GRAND CANYON: DOWN HOME IN THE VALLEY

There’s an old movie from the fifties called the Snake Pit in which a song is a running theme: Going home, going home, I’m a going home…

That song keeps running through my head as we descend from the mountains, leaving behind the thin clean air and the scent of pine, down to the valley where I was raised. For all the beauty I have experienced, from the glistening sanctity of the northwest coast to the barren solemnity of the sculpted desert, from the tropical density of the southeast forest to the magical colors of a New England fall, this unremarkable flatland before us is and always will be my home.

It is not the first time I have been away. I lived for two years in the Big Apple pursuing the dream of an artist. I never regretted leaving home but I always knew I would return. I know that now even if I will not reveal it. Nashville is another adventure but it is not my home and it never will be.

Three cars leave Graeagle at the same time on a Sunday afternoon: Wiz and me in Sally, my father and brother Randy in a rough-running 1985 Mustang, and Robert and Sue in their new four-wheel drive Cherokee. The drive is about two hundred miles and normally takes about three and a half hours. After a half hour delay, Robert and Sue make it home to Modesto in four hours. Wary of a prolonged traffic jam and the possibility of overheating, both Mustangs veer south. My father and Randy will arrive in nine hours. We will arrive in ten.

We follow the path that the journey takes us. Rather than fight the traffic, we play golf in Truckee when the opportunity presents itself. We are joined on the first tee by a twosome bearing our first names. Remarkably, it is the first time I have heard the Wiz introduce himself by the name of Jim. They are a doctor and a lawyer nearing retirement age. The doctor is an easy going ethereal man whose first choice in hobbies is tennis. He is taking up golf in earnest now that his knees have betrayed him. The lawyer is more serious and stoic. He has taken lesson recently and is determined to get his money’s worth. The doctor is adept at chiding him for his seriousness in a way that does not offend.

We enjoy the company of our playing partners. They speak of the harshest winter in recorded California history. Coming in the wake of an eight-year drought, they were snowed in well into spring. It reminds me of the storm that greeted the Donner Party, which they tell us is not more than a mile away as the crow flies.

The golf is unremarkable except for an incident that seems to send the entire foursome into a tailspin. On the fifth tee my drive sails to the left out of sight. My vision is obstructed but I am told it skipped hotly by an older woman on an adjacent fairway. Wiz witnesses the event but he is not sufficiently in tune with the etiquette of yelling Fore! It is of course my responsibility. I walk over to their green to apologize and the lady is livid. I try to explain but she’s not having it. I wonder if I should have been more in tune with my surroundings and my fellow golfers. Was it a failure of awareness? My partners advise me to shrug it off but within two holes we’re all struggling. At the end of nine, we decide to play three more to recover our games. We do and exchange well wishing with our namesakes before hitting the road.

We find the traffic is still jammed as we head toward the western shore of Lake Tahoe. Twilight glistens on enchanted waters and we stop for a bite and a bottle of beer. The Wiz buys and I am increasingly aware of his generous nature. We have noticed that a section of Highway 50 is closed and the waitress informs us that cars were sinking in a bad mixture of recently applied asphalt.

We will later learn that my father was caught in that mixture. Their journey takes them on a series of detours and almost comes to blows. The interstate jam, caused by a fruit check, turned out to be the least troublesome. Our road is a series of jams to the valley floor but we don’t mind. Wiz serenades a car full of young ladies with my trumpet. They are thrilled and we chase them down the mountain in the spirit of the moment. It develops into a game of tease and tantalize. We pull off for coffee in Placerville and they nearly follow, veering to the exit before driving on. Had they stopped we would have had an interesting conversation.

We arrive in Modesto after midnight. It takes some time to rouse my sister from her bed. We exchange stories briefly and retire for the night.

It’s almost as if I never left.