“Kissing Takes Concentration However Sex Requires More Breathing And Tongue – Very Slowly.” These are not instructions for a late-night rendezvous on an empty dory. This mnemonic helps us learn the rock sequences from the rim top to Canyon bottom. Since starting out on day one, we have passed through many of the primary layers of sedimentary and metamorphic rock types that are to be found in the cliffs surrounding the Colorado River. They are Kaibab Limestone, Toroweap Formation, Coconino Sandstone, Hermit Shale, Supai Group, Redwall Limestone, Muav Limestone, Bright Angel Shale, Tapeats Sandstone, and Vishnu Schist. The more conventional mnemonic, and the one that should be used by children, reads: Know The Canyon’s History, Study Rocks Made By Time.

These sedimentary formations have collected directly above the much older metamorphic layer of Vishnu Schist. They began accumulating about 550 million years ago when shallow seas, tidal flats, floodplains, estuaries, river deltas, and coastal beaches were the local features. Sandstone layers, such as the Coconino, were formed by windblown, Sahara-like sand dunes. Limestone, most often composed from the remains of corals, indicates that the Redwall Limestone and Muav Limestone layers were formed from deeper seas. Below the Redwall and Muav sits Bright Angel Shale, which was likely mud from the bottom of an ancient lake or lagoon. The Hermit Shale layer found high above is believed to have been a coastal swamp. By some estimates, up to 25,000 feet, or nearly 5 miles, of sedimentation, collected was compressed and, to a large extent, eroded over the hundreds of millions of years prior to our arrival. Today, when visitors to the Canyon gaze out from one rim to the other, what they do not see are the 5,000 feet of sedimentary rock that have already eroded, leaving the plateaus we look out upon. This entire area is still undergoing profound change. Just as the developing rock layers were built up and eroded over time, one day, the geologic history we are interpreting in the Canyon will be scattered by the winds and washed to the sea.

It was 1.7 billion years ago that the basement layer, known as Vishnu Schist, was buried many miles below the surface of the Earth. The immense pressure exerted by the oceans and landmasses that stood above it and the radiant heat of the planet’s core transformed the igneous and metasedimentary layers into the metamorphic rock we see here at the bottom of the Grand Canyon today. In some places in the Canyon, between the Vishnu Schist and the layers above is an anomaly: a wedged fragment of tilted sedimentary earth that is called the Grand Canyon Supergroup. What was laid down horizontally is no longer resting in its original configuration but now sits at a fifteen-degree angle. This type of angularity is created during times of uplift, such as when faults in the Earth’s crust are shifting with one side of the fault line being pushed up – creating the angles of tilt, such as can be seen here in the Supergroup.

We are only offered brief views of this slice of history as, unlike the majority of visible layers, the Supergroup is not always easy to find. The sedimentary rock layers of the Supergroup were laid down between 700 million and a little more than 1.2 billion years ago. At that time, a seaway stretched from here at the Grand Canyon eastward to what is today Lake Superior. Yesterday, we were hiking upon one of those elusive Supergroup layers known as the Dox Formation. From our vantage point, we also had a good view of the volcanic Cardenas Lava that sits just above it. Our observations of this mix of shallow sea deposits, basalt, sandstone, quartzite, and shale will be short-lived, as only fragments of this Supergroup still exist, most of it having been lost to erosion.

Between the Vishnu Schist and the much younger Tapeats Sandstone, there is a gap in the historical record called the Great Unconformity. The rocks in this area do not conform to what is a normal pattern of chronologically deposited sedimentary layers. Instead, there are sections where the Tapeats Sandstone or the Supergroup lie directly over the Vishnu Schist, with no intermediate rock layers to mark the passage of time. This gap that spans nearly one billion years asks the question, what was going on between those years where there is no sedimentary record for us to read? Did deposition and erosion cancel each other out, effectively erasing any physical evidence of the passing of time? Or did continental rifting play a role?

From the basement upward, through all of the major layers to the 270-million-year-old Kaibab Limestone on the rim and beyond that, sedimentary deposits continued to accumulate, one on top of the other. Just beyond Lees Ferry, one could reach out and touch the Kaibab Limestone. Today, on day six, that Kaibab layer forms the South Rim almost a mile above us. It is not that we have dropped 5,000 feet of elevation during these 70 miles; far from it, as the river only descends about eight feet per mile. This is some of the evidence that proves the Colorado Plateau has gone through a series of faults, uplifts, and geological processes that have been at work here on this contorted slice of Earth for hundreds of millions of years.

