Diary of an Alcoholic Housewife

by Brenda Wilhelmson

  “Max isn’t,” Peter said with a grin.

  “Yes he is,” I said.

  Peter shook his head and chuckled. “He just told me, ‘We’re driving 2,000 miles to a big hole in the ground.’”

  “You’re bullshitting me.”

  “I’m not,” he said, laughing. “Go ask him.”

  I pulled Max aside.

  “I’m not thrilled about camping in a stupid hole for five days,” Max admitted.

  “But we’re all looking forward to this,” I said.

  “You’re looking forward to it. Not me or Dad.”

  “Dad doesn’t want to go either?”

  “Ask him.”

  “I can’t believe you’re calling the Grand Canyon a hole in the ground,” I said stalking off.

  Driving home I said to Charlie, “Max tells me you don’t want to go to the Grand Canyon.”

  “I want to go,” Charlie said. “I’m just not sure I want to camp down there.”

  “It’s the trip of a lifetime,” I said.

  “I’m sure it will be great,” Charlie said.

  “A trip of a lifetime for you,” Max said.

  When we got home I began packing up the car, grateful I had something to do other than cry. Mike showed up a short time later with a bottle of tequila.

  “Do you have to do all this now?” Mike asked. “I could push my flight back a day or two.”

  “Got to go,” I told him. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

  Late that night I sat on the deck with Mike, who was sloshed. “Thanks for coming,” I told him and kissed him on the cheek. “My dad really loved you. I love you, too. I have to go to bed now. I’m about to collapse.” I gave him another kiss and left him to drink.

  [Sunday, June 24]

  We woke up in Frisco, Colorado, and drove west through the Rockies into Utah and headed east. The ride through the Rockies and eerie windswept desert monuments was stunning. The landscape was swallowing me, and I loved it. I looked at the map and noticed a skinny gray road in the southeast corner of Utah that was a fairly straight shot to where we wanted to go. I directed Charlie, who was driving, to its rock-and-dirt entrance.

  “This has got to be it,” Charlie said. “But I don’t know.”

  “Let’s ask at that general store we passed,” I said.

  An older woman and a teenage girl running the store looked out the window at our Trailblazer, which we’d bought after selling the Jeep. It didn’t look like another person was around for miles.

  “You got four-wheel drive,” the woman said. “You’ll make it. It’ll shave half an hour off your trip and it’s a pretty drive.”

  “Do people use it?” I asked. “In case we get in trouble?”

  “Oh, cowboys take that road all the time.”

  We drove back to the dirt road and took it. We bumped along, twisting and turning, grinding up steep inclines, inching down declines, and sidling up to cliffs and rock formations. It took two hours to get down the gorgeous but boulder-strewn road, and by the time we crossed the Arizona border and pulled into a gas station, it was pitch black. We fueled up and headed for Flagstaff.

  [Monday, June 25]

  Our guide called and said he and his girlfriend, Amanda, were running late.

  “You’re unlikely to see us before ten,” Todd said. “Meet us at the trailhead. We’ll sleep in our cars and start hiking down around three, three thirty. We want to start before the sun comes up and avoid hiking in the heat as much as possible. Eat a huge dinner tonight because you’ll need the fuel.”

  We left downtown Flagstaff and drove through brown barren land to the Grand Canyon National Park. As we entered the east gates I asked a Native American woman collecting entrance fees if the dirt road at the south rim would take us to Havasu. Todd had told me not to take that road, which was direct, because it didn’t go through. He told us to take the roundabout three-hour way instead. But having taken the unbeaten path through Utah, I felt like maybe we could handle it. The woman looked at me like she wouldn’t mind sending me down the bad road but gruffly said, “No, you can’t get through.”

  We wound our way through the park, pulling over at scenic overlooks. The kids and Charlie, thank goodness, were awestruck. We exited the west gate, stopped at a gas station to fill our water bottles, ate a big steak dinner, and headed for Havasu. We drove up a stretch of Route 66 dotted with neon signs for tiny motels before entering total darkness. Eventually, we turned onto a road that ended at the trailhead in sixty miles. Charlie began driving at a snail’s pace. Mule deer, cattle, and jackrabbits jumped onto the road, eyes glowing in our headlights. At eleven we pulled into the parking lot. It was surprisingly packed with cars. We drove slowly along the canyon wall, lighting up people sleeping in their vehicles and shoving gear into backpacks. We turned around at the end, headed back, and Todd appeared in our headlights. He directed us to a parking spot next to his car, and we unloaded our gear into bags that would get tied onto horses that would bring down our heavy stuff. Max and Van unrolled their sleeping bags and went to sleep in the back of the Trailblazer. Charlie and I reclined the front seats, opened the sunroof to the stars, and slept in the soft breeze blowing through the windows.

