Rapids form most frequently at the mouths of side canyons. It works like this: when the rain comes, which it does in great sheets during the monsoon season, runoff aims for these canyon drainages that have been carved and gouged by the handy work of prior flash floods. As the rain collects and starts running over the landscape, it rapidly joins forces with a multitude of other rushing torrents, converging down the quickest path gravity dictates. By the time this deluge is approaching the Colorado, it has scoured the surfaces of the Canyon and drainages, picking up all sorts of matter, including trees, trash, rocks, and, when intensely heavy rains have battered the canyon slopes, boulders the size of cars can rush along with the rest of the rubble. This landscape scrub brush works wonders to polish canyon floors and shines slot canyon walls, but somewhere on its journey, the contents of the rushing waters are going to come to a halt. This is usually right in the main river channel of the Colorado.

Clear Creek Rapid is the first whitewater we’ll run today. Just below the side canyon we had hiked yesterday, evidence of those past flash floods has fanned out and piled up in the river, forcing the turbulent waters to find their way over a garden of rocks. As the channel becomes choked on the accumulating debris, the river finds new paths to rush through. Over time, the erosive force of the Colorado will bully these blockages into giving up territory, changing the dynamic of the rapid again. It is this ongoing process that keeps boatmen alert when approaching rapids.

Often, as we move nearer to the pull of a rapid, a boatman will slow his dory, rowing towards the shallows. Standing tall on the deck, he inspects left, right, and center. If conditions warrant, he might sing a “Hey diddle diddle, right down the middle.” Maybe a boulder has shifted since his previous trip, or a dangerous standing wave dictates if he rows left or right of center to avoid a potential boat flip. All the while, the flow, as measured by cubic feet per second or CFS, is impacting the decision process as low water can expose rock dangers not present with high CFS flows. Then, on the other hand, large releases from Glen Canyon Dam can create hazards in the form of larger waves, deeper holes, or camouflaged and hidden dangers that someone not as familiar with the river could run into, risking the viability of a boat and the lives of those on board.

With the larger rapids known for their dangerous shenanigans, our boatmen play it safe, pulling to shore to make a proper evaluation of the liquid thrill ride. Today’s rapids are read-and-run, letting our guides speed us along without stopping for riverside inspections of the tumult. Read-and-run rapids are known quantities; they are familiar, they seldom change, and are runnable at nearly all flows. The experienced boatman will make a quick evaluation, using his knowledge of the river to find opportunities that allow him to enter the rapid in a variety of approaches, offering us passengers a different perspective of how a dory can run whitewater.

Looking at our next river churner, Zoroaster Rapid, rated a mere Class 4, I try to imagine a dory-flip with me in it, allowing a more intimate understanding of the danger and dynamics of river hydrology at work here. My thinking is, better to fall into a reasonably sized rapid than to be dragged through the dreadful leviathans still ahead. It’s not that I am unaware of the potential dangers of rocks hidden just below the surface to break limbs and skulls, and the cold rushing water quickly robbing my core of heat to induce hypothermia, or that once submerged, panic may overtake the brain, elevating the danger by not following safety instructions and putting other lives at risk. I do understand all of this, but that doesn’t curb my curiosity about the worst-case scenario where I could find myself outside the relative safety of a dory. How would I react in the face of a reality where my sense of knowing what to do has been tossed into the labyrinth of chaos? Arriving safely on the other side of another rapid, I remind myself to be careful of what I wish for and give a nod to the skill of these boatmen who are creating a sense of safety that should never be taken for granted. We exit Zoroaster high and dry, with 3 miles of river left to travel before our next stop.

An easily recognizable landmark for those familiar with the Canyon bottom is coming into view – the Black Bridge, also known as the Kaibab Bridge. Built in 1928, this suspension bridge spans the Colorado, connecting the South and North Rim trails here in the Inner Gorge. Prior to this, the only way across was on an aerial tramway with a hanging “cage” that was able to move one mule or a few frightened people at a time. The Silver Bridge further downstream is the new crossing built in the 1960s. This narrower bridge doesn’t allow mule crossings, and while conveniently used by hikers, its main purpose is to support the trans-canyon pipeline that brings water from springs near the North Rim to Grand Canyon Village on the South Rim. Without it, tourism of the scale the South Rim sees today would not be possible.

Once our dories land onshore, it will be a short walk before reaching Phantom Ranch, civilization’s outpost on the Canyon floor. The trail from the sandy riverside leads up to the lush oasis of Bright Angel Creek. Living up to its name, this gently flowing creek runs clear, its surface dancing with sparkling sunshine. Our trail first branches left, then right, before continuing straight ahead. Each step forward brings into focus this idyllic corner of nature that has greeted so many visitors who embrace the grueling hike, have chosen to ride the mules down, or arrived on the river in order to visit the heart of the Grand Canyon.

