The day starts out confusing. We arrive at our campsite in the Grand Canyon around 2 am after swirving around some suicidal elk. In order to go mule riding, yes mule riding, we have to wake up and check-in at 6 am. Disoriented by the time change, we wake up at 4:45 and debate whether it's worth it or not. Matt suggests we consult a genie, and we go for it. So we arrive an hour earlier than early and Matt makes his mother proud by sleeping in the parking lot.
Casey, the trail boss, explains to us and forty other riders that "the wild west isn't dead, it's just hard to see from the golf course."
We're the only ones dressed appropriately.
Three cups of coffee get our eyelids open.
Meet P.K., Boman's ass who has really bad gas.
We break up into smaller groups, and begin our 3200-foot, 12-mile decent into the Canyon.
Meet Hoo Day, my ass.
Boman looks down when there isn't a 500-foot cliff.
Around three hours later, we arrive at our lunch destination.
A delicious apple for me...
...and Hoo Day.
It was still 1400 feet down to the Colorado River. Eagles soar above us and get a nice view of Boman's poncho.
Newly recharged with Capri Sun, we head back.
Yah-trick-yah!!!
Cell-phone foul.
Someone in another group faints, and has to be rescued by a helicopter the next morning. Only $4,000.
The climb back up takes almost four hours, and the pain is only masked by taking 250 photos.
As we get closer to the top, dozens of hikers document our journey as we almost squash them against the edge. We tip our hat, and speak Cowboy.
We fall of our mules, say our goodbyes, and limp over to Mather's Point.
Yavapai Point.
A detail of the above image.
Soft modern-day car seats are an unsung luxury.
Vegas shines bright more than sixty miles outside the city.
The Hoover Dam is pretty mind blowing.
Golden-Eye 007.
Nevada and powerlines are quit fond of eachother.
Boman exhibits patience while he waits for me to put away the camera. I could have spent all night here, but we follow our nose to the slot machines...
...and Tacos Mexico. Deliciously sketchy.
We decide not to drink and lose money, so we go for a bike ride and meet some locals.
I think her name was Marilyn.
Vegas is our favorite bike ride thus far.
Both camera batteries die shortly after this, but we keep trucking. Boman decides to gamble a $1.00 later on, a comes up $0.75 in the whole. Bummer.
After a long night, we start the day with some hearty food at the East Indian Grill.
We pick-up Mr. Jesse "I'm-moving-to-Sydney-Australia-to-fist-fight-Great-White-Sharks" Erickson and ride bikes from Santa Monica to Venice Beach.
Venice is left-sided to say the least.
Fine linens.
The bike trails are treacherous on the beach. You might fall in the sand, so make sure to wear full protection.
Don't let this man near your children.
Mr. Erickson is the perfect person to hit Venice Beach with.
Boman busts out the fish-eye again and grabs some great portraits...still to come.
Post-modern privacy.
California is sunny.
Some pro-war propaganda for the little ones.
Meet Zoltar from the movie, Big. A childhood favorite of mine.
There's something creepy about abandoned children transportation. It screams milk cart for me.
Meet Gustavo Camelot, Boman's old roommate from a couple summers back. He lives right on the beach and is full of life, happiness, and political awareness.
He's also an actor and quite the ham.
I show Gustavo photos from my last trip to Venice and the coastline.
Venetian ruins.
We ride our bikes back to Santa Monica hand-in-hand-in-camera.
We stop at Wonders of the World on the way back. It's an amazing collection of rare minerals and fossils, some of which cost more than $250,000.
It's out of our budget.
We meet up with everyone at Barrigans, which is well-known for their margaritas. It reminds me of a school cafeteria without any rules. Jesse and Kurt navigate to salsa for their new-found chip.
We move on to the Short Stop. Boman, Dante, and Lance put out the vibe before redefining the dance floor.
Boman has an epic dance-off with Lil' Frankenstein. My cheeks hurt from laughing so much.
Jesse improvises as his feet start to tire.
Scadoosh!
