Editor's note: Today's column continues a series on Dan Wegmueller's motorcycle trip.
I immediately fell in love with Arizona. What's not to love? My Yamaha R1 hummed sweetly as I sped along Historic Route 66. I was in the company of longtime riding companion and good friend Stewbert, as well as my brother Dave. We had five days to make a circuitous route around the Grand Canyon State before ending up for a breather in San Diego, Calif. Five days to ride 1,800 miles. Piece of cake.
At a fuel stop along Route 66, I grabbed a handful of trail mix and stepped into the parking lot to survey the scene. The gas station was decorated with the rusting hulks of classic cars, sporting mileage to key points along the Mother Road. From the main entry gate hung two Harley Davidson motorcycles, now stained coffee-brown from decades of weather. On the veranda sat a grandfatherly man, teaching a young boy how to sharpen his pocketknife.
Munching trail mix and observing the scene from behind my sunglasses, I felt a sudden and inescapable twinge of nostalgia. I realized that I had reached a point in my life where I could no longer expect others to make decisions for me. I no longer had a grandfather to turn to, for the quiet and knowing advice that only a grandfather can provide. For a brief moment I looked at that child, learning how to sharpen his knife, and saw myself from years ago. Now those days are long gone.
On the way to the Grand Canyon, there were few natural features to indicate the presence of anything so immense. In fact, the land was unremarkable, scrubby, and dry. Only the occasional billboard and milepost indicated that we were heading toward one of the natural wonders of the world. At the South Rim, we bumbled through a maze of roundabouts before finding a stall beyond the hoards of RVs. By now, the chilly morning had evaporated into a spectacularly gorgeous spring day. A warm breeze pushed a few lazy clouds across an otherwise perfectly blue sky. We parked, dismounted, and dressed down for the hike.
From the parking lot, tidy signs pointed Dave, Stewbert, and I toward the rim. Along the way we joked - maybe this was a bit out of our way, should we just take a picture of the park entrance sign and press on? No one will know the difference. And then, abruptly, the footpath ended and the shrubs opened up to blue sky and an immense, vacuous empty space. We had made it.
After days of riding, the sight of the Grand Canyon literally drew my breath away. I had zipped across the nation, where time and distance is measured by the seconds it takes me to reach the next horizon, and the next, and so on, days on end. The ground is always just underfoot, and even the open road can be a little confining; I am limited to movement within the tiny strip that is my lane. But here, standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon, space and distance loses all perspective.
More than a mile of vertical space separates the rim from the river. In spots, the canyon walls are straight and severe, instantly descending thousands of feet. In other places, the walls slope lazily, forming island plateaus and meadows within the shadows. The amount of open space is incomprehensible. At first it looks unreal, like a painting or doctored photograph. Then, the shadows of clouds creeping up walls and disappearing into chasms add perception. All at once the nothingness was horrifying, yet beautiful.
I felt oppressively intimidated, yet as free as a bird. I also realized that several minutes had passed since Dave, Stewbert, or I had said anything. We were all just standing there, taking it all in. Finally I broke the silence, "It sure was nice of the state of Arizona to construct this here canyon for our viewing pleasure."
We walked along the rim, stopping frequently to snap pictures or just take in the view. Since some 90 percent of visitors to the Grand Canyon never venture beyond the viewing platforms, Dave, Stewbert, and I had decided early on that we would hike below the rim, at least a short distance. Along the way, I observed something depressing.
At the Grand Canyon's South Rim viewing platform, I noticed several tour buses grind to a halt, offload dozens of chattering tourists, who snapped a few photographs before noisily reboarding the bus and chugging away. Most of them spent less than 10 minutes off the bus, but all of them were American.
Walking away from the mainstream viewing platforms and beneath the rim of the canyon, I realized that Dave, Stewbert, and I, as Americans, were alone. On our 6-mile hike we passed dozens of people, nearly all of whom spoke in foreign dialect. With few exceptions, every one beyond the viewing platforms, from sporty and fit 20-something's to couples in their 80s, were from overseas.
On the trail we passed a construction zone. Stopping for a breather, we struck up a conversation with the workers. All of them were volunteers from abroad - the ones we spoke to from England and Denmark. The young girl happily remarked, "We don't get paid, but we get room and board." Her colleague chimed in, "Yeah, and we get a great view; it's the Grand Canyon, man."