Astonishment is the best way to describe these sensorial surprises that were no longer expected seven days into our adventure. It would not be an exaggeration to say that after a day or two, maybe three, one could begin to assume that we have been witness to the blueprint for all that lies ahead. After all, when seen from the rim above, each view into the Grand Canyon, from Desert View Tower to Hermit’s Rest, while certainly astounding, is also quite similar. So, as the pleasant surprises of the first days are had, each new wonder suggests that it could surely be the culmination of this phenomenon and that the remainder of this journey will be much of the same. But here we are on the seventh day, and instead of the diversity of scenery taking a rest, it is busy and working hard to demand our veneration.

It would be a lie to say I hadn’t wondered, prior to our departure, what the days or weeks down here might be like if the whole affair became mundane and boring or too dangerous for my sensibilities. Would we reach a point where hiking out of the canyon could become an option worth exploring? To a small degree, I was influenced by many a doubting friend who couldn’t imagine the deprivations we were so eagerly preparing for. They balked at the idea of riverside, out-in-the-open toilets, sleeping next to rapids in the great outdoors where wild animals may lurk, no hot water, and worse – no hot showers. They questioned the quality of food and the drinking of river water that is not only full of reddish-brown sediment but includes a small fraction of the urine of every person traveling this length of the Colorado before it is filtered and made fit for our consumption. No cell phone service or Wi-Fi, no outlet to recharge batteries for portable game machines, no bed to crawl into at the end of the day, and besides all that, we were willing to risk life and limb on precarious trails and raging rapids of bone-chilling ice water. But now that we are a full week into this 18-day river journey, leaving with a hike out right here on the South Kaibab trail is the furthest thing from our minds.

Instead, center stage is the obvious question begging an answer as to what possible reason might exist for why we haven’t been down here before. Ignorance is a paltry and feeble response; there can be no excuse to explain this oversight. A return to Phantom Ranch must be moved toward the top of the to-do list while our knees and hips are still able to carry us down and back up the rocky switchback trail. Maybe more difficult than finding the motivation to take the hike will be trying to work our way through the long wait of being rewarded a much-coveted reservation to camp down here. The closer we get to downtown Phantom Ranch, the more people we encounter. For all the hard work these robust hikers have invested in bringing themselves down here and the respect I feel for their efforts, I can’t help but feel I walk with no small amount of pride. I have been delivered to Phantom Ranch on a dory, and it just doesn’t get better than that.

Soon, we are at the front door of the canteen/gift shop, and the countdown begins – we have about 45 minutes. Passing the counter, I should have felt Caroline’s eyes draw a bead on the souvenirs and her impulse to shop, but she stayed strong as we aimed for the postcards. Seventeen of them, stamped with the message “Mailed By Mule at The Bottom of the Grand Canyon, Phantom Ranch,” are needed. Caroline takes the half destined for Europe, I grab the domestic-bound pictorial souvenirs, and we get to writing. Or at least, that was what we should have done, but all those shiny memorabilia behind the counter are floating their siren song into my wife’s ear, seducing her to their shore. Enchanted by the trinkets, she gives in and tries to leave with one of each, leaving just enough cash for one of the canteen’s famous lemonades. We then had to put pen to paper and burn ink.

With fingers cramping, we scribble to the finish line and, after depositing the postcards into a rustic mail saddlebag, scramble outside to visit the holy temple of the flush toilet. Upon entering the cathedral of lavatory splendor, my attention is willingly arrested by the left faucet handle. Could that be connected to hot water? I am certain this crazy idea could not be in the cards. Energy down here is at a premium; who would pump hot water to the facilities? All the same, it wouldn’t hurt to try. Heck, even if it isn’t heated, it might not be as cold as the river down below. My amazement overfloweth right next to the hot water that comes streaming out of cold steel into the porcelain basin. I have found gold.

Itchy, oily head, salvation is on the way. A sink-side soap dispenser never looked so good. While this is likely against the rules, the allure of alleviating the greasy discomfort camping atop my scalp is irresistible. I shove my big head as far as I can and squeeze it under the fountain of spouting hot bliss. I slosh handfuls of the worst-smelling hand soap onto my hair and almost find a lather before my rush to not inconvenience anyone who might be on the other side of the door waiting for this comfort station pushes me to rinse away the soap. My refreshed scalp allows me to feel a year younger and appear far better looking than I had in the previous days. Even my eyes feel brighter. I emerge from the john with a renewed pep in my step, delighted by my clandestine act of hygiene. Caroline swoons at the sparkle in my eye.

Reinvigorated and a degree more presentable, I try to reanimate what social skills I still have in an attempt at conversation with some hikers, who, by their good fortune, nabbed a cabin situated down here amongst the splendor. We sit in front of the canteen, which is decked out with some rather large pumpkins, begging the question, did someone carry Mr. and Mrs. Jack-O’-Lantern down here, or was a mule employed to lug their squashy largesse? We talk a few minutes, obtaining details of where everybody’s hometowns are located and how much time the respective parties are spending down here in this garden of perfection.

