(ARIZONA DESERT, 11/26/05)

Falling in love, I’d noticed, didn’t work.  After our Army tent tryst, Calvin and I still saw each other, but only so often, and usually in odd places.  Sometimes in the Toyota truck I drove throughout high school.  Sometimes at my house.  Once on a baseball field — we finished in the dugout.  Or in his room, where I also learned about his experiences, his family, his past, his pains, and his travels, and all through it I was, as far as I could tell, falling in love.  The first time.  

And one night he showed me a photo album of a place in Arizona he’d visited, a place that changed his life.  It was this oasis in the middle of the desert, miles from civilization, where there were aqua waterfalls cascading into crystal-clear pools, surrounded by lush green trees and towering red boulders.  It was reservation for the Havasupai Indians, and on the map it was just a dot —  Supai — with no roads attached to it.

——-

The ghost of whatever Calvin and I had shared and lost back in high school accompanied me all the way through college, all the way through America 88x50, and all the way to Arizona between my Oregon and Kansas shows.  I told myself that I simply owed this trip to myself, that indeed I had been captivated by those pictures in his photo album and that I did want to experience this secret fountain of youth deep in the Grand Canyon, because when else would I have the chance?  But even through the haze of competing rationalizations, there was this feeling that I’d be closer to Calvin down there in Supai, closer than I’d ever been before, and that maybe then I’d be closer to putting that ghost of us to rest, to putting him behind me. 

I tore south through California and hooked east onto Route 66 into an enveloping desert, fixed on my destination but otherwise blank, as if I was going to a horrible class reunion with no idea of what I’d do or say once I got there.  At one point I shook a bottle of chocolate milk that I’d bought at a truck stop, realizing only after showering everything inside of car in brown, dripping suds, that I’d already removed the cap.

——-

It’s around sixty miles between Kingman, the nearest city to Supai, and Supai Junction, which is nothing more than a discreet turnoff. Then it’s about another sixty or so miles down that narrow road, with signposts marking every excruciating mile, to the parking area.  That’s where people begin their hikes.  It was late morning and I had a simple plan.  I’d arrive, hike in, see the waterfalls, maybe jump into the water — I wore swimming trunks under my jeans — and then I’d return to the car and continue my drive, probably stopping in Albuquerque that night to sleep, and then onto Kansas for my next concert, slotted for a few days later.  Simple!

The road straightened out to reveal what looked like a secret trap door of a canyon’s edge, a chasm the bottom of which I couldn’t see, abrupt and frightfully close.

I gasped.  The massive geometry of this place, the walls of sandy rock, the gorges splitting the earth just a few meters from my Hyundai, extending as far as I could see; I felt privileged to witness it, and stopped the car to stand alone on the canyon’s edge. 

I hadn’t seen a single car since Supai Junction, and drove up a little further to the parking lot, which was full, but still no people.  They probably can’t tear themselves from the waterfalls, I thought, and just then, a hot gust of wind cut against my skin.  I decided to put a sweater on under my jean jacket, stuffing a few Dr. Peppers in its pockets to enjoy by the water once I got there.  I nestled on my favorite John Deer hat, left my cell phone in the car, and headed to the path.  Two girls climbed up onto the trailhead.  Finally, a sign of life!  They looked sweaty, exhausted, and out of breath, each hauling a large backpack dangling with tents and sleeping pads.  Why all the fuss? I thought.  I’m a Vermonter.  A hike like this is nothing.  I smiled and brushed by them.

Skidding down a rock path just wide enough for my feet, I gradually made it to the canyon bottom.  Once there, I stopped and turned around 360 degrees, taking in the sprawl and sizzle of this valley.  I couldn’t hear any waterfalls, though.  Maybe they were hiding behind one of those canyon walls.

Did I lock my car?  Of course I did.  I had to have.  I walked on, concentrating mostly on balance and footing; I was wearing new Adidas sneakers with barely any tread, and was sliding around the path as if I had skis on.  After about two hours and having passed several more campers coming from the opposite direction, all of them elaborately decorated with gear, I finally stopped two women.  “Is it a far way down?” 

“Let me think,” one of them answered, looking at her watch.  A ball of sweat dripped down her cheek from behind her sunglasses like a teardrop.  “We started at,” she looked at her companion, “what do you think, quarter to ten?  Yeah, about nine forty-five we left.”

“And what time is it now?” I asked, realizing that I’d left my main timekeeping device, my phone, in the car with my other timekeeping device, my laptop.  Did I lock my car?

“It’s about one-fifteen,” she answered.