With this cursory geology lesson behind us, it is time to depart camp and set our sights on the river. We put in and, a mile later dance through Unkar Creek Rapid, cutting a path into the Supergroup. After dropping 25 feet, we exit this class 6 rapid. Three miles beyond that successful run, we enter Nevills Rapid, named for Norman Nevills, who pioneered commercial river travel in the Canyon. This section of whitewater is rated between 4 and 7 on the Grand Canyon scale. This system of class 1 to 10 rapids is unique to the Colorado River; all other rapids are measured on the international scale with ratings between class I and VI. It cannot be denied that the rapids are a thrill a second; they take our breath away, they chill us to the bone, they are exhilarating, and many others have shared written images inspired by this whitewater roller-coaster. For truly exciting stories of whitewater thrills, I refer you to River Runners of the Grand Canyon by David Lavender and the excellent There’s This River… Grand Canyon Boatman Stories by Christa Sadler.

On the approach to Hance Rapid, our first encounter with a rapid rated 7 to 8, the boatmen pull to shore to scout what lies ahead. After careful study, they decided that with the Colorado running at 8,000 cubic feet per second, the water level is too low for passenger-laden dories to safely pass through the rapid. The plan is for us passengers to continue walking to the foot of Hance, where we will be picked up by our respective boatmen. Without us, as the dories maneuver the rapid they appear to move in slow motion, on a deliberate and well-calculated track taken to reduce the possibility of damage. This is the first chance we have had to witness the dories in action from the shore. After re-boarding our dories, we bump over Son of Hance and pull to shore again, this time for lunch.

We are deep in the history of the Canyon, approaching the grandfather of ancient rock occupying the crystalline basement – Vishnu Schist. Down here, we step back nearly 2 billion years in time. Our cities are typically built upon topsoil accumulated over the previous 10, 15, or 20 centuries. Even the mountains rising up around us are not so very old when measured in geological terms. But down here at the river level, we are surrounded by some of the oldest rocks on Earth. The schist is streaked with pink Zoroaster Granite, white pegmatite, and gneiss formed within the metamorphic rock after red-hot magma seeped between the cracked and fractured earth. The basement rock has been shaped, compressed, and contorted by convection, heat, gravity, and tectonics back when the Earth was only about half its present age.

Some people will look at the pyramids in amazement at what humanity built 4,600 years ago, while others are more interested in what modern architectural achievements we are currently constructing. For me, the attention grabber is this channel that cuts into Earth’s history, offering an opportunity to reach out and touch a part of our planet that dates back to the Precambrian age. If I should one day find myself exploring an ancient Mayan temple, I will walk with at least some knowledge learned from the volumes penned about the Mayan people, their gods, and traditions. I will have a sense of how they saw themselves in their world hundreds of years ago through their writings, architecture, trash, and their living descendants. Here at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, this Vishnu Schist layer, extending to depths unknown, offers little clue to my eyes of what the planet was like as it was forming. The geological history and processes of how gneiss came to be do not find their way onto anyone’s bestseller list. Environmentalists put polar bears and pandas on display to hook the interest of sympathetic minds to the plight of endangered species. Schist doesn’t make for cute; it won’t get buy-in when broadcast on the evening news. As a people, too many care little for scientific facts that cannot be hugged, understood, or easily deciphered, even when they stand right before our eyes.

But I do. This ancient rock canyon is a part of our evolutionary foundation, resting upon a universe full of matter that gave rise to suns, planets, oceans, plants, canyons, fuzzy creatures, and me. I feel the primordial extension of the elements that would lay the groundwork from where life would emerge. The lowly Vishnu Schist of the Grand Canyon and the mighty Colorado River find a place in my being, my mind, and my history as I embrace the totality of time and matter.

On this corner of the earth, I can imagine the mantle not far below, channeling the heat of the core upwards. Evidence of its presence can be seen in the basalt created by lava flows that have spilled into the canyon as recently as 1,100 years ago. Those eruptions of molten rock have altered the course of the Colorado, creating temporary dams and helping shape segments of the Canyon. Take a moment and either familiarize or re-familiarize yourself with a brief lesson about how our planet evolved to support life, then get up and go to Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, or even your own backyard and rediscover how amazing nature is.

Long ago, about 4.6 billion years in the past, if you could have stood where you are now, you would have been surrounded by an ocean of magma. North, south, east, and west molten rock would be rumbling, rising, and subsiding. All of the water that would ever be on earth is still locked in this boiling rock and mineral soup. The next 600 million years see a gradual cooling while water vapor escapes the degassing magma. Water that will eventually form the oceans begins to collect.

