by Casie Bazay
“All sorts of things, but mostly being in cars and going where there are lots of other people.”
“But there’re people everywhere. The world is full of them.”
“Yes, it is,” Mom said. “So Grandpa prefers to stay home.”
That’s when I first began to understand the condition that had firmly held my grandpa in its grip for so many years. After that day, I never asked him to leave the property again.
By the time we’re sitting on our mules at the trailhead, I feel as if I might have a panic attack myself. I’ve never been a fan of heights, but the Grand Canyon is a sight unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The chasm is both stunningly beautiful and utterly terrifying at the same time. I’ve honestly never seen anything so enormous and I can’t help but think about the fact that I could actually die today. If Mom were here, I’m not sure she’d be okay with this. She already lost her son, after all. When I risk a glance at K. J., I find she’s peering toward the canyon’s edge with more of a look of anticipation.
I’m a freakin’ midfielder, I remind myself. The best on my team. I’ve had girls twice my size coming at me on the field. I can do this.
My pep talk is only a temporary fix, though. When the leader of our ride, a thirty-something cowboy named Dusty, shouts for everyone to follow him, I’m right back where I was. My heart hammers as the mules fall in line, their hooves clip-clopping on the rocky ground. We begin our perilous descent, and my hand clutches the horn on my saddle like my life depends on it. It very well could, actually. Though the great void to my right is impossible to ignore, I force myself to stay focused on the space between Geronimo’s floppy ears. If he has any idea that our lives are in mortal danger, he shows no sign of it.
A ways ahead of me, K. J. yells, “Yeehaw!” as she rounds the first bend in the switchback trail. I can’t even dwell on her dorkiness because soon enough I’m at the same turn. I suck in a sharp breath as Geronimo’s head hangs over open space for a gut-wrenching moment, but he makes the turn easily enough and lumbers on.
Just breathe, I tell myself, and that’s all I can really do. Not that I’d been looking forward to this trip at all, but it’s worse than I’d feared. Why anyone would actually choose to do this is beyond me, and with each step Geronimo takes down the trail, my stomach clenches tighter. I keep hoping things will get easier or I’ll get used to the scenery, but after a half hour or so, it becomes clear that isn’t going to happen. By now, my whole body is betraying me. My back feels like it could give out at any second, and the muscles in my right hand ache from gripping the saddle horn so tightly. Honestly, I think my hand might be permanently molded into that shape by the time we make it to the bottom. This is the absolute worst thing ever.
Every time K. J. rounds another bend in the zigzagging trail and passes back by me, she’s beaming, which sends a jolt of anger spiraling through my system. How is she enjoying this? I don’t get it at all. Occasionally, she glances up at me, but I force my eyes elsewhere. Then, an idea pops into my head. When she comes into view again, I try to smile and wave like I’m having the time of my life. Only my body refuses to cooperate and a little squeal escapes my mouth as I attempt to pry my fingers from the saddle horn. By the time I regain my composure, she’s already moved on, probably having a good laugh at my expense.
I just want this stupid ride to be over with. What on earth was Grandpa thinking, sending us here? There’s no possible way he’d ever have done this himself. This is right up there with skydiving as far as I’m concerned.
The sun is high between the two canyon walls when we make it to our first rest stop at Indian Garden. I’m tired and hot and more uncomfortable than I’ve ever been in my life, not to mention, my bladder is about to burst, but I’ve never been so happy to see some semblance of flat land again.
“Lunchtime,” Dusty calls.
My legs quiver as I climb down from the saddle, and I grimace at the ache stretching down the insides of my thighs. Riding a mule must require a whole different set of muscles than playing soccer because it’s like I’ve just had the toughest workout of my life.
I overhear Dusty saying to another guest that we’re about halfway to Phantom Ranch, and my stomach lurches. I thought for sure we were closer than that. The wranglers come around, taking our mules and tying them to the hitching posts nearby. After shedding my sweatshirt, I twist my back to the right and left and do a few quad stretches to loosen up my legs. I still feel strangely bow-legged as I set off toward the restrooms.
