After months of carefully accumulating all of our camping necessities and checking off each item on the list provided by the tour company, we were ready. We made certain to pull all of the tags off our new items and get a little dirt on our belongings, lest we seem as completely inexperienced as we actually were. Upon arrival in Phoenix, we boarded a long shuttle to Flagstaff. The trip was made interminable as we were seated in front of an old woman who continuously berated her equally elderly husband for the duration of the trip to the point that I think his lack of hearing was actually a finely honed act. I hoped that this was not a prophecy of what our marriage would look like in fifty years.
Later that evening, we met with our intrepid tour guides who went over a few last minute details and checked our gear. We also were introduced to the family who would be embarking on the journey with us. It turned out that they weren’t the creepy family in matching yellow t-shirts that I saw at the airport, but instead were a nice, down to earth couple from Kansas and their 15-year-old son. While the son did not appear as excited about our impending exploits as we all were, he seemed willing to be a good sport about it anyways.
Early the next morning, we’re talking 6:15 am, we were picked up at the hotel and began our drive to the Grand Canyon. Two hours later, we arrived at the very crowded parking lot where we would commence our journey. Mules, along with their loads and riders, and the pungent smell that these pack animal provided, as well as the cars of other travelers filled the area. With our shoes tied, water bladders full (that’s hiking lingo for those cool plastic water sacs that are attached to a straw-like tube that you clip on to your back pack), and daypacks stuffed with carbohydrate-rich snacks, we started our ten-mile descent.
I was a bit nervous about the distance that we would be traveling that day, not for myself, but for my significant other. Vivid memories of practice hikes flooded my mind. For the entire last mile of these treks, the repetition of the phrase, “Are we there yet?” like the whine of child on his way to a Disney vacation, was emitted from my husband’s mouth. Those hikes were only four miles long, thus I had no idea what to expect from a walk more than twice that distance. Surprisingly, and maybe it was due to the presence of other people and his desire to seem macho and rugged, I didn’t hear one negative, complaining statement out of my husband. He was a total trooper. Several hours later, and with relatively few blisters, we arrived at the campground.
Rather than get into the nitty-gritty, play-by-play details of the rest of the trip, I figured that I would simply describe some of the better highlights.
The Tent:
Being relatively new to this whole “roughing it” experience, we were not in possession of our own tent and, frankly, based on my husband’s previously professed aversion to camping, I wasn’t sure it was a wise investment. Thus, we asked the tour company to provide one for us. We were grateful that they were able to do this; however, they clearly chose our tent before they met my husband and me. The tent was more like a one-person tent for someone my husband’s size or a two-person tent for someone my size. Therefore, with both of us in there, it didn’t quite even out. My darling took up about three quarters of the tent, leaving me the slightest sliver, smashed up against the pea green, nylon wall.
That first night was long. According to my husband, the guides had set the tent up on a slant and that was why he repeatedly rolled over into my limited quarter of the tent in the middle of the night. In addition to the fact that my sleeping pad was little more than the equivalent of an airy yoga mat, I now had a 260-pound human shoving me into the tiny crevice of our camping casa. He claimed that due to the incline, which you would have thought was a forty-five degree angle based on the way he was carrying on, he simply couldn’t stay on his side of the tent. Sorry. Needless to say, we did reposition the tent the next night and, miraculously, the rolling ceased.
While sharing this tent was clearly going to test our marriage, watching my husband try to extract himself from this limited living space definitely put a positive spin on the situation. We referred to this time each day as the metamorphosis. This process began with my husband’s head poking itself out of our camping cocoon to look around and see if others were awake. Then, he would twist and wiggle in order to allow each broad shoulder ample room to emerge from the curved door flap. Next, he would unwind his torso and legs slowly until the rest of his body was able to stand up straight and step out into the world. For just a brief second it looked like he was wearing the tent on his butt, preparing to shed this final layer of skin. It was truly a sight to behold.
My second favorite activity involved watching my husband try and enter our two and a half foot high tent. This process was more like a swan dive through the door flap, but not nearly as graceful, more like a crow with a broken wing. He usually landed head first with feet still flailing outside. I learned early on to either scramble far into the corner of the tent before his arrival or remain outside in order to avoid getting inadvertently head butted or landed upon with the full force of his entry. While the hiking was amazing, some of our funniest moments involved simply getting in and out of the tent.
