Gypsy Caves of Sacromonte

There has always been something mysterious and fascinating about the gypsies. I had never met a gypsy until I moved to Spain. My first encounter occurred at Plaça Catalunya in Barcelona when a gypsy lady successfully swiped 70,000 pesetas from my coin purse while trying to sell me flowers. I later met much nicer gypsy ladies who invited me into their homes and fed me lunch. Her people were much rougher than the other Spaniards. Their neighborhoods were worn down and their music and talk very loud. Mothers begged for handouts on the streets while they sent their children door to door selling bushels of garlic.

View of the Alhambra from Sacromonte

The Gypsies that lived at Sacromonte were supposedly no different. All the guide books that I read recommended that a person who comes to the area bring only that which they are willing to part with. And certainly don't come at night. That is when the alleyways become seedier and the eerie walkways become paths of pillage. They will lure you into their caves to watch flamenco performances and then ding you with some exorbitant charge that you didn't expect.

So, where exactly are the Gypsy caves of Sacromonte? They lie just beyond the Albaicín in the town of Granada. The Albaicín  is the old Moorish district, full of white-washed buildings that rise on a hillside, overlooking the Alhambra. From the far east side of the neighborhood, turn east onto the Camino del Sacromonte, and it won't be long until you're there. Arriving there on foot is a piece of cake.

The caves seem to have been constructed by the Moors near the end of the 15^th century when the Christians completed the reconquest of Spain with the victory over Granada, and forced them to flee the city. They used “pick masters” to dig into the rock and excavate the dwellings. Later, when the Moors were eventually driven from the peninsula, the Gypsies took over the caves. The Gypsies originally came with the armies of the Catholic Kings where they were hired as blacksmiths and kettle-makers.

So, this was our day. We did not take the added risk of traveling there at night. But I did bring my coin purse and camera, two items that I did not want stolen, yet I was somewhat confident that I would keep them from getting robbed. We traveled east on the Camino del Sacromonte and within minutes we arrived where we thought we should be. There was no street sign that said, “Welcome to Sacromonte.” At first, there appeared to be no caves. Yet on closer inspection, many of the buildings appeared to extend into the hillside, with only the entrance of the dwelling containing a facade that made it look like a normal building. We later learned that this was a normal part of the evolution of the caves, transforming them from a primitive cave dwelling to an extension built on it to create a more modern appearance. Yet, here and there, we still found raw caves built directly into the hillside.

Almost all the buildings were white-washed. They resembled “Smurf  houses” to an extent because of the their rounded nature, the chimney poking from the hillside, and the blue and white colors which were used together. Other than the main road from which we came, most of the other paths were only wide enough for pedestrians. Most of these stone paths were on a slope, winding from one dwelling to the next, with chumbera cactus growing along the side and cats and dogs roaming around in great abundance.

We read of a “museum” somewhere in the area, and at the top of a long stone stairway, we found that “museum.” A lady sat at a table and took our money (5 € each), and in front of us were several white-washed caves which had been restored to their original appearance and furnished with beds, baskets, tables, pots, kettles, stoves, brooms, and other items to give them the appearance of their original state. Another section contained signs describing the construction and history of the caves. The public bathrooms were even inside a cave. Even though this wasn't your standard museum, I thought that it was very helpful, especially since I wasn't about to knock on someone's door and ask them if I could go inside to look at their cave.

If there were a central section of Sacromonte, I would say that we were there. I wanted to move beyond this part, and into the outer regions where the tourists didn't go. We walked down a stone pathway, along white-washed façades with decorative pots hanging freely, clothes hanging out to dry and the occasional table and chair set out in front of the door. We came to a very small plaza with one small green fountain and a bench next to it. A set of stairs led up the hill and disappeared out of view. My wife decided to wait for me on the bench while I ventured to explore the stairs.

Not too far up, the stairs ended, turning into a grassy alley-way between two walls like those of a shanty-town. Trash littered the ground and foul smells arose. I felt like I was about to walk into someones back yard. I continued up the hill, past the walls, and the hillside opened up.  I found myself on a grassy slope, within sight of the old Arab walls. I was soon determined to walk up to the almond-colored walls and touch them, which I did, but I did it very hesitantly, because also within sight was a gypsy camp, built into a cave.

