Roughing it De Luxe | Page 6

visitors follow the Bright Angel Trail which is handily near
by and has an assuring name. There are only two ways to do the inside
of the Grand Cañon--afoot and on mule-back. El Tovar hotel provides
the necessary regalia, if you have not come prepared--divided skirts for
the women and leggings for the men, a mule apiece and a guide to
every party of six or eight.

At the start there is always a lot of nervous chatter--airy persiflage flies
to and fro and much laughing is indulged in. But it has a forced,
strained sound, that laughter has; it does not come from the heart, the
heart being otherwise engaged for the moment. Down a winding
footpath moves the procession, with the guide in front, and behind him
in single file his string of pilgrims--all as nervous as cats and some
holding to their saddle-pommels with death-grips. Just under the first
terrace a halt is made while the official photographer takes a picture;
and when you get back he has your finished copy ready for you, so you
can see for yourself just how pale and haggard and wall-eyed and how
much like a typhoid patient you looked.
The parade moves on. All at once you notice that the person
immediately ahead of you has apparently ridden right over the wall of
the cañon. A moment ago his arched back loomed before you; now he
is utterly gone. It is at this point that some tourists tender their
resignations--to take effect immediately. To the credit of the sex, be it
said, the statistics show that fewer women quit here than men. But
nearly always there is some man who remembers where he left his
umbrella or something, and he goes back after it and forgets to return.
In our crowd there was one person who left us here. He was a circular
person; about forty per cent of him, I should say, rhymed with jelly. He
climbed right down off his mule. He said:
"I'm not scared myself, you understand, but I've just recalled that my
wife is a nervous woman. She'd have a fit if she knew I was taking this
trip! I love my wife, and for her sake I will not go down this cañon,
dearly as I would love to." And with that he headed for the hotel. I
wanted to go with him. I wanted to go along with him and comfort him
and help him have his chill, and if necessary send a telegram for him to
his wife--she was in Pittsburgh--telling her that all was well. But I did
not. I kept on. I have been trying to figure out ever since whether this
showed courage on my part, or cowardice.
Over the ridge and down the steep declivity beyond goes your mule,
slipping a little. He is reared back until his rump almost brushes the
trail; he grunts mild protests at every lurching step and grips his

shoecalks into the half-frozen path. You reflect that thousands of
persons have already done this thing; that thousands of others--men,
women and children--are going to do it, and that no serious accident
has yet occurred--which is some comfort, but not much. The thought
comes to you that, after all, it is a very bright and beautiful world you
are leaving behind. You turn your head to give it a long, lingering
farewell, and you try to put your mind on something cheerful--such as
your life insurance. Then something happens.
The trail, that has been slanting at a downward angle which is a trifle
steeper than a ship's ladder, but not quite so steep perhaps as a board
fence, takes an abrupt turn to the right. You duck your head and go
through a little tunnel in the rock, patterned on the same general design
of the needle's eye that is going to give so many of our prominent
captains of industry trouble in the hereafter. And as you emerge on the
lower side you forget all about your life-insurance papers and freeze to
your pommel with both hands, and cram your poor cold feet into the
stirrups--even in warm weather they'll be good and cold--and all your
vital organs come up in your throat, where you can taste them. If
anybody had shot me through the middle just about then he would have
inflicted only a flesh wound.
You have come out on a place where the trail clings to the sheer side of
the dizziest, deepest chasm in the known world. One of your legs is
scraping against the everlasting granite; the other is dangling over half
a mile of fresh mountain air. The mule's off hind hoof grates and grinds
on the flinty trail, dislodging a fair-sized stone that flops over the verge.
You