  [Tuesday, June 26]

  Todd knocked on our car at four in the morning. We lugged six large duffle bags to a beat-up semi-truck trailer the Havasupai use as an office and stood there for a moment in the muted gray light.

  “I hope they know to put these on the horses,” Todd said. We started down the switchback trail carved into the canyon wall. The trail was alternately steep and flat, powdery and rocky, wide and narrow. Half an hour into the hike, Charlie let out a howl.

  “I turned my ankle on a rock,” he wheezed. “It’s okay. It’s a little sore. No big deal.”

  I felt zero sympathy. I’d bought hiking boots that hit above the ankles for the kids and myself at Todd’s suggestion. I’d told Charlie to do the same, but he purchased a low-cut pair. Amanda gave me a strange look as I stood there looking like a hard-hearted bitch, and she stooped to help Charlie.

  We hiked on before stopping at two enormous horizontal slabs of red rock jutting out of the canyon wall, one above the other, and ate a breakfast of sandwiches between them. We continued down, and the canyon walls grew taller and taller as we descended. The sun peeped over the edge of one wall and turned the canyon into a brilliant show of light and shadow. I raised my eyes and said, “Thank you.” Turning to Max I said, “Isn’t this awesome?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” he answered sarcastically. “It’s just great.”

  We hiked on, periodically taking rest and water breaks. The sun rose higher and the temperature grew hotter. After five hours, a stream appeared and the desert became dappled with green trees and vines. We descended a steep area and Charlie, who’d been bringing up the rear, shouted, “Aw fuck!” I turned to see Charlie lying on the ground grasping his shin and hugging his knee to his chest. He was moaning loudly.

  “Was it a scorpion?” Todd asked, rushing to Charlie.

  “I twisted my ankle again,” Charlie hissed. “The same one.”

  “Oh,” Todd said, looking mildly irritated. “The way you’re holding your leg, I thought a scorpion got you.”

  I stifled my urge to kick Charlie and gave the boys a drink of water. After much panting and gasping, Todd found Charlie a walking stick and we began hiking again. At ten thirty, we arrived at Havasu Village: a dilapidated town of shack-like homes and paddocks full of skinny horses. There was an office where hikers checked in, a run-down general store, and a shabby, overpriced café. While Todd and Amanda checked us in, we walked to the café for a second breakfast. A helicopter was noisily hovering nearby. When it landed, Max yelled, “Mom! The guy who plays Kiefer Sutherland’s father on 24 just got out of that helicopter!”

  “Cool,” I said, glad he was psyched about something.

  “Why couldn’t we take a helicopter?” Max complained. “Or at least horses. Our supplies are riding dow
n on horses but we have to hike? Don’t you think there’s something wrong with that picture?”

  I walked away from Max and ordered Indian fry bread, French toast, and Cokes in the café. We hiked for an hour more and arrived at camp by noon. Todd looked through the heaps of duffle bags, backpacks, and rucksacks piled next to the horse corral, but our tent, food, and clothes weren’t there.

  “I’m sure our stuff will turn up,” Todd said. “Why don’t you guys go hang out at the falls. Amanda and I’ll get a campsite. I’m going to go tell the guys running the horses about our bags.”

  We followed a small wooden sign pointing to Havasu Falls and stood, awestruck, at the wide swath of water cascading over a red cliff before crashing into a crystal-clear pool that pushed into myriad smaller pools. We took off our hiking boots and wool socks. The water was the perfect temperature of icy. We carefully made our way around the rocky edges of the surrounding pools, and I squeezed Van’s hand as water gushed between our legs and yanked at them. Many of the pools had shallow edges with deep swirling whirlpool centers. The boys began pushing and shoving each other into the gentler water, and by the time we walked back to the corral, they were soaked. It was three o’clock and our bags were still missing. Charlie began wringing his hands as he looked at our dripping boys.

