TUESDAY
I went to bed at 8pm so I am much more awake today. Up at 3:30 again, I have now done twice consecutively what no one should do, ever. I check my phone just in case. Nada. Not sure whether that's a good sign or bad.
Never even took the suitcase out of the car. Weather seems clearer today. I guess it's a good sign. A single thought dominates my normally scatterbrained mind the whole way here: Somebody owes me a plane.
First thing I do on arrival is look at the screen. Flight to Newark, on time! I'm going! I'm actually going! Glee! All is most definitely not forgiven but at least they've salvaged a measure of goodwill.
More people are here this morning. Quite a lot more: I don't know how many planes can park at this terminal, but rescheduling flights has put four birds outside a single gate this morning. All are slated for departure within the same fifteen minute window. I've done this enough times to know that's total fiction. Inevitably, my flight is last in the queue. It will be fine as long as we actually get our turn. I've got a chair, a book, and a bottle of water. I can outwait quite a few things with nothing more than that.
Many last-minuters scoot in for other flights. A young couple and a family of four don't make it to the DC plane. The kerchiefed mother breaks down crying, she and her toddlers collapsing right in the middle of the terminal floor as if there aren't chairs two steps in any direction. A handful of unfortunates also miss the next flight. I watch these non-shit-together-having folks with a clinical, vaguely disapproving detachment that makes me suspect I'm a sociopath. I find myself wondering who they are, if they are aware of the existence of alarm clocks, how (or whether) they get to work on time each morning. Already having been screwed out of a day myself, I can't find any sympathy. Whatever, not my problem. The book I'm reading is off to a good start.
At last it is our turn. We are late departing because of all the other flights, so we go very quickly from boarding to taxiing. It is still dark when we take off. Portland hasn't much in the way of sprawl, a few half-hearted sprays of light shrinking into the background like star clusters viewed from some insanely fast ship. The sun finds us half an hour before it reaches the ground. We touch down in the horizontal golden light of early morning.
Despite making good time, so late was our departure that I have a mere forty minutes between flights. Intellectually I know this is plenty of time but I hustle through the half mile of terminal anyway.
Boredom and euphoria do not mix, but they sure are trying. This trip is happening, it's actually happening!.....but right now I'm in line at the snack bar, waiting to buy overpriced granola and a fruit smoothie. I'm going to the freakin' Grand Canyon!....but right now I'm sitting in a vaguely uncomfortable airport terminal chair, perking my head up at every announcement like a prairie dog looking for hawks. I suppose the grandest adventure is made up of little moments like this, each trivial in itself. I read a page or two of my book at a time. Can't concentrate. Fortunately there isn't long to wait.
There is an empty seat between me and the other guy. This unexpected perk allows us both to employ our elbows in the normal human way instead of being required to mash them uncomfortably into our kidneys and act as if they don't exist for the next five hours. As the plane is pushed back, I wonder briefly if empty-seat guy is standing at the closed gate, bemoaning his poor shit-together skills.
Now here is the roar I've been waiting for. The little plane out of Portland made noise, but this is a serious jet. Shackled to a team of raging thunderbolts, we are swept into a vast and perfect blue. The gods of Olympus wish they were us.
I watch the land crawl by. Domino houses, an idiot's quilt of little farm fields, fog squatting on the rivers like wet cotton on a tile floor, a monolithic belch of vapor from some hulking factory nearly lost in the hazy distance. Ribbons of civilization nestled between long hills shaped like ripples on a lake. The tiny, knobby clutch of a downtown poking from amongst flat square miles of bread-mold sprawl. Seeing the guy next to me has taken off his shoes, I follow suit.
Lunch at 32,000 feet is an absurdity. It's the type of detail science fiction writers a hundred years ago would have included to inform the audience that the technological marvel of stratospheric flight was an everyday occurrence in their story's setting. Six miles off the ground, the child in me thinks I should be in blue spandex, streaking soberly towards some critical bit of world-saving, unencumbered by trivial concerns like food or comfort. Instead I'm eyeing hot ham and cheese sandwiches in my stocking feet. Munching surreptitiously on the remains of my trail mix, I ask the attendant only for a citrus soda.
