Grand Canyon to California: Dirtbag Status

The Grand Canyon: A place where endlessness is an understatement
Listening to loads of: Modest Mouse- "Never Ending Math Equation" en route.

The sun setting over the canyons when we arrived.

 Don't touch us, don't smell us, don't inspect our fingernails for dirt—we reek, Corinne and I know.
Sleevey Wonder embraced us with hellos anyhow. We considered him a brave man.
“Mmm. Campfire smell,” he smiled, welcoming us to his stomping grounds.
Steve Wilson, our quirky former co-worker from Yellowstone, set us up to hike the Bright Angel and South Kaibab trails. They were roughly 20 miles, roundtrip.
Sweet!
“But first,” he said, “We have spaghetti and meatballs to eat.”
“Nice! I mean, I’m vegetarian,” I relied, “so I’ll skip the meatballs.”
But let’s be real, I didn’t skip the meatballs. I’ve been a horrible vegetarian.
That's been one of the inconvenient trials of traveling.
I hated denying home cooking from hosts, so sometimes I cheated.
Besides, I supposedly needed the extra protein for the trek.

The next day, we prepped our backpacks. Water, check. Sleeping bag, check. Tent. Tent.
Tent, where was the tent?
We forgot our tent.
It seemed we left our only protection from the elements behind at Indian Creek, in Toby's truck, where we had camped. So we got a new one and tried to get stoked on christening the new dwelling.
To be honest, I was in a tizzy to have my own teeny tent -it meant I could Sharpie the insides with landscape drawings when I damn-well pleased. That thing was bound to be covered in stories eventually.

“Alright, let's do this!" Sleeve proclaimed, shooing us lovingly out the door.
 "Oh, and also," he beamed, "it’s going to rain the whole time. It'll be a real adventure!”
Great.
But it was sunshine-central upon arrival. Bright Angel was littered with backpacks everywhere, selfie-sticks throughout, and plenty of gawking eyes. We pushed through the picture-hungry tourists and strode the trail’s first steps. We were pumped. My heart rushed, remembering the footsteps of John Muir, Edward Abbey and Teddy Roosevelt that walked the same steep trails before our clan.

We were off, 10ish miles to Phantom Ranch.

Corinne and I smirking at the trailhead.

The trail was laden with others' company. We were, after all, hiking a natural wonder of any good American’s bucket-list. We rapidly realized why.

Chiseled-this and wind-sculpted-that erupted through the labyrinth of the canyon. The current of the Colorado appeared and disappeared from a great distance as we went down. We could feel the wind of every direction, the same wind that kissed the canyons far out of our view. I couldn't help but hold each breath. More accurately, I gulped my inhales down and held them ransom, hoping they'd divulge some sort of mystery.
I felt a constant vastness being so minuscule in the canyon.
An overwhelming silence set in.

At mile three, we reached Indian Garden.
Green appeared amongst the otherwise naked rocks and we took a load off to explore.
It was cottonwoods, river beds and a little cozy library of borrowable books,
a place where little ladies in hiking gear hid under trees to read field guides.

It got more and more secluded after that, with only rim-to-rimmers (the Spartan athletes) passing us thereafter.

Eventually, we reached the Colorado River.

Steve's photo of the canyon shoreline. 

Corinne left us for the shore, yanking off her backpack and boots as she inched closer.
She dunked her feet into the water, yelped at its chill, then sank into relaxation.
I wanted whatever she was having.
I shoved my pack next to hers and looked down at my boots.
Hiking, I hadn't allowed myself to give heed to my inevitably blistering feet.
They were pain-crammed sacks of tired flesh, impossibly pissed I put them through anything more than a suburban sprawl.
Lace by loosened lace, a tiny heaven unveil.
With the boots and pack finally off, the weight of gravity felt like a cumulus cushion each step
And holy hell, when the water kissed my feet and cradled them in her currents, I could've died happy.

Blissed out, we found camp.
Steve, Corinne and I split responsibilities. Corinne played camp chef while Steve and I set our tents up.
This would be the first time I got to set up the new tent.
Everything looked perfect. I stuck all the poles into the corners and erected the new nylon house of ours, then went to put the rainfly on when I noticed something wasn't right.
The rainfly didn't match the tent.
The general store sold us a mismatched living quarter.
The rainfly fit the tent, but fit it sideways, covering the door, trapping the camper either inside or out.

Being the problem solvers that we were, we made it work after some hangry experimenting.
We kept a corner of the rainfly undone to get in and out.
It was less than perfect, but it was supposed to rain, hence, we adapted.

Corinne, trapped in the tent.

In the morning, I saw my first pomegranate tree. Steve stole us some coffee and we sat on an old tree stump awaiting the inevitable rain—and finally, it came.
The 7 miles back were all sopping switchbacks uphill and we walked maybe a single muddy mile per hour. We stayed entertained, putting on tacky accents and whatnot then finally made it back to the rim by late afternoon. The rain cleared for maybe a minute and we, feeling victorious, found our last beer and split it at the trailhead.
We made it.
None of us fell off the side of the Grand Canyon.
Good job, us.
We sipped and passed our Tecate can and looked up at the not-so-clear sky, glad to be done walking in it.
Then we felt something on our shoulders. Hail?
Definitely hail. A pitter-patter of ice began falling from the sky and in two minutes flat, the red, muddy ground was transformed into a white, crunchy ice-fest.
How the hell? It came out of nowhere.
But who could've timed that better? We took one last look at the Kaibab trail and bid it farewell.

Our next stop would be at Sedona, AZ.

Sedona, Arizona: Psychic Disneyland

The view from the (almost) top of Cathedral Rock in Sedona.

