The Gift Horse

I've been grossly remiss in keeping this blog current. But the past year has given me plenty to write about, and I'll start with the latest adventure and then work backwards. Near future entries will cover another trip to China, more great motorcycle rides and various other adventures. Anyhoo....

What better way to spend Labor Day Weekend than by making horses work for us, actually carrying my wife and myself around Monument Valley? A few months ago my wife told me she had never been on a horse. That's one of those moments husbands are supposed to take immediate note of for future gift giving. And I did. There are plenty of local places to go riding, but it's still hot in Phoenix and we've seen most of what's in this area. I didn't think an afternoon at McDonald's Ranch in North Scottsdale sounded too exciting. I was last in Monument Valley around 1980 and it wasn't much different then, a lifetime for us being the blink of an eye in geological terms. In fact, it was on that same family vacation in 1980 that I went horseback riding in Zion National Park. I don't think I had been on a horse since then either. Now much older, wiser and heavier, I looked forward to this mini adventure and figured I'd later remember it much better than I did my last horseback trip. Digital cameras are amazing things for feeble minds.

Saturday we drove to Flagstaff to rent a car because I didn't want to risk either of our low clearance cars on any unpaved roads around Monument Valley. And that later proved to be a wise decision. We stayed in Mexican Hat, UT. While checking in at the San Juan Inn, the astute desk lady noticed my watch set to AZ time, where we never change our clocks. She said it was an hour later in UT, which I knew, though we were literally no more than a few hundred yards from AZ. I told her we had an appointment at Monument Valley. She replied that Navajo Nation does not run on AZ time. Whoa! I was very thankful for that tidbit. While it meant we wouldn't get much of a nap before heading back to Monument Valley, at least we'd not be late for our horseback trip and thus have to cut it short for lack of sunlight.

Once we arrived at the stable, we were reminded that horses don't smell like most things in the human, city slicker world. Three Navajo teenage boys were busy preparing our horses, expecting us. I was not surprised to see they had adopted the white man's custom of requiring signatures on a legal waiver, acknowledging we had not been on horseback in the last three years and that we could be injured on this trip. No problem. I ride a motorcycle as my main mode of transportation and expect my luck will run out someday. Why not on a real horse instead of an iron one? Once I mounted the horse, I couldn't help but think how much the invention of stirrups had changed the entire world. I was tempted to go into a Cliff Claven-esque story on it to our guide, but thought better of it. He was a high school senior and came across as someone who had not spent much time off the reservation. I wonder if he knew that stirrups had made it possible to use longbows (nevermind rifles) from horseback long before the first white man came to the New World.

Off we went, headed east with the picturesque Mittens to our south, the UT state line just a few hundred yards north. We had signed up for a three hour tour and I couldn't stop humming the Gilligan's Island song in my head because of it. "A three hour tour, a three hour tour. The weather started getting rough...." I was immediately surprised by how easily our horses handled the otherwise impassable, hilly and rocky terrain. I had been on similar terrain on motorcycles and it was a nearly impossible task, involving many falls. On horseback, though, it was no problem. I kept my eyes peeled for any wildlife or petroglyphs, but alas, saw only lizards. I was relieved to see very little human garbage and not a single shotgun shell, which are ubiquitous in much of the Sonoran Desert. We took a few breaks for water and photos, chatted a lot with our very nice guide and relished the amazing scenery. I love the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts and ride my bike in them all the time. But there's nothing like Monument Valley. I couldn't help but wonder what its first inhabitants thought of it, since they'd not known anything else. It looked like Mars to me.





The next morning we went to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, quickly realizing we were the only folks there who lived in the U.S. We heard plenty of Italian, Spanish, Portugese and German. One family in the booth by ours had a strong Saxon dialect, music to my German-starved ears. I told my wife they were definitely from somewhere between Magdeburg and Dresden, the part of Germany I know best and whose dialect I like the most. She kept telling me to talk to them. So I finally called out in my rusty German, "Kommt ihr aus Sachsen?" The stunned man looked at me and said yes. They were from Dresden. Feeling vindicated, but now on the spot because my German was so rusty (and my food had just arrived), we chatted for quite a while. I told him I had been to Dresden many times, even in the GDR days, asked if the Frauenkirche's (Church of Our Lady) reconstruction was finally completed and where all they had been in the US. It was a nice chat and I needed the German practice.



So we then headed to Page, AZ, in search of Vermillion Cliffs National Monument. Once in Page we learned that most of Vermillion Cliffs was permit-only and none of it paved. So we decided to just drive toward Kanab, UT and take in the scenery, which was magnificent. We came across a sign for Jacob Lake and decided to head that way. Once there we learned the North Rim of the Grand Canyon was only 45 miles away, and it was only lunch time, so we figured we had to do it. Of course, I had to have a beer at lunch because I knew 8800 ft. elevation would make it a cheap buzz. There's no point in writing about the Grand Canyon. It can only be seen, not described in words. Besides, it makes everyone a good photographer.



Then we headed back to Page for the night and in search of a decent Mexican restaurant, which proved a futile effort. Well, the food was good, but the service was so bad I forgot about the food. But walking to the saloon across the street from our overpriced hotel for a few drinks turned into some more fun. There was a country band playing and the guitarist was especially good, which always makes me happy. When the female bartender jumped up onto the stage to sing a few Fleetwood Mac tunes (yes, I know that's not country), I knew I had found the right place. I think I was about eight years old when I got their Rumors LP through one of those "eight albums for one penny" clubs. And it's one of the most timeless albums, well, of all time. I was singing along.

Some more Germans sat at the bar next to us. I was stunned to see them both order Budweisers and then see them not surprised to get our Budweiser rather than the real Czech Budvar, which is called Budweiser in Europe and is probably the world's finest pilsner, while our Budweiser is one of the world's worst. Maybe they just wanted to look like locals, though the wedding bands on their right hands gave them away. Then some more Germans came over to order something from the bar. My wife told them I spoke German and so they wanted to test me, (which I easily passed, having practiced that morning). They were from Nürnberg, which I'd only ever driven past. The wife had the Bavarian accent, but her husband did not. They told me they were headed to Death Valley, Yosemite and then San Francisco. I told them how hot Death Valley was and I don't think they believed me. I said it was at least 45C every day around this time of year and to make sure they had at least a case of water in the car. The woman said she had heard about the recent death there when a woman and her son had gotten a flat tire, stuck in the sand and the woman hiked to get a cell phone signal. Her son died. I reminded her that those folks also had a case of water with them and it wasn't enough.

They got their bar tab and asked me to look it over as she didn't have her glasses with her. I was surprised to see the bar had added a $4 tip to a $15 tab on the credit card receipt before handing it to the lady. I told her 15-20% was normal, but this was kind of high since the $15 included sales tax, nevermind the rudeness of adding a tip for a party of two. But she signed for it. This reminded me of the days when I waited tables and was often disappointed by foreigners’ unfamiliarity with American tipping etiquette. This bar seemed to have found a way around that!

And so another weekend adventure came to an end. Many more to write about, coming soon.