The following words and images describe a recent trip I took with my 64-year old mom, Carolyn O'Neill.

On November 23, 2006 we met in Phoenix, AZ for a one-week journey. We visited 7 National/State Parks; drove 700 miles in a Chevy Malibu, listened to and sang classic rock and rediscovered America.

The inspiration was to learn about the ancient cultures and natural wonders of the Southwest, the value of exercise in the out-of-doors and the importance of living life now a.k.a. it's never too late to grab hold of life and LIVE. I also wanted to partially reimburse my Mom for raising me, one of seven kids, by taking her on what turned out to be the trip of her life.

The following entries are more Trip-Report-meets-Poetry than blog. They are longer and include more images than suggested by the blog intelligentsia but GUESS what: I don't care.

Please enjoy.

Mom, like every day, is up and out the door before I even open my eyes. She's on the hunt for our gratis cup of liquid crack provided by the café in the lobby. It turns out she was cold, in need of warmth, and failed to turn her thermostat on - those infernal machines.

The departure to the Grand Canyon started like most lately, with a wrong turn. After a u-bolt we drove to Humphrey, banged a right and didn't stop until we hit brunch on Hwy 180, served by Betty. Mom went big - steak and eggs, knowing that we were going to put the hammer down at the world's most famous ditch - The G.C., baby.

Plus it was absolutely freezing at the South Rim, with a windchill in the low teens and the calories would combat the cold. About 10 miles out we lucked on another offering from the pantheon of rock classics - Led Zeppelin's "Stairway to Heaven". We belted it out, "there's a feeling I get when I look to the West, and my spirit is crying for leaving!"

Got great parking, Mom put on every layer she had, I walked to the rim, was amazed again. I watched as Mom approached and then scanned across the 10-mile gap to the North Rim.

She grasped the textures, colors and momentous relief of the void below and grabbed hold of the railing.

Later, at the visitor center (thanks again to the Park Service for having such cool and helpful staff at the visitor centers), after Mom narrowly avoided wetting her pants (thanks again to the NP shuttle drivers who carry people to the bathrooms), we took a moment to locate ourselves on a diorama. It was about 25 sq ft and encompassed the 277 miles of incredible river running between Lake Powell above (Glen Canyon Dam) and Lake Mead below (Hoover Dam).

Mom got choked up, teary-eyed, and I was psyched that it was the GC and not me that made her cry. The GC, one of our oldest Natl. Parks, embodies a sense of patriotic connection with our natural resources. It was captured best by an inadvertent four-comment talk I had with a middle-aged woman talking to her husband as he walked away. "I love these giant models - the brown is excellent", she looked at me, realized he had left, and said "sorry", and I quickly replied, "I love this stuff too, the Canyon is amazing", and she said, her voice beginning to quaver, water welling on her lower lids, "I know and it's ours, all ours!"

I guess it is. I don't know.

I do know that the G.C. is a mind-blowing location to check out atop the Mother Earth and the river trip is possibly the best thing you can do while alive. I will depart Lee's Ferry, March 5th 2007, and embark on my 5th journey into the bowels of the ditch. Beg, borrow, bribe, blow, whatever - get on a trip someday.

Eventually the initial hit of Canyon Grandeur wore off and Mom was jonesing for another taste of the abyss, and some resulting vertigo, nipple-freezing wind chill, and sights that force even her to stop talking. We not only double-dipped, but stopped again and again and again at the various pullouts.

The light began to play through breaking clouds and the magic intensified.

I ran down to the edge of a 400-foot sandstone cliff, crawled to the wind-whipped lip and shouted a cry of elation - something about the void makes me realize the potential in life.

If I can climb walls all over the world and my Mom can send the 350-feet gain to the Solado cave dwelling ruins and Sean can push his wheelchair up Mauna Kea in 40 hours - what can STOP us?

Except maybe the police, for speeding, or occluded arteries from too many onion rings, or in the name of love, as Diana Ross implored. Think it over.

We drove 26 miles to the Desert View Watchtower and had our final communion with the Canyon.

Mom climbed the spiral stairs to the 4th-floor observation deck, which housed four 25-cent old-school viewfinders. I looked at the river. Mom examined the talus.

Downstairs she signed us in the ledger, and we represented major props out to our peeps in East Lansdowne - Word!

We tap Macy's as soon as we hit town. Mom says, "This place is a highlight of the trip". She is ready for the tranquil café culture, replete with books, cakes, letters, newspapers, lattés and - the most important requirement - no job. Spinning out on the brewed bean we opt out of night two at the Monte Vista, concerned that Mom may freeze in her room, à la Grandpa in Tuff Shed. In 9.5 minutes we get a hotel; I crack a well-earned Stella Artois, sit back and begin to type.

