Tempe, AZ A Tiger Named Richard Parker, and the Power of Storytelling

Reflections on Life of Pi at ASU Gammage

From the moment the curtain rose at Gammage, I was transported. The lighting, set, and overall mood immediately immersed me in Pi’s world - a space where family, community, and cultural backdrop mattered. It wasn’t flashy or loud; it was deeply rooted, quietly establishing the emotional and spiritual landscape of the story.

The puppetry in Life of Pi was nothing short of remarkable. The animals were not just convincing - they were alive with presence and purpose. Richard Parker, the tiger, was especially unforgettable. His movements, expression, and behavior were so nuanced that he became a character as real as Pi himself. His evolution through the story, including the eerie and unexpected shift when he took on a French identity, left me both intrigued and unsettled.

One moment continues to linger in my mind: when Pi retells his story, replacing the animals with people. The shift was jarring, emotional, and masterfully done. That duality - between myth and memory, survival and sorrow—was profoundly moving. It challenged me to reflect on the purpose of storytelling and the truths we choose to carry.

The themes of Life of Pi came through with clarity and power. Survival, faith, and the human need for narrative were woven through each scene, each interaction. I especially appreciated the treatment of religion - not heavy-handed, but gently interwoven with Pi’s identity, giving light to what can often be a weighty conversation.

Though I hadn’t read the book and only had a loose sense of the plot, the story surprised me as it unfolded. Visually stunning, emotionally rich, and thought-provoking, Life of Pi is a production I would recommend to all audiences. It’s more than a play—it’s an experience of wonder, belief, and the strength of the human spirit. 

Sedona - Lunch at The Table at Junipine — A Taste of Tranquility and Flavor

Tucked away beneath a canopy of green, with flower boxes blooming and the sound of the creek just beyond the railings, we found ourselves at The Table at Junipine. The setting itself is a breath of calm—rustic wood beams strung with soft patio lights, cool mountain air, and just enough charm to make you forget about the rest of the world for a while.

We settled in on the shaded patio, surrounded by the hush of oak and pine, and turned our attention to the menu. Every dish sounded like a thoughtful creation, but I couldn’t resist the Slide Rock Sliders - a trio of mini burgers, artfully presented with a generous helping of double battered fries.

For my slider selection, I chose a culinary tour across flavor profiles:

– The Big Greek, with fig spread, goat cheese, bacon, and balsamic glaze—an elegant surprise of sweet and savory.

– The Apricot Club, blending Swiss cheese, bacon, apricot aioli, and frisée lettuce for a slightly tangy, slightly smoky delight.

– And the Spicy Vortex, where jalapeños, sriracha aioli, and house-made slaw danced together on a cloud of heat and crunch.

Each bite was balanced, unexpected, and genuinely exquisite. The buns were soft but held up perfectly. The patties were juicy and seasoned just right. But let’s talk about those fries—crisped golden with the lightest touch of herbs and seasoning, possibly the best I’ve had in Arizona. I’d come back for those fries alone.

There’s something about sitting in the cool shade, sipping coffee, and enjoying a meal prepared with this much care that makes you linger a little longer. We did. We watched the hummingbirds flit near the hanging baskets and let the afternoon unfold gently.

Whether you’re staying nearby or just passing through Oak Creek Canyon, The Table at Junipine is a must-stop. Come for the scenery, stay for the sliders—and don’t skip the fries.

Note: Sliders are mix-and-match, limited to two orders per party—but trust me, you’ll be tempted to order more.

Grand Canyon, AZ - The Kaibab Suspensiin Bridge

 

The Kaibab Suspension Bridge

Looking Down from the Rim

I stood at the South Rim. The sun was high. The sky was blue and empty except for clouds in the distance. The wind came up from the canyon slow and dry. You could hear your breath. And nothing else.

There was a marker there. Bronze and black. It spoke of the Kaibab Trail Suspension Bridge. Built in 1928. Mules crossed it. Hikers crossed it. Supplies went down and hope came back up. The bridge had no glory. It had grit.

Engineers carried the steel down the canyon piece by piece. They brought mules to do the hauling. Strong mules. Patient men. A team of Mohave laborers helped build it. It took courage and silence and the kind of work that burns the hands. They strung the cables over the river by hand. One hundred and sixty feet above the Colorado.

The bridge hangs there still. Black steel against red stone. They say you can hear it creak when the wind kicks.

I looked out from the edge. Tried to see it far below. Too much light. Too much canyon. You catch a glimpse, maybe. But only if you know where to look.