The architecture that complements this setting rose from the genius of one of America’s great architects, Mary Jane Colter. Be it up on the rim of the Grand Canyon or down here, her style graces this, the most visited National Park on Earth. It was the creative brilliance of this woman, who, after starting in 1905 with the Hopi House, would go on to design Hermit’s Rest and Lookout Studio in 1914, the Desert View Watchtower in 1932, and the Bright Angel Lodge in 1935. Back in 1922, she was the visionary for Phantom Ranch. Ms. Colter demanded that the Fred Harvey Company, the concessionaire operating the property, drop the proposed name of Roosevelt’s Chalet and adopt the more intriguing name Phantom Ranch, offering the public a more interesting vision of what lies at the bottom of the Canyon. Mystery is still attached to the name, as the camp was never a working ranch, and what inspired Colter to use “Phantom” remains unknown. It may have come from nearby Phantom Rock, Phantom Creek, the Phantom Fault, or, as some prospectors claimed, the Phantom is the mist that fills the area on cold mornings.

The noontime sun beckons us to return to the dories for our midday meal; wishes for safe travels are exchanged with the hikers, and the trail carries us away. Back on our beach between the Kaibab and the Bright Angel Suspension Bridges, between the north half and the south half of the Canyon, our boatmen have set up the tables, brought out the flowers, unlocked the secret compartment of the perpetually fresh avocado, and busied themselves to prepare a meal of taco salad wraps. Guilty indulgence is noshed on while weary backpackers unwrap energy bars. Here goes the inflating ego again. How can one not begin to feel like a millionaire when presented with this luxury and attention to detail?

In my mind, I return to an epiphany experienced a couple of years ago that rearranged my perception of wealth and luxury. Caroline and I were on our first winter visit to Yellowstone National Park. Not one to speed through the park on snowmobiles, nor familiar or comfortable with skis, we chose the more snail-like pace of snowshoeing, fulfilling our dream of a Jack London experience at the same time. Crunching step-by-step, passing Old Faithful and the Upper Geyser Basin, we cut a trail overhill and through deep snow on our way to Black Sand Basin. After our arrival there, we stood alone in the quiet of winter, the only interruptions being the hiss and gurgle of the geysers or the bubbling of hot springs. We shared a cup of tea from our thermos and looked up, admiring the blue sky and the natural beauty before us, feeling it was ours alone for this brief moment. It then dawned on me: if the wealthiest person on Earth were here right now, all the money in the world would not buy him one more moment of the incredible. He would not see any more than I do now; there is no wealth-enhanced vision to be purchased. He would be offered the same priceless view Caroline and I were experiencing. And this holds true right here, right now, down on the Colorado River in this Grand Canyon. We sit here enjoying the sights, sounds and smells that are free for all with the determination and requisite effort to bring themselves to such places, where all are equally rich from the opportunity to be somewhere special.

One might think that by now, this whitewater business was getting easier, but with each day, a new vocabulary is found to describe what we are approaching, spilling vivid detail into the imagination. We require fresh muscles to find new strength to wrestle with “the biggest yet,” “God’s own roller-coaster,” and the sublime “a personal favorite,” which can imply any level of blood-curdling thrills. Fortunately, not all rapids are defined this way. Clear Creek and Zoroaster were lively rapids, while some rapids receive no glorious name or descriptive language that braces the mind. Mile 85 Rapid is just that, a rapid at river mile 85. Horn Creek is a two-in-one ride – not only is it one of Jeffe’s “personal favorites,” it is also our “biggest yet.”

More than a quarter-mile away, and on occasion even a half-mile, we are alerted to the first sign of the watery turbulence we are rowing into, as its roar reaches us well before the sight of the rapid does. Each oar slip moving us closer also raises the volume. As the sound rolls into a thunderous growl, adrenaline starts to pump, and quick breaths of anticipation take me to a low-level panting. Then, through a cruel trick of topology that is a feature of why a rapid is a rapid, the whitewater itself does not fully come into view – the riverbed downstream is going to fall 5, 10, 15, up to 30 feet, hiding the churn beyond the first drop. So, while the boatman can stand up and see what lies ahead, our view from just a few feet above the water only allows the rare glimpse of spray shot skyward by a collapsing wave hidden down below in the growl of the agitated river. Maybe we could find comfort in seeing what the crashing water before us looks like. Or we could opt to walk around the rapid if the view of what we were about to ride through was unobstructed. Since we don’t have those options, our first peek at these bigger rapids is often had in the few seconds before the dory starts its rip-roaring ride on the bucking bronco our boatman will once again try to tame with a successful run. With helmets on, we prepare to enter Horn Creek Rapid.

