My Upcoming Fishing Trip to Lees Ferry

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In another coupla weeks, I'll be fishing for a few days at Lees Ferry, Arizona. It's a catch-and-release fishing area located on the Colorado River just below Glen Canyon Dam.

The area is well known by fly-fishing aficionados. The large rainbow trout and ample amount of fishing guides attract a high-end clientele looking for good fishing memories. I thought about using my fly-fishing stuff (10 o'clock, two o'clock, smooth flow, don't snap the line, doh!), but I'm gonna bring my open-face reel with a 2 lb line, sit in a Wal-Mart camp chair with an attachable sun umbrella (on sale) and pretend to care about catching fish. Ahh, life.

I'll be seeing a LOT of people in the mornings. The Grand Canyon starts a few miles downstream. People rafting or kayaking down the Colorado use Lees Ferry as their debarkation point. I'll try to fish around 'em. (grin). By 9:00 am, it'll be quiet except for the descending tone melody of the Canyon wrens.

I'll be staying at the Marble Canyon Lodge. There are two, count 'em, two, versions of the Lodge. Highway 89A, also known as the Highway of Death, divides the two. This is the $200.00 a night version. It has homey rooms or you can reserve a casita. All of it is surrounded by a small, preciously irrigated area of grass and a few trees. The Marble Canyon landing strip is a mere few hundred feet from its door. Ah, the comfort.

Across highway 89A is the other version of the Lodge. This is my $55.00 a night level of comfort. If I need to feel grass, I'll walk across the Highway of Death... or not. It looks pretty nice from this side of the road. You betcha.

A fellow named R. A. Taylor has a great site about the Lodge and the surrounding Vermillion Cliffs area. He's a pretty good photographer. Here's a series of his photos (one, two, three) of where I'll be fishing. Of course, I'll be fishing upstream by the boat ramp and camp ground. You think I can negotiate those rocks? Come on. Grin.

The lodge is located on the Arizona Strip. Strip is an appropriate description of the area, cuz there ain't nothing there. Even Mormon pioneers, who were a pretty strong stock, decided to settle elsewhere. To do it true justice, here are some satellite photos of the lodge and the surrounding area: Google Satellite photo and Terraserver aerial topo map.

Wish me luck.
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Another Christmas for Abuela

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I wrote the following story on November 19, 2004.

Her name was Annie Craw. She died April 7, 2005. She was 71.

I knew her, however, the cancer had taken her so much that I didn't recognize her. I'm sorry, Annie.

She worked in my building and retired in 2003. She was one of the nice ladies who helped me laugh when I was in my wheelchair and prayed that I would walk again. Thank You, Annie. Vaya con Dios.

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It was my day off. As usual, I had spent an early hour at the Hangar Cafe for my Friday morning breakfast. Lisa, one of the waitresses who had adopted K and me, knew of my need for morning brew and lotsa cream. She supplied plenty of both with an ample amount of smiles.

With breakfast out of the way, I popped over to Salem Boys Auto in Tempe for some minor repairs on my truck. It was gonna take awhile, so I brought a book to read.

As I settled into my chair, I looked around the room at my three fellow travelers.

A regal, Hispanic woman in her late 60's was sitting by herself on the sofa. She reminded me of someone's Abuela or grandmother as she wrote Christmas cards and affixed stamps to the envelopes.

Every few minutes, she coughed. It was deep and well-practiced. She tried her best to retain her dignity.

From the look of her face, she'd been ill for a while. Her face had begun to shrink away from the living world.

The other two customers were middle-aged guys. One was doing paperwork from a briefcase. The other busied himself with magazines from the rack.

After a few minutes of reading, I grew sleepy. I adjusted my right leg into a comfortable position and closed my eyes for a semi-conscious nap.

I listened to voices cascading down the staircase behind me. A high school automotive class was being held in a front office conference room on the second floor. Teenagers, male and female, were answering esoteric car questions.

When the class ended, the students filed past us in noisy clumps of loud conversations and boisterous camaraderie. When the door closed, there was silence.

The woman and I spoke about the kids and their great careers as technicians. She coughed a little bit, so I stopped our conversation while she recovered. She used the lull to tell everyone in the waiting area about her coughing spells.

No one else wanted to listen to her, but I did. She continued to talk with me from across the way, just as loud as possible with everyone listening.

She was 71 years old and had stage 4 lung cancer. Never smoked a day in her life and was quite adamant about that fact. She was supposed to die last Christmas, but she outfoxed the doctors.

The gentle-voiced woman had just buried another friend from the cancer ward last month. "The third one to die this year", she said.

She had helped her friends adjust to their cancer just as someone had helped her when she first entered the ward. That saintly docent of the sisterhood had taught the Abuela how to deal with life's last triage, then passed the docent role onto her and died.

