The Hualapai Nation Is Not Yet Ready for Prime Time

Or, My Vacation From Hell, Part Two

After braving the hoards of humanity at Grand Canyon National Park for the better part of two days, we headed back west for our visit to Grand Canyon West, better known as the Hualapai Indian Reservation. It is here the Hualapai have constructed the Grand Canyon Skywalk, a horseshoe shaped abomination of steel and Plexiglas that juts out over the canyon rim, allowing visitors to think they're walking on air. Although the Skywalk is asthetically unpleasing, I'm as much a sucker for cheap thrills as the next guy, so I was looking forward to checking it out. As this story shall show, the Hualapai might have done better to stick with the more traditional manner of relieving the white man of his money: steal it in Indian Casinos.

For starters, the road to Skywalk isn't yet paved. Now had I been driving my 4x4 Dodge Dakota instead of my wife's Charger this wouldn't have presented a problem. The Charger isn't exactly designed for off-roading, and my wife cringed noticeably every time a stray rock would strike the undercarriage. At that point, of course, she had no idea of how bad it would get.

When we pulled up at what passes for a visitor's center, my first impression was "this must be what Hanoi was like during the evacuation." A helipad with four or five idling helicopters sat right across from the center, and a landing strip featuring a constant drone of single-engine planes taking off and landing was just to the north. The Hualapai are apparently unaware of the invention of electrical transmission lines because the roar and stench of generators providing an interesting back-drop to the incessant racket and aroma of the aircraft.

Inside the visitors center there was what can only be described as chaos. There was no discernible line; just people, lots of them, wandering around with looks of either confusion or disgust. When I reached the ticket counter and asked about our room reservations I was met with a blank look that could only have meant "I have no idea what you're talking about." After talking with five or six of his co-workers I finally figured out why: the genius on the phone when I made the reservations had booked us into the Hualapai lodge in Peach Springs, a wide spot in the road two hours by jeep trail from Grand Canyon West. When they tried to hook me up with a phone to call the lodge and cancel our reservations, the phone went dead and couldn't be resuscitated.

Finally, we grabbed our tickets and prepared to get on the bus out to the Skywalk, only to be told by one of the flunkies they had closed it because of an impending electrical storm. We asked for a refund for the Skywalk portion of our tickets (twenty-five bucks a head), and were told to see the supervisor.

When we finally found the supervisor, he told us that no, the Skywalk was still open and we should catch the next bus out there. He told us that if the Skywalk did close we would indeed be reimbursed for that portion of the ticket.

When we arrived, we found that, indeed, the Skywalk was definitely closed, and probably would be for the rest of the day. We soon found out why. As we wandered around a bit, letting the kids play in the "authentic" tee-pees the tribe has constructed, it began to rain. Anybody who's ever lived in the Southwest will know what I'm talking about when I say it was a "gully-washer." We ran back to the bus, where the driver told us that "anybody with a low-clearance vehicle better get out of here, because the road is gonna' wash out."

When we got back to Baghdad -- I mean the visitor's center -- we tried in vain to find the supervisor who had misled us about the Skywalk being open. We later found out he was holed up in his office, afraid to brave the angry hoard of maltreated guests.

(I should probably stop here and explain the Hualapai Nation isn't exactly running things out there. They have hired some sort of "management team" and much of the staffing is in the from of folks who, shall we say, are not Native Americans. The various "managers" we spoke to are among the most incompetent individuals with whom I have ever had the displeasure of speaking. We never got the same answer twice, and they seemed completely unprepared for the types of eventualities that befall an enterprise such as this.)

After about half and hour we were finally able to find another supervisor. When she heard our story she said "I've lived here for years, and that road never washes out. Besides, the Skywalk has re-opened, so I can't give you a refund."

We explained we had just been there, it was raining, with thunder and lightening, and the Skywalk most assuredly had been closed. Moreover, we asked, why would her bus driver warn us to leave if the roads were fine? She remarked that they had "hired lots of new people, and some of them don't know what they're doing." "And just why should that be our problem?" retorted my co-traveler.

Anyway, they finally agreed, after another half hour, to give us our refund, but then they couldn't figure out how to credit my VISA card. So they gave us our paperwork and a phone number to call and sent us on our merry way . . .

. . . when we promptly saw a line of brake lights: cars stopped on the road because the gully-washer had washed out the dirt track. It was as if the supervisor felt obliged to tell us one more lie for the road. By the time the rain stopped and the rainwater had dropped enough for me to pilot my wife's Charger through the mud, a one-hour drive back to Kingman had taken us over three hours.

We managed to find a room in Kingman, where we collapsed on our beds, spent. (I do have to say I highly recommend the Kingman Hampton Inn Suites. The hired help was competent and cheerful. Of course, after our experience, maybe it was just the comparison that made them seem extra nice.)

Suffice it to say we won't be going back to Grand Canyon West to walk on the Skywalk anytime soon. I can only say in conclusion that the Hualapai Nation is definitely not yet ready for prime time.