Day 08: Arizona; 437 Miles

1. Purgatory

By the time I left Tucson, it was 84°. My phone overheated and briefly closed all my apps – including navigation. In Phoenix, the thermometer hit 93. The Moxie Mama's AC struggled briefly, then quit. The vents circulated only heat. Traffic was a nightmare without end. It seemed like hours. I'm half-convinced that a part of me may be driving there still, the car growing increasingly stuffy, the other drivers more and more reckless as they merge tighter and tighter in front of me...Eventually it did end. The temperature dipped into the mid-60s as I reached the Kaibab National Forest.

Loneliness struck suddenly, hard. My own fault. All week I'd had on a playlist some friends had made. Traveling songs. I'd added additional tracks, left it on shuffle. Hours of music, endless permutations. But seven days was enough.

I tried podcasts. The news – America sliding toward fascism, the economy teetering. Classic radio dramas – Suspense, Philip Marlowe. Then my latest obsession – relationship podcasts. Advice for the tricky bits, navigating breakups. Each one felt like an indictment, or at best, advice I'd never have the chance to use.

I reached the entrance to Grand Canyon National Park.

2. Heaven

I ventured only as far as Mather Point, the most easily accessible spot along the canyon's rim. Time was a factor. Also, as much as I enjoy a good hike, I am horribly out of shape. Easy would be good enough this time around.

The Grand Canyon.

The downside, of course, is that Mather Point is full of tourists. I think most of us imagine ourselves standing alone on the Canyon's edge, confronting its sublimity like Friedrich's Wanderer. In reality, you've got to grab snatches of that solitary wonder before someone else steps into your field of view.

An unknown arm intrudes.

One possible cure for the resulting frustration: Remember that everyone is here for the same purpose. We all want to marvel at the ineffable. Sure, we all process the experience differently. Some wear headphones. Some talk excitedly among their friends, passing phones around so each one gets a turn to pose at the cliff's edge. Some simply pace along the walkway, looking for a chance to snap another photo. But each of them is after that same wonder. It's rumored that some people envision enormous screens bolted into the face of the bluffs, urging us to sign up for Prime or shop at Walmart. Then it would really have value. If such people truly exist, they must never have been to Mather Point, and seen the faces of the people gathered there.

Visitors.

No one ever warns you about the silence. The word “canyon” conjures up an image of a figure perched on the edge of a great hole, shouting “Hello!” while the rock walls return the greeting endlessly. In fact, the great hole merely swallows up the conversations taking place on its lip. It's as if the whole affair were packed full of cotton batting. The stillness is almost deafening.

In other ways, Grand Canyon is what you expect. Endless ranges of buttes fade into the purple distance. Every outcropping deserves its own moment of study. And the colors! Reds, yellows, purples, browns...here and there, a glimmer of green from the canyon floor – the Colorado River, 7,000 feet below.

Sporkman pretends to be brave.

I'm no good with heights. I'm writing this on a hotel bed, a day later and two hundred miles away, and my palms still go damp at the thought of that canyon's edge. My feet prickle with sweat. My knees try to buckle. Still. Insofar as vertigo would allow, I crept as close as I dared to the edge at several points, trying for dramatic photos. I even let a stranger take a few with my phone, of me standing some five feet from death, trying not to look terrified. Close enough.

I started feeling lonely again. I took a few pictures with my phone and sent them to some friends. It gave me a reasonable facsimile of having shared the experience with someone, if only fleetingly. Then I started to feel gross about doing that. Like I was using them as a distraction from myself. 

It began to get dark, and cold. The winds picked up. Time to get back to the car, and to find my campsite.

Evening.

3. Chaos

I should've known better than to wait until dark before looking for the free campsite. THat much I'll admit. The fact that neither freecampsites.net nor Google Maps could accurately get me there, however, wasn't my fault. I spent over an hour jouncing along service road after service road. Some of them seemed not to have been used since before the Great Flood, and were in the shape to prove it. Eventually I gave up trying to get there, and just pulled over. I was resigned to spend the night here, wherever the fuck that was. I bedded down in the back and stewed. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if the car could even make it back out of here. I was exhausted, and angry, and if I'm honest, more than a little worried that this was an unauthorized camping spot, and there might be consequences for sleeping there.

Finally I got back in the driver's seat and drove out of the woods. I punched in the location of another supposed site. Half an hour later, when Google informed me that I had arrived – in the middle of State Highway 64 – I could only laugh. What the hell was I even doing out here? All of it – the woods, Arizona, running off to hide in Alaska like some wannabe Huck Finn lighting out for the Territory? Screw this. Find a motel.

The first place I tried required me to check-in at a kiosk, via a video call. The young woman on the other end asked in broken English if I was checking in. I mumbled sleepily that I was checking to see if they had rooms available. She stared blankly, not following. “Never mind,” I said. “Have a good night.”

Luckily, the Ramada Inn in Williams did have a vacancy. I checked in, brushed my teeth, and collapsed onto the bed.

Day 09: Arizona; 267 Miles

Short day. I planned to revisit the Petrified Forest, see those places I'd skimmed through last time. Then drive up through Monument Valley and into Utah. After last night, it was harder than usual to get moving, but a quick trip to Safeway for more bottled water and some breakfast, and I was on the road. On a whim, I made a detour into Flagstaff for coffee.

The city's downtown mixes old-timey buildings and modern construction. A railroad crossing cuts through the middle. Rusted signs attached to metal towers mark the locations of long-established hotels. I liked it immediately.

Firecreek Coffee Company, Flagstaff AZ.

Firecreek Coffee Company was another surprise. Spacious and cool, the interior is filled with long tables where customers work on their laptops while enjoying beverages and pastries. I followed my usual oatmilk latte with a cortado. The texture was heavenly, the espresso powerful yet smooth. The chocolate croissant was equally impressive. A bar space near the back suggests late operating hours. The barista mentioned a band coming in later, as well. All in all, a great spot. I left feeling re-energized and optimistic about the afternoon.

I headed East, revisiting the northern desert I had loved so well a few days earlier – rust red dirt, dry yellow grass, endless expanses of sky. Today that sky looked grim. It sprinkled off and on as I made my way through the park. I took some photos, but the lighting was poor. I guess it's true what they say about going back again.

Petrified Forest National Park.

Another reality had to be faced. There was no way I'd make it to Utah before dark. Worse, the free campsites near Monument Valley all used descriptors like “rough road” and “high clearance” and “you might make it”. Another hotel, this time the Holiday Inn in Chinle. The kitchen was closed when I arrived, so I settled for a tin of sardines and some crackers. Not what I'd hoped for, but adequate.

And that brings us right up to the present, friends. I'm going to tidy this up a little, add some pictures, and go to bed. Tomorrow means Monument Valley at last, and Utah, and whatever lies beyond. Thanks for hanging in this long. Goodnight.