That half-day best sums up the Contiki Wild Western group-tour experience for 18-to-35-year-olds, a two-week whirlwind of partying, natural beauty, exhaustion and, most of all, fun.

You've seen the itinerary. You've viewed my 197 photos. Now for some quick hits.

The Group: This collection of 50 Aussies, Kiwis, Brits, Scots, Canadians, Germans, Koreans and Americans was a major step above those on the European Magic tour last year. We had a sampling of cool cats, decent-looking broads, gregarious goofs and good-natured ditzes, along with still way too many people who said maybe 10 words the entire trip.

We hit a couple of peaks together, partying at the VooDoo Lounge atop the Rio in Las Vegas and on a booze cruise at Bass Lake following an afternoon at Yosemite. I'd say the group enjoyed each other's company most on those occasions, before things kinda deteriorated toward the end, as the loss of departed tour mates in Vegas and 'Frisco, as well as fatigue, made for less-than-inspiring group interaction in San Francisco and Santa Barbara.

Grand Canyon: A spell-binding, natural cavity. A seemingly unending abyss of mystery. Like the space between Manny Ramirez's ears.

Within five seconds of standing at the south rim, I wanted to call everyone I knew to say, "You have to see this before you die." Don't believe this sarcastic pic of me looking unimpressed. It's right up there with New York and Paris as places you absolutely have to experience, of course on different levels. New York for the vitality. Paris for the history and art. Grand Canyon for the humbling, jaw-dropping view.

Along with a dozen others, I forked over $400 to helicopter down to the bottom (a mile deep) and hike for a couple of miles down to waterfalls where we took a dip. Best money I ever spent. Just can't put a price on it.

And yet, the Canyon now ranks atop my list of Places You Absolutely Don't Want to Have to Take a Shit, supplanting any sports stadium. There's almost nothing man-made down there. A few dilapidated buildings for Indians who enjoy living in a hole that's 20-30 degrees hotter than at the rim, and maybe four Port-A-Johns. For miles. And you don't want to be descending deep trails or climbing back up while brewing butt coffee. (Not that this was an issue for me. Just something I think about when traversing one of the planet's natural wonders.)

No, Alcatraz Wasn't Named After Al Capone: An Aussie chick actually asked me about this, then contended it wasn't a stupid question. I'll let you be the judge.

My Friends Are Pervs: Not one, but two, called me on the road to make sure I visited a live-sex showplace in San Francisco. Missed it, boys.

A Record That Will Stand Forever: Having taken a beating playing Up the River, Down the River with Champagne, our Bass Lake chalet party host walked face-first into a glass sliding door not once, not twice, but thrice. It was like watching Joe DiMaggio in the summer of '41 or Secretariat in '73. The chick was in a zone, man.

The Gayest Moment of My Life: Night two, San Diego. Karaoke night. I'm invited by a tour member to do a duet. It's early in the trip, and I want to seem a willing participant of all group activities, so I agree. Then I hear the word that gives me the hives: Grease. Mind you, I'm with a mostly-female group who actually watched Dirty Dancing on the coach without plotting the murder or our otherwise totally cool tour manager. So I sang ... Jesus, I can't believe I'm admitting this ... Summer Fucking Nights, including that squeal at the end. I'm calling the bar tomorrow to get my nuts back. I was also singing Glory Days when Vladimir Guerrero hit a grand slam to beat the Yankees. Watching the TV at the time, my "singing" went something like this: Just sitting back trying to recapture ... NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Coach Breaks Down in Searchlight, Nevada: If you're gonna be stranded somewhere for a couple of hours, it might as well be at a bar/casino with $1 beers and a $1 minimum bet in blackjack. Too bad there were no nearby rivers to dump the bodies of my three playing partners who had absolutely no idea what they were doing — they stuck on 14s and 15s against 10s, failed to double 11s under any circumstances, hit on a hard 17 (for real!) and fucked up a bunch of my $10 hands, including three on one deal after I split a trio of 8s and was waiting for the dealer to bust. Einstein on the end took the dealer's bust card, probably hitting on 15 against a 6. I don't remember; my mind was clouded with murderous thoughts. I wouldn't have felt as bad if he recognized at all that he just killed the whole table — again.

Rating the Movies on the Coach:

• Old School: If it didn't rip-off equally from Fast Times, Animal House, Back to School and Revenge of the Nerds, it would be an all-time classic.
• American Wedding: Wake up, flower fuckers, this one's awesome. I saw the public hair on the wedding cake coming a mile away and still couldn't stop laughing. (.wav files of memorable quotes)
• Mean Girls: Some funny parts, but what's a movie aimed at jailbait doing on a bus of mostly 20-somethings?
• Anchorman: Absolute crime against comedy, the cannonball line aside.
• Dirty Dancing: Couldn't look at the screen — or any person watching this shit — without throwing up.

Favorite Parts of the Trip: Exploring the Grand Canyon by day, playing guitar around our lodges at night. Just about everything in Las Vegas — partying at VooDoo Lounge, pulling all-nighter and swigging Red Bull and whiskey at 7:30 a.m. coach departure, our Elvis-presided-over wedding, the Freemont Street light show, Splash, dinner at Pink Taco in the Hard Rock. Booze cruise and drinking games at Bass Lake. Shooting the Golden Gate Bridge, visiting Alcatraz and eating lobster bisque in a sourdough bread bowl in San Francisco. Dick's, dollar beers and Sea World in San Diego. Beers and tequila shots in Tijuana. Shopping (and beers) in Santa Barbara. Awesome eats in Los Angeles, compliments of Brooks.

Least Favorite Parts of the Trip: Coming this close to booting and passing out in the hot-air balloon in Phoenix after suffering from lack of sleep and food while standing 4,000 feet above ground and two feet below a massively hot and loud flame. Hitting a wall in San Francisco after rocking for 10 straight days. Lame turnout for our pool party in Scottsdale. Too many too-quiet tour mates. But the pros far, far outweighed the cons, and I'm even glad I did the balloon ride, when I snapped some of the best pics of the trip.

In Five Words or Less: Great Trip. Bring a Friend