Nobody was visible at the camp. An old wooden fence surrounded a portion of the cave and a strange netting hung over part of the fenced portion. A tarp covered a large rectangular item and a wooden table held a flower pot. I saw a small, arch-shaped window. A skinny, metal chimney bent from another window and turned skyward like the letter “J.” Behind some of the scattered junk, I could see a door that was built into the hillside.

Looking back toward Sacromonte, this is the gorge of the Rio Darro.  Snow-capped Sierra Nevada in the background.

But the one item that caught my attention the most was the dog that was off to the side, just staring me down. He looked like a black and tan German Shepherd and at that moment, he was more worrisome than any Gypsy in the camp. Since I was already at the wall when I noticed him, I still took the time to touch the bricks and to notice the beautiful vista from where I stood. The jaded wall continued down-hill toward the Albaicín , and in the near distance stood the formidable palace of the Alhambra.

The old Arab walls.

I kept an eye on the dog and watched him hold still while I quickly moved down the hill and back through the shanty-town alley-way and down the stairs to the white-washed Smurf  houses. As I reached the safety of the small green fountain next to the bench, I was startled to feel the dog following me down the stairs. I don't think that he barked, or even growled, but his presence was enough to scare me. I cautiously moved away, and so did he.

As we finished our walk through Sacromonte, there was nothing that felt dangerous. We passed a teenage boy riding his bicycle up the hill and he smiled at us when I took his picture. We also found a cute little girl sitting just outside her doorway playing with a cat. Except for the experience with the dog, we never did feel unsafe. The whole experience, in some ways, was anticlimactic, because we did not get robbed. I'll take that.

Sullivan Canyon

The irony of Sullivan Canyon is that it is literally close enough that, at its mouth, you can throw a rock from Interstate 15, and probably hit it. Yet the feeling that one gets while hiking in it is that of isolation, mystery and intrigue.

Despite the proximity of the canyon to the interstate, we chose to begin our hike a couple of miles away at a small campground. The two mile walk to the canyon is beautiful in itself. My daughter and I forged the swollen Virgin River, then trekked across hills full of cholla cactus and creosote bushes. Some of the barrel cactus were taller than my daughter, although, she is short, but not that short.

At last, the trail entered Sullivan Canyon, and there it disappeared, giving way to a dry wash that ran the length of the canyon. I don't know if there was ever a time when permanent water ran through the bed of this wash, or if it was created by intermittent flash floods. Whichever the case, the alabaster-colored dry river bed, at one time, contained a significant amount of water for such a dry place as this.

So why did I choose to come to Sullivan Canyon? That's a good question. It certainly isn't a popular tourist destination (we saw no one else the entire time). Although it is beautiful in its own way, it is not a Zion National Park or Grand Canyon. But, I think that was part of the intrigue. Everyone that I talked to had never heard of the place. The internet gave me scant information.

Yet, the canyon has its possibilities. It is roughly twelve miles long, and would have been a perfect north-south corridor to the Virgin River for Paiutes who lived on the Arizona Strip.

Many sources indicate that the Armijo Route of the Old Spanish Trail followed the Virgin River through the gorge on its way to California. Although there are also sources, perhaps showing later journeys, that would indicate that the Armijo route bypassed the gorge and crossed over Utah Hill.

Jedediah Smith traveled through the gorge during his 1826 journey. His diary describes the challenge that he and his company faced. “The country on the Adams [Virgin] River above where I struck it had a peculiarly wild and rugged appearance . . . Early the next morning we started down in the bed of the general shallowness of the water. By the meanderings of the stream it was about 12 m through the rocks rising perpendicularly from the waters edge in most places to the height of 3 or 400 feet. A good many hot springs but not as hot as some I have seen at the Salt Lake and on the Big Horn . . . At this place I saw a new kind of quail some smaller than the Atlantic quail. The male has three or four feathers an inch long rising from the top of the head.”

Nowhere in Jedediah Smith's journal does it suggest that he wandered into Sullivan Canyon. But evidence indicates that people traveled through the general area, and I believe that an exploratory meandering into Sullivan Canyon would not be out of the question.

We hiked a total of about four miles up the canyon. Probably not quite half-way, but enough to wet our appetite for a return trip. One characteristic that interested me was the lack of Joshua Trees. The previous evening, we drove around on a graveled road on the north side of the river, and everywhere were forests of Joshua Trees. Yet here on the south side, not a single tree could be found. Instead, we found an abundance of cactus and small green shrubs that carpeted the hillside. Barrel cactus grew on the ledges, protruding into the skyline like a knife stabbed into the hillside.

