Being a “local” has its privileges.
When I started working at Papillon, I was told that many of the Tusayan businesses offered discounts for local residents and employees. I was also told that the grocery store was not one of them.
But the truth emerged slowly. While waiting in line to check out — in uniform at the end of the workday — the girl in front of me whined that she’d forgotten to bring her canvas shopping bag, the one that entitled her to the discount. She, her friend, and I were the only three people in line. The check out guy pretended at first that he didn’t know what she was talking about. But she was persistent and he finally gave in, probably to shut her up. But when she left, he was faced me with — obviously another local. He gave me the discount, too.
At Papillon, I asked around about the grocery bag. I was told that you had to buy a special canvas grocery bag and use it every time you shopped. You’d get a 10% discount on the bag and anything you bought when you had the bag with you. It was a sort of signal, a way to let the checkout guy know you were a local and you knew about the discount without spilling the beans in front of the tourists.
So today I went into the grocery store. I poked around, looking for the canvas shopping bag. When I didn’t find it, I went to the checkout counter, where the clerk was taking care of a customer. He asked me if he could help me.
I said, “I was told I needed to buy a certain canvas shopping bag.”
He looked at my uniform and nodded knowingly. “I haven’t seen one of those bags here in a while,” he said, packing the other customer’s purchases. “I’ll see if I can find one.”
But then other customers came and his line got long. I decided to let him work. I began to gather up the groceries I needed. I found the other clerk stocking shelves. I asked him about the bag. He told me they didn’t sell them. They only sold them in their grocery store in the park. I certainly didn’t plan on driving into the park to get a 10% discount on a few groceries. I finished shopping and brought my basket to the counter. The other customers were gone and the two clerks were talking. The one at the register said that even though I didn’t have the canvas bag, he’d give me the discount. And he did. I saved $4.
Afterwards, I went to Wendy’s and ordered a Chicken Spinach Salad at the drive thru window. (I don’t really like fast food, but I admit that Wendy’s makes a pretty good salad.) When I got to the pay window and asked how much (I can never understand them on those speakers), he mumbled a number, then said, “But four sixty seven with the discount.” He’d obviously seen my captain’s bars.
Oddly enough, I’m starting to FEEL like a local here. I just have to get my hands on one of those canvas bags.
I looked for a place to land and found a large, clear area in the middle of the wash. It had rained several days before and had snowed up in the mountains. Areas of the was were still wet. I set down on a high, sandy area where the sand looked packed. I lowered the collective slowly once I’d touched down, watching my skid sink into the sand. It sunk in about an inch. Mike said there was no sink on his side. Satisfied, I shut down.
At the base of the cliff, I stopped to take a photo of the cave. It looked very promising. In fact, I was sure I could see signs of a manmade wall inside the cave.
Disappointed, we made our way back down the hill. We stopped on a sunny spot and ate lunch, admiring the view across the wash, where years of erosion had eaten away the cliffs.
We followed the river east to route 93 and explored some of the rock formations there. Some people on ATVs looked up at us as we flew over. Then we headed up the road to Burro Creek. Mike wanted to see the campground from the air; we were thinking about spending a few days there at the end of the month. He shot these two excellent photos. The bridge over Burro Creek. (Yes, it is possible to fly under the bridge, but we didn’t do it that day. The bridge isn’t the problem; the power lines, which hang lower than the bridge, are what’s scary.)
I wrote about my first landing at the Kofa Cafe in an article for wickenburg-az.com’s Day Trips section. I liked the restaurant’s big servings and down-to-earth atmosphere. I liked all the junk out on the front porch and in the yard. I liked eating with the truckers. I liked taking the helicopter someplace that wasn’t on an airport but didn’t get me in trouble. Three-Niner-Lima parked in the truck parking area the first time I visited the Kofa Cafe. The Cafe is the blue building.