LIVING & TRAVEL
by William Drew Weinbrenner
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Supai and the Havasupai Reservation
Havasupai Indian Reservation
In 1988, while attending the University of Southern California, I met a beautiful French girl named Veronique. I decided to act as ambassador to all French women visiting the United States. During a seizure of eyelash fluttering, Veronique mentioned that she had a friend coming from France to visit her, and that they would like to go to the Grand Canyon. Having always desired to see the Grand Canyon, and having especically desired to see Veronique, I quickly volunteered to take the two on a tour of the Grand Canyon. I immediately darted out to buy a travel guide to the Grand Canyon.
Two weeks later, Veronique's friend arrived. HE was Christophe, her boyfriend. As I had made reservations and arrangements, and also felt it would be bad form to revoke my invitation, I swallowed my pride and proceeded with the trip.
We left early Friday morning, for a camping vacation on the Havasupai Indian Reservation (to the west of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon National Park). The location is renowned for accessibility to a chain of waterfalls that plunge through the Arizona red rock and fern-covered grottos to the Colorado River. What could beat that?
We drove the eight hours from Los Angeles, to Bartow, to Needles, to Kingman, to Peach Tree Springs, in my twelve year old Volvo 244 DL wagon -- all without incident. We were happy. The world was wonderful. I tried to refine my two semesters of French 101 by listening to their amicable disputes regarding the western landscape. Finally, we turned onto the road leading to the Indian Reservation. 120 miles to go. Yahoo! We were real modern-day western cowpokes.
Around mile marker 47 we came over a hill and saw a herd of cattle crossing the road. Even a pale face like me knows to slow the hell down and let the cattle cross. I slowed the car from 55 to 35. In the wide open panorama of John Ford landscapes I could see the herd ahead. They must have been four miles away. There were no hills. There were no trees to speak of. There were no obstructions except the herd of cows. Only sagebrush and cactus. Eight minutes later, I was closing on the herd ... watching carefully, for any change of direction ... watching the herd, so that no cow would cause an accident ... watching the herd.
The Volvo 244 DL wagon
I got out of the car, and walked to the front of the vehicle. There, wedged in the grillwork was a large calf. Okay, it was a baby cow. But I knew if I told you that I hit a baby cow, you'd feel sorry for the baby cow. I mean it's just a baby, right?
At first I was glad. I mean, I hadn't killed a person. I wasn't going to get the chair. I think I even shouted out those words that instill confidence in all French people: "Oh, it's a cow." But I did begin to feel sorry for the cow. It was looking at me. It was mooing its last moo.
Obviously I had to remove the cow from the Volvo and administer first aid. There was one problem. The cow was stuck in the metal bridge that holds the hood down on the plastic grillwork. I tried the crowbar. I tried pushing from inside. During this monkey business, I noticed the radiator fluid leaking from the bottom of the radiator. I knew it would be a matter of time before the car wouldn't run at all. We were in the middle of nowhere. The entire time we had driven on this road we had not seen another car. This was no place to break down. We gathered up the debris from the roadway and secured the hood. With the cow still in the grill, we started down the road again.
I would like to assure all members of the society for prevention of cruelty to animals, that the cow was in no pain (aside from that caused by the original collision). As we proceeded down the highway, I could see the cow on the front of the car. I knew then that I had the mother of all hood ornaments.
Christophe (left) and Drew
Inside was a rancher. He plucked the cow out like it was a poodle, looked at me, shook his head, and drove off without saying a word.
Sure the cow was out of the car, but I was still in the middle of nowhere with a leaking radiator, two French tourists, and the corpse of the phantom cow.
Yes, the phantom cow: the cow that can appear and destroy your vacation, your car, any remote chance of a menage a trois with Veronique, and the belief that cows exist for the good of the universe. Granted I was watching the herd, but there was nothing for this cow to hide behind. No tree. No rock. It beamed down from the mother ship as an ambassador from the planet of cows, and within seconds it was a veal cutlet on the barbie. Either that or it was a ninja cow that had been laying in wait for a Volvo. Based on the evidence at hand, we can only assume it was a phantom cow.