  “I’m sure they’ll show up,” Todd said. “I’ll take you to our campsite.”

  “Wait,” I said, watching a train of horses heading down. “Our stuff might be there.”

  Ten minutes later, the horses clomped into the corral and Todd scanned their packs as they entered. “They’re here,” he shouted.

  We set up camp, washed in the stream that ran next to it, and Todd and Amanda cooked pasta primavera.

  Before crawling off to bed, Todd said, “I used to sleep on the ground without a tent. The guys I hike with are hardcore. You’re a wimp if you sleep in a tent. But the last time I was here, a scorpion crawled into my sleeping bag and stung me. I got pretty sick. Snakes have slithered into my sleeping bag, too. I sleep in a tent now. Shake out your sleeping bags before you get in them and zip your tents up tight and you’ll be fine.”

  Max stared at me.

  “What?” I said.

  “You’re trying to kill us,” he deadpanned.

  “That’s my plan.”

  [Wednesday, June 27]

  Todd cooked pancakes for breakfast, rigged a rope harness for Van, and we set off hiking for Mooney Falls. We reached a cliff and began winding our way down to the falls. Hugging rock, groping for finger holds, and snaking around to a cave, we lowered ourselves down the cave’s narrow passage before walking out onto a small rocky platform facing Mooney Falls. Todd pulled the rope harness out, fastened it around Van, and clipped Van to a safety line. I began lowering myself down the side of a vertical cliff on a weathered wooden ladder lashed to the rock, then used iron footholds and a crude chain railing jammed into the rock. Van descended next, and Todd clipped Van’s safety line to the chain railing. Todd descended after Van, followed by Max, then Charlie, then Amanda. Van and I would climb down several feet, stop, and Todd would unclip Van’s carabiner and move it down the chain. Mist from the gushing waterfall sprayed us as we descended. When we reached the bottom, we stripped down to our bathing suits and I looked up the steep cliff we’d just come down. I’m a bad mom, I thought.

  We jumped in the water, swam through outer pools, and stopped at one that fed into a stream. I sat on the edge of the pool basking in the sun, my legs dangling in the water, and watched Max and Van wading in the stream, scooping tadpoles and minnows into water bottles. I felt happy and free, and my family was along for my ride whether they liked it or not.

  We spent hours swimming from pool to pool and hiking along the stream. We ate trail mix and granola bars and eventually headed back. We climbed the metal ladder chained to the canyon wall near the base of Mooney Falls, then pulled ourselves up using footholds in the rock aided by the dangling chain. We reached the flimsy wooden ladder roped to the canyon wall, climbed it, and continued up through the cave and eventually hit the flat trail back to camp.

  “Wow,” Todd said. “You guys are brave. A lot of people wouldn’t have done that. What did you think?”

  “I’m questioning my fitness as a mother,” I said.

  “You should,” Max blurted.

  “But I’m thrilled we did it,” I added. “It was fabulous.”

  “Good,” Todd said. “Now that we know we can make this, we’ll hike to Beaver Falls tomorrow. We have to hike back down to Mooney Falls to pick up the trail, which is a challenging four miles. The trip there and back should take about seven hours.

  “Great,” Max muttered. He trudged back to camp watching lizards skitter across our path. “I wonder if I can catch some of these guys and sell them on eBay.”

  [Thursday, June 28]

  We woke up early and ate oatmeal and bagels and hiked back to Mooney Falls. We hiked along the stream, left it, and entered a swath of canyon carpeted in thick thigh-high vines. We began hiking through them, and Todd began stomping his feet and told us to do the same.

  “Why are we doing this?” Max asked.

  “To scare away rattlesnakes,” I answered.

  “Thanks for taking us on a vacation where we’re constantly risking our lives,” Max said.

  “We shouldn’t have a problem,” Todd said. “Snakes don’t want to see you as much as you don’t want to see them. It’s when you surprise them that you run into trouble.” Todd slowed his pace and began hiking next to me. “With me in the lead, I’ll take the first snake bite.”

  “If anything happens to you, we’re screwed,” I said.