The land fades to canvas brown. Nowhere is Earth dead, but here it seems to be sleeping, or perhaps waiting. I swear I can feel the stillness even from up here. Few and farther between are the cookie-cuts of property. Mountains pass. Between them, everything is gulches and drainage canyons, pale shadows of what's to come.
We land ahead of schedule in Phoenix. It is a seven minute walk through Sky Harbor's byzantine halls to baggage claim. Everything of real dollar value is in my carry-on, but it will be a significant inconvenience and another bad start if my bag does not show. I mistakenly grab someone else's case (same brand, same color, almost the same size) but my own is only two cases behind. Apologizing to the nice lady, I head for the rental car station.
I step through the sliding doors into a blanket fresh from the dryer. It's 102 degrees in Phoenix. A seething demon sun perches in the parched sky. There is a brief moment of panic ? holy crap, I'm going to be miserable all week ? then I remember two hundred miles and a five thousand foot altitiude gain should change things dramatically. Brought to a staggered halt by the sudden heat, I notice buses to the left that say RENTAL CAR SHUTTLE. I shrug and get on one. Air conditioning, treasured friend to all humans, greets me.
It's a good thing I didn't decide to walk. The rental company's marketing-speak says it's 'right next to the airport,' which I had interpreted as 'right next to the airport,' i.e. walking distance. A more proper translation would be 'it's a 20 minute bus ride.'
The rental car complex is a wide, enclosed structure full of vehicle rentals. Fourteen companies are represented, each with its own storefront. This is a bit surreal, like a whole mall that's only ice cream parlors. There are at least four floors of garage beneath it all. The friendly, funny young lady at the counter tells me the economy they were going to rent to me came back damaged and is not available. My stomach drops but before it can hit the floor she has upgraded me to a RAV4 at no additional charge. Spacious! I climb into my immaculate alabaster chariot for the last leg of my journey.
The first thing a New Englander will notice after the punishing heat is southern Arizona has no trees. Literally not one. There are a handful of palms in Phoenix proper but I suspect they were planted. Outside, wild cactus (many twelve feet tall or more), sage, and what are either aloe plants or a close relative speckle the tan dirt alongside dead-looking scrub. Hawks circle everywhere. The sky is so crowded with them, I almost expect to see a pint-size air traffic control tower manned by serious-looking birds in miniature headsets.
Regretting my tiny breakfast, I stop at a fajita place on the outskirts of town. They have Mexican in Arizona like we never imagine at home. So good! Still suffering from the heat, I gulp water like it's going out of style.
Seventy-five miles north of Phoenix, I have gained 2000 feet of altitude and lost twenty degrees of heat. The desert grit plays host to a pine forest. That sounds like home but actually is remarkable for the differences: fewer and much shorter trees, seemingly all of one species, more space between them, and no undergrowth to speak of in the pale dirt. The shaded ferns, towering ancient pines, and moss-covered rocks of Maine are completely out of the question.
The hills and mountains of Arizona are strangely abrupt, like anthills in a parking lot. Open prairie alternates with long ups and downs. Signs promise things like 5% GRADE NEXT 18 MILES. The place names are right out of the movies. I pass Deadman's Gulch, Bloody Basin, Dry Beaver Creek, and innumerable others.
Not knowing the food and gas situation in the park (turns out they have plenty of both), I stop in Williams, the closest town. The asphalt here is much older than the highway. Asphalt ages differently in the desert. No potholes or frost heaves, just cracking apart like acres of dried mud. Everything has a baked, washed-out quality, dust raising with every step. Insufficient refrigeration leaves everything at Safeway lukewarm.
Fifty miles later I have finally reached the park proper. There is no line, it takes less than a minute to get a pass. I feel like a really smart monkey for visiting out of tourist season. This continues throughout the week: with a couple notable exceptions, I am always able to find parking, step right to the railing at any vista, and do what I want when I want without contending with crowds. People are a presence but they aren't thick.
Upon my arrival at the campground, I find a trio of elk wandering across the entrance road, munching in complete nonchalance while tourists barely ten feet away snap pictures with their phones. Over the course of my stay I observe ten or a dozen elk living in the immediate area of the campground, including two young bulls and one elder bull with a magnificent rack. I would say he was right out of a Disney movie, except twice I see him caught in the trees, whining piteously, too dumb to free himself. Animals that can talk usually don't do that sort of thing. The bulls' cry could be mistaken for feedback, not a sound I'd expect an animal to make. As ubiquitous and unmindful of human presence as the beasts are, their talent for messing up shot composition, always pointing their butts at me, and appearing almost exclusively on the roadside as I drive by means I never get a photo worth keeping.