And then it starts. Reaffirm your grip, scan the waves, and tune your ears for instructions. Never mind the walls of water we’ll slice through, dousing us from to toe. We are in it. Our dory shoots forward with a jolt, accelerating from a lazy three miles per hour to the heart-pounding approach of warp speed. Captain Jeffe yells from the bridge, “RIGHT,” and we high side like pros, then a sharp admonition to hold on, and we instinctually lean forward. We are tearing a path through ragged water, emerging seconds after this all began, and then the urgent command to “BAIL” pushes us into motion. A water-filled dory is a potentially dangerous dory that is unstable and difficult to maneuver. Water weighs about seven pounds a gallon; with a boat carrying an extra 700 pounds on its topside, there is an immediacy to move that water out of our craft. We are already cold enough sitting in this water; there is no need to risk a flip to place us in full immersion. We keep on bailing. Before we know it, we are pulling into Granite Camp, tying down, unloading, and are soon ready for what’s next.

The mouths of side canyons are fascinating places, starting off wide and rock-strewn, often littered with twisted trees, low scrub, and the random cactus here and there. They are gateways to magic places not always visible from the riverside. Quickly, the walls close in, narrowing the breadth of potential trails we can follow, forcing us to the most obvious and maybe only hikeable path. Trekking to the south, we have a clear view of the Kaibab Plateau, where visitors to the South Rim stand, looking out in our general direction in anticipation of the setting sun that will paint the panoramic landscape before them in deep reds and warm golden tones. Meanwhile, we are already deep in shadow, scrambling to find the trail’s namesake that will lend understanding as to why it was named Monument Trail. Our pace is quick, taking advantage of the day’s remaining light. At the foot of a steep climb, Rondo reassures us, “Everyone can do this; it’s only 100 yards ahead.” Then, just around the corner, the horizon opens again with a gorgeous view of the glowing rim far in the distance. Sunset has arrived, and so has our first glimpse of the Monument.

We hike on, crawling up the steeper and steeper trail. We go higher for the view of all views when our path splits. The left fork leads to the Tonto Trail that traverses the Tonto Plateau east-to-west, connecting hikers to many of the rim trails, such as the Bright Angel and South Kaibab trails. To the right, the fork leads to the Granite Rapid Trail. We turn right and walk a short distance to an elevated outcropping in the Tapeats Sandstone, the best vantage point to take a rest and appreciate our front-row seats for the Monument. It defies comprehension of how a tiny column of stone has managed to hold this rock highrise growing out of the Earth. But as intriguing as the Monument is, I can’t help looking back at the fork in the trail and imagine, one day, descending the path that leads to this one. The rocky, dangerous-looking route through the Canyon would return us here to stand once again in this place and remember the boatmen, their dories, and our shared time on this river.

No matter that we leave our overlook on the same trail we came in on, we leave changed, different from the people who started up the trail. What has been collected and perceived offers a new filter of how the world will be interpreted a bit differently in some small, maybe some profound, way in the future. Details unseen on the first half of our hike can now be appreciated with a clarity that enlarges and adds dimensions of beauty to the tiniest elements. Contrasts stand in force, demanding our attention to make efforts to digest what must be left behind as we move on. Did you truly see what was there? Did you hear what wasn’t? Will you carry nothing of everything that was or everything of what might have been? If it doesn’t fit in your eyes, let it enter through your ears, and when your ears can hear no more, it is time to take a deep breath; with lungs full, open your mouth and taste the experience with the flavor of life passing over your lips some will surely spill away, grab for it and stuff what you can in your pockets, and as you become weighted down and laden with this wealth, allow it to enter your mind until it, too, is satiated. Upon overwhelming your thoughts, your imagination will become impregnated, leading to a birth of awareness in your heart that your soul will nourish, leaving you the recipient of the magic of life.

Just what is this here that so inspires me? It is the amassing beauty all around me. As the layers of sandstone, limestone, quartz, and schist form the Canyon heights, it is the accumulation of layers of beauty that are growing a mountain of indelible memories within me. Intrusions of purples, ripples of pink set against green, white swirls, and red layers of stone are painting a canvas of such size and scope that no museum will ever be able to play host to such majesty. Should you dare to see this, to really see what is here, you will surely celebrate the geological ecstasy our living planet has given us, just like I am now.

Try not to think too hard about where else on Earth this kind of environment could exist, for you will find yourself wanting to explore it, too. A large part of this path of natural beauty has casually been destroyed by a constriction of cement erected to dam the Colorado north of us. Lake Powell’s waters have buried Glen Canyon and stolen its untold cultural and aesthetic wealth. For now, we will have to be satisfied that this small stretch of wild river we are on still exists. We can dream of how many more side canyons may have been explored and shared with an even greater number of people if the Colorado were still navigable from above Moab, Utah, all the way to the impounded waters of Lake Mead standing behind the Hoover Dam. Better still, we could wish the entire Colorado River system could one day run free.

