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My first trip to Grand Canyon was in May 1994. On impulse, I had signed up for a raft trip on the Colorado River, never having been on or near a raft. But I flew to Phoenix, took a bus to Grand Canyon, and learned to like rafts a lot.

Throughout the trip, I kept a journal on a small lined pad – in pencil, because water makes ink bleed. This is part 1 of the journal.

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Friday 5/27/94, 1230pm, on the bus from Phoenix to Flagstaff:

Sunny, mid-80s. Phoenix is big on cactus gardens. As the plane landed, I noticed that all the roofs are brick red. The city has spent a bundle on palm trees and cactuses, none of which appear to be naturally placed. Rocks, decorative and otherwise, are everywhere.

Now we’re north of town, and I’m seeing wild cacti. Big rascals. Saguaros? The scrub vegetation is the same faded green color as the saguaros. There is another variety of cactus, about a foot tall, that is blooming. They look like green funeral urns.

We’ve crossed dozens of rivers and creeks, but all the beds are dry. The soil is white and red, the rocks dark gray and tan. The mountains are getting more rugged.

We’re going through a pass on I-17, and off to the left, parallel to the Interstate is a primitive old roadbed following the edge of a cliff. In the old days, it must have handled traffic of some kind. Looks like photos I’ve seen of Grand Canyon trails.

2pm, 50 miles south of Flagstaff:

No more saguaros at this altitude. Lousy road. Rain to the west. My ears have popped several times. We’re passing through a seriously rugged gorge at Camp Verde. Warren, the bus driver, is speeding up. We must be behind schedule. Windmills and water tanks are everywhere.

We’re stopped at Camp Verde, but cannot de-bus. Warren says on an earlier trip, a girl got drunk and poured coffee on some of the other passengers. After that, Nava-Hopi Tours lost its pit-stop privileges. Hey, the Verde River has water in it!

We are 40 miles from Flagstaff, elev. is 4,000 feet. The arroyos we pass look like good hiking, but would call for sturdy boots. We’re on an incline with mountains in the distance left and right. Elev. is now 5,000 feet. Sign said ‘Elk Crossing Next 20 Miles.’ Still climbing, and now there are pine trees everywhere. Earlier, you saw no trees at all.

I thought we would outrun the rain, but now I’m not so sure. I can see a peak north of us with snow on top. I think Flagstaff is at its foot. We just approached a grove of pines that in the distance seemed to be blooming in something. Turned out to be sheep. We beat the rain to Flagstaff.

Late pm in Flagstaff:

Flagstaff reminds me of Athens. Or maybe Boone, NC. The tragically hip are everywhere. My motel is wretched – sleazy almost. Which I feared when I called and made the reservation. Which I did only because it’s next door to the Nava-Hopi Tours bus station. My bus leaves tomorrow at 6am for the South Rim.

The woman at the motel said, “Smoking or non-smoking room, hon?” I said non. So she took me to a room and had me wait out front whilst she sprayed the room with Lysol air freshener.

I ate supper at a little place called Café Express, a couple of blocks away in the historic downtown area. The place reminded me of Rocky’s Pizza in Athens. Across the room, a woman dining alone was looking at me. This town is filled with young girls travelling alone with backpacks, but the woman across the room wasn’t young, and she looked like Janet Reno.

Later, I walked south across the railroad tracks, just exploring, and I realized it was way too dark and deserted to be there alone.  Too late. Here came three Indian males wearing cowboy hats, tight Levis, and (at 10pm) shades. Thank God they were only panhandling. They asked if I could spare a little change, as times were tough. Not wanting to haul out my wallet, I pleaded total pauperhood and kept on going.

It was a relief to get back north of the tracks. More people and street lights. Actually, I didn’t have much money on me. I’d already bought gifts for the family, plus a nifty Navajo bracelet for my own self.

Saturday 5/28/94, 555am, aboard the bus to Grand Canyon South Rim:

I have a headache, but there’s a full moon, the sky is clear, and we’re on schedule. The driver looks like Steve Miller. He’s telling us about the local flora, fauna, and history. As we go north, he says we will drop from 7300 feet onto a plateau that is like the African savanna. No more ponderosa pines and cactus. Mostly Utah pine, which is like a big bush.

The driver’s commentary has been helpful. He told us to sit on the left side of the bus when we stop at McDonald’s for coffee, the elk herds being on that side. Elks have shaggy coats and are nocturnal. Spring is only 5 weeks old. In April, South Rim had 28” of snow.

