May 27th
Amanda and I got off to an intentional late start that Friday: we both were worn out from the day before, not only from sheer physical activity, but from the overwhelming feel of the canyons, the sensory overload of something so much bigger and older than ourselves. She smoked a bowl of weed, I charged my electronics, Jack brought his tennis balls to me so I could throw them down the narrow RV hallway for him to chase, and then we were off again on the hour-long commute to the canyons.
After arriving at the park, we ate some trail mix sandwiches before hopping the free shuttle to our destination: the Kaibab Trail, which winds a strenuous path all the way down to the river, a good 16 or so miles. Amanda and I, however, understanding our limitations, decided to opt for the rest area a mile and a half down. Loaded up with water (I had two bottles and she had a gallon for us to share) and trail mix, we picked our way between a construction site and began the zigzagging descent into the Canyon itself.
Again, the weather was perfect: stark sunlight, a bracing wind, and a vivid sky broken only by a few clouds on the horizon. The trail was covered in pebbles and pinkish-colored dust, a combination that exercised our reflexes and adrenal systems— there are few things more exciting than your feet slipping out from under you next to a hundred-foot cliff. Still, it was easy to walk downhill (carefully avoiding the mule droppings), and immediately we were treated to a vista of the canyons, framed by ragged cliffs on either sides. Occasionally I looked up at the canyon walls that soon soared above us, but I easily got vertigo, and had to watch my footing.
We descended about a mile and a half worth of trail, an elevation drop of 1140 feet. The path hugged the canyon wall, shaded only occasionally by a tough little tree or two. We reached a flat spot at the 1.5-mile mark, scattered with trees living and dead, slabs of boulders, and tourists hoarding the shady spots for picnics. Amanda and I hung out in the sun and talked to a woman who lived in New Zealand (but originally came from Germany) who was on a year-long trip around the world. She was 45 years old, and had quit a teaching job for her trip. “There is no perfect time to go on a trip like this,” she said, munching on a Clif bar. “You just have to go.”The hike back up was, as expected, grueling. We chugged nearly the entire gallon, and I began to feel a little shaky, and remedied this with almonds and the shade of one of the cliff faces. The sun is a slow killer, even in the spring: I can’t imagine visiting the canyon in its summer zenith.
We reached the trailhead at a reasonable hour, and both agreed it was time to get some real food. We ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, then strolled toward the shuttle in search of another sunset.
This time, we decided to head toward Hopi Point, the most popular sunset spot. We ended up going on to Mohave Point instead, because the entire bus emptied when we made the Hopi Point stop. Mohave is a limestone outcropping with a few metal railings between the tourists and the canyon edge, and I sat next to one of these with a handful of quiet tourists, and watched the sun make its daily journey to meet the horizon.
The sunset was much like the one before: how I could describe the difference in the tapestry of light between one place in the canyons and another, I don’t know. We watched, and we enjoyed, and we watched condors circling in the evening-lit sky and took pictures of the way the sunbeams played in the canyons, last vestiges of playfulness before the menacing vivacity of the night. The most stunning moment of the evening, however, was just after the sunset. Stratus clouds glowed with molten gold, and below them, the thin ribbon of the Colorado River lit up in the same color. I stared at the reflections of the sun, above and beneath. “And God said, ‘Let there be a vault between the waters, to separate water from water…’”
The shuttle bus back to the visitor’s center was so crowded, the tourists were crammed together like pickles in a jar. I held onto the smooth metal overhead railing and listened to the accents and foreign languages of the people around me, smelled their sweat, which should have stunk, but instead smelled wholesome, like a remnant of sunlight. Outside, the air grew dark, and the shuttle windows became glossy black, and my feet began to throb. Another day at the canyons, another set of memories that my mind couldn’t comprehend. Once again, we drove out of the park in the darkness, but this time, we weren’t headed back to Koa. But that’s a story for my next blog.~Lisa Shafter
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