GRAND CANYON: SKY OF A MILLION STARS

We retrace our path down Tioga Pass into the foothills, a sense of urgency crawling over us. It is a strange feeling moving once again toward the setting sun. The grade grows steeper, the road narrows and winds around the mountains of purple hued bushes as we reach Groveland where the mountains yield gradually to rolling hills. Groveland is the home to one of my favorite golf course: Pine Mountain Golf and Country Club. It is laid out around a lake, using the natural lay of the land, where elevated tees and greens are the rule and the greens are as slick and smooth as pool tables, with slope and undulations to challenge the finest putter.

It is a course I have walked once and never will again. The grade is too steep and the beauty far too great for labor. The golf at Pine Mountain has long since given way to the country club. The privatization of such places of beauty is a process that began at the peak of golf’s popularity. It will run its course but probably not here in my lifetime. I’ve never felt comfortable in the company of the privileged class and they’ve never seemed comfortable in mine. People are people so I suppose it is a failing I must some day learn to conquer.

The sun has lowered in the western sky by the time we reach the turn around near Chinese Camp. It was here in the land of Joaquin Murrieta that the indentured Chinese nationals were stationed when they were called upon to cut their way through the granite mountains of the high Sierras to pave the way for the westward migration. Anyone who has traveled these mountain roads cannot but be awed by their accomplishment. It is comparable to any of the Seven Wonders of the World. To us it brings a startling reality that we are now no more than forty miles from where we began thirty-six hours ago. We might have walked as far. Wiz suggests that we return to Motown just for the look on the faces of friends and family members. I am too driven to take the bait, not completely sure he is joking.

We’ve got to get out of this place.

We begin again the ascent to the high Sierras, Sonora Pass to the Devil’s Gate. The darkness brings a fresh chill as we roll into Sonora, dead tired but not beaten. We pull up at a restaurant on the far side of town. It is surprisingly nice with its white tablecloths, folded linen napkins and spacious dining room. The waitress is about the age of Wiz’s mom. She’s a country music fan and assumes we are the same when we tell her we live in Nashville. We order steak and enjoy the most gratifying meal of our journey. We are no longer in a hurry. We gulp down as much coffee as we can hold and engage the waitress in a discussion of her favorite country music stars. We leave her a healthy tip, including one of Wiz’s CDs, hitting the highway fresh and renewed.

It is late and there is no moon. The sky is without clouds. We crawl to the top of Sonora Pass and there we are compelled to stop. I have been in these mountains a thousand nights but never have I seen a sky so closes and so teeming with stars and shining planets bursting with cosmic energy. It is the sky of a million stars. The power is so immense that it tempts my soul to walk the stairway to heaven. The sky sings to us in a chorus of infinite voices. I know now the wonder of the muses and the graces in perfect harmony. Breathless, mesmerized, enthralled, there are no words. This glorious view is the reason there is music in the universe of humankind. There are no words.

We can’t stay long. We must embrace the moment with all our beings. This image must last a lifetime. Linger too long in this heavenly perfection and we will never return to our earthly stations. We will wonder like blind men in the valley of desolation. We will find no peace or consolation. Linger too long and we will go over the edge. We are ready for such a final destiny. It is not our time. It is a moment of inspiration, not of attainment. Our journey remains before us.

We descend with all the caution and respect the mountain commands. It is the pinnacle of danger yet our spirits are light and free. We have been to the mountaintop and seen the playground of the gods. Now my human drive returns to press on. We come to a fork known as the Devil’s Gate and veer south still on the California side of the Sierras. We enter a strange land where the human spirit is not welcome. It is a land of military installations, one after another without end. It is a land without hope and a land where death reigns. We press onward with the high of Sonora Pass sill fresh in our minds, still holding us in its arms and pushing back despair.

Wiz soon falls asleep. He senses that I will soon need relief at the wheel. At any other time on our journey I would pull over and rest. Driving these mountain roads, twisting and turning and the relentless climb, has sapped my strength and clouded my vision. The road now appears as if in a tunnel, its periphery blurred beyond recognition. There is a fog where there is no fog. There is a cloud on a cloudless horizon.

