In late 2000, I laboriously planned a trip to Grand Canyon National Park, to take place in February 2001. It was to be my 10th trip to Grand Canyon.
Planning any trip to Grand Canyon is complex, but this one was especially so.
I applied for by mail, and got, a backcountry hiking permit to camp two nights at the very remote Lava Falls Rapid on the Colorado River. After that, I would drive back to the South Rim, hike down to the floor of the canyon again, and spend two nights at Phantom Ranch.
This is more complicated than it sounds. In addition to going through the tedious application process for a backcountry permit, I had to arrange for a shuttle to drive me to the Lava Falls trailhead at Toroweap, which is at the end of a horrid, 60-mile road that would destroy a passenger car. Then the shuttle had to return two days later to collect me.
Getting reservations at Phantom Ranch is also a burdensome process. Those guys take reservations 13 months out, and the place is chronically booked up. If you’re lucky enough to get a reservation, it probably won’t be on a date of your choosing. You take what’s available and build your trip around that.
Then, of course, there was the shuttle van to the airport; the flight to Las Vegas; a rental car; specific motels in specific places on specific dates; the return flight; and the shuttle van home. Complicated stuff, indeed.
But I got it all done, and after work on Friday, February 2, I climbed aboard the airport shuttle. My trip was officially underway.
At 950 PM MST, my Delta flight arrived in Las Vegas. I picked up my luggage and wheeled it over to the Dollar Rent-A-Car counter, psyched and ready for a grand adventure.
I placed my rental papers on the counter. The agent scooped them up. “Driver’s license, please,” said he.
I took out my Georgia driver’s license and placed in on the counter.
The agent picked up the license, studied it, and handed it back to me.
“Sir,” he said. “This license is expired.”
I stared at the man without comprehending. He may as well have said, “My horses will juggle four hammers when the cheese puffs are in bloom.”
“What?” I said, blinking.
He held the license in front of me. “This license expired on 01-26-01. If you don’t have a valid license, I can’t rent you a car.”
Like a bolt of lightning, the gravity of my plight sunk in. My blood ran cold, then drained from my head, taking all my vacation hopes with it.
Without a rental car, I was going nowhere. I was dead in the water. Lava Falls, Phantom Ranch, all the planning — out the window. Not going to happen.
The rental agent handed the license back to me. “I see your birthday was last week,” he said. “I guess you didn’t notice the expiration date.”
“No, I didn’t notice,” I replied, still stunned.
I added, as if it were relevant, “Georgia issues five-year licenses.” My head was swimming.
“You know,” he said sympathetically, sympathy being a cheap commodity, “Some states will fax you a temporary license in situations like this, You might want to call them and ask.”
I nodded, collected my luggage, and left, still numb.
Although my brain was abuzz with frantic thoughts, I had already latched onto a few certainties.
I knew that my motel reservation in Las Vegas was unaffected, so I had a sanctuary where I could stay the night. Probably huddled in a corner.
I knew that the Georgia DMV wouldn’t open until Monday, which would be too late to salvage the vacation.
I knew that for me, it was unequivocally, emphatically, without a doubt, game over, man.
These few shreds of certitude, while not exactly comforting, at least helped bring my raging brain under control. I knew what I had to do: get on the phone, cancel everything, and see about getting myself home.
With a heavy sigh, I wheeled my luggage back through the airport and walked up to the Delta desk.
The Delta agent was quite sympathetic, sympathy being a cheap commodity. For an additional fee of $75, she cancelled my February 16 return flight and booked me on the next available flight back to Atlanta, which was Monday, February 5.
With a heavy sigh, I pocketed my new ticket, wheeled my luggage outside to the curb, and hailed a taxi.
My usual practice when staying in Las Vegas is to book a room near the airport and the Strip; this time, however, in a regretful case of thinking too much, I had reserved a room at a Best Western on the northern edge of the city.
The idea was to avoid the city traffic when I departed the following morning. Instead, the decision bought me a long and expensive cab ride.