Mom and I had a wonderful day, even with the caveat of waking up where I left off the last blog - the Globe Days Inn. This morning Mom recognized waste more; she didn't eat at the "bluffet", instead quaffing some joe in her Vic's Coffee reusable mug, toasting an english muffin (no foam plate) and, after perusing, replacing the Globe Weekly in its stack. We were bound and determined to glide through Globe in the Chevy Malibu; get to know it. We saw houses with people like us living in them. After a loop-tape drive of breakfast joint letdowns, we passed the literal Globe, bolted onto a median under the railroad trestle

and accelerated into Miami, AZ, home to the terraced tailings of the Inspiration Copper Company and Mine. We parallel-parked at Judy's Kitchen. Rose waited on us.

She had the counter and Mom was intuitive; she requested her corn beef hashed.

I had the standard two eggs, toast, potatoes and the aberration, four strips of bacon. I wanted to take Rose away from Judy's but I realized then that I didn't know where I would take her. I asked for more coffee when she asked if I needed anything. Idiot. I left the tip, and her there picking it up.

Bikers love the wind in their hair, particularly if it is grey, plaited and adorning a thick-leathered neck. This Hog-lover was photographed outside Judy's.

The term "rumpe viento", literally "break wind", is Spanish for windshield. We broke wind with our windshield on our way to Mom's first encounter with ancient cliff dwellings at Tonto National Monument, 28-miles to the east.

The Solado Indians, who were named in the 20th century, disappeared 700 years ago. The Tonto cliff dwellings are all that remain, plus a visitor center and the bathrooms, the entrance kiosk, a gift shop, the railings. Being the shoulder season we virtually had the place to ourselves, save for some spider-eating wasps and a sleek jet-black raven. 350 feet and a half-mile of switchbacks above was the cave, deeply dimpled into a craggy band of Gila conglomerate. Mom slathered anti-melanoma cream on her exposed skin, gulped H2O, gripped her poles, grit her teeth and set off, already short of breath from the aforementioned prep work.

A short 30 minutes later we crested the trail and entered the ruins. She sent the trail on-sight! There were saguaro, jojoba bushes, and fishhook barrel cacti along the entire hillside. The basin, 800 feet below is now filled with Theodore Roosevelt Lake, formed by the construction of a masonry dam on the Salt River in 1911. A mother, Jamie, and her two children joined us for some pics and convo - they were cool.

We eased downhill, rested on a stone bench, and sat for about 10 minutes of video once back at the visitor center, then postcards, the water fountain, directions and caution with the elk, ignition and eventually classic rock and roll on the radio. Another epic sunset matured as we burned rubber over the forested planes.

Once in Flagstaff we drove straight to Macy's, 14 S. Beaver St next to the Coin-Op Laundromat - the one with the sweet Ms. PacMan. We drank coffee, emailed, wrote p-cards and talked smack on cell phones. We drove a few blocks to the Hotel Monte Vista and happened to rent the Jack Daniels suite 302, two rooms connecting an old-school tiled bathroom.

On my way back upstairs, two cars approached, beeping wildly, they stopped in front of the hotel with a couple who had just been married. I was yelling, celebrating with them outside and in the lobby. I took the steps and the newlyweds took the elevator. As I rounded the carpeted corner he was carrying her into the George Babbitt room, the one next to us.

I ducked back. 20 minutes later, as I animatedly talked red-eye reduction, we hear bam bAM BAM on the Babbitt room wall. I shut up. Silence. Mom and I whisper - then comes muffled moaning, I laugh, Mom can't really hear anything. She keeps asking "What was that banging?", then louder moaning, I laugh, "Who banged?", I laugh, "Why did they bang?"  It's all over 1 minute later.

I coaxed Mom out into the freezing night across the street to Pasto, an Italian eatery and we had soup, fish, bread and WATER.

Mom bailed back to the room and I appropriated the rental car. I called Doug Z, who called Timmy D who called Brandon who invited me over to hang with him and his 3-year old, Tre.

We drove over to let a cat into their friend's house. I told Tre that my job was a rock climber and he said his job was a moon finder, which happens to be a waxing crescent. He said he was three and asked me, "Are you four?" I smiled. Brandon showed me his art, which is also hanging at Macy's.

Cruised back to the hotel. I just rolled my sleeves up and placed a pillow atop the hardwood chair. Tonight we sojourn at the classic Hotel Monte Vista, a 1927-built brick facade hotel in downtown Flagstaff, AZ. My butt is now sufficiently padded and my soul is on fire.

I climbed outside onto the roof under a cold starry night, and looked up at the San Francisco Peaks. With claw-like hands I quietly scaled the metal support back up the wall and into my window and wrote this story.
Good night.