The Creatures
One aspect of my husband’s personality that I discovered long ago is that if you provide him with too much information, it never does anyone any good. This attribute became all too evident as we were sitting around the picnic table after our first dinner at the campsite. Our knowledgeable guides whipped out some small pamphlets about the rock types and animals commonly found in the Grand Canyon. So, with nothing else to do before bed, we thumbed through the provided reading. As we made fun of certain animal and plant names, my husband innocently asked our leader about the scorpions. Rather than stating that we had nothing to worry about, our guide, who I learned later enjoyed making people nervous, nonchalantly explained that the scorpions like to hide in shoes and under tents. I immediately knew that this information, so breezily stated, would not be so easily forgotten.
Sure enough as we wedged ourselves into our nylon nest that evening, my husband insisted that we put all of our shoes inside with us. When I asked him why, he vehemently reiterated the guide’s warning about scorpions in the shoes. While I tried to explain to him that if the scorpions were truly a serious issue the guide probably would have warned the others in our group, he simply didn’t want to hear it. Being the shorter occupant of the tent, of course the shoes were placed in my already scant section. Needless to say, we never encountered scorpions in our shoes; however, neither did any of the others who dared to leave their shoes exposed to the dangerous canyon critters.
Picture Time
I am always jealous of those people that have pictures of every wedding they have ever been to or even those candid snapshots of nights out with friends. My husband and I are not those people. We usually bring our camera with us, but odds are good that it won’t ever take a single picture and we’ll be driving home realizing too late the opportunity that we missed to forever capture the event we just attended. As a result, when we take our yearly trip we are always determined to take as many pictures as possible.
For example, our marriage almost did not make it past the honeymoon as my husband was so intent on taking a picture of every relic at the Vatican that he neglected to pay attention to his bride. He was constantly getting lost in the throng of tourists that threatened to trample him at every single photo opportunity. With some thinly and some not so thinly veiled threats, we managed to save our marriage even if it meant a few less pictures of Italy.
Nevertheless, we knew that we certainly did not want to miss the chance to obtain pictures of this grand adventure of ours, but yet again, my husbands zeal for finding that perfect shot occasionally got the better of him.
Since this was the Grand Canyon, there was a great deal of hiking and climbing involved in our daily activities, not always ideal for taking pictures. Yet, when we found a safe place to stand or were on solid ground, we usually attempted to grab a few scenic shots. However, one day, our tour guides decided to take us down a 200-foot cliff beside a waterfall. Our only sources of support were some metal poles, the occasional chain and two short ladders. The rest of our descent was composed of slippery rocks that we were to use as foot and hand holds. As the keeper of the camera, I was repeatedly asked during this perilous climb to pull it out and take a picture of my husband, who was scaling the wall just above me. It made me question what he valued more, my life or that shot of him climbing down a large canyon like he was Edmund Hillary on Mount Everest.
Throughout the journey, whether we were dangling precariously over a rushing stream trying to get to the other side or standing in the middle of rapidly moving water, my husband always seemed to decide that it was a prime moment for a photo op. Fortunately, as the custodian of the camera, I did retain final say over all photographic endeavors and was able to keep my husband’s picture passion under control for the safety of both of us.
Eating
Although my husband professed a strong desire to get in shape before our Grand Canyon escapade, and he actually could be seen walking on the inclined treadmill at the gym several times a week, those dastardly chicken wings and beer continued to thwart his earnest efforts. However, since we would be confined to the bottom of a canyon for four days without a beer tap in sight, and exercise would be our only form of activity, I figured my husband could not help but reap at least a few health benefits from this journey. I was mistaken.
Incredibly, my husband managed to find a way to rationalize overeating even on this athletic, health conscious endeavor. Due to the intensity of our daily activities, our guides were constantly reminding us to take several carbohydrate-filled snacks with us to eat throughout our adventures. Needless to say, my husband took full advantage of this opportunity to consume. Every time I turned around, there he was, eating a granola bar, beard growing in creating a scruffy frame of his face like a true outdoorsman. In addition, each night at dinner, our leaders also reminded us to refuel, to which my husband excitedly exclaimed, “This is great! This is the only place where I’m encouraged to eat more!”
I had finally discovered the secret trick to persuading my husband to go camping with me, food. I should have known. A few granola bars and food cooked over a gas flame and I’d have him eating out of the palm of my hand in the future, literally.
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