Into the Canyon

By Lisa
This was a bad idea.
From between clenched teeth, I muttered the same words over and over.  “Please don’t fall, Maggie.  Please, please don’t fall.”
With every plodding step, Maggie’s hooves skittered off the side of the canyon trail, sending rocks and crumbling sandstone tumbling down, down, down the cliff.  She scrambled to keep her footing as we descended into the canyon, and I was positive that, any second, we would follow those rocks and plummet to our deaths.
Why had I ever thought that taking a trail ride to the bottom of Bryce Canyon would be fun?  I had never really ridden a horse -- save for tame trail rides, and pony rides as a child.  But that morning, after an invigorating hike amidst the orange-and-white-striped hoodoos, slightly sunburned and full of desire to see more, always more, I had wandered into the Bryce Canyon Lodge to ask about their trail rides.
It had seemed like a good decision.  A little spontaneous, but that’s what my solo road trip was for: to get out of my comfort zone, have an adventure, do things I didn’t normally get to do.  So I asked, there was an opening, I paid my fee, and a little while later (after some help from the laughing trail guide) I had awkwardly climbed atop Maggie the mule and we began our four-hour trek.  The trail was steeper than it looked, and felt steeper from my vantage point on top of this large animal I had no idea how to control.
And she was going to fall.
I repeated my prayer -- “please don’t fall, Maggie” -- and heard a chuckle.  I looked up, and the guy on the horse in front of me was grinning.
“What’s so funny?”  I asked, the accusation clear.
“Sorry.”  He stifled another laugh.  “But I promise you that mule won’t fall.”
I eyed the skittering hooves, and squeezed the reins into a death grip as Maggie lurched sideways.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.  Look, I’ll give you a million dollars if the mule falls.”
Despite my pounding heart, I let out a short laugh.
“Thanks, but -- I don’t think there’s any way for me to win that bet.”
He grinned at me, still twisted in his saddle.  He was cute.  He was teasing.  I felt better.
“I’m Lisa,” I said.  “Thanks for distracting me.”
“My pleasure.  I’m Parker.  Well, Parker is my last name, but no one calls me Jeff.”
For the next couple of hours, Parker and I chatted now and then, usually when he looked over his shoulder and saw the panicked look on my face.  The way back up -- another couple of hours -- was less scary, and Parker’s smiles and encouragement were welcome distractions.  I eventually relaxed into the rhythm of the ride, trusting that Maggie knew how to keep her footing, and basked in the beauty of the canyon.
Afterwards, Parker and I chatted our way up to the parking lot, where we realized we were heading off in opposite directions.  We exchanged emails.
At the end of the trip, we were offered the opportunity to purchase photos taken of us on our mules/horses descending into the canyon.  Mine somehow looked like I was having the time of my life and not petrified of falling to my death.
That photo is now sitting on my desk, a reminder that spontaneous decisions can lead to unexpected joys, however brief they may be.  Even though I didn’t keep in touch with Parker, he was there for a reason: so that I now look back on that trail ride not as something I had to endure, but something that I accomplished.  Something I even enjoyed, eventually.  Thanks, Jeff Parker, wherever you are.
But I won't be going on another mule ride to the bottom of a canyon anytime soon.