I awoke to a phone call. Mom was using hushed tones to inquire about a friend who suffered a recent aneurism. "That sucks", I mused, "better make every day count". I rolled over and fell back to sleep. At 8:30am I smoothed my pre-oiled hair down and went in search of sustenance and Mom's latest bevy of insta-friends. I returned to our kitchen-equipped room to fetch a reusable bowl, plate, mug and silverware. The inclusive "full breakfast" was served fully on predestined trash. I ate two bowls of Cheerios but they didn't work, as the newsprint conveyed misery, and the TV, idiocy.

It was time to listen and read into nature. Round two with Saguaro Cactus National Park (East) welcomed our eyes and ears with beauty and simplicity. Mom broke out her MSR trekking poles and took note of red legumes.

I coalesced with a gravel wash.

We counted 23 separate arms on a 4-story tall saguaro we named "The King Daddy".

The 8-mile loop awarded us with a deeper understanding of hydrology, geology and geometry. Mom asked why, what, where and when only 53 times in 1.5 hours. I gave her a golden cactus barb.

Next up was a drive into the Catalina Mountains to encounter the famed granite crags of Mt Lemmon and to rise through six unique biological environs - from the inhospitable desert to the Ponderosa alpine forest. We heard about famed pies to be tasted at the Mt Lemmon Café too. We arrived amidst a throng of hungry visitors, noticed the $7 price per piece, took a picture and left only footprints. They regrettably utilize only plastic and Styrofoam too.

During our motorized descent we devoured the half-loaf of Morning Glory's homemade banana bread. Powered by Glo's goodness we broke out Mom's aluminum hiking sticks and I guided the 64-year old O'Neill matriarch a few hundred yards atop a striking rock buttress. I realized then, as I aped proper pole positioning, that there is some truth to what a friend recently told me, "Timmy you seem like such a capable climber because you exclusively climb with paraplegics, amputees and the elderly." The truth hurts, is half the battle and eventually sets you free.

As this is a climber's mini-Mecca of storied stone I spied a trio of spider-like men. I tossed Mom the keys and beat my sandaled feet down the rubble-filled trail below the Windy Point lookout. Whenever I see rocks I get excited. Add climbers and I get frenzied. I have to connect, exchange jargon - "Nice jumars, dawg" and most of all make sure they know who I am - "Have you seen the poop video I did for the Access Fund?" I dubbed them the "Lemmon Rock Jocks" and it wasn't because they preferred a twist of lemon in their Pepsi. Nay, they simply rocked and I saluted them. Josh, their leader, called my cell # after retrieving it from my website to say "thanks for stopping by and making my brother and friend's first climb something special." I realized then that I encourage stalking.

We flowed back into the bajada, drove the Chevy to the levy and drank lattés at a Tucson caffeine'ry. We then stumbled upon the Eclectic Café for cheeseburgers and salad. I made the table attendant chortle, Mom said, "stop" at least three times in one sentence. Properly fueled, we sped into the desert night under the remainder of a variegated twilight. We were bound for Globe, AZ - the town fated to evoke the trip's first meth-lab parallel.

We finally accepted our lack of options, after scrutinizing a grim Motel Sick and are currently ensconced in the Days Inn. It's a cookie-cutter motel, more a Twinkie-cutter actually, with a drab southwestern décor, a noisome scent of cleaning solution and a Doppler effect of 'jake braking' composed below on US-70. The upside is the cost is only $55 with Mom's AARP membership.

Our neighbors (spit) remain awake. They're outside expectorating and yakking about "tearing his f#@king head off" (spit) and "that ain't how you do it ya' idiot (spit), here give 'er to me" (spit). Hopefully Mom won't wake up and try to make nice, chat them up about the Sonoran desert and the potential infectious biohazards of spitting. I better get to bed (spit), place a pillow over my head (spit) and dream of less communicable environs: the Tonto National Monument, the Barringer Meteor Crater my childhood bunk bed snore.

It's Day Two of our inner and outer journey in Arizona. I am in the process of having my Mom become my child and me her parent - no, no tears please, it isn't an incurable wasting disease, it is simply her innocent penchant for talking to every stranger, taking audacious risks - like quickly walking on her toes down an uneven slope, and asking rapid fire frivolous questions. Oh yes, it's life, family, wisdom...alcohol; I have come half-circle and I feel like I am on track.

We struck out in the wrong direction this morning. I finally stopped at a Mexican drive-through eatery to query sweet Lupita on the route to Tucson. She said, "What?" and, after a reiteration, "Go right and look for the freeway". On a whim we exited I-10 East at Casa Grande in search of breakfast and guidance. After three unsuccessful turns around the block on the hunt for The Cookie Jar greasy spoon we sidled into a regional chorizo-and-chilaquilas joint and subsequent heartburn. Next door, the tourist info matron gifted us with copious maps, pamphlets and a stern recommendation to visit the ancient ruins of the Hohokam Indians, 20 minutes west. She was a surreptitious godsend.

