I rode half way down the Grand Canyon on a mule once.
The Grand Canyon in Arizona, is I believe the second longest canyon on Earth, at 277 miles. It was formed over a 6 million year period by the mighty Colorado River cutting through a plateau area. It is not the largest canyon on the planet, although the term is imprecise, that honor belongs to the Great Canyon of Yarlung Tsangpo (Brahmaputra) River in Himalayas (Tibet).
The largest canyon in the solar system, by far, is the Valles Marineris, on Mars. You could fit almost nine Grand Canyons into its over 4,000 kilometers (2,485.6 miles), 200 kilometers width (124.279 miles), and 7 kilometers depth (4.3498 miles). However it is almost impossible to get a mule there, it's very cold, no oxygen, and the amount ultra violet radiation reaching its surface is nothing less than appalling.
I mention this because my lovely case manager, Erin, related a horrifying story about how she almost fell into the Grand Canyon when she was much younger. Her family was visiting the canyon, and her father was taking photographs. The young Erin, always the
consummate actress, was posing dramatically with the Grand Canyon as a backdrop. While her dad was busy with the camera, Erin continued to back up where she thought was a railing. There was not, and little Erin would have tumbled to her death, 10,000 feet into the gorge, if it had not been for quick response of her father, who upon seeing what his daughter was about to do, grabbed her by her shirt, and pulled her back to safety. There was quite a big to do about it.
Man's (and woman's) ancient ancestors used to swing through trees, and so evolved a healthy appreciation for the inevitable effects of gravity. Acrophobia is the extreme, or irrational fear of heights. I do suffer from acrophobia slightly, among other things, but I do not think my fear is irrational. I believe, quite rightly, that if I fall a great distance I will sustain massive bodily damage, and so chose not to go anywhere near where I may fall a great distance. I don't mind standing near a vast expanse if there is a railing, but if there is none, I don't go near the edge. I even get dizzy in the Central Library's Literature Department, where all that separates the patrons from tumbling into the depths of it's atrium, six stories down, is a plate glass window.
Unfortunately, my healthy fear of heights did not reveal itself to me before I rode down the Grand Canyon on a mule.
Sometime in the late 1980s, the love of my life, Jan (nickname JD), and I visited the Grand Canyon. We had previously made reservations for the mule ride, as that was required. It began in the early morning, and the attendants instructions were adamant, do not let your mule start running, or trotting, down (or up) the very narrow path. I usually do not have a problem with following simple instructions, but the mule had other ideas.
Mules walk with different paces, and whenever the mule in front of me got a little bit ahead in distance, my mule would rush to catch up, despite my frantic efforts to stop it from doing so. In other words, I spent most of the ride down racing on a galloping mule on a very narrow path with a 10,000 foot drop just one misplaced step away (any drop in the Grand Canyon is 10,000 feet. I don't know why).
Fortunately, what the attendant also said was correct, that they had never lost a mule or its rider. A lot of hikers, but never a mule.
Mules aren't stupid, and probably have a healthy appreciation for the effects of gravity themselves.
We made it to a rest area, half way down, where we had lunch. The view was breath taking. The Colorado River winding through the canyon below.
Jan, at one point, wanted to go near an un-railed section to take a look, and she wanted me to come with her.
"No way," I told her. "I'm not going anywhere near there."
"Chicken," she called me.
I don't know why the adjective "chicken" is used to denote cowardice. A braver and more noble bird as the Chicken cannot be found.
She went to the cliff's edge, leaned over, almost fell in, then came back to tell me about it.
"Thanks a lot Jan. All I can think about is explaining to your parents how I let you fall into the f--king Grand Canyon."
We made it back up to the top, and Jan and I went to our motel.
Both of us were so sore the next day we could hardly walk.
F--cking mules.
The Grand Canyon in Arizona, is I believe the second longest canyon on Earth, at 277 miles. It was formed over a 6 million year period by the mighty Colorado River cutting through a plateau area. It is not the largest canyon on the planet, although the term is imprecise, that honor belongs to the Great Canyon of Yarlung Tsangpo (Brahmaputra) River in Himalayas (Tibet).
The largest canyon in the solar system, by far, is the Valles Marineris, on Mars. You could fit almost nine Grand Canyons into its over 4,000 kilometers (2,485.6 miles), 200 kilometers width (124.279 miles), and 7 kilometers depth (4.3498 miles). However it is almost impossible to get a mule there, it's very cold, no oxygen, and the amount ultra violet radiation reaching its surface is nothing less than appalling.
I mention this because my lovely case manager, Erin, related a horrifying story about how she almost fell into the Grand Canyon when she was much younger. Her family was visiting the canyon, and her father was taking photographs. The young Erin, always the
consummate actress, was posing dramatically with the Grand Canyon as a backdrop. While her dad was busy with the camera, Erin continued to back up where she thought was a railing. There was not, and little Erin would have tumbled to her death, 10,000 feet into the gorge, if it had not been for quick response of her father, who upon seeing what his daughter was about to do, grabbed her by her shirt, and pulled her back to safety. There was quite a big to do about it.
Man's (and woman's) ancient ancestors used to swing through trees, and so evolved a healthy appreciation for the inevitable effects of gravity. Acrophobia is the extreme, or irrational fear of heights. I do suffer from acrophobia slightly, among other things, but I do not think my fear is irrational. I believe, quite rightly, that if I fall a great distance I will sustain massive bodily damage, and so chose not to go anywhere near where I may fall a great distance. I don't mind standing near a vast expanse if there is a railing, but if there is none, I don't go near the edge. I even get dizzy in the Central Library's Literature Department, where all that separates the patrons from tumbling into the depths of it's atrium, six stories down, is a plate glass window.
Unfortunately, my healthy fear of heights did not reveal itself to me before I rode down the Grand Canyon on a mule.
Sometime in the late 1980s, the love of my life, Jan (nickname JD), and I visited the Grand Canyon. We had previously made reservations for the mule ride, as that was required. It began in the early morning, and the attendants instructions were adamant, do not let your mule start running, or trotting, down (or up) the very narrow path. I usually do not have a problem with following simple instructions, but the mule had other ideas.
Mules walk with different paces, and whenever the mule in front of me got a little bit ahead in distance, my mule would rush to catch up, despite my frantic efforts to stop it from doing so. In other words, I spent most of the ride down racing on a galloping mule on a very narrow path with a 10,000 foot drop just one misplaced step away (any drop in the Grand Canyon is 10,000 feet. I don't know why).
Fortunately, what the attendant also said was correct, that they had never lost a mule or its rider. A lot of hikers, but never a mule.
Mules aren't stupid, and probably have a healthy appreciation for the effects of gravity themselves.
We made it to a rest area, half way down, where we had lunch. The view was breath taking. The Colorado River winding through the canyon below.
Jan, at one point, wanted to go near an un-railed section to take a look, and she wanted me to come with her.
"No way," I told her. "I'm not going anywhere near there."
"Chicken," she called me.
I don't know why the adjective "chicken" is used to denote cowardice. A braver and more noble bird as the Chicken cannot be found.
She went to the cliff's edge, leaned over, almost fell in, then came back to tell me about it.
"Thanks a lot Jan. All I can think about is explaining to your parents how I let you fall into the f--king Grand Canyon."
We made it back up to the top, and Jan and I went to our motel.
Both of us were so sore the next day we could hardly walk.
F--cking mules.
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