The friend who died last month was going to be the Abuela's replacement, but the cancer took her friend too soon. "Too soon. Too soon. She wasn't ready. She wasn't at peace". She wondered who would help her friends when she was gone.

The Abuela's cancer had accelerated very quickly after the chemotherapy failed in the fall of 2003. Since springtime, it has slowly consumed her. Now, she waited to die.

The doctors promised she wouldn't have to wait too long. It was going to be very soon. They promised she'd make it to Christmas, but this was going to be her last Christmas.

She held up a handful of Christmas cards. "I'm doing my list early this year."

I asked her what she was going to do for Christmas. Her eyes sparkled.

"My children and grandchildren are coming in to celebrate at my house!"

She went on about their ages and how dear they were to her. She was as happy as a mother and grandmother could be.

The technician came over and discussed the repairs with her. She paid her bill, said her goodbyes to us and left.

She returned in a few minutes and passed out religious tracts to everyone, apologizing if her offer offended anyone.

When she came to my chair, I accepted her book of daily prayers and softly told her, "Merry Christmas". She smiled.

I'll never see her again. In the next few months, she'll appear as an obituary in the Tribune. It will list her accomplishments as a mother, grandmother, wife and friend.

But, it won't list her accomplishment for that Friday morning when she let us ride in the back seat of her '59 Cadillac of Hope as she cruised towards Christmas.

Thanks for sharing your ride, Ma'am.

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Slow Dancing

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Music was filling the living room at the same rate light was leaving it. I stood next to her as she moved to the beat. She looked good. Damn good. But, truth be told, the margaritas and our time in the heated pool had tuckered me out. I needed to get home.

She was smiling and looking at me with half-closed eyes as I watched her move to a honky-tonk favorite by Alan Jackson. (I didn't know it was possible to get excited over a song like that.)

She opened her arms and smiled, beckoning me to join her in a dance. I told her I couldn't, cuz of my foot. She wasn't listening. I wasn't either. What the hell. I tossed my glasses onto a nearby table and drew her close.

We began to move as one, rocking slowly to the music, gimbaled at our hips. She looked up at me. I held her tighter and we kissed.

"Mmmm", was all she said. I agreed.

After many songs, one by Janet Jackson started. "This one is my favorites", she whispered. By the end, it was one of mine too.

I hadn't danced like that since my days in Washington, DC 25 years ago. It was slow and sensual. Time didn't exist and no one cared.

The kind of dancing you enjoyed in the privacy of a dimly lit living room at the end of a special evening.

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Madame Henriot

She watched me as I slept.

She was there when I awakened.

She watched me dress and undress.

She was the woman I made love to on Sunday mornings.

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I would think of her in the early morning hours before a new day started, wishing things were different and that I could be with her.

But, I couldn't, so she lived with me as Renoir's "Madame Henriot". I joined her as Picasso's "The Seated Harlequin". As two poised portraits, we shared the bedroom wall. I was to the left of her portrait and faced away from her beauty, because I could not have her.

When I moved into my new house in late 2002, she was hung above the fireplace as the room's focal point. An accent light illuminated her face. Around the corner, in the foyer, I hung the Harlequin. He was to the right of her portrait. I finally faced my love.

I took her down in mid-December 2003 to be replaced with a Christmas wreath. I never put her back. The Harlequin was removed when I started painting the house's interior last summer. I stored them side-by-side in my walk-in closet next to my wheelchair.

I gave them both to Goodwill last month, the same day I donated my wheelchair and cane.

It was time to move on.

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Ten Years to Tucson

(First leg in my Celebration of Life Tour.)

April 8, 2005

This morning, I finished something I started over ten years ago. I made it to Tucson.

It all started with a race. I had planned to run the Tucson Marathon in January 1995, but my feet started tingling in late December, so I didn't register. Instead, I changed my practice routine to a faster mile time and ran the half-marathon portion of the ARR Desert Classic Marathon in February 1995.

It was my last race. The tingling in my feet would soon become intense pain. My years of ultra long-distance running along the ridgeline of South Mountain had caused permanent nerve damage to my feet. Running, which gave me my freedom, would soon take it away.

By May 1995, the docs from the Mayo Clinic had me in a wheelchair, telling me I would never run again. I spent six months in my bucket. I spent another year learning how to walk again and doing it without a limp. I also learned to live with chronic pain and not show it, cuz feelings weren't allowed in the Tempe household.

By 2001, I was back in the wheelchair for six months. In 2002, it was seven months. In January 2003, I was in my wheelchair again. My long-term prognosis wasn't good, so I made plans to live the rest of my life in a wheelchair. I took a chance at surgery in August 2003 and started walking again, albeit with a gimpy right leg, but walking nonetheless.

