Driving Ellen, Part 2

The next morning we rose with the sun and were off to White Sands National Monument by 8am. Because of missile testing in the area, the park would not open until 3pm. Perhaps we should’ve been concerned by the fact that missiles were being fired off in the vicinity, but we were just annoyed that we had to find a way to kill five hours in the desert. Our first attempt at wasting away the minutes was to drive down the road to Alamogordo and shop in the White Sands Mall. That trip turned out to be surprisingly successful. It was there, specifically in the Beall’s department store restroom, that Kris and I were able to shit for the first time in three days. Friends who travel together, crap together.

Finally we were allowed to enter the park, and it turned out to be worth the wait. White Sands was like nothing I had ever seen. I was standing in the desert in the end of July, surrounded by miles of white sand and huge dunes with not a drop of water nearby. Bunches of children and adults slid down the gigantic dunes on sleds. Kris and I took a break from wandering up and down dunes and marveling at the vastness of our surroundings, to write friends’ names in the sand. We snapped some pictures of our sand art and later sent them out as postcards. The right combination of heat exhaustion and blinding sun reflected off miles of white sand breeds kindergarten level creativity.

The Indigo Lizard is the best craft store in the world. I’m not sure if it was the sign with the giant purple lizard, the sunflowers blooming outside, or the clean, fresh-smelling southwestern air. Whatever the reasons, we were in love with the place and hadn’t even gone in yet. When we did eventually go in, a Native American guy emerged from the back room, and greeted us with a smile and a mellow “welcome.” Move over Brian the park ranger; here comes the Indigo Lizard owner guy. Kris and I were lost in his peaceful eyes as he talked about his family and the various artwork that his store featured. It suddenly seemed that my life would not be complete without a handmade ceramic coffee mug with a painting of a coyote on it. After settling on a clay business card holder, a frog cookie cutter, a few picture frames and a necklace, we took our new friend’s advice and went to check out the petroglyphs of Three Rivers, New Mexico, which were just a few miles away. That Indigo Lizard owner guy was as wise as I suspected. It was fun weaving through the rocks, searching for those with symbols, shapes, animals or people drawn on them. There were picnic tables just whispering for us to come sit. So we relaxed for a while, and ate our chicken and teribroci burritos.

The drive to the Three Rivers Park campsite involved some maneuvering around wandering, very slow-moving cows. I felt like we drove onto the cover of a religious greeting card. To our left the Tuscaloosa Basin was covered by a blue sky and puffy white clouds, in front of us there were stripes of pink and orange overhead, and on the right the Sacramento Mountains were topped with a gray and ominous sky. Our campsite featured a giant tree with a log swing. They do things right in Three Rivers, New Mexico.

Next stop: Albuquerque, New Mexico: Home of the perfect strawberry smoothie. It was the second summer in a row that Kris and I were in Albuquerque and the second time we got those strawberry smoothies. Delicious. Aside from that, our stay in Albuquerque consisted of a stop in the in Old Town area where we shopped in the crafty southwestern stores, none of them reaching the standard set by “The Indigo Lizard.”

The subsequent portion of our trip involved a stay at a friend's house in Flagstaff, Arizona. After five days of camping, we would get to sleep indoors. Kris and I showed up at Tom’s townhouse tired, hungry and not used to interacting with anyone but each other. Kristen became instant friends with Tom when they had met in Missoula a few years earlier. Tom is just that type of guy. He is who is he from the moment you are introduced. And who is he is one of the funniest people I know. First of all, there’s the voice. One of those voices where listening to him deliver a eulogy may send me into fits of laughter. Then there’s the one of five boys from Iowa, dorky, quick-witted, sarcastic, smart and often very twisted sense of humor. There’s also the prescription Oakley glasses with the beige cotton strap. And last but not least is his optimistic outlook on life accompanied by an endless amount of energy and a love affair with the Grand Canyon that borders on obsession. So, staying at Tom’s was sure to be a good time.

Soon after we settled into Tom’s spacious home filled with plants, southwestern artwork, and a vast amount of techno CDs, Kris and I listened to the array of options Tom had considered for our stay. This involved the use of a variety of maps as reference points. “Whatever ya think, Tom. We’ll do anything,” Kristen said.

“Okay…there’s a great little hike near Lake Havisou. The trail weaves through old growth trees, and then comes upon little lake, and then there’s a tunnel that we’d need to get through…” He paused, took a swig from his bottle of Fat Tire Ale and seemed to be thinking hard. “We’d figure something out. There’s a tricky spot, but it’d be nuthin for you guys.” Tom loved that line. He was all about the positive reinforcement. It was that sort of attitude that made us scramble over massive boulders to get to the bottom of the Grand Canyon the previous summer.