A book should be dedicated to the poetry not yet written of the side canyon Monument Creek runs through. A proper inventory of each and every object that gives this unique location the character that, in concert with stones, jagged edges, twisted forms, and amazing wild history, offers a visual symphony never before performed for my senses. Do not make the mistake of looking through jaded eyes. Peel back the layers of your age, go back, and find the eyes of your youth. Remember when our vision was not obscured by the definition of what our mind saw when, down on our hands and knees, we could find the grandeur of a universe in the sandbox of our local park? For all that has changed over the years, for all the aches and pains, the gray hair or extra pounds, whatever level of education was attained or successes found, from the time we weighed but seven pounds until now that we are aware and “in charge” of our lives, there has been one constant, one part of us that may be weaker today than they used to be but are the same size and shape as they have been since our birth – our eyes. Let us use them, but not as though they were well-worn, all-seeing, know-it-alls. Let’s wash away the clutter of everything familiar and look at our world through new eyes, through the eyes of innocence, through the eyes of the child.

The scenery here is not composed of “just rocks” these stones and sands are part of the soil of Earth from which we came. Their elements are a part of our very being. Millions of years ago, they were a part of the Earth that gave rise to a plant that, in our day, would become part of the dinner we eat tonight. The water flowing next to our path is part of the water that has always been on our planet; the water our ancestors drank from is here. Their hands scooped from a stream to quench their thirst, and what slipped between their fingers rejoined the waters that I would drink from a thousand years later. Today, we are walking on rock, sand, and dust; once gone from this life, we, too, will return to this dust, offering ourselves back to earth. Our bodies will rejoin the soil that is the medium of growth for a large part of that which sustains life. This cycle has played for countless millennia; nature knows its song, but in our age of modernism, we have not developed a sense to dance to this tune of harmony. Today, we should make that effort to hear the music, see the beauty, feel the unrestrained world, and embrace the delight in knowing we are alive.

What do we do when we find ourselves in nature, in a place we couldn’t imagine being a few hours ago before someone guided us this or that way? Crashing through Horn Creek Rapid earlier in the day, we couldn’t know for certain that soon we would be hiking the Monument Creek Trail. Had Granite Camp been occupied, we would have continued downriver, searching for another site to rest our heads and bones. The trails found at that other site may have taken us to heights that could eclipse the awe found here, or maybe the essence of the amazing is in everything around us. We only need to put ourselves into the place within that allows us to find what is directly before our senses, hidden in plain view behind the cynicism of believing we already have the answers and know it all.

–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.

“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.

Food is often just that, food. But here, where you wouldn’t expect culinary frills, the ritual of the meal has become theater. Can the kitchen performers best their earlier stage calls? They can, and they do. It is not necessarily that what is offered here can be said to be of gourmet preparation, nor is there anything exotic on the menu. Last night, we dined on barbecued ham with mac and cheese. Tonight, the boatmen will boil spaghetti to be served with a meat sauce and garlic bread. And this morning we are enjoying blueberry pancakes and sausages, but what strikes a chord are the fresh strawberries that have found their way into a fruit salad with sliced kiwi. Fresh strawberries on a nearly barren desert beach, five days downriver! Did someone parachute them in while we slept? Somewhere deep in the bowels of a raft or dory must be a magic compartment where avocados materialize, lettuce never wilts, and tomatoes don’t bruise. When will the pouches of dehydrated astronaut food come out for boiling? Or will our cooks soon resort to hidden caches of canned food stashed riverside by a supply raft that plies the river stealthily during the cover of night?

Fireside hors d’oeuvres on the river? Sure, if you are on a spring or fall trip. After all, who would dare dream of a roaring fire in July when it’s still 105 degrees after the sun sets? I’m sure appetizers during the summer are yummy in their own right, but last night’s baked brie with caramelized walnuts and fresh apple slices can only reach the heavenly delight of supreme comfort food while on a slightly chilly beach in autumn, warmed by a campfire, under the lofty cliffs of the Grand Canyon. Maybe someone paying tens of thousands of dollars for this experience could expect epicurean treats, but to me, having the good fortune to simply be here on the Colorado is already worth millions. What we paid for this trip was a bargain in light of how wealthy our memories are becoming. I could be fed a diet of twigs, sand, and coffee and still feel like royalty. This gastronomic dream-state must have been designed to enhance the experience of travel enchantment – as long as the passengers remain in perpetual bliss, they will forever be the greatest ambassadors of the Canyon, reminiscing of those days when from waking to falling off to sleep everything was perfect.

From a yummy breakfast at sunrise to the river and another great trail, we seamlessly transition through the moments as naturally as the day becomes night and then day again. The imperceptible fluctuation in the flow of air, earth, and river synchronizes with our internal clock, tuning us into the speed of nature. Old habits are temporarily ditched as new routines guide us. Down here, we are not getting ready for the day as much as we are preparing to be intently aware. Eyes open wide, the lungs breathe deeply, the ears are alert, and then it’s time to put the body back into action. All aboard!

