An unexpected ending

SOMEWHERE NEAR BOULDER, Utah—The drive from Tropic north through the dramatic rock lands near the Escalante Grand Staircase area suddenly turned from beautiful to ugly as we rounded a curve in a narrow rock canyon just outside of Boulder, Utah.

Without warning we heard a muffled boom, similar to the report of a faraway .44 magnum, followed instantaneously by the sound of shattered glass from the back window falling into the cargo area of our vehicle. We were literally a minute away from the trailhead of Lower Calf Creek Fall, where we had planned to hike. But now the trailhead parking lot had become a place for us to assess the damage and figure out what had happened.

We initially feared that one of the CO2 cartridges from our pumps had exploded, until we realized that the heat was not intense. Inspection revealed that the CO2 cartridges were not the cause. In fact, we could not find any real cause for the damage at all. Instead, as we stood there bewildered by the side of the road listening to the freakish crackling of the shattered window, we carefully popped out the rest of the glass and covered the open hole with a kluged together tarp of plastic garbage bags and first-aid tape.

We scanned the nearby hillsides for a concealed shooter, thinking that perhaps some angry local was taking potshots at interlopers, but with miles of canyon and rock in every direction, we of course saw nothing.

Realizing that we would now have to contend with an open vehicle for the rest of our journey, we made the hard decision to cut the trip short and head home for repairs. Instead of Moab, our destination was now New Mexico. We spent a long day on the road, discovering a new route for us through remote southern Utah past flooded canyons north of Lake Powell.

We reached Cortez, Colo., at sundown and found room at an inn, where we were able to unload the car, sweep out as much of the microscopic spray of glass as possible, and purchase better cover materials for the rest of the drive home.

The silver lining to all of this was the ability to wake up at the crack of dawn for a fun two hours or so riding Phil's World, which continues to be one of our favorite mountain bike trails in the Four Corners Area. If you haven't ridden it yet, you should. But don't let misfortune drive your decision to do so. Or do. In our case, the ride certainly brightened our moods and got us back on the road in good style.

We enjoyed a patty melt and a chocolate-banana shake (worth writing about!) at the Malt Shoppe in Pagosa Springs. The rest of the drive was through intermittent rain, and we were glad that our plastic-and-tape handiwork was sufficiently strong to weather the storms.

What's nice about this County is that help is never too far away and even an unexpected turn of events can turn out okay.

See you on down the road.

When geology gets ugly

BRYCE CANYON, Utah—We have been consistently captivated by the scenery in this area. A person could look at Bryce Canyon—a surreal landscape of red, white, orange and yellow rock spires resembling melted candle wax—for days and see it differently each time. Elsewhere, like at nearby Kodachrome basin, larger-than-life formations carved from ancient sandstone thrust up out of the Earth.

But, as we would discover, not everything here is beautiful.

Our stay at the Bullberry Inn bed and breakfast has been pleasant. We are not accustomed to staying in bed and breakfasts, so we didn't quite know what to expect. Fortunately, our stay has been low maintenance and there has not been a lot of forced contact with other guests, although that can be pleasant under the right circumstances. Our accommodations have augmented our enjoyment of this area.

Just a mile or so away from the inn's front porch—home to a 120-year-old stove that cooked legendary Bullberry jelly for none other than the outlaw Butch Cassidy—sits the entrance to Mossy Cave, an appendage of Bryce Canyon National Park. Guidebooks proclaimed Mossy Cave as a Do-Not-Miss attraction in the area, so Caroline and I were eager to hike the half mile to the cave.

The small canyon trail leading to Mossy cave follows a cold clear stream. A large waterfall with a shallow pool invites bathers to cool off after a day in the intense canyon heat. But this day did not feature the occasional European nudity below the waterfall that some guidebooks had mentioned. Instead, the late afternoon light gave us the opportunity to drink in the beauty of the strange formations and explore the canyon upstream of the waterfall, where we found other small waterfalls and the tranquility of a landscape electrified by a soundtrack of running water. The beauty of the landscaped prompted an interpretive dance in me, which I shared with the other tourists, most of whom averted their eyes and hustled smartly away, counseling their children not to giggle at the "wild man."

