I admire those that can capture the canyon with paint, pastel, music or film. But the canyon is also story and poetry and prose. It is the narrative of mountains and oceans and ferns and cacti, of kivas and catacombs, of things here, and things gone. It is the tale of water, and change, and storms that carry sediment, and walls that cleave sunlight. It is natives sharing stories from mouth to ear, and handprints on a wall saying remember. Formations like Zoroaster Granite, Vishnu Schist, and Cremation Pegmatite must have been named by poets—people who understood the magic and influence of words and who wanted others to understand that when we speak of the forces that shape the canyon, we speak of greater powers.
The first time I saw the Grand Canyon it was from its base. Starting at Lee’s Ferry I entered the canyon’s marble gateway, gliding through its waters deeper and deeper into time. Kaibab, Toroweap, Muav, Tapeats. It was autumn, 1996, and I was on an 18 day self-supported trip. I was a geologist, turned environmental educator turned mediator turned journalist. Just prior to launch, I had spent several days at the Oregon State Penitentiary covering a story for National Public Radio on the first execution of an Oregon prisoner in more than 30 years. The assignment left me drained and confused, obsessed about questions of right and wrong and the choices we make.
Then I entered the canyon.