The wooden oars slice into the calm river and exit with a “slip.” A delicate sound of “plink” is heard as water drops fall from the oar blade back into the Colorado. This auditory impression is impossible to capture with the written word, as verbal frailty foils the desire to adequately share the exact impression of the faint sound, though we hear it over and again. Listening with ears tuned to each detail, I find this sound akin to a marriage and separation of oar and water. Part of the uniqueness of this voice of the oar may lie in the spatial relationship only found here on the Colorado. The shape of the low-slung wooden and fiberglass dory, the distance of the hardwood oar, and the quiet on a calm stretch of river made more so by the heavy canyon walls weighted in silence, dampening sounds, all working to build this acoustic trinket of subtlety.

We glide along, passing mile 55. The oars touch the water and, for a second, appear to float on the surface tension. A long pause, and then into the river they sink, to be pulled by the oarsman, rowing us forward. Mile 56. Out of the water, the oar momentarily hangs in space with a drip, drip, drip. At mile 57, the dory is gliding downstream with us spellbound passengers, each drifting within. Mile 58 must have been there somewhere, too; likely that 59 slipped by similarly. Passing mile 60, we spring back to total awareness.

For here we are, where the Little Colorado River joins the really big Colorado at mile 61.5. Actors one and all, how else to describe our deceptive lack of drama upon our arrival? Who taught us this act of feigning subdued composure? Maybe it was conditioning for conformity? Was it a parent who told us not to run to the next ride at the amusement park? Or maybe it started back in high school when we were trying to convince ourselves of what was cool. Somewhere in our past, we lost the innocence we had when the sight of a birthday cake with candles flaming brought us to ear-piercing shrieks of joy. And you should know that I would surely be one of the first to raise an eyebrow of disapproval at the disturbance of nature’s solemn quiet, should the sounds of elation fill the air. At the same time, I hardly believe the rocks and river would care. So I scream a silent hoot and holler, jumping up and down inside, that this really is the Little Colorado.

The boatmen had anticipated its water to be a muddy, turbid flow due to the recent rains, which could have had it looking much like the larger river it was joining. Had that been the situation, flexibility would have played a hand in deciding that we would move on to points further south. But to our delight, the river is a beautiful opaque turquoise. At the confluence of the two rivers, a rippled border easily delineates the limestone-saturated Little Colorado from its chocolaty-red bigger brother. Toward the end of these rivers’ merger, when the combined waters pass into the main channel, evidence of this tributary is already lost.

In a couple of minutes, the rafts and dories are tied down, life jackets are secured, and our group collects, waiting for the boatmen to join us. Containing myself to the best of my ability, I stop short of breaking into a sprint to run ahead to see it all by myself, knowing that a minute later, the view will be shared with the others who follow. Four or five steps are all that I make before I have to stop to take closer examination of the water flowing over and adding to the travertine ledges the Little Colorado has built. Then, I take another few steps before gazing at the swirling stream of water descending through a pocket of carved rock, where the limestone solution’s various depths determine how clear or milky it appears. When the sun shines on deeper pools, the river gains luminosity as though lit from within. Red rock, white water, blue sky, chocolate river, tan sands, and green brush – who dreams this stuff up?

Here at “Life in the Grand Canyon 101,” this immersive class for living in the wild offers me the materials and experiences to become acquainted with nature on her terms. We lightly touch upon a multitude of potentialities that exist here, but the heavy subject-specific lessons exploring the fine details and depths of Canyon knowledge will have to be taken up after graduating from these 18 days. Our instructors walk a relatively short distance with us up the Little Colorado channel. The trail ends for us across from an old ruin of a house, said to have been built around 1889 by the miner and pioneer Ben Beamer. Ben placed his home right on top of a prehistoric Native American ruin that John Wesley Powell had identified two decades earlier. The story goes that the old miner lived down here for almost three years, never making contact with anyone else nor leaving the Canyon during that time. We gaze at the small dwelling and the Little Colorado until it is time for us to leave; what was closer to an hour feels like not much more than a few minutes. It only takes another second before the rear-view mirror on the dory loses sight of that limestone-saturated river. Goodbye, little brother, it’s time to become a man.

Not much further downstream, we are nearing the Hopi salt mines. A briny mixture is seeping from the cliff face that lines the river; dripping crusts of the white mineral collect and adorn the canyon wall. We keep our distance as we are reminded by the boatmen of our obligation while on the river to observe and respect the areas held sacred by Native Americans. The salt that forms here is collected by boys who have traveled the Salt Trail from Third Mesa on the Hopi Reservation to the river in a rite of passage.

The Canyon widens at our approach to the Unkar Delta, also known as Furnace Flats. Spring and fall are the times to stop here because, during summer, you will learn the true meaning of the term Furnace Flats, as life is baked right out of you. After getting a bite to eat for lunch, we depart for a hike. As is usual, we are going up, and as has happened before, the view expands, stretching far and wide. As also happened before, that part of my heart and mind used for sensing the spectacular opened up to points equally far and wide. I try to understand that at these junctures of physical, mental, spiritual, and aesthetic dilation, it is only natural that, as the eyes attempt to reach beyond their sockets, extra tears are necessary to ensure the eye remains moist and effective in relaying the unfolding beauty to the heart.