Finally we turn east and head toward Highway 6 across Nevada. If it were daylight we would be able to see the granite peaks of Tioga Pass. As it is I am too tired to think or to appreciate the irony. Wiz is awakened by the change in direction and senses the disparity between my spirits and the state of my physical being. He takes the wheel and we drive on through the night.

I am unable to sleep or rest. I am beyond fatigue. I am in a state of suspended consciousness where no thoughts or visions outside the moment are allowed. The road now seems heartless, cold and unforgiving. Wiz is driving Sally hard. She seems to be flying as we hit a long series of pronounced undulations in the road. They are too small to be described as hills but too large to be called bumps. Wiz wonders at a strange sound like scraping metal that follows the passing of each rise. He is far-gone. I explain that Sally is hitting bottom on each landing and he slows down. It is an eternity before we reach the state line. We are at last free to exchange our fears of never escaping the grip of California. The high plains are barren and strange but we have finally made it to Nevada. Within a few miles we pull over and fall into a deep, deep sleep.

I dream of dark places where only rattlesnakes, lizards and scorpions thrive, where faces appear and submerge in shades of gray. I am lost and unsettled.

We awake at dawn, the chill of the night still with us in the morning light. It is a bold new world. It is astonishing how radically the land changes on the Nevada side of the Sierras. Each state is so distinctive, their boundaries laid more by nature than by political divide. Nevada is a desolate state, a land of sage and coyotes, a land of crow and vultures on the barren highland plains. Having escaped California we must now traverse the desperate stretch of highway before us.

Our first destiny is Boulder Colorado. Our path will take us through Nevada and Utah. It is something of a mirror image of our westward journey, beginning on Highway 6 and crossing over to the north in St. Louis Missouri. The paths intersect at only one point: Eli Nevada. The town that first appeared to us as an oasis in a land of desperation now appears as a crossroad where the highways converge in all directions. It is a fitting place for a round of golf.

We pay a visit to the local Burger King for coffee and breakfast. The pickup in front of us bizarrely has the number 666 on its license plate. I can’t imagine being so immune to humanity’s obsession with numbers and symbolism that you would be willing to drive a vehicle with the mark of the beast. It is a company truck and a curiosity. Is it an omen, a warning or a sign? We don’t know what to make of it.

An attractive young Hispanic woman at the Burger King is unusually friendly. She notices the instruments in the back of the car and delivers extra sugar and cream with a smile. I admit I enjoy sharing the image of traveling musicians with the Wiz, who suggests facetiously that this might not be such a bad place to settle down. It leads me to wonder what life would be like in a place like this. It leads me to wonder why anyone would choose this place over all the places of beauty we have witnessed on our journey. Heaven is where the heart is and I suppose that even Eli could be heaven with the right person and the right state of mind. Still, I can think of no attraction but the promise of employment.

There is a convention of golfers at a large local motel. The sign out front reads: Welcome Golfers! That is a sign we know what to do with. We stop for gas and Wiz opens the hood to give the engine a quick check. He finds a problem. The bolt that holds the alternator in place is broken. Left unattended it will drain the battery and leave us stranded by the roadside. It is only a matter of when. The man at the station is unable to deal with it and gives us directions to a shop on the outside of town. We decide to let it ride for now. It is early in the day so there is plenty of time.

We look up the local golf course and sign on for nine holes. It is a flat course with few trees and the ground is nearly as hard as stone off its grass fairways. We hit a bucket of balls on the practice range and I begin to realize how weary I am. This will be a round about balance, the first principle of Zen golf.

