Not Our Summer Casie Bazay (which ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Maybe Grandpa thought he could change things between our families with all his tasks, or whatever these dumb trips are, but he was wrong. There’s no way in Hades we’ll ever be friends.

CHAPTER 8K. J.

“TALLY HO!” DUSTY YELLS.

“Tally ho!” we all yell back. Don’t know what the hell it means, but he seems to like the phrase because he’s yelled it after every stop today.

I shift my butt backward in the saddle, trying to find a comfortable position. There really isn’t one, but I’m learning to deal with it. This trip has been totally worth the discomfort so far. Who would have thought? Me. On a mule. Riding into the freaking Grand Canyon. It’s been the biggest rush of my life.

I reach down to give Dixie a pat on the neck. I didn’t get the white mule like I wanted, but I’m over it. Dixie’s taking good care of me, and I think we’re even starting to bond. One of the wranglers told me she’s been doing this for eleven years.

Six mules ahead, Becka rounds a bend, and I hold in a laugh. It gives me a sick amount of pleasure seeing her face so pale and lips clamped tight. She’s still scared shitless! Maybe Grandpa’s little vacations won’t be so bad after all. Especially, if I get the opportunity to torment Becka every chance I get.

As we head out of Indian Garden, the flat land disappears, turning into a narrow trail along the edge of the canyon again. The mules automatically fall into a single file line. Even though Dusty told us not to, I pull my phone out and take a few more pictures. I’ve never seen so many shades of red and brown before. The colors are all crammed together like one big-ass piece of pottery. With the bright blue sky up above, it’s almost enough to take my breath away.

I wave as we pass a group of sweaty hikers with their backs pressed against the canyon side of the trail. Mules get the right-of-way here, which they totally should. A couple of the hikers give a hello nod, and one lady gives me a thumbs-up. I’m glad I’m not in their boots because I’m not sure I’d be able to make it this far on foot, and I sure as hell wouldn’t want to make the hike back up.

By the time we reach the end of our ride, the sun has disappeared behind the canyon walls and everything is bathed in shadows. Every bone in my body protests as I slide off Dixie and my feet hit the ground. I may not be able to walk normal for a month after this. I stifle a yawn, but my stomach flutters with excitement just like it did when we set off this morning. How many people can actually say they’ve been to the bottom of the Grand Canyon?

The wranglers unsaddle the mules while the rest of us trek across a bridge that stretches over a quick-moving creek. A bunch of cacti and small shrubs and trees surround us, but in the distance, a cluster of buildings appear. Phantom Ranch, I assume. I can’t wait to have a look around the place.

Becka walks ahead of me, talking with that dude and his son again, but I hang back, taking everything in. It’s like there’s this whole little world down here, completely separate from the one a mile above us. I pause and do a three-sixty, eyeing the rugged canyon walls all around. I can see now why Grandpa wanted to come here. This place is freaking awesome. Though I haven’t been inspired to do a real piece of art in a long time, I might just have to sketch this scene when I get back home.

After wandering the rock-lined paths, taking my own personal tour of the ranch, I check the cabin number listed on the slip of paper still stuffed in my jeans pocket. Number nine. Stepping inside the small building, I find a rustic-looking room with two sets of bunk beds, a sink, and a tiny bathroom. It’s not near as fancy as Maswik Lodge, but it’ll definitely do. Someone’s blue duffel bag sits on one of the bottom beds. I guess Becka and I won’t be staying here alone, which is probably a good thing. I toss my hat, along with my bag of belongings, up on an empty top bunk before venturing back outside to explore some more.

I don’t see Becka again until we all shuffle in to the canteen for dinner. Our eyes meet, and an unspoken message seems to pass between us: stay the hell away from me. So after she sits at one of the long green tables, I choose a seat across the room, next to the ladies I’d met earlier on the trail. Sheila, Mary, and some other M-name I can’t remember. They’re a good forty or fifty years older than me, but that doesn’t matter. Just like that guy on the plane, I’d take them over Becka any day.

“Looks delicious,” Mary says once we’ve been served plates of steak, a baked potato, green beans, and a thick slice of bread.

I hold up my glass of tea in a toast of agreement. “Amen to that.” Can’t remember the last time I’ve had steak.

Even after everyone else has left, the four of us stay in the canteen, talking and telling stories. Mainly, I’m just listening—I don’t have stories anything like these ladies do. Unless you count tee-peeing houses or sneaking out at midnight to smoke and listen to music with Carter. I definitely haven’t driven cross-country on Route 66 like the three of them are doing.

When a lull finally settles into the conversation, Sheila looks at me. “So why’d you decide to come on this ride?”

I’m not really prepared to answer, but luckily, I manage to come up with something that sort of resembles the truth. “Actually, my grandpa