We headed toward Mossy Cave in great anticipation of what we might find. Various guidebooks had described the geologic feature as "stunning" and "captivating." Some descriptions said a waterfall ran over the entrance of the cave, adding to the experience. We climbed the steep trail like eager children on their way to the County Fair.

The end of the trail brought us to a dusty void beneath a shelf of rock. Inside a few dirty-looking patches of moss clung to the dusty sandstone. The waterfall had long disappeared with the end of the summer rainy season. The only remarkable feature of Mossy Cave was a grotesque looking moss-covered chancre that dripped fluid onto the floor of the cave. Groups of disappointed hikers arrived behind us, uttering a bewildered "this is it?"

We stopped to watch the terrible chancre discharge its drops of disappointment before heading off to the Bryce Canyon Inn for a stellar four-star meal after watching the sun set gloriously over this spectacular landscape that defines the majesty of the American West.

See you on down the road.

In a word, "Awesome!"

TROPIC, Utah—We are staying a the Bullberry Inn, a nice, nondescript little bed and breakfast at the edge of tiny Tropic, Utah—the closest town to Bryce Canyon National Park. Here in the mountains with no streetlights, the skies are wonderfully dark and the night is quiet, save for the occasional spirited whinnying of a young mare in a pen at the residence next door. Each time the horse lets loose, it induces an involuntary reaction in Caroline and me to mutter, "Frau Blücher!" in our best German accents. Last night as I got up to pee at 2 a.m., the horse unleashed a soundtrack-worthy whinny that pierced the still night air.

"Frau Blücher!" Caroline uttered in a dreamy voice that she had conjured up from the depths of her slumber. She sighed and turned over in the bed while I doubled over with laughter.

Bullberry's innkeepers, Nettie and Wally, had breakfast waiting for us at precisely 7 a.m. the next morning as promised. In addition to the hearty country breakfast of bacon, eggs and toast, the inn features Bullberry jelly—an almost 100-year tradition unique to the area. The tiny red berries grow on the Bullberry bush in nearby Panguitch, Utah. Wally's family used to collect the berries from the spiny bushes to make jelly for the elderly residents of the area. Now Wally has taken over the task and continues the family tradition. Wally said he met Nettie because she was the only person he had ever met who offered to return for another Bullberry picking session after enduring a first one. The two apparently have been together ever since.

Bullberry jam has a subtle flavor and a pinkish hue. Eating some on a couple of pieces of dry white toast was just the thing to jump start a morning of riding on the Thunder Mountain Trail just outside of Bryce Canyon.

The outrageous psychedelic orange and pink terrain and fantastically fun singletrack trail make Thunder Mountain a must-ride for anyone in Southwestern Utah. Although the trail itself is relatively short—a mere 7 or eight miles—tacking it onto the climb up from the Red Canyon Visitor Center on a paved bike path that parallels the highway to Bryce Canyon, makes the entire ride about 15 miles or so and adds a good amount of extra climbing.

While the Cremesicle-shaded dirt and bizarre hoodoos give the ride a cartoonish appearance, Thunder Mountain is not for beginners. The first part of the ride provides some good up-and-down climbing as the trail winds through the regular brown and green forest that precedes the colorful landscape of Red Canyon. Once the orange track begins, riders must contend with some steep and slightly technical switchbacks that could easily toss a person over the handlebars should they panic and grab a handful of brake. Nevertheless, bike savvy intermediate riders can easily navigate the trail, perhaps choosing to dismount and walk some short sections should they get in over their heads.

