The Golfer meanwhile had reached the tee of his ambitions, with two dozen balls and his trusty brassie. We came on him at the edge of the tumbled river, casting a doubtful eye up the rough slopes and crag-strewn course.
“Bunkered, by gosh,” we heard him say.
“If you don’t mind a little climb,” said the guide, “I think we can fix you all right.”
Accordingly we stuffed our pockets with golf-balls, while the Golfer tied the remainder to his waist, and began to climb one of the smooth cliffs to the right of the arch, with the understanding that whoever had good courage might go on to the top of the bridge. The last lap of the climb brought us to a ledge which went sheer in the air for about twenty feet (it seemed like two hundred), without visible means of support. But nothing daunts an Old-Timer. Ours twirled his rope, lassoed an overhanging shrub at the top of the ledge, and shinnied up like a cat, twisted it twice about the shrubs and then around his wrists, and one by one, each according to his nature,—but not like a cat,—we followed.
Toby, who is a reincarnated mountain goat, scrambled up with careless abandon. Murray took it without comment. Martha, suddenly stricken with horizontal fever, was yanked up bodily. When it came to my turn, I got halfway up without trouble, but there the thought struck me that Mr. Wetherell was a dreadfully peaked man to be the only thing between me and the San Juan river. I wished that he had sat still in his youth long enough to fatten up a bit. I called to him to sit heavy, and he called back to straighten my knees and keep away from the cliff. My knees, however, will not straighten on high; instead they vibrate excitably. As for throwing my body voluntarily out from that friendly cliff,—the only bit of mother earth, though at a peculiar angle, within several hundred feet,—it hardly seemed sensible. I did not wait to reach the top to decide that it was too hot to climb to the bridge, and I think the others went through a similar mental process, for when I thankfully was pulled over the edge, I heard several people say, “Awfully hot, isn’t it? Pretty hot to go much further?”
The Golfer was the last and heaviest to come up the rope. Halfway up, his arms shot out wildly, and I heard a gasp of horror, and far below, plop, plop, saw one hard rubber ball after another leap as the chamois from crag to crag, and join the river below. He had tied the box of balls insecurely, it seemed. For the moment we could hardly have felt worse if it had been the Golfer himself. A baker’s dozen went where no caddy could find them. From our pockets we collected eleven balls, with which to perform the deed which had brought us toilfully through these perils.
We could see only the keystone of the Bridge from the summit of our cliff, but its surface offered a good approach. Murray took the first drive. His ball made a magnificent arc, grazed the top of the Bridge, seemed to hesitate a moment, then fell on the near side. Then came the Golfer’s turn. He approached it several times, but something seemed wrong. He cast a look in our direction. We had been frivolously talking. He drove, but the ball glanced to one side and disappeared.
“Better luck,” he said, passing the club to Murray. But Murray had no better luck, and the two alternated until it seemed as if the San Juan must be choked with golf balls.
“It’s an easy drive. Any duffer could do it,” said the Golfer impatiently. Apparently there was something about the drive more difficult than it looked. Perspective was lost in the clear air, and the jumble of rocks before us seemed closer than they were. With only two balls remaining, the Golfer again took his turn, after several brilliant failures on both sides. Once more he turned a majestic glance toward us. A bee had crawled down my back, and Martha was removing it, but after that glance we let the bee stay where he was. A hushed silence fell on our little group at this historic moment. Since Adam and Eve, we were the first group of people ever gathered together in this lonely, inaccessible spot for the purpose of driving a golf-ball over the Rainbow Bridge. No cheers came from the assemblage as the Golfer addressed the ball innumerable times, and at last raised his brassie and drove.
“Keep your eye on the ball,” said someone. We did so, and our several eyes soared toward the arch, struck the rock towering beside the bridge, and ricochetted over the far side. Technically, though by a fluke, we had the ball over. I say we, because we all worked as hard as the Golfer and Murray. Murray refused the last ball, and just because he didn’t have to, the Golfer drove this easily and surely over. We had achieved our purpose. We were the first to put a golf ball over Rainbow Bridge, not a great contribution to history or science, but giving us a certain hilarious satisfaction. It is not so easy to be first at anything in these days, when everything has been tried already. Toby who once stigmatized the ambition as “cheap,” crossed her fingers as the Golfer launched his last ball, and photographed him in the act for the benefit of posterity. Our Old-Timer, another scoffer, later spent an hour hunting the triumphal ball, and on retrieving it from the river bank, begged it for a souvenir. Anyone who doubts the authenticity of our feat may see the ball at Kayenta today. And even Hostein Chee, alias Wah-Wah, alias De-jiss-je, salvaged a half-dozen of the lost balls, and was seen patiently hacking away at them with the Golfer’s best brassie. And he was remarkably good at it, too.