When the time came to get to work, I was ready. I had been just hanging around in the desert for a couple of days packing and repacking my clothes for maximum efficiency. Because I'm exactly that kind of neurotic.

The day before we put in on the river was spent loading and rigging the boats. I won't bore you with the minutia except to say that it is an extremely meticulous operation. A full eight days of food, water and gear for fourteen people on each boat is stowed away in well-labeled and pre-planned niches. Food packed in coolers in reverse order. Bread and eggs perfectly fit into World War II-era ammo cans and rocket boxes. Everything exactly the right size for the nook it fits in. It's really very impressive.

Also... there are a lot of knots on boats.

...read the rest...

When I tried to talk to Claire the next morning he reminded me, with all the warmth of Wilford Brimley telling me to eat my goddamned oatmeal, that I was early and that he had no use for me until the following day. I had an entire day to kill. Not so bad except that I feel like I've been hung out to dry. I expected to show up and have someone around to show me the ropes and help me get acclimated to the entire operation.

As it was, I felt eleven years-old again. Like all those summer days when my mom, having no money for a sitter, would drop me off at my grandmother's house with nothing to do. After Matlock, grandma would leave to run errands for the day and there I was, left thinking that I could have just as easily been left alone at my own home where at least I had my BB gun.

So, there I was with a full day ahead of me. I hadn't planned on having free time in Marble Canyon so I wasn't exactly sure how to best spend my time. The sleep I had gotten on top of that boat trailer had been less than stellar, to say the least, so I didn't really feel like trudging my way around the hills in hell-like temperatures by myself so I decided to drive into Page, about 30 miles away, for some cell service and a decent meal.

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I arrived in Marble Canyon, Arizona on Saturday night, more than two full days before Tuesday morning's scheduled launch of our eight-day river trip through the Grand Canyon. I came early because Roger, the uncle who arranged for me to swamp on his trip, told me we were to begin preparations on Sunday at noon. Seeing as how it's a seven hour drive from Salt Lake City, it made sense for me to be there the night before.

As I opened my car door my instant thought was, "Holy JESUS, it's hot here". I have felt the heat of the desert southwest many times but it never fails to surprise me with its stifling heaviness. A few of the locals would later tell me that it's actually noticeably cooler than last year at the same time. I guess the six degrees between 104 and 110 must be significant. At this point, to me, they weren't. All I knew is that it was hot and I wasn't optimistic about spending several more days working in this kind of heat.

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Alrighty, folks. I made it back from my Grand Canyon adventure. I have tons of stories to tell and a vermillion-and-a-half pictures to post. I have that many blisters on my feet and hands too. Oh, did I mention bug bites? Remind me to tell you about all of that. Over the coming days I'll give you a rundown of the entire trip.

I'll give you a teaser though. Sheep. Rapids. Crabby boatman. Homemade beer. Evolution geologists. Sean Penn.

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These are the kinds of parades we have around our house.

Not a handcart or token chubby pageant runner-up in sight.

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Well folks... I'm leaving town and all civilization as we know it, Church Apple Cream Ale in hand, for ten days. Ten days without a phone, a computer, email, Donna, the children, SEX, showers, razors, SEX, clients, co-workers and SEX. Ten. Whole. Days.

The razors part is OK though. I'm growing a beard for my upcoming grand theatrical out-of-retirement-coming. I've never grown a full beard before and I'm curious to see what it'll be like to not look fourteen. Maybe I'll be able to buy beer at Macy's without being asked to show my school ID.

While I'm away I have a handful of photos I've schedule to be posted but beyond that I'll be completely out of touch. Of course, some may argue that I'm out of touch as it is. Rightly so, I'm sure.

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I've been letting Megan play around with the new camera a little bit. She needed a model so I showed her my patented look, "Daddy Angst".

I get that feeling any time she's in a situation where she can turn a thousand dollar anything into a pile of broken plastic. She's getting to a point though that she demands a little more trust and respect with these kinds of things. And I don't mind giving it to her.

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A coworker justifiably outed me as a beer snob today when I scoffed at the idea of drinking beer from a can. It was then that I sheepishly admitted to buying beer fram a grocery store. And not just any beer... an Anheuser-Busch beer.

Now, before all my fellow beer snobs go judging me, this particular beer is AB's summer brew in their seasonal draught series, cleverly branded and cheaply-labeled in order to weasel their way into the increasingly popular craft brew market, Beach Bum Blonde Ale. A zymurgy-wolf in sheep's clothing, I figured, but my curiosity got the better of me so I plunked down seven bucks for a sixer.

I bought the stuff fully expecting a re-packaged Budweiser Select, or something close to it. I've become pretty picky since I started drinking my own homebrew to the point that even some of the authentic craft brews from the local pubs aren't always a sure bet. But, surprisingly, Beach Bum is really, really good.

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"Do you really need to take your water purifier with you?"

"I'll have you know, if I don't drink enough water on my trip, I might die."

"I'm more worried that you'll die from no sex for ten days."

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She used to bullseye womp rats in her T-16 back home, they're not much bigger than two meters...

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Uh oh. I've put myself in a bit of a pickle.

A couple weeks ago a brewed a special batch of beer made with, among other things, Deseret Brand dried apples. Church Apple Cream Ale, I'm calling it.

It brewed up perfectly. I fermented it and racked it to a secondary fermenter along with the apples where it sat until last Sunday. On Sunday, I put most of the beer into 2-litre bottles to carbonate. This plan was supposed to get the beer ready to take with me on my forthcoming eight-day Grand Canyon excursion. Or, as I'm calling it, Certain Death By Sun Exposure. Only a handful of glass bottles were filled as they won't travel well on the trip.

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Dear Asshole,

This is why I'm the asshole who calls the cops when you use illegal fireworks in my neighborhood.

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When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

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I overheard Marie, now eight lanky years old and thinking I was out of earshot, bragging to a cousin the other day about how she's going to be baptized. By this, I infer that formal conversations about the event have taken place. Presumably with church authorities of some kind or another.

Still, not once, have I been included. No date has even been mentioned to me. No permission, authorization or opinion has been asked of me. It is as if my parental rights were forfeited over those of the community at large.

This could not piss me off more. Family, isn't it about... usurping parental input? At whom am I supposed to be angry about this?

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I think my mother may have poisoned me. This is only unusual because normally it's my mother-in-law who tries to kill me with Sunday dinner.

Yesterday, in preparation for my younger brother's visit, mom cooked up his favorite meal. Pot roast with mashed-potatoes and gravy. A crowd favorite to be sure. Oh, and pie for dessert.

I'm not sure of the exact kind of pie she made but I think it was lie-as-still-as-you-can-all-night-to-keep-from-vomiting-while-feeling-both-hot-and-cold-at-the-same-time-berry.

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