Northwest Missouri State University - Tower Yearbook (Maryville, MO)

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fttuiO ■ thii 20 May ■ What, without plagiarizing, can one say about the Grand Canyon? It is rather large, certainly; all of the choice adjectives, such as awesome, gigantic, enormous, have been reitterated many times. It is pleasantly colored, especially if you like off-whites, brow- nish reds, and greys. It was 10:30 or later before we finally started down into the canyon on the Kaibab Trail. We made fairly good time, despite frequent stops to rest and hear geology lectures. When we stopped at the half way point for lunch, nobody was ready to give up except the few who had never intended to go all the way. Mr. and Mrs. Earle Moss finally turned back, and Mrs. Cargo decided that she had enough blisters already . . . We held together fairly well all the way down through the Bermian, Pennsylvanian, Mississippian, and Cambrian strata. But about the time we entered the Precambrian schists. Dr. Cargo ' s knee started to give him trouble. He stopped to rest, telling Diana Stanger to take the lead and go on. Unfortunately, we caught our first glimpse of the river soon after that. The sight of all that cold water, so deceptively close, has a rather bad effect on morale. Our ragged column quickly degenerated in a rout. I was about the ninth one into camp, and found the first eight sitting in a row beside Bright Angel Creek, soaking and moaning. I quickly pulled off my shoes and crawled down to soak and moan with them. We slept under the stars. Everyone was soon deep in slumber, lulled by the clank of boulders rolling down Bright Angel Creek and by the rhythmic stroke of latecomer ' s flashlights across their faces. 21 May ■ We were awakened at 5:00 this morning by the cheery blast of somebody ' s in- fernal Boy Scout whistle. We broke camp in two groups, the second one leaving around 7:00. This time, our orderly formation only lasted about ten minutes. Dr. Mallory decided to send the leaders on and wait for the stragglers, and Roger Rowlett, Kirby Newby, and myself set out in hopes of catching the first group. Kirby, who seems to have he-man preten- sions, took off like a shot. We found him sitting by the trail with a very red face, a half-mile or 80 further on. Soon we were running into stragglers from the first party, which apparently hadn ' t stuck together for very long, either. Roger would mountain goat by them, smiling benignly at the exhausted mortals, while I followed in his wake, dispensing lemondrops to the needy. The Tonto desert region, with its pink cactus blossoms and towering yellow spikes of agave, soon fell behind us. We were passing through a temperate zone, complete with Missouri-like willows and wild oats, exotic in their familiari- This pleasant interlude soon came to an end. The trail suddenly tilted upward, and we began to climb an endless series of switchbacks which crept up the near-vertical canyon wall. Soon even Roger was willing to call a halt every ten minutes or so. Mule trains became public enemy No. 1. They always appeared when the trail was less than three feet wide, and we would find ourselves plastered to the face of the cliff or balanced precariously on the brink. The bald old men with hairy legs would grin at us as they passed by, pretending to be old mule-skinning prospectors from way back, while their plump, terrified wives followed, clinging to the reins so hard that the poor mule ' s mouths would be drawn into false grins. Then, when the last passenger had gone by, we would have to wade through what the mules had left behind. We did derive some amusement from the other wayfarers that we met along the trails, though. Soon after we left Indian Gardens, the midpoint of the trail, we began to find dayhikers who were traipsing along, sans can- teen, wearing sandals or even going barefoot. The four of us must have been a frightening sight to them as we stumbled up out of the depths in our full gear, with the sweat running off our eyelashes. We always reinforced this im- age with some cheery remark, such as Turn back, before it ' s too late. You couldn ' t believe what a lift a few words of encouragement could give to some bikini-topped lass, tip-toeing delicately through the latest mass of mule- pollution. In one shelter house we discovered a gray- haired, shorts-clad senior citizen calmly sip- ping on a cup of icy soda pop. He had carried it all the way down from the canyon rim, three miles away. His will power must have been tremendous. The last half-mile was the killer. Everyone we met kept telling us that we were almost there. But somehow, every time we were almost there, we would come arou nd a switchback and find another stretch of trail ris- ing ominously before us, with another switchback waiting at its end. Then, suddenly, I was at the top. A thundercloud suddenly appeared, sending a deliciously cool breeze that swept over the ca- nyon rim. Roger joined me and we con- gratulated each other on our tremendous feat. We had some victory lemondrops, and hobbled across the parking lot to the lodge. 22 May ■ They had to run John Grimes into a hospital here last night. He had complained about a stitch in his side while climbing out of the canyon, and had gotten a thorough ribbing from Dr. Mallory about Marines that couldn ' t take it. As it turned out, what this Marine couldn ' t take was a case of appendicitis. This morning we spent the usual 45 minutes at Sunset Crater National Monument, viewing the crater from a distance and browsing in the park information center. The rangers must have thought we were a tour for the han- dicapped; all of the canyon hike veterans were hobbling around like so many arthritic ducks 23 May ■ There was a 45-minute stop at the Great Meteor Crater this morning. Then we continued our easterly trek to the Petrified Forest. All of the little desert towns for miles around were prefaced by big welcome signs, bearing something like: WELCOME TO HOOTOWL JUNCTION In the Heart of Petrified Wood Country we finally reached the Forest itself. I had to admit that all those huge, agatized logs were pretty impressive, especially if you were a Missouri rockhound who ' d spent hours grubbing in gravel bars for pieces of the stuff an inch long. From the Petrified Forest we headed for Albuquerque. The bus was apparently back on the main tourist dr ag; the roadsides were crowded with the billboards of competing trading posts loudly proclaiming bargains in steer horns, pottery, turquoise jewelry, and moccasins. All were named in some manner that suggested American Aborigines: Three Arrows Trading Post, Tomahawk Trading Post, or just plain Indian Trading Post. One particularly persistent advertiser was called the Wigwam Trading Post. It turned out to be a circle of concrete teepees. Since this was the next to the last night of the trip, the majority were in favor of having a night on the town in Albuquerque. So Wilbur pulled the bus into the Old Quarter of town about 7, and Dr. Cargo turned us loose, with in- structions to reassemble at 10. Most of the groups made a beeline for the nearest Mexican restaurant, then went m search of something to cool their throats. I con- tented myself with browsing in the various shops. The whole area was one enormous joke on us poor, unsuspecting gringos. Most of the shops carried almost exact duplicates of each other ' s stock: exhorbitantly priced turquoise jewelry, and cheap stamped-copper and blue plastic imitations, various pieces of leatherwork, a few wood or onyx chess sets, bolo ties, some saucers with Souvenir of Albuquerque, N.M. and a Spanish-style building on them, and some clay pottery. There were a few specialty shops, selling only wrought iron gewgaws or tin pots or 47 varieties of cheese. Behind every counter was a smiling, dark-haired, middle aged woman, who spoke with a faint Latin accent. I had never realized that the prostitution of a culture could be so humorous. It was even more fun when you stopped to realize that you were just another typical stupid gringo mark . . 24 May ■ We stopped for lunch at a pretty little alkali lake in New Mexico. There were five- inch-tall cacti with huge, bright pink fiowers scattered about, brightening the landscape. At least, they were scattered about . . . Now they ' re all planted in one spot. If Dr. Mallory hadn ' t intervened, they would all have been growing in Missouri now. Tomorrow morning we ' re going to have the test over the trip. Dr. Cargo reviewed us tonight, and scared the bejabbers out of us. I ' m not going to worry about it though. If the Lord hadn ' t wanted me to pass this test. He would have pushed me off a cliff in the canyon. 25 May ■ HOME . . . 25

