In May of 1942, after several happy months at the ranch of a school friend of mine out east of Springerville, I decided that the west was for me but I wanted to go out and see more, and headed for Grand Canyon. One look from the rim, plus a jaunt across the canyon to the still-snowy North Rim was all I needed. I phoned mama, back in Boston, and said, "Send me my clothes and bike; I've found Utopia."

Pa Shirley found me a "hashing" job at the Motor Lodge cafeteria, working with Sam and Jeannie Bracco. Those dear people saw to it that I always had enough days off in a row to run down to meet Norm Nevills' monthly river trip with its big party at Phantom the first night; or a 3-day hike over to Clear Creek to catch hellgrammites under the wet rocks for Byron Harvey's annual fishing (and "lost") weekend party. Sometimes I'd pop down to Phantom after work for an exploring trip up Phantom Creek, up to the Utah Flats, or the North Rim for a few days. Phil and Em Pouquette ran the ranch with only a maid to help during the busy season. The old generator was turned off at 9:00 P.M. so by the time I arrived it was usually dark. So I'd take a cooling dip in the pool and roll out on my ground cloth by the Rec. building until morning.

Hiking up the old B.A. Trail from Phantom was sure fun, too. Em would see that I got a chunk of cheese, a few left-over hotcakes from breakfast, and an apple or two, and loan me a blanket if need be. There were no Box Canyon bridges then, so I had three crossings on foot. Eventually my feet got so tough that I'd just go barefoot between them, with not only my boots but most of my clothing slung over a shoulder. After all, I was one of the few nuts who hiked during those war years, and unless a lone fisherman surprised me I had the canyon to myself. Bliss!!

During those years the Hermit Trail was closed. A webbing of barbed and hog wire had been stretched across the trail in the Hermit Shale just below the Dripping Springs turn-off, but it was easy to pull it aside enough to wriggle through. I'd swing on down the long traverse, the Cathedral Stairs, and the hot switchbacks to the old terraced campsite in time for a dip in the lovely pool just upstream. And after lunch, a snooze, and a visit with a few curious burros I must head up to Hermit's Rest again, with a nice downhill bike ride back to the village in time for supper.

Even though I often ate at the Motor Lodge, it was more fun to have dinner at the Transportation dining room in back of the E.T. There I could sit and listen to the wranglers trying to out-do each other with "trail tales". Shorty Yarberry sat off by himself usually, chomping on a huge onion (no wonder he was alone!) listening too; but most of the boys grouped together, comparing the day's tribulations, some funny...some not. And when I'd meet them on the trail invariably they'd turn to their string of dudes and say in a loud stage whisper, "Here's that doggone crazy pigtails gal again; you just never know when you're gonna meet her down here!" Boy, was I proud to be accepted!

So really, it's no wonder that when my family had grown and didn't need mom at home, I came out and joined the Park Service at the canyon. Imagine getting paid to do what you like best at the best place in the world to do it in!

Used by permission of the Grand Canyon Pioneers Society.

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