My wife, The Queen B, and I had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon.

Wednesday, March 28, 2001

My wife, The Queen B, and I had always wanted to see the Grand Canyon. I wanted to see a gorge a mile-deep, 4 to 18 miles wide and 217 miles long. A hole that big approaches the size of the potholes we get in this area each spring. The Queen B said she wanted to see something that was even bigger than my mouth.

I suggested to my wife that if we really wanted to see the Grand Canyon, it might be a good idea to go to Arizona. My wife could sense that I had done a lot of research in this area, so she agreed with me. Once I had regained consciousness after fainting from hearing her agree with me (that doesn’t happen every year), we made plans to visit Arizona. I thought the best method would be to travel in a southwesterly direction. I also felt that if we were going to fly, an airline should be involved. The Queen B nodded and the next thing I knew, we were in Phoenix.

I had to be there for some business doings and had planned to combine those with a vacation with my lovely bride. As are most people, we are normally either pressed for time or money or both. This trip was no exception to that rule. We took a hot air balloon ride across a desert. A delightful flight at a cost made reasonable by me providing much of the hot air. The name of the hot air balloon we flew in, the Hindenberg, did supply some uneasy moments. We rode in a basket, standing up in it like two drumsticks at a picnic. We watched a couple of other balloons bump into one another and enjoyed the argument that followed between the pilots of the two. We floated high and free for a couple of hours, watching a van struggle to keep up with us. The van was there to pick us up once we landed, but it was limited to travel via roads, while we traveled as &uot;the crow flies.&uot; We landed in the desert, were dragged through a congregation of cacti and then like good Minnesotans, we had breakfast.

At breakfast, we talked of how time was getting away from us on our vacation and with the obligations I had, it was going to be impossible for us to drive to the Grand Canyon. It was right then and there that I made an executive decision -&160;with my wife’s permission, of course. We located an airline in Phoenix that flew small planes down into the Grand Canyon. I called them and the lady on the other end of the line described the flight as more fun than an adult should be allowed to have. I flagged down a taxi, the driver of which immediately took us to the wrong airport. Realizing his error and knowing what time we needed to be on the plane, he drove at an extremely high rate of speed to the correct airport. I didn’t mind him driving down the sidewalk and I loved it when he slowed to a 100 mph for turns. I knew the flight had to be better than our taxi ride. I was wrong. The Queen B and I boarded a tiny plane with room for seven people including the pilot.

My wife took a seat in the back with four other intrepid travelers and I seated myself in the co-pilot’s seat and tried to talk the pilot into letting me fly. We took off at about half the speed of the taxi. The plane was very noisy, but we were enjoying the flight. The scenery was breathtaking. I found myself watching a little red plane flying close to us as we neared the Canyon. I had the time as the pilot had already stopped talking to me. I was watching this little red plane when all of a sudden it began to bounce up and down like it was a basketball being dribbled by Kevin Garnett. Hot air thermals. I remember thinking, &uot;I’m glad that’s not us.&uot; It soon became us.

We bounced like our bodies had no bones. Airsickness bags were put to good use. We flew down into the Grand Canyon. I saw the Grand Canyon. If you ever want to fly down into the Grand Canyon, I’d advise you to get the flu instead. It’s a lot cheaper and you get the same result.

Hartland resident Al Batt writes columns for the Wednesday and Sunday editions of the Tribune.