He just gave us the official rules: don’t pick the flowers, don’t take souvenir rocks, don’t feed the animals, and don’t fall into the canyon. Last Wednesday, a Phantom Ranch employee died when she fell off the trail.

At lunch, Maswik Cafeteria:

This morning, I walked 3 or 4 miles on the trail that follows the canyon rim west of the village. I can’t believe how perfect the weather is. I’m taking too many photos, but I can’t stop. Every vantage point is awesome. Lots of Germans and Japanese here. Many of the signs are in French, English, German, and Japanese.

In the Bright Angel Lodge, I overheard Two American kids pondering why, on Star Trek, they never show the bathrooms.

Outside the lodge, four guys were throwing rocks into the canyon, competing for distance. Whether they beaned any hikers on the trail below, we’ll never know.

Most people feed the squirrels, so the little bastards are very aggressive. Did I mention that I’m having fun?

Earlier, I stashed my luggage in the bellman’s closet at Bright Angel Lodge. I’ll be carrying my backpack henceforth. The elev. here is over 7,000 feet, and it’s extremely dry. You get thirsty just being, not doing. We were told to drink a pint of water per hour.

On the Trans-Canyon Shuttle, 2pm:

I’m the only passenger going to Marble Canyon. All of my van-mates are headed for North Rim, some to visit, some to hike back to South Rim. But they are all oohing about my upcoming adventure on the river. One lady was raised in Sandy Springs, Georgia. Small world, indeed.

The Navajo reservation is so sad. Hovels dot the desert. Both sides of the highway look to have been strip-mined. For coal, I suppose. We passed a dog that was herding several dozen sheep, alone.

The closer we get to Marble Canyon, the more I get butterflies.

In my room at Marble Canyon Lodge, 930pm:

The motel here is real minimalist – no TV. I am reduced to writing diary entries. Marble Canyon is a busy enterprise consisting of motel, café, store, post office, gas station, fly fishing shop, and an airfield.

After check-in, I took an hour nap. Must have been mental exhaustion from the butterflies. Then I ate supper at the restaurant. Had a hamburger steak that was gigantic – far too much food.

I tried to walk off the meal by strolling down to Navajo Bridge, which spans the Colorado River a quarter-mile from the Lodge. Before long, it will be called “Navajo Bridges.” A new bridge is under construction next to the old one. I took some photos with the sun starting to go down and went back to the bar for a nightcap.

I sat at the bar with a Heineken, talking to the bartender. Nearby, some guides from Arizona River Outfitters were making trip prep. The bartender had a recipe from them for a Colorado Bulldog: equal parts vodka, brandy, Kahlua, and milk.

The bar/restaurant was packed because of Memorial Day weekend, and also the bartender said June is the busiest month in the rafting business.

The people who work here are all very pleasant and friendly. I bought a “Bud Lite 24” and left to sit outside in the breeze. Life is good.

Sunday 5/29/94, noon, Marble Canyon Restaurant:

I don’t meet my outfitter and the other passengers until tonight, so this is a free day.

After breakfast, I asked a fat lady who works here where I was allowed to go hiking. I assumed they don’t want tourists walking close to the canyon rim, which is only a few hundred yards south of here. Walk where you want, she said. So I did. God, it was hot out there.

Got some great photos of the bridge looking back upstream. A group of rafts passed below, 600 feet down there on the river. Even here, the gorge is so deep that I couldn’t make out the individuals in the rafts.

I scrambled about 3 miles or so along the rim downstream of the bridge, across some tricky scree slopes, but never felt in danger of slipping or tripping and going off into space. Returned to my room parched and tired.

I’m having a taco salad made with Indian frybread. I have a window booth, from which I can see the airstrip across highway 89A and the road heading north, following the curve of the Vermilion Cliffs. South Rim is in that direction, North Rim is thataway.

On the wall is a mesmerizing photo of a raft flipping in a rapid. It’s a framed 2’ x 3’ poster of a photo apparently shot from shore. In it, a huge motorized baloney boat, fully loaded with passengers and gear, is standing on its side in mid-flip. Everyone on board is in some stage of panic, some suspended in midair, all on their inevitable way into the drink – falling, tumbling, grasping, reaching. Awesome.

Sunday 5pm at the Lodge:

This afternoon I hiked back to the cliffs behind the motel and halfway up the slope. Very tricky footing. Also hiked down a wash to the river above the bridge. Seemed like 10 miles, but I think it was probably about three. The heat was fierce, and there is no shade anywhere. Fortunately, I took a jacket, which was some protection.

Tonight I get a roommate. The outfitter won’t spring for the single rates, it seems.