“Okay,” I said with some delight.  “So, in three-and-a-half-hours I’ll be back here, in this spot?”  I just wanted to confirm.

She laughed.  “No!”  And then she paused, almost waiting for me to laugh, too.  “Wait, are you serious?  It’s three-and-a-half hours till you get to the village.  And the falls are several miles further down from there.”

A terrified smile stayed glued to my face. 

“It’s an eight mile hike,” she said.  “You are spending the night, right?”

“I, um… I guess so!”  

She gave me a mildly distressed, sympathetic look, and continued walking.  Crestfallen, I weighed my options.  I could hike back to the car, which would take at least a couple hours, and then it would be another few hours to reach an interstate, and then it would take all night to get to New Mexico.  Safe and sensible, yes, but also a complete resignation, a waste of a day, a defeat.  The other option was to keep walking — no colitis meds, nowhere to put my contact lenses, no glasses to replace them in case they ripped or dried or fell out, and no idea of when or where I would eat or sleep that night.  What I did have was a credit card, two Dr. Peppers, and a couple dollars in cash.  The rest of my money was in the console of the car.  Did I lock the car? 

I decided to continue onward.  My mouth instantly began to feel dry and I could already feel the muscles in my legs struggling to keep up with the pace of my feet, tripping and bumping over the rocks, sinking into the loose gravel and silky sands of the dried riverbed that made up the path to Supai.  I kept my eyes focused on the ground, rarely glancing up.  If I looked up, I would fall.

After what felt like a few more hours, I asked another group of campers making their exit how much longer I had to go.  “Probably two or so hours,” said one girl with a smile, her wet face covered with dust.

Her companion — he had a beard and wore wire-rimmed glasses — rose to his feet.  “No!  No, no… at least three-and-a-half.  Probably four!”

“Oh my God,” I said.  “I really underestimated this.  Is it crowded down there?”

“The campground has a ton of room,” she said.  ”I’m sure the lodge does, too.”

“Lodge?”  

“Yes,” her gloomy companion answered.  ”It’ll run you about one-twenty-five.”  He turned to me and groaned, “Do you have enough water?”  He seemed almost offended at how ridiculous I looked, at how clearly unprepared I was for this hike.  

I laughed back.  “It’s fine, thanks.  I have two Dr. Peppers.  Does the lodge take Visa?”

——- 

I could finally hear running water.  And then I saw it.  The water!  A small stream running thick and steady with bright blue water, the same kind of water I saw in Calvin’s photo album. 

Yes, it looked exactly the same!  I stepped to the stream and dipped my hand into it, expecting an icy shock that would chill me to the core.  Instead, it was exquisitely warm and soft, engulfing my hand sensually.  I wiped my face and tasted sweat and dirt dripping from my forehead and cheeks.

The village came slowly, at first only trailers and doublewides spaced far apart and always surrounded by tattered cattle pens with one or two animals slowly stalking around inside. 

The homes looked as if their inhabitants had long vacated them, and I considered sneaking into one of them to sleep that night if the lodge was full.  When I finally stumbled into the center of town, I found there was a small grocery store that only took cash, a small post office, a small diner, and a church in the shape of a half-moon and made of sheet metal. 

And then of course, there was the lodge, which looked surprisingly modern, like any other motel, a tiny cafeteria, and a grocery — cash only — where I procured a Snickers bar, a postcard, and some solution for my contacts.  I’d never worked so hard to get anywhere in my life, and suddenly I was in a town.

At the front desk of the lodge, I handed over my Visa card as a helicopter took off from the town square in a choppy, dusty mess.  A suburban-looking white woman appeared beside me and asked the receptionist, sort of in a panic, “What is that helicopter for?”

“Tourists,”

“Will…will there be another today?”

“It’s for tourists,” she repeated, and turned her back to both us.

“But will there be another, or was that the last one?” asked the woman again, now speaking directly to the back of the receptionist’s head, into her braided black hair. 

“I don’t know,” said the braid.  And that was that; the suburban woman vanished out the door.

I asked the braid how to make a phone call, and she said it would cost three dollars — the last three dollars I had.  

“Is your car locked?” asked my mom through the phone receiver.

My heart sank again.  I’d nearly forgotten that I was worried about this.  “I think so,” I said, fondling the dirty telephone cord.  “Anyway, I really should go.”

“Okay, honey…  I’m glad you called.  Oh my God.”

“Oh my God?”

“What?”

“You said ‘Oh my God.’”