Petroglyphs, etchings on a boulder, an unknown language, a signage of direction, maybe a history for others, whatever these markings once meant, they are mostly indecipherable now. We can guess that the image of the antelope was an indicator that this stretch of trail is popular with these animals, giving hunters hope of finding a meal, a source of tools, and clothing in the area. The shapes, swirls, and designs, though, do not easily lend themselves to interpretation. Maybe because we can only speculate on their meaning, the ancient graffiti intrigues us into imagining there are hidden secrets locked into this primitive trail-side billboard. Wearing amateur anthropologist hats, we investigate the glyphs that I wish could speak to us, allowing insight into their missives. We continue our hike on this trail, leaving behind found mysteries to search for new ones.

Further up the easy trail, we approach Solstice ruin. We are in the Dox layer. The rock in this area is relatively soft, which explains why shortly after leaving the Little Colorado, the hard-edged riverside cliffs gave way to the more wide-open Furnace Flats. The softer rock erodes faster, producing hills with gently rounded surfaces. At the ruin, not much more than a short wall above the foundation remains standing. In its day, the neighbors might have envied this house, sitting on the hilltop with commanding views upriver and over to Comanche Point, 4,300 feet above the Colorado. A discarded metate lets us know that mesquite beans or corn was ground here as part of the local diet back when the owners of this dwelling called it home. Around the perimeter, hundreds, if not thousands, of pottery shards invite closer inspection. Various patterns and designs attest to the artist’s creative ability and, to my untrained eye, are reminders of pottery seen in Southern Colorado on the Ute reservation.

Standing at this long-abandoned dwelling, I attempt to bring together the extent of my knowledge of the Puebloan people. I want to envisage their trails and travels so that I might follow them east through canyons and desert, over the Hopi ancestral lands, and into those of the modern-day Navajo, where, on occasion, their journey could continue to ceremonies and festivals held in Chaco Canyon, over in what is now New Mexico. Did these Puebloan pilgrims walk through the Four Corners region, where various tribes such as Cliff Dwellers, Plains Indians, and other indigenous peoples from across the land might have crossed paths and enriched one another’s culture? Would one band of Native Americans trade pinyon nuts for some of that tissue-thin, blue corn piki bread made by the Hopi? Maybe plant dyes were on offer, or needed medicines exchanged? I don’t really want answers or the specifics, instead, I rather enjoy the conjecture of what might have been without the filter that suggests people throughout history are war-like, prone to violence and conquest. This potentially Pollyanna-ish delusion suits me fine. The daily routine and curiosity of someone on a trek of exploration, traveling without marauding ideas, only the desire to know for oneself what lies over the horizon and to learn who those people on that distant land are. These are the people whose eyes I want to look through. Who were their storytellers, and how was the history of their people shared with others, not of the same tribe? What songs and dances were enjoyed around a fire that may have accompanied celebratory feasting for good weather, healthy crops, and a peaceful life?

Who was born here in this crumbling abode? I can imagine their descendants walking the same earth as I do today. Are they constrained by a reservation where traditional ways and freedoms have all but disappeared? What sadness might an indigenous person feel, standing on the birthing ground of their ancestors, where ownership and rights of visitation are controlled by an occupying people? It is tragic that we must protect these historic treasures from those who would profit from their theft or those of low wit who might damage these relics for no other reason than their compulsion to flaunt their disrespect. Fortunately, our National Park Service has a good working relationship with our Native American neighbors, allowing those on ancestral journeys to follow in their fathers’ footsteps.

From this old home’s front yard and sweeping views, we move to explore the backyard. Contrasting those expansive vistas and distant horizons, the trail out back narrows with the line of sight, interrupted by a blizzard of rock that will soon surround us. Like snowdrifts made of multi-hued stone, the terrain undulates and disappears behind taller drifts of earth. The path is at times unseen; it is only the intuition, or previous trail memory, that guides the boatmen through this labyrinth. The walls are smooth in places, cragged in others; they are mottled rust with swirls of purple. Leeching salt crystals find a place to grow on protrusions; red stains drape over green rock, broken lava folds heave to form sharp edges, with pockets of empty space created by processes at work during an unwitnessed history long before modern humans arrived.

The various types of rock represent a multitude of minerals and composite materials, and with each comes just as many ways that it can erode. Where softer and harder rock were married millennia ago, the passage of time has weathered their relationship; thin ribs of hard rock stand like a skeleton above the recessing, softer sandstone. Overhangs form where harder upper layers stand in resistance to Mother Nature’s onslaught, but down below, its softer foundation is slowly washing away. Rainwater finds its way from high on the canyon rim, the surrounding areas, and various drainages to spill over cliffs and flow through gullies, scrubbing away loose sand and soil, depositing it in the Colorado somewhere below. The friction of this abrasive action shapes and polishes this tapestry of twisted form. Out of that chaos, the art of the planet emerges on a scale almost comprehensible.