We play well on a course that is as simple and uninspired as a landfill. The holes are so similar that we get lost in the middle of the round and tee off on the wrong hole. It is not until we are walking to our balls that we realize we have played this hole before. Ironically, it is my best drive of the day, a scorching 300 yards down the right side of the fairway. No matter that it is lost on the scorecard, we right our selves and allow a twosome to play through. They appear to be businessmen, one of whom is a very large man with an extra long, graphite shaft driver with an oversized head. It is designed for maximum distance. I admit I find these new drivers bothersome. I understand the role of technology in golf. I have no real desire to go back to the days of wooden shafts, the knobby and the baffle but there is something unsavory about a club that allows a man to simulate the power of a professional golfer. They do not encourage the beauty of the swing. The extended shaft forces a flat trajectory that generally carries a hitch in the backswing. It is an ugly swing and the golfer who gets caught up in the power game will soon be lost.

The large man hits a solid drive down the middle and struts off with a satisfied grin, without a word in response to our compliments. He has demonstrated his superior manhood. I answer in their wake with a rocket down the middle. They look back with a silent acknowledgement: It is not the club so much as the golfer. The skinny guy with a persimmons wood has out-driven the beast. My momentary flirtation with the power game as well as a competitive challenge has a predictable impact. I have forgotten the day’s lesson and the principle of balance, focus, and finding the center. We finish the round, grinding against the wind and head out once again for the highway.

It is close to five o’clock and we decide to check out the shop outside of town for repair work. As before, Wiz takes the lead. He is teaching me a lot about making connections with people of all kinds. When dealing with mechanics it is advantageous to have a background of knowledge and a working vocabulary. He never begins with business. He makes small talk as if he only stopped here for a little human interaction. The manager explains that this is the first day in some time that the wind had settled down. He talks on about the Midwest where a relentless storm has overloaded the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers to record depths. Here in Eli the winds whip the dry land into a dust bowl.

It is closing time and the manager passes on an offer to go golfing. Wiz inquires about a good course and the manager is familiar with one. It is clear he has taken a liking to Wiz. He asks a mechanic if he’d be willing to put in some overtime to help us out and the mechanic agrees. Turns out it’s a tricky job but the man is up to it. It takes about a half an hour and the charge is very reasonable. Wiz leaves a couple of CD’s and all is well.

We head out across Utah with its towering rock monuments. They resemble Stonehenge or some ancient carvings. Utah has no particular attraction to us. We drive straight through and watch the land undergo changes in texture, in color and feel. We observe the appearance of crows in groups of five and seven. It seems they have mastered this territory and seem to rule over it. It is a place for silent contemplation, communion with the spirit world and oneness with the earth.

We reach Colorado by nightfall and drive on to Glenwood Springs. There we give up the push to reach Boulder and settle in for the night. We check in to a motel, shower and shake the road from our bones. For the first time in weeks it seems we have a little time to kill. I watch a little baseball on TV. The Giants are in first in their division. The other division leaders are Philadelphia, Toronto and the White Sox. The Yanks and the Rangers are hanging tough. Baseball is a game I love as much as I do golf. I sometimes wonder how far I might have gone if my path led in that direction. I suppose I could never have hit the curveball.

I have a surge of energy and suggest we hit the streets. Wiz is reluctant but agrees at my urging. We stop at the liquor store down the road and pick up a fifth of brandy, a couple of ales and two samplers of Mescal con Dos Gusanos. Somewhere we will consume the worms. We check out a place that advertises live music but there is none to be found. Nothing is happening in this town. We take it as a sign. We don’t need action enough to go looking for it. We have dinner at a 24-hour restaurant, head back to the motel, click on the tube and try to make a dent in our fresh stash of booze. One hit of brandy, half an ale and we’re both out for the night. The spirit is willing but the body is in need of rest. So be it.

We are awakened in the morning by a knock at the door. It startles us. Our plans for an early start are gone. It’s closing in on half past ten and the maid wants to finish her rounds. We plead for time and she gives us a little. We are not in a mood to hurry. We click the tube back on and go through our morning routines, which include my running over to the office for coffee, doughnuts and a newspaper. When I return a movie called Buffy the Vampire Slayer is playing. It’s a kick in the ass. Wiz rearranges the packing in Sally while we extend our stay beyond checkout time. The maid will have to wait. Buffy has captured our attention and we stay to the finish, Paul Ruben’s death scene milked to the hilt. We burst into fits of laughter. It’s a great feeling.

