The “little scrambling” and “little down-climbing” soon
became near-technical in scope and size. On more than one occasion, I was
nervous as we looked for handholds and purchase as we descended ancient, slick
water chutes or jumped dangerously across yawning gaps between broken,
unconsolidated boulders. Betty was petrified but her determination kept her
moving despite her fear. As I watched
Sam, he too, was concerned about the taken route since much of the trail was
likely new to him. Again, he had lost the trail.
The four-hour hike stretched into five and then six. The
rising sun did not disappoint as the temperature rose to the predicted high 90+
degree weather with miles to go yet.
Finally, Betty and I had experienced enough of this “guide.”
Taking out the map again, I was able to determine where we were and where we
needed to go to get back to the trailhead. By then, Betty also began to suffer
from heat exhaustion that was quickly remedied with cool water poured over her
head and clothing and into her thirsty body as we rested in the shade. I told Sam, “We’re going to wait here for a
while to recoup. We’ll be just a few minutes.”
“Nooo problem, if you think you know the way, I think I’ll
continue on” he said. As he turned away, I advised him to turn south. I pointed
out that if you look carefully enough, you could actually see the parking lot
at the trailhead which had apparently escaped his notice.
“Hey, you’re just as eagle-eyed as Betty!” he proclaimed,
“thanks, I’ll see you there!”
Warning Sign #5: Ah, you don’t need me to point it out by
now, Ray Charles could read this sign.
After I was sure he was headed in the right direction, I
collected Betty and told her to stay ahead of me so I could keep an eye on her.
She quickly spied the path we were to take and proceeded ahead. It was then I
noticed that the seat of her pants had suffered from a wardrobe malfunction. Down-climbing and scooting across the terrain
had resulted in half of her hiking shorts tearing away. She laughed and said, “The perfect way to end
this perfect day with our perfect guide,” as she tucked her neckerchief into
her belt, covering her rear, Tonto-style.
Just as the temperature rose above 100, we reached the
parking lot. Sam was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear his chatter among the
many vehicles in the lot. Betty was deposited into the car, AC blasting and a
cool drink retrieved from the cooler stored in the trunk and I sought out
Sam. Following his distinctive call, I
found him surrounded by a group of unsuspecting hiking types, listening raptly
to every word.
Walking up to him, I shook his hand, told him to take care
and “be safe out there.” Turning to the assembled listeners, I said, “This is
Sam. He’s got lots of stories to tell about his survival from the very jaws of
outdoor death. He’s had many a close call, probably too many for one lifetime.
Listen carefully and learn from his numerous mistakes. I just learned from one
of mine today.”
Rejoining Betty, we headed west back to Phoenix, wiser and
hungrier than expected. Betty performed the miracle of changing clothes inside
a car that only women can execute properly. We exchanged thoughts about Sam,
the hike and the rest of the experience over tacos and beers just outside of
town.
“Think you’ll be hiking with him again?” she asked, looking
down at her food.
“No, I don’t suppose I will. I don’t want to carry that much
duct tape with me on a day hike,” I said.