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'Riding The Dog': Coast-To-Coast By Greyhound Bus

Why would you ride on Greyhound instead of driving -- or grabbing a train or plane?
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Tell someone about your bus trip and stand back. The Question is on its way. "Why would you do it?" they will ask. Why would you ride on Greyhound instead of driving -- or grabbing a train or plane?

A friend and I found out a few winters ago that we each had a week to go somewhere and where we really wanted to go was L.A. We were sick of security lines and cramped flights, and with gas prices reaching record levels, neither of us was up for a marathon drive.

What about the bus? we thought, poring over maps and schedules and making little puffs of mental exhaust. Like the people we told about our trip, we weren't sure if we could hack a four-day ride from D.C. to the West Coast. Still, the plan was to pick up seven-day Ameripasses that let you get off and back on whenever you want and give the thing a try for the sake of adventure.

Although my friend was 73 years old and had never been west of Pennsylvania, we would aim south for warm weather, we'd try to set foot in Mexico and hope to get a quick glimpse of the Grand Canyon (which we had never seen).

And we wouldn't come back until we had answered The Question once and for all.


Day Three: Little Rock, AR to El Paso, TX

Little Rock boasts surprisingly tall downtown towers and strange looking semi-tropical trees that are spring green even though it's February. There's no soap in the bus station men's room, and the fast food restaurant we go into is out of it too. Could it be that people use water only to wash up with in this town?

Back on the bus, Judy grabs me a handful of the moist towelettes, though I find that most of them are bone dry inside the foil wrapper. I'm getting worried about her. She keeps pointing out what she tells me are "rivers" but when I turn and look, I can see only fields and dust. I don't know whether these are actual mirages, but it does seem, at times, as if we are crossing the country by camel. Our sense of distance is intimate. We get to know every mile, and measure our progress bounce by bounce.

Dallas in the dark looks like an out-of-control corporate park: Buildings have weird neon outlines, the streetlights are embedded in slabs and flagpoles narrow sharply toward the top, like fresh pencils. Greyhound company headquarters are here, but the bus station, itself, is confusing and extremely small. As we wait in line trying to squeeze onto our 6 a.m. bus, the baggage guy cracks, "I'd wait 'til the 8:30 if I was you." I'm wondering if I detect a smirk, since the bus door has just slammed shut.

More trouble: When I try to get a printout for buses between El Paso and Flagstaff, AZ, the machine spits out pages of nonsense numbers, mathematical symbols and black squares. "That's because Greyhound doesn't go there," explains the clerk, but when I protest that Flagstaff's a big town, she gives me a look, and says to "spell the name of it, and slowly." We try again, getting some info this time, and Judy and I are on our way.

The landscape west of Ft. Worth is like a safari theme park where the animals refuse to come near. If you look carefully you can see specks along the horizon, and sometimes groups of specks that Judy says have to be herds. Abilene is a much more close-up surprise. It has the widest streets in Texas and its buildings are colorful square blocks of brick that look mysterious since there's hardly a soul in town.

When we get near Midland, the bus driver tells us to look left, and fingers are pointing as we roar past a family of prairie dogs sitting up by the side of the road. Wildlife at last.

Day Four: El Paso, TX to Flagstaff, AZ

The lights of El Paso are spread out in front of the bus, and since it's "The Star City," we're welcomed by a cheerful, electrically-powered starfish set up on a hill overlooking town. Judy and I are busy trying to figure out how we can get over the border to Ciudad Juarez, Mexico, before our bus to Flagstaff the next afternoon.

Since our motel is on the city's outskirts, there's only one solution: Bob's Cab. The plan is this: Bob will come to our motel in the morning and drive us to the downtown border bridge. We'll walk across, eat a fresh corn tamale in Juarez and, an hour later, cross back over. There, Bob will be waiting to drive us back to the motel, grab the bags and floor it to the bus station.

Amazingly, this works pretty much as planned. It costs 25 cents (or three pesos) to enter Mexico, and suddenly we're in a world of handpainted signs for "Cerveza," music surging out of grocery stores and small cafes and vendors yelling at us to take a look at hats and leather wallets and limes stuffed fat with shredded coconut.

