The other day I visited
The so-called city that never sleeps
The paradise for shopping, eating, shopping and eating
Or so I was told

But did you know that
The city that never sleeps
Actually does go to bed
In face of compelling force

All it took was a typhoon of strength 8
And happily the city took a break
Woebegone is the clueless traveler
That banked on the city that never sleeps

Because the city actually slept.

Pre-there: In the mid80s, if you wanted to camp
In the back end of the Grand Canyon, Havasupai,
In a time of year not bittercold nor stiflehot,
You called the Supai folks as soon after New Year’s
As they would answer the phone, to be
One of the Trout-in-a-Fishery people
To gobble up camp space/time
Before it was all gone–the Fourth
Would probably have been too late.
One of the lucky, you wiretie your permit
To your pack frame, and fill that pack
With four days’ unconstituted food and clothing and
First Aid (the second time, you’d include moleskin)
And propane ministove (looked like a robot anteater),
Stuff to read, a flashlight to read it with, etc.
You sling your tent & bag beneath, and canteen your shoulder.
You drive through Seligmann (small) and Peach Springs (tiny; dusty)
To arrive a few hours before predawn, and
You sleep if you can, rest if not, till first light.

There: Out of your vehicles, stiffish, you and your Camping Party
Moan and flex and glugglug; an Ice Chest stays behind
Incentivizing the long climb back up the switchbacks
Four days hence.
Negotiating those zigzaggy hairpin turns
You let gravity Slinky you down as effortlessly as
Your kinaesthetic skill dictates.
If you’re in shape you run lightly.
At the foot there is then ten miles of pathkeeping
Across gravel, hardpacked earth, woodbridge,
Creekstone, even sand
In the gashwinding hike through the woods
Past the sparse homes of the broad green meadow
And the red/orange-rocked mountainspine sculpture
And past moving water that rushes or crawls
Toward the site.
If you’re lucky you’ll see natives on horseback;
Somehow the hoofnoise gives you energy.
You arrive, doff your pack in relief, sit on a bench,
Empty shoes if need be, bandage blisters if any,
But keep unsedentary till you’ve pitched your tent
And either secured your pack inside the tent
Or strung it between trees on a cord
To prevent faunic thievery or vandalism.

Out: Head full of naturemade soulfilling days,
You head back the way you came, in the dark at first,
Still hearing the waterpound of Moony Falls,
Relishing the snagfraught eightmile creekcross
Hike to the bigriver rush, and the eight miles back,
And the goodtired goodsore reality of your body,
And the meandering conversations with old, new, and
Probable Friends.
The rock stacks in the predawn glow statelily,
And the climb back up the switchbacks is not easy
But feeling like a superhero fresh from your Origin Story
And imagining the Ice Chest contents, you slowsurge
Up and up and atop.
Alas,
Someone has stolen the Ice Chest.
Miraculously–you laugh!