MY PEQUENO CAMINO

I never would have gone up in a helicopter if it hadn’t been for Shirley MacLaine.

Standing in a small bookshop in the Los Angeles Airport on a stopover to Tucson, I noticed a prominent display of bestsellers stacked in a tall pyramid just inside the shop. At the top stood Shirley MacLaine’s book, The Camino.

Having read a couple of MacLaine’s earlier spiritual journeys, I had found them charming, if not altogether believable. Imagining that this would be more of the same, I picked it up and examined the front cover.

A woman wearing a suede hiking jacket and sturdy jeans walked determinedly through the tall grass, swaying in the breeze. She bore the burden of a giant backpack and carried a long, curved, birch branch. A wide-brimmed hat was tilted down over her eyes, which studied the path in front of her. Snow-capped mountains and billowy white clouds graced the background.

The picture seemed a little too perfect. Turning the book over, I read the jacket copy.

"This is the story of a journey… that began with anonymous letters imploring Shirley to make a difficult pilgrimage along the…Camino in Spain."

Shaking my head in disbelief, I wondered what the people who wrote the anonymous letters did for a living.

"People from St. Francis of Assisi and Charlemagne to Ferdinand and Isabella to Dante and Chaucer have taken the journey … a nearly 500-mile trek across highways and fields, mountains and valleys, cities and towns. Now it would be Shirley’s turn…"

Ugh. Only Shirley MacLaine would rise to the level of St. Francis of Assisi and Dante and Chaucer and everybody else to take a 500-mile trek across God knows where.

"…A woman in her sixth decade completing such a grueling trip on foot in thirty days at a rate of twenty miles per day was nothing short of remarkable…"

It just figures that Shirley is in her SIXTH decade. Here I am in my forties, afraid to drive from New York to New Jersey. What normal person could possibly make a journey like this?

I put the book down, purposely not replacing it on its pyramid perch. Envious of Shirley’s courage, spirituality, freedom, and money, I pouted for the rest of the flight to Arizona, thinking of my own insecurity, lack of spirituality, family responsibilities, and financial needs.

In the Tucson International Airport, my husband went to get the rental car while my daughter and I waited, stopping at a rack of brochures. I took one for the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum and the Saguaro National Park, put one back for the shopping mall in Phoenix.

My hand soon rested on a bright orange and blue pamphlet reading: Grand Canyon Helicopter Flights. A white helicopter with a tail bearing the colors of the rainbow was shown flying through the red rock gorges of the Grand Canyon, amazed tourists peering from the curved windows. As I clutched the brochure, my heart started beating faster.

I have to do this. I need to take that helicopter flight. For an average forty-three-year-old woman from upstate New York, that would be my “pequeno camino” (my little journey).

Move over, Shirley MacLaine!

Not wanting to take the flight alone, I spent the next two days badgering my family to go up in a helicopter.

“Mom, why do you want to do this? You’re always afraid of everything,” said my eleven-year-old daughter.

“Because I’m tired of being afraid of everything…” My daughter and husband exchanged knowing looks. They agreed to stop at the heliport on our way to the Grand Canyon.

As we drove into the first place with a sign proclaiming “Helicopter Rides,” I felt anxious. Plain helicopters surrounded a tiny white building. The scene was nothing like the picture on the brochure.

The second heliport was worse, looking almost abandoned. We continued on, my dream of the journey diminishing.

Hope emerged as we drove down a long narrow road toward the third heliport, bright colors visible through the trees. Reaching a clearing, I could see about twenty shiny, white, futuristic helicopters with huge windows and rainbow-colored tails, some taking off, propellers whirling, excited tourists smiling from inside.

“This is it!” I cried.

My family took me up on the offer to make it my Mother’s Day and birthday gift. We were each given a card with a number on it. Mine was number one.

Preparing to load us into the helicopter, the guide beckoned to me first. The realization struck me that I was to sit in the front seat right next to the pilot. I waved to my husband and daughter in the back, mouthed the words “Thank you” and sat back.

Was it scary? Yes. Empowering? Yes. Unforgettable? Yes. I was above the most beautiful amazing red rock world, gliding over endless canyons, gorges, precipices and spires.

At touchdown, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. Although I had not trekked five hundred miles across mountains and fields, I had done something I had never imagined doing, conquered fears, perhaps taught my daughter and myself to take risks, discovered a new sense of confidence, and shared it all with my family. Not bad for an average woman from upstate New York.