Kristen and I looked at each other laughing a nervous, “we’re going to drown in Lake Havisou” laugh and I said, “It’s your call, Tom. We trust your judgment.” I wasn’t sure if I was being honest or not, but to give him credit, we had been on these wacky adventures before and lived to tell the tales. Even when I slammed my head on a rock in the lava tube last summer, Tom was there to take off his t-shirt, put some icicles in there, sop up the blood that almost made Kristen pass out and then call me Massive Headwound Mary for the next few days.

Just as suspected, Tom came up with a detailed plan for the following day. We were going to climb to Humphrey Peak in the San Francisco Mountain range, the highest point in the state of Arizona. As we were getting ready to leave, Tom’s roommate Frank said, “You guys are going to Humphrey? Rainy season could start any day now. If you’re at the top and a storm comes, you’re screwed.”

“You’re a wuss, Frank. It’s not gonna rain. There’s nothing to worry about.” Tom said slightly reassuringly. It turned out that Tom was right. It was an excellent hike. It took a few hours to trek up the to the 12,633 foot point, but with the help of walking sticks, Cliff bars and conversations about queefing, we made it. We approached the top where the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and there were flies everywhere. We quickly captured the moment on film and began the descent. We had learned from experience that a full day of physical effort is best followed by a bazookie. The bazookie at Oregano’s restaurant may very well be the best thing about Flagstaff. A giant chocolate chip cookie, fresh from the oven, topped with vanilla ice cream. We sat around the small table, attacking the bazookie from all angles, drank our beers, laughed about old and new memories shared among us, and celebrated the fact that enjoying the little things in life was nuthin for us guys.

The next day began, as did each day in Flagstaff, with the sounds of Frank’s monster yawns. More hiking awaited us. Tom, Kris and I squished into the front of Tom’s pick-up and drove over to the local breakfast place so Tom could refill his old filthy mug with some of Flagstaff’s very strong coffee. Then we headed south to Cape Verde, with our heads bopping along to the tunes of Fat Boy Slim all the way there. We stepped out of the car and into the sauna that was the West Clear Creek trail. When it came to sweat production, I was fairly certain that I set a new world record. But, as the name of the trail suggested, there was a creek which, following some confusion and disorientation, we finally discovered. The cool water refreshed us as we waded with the fish. Sitting on the rocks, we enjoyed our sandwiches and allowed the sun to quickly bake off any drop of moisture left on our bodies.

While Kristen slaved away at Tom’s computer trying to beat the deadline for her grad school application, Tom and I soaked up some culture at the Museum of Northern Arizona. The Native American photography exhibit caused me to reconsider my social work career and think about becoming a photographer for National Geographic. Then museum head began to set in. Museum head is the point, while wandering through a museum, at which I am physically unable to retain any more information, no matter how important or interesting it may be. I must escape the premises immediately and do something of no cultural relevance whatsoever. Our trip to Andy’s was just what the doctor ordered.

From the moment we got to Flagstaff, Tom insisted on the fact that we meet his friend Andy because he was funny without knowing it. That is a brand of funny that I always appreciate, so when Tom spotted Andy’s car in his driveway, I was happy to stop in. After a few minutes of knocking loudly on the door, it opened and there stood a 27 year old man, with his short dark brown hair shooting out in various directions, wearing a blue and white striped seersucker robe. “Hey Tom!” he said with a smile. He immediately turned to me and introduced himself. “Hey, I’m Andy! You must be either Mary or Kristen.” Despite his frazzled appearance, this fellow seemed to be on top of things.

“Wow, you’re good. I’m Mary. Great to meet you, Andy.” I said while trying to contain my giggles.

Tom, after getting his laughter under control, said, “What the fuck happened to you?”

“Oh, I stayed home from work today. I got really dizzy before...like I had a few weeks ago. I feel a little better now though,” Andy said, just then realizing that he wasn’t dressed for guests. “Have a seat on the porch. I’ll go change and be right out.”

Andy came out a few minutes later, now sporting a much more traditional black t-shirt and soccer shorts, with a tray of food in hand. On the tray were slices of bread and a seaweed-like substance. “You guys gotta try this stuff. I got it at the Hopi reservation this past weekend.” After knowing Andy for approximately three minutes, it was clear that he had a thing for the Hopis. Andy had spent many a weekend on the Hopi reservation and was anxious to share his love of the Hopi people and their traditions with the world. We snacked on the seaweed and bread, and listened attentively to Andy’s stories from the reservation.