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GEOLOGY FIELD TRIP nine days road OUT M est by Alan McNarie On May 17, 1973, 49 students and teachers departed from NWMSU on a nine-day bus voyage to points west. The tour, sponsored by the geology department, included stops at the Garden of the Gods, Mesa Verde, the Four Corners, Meteor Crater, the Sunset Volcanic Crater, and the Petrified Forest; and a 17-mile hike to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The following is condensed from the journal of one of these explorers. 17 May ■ Limon, Colo. We ' re spending the night at a commercial campground. The robbers are charging us a buck a head. Limon is still out on the plains, and the campground is a treeless rectangle surrounded by a cowpasture, with a laundromat and tourist trap in the center. We had originally planned to be at Rama Reservoir tonight, but the van took a wrong turn and we ended up waiting for it at a gas station for two hours. 18 May ■ Alas, another dream has died. The Rocky Moun- tains are not all majestic, snow-capped peaks. Oh, there are a few which fit that description, brooding like big white ghosts on the misty horizon. They remain as untouchable as a picture postcard. The mountains that we got to crawl around on generally looked like overgrown Ozarks. The high point of the trip today was Wolf Creek Pass (10,800 ft.). The bus stopped at the top, which was high enough to have some snow on it. We all got out, heard the required lecture on the San Juan Mountains, then threw snowballs at Dr. Mallory. 19 May ■ Most of the territory we crossed today was Navajo land. Once we stopped at a genuine Indian trading post. It looked like a grocery store, minus the liquor section. At Four Corners, everyone got a cheap thrill by standing in four states at once. There were two little Navajo Girls there who posed for pic- tures with the tourists, while their mother sold beads. Our first view of the Grand Canyon came about sunset. We all agreed that Evel Knieval must be an idiot to consider jumping that thing.

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