It isn't easy to just get a bite of all this and go back, and Judy keeps fingering woven tote bags and stretchy, beaded belts as if they will help her hang on here for just a few seconds longer. I buy a Mexican soda, and when the can of papaya fizz runs low, I know we have to go fast to the passport line on the Mexican side of the bridge and to our idling cab.

We make the bus just as the driver is ripping tickets and are surprised to find that a fellow passenger, Eddie Arcaro, has saved us a place in line. "All that I own is in this," he chuckles, hefting a string bag that you can see is layered with expertly folded white T-shirts and a Bible on top. Arcaro is on his way home from a year in the Colorado state penitentiary. But as we get into New Mexico during our ride, he's one of the few who is impressed with the red and purple, Road Runner-style scenery. "Mesas," he keeps telling Judy. "Wait until you see the mesas."

Day Five: Flagstaff, AZ to Los Angeles, CA

After we get off in Flagstaff, Judy and I talk to cab drivers about getting a ride to the Grand Canyon, which, according to our map, is about 80 miles from here. One guy just shakes his head. The other tells us he'd be willing to go with us if we'll pay him $250 up front.

Since it's one of our biggest goals for the trip we're on the verge of agreeing, when I spot a van with "Keyah Hozhoni Tours" painted on the side. The driver, a Navajo Indian named Vince, will take us there and back for 50 bucks apiece -- and fill us in on local history and geography as we ride.

It's a deal, and as it turns out, Vince is loaded with information on what we pass, including a police car that he says has a "cardboard decoy cop" inside. When we get close to the Canyon, I ask him what kind of animals we should watch out for. "Scorpions, rattlesnakes and kingsnakes," says Vince, letting us out near the Rim Trail at Bright Angel Lodge. "Almost forgot," he adds. "You might also catch a coral snake or a tarantula."

Judy and I keep one eye on our shoes as we walk to the edge, and suddenly there it is: a horizon-swallowing jagged copper bowl that is too wide to be photographable, too intricate for art. At this second, every knee-crunching minute of our trip feels worthwhile. You could ride a year's worth of buses to get here, I think, and drive them all over the edge so you wouldn't have to go back.


We're getting near the end of our trip, changing buses in Phoenix at 5 a.m. for the final leg to LA. I doze on and off until around eight o'clock when we pull into a last-gas McDonald's buffeted by blowing dust and desert sand. "Blythe, CA," announces the driver, and although it's a rest stop and Judy gets off for coffee, I don't want any and slump back to sleep.

Next thing I know, I'm woken up by a revving engine. The bus is heeling around a curve and roaring toward a highway ramp. Something feels wrong -- I've got much too much room for one thing -- and then it hits me. Judy's not on board. "Hey, wait," I yell to the driver. "We're leaving someone behind!"

No response.

"Stop, will you? Can I run back and get my friend. Can I get off?"

By now I'm up past the yellow line in front, exaggerating the fact that Judy is an elderly passenger and hearing only mumblings from the driver that include the phrase, "got to keep on schedule." Some of the other passengers are angry, too, since everyone was caught off guard, and I collect some names and phone numbers for what they're worth. Someone lends me their cell phone and I dial the number on my Ameripass, but all Greyhound suggests is that Judy keep her eye out for a bus due into Blythe later on that afternoon.

It's been five long days. We've been to Tennessee, Texas, Mexico, the South Rim of the Grand Canyon and dozens of beaten-up, midnight Greyhound bus stations scattered along the way. I have made it from DC to LA, where it's 89 degrees, bustling and hazy, and Judy from DC to a fast food restaurant in a town I do not know how to spell.

Hours later, I meet a dust-coated bus from Blythe and there is Judy, sunburned and exhausted from pacing around in parking lots and watching birds. "Greyhound has made it up to you," is the first thing I say, handing over a certificate entitling her to a free entree and a medium beverage at the bus terminal cafe.

There is a second when Judy's fingers start to squash this foolish scrap of paper. But then the ghost of a grin. Judy is yanking me by the arm, pushing bus baggage out of the way.

"C'mon," she barks. "Let's have lunch."

Peter Mandel is a travel writer, and an author of picture books for kids including one about a construction worker who uses his belly on the job: Jackhammer Sam (Macmillan/Roaring Brook). and his newest, about zoo animals passing on a very noisy sneeze: Zoo Ah-Choooo (Holiday House).

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