You betcha! (Grand Canyon)

'Macksamillion?', a tall guy calls out to me from the platform as I hurriedly walk towards the bus station. Dave, my driver, has singled me out in the dark among all the passengers to take me from Flagstaff to Williams. I was already worried that I might miss my connection due to the 90-minute delay, and then the train from Williams to the Grand Canyon. Dave is in his early 70s, an old hippie with a gray ponytail. His look: Jeff Bridges from The Big Lebowski meets Jeff Bridges from True Grit. He suspects that because of his appearance, he is often asked for drugs by addicts at the station. This seems to be a problem even in a small town like Flagstaff.

'Thank you.', I say as I sit as the only passenger in the warm van and Dave closes the door. 'You betcha!', he says in a typical Southern accent. During the 40-minute drive, he explains to me that he has passed his swimming pool company on to his son, but doesn't want to simply retire and therefore drives the Amtrak transfer route from Flagstaff to Williams. We are traveling on a portion of the famous Route 66.

Dave was almost in Vietnam, a special unit, but just before his deployment, the war ended. He was also stationed in Germany at some point: 'But I don’t remember which military base.' On his ranch, he had dealt with some wild animals. Unfortunately, he had to shoot a mountain lion with his revolver. When he came home, he found the animal in the chicken coop. Only after the lion lay shot did Dave realize that it had actually just wanted to jump over the fence and had not intended to pounce. 'I was very sorry to shoot it.'

He talks about rattlesnakes that he used to kill in droves. Once, on LSD, one of the snakes was right in their camp. Aiming at the rattlesnake while tripping, he couldn't spot it among the many sticks on the ground. But then his enhanced perception kicked in and he hit it right in the head. Well, not really a heroic feat, since he had used a shotgun shell, i.e., shot ammo. I can tell how Dave has told these anecdotes dozens of times. Every pause lands well. As he narrates one story after another in his Southern slang while driving through the snow-covered mountains of Arizona at dawn, I feel like I'm in a scene from a Coen Brothers film.

He drops me off right in front of the Grand Canyon Railway Hotel. 'You betcha!', he hands me my backpack from the trunk. 'Enjoy the United States!'

The Grand Canyon Express is two and a half hours on the way to the famous gorge. It doesn't depart until a quarter-hour Wild West show is performed at the platform. A few cheesy jokes and firecrackers. I prefer to get into the warm train instead. Once again, I am the only solo traveler, but I stand out even more from the usual clientele, as there are either just families or older couples in the compartment. I assume that people my age usually drive to the canyon, as most do. As I soon realize, the Grand Canyon Express is primarily designed to combine the trip to the natural phenomenon with an entertainment program. A conductor of retirement age introduces himself to the microphone every quarter hour to announce one program point after another or to hand out handouts with a few facts about the canyon and the train route. After barely finding any sleep on the train from L.A. to Flagstaff, I try to take short power naps, but I had underestimated the many entertainers who demand full attention. A guitarist sings evergreens and Christmas songs, one of the sheriffs from the pre-show at the platform walks through the aisle on patrol. I am again jolted from my second sleep when a young photographer takes pictures of the passengers and makes jokes to lighten the mood. When she approaches me, she asks, 'It's just you? I mean the two of you?' She gestures to me and my backpack, which is sitting right next to me on the seat. I pose, and she snaps a few pictures while I put my arm around my backpack. She names it 'Charlene'. 'Are you sure it's a her?', I ask her. She gives my backpack an appraising glance from top to bottom and replies, 'It's definitely a her!' Okay, she is indeed quite funny.

When we arrive in Grand Canyon Village, the snow shower has intensified. '...and there.. is the Grand Canyon.', the conductor points to a fog field. He reassures us regarding the weather. It should clear up in the afternoon.

I’m not getting anxious, as unlike the day-trippers, I am staying overnight. Fortunately, I can check-in early and catch up on the sleep I missed on the entertainment train.

At the Angel Trailhead, which descends from Grand Canyon Village into the valley, I run into one of the Amish couples who boarded the train with me in Los Angeles. They have ten children, all on their farm in Wisconsin. They traveled to the West Coast for a business trip. He explains to me that they allow themselves exceptions in certain situations to use otherwise prohibited technology. For example, they would get rides from non-Amish from nearby villages. However, airplanes are taboo. Contrary to my previous assumption, the Amish are anything but ignorant. He is very well-informed about the course of the war in Ukraine. They receive news from the newspaper, just not in real-time from the television or the internet.

A lot in their lives is currently in transition. Their farms are no longer competitive. Therefore, they lease their land and make more profit than before. Actually good, as this allows them to focus on other businesses. He tells me that he is currently handcrafting kitchen furniture, says the Amish man. I want to know if he thinks this development is ultimately good. He is skeptical. It is more likely to lead to more and more Amish questioning their traditional way of life. This is now specifically leading to the fact that his wife is progressing slowly with her shoes. They are more suited for household chores than for a steep descent in snow. I wish them both a good hike and walk briskly downhill while the clouds slowly clear, exposing views of mighty rock walls and the expansive canyon.

