President's Message (Arlene Ellis)|
Public Administration Program - UH Manoa
City Council Gives Planning a Beating
Local 5 Vote Count
Home Rule Committee
Plan of Complete Liquidation and Dissolution
Letter from Neil Abercrombie on HR 2707 (Neil Abercrombie)
What with vote counts falling one after the other, the crammed six weeks of Transit meetings at the City Council, the meeting planning for Waikiki Vision 2020, monthly meetings of OMPO, the bi¬monthly meetings of the Charter Commission, three viewpoints a month for radio, and so on, this column has been vacant for a couple of months -- my apologies.
Obviously the League's agenda has been a full one. Despite that, I did sneak away for a couple of weeks for some quality leisure time. Did I say quality? That was a slip of the pen.
Being weak of mind and easily led, I was inveigled by my sister, Helen to consent to visit the Grand Canyon with her and ride on a mule into the Canyon.
I must digress at this point and explain that I am petrified of heights. I discovered this several years ago when I hiked into Haleakala Crater and tried walking out via the switch-back trail. I froze partway up the trail and was literally led out with my eyes closed and my face glued to the mountain.
We got to the Grand Canyon after driving several days through Arizona's Indian Country where we visited Centuries old pueblos still inhabited by Hopis who lived as their ancestors did -- except for the addition of TV antennas and pick-up trucks -- and were awed by the changing colors and forms of the magnificent mesas, and experienced a marvelous 40-minute sunset.
One peek at the Canyon should have been enough to deter me from hiking down the Canyon much less getting on a mule, but unwilling to face Helen's wrath, I agreed to go down to the Look-out point before signing up for a mule.
It took a half hour for me to inch down to the point holding on desperately to the guide rail, take one horrifying look at a switch¬back trail many times that of Haleakala, and creep back up barely able to breathe.
After that terrifying experience, I tottered on jellied knees up to the registration desk and begged off, with "wimp, chicken" and other more graphic epithets ringing in my ears.
It took me three days in Las Vegas to get over my terror.
|November 1991||Home Newsletters||January 1992|