The walk was relatively gentle. No car-sized boulders to climb over or thick willows to forge through. We only had to watch out for loose gravel and that pesky cactus.

One of the interesting aspects of the canyon were the abundance of caves. Not necessarily deep caverns, but large enough to build a fire and sleep the night. My mind wandered back to possibility of wandering Indians and frontiersman, and I wondered who could have spent the night in one of these caves. If I were a Spaniard looking for place to hide gold, this is where I would do it! Some of these limestone walls were literally poc-marked with caverns.

After that thought, there was no doubt where we would take one of our snack-breaks. We found a hole in the rock, removed our packs and ate a Power Bar. The ground wasn't quite as smooth as I had anticipated. It would take a little work to sleep on it. But the view was spectacular, and we even had a couple of barrel cacti growing just on the fringe of the cavern. As we relaxed, I felt a lot like Ether, hiding in the cavity of a rock.

I hoped to spot some Bighorn Sheep. I brought binoculars just in case we eyed them meandering along the ledges. But none were to be seen. The land appeared ideal for them; plenty of grass, lots of craggy walkways, and a short distance to water. A friend told me that they have tried to relocate the sheep in recent years due to the proximity of I-15. That would make sense. Along the upper slopes of the canyon, we could see what appeared to be game trails. I also saw a set of tracks in the dirt, near the wash. They could have been either deer or sheep.

We saw a lone hawk and several flocks of small blue birds flying from bush to bush. We also found a carefully built nest, strategically placed in the crook of a cholla cactus.

 Although most of canyon which we hiked was much the same, I really enjoyed it because the landscape was very different from what I am used to. Different kinds of cactus lay side by side with yucca plants and Brigham Tea. 

 We never did find any archaeological evidence, but I knew that it had to be all around me. It left me with a feeling of wanting to return and explore further.

At the four-mile point in our hike, I saw from a distance what appeared to be water flowing from a rock. Knowing that there was a spring somewhere in the area, we decided to check out the validity of my find. We left the wash at the bottom of the canyon and trekked up the slope and over brush and boulders. The closer we became, the water seemed to be playing hide-and-go-seek with us. At last, we arrived to the water-soaked rock, only to find that it wasn't much more than that. Any water that had seeped out of the hillside and onto the rock, wasn't enough to do anything but expire before reaching the bottom of the boulder. So much for my mirage. No way to fill a water bottle with this.

At that, we decided that it was time to turn around. The hike back went a little quicker, but perhaps that was because, in my mind, I was already planning my return trip. Next time, I will explore much deeper into the canyon.

In Search of Waterfalls

Cascading water has always fascinated me. Maybe it is because I grew up in a region with very little water, or perhaps it is the roaring sound and misty feel that I experience when I happen upon it. Most of the waterfalls that I have seen are those that are advertised with signs or a map. Once in a while, when out hiking on my own, I will by chance come across a small fall. Sometimes these are more exhilarating than the ones you plan to find. I remember once hiking up a canyon near my house that held a small stream. To my surprise, I found four decent falls, ranging from ten to twenty feet tall. With that hike in the back of my mind, I thought I would set out again in search of those unadvertised waterfalls. I had a place in mind where I knew that the river tumbled down the mountain at a good pace and I calculated from studying the topographical map that there must be at least a few cascades for me to find.

It is five in the morning when I leave my house. The drive to mountain will last a little over an hour and I intend to get there well before the sun creeps over the mountain ledges and into the canyon. Right now I don't want to have direct sunlight because I want to photograph the torrential water with a slower shutter speed so that I can capture that silky appearance that creates such a surreal picture. I drive up the canyon for several miles and then the road begins to ascend steeply up the mountain. It is here that I pull over and begin my hike. The river is just just a stone's throw down -hill from the road. It is clear, swollen from spring run-off, and very cold. I have another pair of shoes in case I want to wade through the water, but right now, that doesn't sound like a very fun idea.

I hike upriver along the steep sloping ground, making my way over rotting logs and through prickly bushes. Everything is very green. Below me I hear a doe spring to her feet and bound out of the trees. She stops for only a second before continuing out of sight. The river is traveling at a very fast speed. White water abounds everywhere and I wonder to myself, what exactly constitutes a waterfall. Does it have to be three feet in height, ten feet, or just anything that drops? Does it have to fall directly down at a vertical angle, or can it gently roll down a slope? These answers I will have to determine myself, as I feel that they are more subjective in nature.