K. J.’s already in line, and when she turns to look at me, I pretend to be interested in the surrounding landscape. She lifts the floppy rim of her hat, rubbing at her forehead, and then eyes me with a smirk.
“Having fun?”
“Sure,” I reply drily.
“I really wasn’t sure what to expect, but I’m having a blast.”
I have little doubt that she is. I raise my eyebrow in mock surprise but don’t respond. I’m not a good enough liar to pretend I’m having a good time, too. The bathroom is available, and it’s K. J.’s turn. By the time I come out, she’s disappeared.
One of the wranglers is passing out our box lunches, so I find a place in the shade to eat. Several other people gather together and sit around on the ground, but I haven’t actually talked to anyone yet during the ride. A middle-aged man in a straw cowboy hat takes a seat nearby “How’s it going?” he asks me. Beneath the hat, he has reddish-brown hair with a beard to match and he wears old-fashioned cowboy boots, which look recently polished. He’s exactly the type I would expect to see on a ride like this. In my skinny jeans and pink Under Armour T-shirt, I must look completely out of place.
I force myself to smile. “It’s going okay.”
“This your first time down the canyon?”
“Yeah, how about you?” I open my lunch and peer inside. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich with chips, an apple, and a pickle. Better than nothing, I guess. I pick up the sandwich and take a bite.
“This is my second, but it’s my son’s first time.” He nods toward a skinny teenage boy walking in our direction. His son gives an awkward wave before coming to sit next to his dad. He has the same reddish hair, but no beard or boots. He’s sort of cute, but I’d guess he’s a little younger than me, maybe sixteen. “So who’d you come with?” the man asks.
“My cousin.” I glance around for K. J. and finally spot her about twenty yards away. She’s sitting beneath another patch of shade, talking with several older women.
“I see,” he says, probably wondering why we aren’t together. I don’t offer any information on the subject but, instead, attempt to check my phone. When I click on Instagram, I get a blank page with a spinning wheel, so I pocket my phone and take another bite of my sandwich.
“Where ya from?” the man asks, and I’m guessing he feels sorry for me sitting here all by myself.
“Siloam Springs.”
“Arkansas is pretty country. We’re from Georgia.”
“I’ll be going through there, too, this summer,” I say before thinking better of it.
“Where ’bouts?”
“We’re supposed to run the Bull Sluice, I think. You know, white water rafting.”
The man takes a sip from his water bottle and gives a chuckle. “Aren’t you a daredevil! I tried to get Shane to do that with me, but he wouldn’t even hear of it.” He gives his son a playful jab with his elbow.
Shane’s face reddens and he looks away.
I give a one-shoulder shrug as a sickening feeling rises in my stomach again. I was hoping this would be the worst of the trips in terms of adventure. “Yeah, that’s me,” I mumble, “a regular old daredevil.” Though I’m starting to think that these trips are more like a punishment for not being good granddaughters.
“Hey,” a familiar annoying voice says. Great, just who I want to see.
“Hi,” I mumble, only because I don’t want the man and his son to think I’m completely rude.
“Can I borrow so
me sunscreen?” K. J. asks. “I forgot mine.” My lips pucker, but I refrain from commenting. She’s probably just as irresponsible as her mother. I fish the small tube from the pocket of the hoodie tied around my waist and hand it to her.
“Thanks,” she says, plopping down beside me.
“You from Arkansas too?” my new bearded friend asks her.
K. J. turns to look at him. “Who? Me?”
He grins. “Yeah, you. I’ve just been talking to your cousin here. We’re from Georgia.” He glances back at me. “Name’s George, by the way. George from Georgia—that’s easy enough to remember, right?”
I get the feeling he’s used that line a time or two before.
“I’m from Oklahoma, but not far from the Arkansas border,” K. J. says. “Near Colcord.”
“I see.” George takes another swig from his water bottle and sets it aside. “It’s nice that you and your cousin got to come on this trip together. I was really close to a cousin of mine when I was younger. We’ve grown apart some now, but we used to do a lot together. Nothing like this, of course, but we did some tent camping and quite a bit of fishing.”
