The Emergency Mule
For me, the key to deliverance is the emergency mule. While physically absent at my height of need, he’s become the embodiment of my most sacred hope: Rescue. Rescue from anything that impinges on my enjoyment of the moment. A crying child, a boring conversation, disorder in my apartment. No matter its source, any trace of discomfort evokes wistful longing for the emergency mule.
My junior year in college, my anthropology professor coaxed me and my friend Diane to take an educational, cross-country trip. Psych majors (anthropology minors), we were more interested in asking ”how does that make you feel?” than hiking and camping in the desert for three weeks to study Indian ruins. But the trip offered seven credits, an opportunity to see the southwest, and, my professor promised me, a kick-ass tan.
On a scorching July morning in upstate New York, Diane and I, along with two anthropologists and twelve of their devotees, piled into an un-air conditioned van bound for the hottest regions in the country.
I love the desert. Its taupe, pink and purple hues; the profundity of its silence. I have more pictures of Chaco Canyon than I do of my birthdays, graduations and wedding combined. How I’d love to return. Only this time, I’d do it with people more in keeping with my ilk.
Let me say, right off the bat, that unless I’m at gunpoint, I will never again pitch a large, cumbersome tent with heavy metal poles on a rocky surface in the middle of a sandstorm.
Point number two. I had no idea we wouldn’t be afforded showers for nine days. Especially given the hours – the days — we spent marinating in sweat, seated closely in our mobile pressure cooker. Granted, we rinsed under a waterfall on day six or seven. But true cleanliness was as attainable as sex with George Clooney. The day we ventured into Mexico, I was warned that, as a blond, I’d attract overwhelming male attention. Concern was for naught. My hair was so grungy, I looked like a feral brunette. No one gave me a second glance.
Indian ruins were fascinating. For two days. By the third, they were simply randomly situated piles of interchangable, half-crumbled rocks. Sure, their structures had been difficult to erect. But so had my tent. As far as I was concerned, their only purpose now was the entertainment of odiferous anthropology zealots with blistered feet carrying baggies of stale trail mix.
To avoid midday heat, guided tours through Indian sites generally began at 7:00 or 8:00 am. Operating on four hours of fitful sleep and a half a cup of instant coffee, I’d fantasize macing the lecturer, being plucked off the ground by a helicopter, and given a pedicure en route back to New Jersey. I began coping with the tours by positioning myself to procure the tan I’d been promised. This fast earned me a reputation as a prima dona among the anthropology students. One night, sitting at the campfire, one of them tossed out, ”Hey June. You can’t get a tan from fire, you know.”
Piqued, I retired to my tent.
I have yet to mention the porta-potties. How vividly I recall holding my breath, yet feeling – actuallyfeeling – the stench penetrating my pores. Sometimes I’d bound out, gagging, and be forced to make another attempt. Or two. Twenty some-odd years later, I’m still dogged by the ghastliness of it. I am incapable of using anything that doesn’t flush. Even if I could, I’d sooner let my bladder rupture, just on principle. At least I’d die by my convictions.
We spent the final day and a half of the trip at the Grand Canyon. A few of us hiked to the bottom. With evening came flies; the heat was stultifying. Five of us discussed hiking back to the top. Our decision to do so was not made lightly. The climb would be tough, and lit only by the moon. Anyone with the slightest doubt they could make it were begged not to come.
I knew Stacy would be a problem. No reason, really, just a gut feeling. And she didn’t let me down. Two-thirds of the way up, she croaked, ”I think I need to rest.”
Rest. Stacy needed to rest. As if she alone was exhausted, aching from the interminable trials of the past three weeks. I’ll spare you the recap of my suffering. Suffice it to say, my fingers twitched with the desire to squeeze her neck until her eyes flew out of their sockets.
While Stacy power napped, I curled up on my space blanket (to wit: a large, tear-resistant sheet of tin foil) and prayed for the mercy of sleep. None was forthcoming. The wind had picked up, reducing me to a shivering mass of hostility. By the time Stacy felt refreshed, the sun was coming up.
The last third of that hike was grueling. Just putting one foot in front of the other required Herculean will. Time stretched out before me like a piece of salt water taffy. Growing delirious, I stopped to drink from my canteen. When I looked up, the sign was right there before me: Emergency Mule, dail 555. Below it was a telephone.
I stood motionless, envisioning the haloed creature who could deliver me to salvation. He was strong, fearless, and cute as hell. I revered him with an unprecedented ferocity.
I wanted to pick up that phone as much as I’d ever wanted anything in my life. But given my grumblings about hygeine and attention to my tan, I knew it wouldn’t be looked upon with favor. My unpopularity among the anthropology students would intensify, perhaps even pervade other departments. English lit, biology, criminal justice: To students campus-wide, I would be chum.
So, I never did make the acquaintance of my emergency mule in the Grand Canyon. But in my inner world, he hoofs on, poised to carry me away.
← Worth His While | Cocoon →
Oh June! I occasionally lament the lack of adventures in my past, until I read someone else’s recollections and I’m reminded of why I don’t.
Though the tales do give one awesomely funny blog fodder.
Lynne, I know what you mean. I’m glad I took the trip, but at the time I just wanted to go HOME. Adventures are great, but there’s something to be said for a hotel room. Bed, shower…all that crazy stuff. Thanks for dropping by!
