Thanks for the Ride
We had just gotten married, so I was standing on the side of the road with a cardboard sign. My sign said “Grand Canyon,” with about five smiley faces. My new husband stood just behind me trying not to look axe-murdery. There weren’t many cars passing, but when they did we waved and smiled. It was sunny, but cold and the air smelled sweetly of pines and volcanic dust. Standing on the side of the road, we were vulnerable to the kindness or unkindness of every passing stranger. It was exhilarating; and exhausting. Soon a red beat-up pickup with a hatch pulled over. We picked up our bags and ran for it.
An old man in flannel and suspenders eyed us over the lip of the half-rolled-down window. “You kin crawl in back there”, he said. He jerked a thumb to the truck bed. We settled onto the ribbed floor and snapped a few selfies. #thumbsuphoneymoon #notdead #stopworryingmom. The old man watched us in the mirror. After a few minutes he pulled over again and slid open the cab window. “Climb up here and tell me about yourselves.” His words ran together in an accent so thick I had to think hard about each word. Hank was from Louisiana. “Just woke up one day, wanted to see my country ‘fore I died,” he explained. “Don’t ‘spect I have much opportunity left.”
I didn’t ask how old he was, but I could guess by the way his gnarled fingers grasped the steering wheel, the veins standing up in coiled bumps. Hank was old. As we drove we told Hank about our trip. He told us about his childhood along the bayous. “Were you scared of alligators?” I asked. “Nah, weren’t none back then. Now they’re protected.” At the lip of the canyon, Hank parked the truck. He slid to the ground and pulled a cane out from behind the seat. My husband ran ahead to the railings and stood pressed against the wind and blue sky peering into the vast space. I stayed behind with Hank, watching each ponderous step puff pale dust on his black orthopedic shoes. At last the three of us stood watching the black dots of buzzards circle far below over the red river. The hills spread out before us, layer upon layer of purple disappearing into the horizon. “It would be more romantic just you and me,” my husband said in my ear. By then it was late in the afternoon. We didn’t know where we were sleeping.
So we went with Hank out to the National Forest where he could sleep in his truck. We had trail mix for dinner. The area was peppered with “No Campfire!” signs, so we simply watched the sky turn pink and then gray and then flood with stars. Hank sat silhouetted on the tailgate and watched deer flit through the dusk. My husband whispered, “If it were just us this would be so amazing.” In the morning Hank drove us to the canteen and bought us breakfast. We sat together across the table, drinking concentrated orange juice and talking about the future. I was returning to college. My husband was starting a new job. Hank wasn’t certain where he was going. Maybe Four Corners. Maybe home. He dropped us off at South Kaibab Trailhead. With the motor running, he shook hands with my husband, told us to take care of each other, and left.
We hiked all morning, down and down and down into the Grand Canyon. It was steep and dry; exposed. At midday we stopped to rest in an oasis thinly shaded with poplars along Tonto’s Trail. We washed the dust from our faces in the trickling creek and made love on a rock. It was our honeymoon, after all. Around us the canyon threw a million shades of red shadows. After lunch (more trail mix) my husband turned thoughtful. “We’re never going to see that old man again.” “No,” I agreed. “I wish I’d appreciated him more while we were with him,” he said. “I wish I’d walked slower, waited. I had this idea that our honeymoon would be just us, but it was special because we met Hank.” In the years of our marriage, sometimes he would talk about Hank. Hank became a symbol of regret. Then we got divorced, so we were sitting on the courthouse steps in the shade, remembering. “I still wish I’d walked slower,” he said. I remembered the three of us standing over the canyon in all that blue sky and pine-sweet wind, and I wondered if regret and gratitude are two sides of the same emotion that we get to choose between. Either way, when we said good-bye and thanks, we meant it.
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