“Oh I did?  Well…” she chuckled, still sounding very anxious, “maybe it’s just because in all your travels, you’ve never once called me when you’ve arrived somewhere, no matter how many times I’ve asked you to.  So  you’re calling now, it seems, because you want me to know where you are.  Like you think you might not make it back.”

——-

About a mile-and-a-half past the village, I stood at the edge of the water, watching it bubbling and glowing.  It was dusk.  Vines hung from surrounding rocks and water shot from holes in the mountainside.

I tore off my clothes and jumped into the water, feeling leaves and debris nipping and brushing at my toes little minnows.  The water felt colder now, but healing, and when I emerged shortly afterward, my legs no longer throbbed.

But I was shivering — I had no towel — and I ran back to the village shirtless with my sweater and jeans in hand.  Once back in my room, I realized that I wouldn’t have any time the next day to see any other falls.  I needed to get back to the car and on my way.  So this was it.  I saw all I’d probably ever see of the Supai waterfalls.  

——-

I felt a terrible pain, like something had been ripped or severed inside my left kneecap, and I couldn’t straighten my leg without this pain shooting up through my leg, completely debilitating my brain and body. 

My contacts were dirtier than they’d ever been, and I had them in a paper cup filled with the sterile eye solution I’d bought at the store.  Dirt and debris collected at the bottom of the cup. 

I couldn’t take a full breath without coughing. 

That night I didn’t sleep as much as I dreamed, and these dreams were mostly of blank score paper filling up with scribbled music, like an animation.  Bad music, full of dissonant counterpoint and cadences that I was incapable of resolving.  In other moments, I laid there in disbelief.  I couldn’t believe I’d come here and what a disaster it had turned into.  And then I’d think, it serves me right.  All for Calvin?  

Purple shadows appeared outside my window and dim traces of sun hit my curtains.  I decided to stand up and prepare to leave, but nearly fell down beside the bed.  My left knee was destroyed.  I could barely walk across the room.  I made it to the bathroom counter and tried putting in my contact lenses, but they burned so badly I had to take them out.  Even with them out, my eyes still seared with pain and were spilling tears, streaking my red, dirty face.  I was blind.  I was hyperventilating.  I would have to hike out of Supai with no vision and one functioning leg.

I hopped on my good leg out of the room into the cold, blue desert morning, easing myself down the balcony stairs to ground level.  A few paces away, my left leg straightened and touched the ground, a fatal error that pinched the nerves inside my kneecap so painfully that I shouted, “Holy fuck!” and stood still, looking around desperately, panting, truly scared.  I stepped down again, kind of testing to see if this would happen again, and it did, the internal sting shooting from my knee up through my entire body.  I can’t do this, I thought.  Then I said it out loud.  ”You can’t do this.”  Ice-cold beads of sweat formed on my head.  “You can’t do this.  You can’t do this.”

A few tourists walked by.  “Hello.  Hello,” I said, trying to smile, wincing.  “Good morning.  Yes, everything’s fine!  I’m fine!” 

They walked on, and once alone again, I assessed the situation and created a mode of operation.  I would step and plant my right leg, and then drag my bent left leg to meet it.  Step.  Plant.  Drag.  It was my only option.  I could do this.  I had to do this.

It took me what seemed like an eternity to traverse, like a zombie, that same expanse of rocky canyons and open desert and horizontal cliff faces out of Supai.  Many times my useless sandpaper eyes would lead me off the blurry path and into a dead end, where I’d feel around the rocks with my hands like a blind person, then look upward for some moving body or shadow that might help point me back to the path, and then I’d drag myself on course.  No Dr. Peppers left, I found an abandoned, half-full bottle of water near the final cliff ascent.  I guzzled its contents, letting it overflow and stream down my chest.  Then I dragged myself up the canyon wall, step by step, drag by drag, and once ascended, fell onto the hood of my Hyundai.  It had been locked the whole time. 

I could have cried for the pain, for the gratitude, for the embarrassment of having come here, my stupid motivations.  Coughing — I couldn’t stop coughing — I got into the car, revved the accelerator, and took off without stopping until I reached civilization.  At the first mailbox I saw, I screeched the brakes and reached into my pocket, taking out the crinkled postcard I’d purchased at the Supai grocery — a picture of a waterfall which of course I never saw — and scrawled an address I couldn’t believe I still had memorized.  Calvin’s parents’ house.  I didn’t know where he was, but knew he’d get it if I sent it there.  

I could only think of two words to write on the postcard, and hobbled out of the car to toss it and everything I’d ever associated with it, with him, with Supai, away into the mailbox.  Gone.  It was over.  And maybe this trip had been necessary after all.

FINALLY WENT.