A sign caught my eye. White with bold black letters. No Drones Allowed. I smiled. The canyon doesn’t need buzzing things. It doesn’t need looking down from a screen. You stand on your feet. You see with your eyes. That’s how it’s done here.

They don’t give awards for bridges like that. But this one has them. Listed on the National Register of Historic Places. It earned it. It still stands.

I took a step back from the edge. The rock was warm. The river was far. The bridge was waiting, hidden in the folds of the gorge, doing its job. No fanfare. Just steel and silence.

Grand Canyon, AZ - Yavapai Geology Museum

 

At the Yavapai Geology Museum

On the Orange Route, Where the Rock Speaks

You take the shuttle. You get off when it slows and the driver nods. There’s a path. You follow it. It’s quiet. Pine trees creak. The wind smells of dust and sun.

The museum is not large, but it stands like it belongs. Stone and glass. Built to stay.

Inside, the air is cool. There are maps, raised and rugged, with shadows in the folds. You touch one. It feels like memory. You trace the Colorado River with your finger. You see where it cut. Where it kept cutting. It always cuts.

There are layers—painted and labeled—telling the age of things older than time. You learn the names: Vishnu Schist. Coconino Sandstone. Bright Angel Shale. They sound like poems but are heavier than prayer.

And then the windows.

The whole canyon opens like a secret kept too long. You look out and stop thinking. The rock rolls out in red and rose and ash. The far wall is clear. The space between is deep and alive.

People stand at the glass and say nothing. A child points, but does not ask. A man stares as if he’s trying to remember something he never knew.

You stay longer than you meant to. There are benches. You sit. The light moves. The shadows shift.

This is the place to learn what can’t be taught. The canyon speaks if you are quiet. And here, you are.

Grand Canyon, AZ - The Orange Route

 

The canyon is deep. You don’t understand how deep until you see it in the morning. The shadows hold to the cliffs and the rock walls and the shapes below like old secrets. That’s the best time to go. Before the heat. Before the crowds. You get on the orange shuttle and you ride.

They call it the Kaibab Rim Route, but names don’t matter here. The earth is old and doesn’t care what you call it.

The bus rolls quiet. It’s a short ride, but it takes you far.

Pipe Creek Vista

The first stop. You get out and stand on stone that has waited millions of years. You look across the gorge, and the colors stretch out in layers like stories in a book you cannot read, but you understand. The view is wide. You don’t talk. You just stand.

The wind blows here, and it’s clean.

Yaki Point

This one they won’t let you drive to. That’s good. Fewer people. More silence. You walk out and the rim opens like a wound in the earth, but it’s not bleeding. It’s beautiful. Sharp cliffs fall fast. Pines cling to the stone like they were born there.

You feel small. That’s the right way to feel here.

South Kaibab Trailhead

They say it’s a trail, but it’s more like a promise. If your legs are strong and your water full, you go down. If not, you watch others and you remember what it looks like. Dust. Switchbacks. Determination. Some people return. Some don’t. The canyon decides.

The views from here reach far. You can see the river if the sky is clear and your eyes are good. It looks like a ribbon. You know it’s stronger than it seems.

The bus comes again. You sit beside someone quiet, or you don’t. You hold your camera or your thoughts. Either is fine.

The orange route doesn’t take long, but it stays with you. It shows you the bones of the land. It shows you space and silence and stone.

You don’t need to say much after that. Just ride. And look. And breathe.

Grand Canyon, AZ - At the Visitor Center

 

You go first to the desk. It’s quiet inside, but full of movement. Maps. Voices. Screens flickering. You ask for the stamp. They know what you mean. They’ve seen thousands like you, collecting parks and miles and years.

They point to the desk with the inked paper with a smile that says, you’re one of us. You are.

You write the date. It feels good. Like a small thing done right.

There is a film. It plays every twenty minutes. You sit near the back where it’s cool and dark. The canyon fills the screen. The river is strong. The clouds are fast. The voice is calm and tells the story like it happened yesterday. You watch the water carve stone, and you understand time a little better.

When the lights come back on, you walk out quieter than when you came in.

You talk to a ranger. She is sunburned and knows things. You ask where the best sunset is. She doesn’t hesitate. “Hopi Point,” she says. “Maybe Pima if the wind is strong.” You nod like you already knew. You didn’t.

You ask about food. She says, “Go to the Market Plaza. There’s a deli there. The pizza isn’t bad. But don’t rush it.”

You don’t.

Outside, people gather at the big map. Fingers trace trails they won’t take. Some will. The air smells of pine and hot rock. It’s good.

You fold your stamped paper. You keep it safe. You’ve got the day ahead, and you know where to go now.

That’s what matters.