The Mother of All Calamities
When I hit 13, I was old enough to go on a YMCA Caravan. Caravans were cross-country trips in which two leaders and a dozen barely-teen boys would pile into a van and head for parts un— well, semi-known. My trips to Yosemite and the World’s Fair had their snags. But the Grand Canyon trip was the Mother of All Calamities.
It was a busy summer and all the real vans were booked, so we were given an oxidized green airport limousine, with eat-your-heart-out-Buck-Rogers fins, that someone had donated to the Y right after it reached the 100 trillion mile mark.
On day one, in 113 degree heat, the brakes gave out and we sailed half a mile into the desert before nesting in a prickly pear cactus patch. On day two, after just two hours back on the road, our transmission stopped transmissing. So we spent the next two days at a tiny gas station/auto repair shop in the town of Tiny Gas Station/Auto Repair Shop, waiting for it to be rebuilt. We slept in the limo (i.e. didn’t sleep) liked kippers in a tin.
By day five, our frantic parents were demanding that the trip be cancelled, but we voted to keep going. We were going to have fun if it killed us.
It nearly did.
We made it to Oak Creek Canyon. Millennia before humans created fiberglass waterslides with names like Black Hole and Perilous Plunge, there was Slide Rock. Built by God. We walked almost a mile on jagged pebbles, but it was worth it. Sleep-deprived, with nerves ajangle, we hurled ourselves into the wondrous cataract with ruthless abandon, sliding down again and again—until our bodies betrayed us. One by one, we crawled up the bright red embankment, like an artist’s conception of evolving amphibians, and fell asleep. For five hours. In 109 degree heat.
We awoke not as frogs, but as overcooked turkeys. We were redder than the Sedona soil. We walked the crimson mile back, our sunburned soles pierced by flinty fragments. Screaming all the way.
We sat in a stream near our campground, hoping our dead red epidermis would float away in the cool blue water. It didn’t. We lay in our sleeping bags that night, moaning, and despite being manly 13 and 14 year-olds, openly crying.
The next day, the worst of us were taken to a nearby clinic to have Buick-sized blisters lanced. It was the most severe sunburn the doctor had ever seen. We smeared our bodies with prescription ointment, weeping in pain and relief. And then, somehow, we began to laugh again. We were a band of brothers, we’d survived the unsurvivable. We’d bonded big time. And that made the misery almost worth it.
We did eventually make it to the Grand Canyon, after having all of our money stolen, our brakes fail (again), our trunk catch fire while we were searching for the deer we’d hit, and…
Oh, yeah, the scar. That came 20 years later when the basal cell cancer—courtesy of five hours in the Arizona sun—was cut out of my shoulder. Now, when I see the scar in the mirror, I think, “Don’t ever do that again, you idiot.” But also…
Boy, I miss those guys.
To read my next Scar Story, click here.
Awesomeness!
this should go out to all the outdoor mags.
It is a cautionary tale, and so very well told.
So fun, crazy, horrifying etc. I loved it. My basil cell removed from my face came from my 8th grade graduation trip. My nickname became toasty which came from my completely toasted face. So I reiterate, “Don’t ever do that again you idiot!” HAHAHA
How did any of us ever make it to adulthood?
Ahhhh,what fond memories. This was awesome.
Don’t think you’ll have a problem recognizing the “man in the mirror”
When I think back to the crazy stuff, I wonder how survived adolescents.
Amen!
Can’t say how many stories I’ve heard of people visiting my home state and going home red-faced and blistered, but yours tops them all! Maybe we should hand sunscreen to everyone who enters and tell them falling asleep in the sun is prohibited, upon pain of anything they’ve experienced before. 😩
Should be a state law! ;>)
Your mother must have been worried every time you left the house. WHAT is that Mitch going to get into today… 🙂
What she didn’t know, didn’t hurt her. Nearly killed me, but didn’t hurt her. ;>)
Awesome story, engagingly told. I am willing to bet each scar on each body has a story attached to it, waiting to be told.
Yep. Pretty sure you’re right about that, Russ!
Been there, but in the girl’s summer camp version. Yours was way more exciting and dramatic. Oh, those natural water slides, and those burns. We girls relished the sun (baby oil and iodine). Crazy.
Haha that sounds like the story of my life – ‘what mother doesn’t know isn’t gonna hurt her’ 🙂
I hope this doesn’t come as too forward or rude, and I’m glad to know you got the cancer removed – but what about the rest of the band of brothers? Are they alright?
Hi Parvathy. Re. the rest of the band of brothers: I honestly don’t know. I only stayed in touch with one of them, and as far as I know he never developed skin cancer.
That’s good to know 🙂 Glad to know you recovered too.
Great story about living in the moment 🙂
Wow, that is quite the story. They are always better when we look back on them than when they actually happened.
Or less painful at any rate. ;>)
Compared to yours, Mitch, the sponsored trips of my youth were very dull. No brake failures. No days spent sleeping (not sleeping) in a sweltering van. No blistery sunburn. No money stolen. No burning cars/vans/buses. (I think my youth sponsors may have been a bit more responsible than yours. For example, they never would have let us sleep in the sun for five hours!)
Yeah, we liked them, but I do suspect that was the last outing for those two guys.
Laughing here, once again, not at your pain, but the story itself, is priceless. What an adventure…how ever did you survive to adulthood? 😀
Not sure, Karen. Angelic intervention?
I think you’re right, probably a plethora of angels… lol
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** fair-skinned woman at computer nods head and says, “Yep.” **
;>)
Oh wow, I didn’t see that last part coming. It was a very entertaining read, but I hope you are all well now 🙂
I’m fine. Fortunately, basal cell cancer moles are normally a one-and-done surgical removal. But thanks for your concern!
Such great writing, Mitch! And holy cow to the experience! 😬
Thanks, Kara!