I walk up to the registration booth to find a classic comedy routine in full swing. A couple with a heavy European accent I can't place is speaking to a Russian clerk who is some combination of deaf and incompetent. The couple wants site 318.
'Eighty?' says the Russian.
'No, three-eighteen,' they say.
'Three eighty?'
'No, eighteen.'
'Site eighteen?'
'Three-eighteen.'
'Sorry, site eighteen is not available.'
'No, we want three-hundred-eighteen.'
'Three hundred?'
'And eighteen.'
'One eighty?'
This goes on for almost five full minutes. I look around for video cameras, boom mikes, some indication that it is a joke. Apparently it is not. A queue piles up behind me. Finally it is established that site 318 is not available. The couple tries to explain that if they can't have 318, they want to drive through the loops to look at all the campsites before picking one. Over the next five minutes the Russian laboriously absorbs this proposal. He then explains they can't go in until they pay. Either not understanding or choosing not to understand, they reply with the exact same sentence about wanting to drive through.
Fortunately there is another clerk behind another window. Unfortunately she too has problems. While her coworker is obviously struggling to finish his deaf/stupid combo platter, her selection from life's menu of deficiency appears to be terminal sloth. There is only one person ahead of me, yet it takes a full twelve minutes to process him. Too absorbed by the Monty Python sketch at the other booth to learn why, I tell myself at least there is free entertainment.
At length I am allowed to approach the Mexican woman. It should only take one minute to check me in, but what can I say, the lady's got talent. A small eternity later, she gives me a ticket to hang from the rental's rear view. As I walk away the European couple is still going. Seems to me they are missing the point of being out here. They could have arguments at home, for less money, and in their native language! I wonder idly if they'll still be there bickering when I check out Sunday morning.
The campsite is all coarse sand and gravel, basically open to the sun. Should have expected that, I suppose. Back home it might be soft pine needles and shade, but not here. Every tree in Arizona gives the impression it isn't really making the effort. I have a picnic table and firepit. Despite picking a site on the outer edge of the outer loop, there are cars and people in every direction.
All the stopping has made me late. Sundown is coming soon. I desperately want to watch the sunset. Leaving the tent for later, I grab my camera and tripod and start power-walking north. After ten minutes I see emptiness through the trees. I hustle the last quarter mile. Abruptly the land falls away.
My earlier supposition was wrong. Not all moments are trivial.
It cannot properly be described. We exhaust words like awesome and spectacular applying them to insignificant bits of our daily existences. No sir, your new cell phone is not awesome. I've seen awesome and it's not made by Apple.
What you see when you look out from the Rim depends on your capacity for wonder, introspection, humility, curiosity, and quiet contemplation. I know people who would see only a big ditch; I know others who would break down crying or begin scribbling poetry. I found the Canyon an unfathomably profound tableau of nature's eternal drama. The full power of Time is revealed, the action of an engine so mighty it makes and destroys the very Earth itself. It is bigger than me, bigger than you, bigger than all the people who have ever lived. It is older than constellations and the shapes of continents. It simply cannot fit in the human head.
For a few minutes I just stand there.
Noticing embedded metal plugs in the paved rim path, I start walking towards what looks like a better vantage point. I am on the Trail of Time, each plug labeled by how long ago the geology was formed. Each step taken along the path is a million years in the life of the earth. I pass a lady sitting peacefully in lotus position on the rocky edge, eyes closed. A billion years or so later (or is it earlier? I forget which way is which) I reach Yavapai Point just in time for a cloudless red sunset. I remain for almost an hour after, soaking in the vibe.
I walk back by starlight. At 7000 feet, away from civilization, the Milky Way is clearly visible. Everyone else has generators, fires, flashlights. My tiny tent is easy to set up. The forecast is clear, so I leave the rain fly off. The temperature yo-yos from low 80s to high 40s every night. My tent is basically made of netting, so it's quite chilly without the fly. Despite it only being around 9pm, I'm quickly asleep.