When I first rode in my bucket in 1995, I made a promise to myself to complete my race to Tucson. Until that point, I had completed every race. I never DNFed - Did Not Finish. I knew I couldn't run it, bike it or walk it, but I'd make it someday.

It sounds easy, but it's not. I had opportunities to go to Tucson during my marriage, but I didn't want to share my emotional journey with a woman I didn't love and who didn't love me.

After I was divorced in August 2002, I started thinking about the race again, but that was short-lived. Within a few months, I was in my wheelchair again, trying to make my world small enough to accommodate the pain. I gave up hope of ever making it to Tucson, but a buddy talked me into going with him. However, at the last minute, he couldn't make it. With or without him, Tucson became my goal again.

Since December 2004, the pain has gradually lessened to the point where it doesn't control my life any more. It still hurts when I walk, but I can walk further now. Without the chronic pain, I could explore the world again and make plans to finally finish my race.

It also meant I'd have to confront my life as a gimp. It's something I've purposely ignored, like the people who look at me when I walk. I had to accept the fact that this is how my life's gonna be from now on. It took me awhile to sort it out (I'm still working on parts of it), but I was ready for Tucson this morning.

K, my daughter, wished me well. She knew how important this day was to me and why I had to make the trip alone.

I was supposed to make the trek with that buddy of mine, Greg Carrel. He was one of the Good Guys who was supposed to live forever, but he didn't. One morning in the fall of 2003, Greg woke up, got ready for work and his heart stopped.

Greg was a good-hearted, decent guy who touched the lives of many people and helped an equal number by just being himself. He was that kinda guy. The kind that everybody liked.

We had a lot in common: fishing for the sake of talking, woodworking, computer geekery and parenting. Just like me, he was divorced and raising a daughter.

Over time, he became a brother to me. (A brother that I wish was still here to make the trip with me. I miss him.)

I never got a chance to thank Greg or tell him how much I appreciated his friendship. I guess that's something brothers always forget to say, thinking we'll have enough time. I made it a point not to make the same mistake with my brother Steve.

My destination in Tucson was the Pima Air & Space Museum. Greg and I talked about it from time to time and made plans to do a road trip to celebrate my ability to walk again. We'd joke about being two computer geeks surrounded by flying machinery. We'd be like a coupla kids with ten dollars in a five-and-dime candy store - all eyeballs and tongue wondering where to look next.

As I pulled into the Museum's entrance, a flight of two A-10 Warthogs flew low overhead on their final approach to Davis Monthan Air Force Base. I made it. I said a prayer for Greg. He made it too. Thanks for everything, Greg. Thank you, Brother.

I skipped the Museum and took the AMARC Tour to see the aircraft bone yard. When it was over, I got directions to the Titan Missile Museum. In my haste to get there, I didn't see the steel I-beam parking impediment. I drove over it and listened to the right front tire hiss flat. I'm flat on the same side. I smiled, then busted out laughing. Brand new tires and it had to happen here.

Two hours later, a new tire buzzed beneath my truck as I headed home on I-10 to Chandler. I welcomed the heavy traffic and the afternoon tunes as I sorted out the day and the last ten years of my life.

When I first started running races, I was intent on making my personal best at every event. In these early races, I would get caught up in the excitement and forget my pacing. I'd be three or four miles from the finish line, nearly exhausted and frustrated. That's when someone would pull up next to me and start talking. It was obvious the other guy was a better runner than me, but he would set his pace to mine and we'd finish the race together. He helped me finish my race while giving up his own.

Once I was attuned to these stewards, I saw them at all the races. They were old, young, women and men. They weren't doing the race for their personal best time. They had nothing to prove. They were there for the camaraderie. Hanging back and running slow, they were there to help others. A lot of them didn't even pick-up their shirts.

It took me a coupla years to do all of the races and make my personal bests. Then on a half-marathon through Scottsdale, I became a steward. A fellow who looked a lot like me on a bad racing day was about to give-up and start walking. I pulled up next to him and asked if I could run with him. We did a slow jog to the finish line where I let him beat me by a coupla strides. I didn't pick-up my t-shirt that day.

I started doing that at all of my races, except my last one. On that day, I was hurting three miles out from the finish line. A steward came up to help me. I told him what time I needed and he helped me set a personal best for a half-marathon.

We were hoofing it pretty fast. On the last quarter mile, he shouted over to me,"Let's make this a real race". He beat me, but not by much.

He didn't pick-up his shirt that day, but I picked-up mine. I'm wearing it tonight as I write this. It's my ten year badge. I earned it.


It took me ten years to get to Tucson. It was a helluva long journey. One that I wouldn't trade for the world, as odd as that sounds.

It was a journey where I learned a lot about people and myself.

I learned about life, how to share it and who to share it with.

I found out it's not how fast you are or how far you can run in life.

It's about helping somebody finish their race.

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