MULE SKINNERS

On the trail. Amie is behind wrangler Jack on “Lady” and Ron brings up the rear on “Ben.”

Nobody in either family had ever been to the Grand Canyon, but we had seen lots of pictures and read about it in magazines and the encyclopedia.

Back in 4th grade, Miss Mattice told my class, “You have to go to the Grand Canyon!”

I had been determined ever since. 

Ron would have two weeks off from work and classes at Kent State University Center in Ashtabula, and our savings in the top dresser drawer had reached $250. We poured over the giant National Geographic Road Map of the United States and marked our route, taking in the Painted Dessert and Petrified Forest on the way to the Canyon, and Bryce, Zion, Los Vegas, Mesa Verde, and Hoover Dam on the way back.

The round trip from Northeast Ohio would be about 5,000 miles. At 15 mpg, and $.30 a gallon, gas would cost $100. We would sleep in the car most of the way, stopping at a motel every third night for showers and a real bed.

In early June 1959, Ron removed the back seat from our 1955 blue two-door Ford V8 stick-shift sedan. He cut a piece of three-quarter inch plywood to fit the empty space, padded it with an inch of foam rubber and an old quilt and added pillows and a couple of blankets to make a bed.

For the prior six months, I had been depositing cans of soup, tuna fish, salmon, green beans and the like in a bushel basket at the back of our clothes closet—one can from each week’s groceries.

Ron found an old camp cooking set in a box of household goods at his dad’s store. I booked a rustic one-room log cabin at Bright Angel Lodge and Cabins for three nights at Grand Canyon National Park, where we would ride the mules down into the Canyon and out to Plateau Point.

We persuaded our moms to take care of our toddler daughter and provided three pages of detailed typewritten instructions. Ron’s dad loaned us his 35 mm Argus and gave us a roll of film—24 shots!

Hungry and tired as we crossed the state line into Indiana, we found a road-side rest with a picnic table and decided to spend the night. The backseat bed was tight quarters to be sure, but otherwise OK—until the windows steamed up from our breath. Opening the windows to let in cool air changed us from stiflingly hot and damp to cold and damp. We snuggled and covered up as best we could, and when the sun finally came up, we were ready to go.

On day four, we reached the Eastern entrance to Grand Canyon National Park. We drove for miles with high anticipation, seeing nothing but scrub pine forests on either side of the road.

“Where is the canyon?” we wondered.

Then, suddenly, we were at the first overlook. Out of the car and over to the edge and, “Wow!” towers of rock and deep cuts, ridges and space as far as we could see.

 “Where will we be going tomorrow with the mules?” I asked out loud. “Where is the trail?”

Each of the next two overlooks brought a different “Wow!” with variegated browns fading to reds in pillars and crevasses with specks of green or black unfolding forever.

The fourth overlook was one we had seen in the books, but we were in no way prepared for the enormity of the real thing. We stood at the rim in silent reverence and gazed at the cliffs, nobs, towers, tunnels, caves, and distance.

“Look, see that thin straight line going way out to the end of that smooth place?” Ron said to me. “I’ll bet that’s our trail, and we’ll be on it tomorrow.” 

“That?”

 “And look down here, over this way straight down,” he continued. That’s got to be where the trail starts.”

“That thing?” I replied. “It’s hardly wide enough for a person to walk on. How could a mule go on it?”

 “I think that’s it,” he insisted. “I think it winds around down over here and over there and somewhere down there connects to that thin line, and goes way out there to ...”

 “That’s Plateau Point?”

 “I’ll bet it is,” he told me.

We looked at each other and back at the expanse as the setting sun’s shadows added more dimension to the endless wonder. We stood in silence, with arms around each other’s waists until another car pulled up—a Lincoln with a Continental on the back--and we became aware of two carefully dressed women running toward the rim, not far away from us.

“Oh,” the faster one called to the other, “It looks just like New York City!”

Stifling our giggles, we headed for the car and our cabin.

Early the next morning, we met our group at the corral and Wrangler Jack, ruggedly handsome in his jeans, faded denim shirt, well-crushed cowboy hat and scuffed cowboy boots, assigned us to our mules. Mine was to be Lady, who proved to be anything but! While I would ride at the head of the train of eight behind Wrangler Jack, so he could keep an eye on the headstrong Lady, Ron was assigned to Ben, the largest, most mellow beast and was placed at the end of the train 

After a brief orientation on how to sit in the specially built saddles, hold the reins, and follow all his instructions, Wrangler Jack warned us of the 90-some switchbacks on the 12-mile round trip, and the intense heat below.