Whatever divinity rules over us, it is smiling upon us today. It’s a great day for driving, for sitting in the sun, for laughing and playing music, for singing or just being alive. We are last car to leave the lot. The maid gives a smile. She thinks we must be high. We have a good breakfast and hit the road, bound for glory and a place called Boulder in the shadow of the Great Rocky Mountains.

Beyond Grand Junction there is a stretch of highway that extols the meeting of the Rockies and the Colorado River. To the first roaming tribes of North American hunters or the first European explorers this land must have seemed a Mecca, the promised land, the land of the gods and goddesses, a landed of blessed enchantment. Now it is a tourist Mecca. The smell of avarice is rich and bittersweet like pure natural chocolate. Vail is down the road and Aspen is due south. Somewhere around Grand Junction the highway is under construction and the remains of deer and wildlife are common along the side of the road. There is a sign warning that the eagle lands on this strip of highway. I wonder what in god’s creation would lead the great bird of the North American continent to land on a busy interstate? Is this their sacred land? Is it a protest of human encroachment? It occurs to me that tourism is to the natural inhabitants of the land what the invasion of the Jesuits was to the Native Americans. Though it promises the blessings of prosperity what it brings is ruin. In the end nothing will be spared the onslaught.

We resist the temptation to mingle with the wealthy, driving past the first roadside golf course, beautifully manicured and fitted at the base of the Rockies in this narrow interstate valley. I confide to Wiz that I know their kind and I know they don’t want our kind around. He is not convinced. We approach a second course and my resistance weakens. Wiz wants to check it out. What have we got to lose? I have to admit he’s right so we pull off the highway and enter tourist land. It is a maze of social activity. Summer vacation condos are the center of it all with a bar at its base overlooking the golf course. Outside the yuppie adolescents are playing mud volleyball to the tune of rock and roll. There is something very odd and almost humorous about this crowd’s willingness to get down and dirty. Some are less adapted than others. They take the pose and look the part but are willing to go no further than a step in any direction. Their less restrained comrades are in it from head to toe, the mud people of Gypsum.

They are of the same make as we are. The only thing that separates us from them is their parents’ bank accounts. We are of the working class and there is no mistaking their fear of us. They believe we want what they have. We do not. We desire something of far greater worth. We want what they desire and what money cannot attain. We want freedom, peace and wisdom. We have more in common than they realize.

Or first stop is the driving range where a lesson is in progress. They may be among the worst golfers I have seen. The lesson is the antithesis of Zen. It is all nuts and bolts. Keep the left arm straight, right elbow in, shoulder under the chin, head down. It is the golf of restraint. Avoid errors and all will be well. A left hander stands apart from the crowd and strikes a contrast, sending shots that rise and soar like a glider and land like a ball of cotton. He is a Zen golfer. They take no notice of him. He is not one of them but he is adapted to their presence. It is a private lesson. We are given directions to the clubhouse.

We arrive and I know at a glance the cost will exceed our comfort level. It smells of it. We engage a uniformed employee outside the clubhouse in conversation. It is her job to take care of the carts and customers. Se gives us the information we need. The tee times are booked and the price is high but it includes mandatory carts. Walking is not allowed. We politely explain our conviction that walking is a part of the game. She’s sure we’re right but she is not a golfer.

It seems clear that this is not our kind of place. We hang a while, have a beer and observe the yuppie gathering. It is not our kind of place. We return to Sally and give her a crank but she stutters and stalls. At length Wiz pulls the air filter and she struggles but turns over. It turns out the combination of thin air and low octane gas has deprived her of required oxygen. She is choking. I promise her a jump in octane at the first opportunity and we go our way with a vague longing to return to where we belong. We need to be welcome. We seek a place with familiar signs and warm memories and a place that feels something like home. We want to be surrounded by our kind of people.