The place was said to be a spiritual center, a sort of realm where energy swirls made trees grow tornado-twisted trunks. We wandered through the trails of Cathedral Rock's grounds and learned the landscape, wondering if or how these so-called vortexes would affect us.

We spent the day ambling,
stopping under the green meadow to write, to read, to braid flowers into our hair.
I laid down and melted into the bed of soft grass, thinking of nothing.
We heard mourning doves and listened.
It was serene.
In the stream, we dipped our toes, stacked rocks and meditated.
On the rocky path, we climbed to the slit between the two rock formations.
The trail bore white dashes, painted among the rocks like a treasure map leading to the 'X'.
We followed that Templeton trail all the way to the top and took note of all the strange new cacti we came across along the way.
Cryptobiotic soil grew crust.
Ocotillos shot thorny, swordlike stems from the ground.
Prickly pears dared us to pick their splintery fruit.
Mormon tea awaited steeping.
We found treasure, the view of Sedona from the bird's eye, and looked down upon it.
I heard music where sounds echoed and levitated,
this was the spot legend said was a portal.
I knew I was somewhere I didn't quite understand the significance of.
But I felt moved.
Sedona was tranquil.

That night, we found a free campsite in Cottonwood, but when a camp neighbor warned us about some meth heads about 3 sites up, we kept our eyes peeled and our mace close after we set up.
In the middle of a bunch of RVs, we felt awfully exposed.

After dinner in the dark, Corinne and I flicked the last of the ants off our stuff and exchanged an uncomfortable look.

Instead of settling, we broke down the tent and calculated the distance to Joshua Tree.
We would arrive at 2 am—we would sleep in the Walmart parking lot and just deal with it.
Besides, we were wide awake.

We set off.

The Night Drive: Silhouettes of Sleeping Desert Towns

In Pheonix, we passed armies of old girthy saguaros, towered like green, haunted soldiers.

Outside of Blythe, we had to pull into the highway shoulder to let a wide load pass.
When we slowed down further than 10 mph, our car made a weird noise.
When we let the wide load pass, our car stalled.
When we started it back up, it wouldn't stay alive unless it quickly caught speed -the low gears were acting strange.
Neither of us knew much about cars, so our haphazardous strategy was to stay fast, stay moving without any stops, and hope to make it.
(When I had to pee, I had to remind myself of that.)

By 3am, we made it to Joshua Tree.
Home sweet Walmart.
We put up "curtains", namely cardigans and sleeping pads for privacy,
then curled into our sleeping bags to listen to the lullaby of cars parking.
We agreed neither one of us would've done this without the other.
We were bums, but we were bums together.

Corinne sleeping in the Joshua Tree Walmart parking lot.

Joshua Tree, California: Without a Car, in the Middle of Nowhere

First things first, we needed to find a mechanic.
When we went to find a place, we broke down -right in the middle of the intersection.
Then, low and behold, the car behind us was a work truck, able to tow us to the side of the road and jump us. As we got help with a jump, the building manager of the lot we were next to came out.
"Hey! Car broke down?" he asked.
Yes.
"We have a mechanic in this plaza who can take a look. Need a push?"
Boom. Yes. Then three men came out of the woodwork and shoved the car uphill.

We waited to hear what was wrong with it, oblivious to our near future when -wham-
"Your engine is toast. You need a new one." $2,300.

We were carless in the desert. We weighed our options.

We could fix the engine -to the car that kept having one thing after the another go wrong with it-
or
spend $3,500 on a craigslist Subaru that was in San Diego. It was a decision we needed to sleep on.

But while we waited to hear back from where we would sleep,
namely, while we waited for our Couchsurfing host Olivia to reply with a time for us to come by,
Corinne and I made friends with some people at the shop.
The plaza was a small-town hangout where all the workers helped each other.
Darrell at the granite store would grab his tools and assist with car stuff at Collin's place.
When their work was through, they closed shop and popped open Bud Lights in the heat of the afternoon.

Tyler, the blond, buff EMT student with a love for strawberry-pesto-pizza and longboards sat with us.   He was innocent-eyed, a classic-rock car-karaoke type cat, and he introduced us to the coined phrase, "snailed it" while we waited for a call back from our host.

When we finally made it to Olivia's, it was like a dream.
Nestled in Yucca Valley, Olivia, the sweet, wise writer, had built a little cottage from a shipping container and lent it out to couch surfers and Airbnb folks.
The inside was a perfect space equipped with a kitchenette, steel-bin bathtub, fluffy queen-size bed and a bunch of National Geographics by the toilet. She even had a tea collection to sort through.

This is the cozy storage container cottage where we slept.

Olivia boiled some water and sat with us for evening tea outside.
Her little prayer flags followed the wind in the trees.
She spoke of her life in India, in France, in the states, and showed us her book while sipping chamomile. She was a witty, charming lady that laughed and nodded along to our travel tales.
When our cups were empty, she bid us a good night.
She was like our fairy godmother.
She invited us to knock on her door if we needed anything throughout the night.

Olivia and Corinne protecting the little Chihuahuas from the chilly wind.  

We were tired.
We immediately buried ourselves into the soft sheets and thousand silk pillows and sighed.
"We had a car this morning," Corinne said,
yes we did.
Yes, we did.

Corinne and I taking a break from hopping rocks with Tyler.

The next day, Tyler took us to Joshua Tree in his proud Buick. We climbed rocks and talked about San Diego and Corinne and I offered gas money and food for a ride to the city. He said he had nothing to do and agreed-
so we had a car to buy in a day
we would be carless no longer.

To San Diego we were bound.