With the cow removed from the front of the car, I was able to fully assess the damage to the Volvo. An engine mount was broken, the fan blade looked like a pinwheel, and the radiator, leaking from several points, had been pushed back two feet. All but one of the four headlights were broken. Both turn signals and the hood lock were smashed.
Since I was only forty short miles from the Native American reservation, I decided to continue. We piled into the wagon and sputtered off down the highway. The road eventually rounded a bend into a parking lot. Beside the lot was a dilapidated mobile home, and a trail head that said, "Supai, 5 miles." There was no mechanic. There was no phone. There were no people. Just a huge void in the earth.
There were cars though, so I knew a mechanic was within reach. We had no choice but to continue our adventure as though nothing had happened.
Veronique, Christophe and I donned our camping apparel and started down into the Grand Canyon. In any other circumstances, the sheer beauty of the view and the shared experience of traveling on foot would have bonded the three of us into triumvirate of human love. But because of the cow, Christophe whispered to Veronique in a strained hush.
News of the cow traveled ahead of us by helicopter. The native Americans traveled from the valley to the mesa by modern invention, and left the tourists to commune with mother nature. After a beautiful 7-mile hike downhill, we crossed a stream and came on the outskirts of Supai. As we walked down the main trail, Havasupai mothers brought their children to the door of their adobes. I waved hello, and smiled. Each family in turn broke into a fit of hilarious laughter.
In the center of town was a diner, an elementary school and a modern hotel. I talked Christophe and Veronique into staying at the hotel. My deep blue funk was unwilling to rough it that night. We took a room and I set off to find the town's only policeman.
I went to the store, the diner, and then to his home and office. He was nowhere to be found. Word had it that he was in the mesa above the campground searching for some teenagers that were pulling pranks on the campers. I left a note outlining my situation and commented that I would need assistance to repair the car.
We spent three days in Supai. The campgrounds there are clean and full of trees. There is a fresh water spring for drinking water, and the waterfalls are without compare. Imagine thundering torrents of water plunging off dessert cliffs. The clouds of mists that rise from the falls saturate walls of lime green fern and flower. The water itself is aquamarine blue, without silt or soil. When the hot sun bakes your skin, you can scramble down ancient tunnels to the pools below for a swim. Braver swimmers can venture behind the falls, to hear the roar. It was hard to be sad in a place like this, though every once in a while I managed it.
I did find the policeman and filled out an accident report. I also had to call the State Highway Patrol and file a telephone report. I could hear them snickering on the end of the line.
In the end, the police could do nothing for me except call a tow truck. They also told me that it would be a dollar a mile for the tow, and that I would have to pay them for the drive in, AND the tow out. I knew it was 120 miles to the nearest town from the parking lot, and that I could not afford to be towed.
The other piece of news they had was that the cow did NOT belong to the tribe. Someone had checked. If I had killed one of their cattle I would have been subject to their laws and stiff fines. Now I know what all the laughter was about.
On the fourth day Veronique, Christophe and I rose early and began the uphill hike to the Volvo. We had no plan except to fill the car with water at a horse trough, and drive as far as we could. Every mile meant a savings in the cost of a tow. The police promised to check for us on the road at mid-day.
By ten o'clock we were underway at a maximum speed of 40 miles an hour. We found and filled a discarded Sparklette's water bottle in the parking lot for an emergency backup.
We drove until until the water boiled out, refilled it with the back-up water, and amazingly made the entire 120 miles to Peach Tree Springs. We fashioned minor repairs there, but Springs did not have a lot of Volvo part stores. Imagine. Filled with water, we moved on to Kingman and then to Needles. Yeehaw, we were half way home ... only the Mojave desert, Death Valley and 90 degree temperatures stood between us and L.A.
