GENE PERRET'S WIT STOP

gene perret's Witstop Some People Make Out BEARS and BOBCATS, While Others Simply See ROCKS

MY WIFE AND I RECENTLY ENJOYED AN excursion through Sabino Canyon in Tucson. It's a beautiful recreational area with gorgeous natural foliage, waterfalls, swimming holes, picnic areas, hiking trails all of Mother Nature's finest. We signed on for a tram ride of about 3% miles up the mountain and, not unexpectedly, 3%½ miles back down. Our tram driver was a delightful park ranger, a cross between Smokey the Bear and Henny the Youngman. She knew all the flora and fauna, the history of the canyon and anecdotes about it. Of course, being a canyon, Sabino is surrounded by mountains. Our tour guide knew every peak and crevice of the range, and had tales to go with each. That's when I discovered that I'm mountain-blind. That's right. I can't see, apparently, what others can. Our guide would say, "If you look toward the mountains on the right side of the tram . . ." Everyone would immediately lean that way and gawk. The guide continued, "You'll notice the outcropping there that looks like a bear's nose." She'd wait and after a beat or two, everyone on the tram would go, "Ohhh, yeahhh," and point toward the bear's noselike formation. Everyone but me. Nothing where I gazed looked remotely like any part of a bear. "Isn't that amazing?" my wife would ask. "What?" I'd ask. "The rock that looks like a bear's nose." "I don't see any rock that looks like a bear's nose." My wife would ask, "Where are you looking?" I would say, "Up." She'd ask, "Up where?" I'd say, "Up the bear's nose, I guess, but I can't see anything." My wife would say, "Forget about it. We're past it now, anyway." It didn't matter because as soon as we got out of view of the bear's nose, our driver would point out another formation. (I should point out that I'm making up the names of these formations because I can't remember the real ones. I didn't see them. Those who saw them might remember, but I don't.) "Off to the left of the tram, you'll notice what we call 'Bobcat Peak.' Does anyone know why?" The entire tram would shout back, "Because it's shaped like a bobcat's head!" Everyone would yell that but me. I couldn't see it. "Don't you see the two ears sticking up?" my wife would ask. "All I see are rocks," I would say.

"Well, of course you see rocks," she'd say. "But some of them are shaped like bobcat ears." "No, they're not," I said, probably a bit too loudly. The entire tram, including the park ranger, screamed back, "Yes, they are!" I was somewhat embarrassed and more than a little frightened. The tour guide said, "We're now approaching 'Skunk Crevice.'" I figured if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, so I pointed to the mountain wall and said, "I see it. I do. See where the rock is discolored and it looks just like the stripe on the back of a skunk." The driver said, "It's off to the left of the tram." I was pointing right. It made no difference. I didn't see anything off to the left that resembled a skunk, either. Everyone else must have seen it because they all tried to get me to see it. "It's right above the rock that looks like a quail." "Find the one that looks like an angel's wings and go down and to the right." "It's right next to the beaver-shaped rock." "Open your eyes, you clown." That last remark did open my eyes, metaphorically speaking. It convinced me that I should just stop looking. Let others spy and enjoy the critters hiding among the crooks and crevices in the cliffs. I'd just sit sullenly and think that if Mother Nature had wanted me to revel in these sights, she would have made the mountain peaks like football players with a number on their front and back for easy identification. It would be much easier for the tour guides, the other sightseers and fellow sufferers of mountainblindness. The driver could simply say, "To your right is Number 19. On your left is mountain peak Number 23. Soon we'll be approaching Number 42." So I never looked right or left after that. When the tram stopped, I bumped my head as I was disembarking. "He can't even see where the heck he's going," someone said, not quietly enough. "Are you all right?" my wife asked. I said I was. "No, you're not," she said. "You have a nasty bruise there." "Where?" I said. She said, "Right there on your forehead." She took a closer look. A few others from our tram started to gather around and look, too. One said, "That is a nasty bruise. It looks just like a javelina." The rest of them all pointed at my forehead and said, "Ooooh, yeahhh,"

Gene Perret's book Someday I Want to Go to All the Places My Luggage Has Been ($7.95 plus shipping and handling) captures the comical mishaps of even the best-laid travel plans. To order, call toll-free (800) 543-5432. In Phoenix or from outside the United States, call (602) 712-2000.