Backpacking The Grand Canyon

I watched a red dragon fly flit across my field of view. It confidently darted forward past the cliff’s edge, into the great expanse of the canyon. As I traced it with my eyes, I imagined I could be it. And I quickly pulled back, because I was. And I was unsure I could fly.

I arrived at The Tipoff, close to the bottom on the canyon, and the first stunning view of the Colorado River materialized. A bird song caught my attention just as I remembered an alligator lizard I saw earlier on the trail. I visualized its legs, recalling how slender its body was as it scattered across my path.

The more I resonated with the bird, the more I realized it had been singing to me. The bird unseen, yet exactly where I happened to be. I felt its tune. I sensed its beauty. The cadence of sound reminded me I was here, here being nowhere.

Having backpacked the canyon some years ago, I was eager to stop hiking downhill and enjoy the beauty of the river’s edge. The trail thinned of crowds just before the 5 mile point. Their trivial talk and plodding feet grew ever more distant as I paused drinking water. I’m embarrassed to admit, I felt annoyed. Humans are loud, and their language invades my brain space. The more I resisted, the more I was carried into their tune rather than the bird’s. I knew that this was a meditation in of itself: to allow.

The human noises faded. Everything grew still for a moment. The river rumbled in the distance, and that beautiful song bird restarted the symphony. A welcomed reminder that I am both everything and nothing, all at once.

That evening around 8:30pm, in the middle of the Black Bridge, I laid flat on my back and stared skyward. A satellite appeared to draw a curved arc. I smiled remembering that I peed off this same bridge earlier in the day. A tradition I started some 15 years earlier at the encouragement of a couple of backpackers I met then.

The sky became deeper with each star my eye spotted. I played the song Reckoner by Radiohead through my iPhone and my eyes welled. The light breeze cooled them against my cheek bones.

I thought of the meditation I had earlier that afternoon. After I setup camp, I bed down and felt complete peace. Neither asleep, nor awake, I saw faces I knew once from the past. They were beautiful people I loved.

With my eyes still closed, I watched the Grand Canyon from above. I always seem to have visions here. Were these real places? The trance had revealed rock formations I was certain I hadn’t been to, but indeed must be real.

I remembered the carpenter bee I saw on my way down. And I knew it was Gram. These bees were the ones who ate the cedar shakes at her house, the same ones she refused to exterminate. Gram had such a kind heart, even for the insects that whittled away her home. I was recently telling a friend I don’t often get to see her, even though I look. She appeared to prove me wrong. I smiled. 

The following day at Ribbon Falls, some 13 miles into my journey, I showered. The cold water took my breath away, and the torrent of water hit me in places I didn’t expect. I ate another mushroom and watched a momma bird feverishly gather insects to feed to her chicks.

At the base of the falls I melted into the hot, flat boulder beneath me. The aura of the canyon wall appeared, and the colors of blue and orange oscillated. I fed off the warm sun as it plunged deep into my bare skin.

You can’t ever truly record a moment, you can only express it through experiencing it. Try as I might in writing or making an image, the best I can do is bring you close, stretch the canvas, and lay the palate for reference.

As I left the falls back toward camp, the oppressive heat forced me into taking a break. I found shade behind a large canyon wall, sat and drank some water. I appreciate how nature adjusts you to the right speed. Too fast and you’re hurting. Find the right pace, and you’re living.

The backcountry supplies an endless freedom. You only have what you can carry, and your legs bring you to where you’re going. It’s like having everything, and all you need is nothing.

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