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}3ryce Canyon
J(en Cran
Aman's backpack transfers most of its weight onto the shoulders, which
are stronger than a woman's. A woman's pack carries most of its
weight on the hips, where women supposedly maintain most of their
strength on account of them being baby squeezer-outers. Merrik slips his
j\rc'teryx backpack - an internal frame model that cost him five hundred dollars
plus shipping and out of state tax - over his shoulders. Snaps together the belt
jatchy-thing and cinches up the straps.
The backpack weighs sixty-five pounds, including the twelve-pack of
pabst, but Merrik can barely feel the weight. For one, he's two hundred eighteen
pounds of old-fashioned manhood, and for another, he's taken so much
Carisoprodol and Vicodin that he can't feel much of anything, including his
boots on the ground. He has also taken, as is customary in the morning, Vioxx
for his arthritic knees, Propecia for his thinning hair, Viagara because the
Propecia is giving him an anti-boner, Tylenol because the Viagara is causing
headaches, and Ranitidine because the Tylenol is upsetting his stomach. But he's
healthy, because he's also taken five thousand milligrams of vitamin supple­
ments.
From the rim of the canyon, Merrik looks down at the tall, snow-dust­
ed hoodoos that resemble great stony totem poles. Carved from limestone over
the past sixteen million years, the towering hoodoos and their bumpy shadows
might inspire poetry or a spiritual awakening in some people. But Merrik's not
thinking about that kind of new age crap right now. His only thought is the
steep drop to the canyon floor. What is it, four hundred feet? Five hundred?
Five thousand? He doesn't know, because he's never been here before. Utah is a
state he knows diddlysquat about, other than that Texas Backpacker magazine
has declared it "one of the great American places to lose yourself."
Now, Merrik isn't int.o "losing himself," because he's quite happy
where he is. He's strong and healthy because he takes all those pills, he's got a
good job in the painting business (Houses, not Monets, haw haw! is Merrik's
favorite painting joke) and he's not anxious to change anything but his socks
and motor oil on a regular basis. So while Texas Backpacker can say all it wants
about finding inner peace and breathing virgin air and tasting accomplishment,
Merrik feels but one need:
To do something he's never done before.
He should be applauded for that, he thinks, perhaps given a plaque or
a kiss from this year's Miss Universe winner (he loves Brazilian chicks-hubba
hubba). He thinks about his friends, about his neighbor Skinny, about the guys
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