Free David's Inferno by David Blistein

Canyon.
    But I keep imagining my road-weary VW Camper being hemmed and heckled by loutish RVs, throngs of tourists jostling me dangerously close to the edge, and out-of-control scenic-ride planes strafing me on their way to the bottom of the Rio Grande.
    Further proof that rational thought isn’t my strong suit.
    So, I’ve ended up at Zion—which may be more human-sized than the Grand Canyon, but still makes you feel like you just got unceremoniously shoved into the dispassionate face of God or a reasonable facsimile.
    I’ve spent two cool, drizzly days here, wandering, biking, hiking, and uttering the occasional proforma soul-wrenching scream.
    You can see how some native Americans would have been pretty impressed if someone had come along and said they’d been up-close-and-personal with the God who made all this stuff. No knock on Jesus, but it’s still kind of hard for me to imagine an intermediary … you just want to worship the cliffs themselves.
    March 30, 2006: Zion National Park, Utah to Sedona, Arizona. 303 Miles
. I wouldn’t say I have unreasonable expectations for my stay in Sedona. My thinking goes something like this:
    This place is allegedly one of the earth’s big-time power spots. Therefore, I shall be healed.
    The true power of Sedona has been enshrouded in New Age babble. I am cynical about said babble and will be taught a valuable lesson in humility. Therefore, I shall be healed.
    I’ve heard that viewing the sunset from the Sedona airport is a transforming experience, complete with Native American shamans banging on drums. And, while many tourists will be there, I will hear the beat of a different drummer. Therefore I shall be healed.
    I will be able to escape the maddening crowds by waking up early and taking a solitary walk to Bell Rock, which is a famous energy vortex (that’s a good thing, right?) Therefore, I shall be healed.
    This morning, after my walk to Bell Rock, having checked off another box on my list of potential divine interventions, I hurry nervously back to the van and drive on.
    March 31, 2006. Sedona, Arizona to Phoenix, Arizona. 142 Miles
. For the last few days I’ve been at another trade show; this one at a “destination” resort outside of Phoenix, where I’ve re-rendezvoused with my business partner, close friend, and partner-in-crime (just two as I remember … crimes that is), along with his wife who’s one of my oldest friends and mother of our goddaughter. In other words, we’re family … and a fairly functional one at that. So I’ve been able to relax a bit, secure in the knowledge that they’ll hustle me out of harm’s way if I start staring catatonically, ranting deliriously, or both at the same time—no mean trick.
    Like back in Anaheim, I realize that a trade show isn’t all that bad a place for the borderline bipolar. Every few minutes you get to try out your latest imitation of a perfectly sane human being on someone new. If you screw up, you can just mumble an unintelligible but relatively inoffensive comment, and let someone else repair the commercial damage, if any. Next victim! Besides, everyone at this resort is clearly as deluded as I am. I mean the idea of vacationingat a place on the edge of the desert where, except when playing golf, you hunker down in air-conditioned comfort worrying about skin cancer, is easily as wondrously strange as anything that’s ever gone on in my head. Every morning at sunrise, driven out of bed in my par-for-the-course morning frenzy, I find myself virtually alone on the trails under some seriously spectacular skies. Early Sunday morning I go for a bike ride. Phoenix looks like a pretty reasonable place to live at 6 A.M . The cars are sleeping.
    Still, that ever-present waxing and waning shadow in the back of my throat remains as vivid as any of the colors of those dusty desert sunrises.
    April 4, 2006: Phoenix, Arizona