The ride to the orange track on the up-and-downs features some nicely banked switchbacks that allow a rider to hammer into the base of the climb and steal some nice momentum to help lessen the severity of some of the incline. But beware. Thunder Mountain does include a couple of lung-busting grunts to the top of hills along the trail. However, the climbs are usually followed by some wickedly fun descents that make you forget what it was you were breathing hard about in the first place.

Because the trail is multi-user, be prepared to come face to face with mule riders and hikers. And because the equestrian transportation has been well fed, be doubly prepared to dodge seriously moist and stinky donkey doakies—buzz-kill landmines that force riders to choose between risking a full-face splatter from front-wheel kickback or possibly swerving over the edge of a switchback and tumbling down into the pain abyss.

Those were two choices I could live without, and fortunately for me, my bunny hopping and countersteering skills were spot on for the day, so I suffered neither fate.

We did happen upon a trio of imbeciles who were riding the singletrack from west to east (bottom to top). I suppose some masochists do enjoy going against the grain in some kind of twisted, self-abusive anaerobic training ritual, but the three guys we saw struggling up the marvelous trail as we raced down looked seriously bummed and angry. They had either read the wrong guide book or were following the wrong leader. Life's too short to be riding a cool trail the wrong way.

Take my word for it: Ride Thunder Mountain from top to bottom as a shuttle (as we saw a great foursome from Salt Lake City doing), or ride the paved path east to the top trail head and then rip back down to the Red Canyon campground on the singletrack and finish the last mile on the paved bike path with a moderate climb back up to the Red Canyon Visitor Center. Memorize these instructions and you will enjoyed the plastered-on perma-grin that Caroline and I enjoyed and are still enjoying a day later.

In addition to the colorful scenery and challenging fun that the trail has to offer, Thunder Mountain hangs onto perhaps its best asset until the very end—where riders can rip along a mile-and-a-half's worth of blazing singletrack that winds through piñon-juniper forest to the lower trailhead. With just enough straightaway to build a Fool's Confidence, and enough whoop de doos to have you jumping for joy, you might find yourself riding just beyond the ragged edge of good sense as you finish the ride.

"Awesome!" was all Caroline could manage to whisper when we reached the paved path back to the car. She said nothing more for the better part of an hour, her face paralyzed by a wide smile and her shins covered with fine trail dust.

See you on down the road.

Mementos of the Road

TROPIC, Utah—The last thing we saw as we headed out of Fredonia, Ariz., and into Kanab, Utah, was a large package liquor store—the last chance to buy full-strength beer before entering the Mormon Kingdom of 3.2 percent alcohol content by weight. We were entering a new world on the third day of our vacation, which was spent primarily on the road.

As we coasted into Kanab early Sunday afternoon, we noticed that most of the stores were closed and that the parking lot in front of the Church of Jesus Christ Latter Day Saints was filled to capacity. Apparently most of the community was keeping the Sabbath Holy, which made us wonder whether the five-mile stretch between Kanab and Fredonia was well used for celebratory beer runs each time the local high school football team prevailed on the turf or whether the Kanabites preferred instead to cloister themselves in the church auditorium for fudge brownies, lemonade and, later, forbidden love.

Conjuring some 'Old Magic'

I don't know about all that, but the mind does get to thinking about what is seen and unseen in all the little towns you travel through during a road trip.

I had developed a fascination for Datura during my formative years, after reading Carlos Casteneda's books about the Yaqui Indian sorcerer Don Juan. Datura, more commonly known as Jimson Weed, is a peculiar plant rumored to have spiritual powers. Friends who ingested the plant back in those experimental days would have visions for several days at a time. Some of them painstakingly prepared a fatty paste using the branched root of the plant and then rubbed the concoction on their temples; there are those who say the people who participated in that strange ritual never really returned to reality because the grip of the plant was just too strong.

I used to poo-poo that kind of talk until I watched a giant Datura blossom unfurl once right before my eyes as the sun set in the west and a full moon rose in the east. The pale flower seemed to glow in the obscure light of dusk, tempting me to partake in arcane knowledge by ingesting the plant. But I digress.