There is no oxygen in the atmosphere yet; you’ll have to hold your breath for another billion years for its arrival. Right now, the sky is rife with ammonia that the sun has been turning into nitrogen, an important element of breathable air. However, there is enough weather and surface activity to begin the erosion process of the unstable volcanic surface. On a base of young igneous rock, ash, silt, and sand begin settling in water where Earth’s first metamorphic rocks are being born. Uplift and subsidence, colliding crusts, and the continuing upheaval of the surface push layers up and sometimes down.

From these early metamorphic rocks, cratons formed; they were to act as the stabilizing roots on which our continents would one day anchor themselves. Molten rock was still busy altering the Earth’s surface; along the way, granite was forming – the continents were taking shape. On the sea floors, magma was exposed in rifts and ejected from underwater volcanoes. Cooling rapidly, the liquid rock turned to basalt. These geological processes have never stopped.

Fast forward a couple of billion years, in the oceans and on their shores, in rivers, lakes, swamps, and maybe anywhere else water is collecting, a single cell life form has been busy for hundreds of millions of years using photosynthesis to produce oxygen. This organism is known as cyanobacteria; today, its descendants are found in blue-green algae; one of its cousins is the food supplement spirulina. Without these bacteria releasing oxygen from the various water sources on Earth, we would not have had this essential element that is required for an atmosphere that could one day support us humans.

Then, the Great Oxygenation Event occurs, nearly extincting the anaerobic (oxygen-intolerant) single-cell side of life, allowing blue-green algae to begin its rule of Earth. Prior to this, most of the oxygen entering the atmosphere was sequestered by different elements on the planet, such as iron. Once the oxygen-absorbing matter became saturated, oxygen was able to start entering the atmosphere. Around the globe, we find stromatolites, the fossilized evidence of cyanobacteria that became trapped in structures of sediment and calcium carbonate that formed around them. The historic record of this bacteria is most famously viewable from their fossil remains found standing above the water in Shark Bay, Western Australia. Stromatolites are also found here in the 1.2 billion-year-old Bass Limestone layer of the Grand Canyon Supergroup.

Not long after the introduction of oxygen to what will become known as air, the thickening cratons and growing early continental landmasses converge to form the supercontinent, Columbia. Like all continents, not only is the land attached to cratons, but the entire structure sits upon tectonic plates that are in constant motion due to the convection current of heat transferred from deep within the Earth’s core that pushes and shoves the mammoth weights of crust, continent, and ocean this way and that. We experience these movements through the many earthquakes that occur between fault lines and the tectonic plates that are still changing the surface of our planet, altering existing continents on their way to making new land masses. One effect of these movements is to produce what is referred to as orogenies: mountain-building events. Those early mountains that likely stood to great heights on Columbia crumbled over time, rivers redistributed their remains, new sandstone layers settled, and the slow transformation of our planet continued.

Dramatic change wasn’t finished yet. Oxygen continued to alter the atmosphere for another 800 million years until the first simple multicellular life took hold. That was about 1 billion years ago. Those early multicellular lifeforms would stew for almost 550 million years before oxygen levels hit the sweet spot, and then life really began to flourish. Record of this rapid development shows up in that sandstone layer that sits above the Vishnu Schist in the Tapeats. Supercontinent Columbia is long gone, replaced by Rodinia, but it too has broken apart as more complex life forms start to populate Earth.

As time plods forward, simple animals such as sponges and jellyfish evolve out of the entanglement of the primitive multicellular life. This is followed by the emergence of the ancestors of the insects and spiders. These more complex animals give rise to fish and early amphibians. Before you know it, it’s just 300 million years before the arrival of humanity; plants and reptiles start to populate the surface of Earth. A new supercontinent has begun forming; it is called Pangaea, and it is the happening place. Life is now bolting forward. The dinosaurs began to crawl through the jungle about 225 million years ago. Fifty million years later, Pangaea is ready to split into two new subcontinents and a bunch of fragments. One of those subcontinents is Laurasia, it’s traveling one way, while Gondwana heads in the other direction. In the gap that is forming between these prehistoric landmasses, the Atlantic Ocean is born. The wandering lands of floating crust surf the world. After stomping on Earth for 135 million years, the dinosaurs disappear. This was just 65 million years ago.

Time speeds along, and so do the continents of our planet. With a crash, the fragment of land that would be named India plowed into the Asian continent 35 million years ago. This collision triggers an orogeny that will lead to the forming of a mountain chain that will reach the heavens as the tallest peaks on Earth; they are called the Himalayas. This spectacle of crumpled and deformed rock would have a 29-million-year head start before the Grand Canyon would begin to be carved out of the northern lands of Arizona. Mount Everest reached many thousands of feet above sea level long before a river running over the Colorado Plateau would begin cutting a scar into Earth’s surface that would ultimately expose the bowels of geologic history to humanity’s curious eyes.