We left Andy’s, picked up Kris, and geared up for an afternoon of folfing. Since I suck at frisbee and golf, it was no surprise that I really sucked at folfing. Regardless of my high level of inexpertise, it was nice to be outside and throw a big disc in the woods and run after it. Kris, Tom and went out for extremely satisfying burritos that night, and then decided that it was time for Kristen to meet Andy. We had no idea what we were in for. The vertigo was back. This time when we knocked on the door there was no response, so Tom opened it a few inches and screamed, “Andy...ya home?”

“I’m back here,” said a quiet, quivering voice from the far side of the apartment. Before venturing to the back room, we all looked at each other and laughed, not knowing why. We made our way through Andy’s just moved into apartment, with the piles of picture frames and books lining the living room, and found him laying on his bed, back to the crazy hair, robe look that he had worn earlier. “Nice to meet you, Kristen…” he said slowly with his right hand over his eyes, squeezing on his temples. “Sorry…I don’t think I can get up.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you okay? Can we get you anything?”, Kris replied.

“Uh….no. Thanks. Well…I talked to the doctor and have an appointment for tomorrow. I don’t know if I should take the pills they gave me that I’m only supposed to take when it gets really bad.” If greeting strangers while wearing a seersucker robe isn’t bad, than please Lord, don’t show me bad.

“Hey Andy, if you die, can I have your toaster oven?” Tom asked.

With a miniscule smile coming over his face, Andy gripped tighter on to his forehead, and said, “Tom….don’t make me laugh….it hurts….” Tom was the Ferris to Andy’s Cameron.

As the three of us tried to be helpful and throw out suggestions on what may make him feel better, Andy turned his head down, pointed in the opposite direction and shouted, “I got an idea!” We waited with baited breath. “A smoothie!” That we could handle. As we discussed the smoothie possibilities, Andy said, “Nah…forget the smoothie.” Kristen and I scanned the contents of his kitchen to see what we could put together in the way of vertigo remedies. Meanwhile, Tom continued providing obnoxiously entertaining commentary. Andy called the grocery store and asked with exasperation in his voice, “What kind of soups do you have?” There was some silence. “I said, what kinds of soups do you have!” More silence. “No, I don’t want tomato!” What other kind? You must have another kind…” he pleaded. “How about mashed potatoes?”

This poor man was begging a Safeway employee for mashed potatoes; we needed to take matters into our own non-shaky hands. Just than Andy got in his famous head down, pointed finger stance and shouted, “I got an idea!” This time we waited but the breath was not as baited. We were too busy laughing. “Two bananas….” He paused while holding up two fingers. “Strawberries…” He was listing the ingredients for a smoothie. We made the executive decision to go to the store and get instant mashed potatoes and smoothie fixings. As we were walking out, we could hear Andy yelling, “You throw in two bananas, some yogurt, strawberries…” Andy paused as if trying to remember the rest. “What am I saying, you guys know how to make a fuckin smoothie!” We got back from the grocery store to find Andy in the same position we left him. Minutes later, Tom handed him a bowl of mashed potatoes. “Uh…can you give me a straw for this?” Andy asked. Tom nearly passed out from the laughter.

“I don’t think you have any straws, Andy,” I said. “How about we just put it in a glass?” Except, because he just moved in, things were not in the traditional places and none of us could locate any glasses. So Andy sipped his mashed potatoes from a measuring cup. Tom came into the kitchen and said, “Hey you guys, remember Andy? That was fun when he was alive.”

“Tom! I told you not to make me laugh…” Andy said, as if on his last breath. “Guys, come in here.” I thought maybe he needed help drinking his potatoes or something. It turned out that Andy was not going to let any amount of vertigo prevent him from sharing his love of the Hopis. Staggering over to his bookshelf, with one hand continuing the vice grip on his head, Andy reached up and pulled down some wooden figures. Hopi dolls. They were nice and very well crafted, but none of us could get past the surreal nature of the situation enough to appropriately appreciate this display. Soon after Hopi show and tell, we said our goodbyes and feel betters, leaving Andy in a seemingly better state than we found him. Perhaps it was evil that we all got such a hardy laugh from Andy’s misfortune, but someone had to laugh. As Andy had proven a few times in the short time I’d known him, he had no idea how funny he was.

We went back to Tom’s, popped in the soundtrack to “Oh Brother, Where Art Thou” and wound down with a game of Rummicub. The following day, Kris, Tom and I hiked Red Mountain and Slate Mountain, which were both easy hikes. That was because Kris and I ignored Tom’s request to scale some boulders and just stuck to the main trail. That night Tom invited some friends over for a barbecue. Andy braved the bumpy ride to his house and was in much better spirits than the day before. We all gathered in the backyard and had a gourmet feast. Kristen and I ended our stay in Flagstaff, sitting among Frank’s beautiful garden with an old friend and a bunch of new ones, watching the sunset and laughing until we all felt like we had a touch of vertigo.