As we traveled through Navajo lands in the middle of nowhere in Arizona early in the morning, the pale white blossoms of several huge Datura plants flashed along the side of the road in the rising sun. As if called by a siren song, I stopped to photograph one of the beautiful blossoms amid the sparkling bits of broken glass, miscellaneous car parts, Styrofoam nuggets from 7-11 coolers and other ejecta that had collected along the banks of the blue highway. Just looking at the plant through the viewfinder seemed to alter my reality and heighten my awareness of the subtleties of the road as we drove on.

The road veered west through a rugged landscape scarred by years of erosion and the incursion of the mighty Colorado River. In this desolate country, a few small homes and accompanying hogans dotted the landscape, along with an occasional small herd of sheep and struggling plots of dwarf corn that had grown only about two feet above the desert floor, but were tassling nevertheless.

In plywood shelters set up along the lonesome highway, aging Native Americans sold jewelry and other wares spread out on top of colorful blankets. Their faces were etched with the deep lines of years, much like the arroyos and washes that had been carved out in the desert beyond.

At Lee's Ferry, travelers could find the only crossing of the Colorado River upstream of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. From 1873 to 1927, the ability to cross the emerald-green waters enabled settlers to lay claim to parts of the state that were formerly off limits, thanks to the hard work and perseverance of frontiersman John Doyle Lee, who erected the crossing on a whim. Beyond the crossing, the Vermillion Cliffs, a wall of striated purple, red and yellowish rock, force travelers through the desert valley and toward the Kaibab Plateau, which rises thousands of feet above the river valley.

The heat from the road filled our vehicle and we were grateful once the road began winding quickly up out of the desert scrub and into lush, cool Ponderosa pine forest. A few miles later we were at a crossroads. Jacob Lake, a nondescript little outpost tucked among the pines, marked the choice between the dead-end road to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon or the drive into Fedonia and the predictable world of Mormon civilization on the other side of the Kaibab Plateau.

Bully, bully!

We stopped in the little lodge at Jacob Lake for a bite to eat and a milkshake. The parking lot was bustling with camouflage-clad men atop "Texas Wheelchairs," the four-wheel all-terrain vehicles that would shuttle them out to the slaughtering grounds now that bow season was underway. The olive drab patterns they clothed themselves in did not conceal their ample waistlines or cheeks rendered in splotchy hues of crimson from too many years spent in pursuit of recreational drinking.

One such boor of a man sidled up to the counter next to us and plopped his big bucket of a butt into one of the swivel chairs. With his safari hat cocked sideways and his pig eyes darting quickly to and fro as he peered over the top of his Teddy Roosevelt eyeglasses, the hunter proceeded to regale anyone within earshot of his so-far-unsuccessful hunting adventures.

Our attentive server was a tired looking young man with a pleasant countenance and exquisite manners who confided to us that he was working at Jacob Lake through January to earn enough money to go on his Mission and then begin studies at Brigham Young University. The Big Game Boor thrust the folded leather booklet containing his guest check across the counter at the young server. The young man scooped up the booklet and with a wide smile asked the hunter whether he would be needing any change.

"On a twenty dollar bill for an eight-seventy-five meal?!?" the hunter barked with mock incredulity. "What do you think!"

"I'll be right back with your change," the young server said pleasantly.

Another camouflage man at the counter remarked that the young man should have looked at what was in the leather booklet before asking.

"That's exactly the point I was trying to get across!" the unpleasant Teddy Roosevelt pompously crowed.

"He wasn't trying to make any point at all," I said a little too loudly to Caroline. "He was simply trying to make that young man look foolish."

I stared at the Boorish Hunter, letting the full heat of my gaze bore into the fabric of his hat and so far into his temples that he undoubtedly could hear an audible buzz.