“How fun,” K. J. says in a tone that suggests that she might think otherwise.
I glance around for our ride leader. As crazy as it seems, I’d rather be back on the trail than stuck here with her. There’s no telling what she’ll say next.
A moment later, she proves I was right to be concerned.
An impish grin stretches across her face. “Yeah, me and Becka, we’re like this.” She holds a hand up, her index and middle finger twisting together. “We do practically everything together.” She pastes on a ridiculous smile. “Right, Beck?”
I resist the urge to grind my teeth. “Mmm hmm.”
“That’s great!” George says, oblivious to her sarcasm. His son, however, is staring at us with more interest now. Teenagers are experts when it comes to this sort of thing.
K. J. scoots closer to me and wraps a lanky arm around my shoulder. It takes everything I’ve got not to shove her away. She smiles sweetly at George. “She’s like the sister I always wanted. I love her soooo much.” She pulls me toward her with a little too much force, and I nearly topple into her lap.
“Time to head out!” a voice calls in the distance.
Thank goodness. I’m not sure I can pretend to even tolerate her for one more second.
“Nice talkin’ to you ladies,” George says, rising to his feet. “See you at the next stop.”
“See you,” I say.
“Bye,” K. J. says with a little wave.
Once Shane and George are out of earshot, I scramble to my feet and glare down at her. “Don’t ever touch me again.”
Her forehead crinkles and she pretends to look hurt. “I’m just trying to do what Grandpa wanted and make friends with you.”
“That’s not what you’re doing, and you know it.” I force myself to walk away before I get too worked up.
Maybe Grandpa thought he could change things between our families with all his tasks, or whatever these dumb trips are, but he was wrong. There’s no way in Hades we’ll ever be friends.
CHAPTER 8
K. J.
“TALLY HO!” DUSTY YELLS.
“Tally ho!” we all yell back. Don’t know what the hell it means, but he seems to like the phrase because he’s yelled it after every stop today.
I shift my butt backward in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position. There really isn’t one, but I’m learning to deal with it. This trip has been totally worth the discomfort so far. Who would have thought? Me. On a mule. Riding into the freaking Grand Canyon. It’s been the biggest rush of my life.
I reach down to give Dixie a pat on the neck. I didn’t get the white mule like I wanted, but I’m over it. Dixie’s taking good care of me, and I think we’re even starting to bond. One of the wranglers told me she’s been doing this for eleven years.
Six mules ahead, Becka rounds a bend, and I hold in a laugh. It gives me a sick amount of pleasure seeing her face so pale and lips clamped tight. She’s still scared shitless! Maybe Grandpa’s little vacations won’t be so bad after all. Especially, if I get the opportunity to torment Becka every chance I get.
As we head out of Indian Garden, the flat land disappears, turning into a narrow trail along the edge of the canyon again. The mules automatically fall into a single file line. Even though Dusty told us not to, I pull my phone out and take a few more pictures. I’ve never seen so many shades of red and brown before. The colors are all crammed together like one big-ass piece of pottery. With the bright blue sky up above, it’s almost enough to take my breath away.
I wave as we pass a group of sweaty hikers with their backs pressed against the canyon side of the trail. Mules get the right-of-way here, which they totally should. A couple of the hikers give a hello nod, and one lady gives me a thumbs-up. I’m glad I’m not in their boots because I’m not sure I’d be able to make it this far on foot, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want to make the hike back up.
By the time we reach the end of our ride, the sun has disappeared behind the canyon walls and everything is bathed in shadows. Every bone in my body protests as I slide off Dixie and my feet hit the ground. I may not be able to walk normal for a month after this. I stifle a yawn, but my stomach flutters with excitement just like it did when we set off this morning. How many people can actually say they’ve been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon?
The wranglers unsaddle the mules while the rest of us trek across a bridge that stretches over a quick-moving creek. A bunch of cacti and small shrubs and trees surround us, but in the distance, a cluster of buildings appear. Phantom Ranch, I assume. I can’t wait to have a look around the place.