Over a period of 6 million years, the river, weather, volcanic and seismic activity wore through that plateau, carving the channel we know today as the Grand Canyon. And now, during our time, man has dramatically changed these lands. A great length of the Colorado River is no longer navigable, halted by man-made dams and now buried under lakes. Even if the dams were removed, hundreds of feet of toxic silt and sunken trash now fill former river channels. Sandstone has been washed of desert varnish by the cold, clear waters of the various lakes. Political and corporate interests are looking to exploit the lands above the water, seeing them as worthless beyond lucrative uranium, oil, and mineral mining and maybe some negligible tourism. The riverside, the fossils, the human record, and whatever natural beauty or history a few environmentalists, archeologists, hikers, adventurers, or just some average folks might find down here don’t hold importance to distant interests who see an opportunity for profit. Right now, the need for money and resources stands well above any towering beauty to be found on our incredible planet. When will we honor the majestic beauty of nature and find our inspiration to move off the sideline to help leverage common sense upon money-blinded special interests? People of all walks must seek out the beauty of their special places; they must speak and write about what moves their hearts, share it with others, and join in the refrain that sings out to keep wild places – wild.

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche was prescient with his quote, “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” From the rim of the Canyon, as one looks into this formidable expanse, a quick and all-encompassing assumption of what we are seeing can be adopted: “It’s a giant hole.” This simple idea allows us to conquer the Canyon with a brief one-hour visit. This is a monster of unsophisticated thinking looking into us, and we have reflected its face of ignorance through our naïveté. From high above, the Canyon stretches as far as the eye can see, and not two dozen miles directly across is the other rim. Side canyons feed the main channel where the Colorado must be, although it remains mostly hidden in the depths. Down in the chasm, as one tries to look up and out from below, the abyss forces us to look within, as the infinity of intimate details works to inspire the imagination. This perspective teases our senses with countless potential experiences. The abyss is at work crushing our monsters, bringing us back to nature by forcing us to become one with it, to grow larger than our petty selves.

We gain intimacy with a tiny fraction of the nature carrying us through the Canyon and will leave with but a minor impression of our host. Here, we ride the river, drink its waters, bathe in it, cook with it, and hike on its shore; it is our womb supplying life, and under the wrong circumstances, it may take it, too. Like an infant, we will be birthed at the end of this gestation of experience, knowing little of our new mother. Only after a life of dedicated love might we come to learn who, or what, this life-giver is and was. We must learn her language, customs, habits, pleasures, moods, friends, and enemies so we might better communicate with her and protect her.

Journeying to discover the identity of Mother Nature, we find ourselves confronted by a thing far greater than ourselves allowing us to recognize the granularity of who we are, but should we fear that great unknown found in the natural world? When the veneer of society is stripped away, and I am alone with myself, who do I find? If honesty could be part of this answer, my guess is that many of us would find a media-contrived monster of immense shallowness. This image in the mirror should frighten the beholder as recognition befalls the mind that, after so much life, little of real self-defined identity is to be found. We are left impoverished with a superficial, unsympathetic figure lacking the compassion and intellect to see one’s own mother in the Earth around us.

Without the distraction of electronic devices, artificial noise, or the burden of consumption, one has the opportunity to find familiarity with nature and one’s self. We will only discover the smallest amount of what is here as we crawl through this multiverse of geologic history, natural beauty, and the infinite number of Grand Canyons unfolding before and all around us. One will never know too much of what the Canyon holds. This knowledge should be applied to ourselves as well to encourage us to raft our own inner rivers, hike the canyons and trails within, and find some understanding that we, too, are a great unknown, needing intense exploration.

Eighty-four miles downriver and already we have traveled through countless Grand Canyons: eighteen days will never suffice. No wonder those who give themselves up to being boatmen make a life of leading the uninitiated. Once taken by this immensity of possibilities, one’s gaze will never be contained. The tendrils of the mind and imagination entangle with the threads of history and nature, intertwining us inextricably to a piece of land that our more rational politicians have recognized as having the significance that requires us to protect these treasures with the designation of National Park. The longer one stays here, the stronger the manacles of nature will hold fast, training the senses to lock on to the hues of earth, the smell of grasses, the flight of damselflies, spider webs, clinging moss and lichen, waters of varied colors, the stars, sound, and silence. This and more is what engulfs my every moment in the Canyon with its constant shift and recontextualization of yet another iteration of this unfolding universe.