"I guess someone's daddy didn't give him enough hugs as a child," I said loudly to Caroline. Over at the other side of the counter, the camouflage contingent fell silent, gathered their belongings and hustled out into the parking lot—at home again astride their ATVs, next to their weapons and their own posse.

We generously tipped the young server and urged him to remain true to himself in the coming years.

Outside of Kanab on the way to Bryce Canyon, we nicknamed the road the Fawn Slaughter Highway. The valley next to the highway apparently was a calving ground for deer, many of which lay dead by the side of the road after being destroyed in collisions with speeding motorized vehicles. The tiny deer corpses lay in unnaturally twisted poses every tenth of a mile or so, and the swath of death continued for dozens of miles.

My driving pace at the speed limit was met with disdain by other motorists, who pulled out to the left for risky passing maneuvers at every opportunity all the way until the entrance of Bryce Canyon.

Rock the cradle of love

Past the entrance, the traffic mercifully subsided—a combination of it being the tail end of the Labor Day weekend and the fact that few people go beyond Bryce this time of year.

As the day waned, we found ourselves at Kodachrome Basin State Park, so we took the liberty of photographing some geologic pornography and taking a hike into the colorful foothills above the park. The last rays of the sun electrified the landscape and I felt the last surge of my earlier brush with the damned white blossom that had set the tone for the day. Caroline melted away into a modern-day Kokopelli and etched her essence into the slickrock.

Sometimes it's great to let the day dictate your destination.

See you on down the road.

La pluie en Espagne

SEDONA, Ariz.—Even more unsettling than the dark wall of rain clouds swirling in the northern skies the morning of our second day of vacation was the unease with which our short, squat native American waitress attempted to ask me what I wanted for breakfast in what appeared to be strained French. Mixing the Diné language with French is a little like mixing Pig Latin and German. The result is poisonous-sounding and discordant. It is something that should not be attempted unless under extreme duress.

I was puzzling over why the waitress would piece together such an odd mixture of phonemes so early on a Saturday, particularly to me—a man with no hint of French or Navajo in my genetic makeup—when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror across the restaurant. I was overwhelmed by horror. Hotel shampoo and conditioner had deeply accentuated the peculiarity of my new haircut, and, as I had fearfully suspected the previous day, I indeed now bore a striking resemblance to a French tourist!

I waved my hand and told the waitress I spoke English and she appeared relieved. When I asked her for a recommendation off the menu, she remarked that I spoke the language "pretty good."

"I think you mean pretty well," I corrected.

She ignored my remark and listed a few items that I might be interested in.

"We've got French toast and French fries!" the waitress exclaimed cheerfully. "You might find those to your liking."

"Yes, perfect!" I said, glancing beyond the waitress and into the mirror that reflected the shame of a wasted $15 dollars at a barber shop that was now hundreds of miles beyond my present reach. "I would like to order a la carte! Please bring me French toast, French fries, and a side of French dressing, si'l vous plaît."

The waitress giggled as Caroline pursed her lips with disdain. Our stocky little food server fanned her faced and then mustered the courage to say, "French always sounds so sexy, even at eight in the morning."

"Oh stop it!" I barked. "I don't speak French! I'm not French! I don't want French toast or French fries or any stupid French dressing! I'd like chicken fried steak and eggs! Si'l vous plaît."

The waitress wrote the order and stomped away from the table.

"Told you he was crazy," she said to the hostess.

The Fat Shower

Staying in hotels these days, I've noticed that most modern lodging establishments now have what I call Fat Showers. The shower or tub itself isn't any larger. Instead, most modern-day hotel showers have curtain rods that curve out well beyond the confines of the sidewalls of the bathtub—ensuring a pleasant bathing experience for humans packing the girth of an adult hippopotamus or unfortunate souls with hips as wide as the rack on a cape buffalo.