Soon, the river makes a wide bend, and on the other side I see what I consider to be my first waterfall. It is only about twelve feet high, but it plunges powerfully into the water below a small foot bridge that spans the river. The bridge is connected to a large pipe that serves as an aqueduct for other water that has already been captured inside the pipe. I stop for several minutes and take pictures of the crashing water, searching for just the right angle.

 From here, I cross the wooden foot-bridge, carefully grasping the metal handrail, unsure of how secure these planks are. I cross directly above the waterfall, acutely hearing the rumble of the pounding water and feeling the misty breeze as it gently ascends.

Once on the other side of the river, I climb up the steep hill and soon find an old logging road that winds me back into the forest and into thick timber. I take this path because it seems to lead into the direction of the east fork of the river, which is the tributary that I am looking for. The road snakes back and forth and then becomes very narrow and leads downhill. I follow it and soon come upon the tributary that I am looking for. The river is far smaller than it was before, in fact so much smaller that I will call it a stream now. It is wide enough that if I wish, I could jump from one side to the other without getting my foot wet. I follow the water up-stream and quickly find what appears to me to be a transfer station of some sort; a large cement enclosure that can be used to divert some of the water to a one-foot diameter pipe.

It is here that I find my second waterfall. A short distance upstream from the transfer station, a rush of water appears to be gushing from the rocks and plunging strait down into pool. I don't even attempt to get close to this fall as there are briers and boulders and a steep drop to get down to it. I admire it and move on.

I side-scale a steep slide of boulders and within a few minutes hear the rumbling of another fall. I can't see it, so I descend to the stream and walk inside an open cavern. I feel like I have just entered an underground cave, but instead, this is a spot in the canyon where huge boulders have dropped into the water's path. It is dark. It is damp. The stones at my feet are slick and water seeps into my boots. From dark points above the level of my head, water trickles downward all around me. I am in another world. In a nearby section of the small cavern, higher volumes of water crash down onto the rocks and mist my glasses as I attempt to approach. It is tempting to take off my hat and let the clear fluid shower my head. This is the highlight of my little excursion as I feel that I have entered another realm that no one else has ever discovered.

Reluctantly I move on, but am quickly rewarded with another waterfall. This one is more picturesque, with the water pouring out from both sides of two moss-covered boulders. As if placed there to make a picture more appealing, a log rests nonchalantly against one of the boulders.

As I continue hiking, the canyon becomes more gentle, although filled with the same steep slopes, thick timbers and many smaller cascades. Issuing from the hill, a small spring falls from a mossy enclosure at just the right height for me to refill my water bottle. It tastes cold and cleaner than any water I can find at home. Nearby I find an open, grassy spot along-side the stream. I take off my backpack, drink some more water, then cut an avocado in half and scoop it from its shell and into my mouth. Then I roll my jacket into a pillow, lay down on my back and close my eyes. The wind softly moves through the trees and I hear the quaken aspen creek back and forth. Unseen birds squawk in the distance. The steam gurgles in its path. Now, this is what I enjoy.  

To the Bottom of the Grand Canyon: Passing on the Tradition

Every person should experience the Grand Canyon. I don't mean just peering off the rim, but walking into her depths and becoming immersed into a vastness so immense, that it can't be comprehended.

When I was just a boy, my grandpa did just that for me. Along with my younger brother, Walt, the three of us hiked to the Phantom Ranch via the Bright Angel Trail where we spent the night and then returned the next morning. The experience was impressionable. I had done something that not many kids my age had done.

Now, twenty five years later, I knew that I had to pass the same experience down to my own kids. This was for them. Yes, I was excited to descend into this giant abyss for myself, but more so, I was eager watch the awe and wonderment in the eyes of my children.

It is before sunrise when the three of us climb off the shuttle and quickly follow the throng of hikers to the South Kaibab Trailhead. I notice that the wind is whipping around at a strong gale. We wear beanies and jackets and are still a little chilly. Even though the sun is not up yet, the trail is clearly visible, allowing us to descend without flashlights. And descend we do. Immediately, a series of short switchbacks drop us into the canyon quickly. The walls above grow taller and taller.