It is as though the painter’s palette spilled over, and the primordial hand of nature laid down strokes to offer inspiration to a future Jackson Pollock. No matter my efforts, I will not find a method for merging myself into this stone canvas and disappearing into the beauty that paints this landscape. I can only try to share in the thousands of years of admiration from those who have visited this gallery dedicated to the monumental work of Earth art surrounding us.

Could Salvador Dali have found inspiration from the melting forms of travertine? Might Van Gogh recognize art imitating nature after looking at crumbling walls of chipped shale and fractured debris? Are there undiscovered motifs here only awaiting the creativity of a passerby to find their value? How do we know where and when our land transcends utility, elevating it to the sacred? If crude oil were found in the paint used for the eye of the Mona Lisa, would we gouge it out to operate a car for one more millisecond? Could we imagine melting down the mask of Tutankhamun to personally enrich ourselves? So why do these unseen corners become worthless to a city-bound society? How can others dream of damming a river to produce a bit of electricity or drilling into a canyon, filling it with noise and the clutter of machinery in order to extract more natural gas or uranium, when we now have the ability to harvest our energy needs from the sun and wind?

We can work smarter to harness alternative methods to power our world. They may not be easy or expedient, but we can learn to do without some convenience, as humankind will never build a Grand Canyon. Man will not learn how to create a mile-deep gorge, hundreds of miles long, that can bring us to tears of joy while standing before such resplendent sublimity. When will we stop our sprawl and outward expansion? Look around the Grand Canyon; it is eroding, disappearing. While not in our lifetimes or our immediate future generations, the Canyon is going away. When it is gone, only photos and stories will tell of what was lost, hopefully not due to faults of our own. The same will not be said for what man intentionally destroys in his quest for domination and his petty sense of ownership.

Our time to experience this side canyon is over. We’ll leave it just the way we found it. Should you visit this exact place, you may not see precisely the things we have seen, not because we altered anything, we leave that to the forces alive and at work crafting these sights. An earthquake could rattle through, a boulder or a cliff face might fall, or a flood of biblical proportions could roll over hill and dale, forever burying a place everyone’s senses should have had the opportunity to enjoy at least once. For now, I depart but not without a manifest full of glorious memories from just one more of the many unnamed and anonymous side canyons hidden here in the Grand Canyon.

From our mile-and-a-half-per-hour trail pace, we return to rowing downriver, clipping along at better than three miles per hour and flying over Tanner Rapid shortly before sunset as we sprint into the end of the day to prepare our evening shelter at Cardenas Camp – mile 71. And a race it has been. In these five days, we covered 71 miles of the Colorado, clocking in at a whopping average of 14 miles per day. There must certainly be a kind of magic at work within the Canyon regarding our perception of time versus distance. Pardon the math and numbers as I try to reconcile my memories of time spent on the river and just how we will have ultimately passed from mile zero through mile 225 at Diamond Creek – our exit. We have been on the river only three to five hours per day. If I calculate that we average four hours per day on the river, we will amass approximately 72 total river hours over the distance of 18 days. Dividing the distance traveled by these hours, our speed figures out to a shade over three miles per hour. But with the river flowing at three miles per hour and rapids crashing along significantly faster than that, it leaves the impression we did nothing more than float downstream. This is not a complaint by any means; it is the strange recognition that, while my memory tells me the boatmen worked hard to row us down the Colorado, delivering us to incredible adventure, I am now beginning to wonder whether their efforts may have in reality been used to slow our progress. Can I find clarity of memory to see if our dories moved with the current, faster than the current, or were we being passed by the flowing waters?

This then begs the question, what secrets of human perception do these boatmen know and utilize to their mystical advantage? To a growing list of words describing the boatmen, including guide, cook, and teacher, must I now include the profession of magician? How else does one explain that we eat three meals a day, ply the Colorado running whitewater with fierce rapids, hike, explore ruins and side canyons, investigate the fossil record, listen to stories and the song of guitar, mandolin, and campfire with all of this fitting into the shortened days of fall leading into winter? Only an illusionist could fool the perception into thinking it has seen more or less than it really has.

So how do days without end, delivering experiences that should require a week, a month, or even a year, come to a close? This one does so under the majestic light of a rising moon, illuminating the palisades off in the distance. In camp, a dwindling fire and an even thinner crowd brave the cool night for another moment of it all. Raft pilot Ashley Brown, who has been quiet until now, takes up the proverbial podium. Seated near the fire, she reads from John Wesley Powell’s account of his historic first journey down the Colorado in 1869. With a world and 141 years between us, I listen with half an ear while taking notes about my first trip, following in his larger-than-life footsteps. He was exploring the wilds of nature; I exploring the wilds of the mind.

–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.