We would have water to drink, purified with a white tablet of disinfectant, and water poured over our heads at an oasis halfway to Plateau Point.

 It was comforting to learn that the mules had carried sandbags up and down the trail for months before living people sat on their backs. We were told that mules require frequent rest stops on level ground and to expect a thunder shower in the late afternoon on the way back up.

Then, a shrill whistle, “Kick your mules, please!” and we were off.

 Down the narrow trail. High atop the mule. Canyon formations and space to the front, deep canyon drop-offs, formations, and space to the side.

 “This trail is NOT level!” I said to myself or to Lady or to Wrangler Jack or to the universe.

 “Halt! Heads out over the canyon!” shouted Wrangler Jack.

 “We turn their heads OUT OVER the canyon????” I sheepishly asked out loud. “Why?”

 “Yes, out over the canyon!”

I silently instructed myself: Hold on tight. Don’t move. Don’t look right…or left, for goodness’ sake. And definitely don’t look down!

 Then, desperately, I thought: Ron’s probably not even scared, but will I ever see him again?

 A shrill whistle, “Kick your mules, please!” and we’re off again, turning onto the next switchback, and the next.

 As we rounded one sharp corner, we could see three hikers coming up the hill.

 Oh-oh, what happens now?

 Jack called out to them to stop where they were and lean against the wall. They did.

 As soon as the end of our train came around the bend, Jack called to us, “Halt! Heads over canyon.”

 When we were all in place and still, he motioned for the hikers to come. Very quietly, the three walked single file through the narrow space between the tails of our mules and the canyon wall. As they cleared the train and continued their climb, we heard the now familiar shrill whistle, “Kick your mules, please,” and on we went.

When we reached level ground a couple of hours later, we were within sight of the Oasis, a patch of trees on the desert floor. Lady, with a sudden spurt of energy, fast-trotted toward the trees.  Wrangler Jack calmed her down. Lady found her favorite tree, and Jack helped me down. The ground felt very low!

He showed us how to secure the mules and checked our work. Now we could walk around, and I found Ron.

 “How was the ride?” I asked. “Are you sore?”

 “No, not yet. You?”

“Nope.”

While we riders took turns at the makeshift outhouse, Jack made the rounds with a bucket of water, pouring a dipperful over each hot sweaty head. After a sandwich and lemonade, it was time to remount.

This part of the trip was smooth, flat, and offered time to gaze up and around at the canyon walls and breathe in the brilliant shifting colors. A couple of hours later, we arrived at Plateau Point, where looking way down, we could see the tiny Colorado river and in the far distance Phantom Ranch. Jack told us It was possible to hike or ride mules all the way to the ranch and stay there overnight.

“Someday—maybe,” I thought. 

With Wrangler Jack’s “Mount your mules. Let’s go!” it was time to return across the plateau to the canyon wall and the switchbacks.

True to prediction, as we neared the top, we heard distant and then not-so-distant thunder and felt large drops of rain on our backs, arms, and faces.

The mules, now focused on the prospect of dinner and a good night’s rest, as if on signal began to trot, gaining speed as they neared the corral. Once there, we dismounted, thanked Wrangler Jack for everything including getting us back up top safe and congratulated one another on having survived. Whereupon we received our official Order of the Master Mule Skinners of the Grand Canyon certificates.

To our surprise, we were not saddle sore, not even the next day. Those specially designed saddles, built for the downhill and uphill motion get credit for that.

For the next two days, Ron and I took in the overwhelming beauty of every scene as colors and shadows shifted from hour to hour.  We learned about the history of the Canyon and the Hopi Indians who used to live down in the Canyon and now live on lands nearby.

The next week took us to Bryce Canyon and its red fairy tale towers and spindles, Zion with its massive and majestic rocks and trails, Los Vegas where we lucked into a motel for $8 a night with two rolls of nickels rebate, the mysteries of Mesa Verde, the enormous Hoover Dam, and three long days on the road back home.

We rationed out the remaining shots on the roll of film and arrived home tired and hungry for a juicy hamburger and fries, but with $3.50 to spare.

“Welcome home!” our families shouted as they ran out the door to meet us. “How was it?”

In a single voice we both answered, “You have to go to the Grand Canyon!”