Before leaving Dead Horse Campground this morning, we checked with the internet weatherman. Foreboding. We were headed to the Grand Canyon (parking the RV at Williams en route) and a high of 37 degrees was predicted. That’s Fahrenheit, not Celsius! The folks in Arizona have been caterwauling about the last two winters: a good 10 degrees below normal. Al Gore is hiding like a groundhog until it hits 80---somewhere.
It was bitterly cold as we surveyed the ‘big chasm’ from the edge. A stiff 20 mph breeze was creating a bone-rattling wind-chill factor, made particularly worse since my long johns are tucked away in my dresser in Sacramento (where it is a balmy 67 degrees today!). Carly would have nothing to do with the sight-seeing, remaining toasty in the back of the Honda as we staggered along the various vista points, like members of the Donner party crossing the Sierras.
With all that complaining out of the way, the GC was a glorious sight, and the winds blew away the air-scuzz that marred our last visit here. Today was a clear air day, for sure.
After stopping at at least 5 souvenir/gift shops, Janice was unable to find the perfect Grand Canyon sweatshirt among the 100 or so choices offered. Next stop for such offerings will likely be Death Valley, where the sweatshirt selection is likely to be somewhat meager.
After leaving the park, we toured Williams, which can best be described by the word, “sorry” as in, “I’m sorry.” Besides housing and feeding tourists en route to the Grand Canyon, the main ‘industry’ of Williams is peddling Route 66 nostalgia. Half the stores on the main drag have “66” in their names to entice some oldster who once crossed the country on the old rugged road. Williams better come up with another gimmick, cause those geezers are going the way of the dinosaur.
An inadvertent cruise through one of the town’s neighborhoods would lead one to believe that you can’t be a Williamite unless you live in a single or doublewide, sans tires, or you might qualify in another dwelling if you have a pick-up truck (raised) parked on your front lawn with a couple of big-wheel kiddie toys lying on their side on the front porch. ‘Nuff said? We’re outta here as soon as the cock crows in the morning, if we survive the night.
At the Railside RV Park, the open expanse (maybe 6 out of 100 spaces occupied) of gravel and leafless trees is allowing a cold north wind to howl against us. The temperature is already 28 degrees, on its way to a predicted low of 20. It’s difficult to even contemplate an evening libation at the moment, although I think I can fight off such negativity.
Looking forward to at least 65 degrees tomorrow as we head to Nevada.
>>>>>>
It was bitterly cold as we surveyed the ‘big chasm’ from the edge. A stiff 20 mph breeze was creating a bone-rattling wind-chill factor, made particularly worse since my long johns are tucked away in my dresser in Sacramento (where it is a balmy 67 degrees today!). Carly would have nothing to do with the sight-seeing, remaining toasty in the back of the Honda as we staggered along the various vista points, like members of the Donner party crossing the Sierras.
With all that complaining out of the way, the GC was a glorious sight, and the winds blew away the air-scuzz that marred our last visit here. Today was a clear air day, for sure.After stopping at at least 5 souvenir/gift shops, Janice was unable to find the perfect Grand Canyon sweatshirt among the 100 or so choices offered. Next stop for such offerings will likely be Death Valley, where the sweatshirt selection is likely to be somewhat meager.
After leaving the park, we toured Williams, which can best be described by the word, “sorry” as in, “I’m sorry.” Besides housing and feeding tourists en route to the Grand Canyon, the main ‘industry’ of Williams is peddling Route 66 nostalgia. Half the stores on the main drag have “66” in their names to entice some oldster who once crossed the country on the old rugged road. Williams better come up with another gimmick, cause those geezers are going the way of the dinosaur.
An inadvertent cruise through one of the town’s neighborhoods would lead one to believe that you can’t be a Williamite unless you live in a single or doublewide, sans tires, or you might qualify in another dwelling if you have a pick-up truck (raised) parked on your front lawn with a couple of big-wheel kiddie toys lying on their side on the front porch. ‘Nuff said? We’re outta here as soon as the cock crows in the morning, if we survive the night.At the Railside RV Park, the open expanse (maybe 6 out of 100 spaces occupied) of gravel and leafless trees is allowing a cold north wind to howl against us. The temperature is already 28 degrees, on its way to a predicted low of 20. It’s difficult to even contemplate an evening libation at the moment, although I think I can fight off such negativity.
Looking forward to at least 65 degrees tomorrow as we head to Nevada.
>>>>>>
For those interested in Carly, she has regained her hiking step, as long as the trail is relatively flat and not too long. Go Rimadyl! Still likes to walk between us, looking back and forth to make sure the old folks haven't stumbled by the wayside. She's still got that gleam in her eye that says, "I'm a Trail Dog." 
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