In the beginning, it is as if a tinge of chaos has been invited in. Hikers in front of us, hikers behind, some passing us and us passing others. Brisk wind still blows into our faces and snot seeps from our noses. A train of mules pound down the trail behind us and we quickly move aside to let them by. Dust lifts into our faces. A cowboy on the last mule nods his head as he passes by.

All of us are experiencing so many new sensations that nothing is fully digested. None of us realize that we are now hiking through the Kaibab formation, nor that the drop-off at our left is so steep, that one misstep will kill us. We focus on putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward on the trail.

For me, the chaos evaporates when we arrive at what is known as Ooh Aah Point. Maybe it is just coincidence, but we arrive at this place just as the sun is creeping above the horizon. What an amazing sunrise it is! The walls on the south side of the canyon transform into a florescent orange, while the gorge of the Colorado River, like a giant crack in the ground, contrast in a mysterious darkness.

So far, the kids are doing great. Kaitlyn, age 13, and Jordan, age 17, aren't having a problem. From experience, I encourage them to drink plenty of liquid, even though they aren't thirsty. I am also reminding them that this is the easy part. We still have to walk back up!

The South Kaibab Trail seems to be a long path of twists and switchbacks. The trail is wide and sturdy. Expansive vistas stretch forth, often on both sides of the trail, creating a more picturesque hike, I believe, than the Bright Angel Trail. One of the rests that we take is along a narrow ridge that fits this description. We sit down and eat some Power bars while looking over the chasm that they say is Pipe Spring.

Grandpa would have been about fifty-three when he took Walt and I down. That doesn't seem too old now. We went down the Bright Angel Trail, and I remember him worrying about his knees. Even now, thirty years later, I can remember him telling us that the South Kaibab Trail was even steeper than the Bright Angel, and that it would be harder on the knees. He told us that when you are over thirty years old, and you hike down hill like you do in the Grand Canyon, that it can give you knee problems. These words still echo in my mind as I hike with my kids down these switchbacks.

I enjoy being the tour-guide here. I point to a dying, yellow plant with sturdy, barbed leaves, about a foot tall, and with a long stalk growing from the middle. “This is a century plant,” I explain. “When the plant has lived its life, it sends the stalk up, goes to seed, and dies.” I also point to the trail below us, which runs perpendicular to our path, and explain that it is the Tonto Trail.

Kaitlyn is excited and full of energy. “Can we run down the hill, Dad?” The answer is, “No!” First of all, she doesn't understand that I don't have that kind of energy to expend. Also, I don't want anyone slipping and falling off the edge. And then I add, “Kaitlyn, we've got to save our energy. Remember, we've got to walk back up!”

We skirt the edge of a large butte on our left, descend a long path of steps, and come to a hairpin curve called Skeleton Point. So far, this is my favorite viewpoint. On our left, below a crevice in the Tonto Platform, the first view of the greenish-blue Colorado river is visible. It is still three hiking miles away, but the strand that we can see includes a sliver of white-water along the far bank. On our right side, as we stand at Skeleton Point, a series of at least eleven switchbacks descend very rapidly through the Redwall Limestone and disappear around the corner. Before we leave, Jordan pulls out his Nexus and takes an impressive panorama picture of the point. Brittany would have loved this.

Skeleton Point

At this point, I should inject another level of our trip. I should be bringing three of my kids on the hike, but a little over a year ago, my oldest daughter, Brittany, suddenly died. As I was planning this trip, even back then, I made sure to include her in it. She loved nature and all things beautiful, but of all my kids, I knew that she would have the toughest time surviving the arduous hike. Just a month before she passed away, she and I took a long drive at night. I explained the difficulty of the hike (at that time, I thought that we would descend from the North Rim), but at the same time, expounded on the rewards of doing such a hike. “Is that something that you'd like to do?” I asked, secretly crossing my fingers. “Yes,” she said. “That sounds like a lot of fun!” And so, she became part of the plan. Brittany would be fifteen right now.

This is not a travelogue of every moment of the hike. I will say that we finally make it to the bottom. We descend even more switchbacks, pass another group of mules, take another break, meet a nice couple from Tuscon, and finally enter a short tunnel, of which when we exit, we find ourselves on the black bridge that is suspended over the mighty Colorado River.

