Ladee's Travels

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 ...

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 Vorte...

  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....

  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 g...

  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 ...

  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 fo...