Grand Canyon

I hadn't planned on watching Ken Burn's new series on our National Parks, but now that I've stumbled upon a couple episodes, watched John Muir struggle, Hetch Hetchy drown, and the Grand Canyon's history, I'm hooked.

I'm reminded of the summer I worked at the Grand Canyon when I was in junior high, when we were between living in Flagstaff (NAU) and Austin (UT) and had no home and the rest of the family on the road places unknown, camping, site-seeing, and I was on my own at the South Rim.

I worked for a pilot program of the Youth Conservation Corp, maybe twenty teen boys from all over America, living in an old medical center (sinks you turned on with your knees), cleaning trails, building a dog run at the local pound, cementing fire rings at Angels Camp and the North Rim.

I had a carton of Marlboro's, the white and red box like an ammo box full of bullet clips. But I only smoked about six, playing basketball at 8,000 feet one immediately felt the difference, like breathing through a stir-stick, and gave the rest away.

That summer I saw thunderstorms down in the canyon, watched the lightning from above and smelled the rain on hot rocks. Ringtail Cats at night in the rafters at Angels Camp, and scorpions the size of your hand under rocks. Flash floods on a sunny day, the sound of grumbling, tumbling rocks in the water before anything else.

I learned to weld, wield an ax, shovel, and pick, cement stones, and use a fire rake. At the North Rim our shower was a hot water heater in a small shack that came out of a hole in the ceiling, blistering hot. Only one valve, no shower head; a steady stream you could only splash on yourself, but so welcome on those cold nights after a dusty day on the trail.

But what really took me back were all the family vacations, the camping trips with Tang and card games (we had Hoyle's to work through) and my parents green-plaid flannel sleeping bags that zipped together into a double. Smelly outhouses, and eating off aluminum dishes, and a five gallon collapsable water bottle with a leaky red spout.

Over the years we had, I believe, a Saab, a van my dad built into a camper, a pickup with a cabover, and a motorhome. My sister, Peggy, and I fought and read and played "alphabet" and various other games of observation that I think my dad invented to keep our focus outward (we found out Peggy needed glasses when she couldn't see all the deer in a field we passed).

Dad did most of the driving ("Are we there yet?" "Do I have to pull over and deal with you kids?!") and we shot for 400 miles a day. To keep the stops to a minimum he drilled a hole in the floor of the backseat and put in a nagahyde hose and a funnel.

But we kept track and visited every State and pretty much every National Park (also State Parks, museums, factories that gave tours, logging mills, and, occasionally, as a special treat, a Stuckeys). Most of these I have no direct memory of, but watching the Ken Burn's series stirred those deep memories, part national pride, part humility at the vast natural beauty, part boredom and indignity of using public bathrooms (if we were lucky) and being shoved together every summer (such is the life of an academic)  into a car, camper, or tent; sharing a stained picnic table, sloppy joes, and mosquito bites.

Our final trip together, although we didn't know it at the time, was to Tahoe. Peggy and I, I think, were old enough to drink a Budweiser and play the slots. hands blackened by the knobs on the one armed bandit. I remember my mom smoking a Lucky Strike and drinking coffee from our hopelessly stained Tuperware coffee mugs.

Glory days.