The second half of my time at the Canyon, I shared a trailer with one of the young men who worked at the maintenance yard. He was a nice fellow, about my age, with a stunningly beautiful girlfriend who stopped by on occasion. We got along pretty well, although every once in a while the volume of ZZ Top and Lionel Richie blasting out was a bit much. Perhaps most important, he had a red Jeep and occasionally gave me a ride, as I was basically without transportation.
Our trailer was loaded with mice, and he had an array of traps set up in an effort to do battle. Of course, being “wild” animals in a Park, those mice felt they should be protected, but tell that to the trap. We would be sitting around in the evening and hear a snap (when ZZ took a break) as a new victim succumbed. We would take turns grabbing the rascal by the tail and flipping it up onto the roof of the trailer. Our taxidermist friend had moved on to another park by then.
In a minute or two, a thud would announce the arrival of a raven or other bird, thrilled to see what new gift had been provided for their feasting pleasure. Ah, the circle of life!
In the evenings, I would open up a large jug of white Gallo wine, a bag of corn chips, and listen on the radio to the MacNeil Lehrer NewsHour. Even then, I was a news junkie, and this was about my only source of news, other than the few newspapers available at Babbitt’s store. I would get a good glow going during the news, and then take off for an evening run as things began to cool down.
For a while, I would head over to the Canyon Rim, following a trail that curved around Maricopa and Hopi Points. On a night with a full moon, it was a magical experience. On darker nights, the dark asphalt of the trail would wander in and out of shadows.
One night, as I was racing along, I tripped and stumbled on the edge of the asphalt trail and fell, scattering a shower of pebbles out from under foot. As I lay there, I heard some of those pebbles slide, skitter, and drop. A long way! I peered over the edge, and decided that wine and Canyon Rim trail running in the dark was not the wisest of combinations.
One memorable afternoon, I invited everyone I knew over for a celebration. I’d collaborated with my roommate and he had hauled a keg of beer up from Flagstaff for a blowout. Not just any beer, though. I shelled out for Heineken, and we had a grand time. Inviting the Trail Crew was a guarantee that any party would raise the roof!
John also liked parties, and he decided to celebrate one night with a “blind” tasting of his lady friend’s secret vice, chocolate. I did not know how long he had wandered Flagstaff hunting for various chocolate bars, but he must have had about thirty varieties. We all assembled in his small apartment, turned up the music, and began tasting (and drinking). After a while, we had winnowed the chocolate choices down to five, and then two. I will have you know that the Swiss chocolate Toblerone Dark, with honey and almond nougat, was proclaimed the winner.
At another party, I discovered the game of Fictionary. There were few “moving” parts. One person took an obscure word from the dictionary and announced – just the word. Everyone would then make up a nonsense definition, and at the end of each round the definitions were voted on and points awarded. The motley crew of specialists from the Resource Management Division made this game a delightful challenge.
Being a brand new bachelor, I would occasionally stroll down to the hotels near the rim when a dance was going on, hoping to strike up a relationship. As most of the folks there were transient tourists, this was a bit of a forlorn hope. I was always shy, and struggled at the back of the room with the other wallflowers. Some of the people there were actually working at the Park, though, and hope sprang eternal.
One fine day I spotted a young lady interpreter at the Rim, explaining some arcane archaeological and/or historic fact to the multitudes. She was lovely, and I was smitten. It took a long time to work up the nerve to approach her and start a conversation, but I did. She had such a smile!
She bore a certain resemblance to… no, it couldn’t be.
I invited her over to dinner one night, knowing that my trailer was going to be free of ZZ for the evening. She said yes, to my elation, and I offered to make a quiche. Now, I know Real Men don’t eat quiche, much less make one, but I wanted to go all out – and it was relatively straightforward once you had the (pre-made) pie shell. What could go wrong? I picked up the pie shell and a few candles at Babbitt’s, and headed back to the trailer. I filled it with a lovely egg mixture, slid it into the oven, put on some music (Lionel Richie, of course), lit the candles and awaited her arrival.
She arrived, looking even more lovely out of her interpreter uniform – though I am sure she would have looked lovely in burlap. I was charming, polite, and a gracious host. We savored the quiche, quiet music playing in the background – although my options beyond Lionel were slim.
And then – she told me she was already in a committed relationship – with a Ranger, durn it! He did not work at Grand Canyon, but they had long term plans to secure jobs at the same park some day, get married, and make wee rangers. I was crushed, but maintained a stiff upper lip as I brushed the quiche crumbs off the table (and possibly the lip, too) and fed them to the mice.
I walked her back to her quarters, trying to be understanding yet charming, polite, and gracious – silently cursing all authority figures in uniform. Like Rangers. Especially Rangers. Romance in a small village ain’t what it ought to be!
Mi Mayan Hamaca 