The real danger of traveling so far is not lurid rest stops or a busted carburetor in what can only be described as chainsaw massacre country, no it’s the endurance race. The very real, if not discussed, mental competition to match the previous drive time by your travel companion. To not buckle under the pressure of droopy lids and numb appendages or even to beat your own record or imagined time schedule.

Yet as I dreamed of cerulean skies and cotton clouds, Joni Mitchell sang Blue into my psyche. A silver arch loomed in the distance. I shook Adam awake. We have arrived two hours later than planned, but we have arrived.

Cursing my lack of a camera we headed straight to the St. Louis Zoo, known as one of the largest free zoos in the country. Adam’s six-foot-five frame towered over an endless sea of small children and weary parents.

Zoos are a much different experience than what I experienced in childhood. It’s like taking your kids to view the local jail with much more interesting inmates. A two-hundred pound orangutan sits against the viewing glass to our delight. Families crowd around the animal to let the three-year-old bang on the glass. With what can be as morose expression, the orangutan humors his apt audience.

Hell, you can buy beer at the zoo.

One can no deny the argument that where else can a person see a trio of hyenas, except to travel into the heart of the Sahara and perhaps your death. What with humans destroying their resources faster than we can admit, these animals are caged in a haven. Though it is indeed a cage.

Ignoring the sharp pang in my heart, I merely mutter insults to the couple that has parked themselves and their eight children in front of my view of the beast. This is poor zoo manners.

We amble around the grounds spending adequate time watching the hippos glide through their watery tank and those damn cute penguins. The animals stalk the feeding area of the cage. Grizzly Bears pace as though on a track.

If I had any one animal I could be friends with and it wouldn't kill me, I'd hang with a polar bear. Of course, he could behead anyone that I asked him to.

Finally hunger is overwhelming, so we leave for the arch. Bellies full we walk through a wooded park towards the giant infrastructure.

As my first time in St. Louis, I must admit it is a pleasant city. The skyline is clean and not flagged with too many flashy towers or giant ads. Sitting under the pristine arch we watched three teenagers run amuck and fling goose poop at one another. Dried goose poo is left throughout the green to crunch under your feet.
Again, very pleasant.

I wonder who keeps the arch so clean.

We devised a heroic battle between two foes that started under the arch in the neat green, possibly a Viking and a Samurai. It naturally would end with a daring stab and the victor walking away towards the mighty Mississippi, while the loser bleeds to his death.

Going up to the top of the arch seemed like a waste of money, so we ambled away.

My limbs screamed in recognition as we climbed into the car. Adam agreed to drive towards Denver, which we hoped to reach without a layover.

We first started the drive at an ungodly hour, not long after Adam finished his shift at the bar. Both of us with sleep still in our eyes, Adam informed me that he sleep about fifty minutes total.

Then turning east instead of west on our first leg of the trip, I still try to ignore the ominous feeling creeping up from my toes. Denver is twelve hours from St. Louis.

“Well,” Adam said putting the car in gear, “Let’s see how this goes.”

Cue the music