While it's true that I'm no midget when it comes to the midriff, Fat Showers are cavernous relative to my size. I can only wonder just how big the average American is these days? On the other hand, thinking of a really big person getting all soapy and then sticking to the shower curtain and then having the shower curtain stick to me is enough to make me skip bathing altogether. I'm thankful for the Fat Shower, but revolted by it just the same.

Here comes the rain again

With the certainty of rain ruining our riding plans in Flagstaff, we headed down south to Sedona, Ariz., in an attempt to perhaps hit the trails and check in with our old friends at the Bike and Bean—one of Arizona's friendliest bike shops. But alas the skies had opened up there as well, and by the time we arrived, everything was soaked. The rain didn't scare away the throngs of traffic, though, and we found the customary Sedona traffic jam waiting for us as we crept along main street at a stop-and-start snails pace.

Nevertheless we popped into the Bike and Bean for a hot cup of coffee and some trail advice. When I started acting familiar with the staff, they were put off for a moment, until I introduced myself.

"Oh!" exclaimed the mechanic. "We didn't recognize you with your new haircut."

With that, it was apparent the day was going to remain a total washout.

The saving grace was a couple of rolls of good Sushi at a strange little restaurant called Hiro's Sushi, located in an obscure and crumbling strip mall on the western edge of town. The sushi was good and no one made any presumptions about what language I was going to order in. The miso soup counteracted the chill of the rain. And the Rosetta Stone company had one more "Learn French" lesson canceled.

See you on down the road.

Galluping Away from Workaday

The only thing that worried me was the Fruit Loops. There is nothing in the world more helpless, irresponsible, and depraved than a man in the depths of a sugar binge, and I knew we'd get into that rotten stuff pretty soon.

--Little Jimmy

FLAGSTAFF, Ariz.—There are times when life and the workaday world pinch down so hard upon the soul and the psyche that it feels as though you are on the brink of existential rupture—that unfortunate condition in which ordinary men suffer a shattered spirit and are transformed into bereft, muttering wastrels adrift in a purposeless sea of monotonous existence. When faced with the pressures of conformity, fools arch their backs in morbid curiosity, wondering where their breaking point lies. Wise men go on vacation.

We found ourselves on the road in the late afternoon after hastily bugging out of our square-walled confines at work. As is usually the case with all of our vacations, a dark gloom congealed in the skies and unleashed a cold, watery, lightning-laced vengeance upon us just as we were securing the bikes to the back of the vehicle. Hurricane force winds drowned out our voices as we called out our traveling checklist to one another for one last time before we hit the road. Satisfied that we had not forgotten anything, we made a beeline south—hoping to outflank the wraparound moisture that had been liberated from Hurricane Jimena as she raged through Baja California.

We hoped to drive nonstop to Gallup for the evening. Our plan was to get some miles under our belt and also avoid running into other human beings. I had just received a monumentally tragic haircut from David's Barbershop in the Atomic City to coincide with our journey. Since Old Dave was out, I had entrusted my shaggy noggin to young Dave—Old Dave's son—who halfheartedly set upon butchering my pate like an inexperienced gardener hacking away at a privet hedge with dull instruments at five minutes before five o'clock on a payday weekend. The resulting haircut gave me the look of a pinhead, an escaped mental patient perhaps, or, worse yet, a French tourist. Caroline's clear-headed counsel urged us to keep a low profile until the barber's work could be concealed with several days' growth or by a festive tourist hat purchased at an exotic location.

Of course, nothing goes according to plan and before the day's driving was completed, I had suffered the non-verbal insubordination of several teenage gas-station cashiers and convenience store cashiers, one of whom backed far away from the cash register with her hands in the air and invited me to take whatever I wanted from the till as long as I wouldn't hurt her. Fortunately, I did not oblige the frightened woman by taking her up on her offer.

Gallup, N.M., is a fixture of Old West fascination, the location of many old Westerns and a retreat for movie icons like John Wayne, Errol Flynn and others. The town is also known for its Indian jewelry, and during its darker years, drunks on the streets. These days, Gallup is home to a fantastic collection of bike trails. It's signature selection, the High Desert Trails, are located right off the western end of the old Route 66.