  “There’s a snake bite kit in the bottom compartment of my backpack,” Todd said. “It’s a syringe device with a suction cup on the end. Right after a bite, you attach the suction cup to the bite and pull back on the plunger. It sucks out the poison. I tried it out to see if it works and it does. It left me with a welt.”

  “Hey,” Charlie shouted. “Look up there.”

  Two desert buckhorn sheep were roaming the cliffs along the canyon wall to our left. We continued on and entered a hilly area covered in vines and canopied by trees. Todd began clapping his hands in addition to stamping his feet. I assumed he was doing this to prevent snakes from dropping out of trees on us.

  We hiked out of the vines and back into desert landscape and came to a stream. We grabbed our hiking sandals out of backpacks Todd and Charlie were carrying and put them on.

  “We’ll leave our sandals on when we have to cross a stream more than once during a short period of time,” Todd said. “Otherwise, we’ll change back into our socks and boots because your wet sandals will start to chafe your feet.”

  A number of our water crossings entailed climbing over slick downed trees, navigating around swift currents, hiking through deep water with Van riding on Todd’s back, and picking our way over slippery rocks. Out of the water, the trail sometimes became dangerously powdery soft, giving away under our feet. So Todd had to find alternate routes over and around steep cliffs covered in sheep scat and spiny cacti.

  “We’re a bunch of lemmings following Todd,” Max muttered.

  “What was that?” Todd asked.

  “Max thinks we’re a bunch of mindless animals about to follow you off a cliff,” I said.

  Todd laughed hard and we hiked on.

  “Great vacation,” Max grumbled. “I’m sick of hiking. I just want to go home.”

  Charlie was huffing and puffing behind me. “Van is exhausted,” Charlie wheezed.

  I turned and looked at Van. Van looked like he could hike for days.

  We reached Beaver Falls in four hours. About fifteen people besides us had made it there from camp. A group of college-age guys were climbing up the sides of the falls and jumping off into the water below. We dove into the water and swam for a while before putting on our boots and hiking back.

  “I hate this,” Max hissed. “I hate hiking. I hate this vaca
tion.”

  “The only way to grow is to push beyond your comfort zone,” I told him. “You can have a mediocre life or an exceptional life. You get a mediocre life by staying in your comfort zone. What we’re doing here is huge. I’m really proud of you and Van.”

  I looked at Van, my little outdoorsman, happily hiking along. If I hadn’t pushed out of my alcoholic comfort zone, I wouldn’t be here torturing Max right now.

  [Friday, June 29]

  I woke up at dawn, grabbed my yoga mat, and hiked to Havasu Falls. I began a series of sun salutations facing the cascading water, its pounding vibrations reverberating through me. I started crying and lay down on my mat and wept. I miss my father. I’m petrified I might die just like him. And like my dad, I want to grab life by the mane and ride it hard—except sober.

  I used to think alcohol and other drugs were the way to living large. Using them made me fearless, allowed me to throw up my arms and scream “Wheee!” until they turned me dull and stupid. I was drinking to escape things that pissed me off, bond with friends, celebrate good news. My anesthetized life was a pathetic shadow of what it is now.

  Henry and Eve are still drinking and in sad shape. Eve shows up at meetings once in a while looking haggard and unhappy. And the last time I saw Henry, he was in a hospital bed proving that alcohol and diabetes don’t mix.

  Sometimes, when I’m speeding down the highway, wind whipping through my hair, I still fantasize about smoking a joint and drinking a beer. Then I remember Deidre, whose husband and sons recently checked her into rehab and changed the locks on her house so she couldn’t come home after one of her binges.

  I can’t envision my life getting as bad as Henry’s, Eve’s, or Deidre’s. But I’d climb into that same bullshit façade I used to live in. I see Kelly at our son’s soccer games with her new boyfriend. They put on the same public displays of affection she and Joel used to. Kelly and I will occasionally go out to lunch, and she always makes a point of telling me how happy she is.

  When I finished crying, I sat on my yoga mat facing Havasu Falls. A feeling that I was connected to something much greater than myself filled me. I rolled up my mat and began walking back to camp. We’re hiking out of the canyon at sunset. My kids are going to have to dig deep to hike all night. But when we climb out of the canyon at dawn, I hope they see they’re made of strong, extraordinary stuff.