We spent the first morning trying to find parking, and though I knew it wouldn’t be cheap near the National Park, I also didn’t expect it to be quite so expensive! The clouds hung overhead as we entered the park, but we managed to find parking near the visitor center so we could pick up a few of the maps and peruse the attached gift shop (I do have a soft spot for pins and postcards, after all). We did, however, make it a priority to try and find our way to a hiking trail, though honestly I hadn’t expected the view to take my breath away in the way that it did.
Since we visited the South Rim, the majority of the trails were well documented and well traveled, but Ánh and I wanted to find our way into the Grand Canyon as well. So–we had a choice.
Several trails would give us options.
But we decided on the South Kaibab Trail, one that took us along the steep, staggering cliffs of the canyon and then down into its belly. When we stepped off of the bus onto the gravel of the visitor area, we made a beeline to the rim, looking out into the canyon below–the Grand Canyon, as we had already known it, capital letters and all.
I stared out into that expanse and suddenly felt so small in comparison. My anxiety ebbed a bit as a I stood overlooking the absolutely terrifying drop below, suddenly reminded of the Cliffs of Dover I visited those years ago with Ashton and Kody. I reminisced for a moment, letting those memories wash over me, and I was struck by the need to catalog the moment. I so rarely took photos in my youth; the photo albums I do have are all of awkwardly posed photographs my mother took on dance nights or birthday parties. I rarely have anything candid from my adolescence, something that cataloged a pure and unadulterated joy present in the moment. I’m proud of myself, now, that so often I get to find simple joy in having something to share–a photo to keep and treasure, something that lasts through the years.
We checked the trail head map right before the entrance to the canyon. The trail zigzagged unevenly alongside the rim, where the steep decline in the rocky path led into the heart of the canyon. Over the large boulders sitting just on the edge of the entrance, I could see the deep rift in the canyon bed, where the Colorado river carved a deep rut in the rock face, a scar across the earth. I waited for a moment as Ánh studied the trail map to make sure we were in the right place and how far we could go in before needing to head back up to the entrance before nightfall.
There were already several other families heading down into the depths themselves, and neither Ánh nor I put a limit on what we could potentially reach. We at least wanted to get to the overlook a couple miles in, so we double checked our water bottles and shoes and descended.
The Descent
I rarely hiked.
In fact, I went on a full-on boycott of the outdoors for much of my teenage years, refusing to even camp in the backyard of my suburban childhood home.
But I’ve found in my adulthood a new appreciation for the outdoors and the therapeutic quality of nature. I used to avoid the oscillation between hot and cold–the unpredictability of the weather in Oklahoma, where I grew up, the only home I’ve known so far. But as I’ve grown up, and seen and experienced all of these new-to-me places, I’ve come to appreciate the weather in all of its fickle beauty.
So as Ánh and I descended into the canyon, I felt the sun beating down on my back, the warmth on my neck, and I welcomed the feeling even though I knew I’d get hot as the day wore on. I hoped that by the time we made it to the overlook we’d still be just as energetic as before, though I knew we’d both be exhausted in a good way. We trudged along, using the walking sticks she brought with us to keep our balance and test the path when we wandered a little closer to the edge.
“Look!” I heard in front of me, snapping me out of a trace. I had been gazing outward into the canyon, admiring the sloping stacks of reds and oranges beginning to tower over us.
“What?”
I caught up to Ánh, where she crouched near the edge of the trail, staring down into the red dirt beneath our feet. A tiny lizard slithered its way out of the underbrush and skittered away. Once we looked up again, and continued downward, we walked straight past a group of tourists on donkeys, which were tied together with rope. Our descent into the canyon was filled to the brim with little bits of wonder and surprises–including the various stops for water and for breath.
Several times either one of us forged ahead of the other.
I just like the act of walking, the monotonous drum of my feet on the earth, so I just keep going on autopilot. It’s therapeutic, in a way, the constant movement and forging forward, and it’s brought me a sense of peace over the years. During the hike itself, I would stop and enjoy the view from the trail occasionally, wondering just how deep the canyon expanded below us. Morbidly, I thought about how many people may have found their untimely ends within its walls. But beyond that, I felt myself coming to terms with the grandeur of the monument ahead of us.
I was caught up in the extraordinary experience of watching the day pass in a breathtakingly beautiful place.
Ooh Aah Point
Hilariously, the deepest the two of us went was Ooh Aah Point, aptly named for its beautiful views that took the breath right out of our lungs. I literally could not hold in the excitement that bubbled out of my chest, letting out an unintended exclamation of joy. A set of rocks lead up to the highest point, and several families were there already reveling in the view in front of us all. I was hot and sweaty and tired, but I had enough energy left in me to marvel at the view set before me.
I could barely believe my eyes.
The two of us climbed to the top of the rocks, settling in for a snack and rehydration while we admired the canyon in all its grandeur. It felt surreal–still feels surreal–to talk about it, to watch and revel in the simplicity of the accomplishment of our hike. For a long time I thought I’d never get to have moments like these, where I was lucky enough to get to experience the world, both in and outside of my own backyard. The fact I shared these memories with someone I love is just icing on the cake.
I wanted so desperately to freeze time–to make that moment and contentedness last forever. But I know now that part of growing up and growing out is also acknowledging that these moments are fleeting and life is short, which makes it all the more precious. I was done, I decided, with dwelling on a past I couldn’t change; however, I wanted to be present in the moments I planned on cherishing for a long time. The Grand Canyon is only one of those moments in a long series of moments that I will remember with fondness and clarity, the Polaroid photos that hang on my bedroom walls a testament to some of the both silly and beautiful moments from this trip.
I took cheesy, touristy photos.
I reveled in the accomplishment of making it so far.
And then I breathed.
Sam