My motel, the Parkview Inn, was way the heck out North Las Vegas Boulevard. The name sounded very pleasant, but it turned out to be in a less-than-desirable part of town. The Factoryview Inn would have been a more appropriate name. Too bad, since I would be stuck there for a couple of days.
I checked in and immediately started making phone calls. I cancelled the motel in Fredonia, cancelled the shuttle to Toroweap, cancelled my room at the South Rim, and cancelled my bunk and meals at Phantom Ranch.
Remarkably, I didn’t forfeit a penny to anyone. Well, I did lose $20.00. That was the cost of the backcountry permit to camp at Lava Falls. You know — the permit that I wasn’t going to use.
After the do-able tasks were done, I took stock of my options. Essentially, I was marooned in Vegas for the weekend. My return flight was a few minutes after midnight Sunday. (Naturally, they gave me a red-eye flight. More salt in my wounds.)
So, I thought, I have all day Saturday and Sunday. That’s plenty of time to wander around and see some new stuff. Things could be worse. I’ll just stop at Hertz or Avis, pick up a rental car and — DOH!
Later, I discovered that Clark County, Nevada, has a pretty good bus system. The CAT — Citizens Area Transit — can get you from anywhere to anywhere else cheap. That buoyed my spirits greatly.
The next day, I climbed aboard a CAT bus bound for Fremont Street, AKA Glitter Gulch, the second-most-famous tacky district in Las Vegas.
“Vegas Vic,” the neon cowboy seen for decades in Las Vegas advertising, resides there. So do many of the famous casinos from the old days, such as Binion’s Horseshoe, the Golden Nugget, and the Pioneer Club.
They say the odds in the casinos on Fremont Street are somewhat better than those on the Strip. I wouldn’t know. The odds gods did not smile on me that day.
If you like neon, Fremont Street is your place. But I got my fill of it pretty quickly, took the CAT further South to the Stratosphere Tower, and rode the Space Shot, the world’s tallest tower ride. If you have acrophobia, vertigo, or dyspepsia, don’t go there.
On Sunday, I checked out of the Factoryview Inn, took a cab to the airport, and stashed my bags in a locker. Thus unencumbered, I spent the rest of the day wandering along the Vegas Strip.
The highlight, hands down, was a visit to the Star Trek Experience, an attraction in the Las Vegas Hilton that had opened a year or so earlier. It consisted of two main features.
One was the Klingon Encounter, a 20-minute simulator ride with terrific visual effects. The script called for the emergency evacuation of all tourists to escape a Klingon attack. It was complete with tilting floors, flashing lights, sound effects, jets of air, a teleporter ride, a shuttlecraft ride, and regular on-screen messages from Commander Riker.
The other feature was the History of the Future Museum. This ingenious exhibit consisted of numerous artifacts from the world of Star Trek displayed museum-style.
The museum also featured a lengthy historical timeline, starting with the Mercury Astronauts and continuing into the future, using Star Trek episodes as a framework. The exhibit ended with elaborate displays about the various alien races — Borg, Klingon, Romulan, Ferengi, et al.
The Star Trek Experience closed about a year ago. It’s expected to reopen elsewhere in Las Vegas in 2010 or 2011. I hope it does. It was very cool.
The Space Shot and the Star Trek Experience didn’t exactly add a happy ending to my vacation. The trip was too spectacularly ill-fated and wretchedly horrendous for that. But they cushioned the awfulness somewhat.
Naturally, I renewed my driver’s license immediately when I got home. I also trained myself to check the expiration date on my license often — not just on my birthday, but, like, constantly. Compulsively.
At the moment, however, no worries. My license doesn’t expire until 1-26-2014.
But I intend to keep checking anyway.
Fremont Street’s “Vegas Vic.”
The Stratosphere Tower.
Small humanoids aboard the “Klingon Encounter.”
A display in the “History of the Future Museum.”
Borg drones, baddest dudes in the Delta Quadrant.
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