If they had sold rosaries in the gas station at Needles I would have bought one. As they didn't, I bought some water and started the car for Los Angeles. I recalled that I had one headlight, and that if I did not get anywhere before sunset ... well it would be worse than it was.
The Volvo went through the water by the apex of the first mountain range. The water backup lasted through the next 40 miles of dessert. The water I bought went a scant 25 miles. Before we could panic, we saw a sign that read: "Rest Stop 2 miles."
Moments later the rest stop emerged from the horizon like Shangri-Lah: gleaming towers of cinderblock and stucco, with plumbing and parking for all. All would have been fine if it had not also been adorned with orange cones and a flashing sign that blasted: REST STOP CLOSED.
I directed the Volvo between the cones and into the empty parking area. We ignored the "Beware of rattlesnake" signs, and went directly to the water supply. The water had been turned off. Christophe found the well behind the rest stop. It too was dry. There was nothing but an abandoned urinal with some stagnant water and a stack of half dissolved bleach floaters.
So, despite parched throats, we used our melted iced water, got back in the car, and left Shangri-Lah.
Forty minutes later we ran out of water again. The needle on the dashboard went into the red and stayed there. We pulled onto the shoulder at the top of a rise to let the engine cool. Far below, there was a gas station, say 15 miles or so. We waited for the engine to cool, drove to the gas station, bought antifreeze and had no problems for the rest of the trip. Water was available, the coming night cooled the air, and by the time it was dark we had reached urban Los Angeles. Streetlights were plentiful.
Veronique and Christophe were no longer talking to me. A phantom cow is all that it took for complete intolerance to develop between the French and Americans in my cracked-up crazy Volvo. We reached Los Angeles in 12 hours across the Mojave desert, and parted ways, safe and sound, with nothing to show for our mighty effort. That would have been the end of the story -- were it not for the phantom cow.
About a week later, I got a call from Ruby Davis.
Ruby Davis was the lady rancher from Northern Arizona whose cow I had impacted. She had a slight whistle when she talked. I imagined that she looked like Barbara Stanwick, with big hair. She got right to business. "As I see it, you owe me fifteen hundred bucks for my cow."
"Fifteen hundred dollars for one little cow?! You must be kidding." I cried. She assured me that that was the going rate, especially since the cow had been pregnant. She also chastised me for leaving the cow in the middle of the road. "That cow could not have been pregnant Ms. Davis," I explained, "it hadn't reached puberty yet! And I didn't leave it in the middle of the road either. The man who removed it from my hood set it to the side of the road."
She sounded flustered, "Wait a minute. Did you hit the pregnant cow on the road, the cow on the hill, or the calf?"
"I hit the calf" I stated. "You mean to tell me that three people hit three different cows, on the same day on that same stretch of road?" There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "What are you? Too lazy to take your beef to the market?"
"Now you just hold on a second. This here is open range. My cows are allowed to go anywhere they want. It's the driver's responsibility to avoid them." She whistled defiantly.
"Well, that's all well and good until one goes through someone's windshield and kills a child." I said. She could see the conversation was digressing. She got back to the subject. "Well you still owe me 350 dollars for the calf."
"And you owe me 2,000 dollars for the repairs to my Volvo." I retorted. "How about you get to work on extraditing me to Arizona for first degree barbecue, and I tell the highway patrol that you are a menace to society," I yelled, and hung up. That was the last I ever heard from Ruby Davis.
Sure as shooting, if you happen to be passing through Arizona, and decide to stop by the post office to mail your panoramic views of Sedona postcards, look up on the wall at public enemy number one. My name and picture is there: Wanted, for bovinicide, Wicked Willie Weinbrenner.
William Drew Weinbrenner is a screenwriter, poet and composer who makes a living writing technical manuals for people bent on blowing up the earth. He lives in Orlando, Florida.