Becka walks ahead of me, talking with that dude and his son again, but I hang back, taking everything in. It’s like there’s this whole little world down here, completely separate from the one a mile above us. I pause and do a three-sixty, eyeing the rugged canyon walls all around. I can see now why Grandpa wanted to come here. This place is freaking awesome. Though I haven’t been inspired to do a real piece of art in a long time, I might just have to sketch this scene when I get back home.
After wandering the rock-lined paths, taking my own personal tour of the ranch, I check the cabin number listed on the slip of paper still stuffed in my jeans pocket. Number nine. Stepping inside the small building, I find a rustic-looking room with two sets of bunk beds, a sink, and a tiny bathroom. It’s not near as fancy as Maswik Lodge, but it’ll definitely do. Someone’s blue duffel bag sits on one of the bottom beds. I guess Becka and I won’t be staying here alone, which is probably a good thing. I toss my hat, along with my bag of belongings, up on an empty top bunk before venturing back outside to explore some more.
I don’t see Becka again until we all shuffle in to the canteen for dinner. Our eyes meet, and an unspoken message seems to pass between us: stay the hell away from me. So after she sits at one of the long green tables, I choose a seat across the room, next to the ladies I’d met earlier on the trail. Sheila, Mary, and some other M-name I can’t remember. They’re a good forty or fifty years older than me, but that doesn’t matter. Just like that guy on the plane, I’d take them over Becka any day.
“Looks delicious,” Mary says once we’ve been served plates of steak, a baked potato, green beans, and a thick slice of bread.
I hold up my glass of tea in a toast of agreement. “Amen to that.” Can’t remember the last time I’ve had steak.
Even after everyone else has left, the four of us stay in the canteen, talking and telling stories. Mainly, I’m just listening—I don’t have stories anything like these ladies do. Unless you count tee-peeing houses or sneaking out at midnight to smoke and listen to music with Carter. I definitely haven’t driven cross-country on Route 66 like the three of them are doing.
When a lull finally settles into the conversation, Sheila looks at me. “So why’d you decide to come on this ride?”
> I’m not really prepared to answer, but luckily, I manage to come up with something that sort of resembles the truth. “Actually, my grandpa and I were supposed to come together. He booked it last year and all.” I stare at the backs of my hands. “But, um, he passed away recently, so I wanted to, you know, honor his memory by still coming.”
It’s uncomfortably silent for several seconds, and I’m not sure if it’s because they know I’m full of shit or if they’re just surprised.
“Wow,” Sheila finally says, “I’m so sorry to hear about your grandpa.”
“You’re sure a brave young lady,” Mary says while the other woman pats my back.
It wasn’t really my intent to get their sympathy, but it feels kind of nice all the same. I look back up, giving a little shrug. “Thanks.”
“Feel free to hang out with us any time,” Sheila says.
“I might take you up on that.”
Mary glances at her watch. “Oh, the presentation starts in ten minutes.”
“What presentation?” I ask.
“Outside at the amphitheater,” Sheila says. “There are two parts, I think. The history of Phantom Ranch and canyon wildlife. You coming?”
While that does sound interesting, I’ve got one cigarette left and I’m thinking a smoke sounds way better. Plus, I’ve got this extra credit poem I need to work on for English. “I don’t know. I’m thinking I might turn in early.”
“Okay,” Mary says with a sympathetic smile. “See you tomorrow, then.”
While my three new friends set off for the amphitheater, I head back toward the mule pens, where no one’s likely to be hanging around. It’s dark by now, but the mostly full moon and the stars give off enough light for me to make my way along the trail. I cross back over the creek, following the sweet scent of hay. I find the mules the way we left them earlier today, dozing in groups or munching on hay. I scan the pen for Dixie, finding her in one of the dozing groups.
“Hey, Dixie!” I say. She’s shorter than most of the other mules but has the biggest ears of all of them. Right now, they’re flopping way out to the side. I call to her again, but she doesn’t pay any attention to me. Now that I think about it, I’m probably just another human to her. Just one of the many who have sat on her back. Oh well. I turn away from the pen, finding a large rock nearby to sit on instead.