It was upon first meeting the Colorado River that my grandpa admitted to us that he was kind of nervous, because if Glen Canyon Dam happened to break, we would have no chance at all. The same thought crosses my mind now, thirty years later, and I share the memory with my kids.

We spend time at Boat Beach, nibbling on Twizzlers and jerky, and watching the other groups that are loitering around. Then we move up-canyon to the Phantom Ranch. Our boots slosh along the sandy path. Manure and mules emit a stench that hovers in the air. Phantom Creek tumbles hurriedly along-side the path. The water in the creek appears clear enough to drink, which we don't, perhaps because the stench of the mules is still present.

Soon, we arrive at small cabins, and eventually the modest lodge. I take the kids inside and explain that this is where Walt and I ate dinner with my Grandpa the evening we hiked into the canyon. At the moment, the lodge is empty. Several rectangular tables with vacant chairs lined around them decorate the room. I mosey around and glance at the photographs upon he wall. Not much is here.

We step outside again and fill our water bottles with the spigot that is just outside the lodge. I splash water onto my face. This is our first chance for fresh water since leaving the rim. We pull our packs onto our shoulders and continue back toward the river. As we pass the cabins, I explain to the kids that inside of those little rooms is where Walt and I slept when with my grandpa. The rooms were small, but sufficient.

Once at the river, we turn right, instead of left, and begin on new territory for the kids, but into familiar territory for me. We cross Silver Bridge and begin our trek onto the Bright Angel Trail. We trudge nearly a mile along a sandy path and past the occasional Joshua Tree, walking parallel to the river.

We arrive at the junction with Pipe Creek and follow its flow to the the mighty Colorado. This is our lunch break. We find a sandy section of beach that contains a few smooth rocks to sit on. The shoes and socks come off. So do the back packs. For an hour, we just rest. The break is as relaxing as a Swedish Massage. We nibble on a sandwich and granola bars. Our bare feet take turns wading into the green water of the Colorado, into the wet sand that slowly sucks our heels and toes into it. The water is cold, and becomes frigid after only a few seconds, but is a contrasting welcome from the hot hike at the canyons depths.

I know that Brittany would have liked this part. Barefoot, wading in water. This is what she loved to do every time we went to the beach in California. My mind, this day, is often with her. This moment right now, I had planned the entire time. I pull a 5 x 7 picture of her out of my backpack and set up my tripod on a nearby rock. For the next ten minutes, we compose a picture of the four of us, me holding the picture of Brittany. She is with us on this hike. It breaks my heart to do it this way, but these are my kids and we have to have a group picture.

Our hour-long break is over and it is time to slip the socks and shoes back on, wear the backpacks, and hit the trail. This is where it becomes difficult. No more downhill from here. The pathway cuts directly away from the river and toward the towering ledges far in the distance.

To sum up the next five and a half hours, I will say that we travel up and up and up. And then up again. There are some exceptions to this. We take ten minutes to rest inside the tunnel of an old mine shaft. It may have been a copper or silver mine.

 We wash our faces, fill up our water bottles, and watch fighting squirrels at Indian Gardens.

At one spot, only about forty feet off the trail, I show the kids some ocher-colored pictographs. We huddle beneath a ledge and watch below us as every hiker who passes along the trail is completely oblivious to our presence. One old man even sits down on a rock, precisely where we left the trail. I admit that I am fascinated with any evidence of ancient Native Americans in the canyon. I know that there are foundations of dwelling structures, graineries, and old Indian trails in other spots of the canyon. I can't imagine entering the canyon without that dynamite-blasted trail that made it so convenient for me.

The final three and a half miles of the Bright Angel Trail is brutal. I'm not even feeling as light as I did the last time I hiked the canyon. Kaitlyn is becoming weary and we have to take a few more breaks for her. Jordan trudges on, but I can tell that the constant uphill monotony is wearing on him also. This is the point in the hike where the canyon floor is becoming farther and farther away, but the top of the rim isn't getting any closer.

Yet, we do make it. At last, our tired legs walk the final switchback, and we exit the canyon onto the busy look-off point above. Hundreds of tourists gather here. All for a glance of the canyon. Most can't even come close to comprehending how much effort it takes to arrive at that little ribbon of water called the Colorado.

I have one last promise to keep. We find the closest business with a soda machine. We wait in line and spend eight dollars on two Cherry Coke's and one Dr. Pepper. All are happy.