What a story! I love daytime camping activities like hiking, picnics and even the evening campfire, but I can’t stand being dirty and if I have to sleep on the ground, everyone pays for it the next day. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an archaeologist until I realized that a huge part of it would require being dirty and surrounded by bugs.
Shary, everyone pays for it the next day…that’s funny. And it’s true about archaeology. It involves lots of dirt. Writing can be tough, but at least it’s clean!
Wow! Now that is definitely one for the books. I never thought of boredom as “violent” but I do now! And all the grungy dirtiness. ICK! Thanks for the fun read!
Thanks, Michael Ann. I’m glad if I made you smile. And I’m not sure if “violent” works, but for some reason I like it.
June, you should take up a side career, and write travel brochures, seriously you have a calling. I despise camping on any level. There is no room service, to sexy cabana boys, no electrical sockets, or mini fridge with 100 dollar bars of chocolate, but hotel bed can share bed bugs. Have you and the other anthropology students planned a reunion?
A side career, Brenda? Hell, I’m gonna put everything else aside and pursue it full time. Me! A travel writer!
Why am I not shocked that you hate camping?
This was truly funny and memorable. I love how your inner mule hoofs on…in wait to carry you to safety. I love the ending…how it circles back to your first paragraph that made me long for an explanation. Great writing and wonderfully funny story.
Thank you so much, Annie. You made my day.
WOW June! As an anthropology major I so don’ envy what you went through. I just have to ask where in upstate NY? The professor wasn’t by any chance McGuire or Cobb?
Hugs!!
The professor was Jean Simonelli, Cat. It was in Onenta. Wouldn’t it be funny if….
Still awesome. Oneonta is not far from where I grew up. My professor from Delhi also teaches at Oneonta and he teaches anthropology – Gedmintas.
Hugs!!
That was an AWESOME story. However, you couldn’t PAY me to go camping or hiking, in the desert for three DAYS, let alone three weeks! I need running water and room service.
There’s some wisdom in that, Meleah.
Oh June! I am so glad I found the time to be able to read this! NanNo has made me nuts! But wow, I really wished you had called that Mule, you took me along for that grueling time and didn’t call the mule!!! I want the mule, he sounds cute and fuzzy and he will carry you! C’mon in retrospect,don’t you wish you had called Mr. Mule? See what peer pressure does to people? lol
I always wished I could have had went to the bottom of the Grand because the top was SO yawningly boring! Now I see I missed nothing, ok maybe the mule which hang everyone else, I would have called for! Thanks for the mental time away with this great post!
I love that you love the mule so much, Samantha. It really made me smile.
June, this post is simply brilliant! I savored it from beginning to end, and then went back and read it again! Oh my goodness, I have thoroughly enjoyed reading about your travails. You had me at tan and I was convinced to join you on the camping trip. However, you lost me at no chance to bathe for nine days. Woman, they must have smelled you females ten miles away! I think I have a favorite post, although I’m reluctant to let go of my previous favorites. Maybe I can open yet another slot on the favorites list! My favorite line? “But true cleanliness was as attainable as sex with George Clooney.” bwhahahaha! I love it!
You are a hell of a writer, June.
I will see your 3 days camping in the desert and raise you 3 days of WINTER camping in Quebec’s frozen north. Granted, we did not have unruly tents on rocky surfaces. Instead, we dug a pit in the snow, covered it with a tarp and called it home. And we did not spend hours hiking out of a giant ravine. We spent days snowshoeing OVER a mountain. Like you, though, I was not the most popular camper on the trip. It is, apparently, frowned upon to light up a smoke while snowshoeing over a mountain. I think they all knew Nicky was going to be a problem. Unfortunately, nobody had a choice as we had to get over the mountain to get to the bus that would bring us back to civilization. The worst part? Sigh. There was no mule.
I. HATE. Camping.
Ugh, even though I’d want the great tan there’s no way I could handle being there for even an hour. But I do so love the idea of a phone with a sign that says, “Emergency Mule, Dial 555.”
This is the single-best post I’ve read in weeks. It’s extremely well-written, it’s funny, and it’s meaningful. As a bonus, you gave it a great title that drew me in. Wow. *deep bow*
The single-best post besides Nicky’s masterpieces is what you meant to say. Right? Mike?
Coming from you, Mike, that’s a big deal. Thank you.
I am not sure how you figured out I didn’t like camping, must have been all my princess whiney ways. I did forget to mention ( I was reading this post during a meeting and otherwise distracted when I go to the commenting) but this was a fine piece of writing. You had your readers sweating and miserable along side of you.
Thanks, Brenda.
Sounds like a fun trip. Where do I sign up? In all seriousness, I have to agree with your assessment of ruins. Only I can’t give them two days. I’m done after one. And I will take a pedicure anytime, even if I do have to go to New Jersey whilst getting it (kidding).
Pedicures rock, Laura. Ruins do not. About New Jersey, watch yourself. You’re on very thin ice.
Loved the post, June. Totally agree about porta-potty brain residue. Once you experience one it’s hard to scrub it from your memory.
I think this was one of your best posts. There are so many of them!!!!!
Great title, too. I once got lost in a parking garage and had to be escorted around the garage in the security mobile in order to find my car. Never had an emergency mule, though. : )
Escorted through a garage in a security mobile, Lauren? No offense, but hahahahah!!!! I’ve come close, but you sealed the deal. Can I have your autograph?