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.