Touché, but as Dave, Stewbert, and I finished our hike, grabbed our bikes and pressed on, I couldn't help but think that the people from overseas appreciate the Grand Canyon more than we do.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
I immediately fell in love with Arizona. What's not to love? My Yamaha R1 hummed sweetly as I sped along Historic Route 66. I was in the company of longtime riding companion and good friend Stewbert, as well as my brother Dave. We had five days to make a circuitous route around the Grand Canyon State before ending up for a breather in San Diego, Calif. Five days to ride 1,800 miles. Piece of cake.
At a fuel stop along Route 66, I grabbed a handful of trail mix and stepped into the parking lot to survey the scene. The gas station was decorated with the rusting hulks of classic cars, sporting mileage to key points along the Mother Road. From the main entry gate hung two Harley Davidson motorcycles, now stained coffee-brown from decades of weather. On the veranda sat a grandfatherly man, teaching a young boy how to sharpen his pocketknife.
Munching trail mix and observing the scene from behind my sunglasses, I felt a sudden and inescapable twinge of nostalgia. I realized that I had reached a point in my life where I could no longer expect others to make decisions for me. I no longer had a grandfather to turn to, for the quiet and knowing advice that only a grandfather can provide. For a brief moment I looked at that child, learning how to sharpen his knife, and saw myself from years ago. Now those days are long gone.
On the way to the Grand Canyon, there were few natural features to indicate the presence of anything so immense. In fact, the land was unremarkable, scrubby, and dry. Only the occasional billboard and milepost indicated that we were heading toward one of the natural wonders of the world. At the South Rim, we bumbled through a maze of roundabouts before finding a stall beyond the hoards of RVs. By now, the chilly morning had evaporated into a spectacularly gorgeous spring day. A warm breeze pushed a few lazy clouds across an otherwise perfectly blue sky. We parked, dismounted, and dressed down for the hike.
From the parking lot, tidy signs pointed Dave, Stewbert, and I toward the rim. Along the way we joked - maybe this was a bit out of our way, should we just take a picture of the park entrance sign and press on? No one will know the difference. And then, abruptly, the footpath ended and the shrubs opened up to blue sky and an immense, vacuous empty space. We had made it.
After days of riding, the sight of the Grand Canyon literally drew my breath away. I had zipped across the nation, where time and distance is measured by the seconds it takes me to reach the next horizon, and the next, and so on, days on end. The ground is always just underfoot, and even the open road can be a little confining; I am limited to movement within the tiny strip that is my lane. But here, standing at the rim of the Grand Canyon, space and distance loses all perspective.
More than a mile of vertical space separates the rim from the river. In spots, the canyon walls are straight and severe, instantly descending thousands of feet. In other places, the walls slope lazily, forming island plateaus and meadows within the shadows. The amount of open space is incomprehensible. At first it looks unreal, like a painting or doctored photograph. Then, the shadows of clouds creeping up walls and disappearing into chasms add perception. All at once the nothingness was horrifying, yet beautiful.
I felt oppressively intimidated, yet as free as a bird. I also realized that several minutes had passed since Dave, Stewbert, or I had said anything. We were all just standing there, taking it all in. Finally I broke the silence, "It sure was nice of the state of Arizona to construct this here canyon for our viewing pleasure."
We walked along the rim, stopping frequently to snap pictures or just take in the view. Since some 90 percent of visitors to the Grand Canyon never venture beyond the viewing platforms, Dave, Stewbert, and I had decided early on that we would hike below the rim, at least a short distance. Along the way, I observed something depressing.
At the Grand Canyon's South Rim viewing platform, I noticed several tour buses grind to a halt, offload dozens of chattering tourists, who snapped a few photographs before noisily reboarding the bus and chugging away. Most of them spent less than 10 minutes off the bus, but all of them were American.
Walking away from the mainstream viewing platforms and beneath the rim of the canyon, I realized that Dave, Stewbert, and I, as Americans, were alone. On our 6-mile hike we passed dozens of people, nearly all of whom spoke in foreign dialect. With few exceptions, every one beyond the viewing platforms, from sporty and fit 20-something's to couples in their 80s, were from overseas.
On the trail we passed a construction zone. Stopping for a breather, we struck up a conversation with the workers. All of them were volunteers from abroad - the ones we spoke to from England and Denmark. The young girl happily remarked, "We don't get paid, but we get room and board." Her colleague chimed in, "Yeah, and we get a great view; it's the Grand Canyon, man."
Touché, but as Dave, Stewbert, and I finished our hike, grabbed our bikes and pressed on, I couldn't help but think that the people from overseas appreciate the Grand Canyon more than we do.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Monday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net