Further down in the canyon, there is no snow, but the path is full of mule droppings, as they are used for hiking tours.

Going down is always faster than going up. Just as I am pondering how far I can still go to make it back up before sunset, I hear a noise at a hairpin turn. Behind a hill, not five meters from me, a deer steps out. It walks in my direction, and I take a couple of steps back. My presence doesn’t seem to bother it. At a leisurely pace, it walks further down the slope, lets me observe it for a few minutes, then climbs further down. I follow its movement and spot a doe down in the gorge. The two seem to have a date.

It couldn't get any better, so I walk back uphill. Halfway up, it starts to cloud over again. 'It’s playing hide and seek.', the Amish woman had commented on the changing weather. Now it suddenly starts to snow heavily. To admit, I didn't even know until a few hours ago that it can snow in the Grand Canyon. The snow shower doesn’t last long, and further up I have a view miles towards the northern side of the canyon. It is bathed in violet-orange twilight.

In the evening in the hotel cafeteria, I place a can of beer on the tablet with my burger. The man at the cash register reminds me of the alcohol consumption rules. I must open the can in front of him and then drink it within the dining room. Thus, Arizonans cannot take the previously purchased beer can outside to drink a beer under the clear starry sky. Strict rules in the land of unlimited possibilities.

After I comply, the friendly, smiling cashier lets me pass. 'Now you can start your planning for the hike tomorrow.' He can read minds.

My planned hike the next morning leads me along the rim of the canyon on ice-covered paths towards the viewpoint in darkness. I have to turn on the flashlight on my phone to avoid slipping on the smooth paths.

From a rock ledge that extends about fifty meters into the gorge, I have a magnificent panoramic view. To the left in the west, the full moon sets, and to the right in the east, the sun rises. As the clouds glide along the canyon and dissolve, and the sunlight casts long shadows on the rocks, the scene changes minute by minute. A few hundred meters further lies another viewpoint to which some Americans have driven. The air is crisp, and despite the distance, I can hear a few voices and the slamming of car doors. But as the scenery becomes increasingly stunning, even the last few stop talking. Such a sunrise over the Grand Canyon silences even a bunch of Americans.

And again, I find myself aboard the entertainment train, this time back to Williams. The conductor hands out more handouts: '13 reasons why you are great grandparents', '5 reasons why you are as grand as the Grand Canyon', etc. A country musician in a cowboy costume sings Johnny Cash songs. My photo with my backpack 'Charlene' is offered to me for 40 dollars and up. No, thanks. The short deputy warns us of a heist, and indeed, the train is stopped by two train robbers dressed in black. They silently walk through the aisle, and I let myself be 'robbed' of a dollar. I'd give five if they would just move on soon and let me enjoy the scenery. The cherry on top are cheap cow jokes from the conductor: 'How do you call a cow that is running after a train? Fast food.' Oh dear. And indeed, just before arriving at the station, a woman in a pink cow suit waves alongside the train. Oh God, how am I supposed to describe this phase of my life on a resume?

In the small town of Williams, there’s still time before the Amtrak transfer with the van, and I go into a diner. A few pickup trucks are parked in the oversized lot. At the counter, there are guys in baseball caps and jackets in military green. Next to the entrance, there is a 'shooting range' set up with plastic guns for kids. Local news is playing on the television: 'Fight turns into shooting in Phoenix.' On the screen above the counter, however, it’s football and the hillbilly reality show 'Duck Dynasty'. A series following a Redneck family of duck hunters who have come into money. The American version of the Geissens.

The BBQ restaurant with all the cliches is a miniaturized stage of the States. Small Town America in a nutshell.

In the small train station hall of Flagstaff at 5 a.m., I run into the two Amish people again, with whom I descended part of the Grand Canyon on the first day. They managed to make it down to the small forest they had seen from above the next day in better weather. My backpack provides conversation fodder again, and they ask me about the countries I have visited. 'Cambodia, is that like a developing country?', the Amish asks me. The father of ten is 47, but the interest in his eyes and the youthful smile could belong to someone in their mid-20s. He is full of questions about the world outside. In a way, very typically both typical and atypical American at the same time. Just because of their minimalist lifestyle, I find the Amish very sympathetic at first glance. They once decided in the 19th century: Enough progress, that's sufficient for now.

The other Amish men with their long gray beards lean forward with interest. One tries it with Pennsylvanian Dutch, which is similar to German: 'Wie bist du?', a mix of the German 'Wie geht's dir?' and the English 'How are you?'. 'I'm good, a bit tired.', I reply. 'Mied', they would say in their altered language. It almost reminds me a bit of Yiddish.

As we stand outside in the cold at the platform, I stare into the clear starry sky and catch a shooting star for a fraction of a second. I turn to one of the younger Amish, 'Did you see this? A shooting star!' He smiles but doesn’t seem quite as thrilled as I am at that moment. On their farm in Wisconsin, without electric light and distractions, they probably see such natural events more frequently.