The High Desert Trails offer up to 22 miles of riding on various connected loops. Caroline and I opted for a 17-mile ride, which began at sunrise the day after we had fled the Atomic City. We chose an early start time in an attempt to beat the rains. Out here, you don't want to get caught in the middle of nowhere on two wheels. A good deluge will turn the trails into an unrideale, unwalkable slog through soupy mud.

The trails were in good shape—fast and smooth. They are a real treat to ride. While much of the journey is on smooth, buff singletrack, the High Desert Trails throw in enough technical features to keep you on your toes. The surrounding area is loose and raw, and a momentary lapse of concentration will lead to an endo if you're stupid enough to let your front wheel wander off the hard pack and into the loose stuff at the edges.

While the first half of our trail starting from the western Mentmore trailhead meant a steady climb to the top, the second half (not quite) mostly meant fast descending on serpentine dirt through odd rock formations. Nevertheless, even the back half of the trails can keep you out of breath, and at one point we took a breather next to the bleached skull of some large-toothed desert rodent, and were reminded that no matter who you are, when all is said and done you must return to Mother Earth.

We made the ride in record time and felt pretty good, but later we would find that hours on the road make the legs stiffen up. That thought occurred to us as we walked the rim trail at Meteor Crater National Historic Landmark with our guide, Kim. The Meteor Crater is the result of a big damned asteroid smacking the Earth some 50,000 years ago. It left a hole in the ground deeper than the Washington Monument is tall and several miles in diameter. Because of the lack of moisture around these parts, the hole looks pretty much the same as it did after the impact—well, except for the char marks and shrieks of terror that are the earmarks of an Armageddon event.

Even with fried legs, we were more ambulatory than the handful of other people who took the tour with us. One guy from deep in the heart of Texas had purchased new Merrill boots for his journey, but was staggering unsteadily like a zombie over the rocky terrain. Clearly a man who had walked on little else besides asphalt and concrete, he seemed pleased by his newly acquired footwear and his adventuresome spirit. I couldn't help but pat him on the back and congratulate him, which was fine at first. Then he began glancing uneasily toward the top of my head at my new haircut, and you could see the questions and dark thoughts begin to formulate in the reptilian portion of his brain.

Realizing that his birdlike legs and unsteady gait would not serve him well on this alien terrain should things turn ugly, he began sizing me up for fist-a-cuffs. He nervously clenched and unclenched his fists, rehearsing choreographed moves in his mind that he had seen used recently in Hollywood action movies. He frowned when he realized that he would probably get crushed like a bug in all out confrontation with me, and likely tossed over the side and into the bowels of the crater, so he retreated behind our tour guide, out of my reach, for the rest of the journey.

Here in Flagstaff a day later, Hurricane Jimena continues to dog us, and our plans for a big ride in the mountains north of here have been quashed. Perhaps we will try our luck in the red hills of nearby Sedona, or maybe we'll act like tourists on a downtown tour of Old Route 66. Whatever we choose to do, I will try to find a suitable hat so as not to unnerve the hordes of people who have opted to run far, far away from the spine-crushing pressures of Corporate America as we have. There's plenty of room out here in the American West for us wise ones who have opted to maintain our sanity with a little road time and a taste of Americana.

In the meantime, we have staggered out to the breakfast bar, where I made a beeline for the Fruit Loops like a methamphetamine addict drawn to the acrid smell of toxic chemicals. Caroline has secured a rolled up newspaper and is trying to fend me away from the clear acrylic tank of brightly colored frosted rings. But with a night of hard sleep bolstering the horror of my new haircut, the others in the breakfast area are paralyzed with fear, and poor Caroline is on her own trying to corral the savage sugar monster that I have become. Things obviously will go from bad to worse once a little caffeine gets thrown into the mix.

See you on down the road.