This was where the Canyon took me today. Sure, there was the river, rapids, and small talk, but the exploring mind of curiosity tempted me to assemble a sense of place from the parts and pieces I was familiar with. We are well-equipped, as the curious people we are, to search for meaning, find beauty, and learn from all that has come before us. Failing to be inspired, languishing in bad habits, and allowing our minds to fall into sloth as the preferred state of consciousness will never push humanity to scale new heights of potential. We must seize the mental oars of our inner raft, head for land, and get climbing.

We are rowing towards shore; it won’t be long before we land. Camp arrives early this afternoon at Clear Creek, a place most accessible during low river flows. The beach here is narrow, set up against a steep canyon wall, except for one big patch of sand where our fire circle will form around dinner time. The tents are up and made cozy before Rondo gives out the call that we are about to go on a hike.

Nine of us, with Rondo upfront, begin the trek through schist, marble, quartz, gneiss, and other rocks and minerals that I would like to recognize at first glance. The problem might be that while, from a distance, there is a similarity in appearance with these earth fossils, closeup, there are far too many variations of patterns, colors, and textures to be certain that I could accurately identify what I was looking at. There are canyon wall sections on the early part of our trail that are burnished to a luster, displaying what looks like wood grain and a smoothness that begs us to run our hands over their sensuous curves. Too many details confront my senses while the need to keep moving never stops

River shoes were required for the dozens of wet crossings made in this narrow slot of a canyon. We travel right up the middle and on the edges of Clear Creek, over slippery rock in the cool and quiet largeness that is all inspiration. As I take in the scenery around me, I need to dwell in the quiet. I want to look and listen, hear the babbling creek and its dance through crevices as it flows through the maze of broken stone. Glistening, the thin layer of shallow water trickles and tumbles over rocks and pebbles.

Fractured purples and shades of blue stain and slice the sheer rock surfaces with simultaneous complexity and the order of chaos. I must stop my feet, slow my mind, take a calming breath, and find my way to becoming lost in here. Language fails me, as my vocabulary is again inadequate to construct the magnitude of verbal detail that would be needed to explain an entire universe tucked away in a side canyon. Thinking is now forbidden; thoughts only tick away seconds where time should stand still. I should find myself here through eternity, discovering the infinite.

Up ahead, we are about to discover the feature we were promised before starting on this short 45-minute hike – a horizontal waterfall. The first thing one notices at the end of our trail is a stream of water flowing over a rock shelf. This recognition is followed by the idea, “Maybe this isn’t the end of the trail yet?” For a moment, it appears we have been tricked into believing we were to see such a sight as a horizontal waterfall, but there it is! To the right of the larger flow is a small channel funneling water into a rounded pocket that is ejecting the falling water horizontally.

One should be careful when charging into the unknown; there is much to be missed by senses not tuned to channel immensity. It is conceivable when returning on the same road just traveled, that we should find a kind of familiarity. That is not the case when only seeing fractions and flickers of all that is present. Heading back to camp, I wonder, where did this rock come from that I missed on my way in? And this big green cactus growing from the blue wall, why did it not attract my attention then? Were we really this high over the river and that close to the edge? Where was my mind?

The brain may be on vacation, but the body plays “Follow the Leader.” Back to camp, we march, arriving at a kitchen hard at work preparing our evening meal. Jeffe and Andrea, who share tonight’s duties, have drawn in plenty of help. Time to find a chair and start sinking into the fading light.

This night winds down with stories filling the margins of our minds not occupied with the day’s events, while full stomachs bring a lethargy best enjoyed by relaxing around the fire. The convergence of comfort, contentedness, and heavy eyes begins our launch tentwards with the hope of sleep. Not long after crawling into the sack, the wind sounds its alarm.

It isn’t so much the blowing of the tent that keeps me awake; it is the attack from trillions of grains of sand that have broken free of the eroding landscape. The sand sent aloft in the howling wind pummels our tent, painting a desert rendition of a snowdrift burying us. We may disappear, Sphinx-like in the desert, hidden from passing boat trips come morning. What is not seen or heard in the darkness is sand as fine as corn flour, finding gaps in the seams and zippers scarcely large enough for large molecules to gain passage. We will wake with our teeth, hair, nose, ears, and sleeping bags holding enough of this fine red dust to assemble a small sandcastle.

–From my book titled: Stay In The Magic – A Voyage Into The Beauty Of The Grand Canyon about our journey down the Colorado back in late 2010.