Jared Diamond, the academic blow-hard, mentions the Hohokam and their mysterious vanishing in his tome, "Guns, Germs and Steel". (I made it at least as far into the volume as this reference, then vanished myself.) The Casa Grande Ruins National Monument is a simple, austere tombstone punctuating the disappearance of the most complex American society of the time.

Mom and I strolled about the refurbished "big house" with other sundry tourists. Mom tutted at the ignorance of the early vandals who carved their names. I placed a hand jam in a cobbled crack. We both marveled at the diminutive size of the doorways, the grand four stories of mud and mesquite and the paradoxical meaning of prehistoric; does that mean prehis-ChristopherColumbus-toric?

Buzzing south in our sleek Chevy Malibu at 75mph we were surprised with signage indicating an early exit for Saguaro Cactus National Park (SCNP). After a few miles on nondescript creosote-and-palo-verde-lined asphalt, the landscape proffered the Tucson Mountains covered in what seemed to be gigantic, swollen, green toothpicks. They were in fact multitudes of glorious century-old saguaro cacti.

We arrived at the visitor center, windows-down, belting out "Free Bird" by Lynyrd Skynyrd. We reminisced about driving in Mom's early model sans-irritating-flower-vase Volkswagen Beetle with my six siblings. Who needed seatbelts when we had Queen's "We Are The Champions" a cappella or "Wipe Out" simulated syncopation atop Billy's head on the way back from the YMCA?

Mom bought a book that I had not read. I got postcards so I would know where I was.

We sat for the Native American desert appreciation slide show at the West SCNP. It is not to be missed - without deflating the denouement - as the segue from the expounded philosophy to reality was awe-inspiring - veil rising! On our way over Gate's Pass we stopped with a few new friends and witnessed another blessed sunset presentation.

As the sky deepened behind us we dropped down the edge of an ancient caldera remnant and rolled into a metropolis of 900,000 Homo sapiens.

We passed the Bunny Ranch and Hobby Town, monuments to the fact that we no longer hunt or forage or sleep in mud-covered mesquite. Maybe one day a future mom-and-son team can visit our current digs, the Residence Inn National Monument and speculate about the laptop, the newspaper and the pile of bottle caps. Off to sleep on the pull-out couch. Tomorrow we eat famed pie.

11.23.06 [Thanksgiving]

I was back into Boulder and gone again - it was another turnaround for me - but at least I was in town for 5 whole days and got to launder my clothing and put it away before taking it back out again. Also got to mtn bike and climb two days too. The EAT shows went well - good turnout and a great response regarding the format of the show.

I am in Phoenix at the moment hanging with my Mom - the following is a brief yet strange trip report of day one in Arizona:

OK Hello everyone, I am in the hotel and on the computer immediately, checking the hits on my website, praying for someone new to validate my existence, answering an email from a "faux friend" in Mogadishu. Mom is currently slipping into her bathing suit...I know, I know, we should have waited until after dinner as my appetite may get spoiled but we have to go check out the pool and wash away the weariness from the road and air travel. We are staying at the Mission Palms Hotel, room 4103...back in a jiffy...

OK we're back in room 4103. We walked about 1/16 mile (1/8 round trip!) to the outside pool and were gob-smacked by a sunset display of iridescent salmon-pink altocumulus clouds. The pool was too cool so we opted for the heavily chlorinated yet hot and bubbly whirling tub. Mom floated on her back with ease. The jets batted me around. I slid in and out of the cooler but just as heavily chlorinated pool in an attempt to regulate my temperature. Mom was soaking it up. After 15-minutes of human soup under a crescent moon, I grabbed a towel and wrapped Mom's shoulders. On the way out we stopped and took stock of the workout room. In a few minutes we'll stroll out into the Tempe Arizona evening in search of a chunk of turkey, some cranberry sauce and at least two pints of cool un-chlorinated suds for me...back in a jiffy...

Back in room 4103... We found an Irish Pub called Rula Bula, I have no idea what the name could mean - maybe the owner's dog or daughter, maybe both. They served Shepard's Pie for Mom and a plate of Thanxgiving grub for me. Two pints later and a cup of praline ice cream we were out the door with turgid bellies and a heady dose of the simple life on the road.

Mom is sprawled on the bed reading a book, The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I read it last year and can now say things like, "Did you get to where the protagonist girl looses her legs in the chainsaw debacle?" or "Are you at the part where she goes blind from undiagnosed Chlamydia?"  She answers,  "Be quiet and email, would you?"  On to Tucson tomorrow.