"A beautiful thing is never perfect"
- Egyptian Proverb
It is impossible to quickly travel from the Grand Canyon's North Rim to South Rim, a fact I learned while driving toward the North Rim, racing the sun, with a worsening cold.
I left Antelope Canyon sometime after noon, intending to drive to the North Rim for views and perhaps a small hike before heading down to my campground on the South Rim for the night. The roads in Arizona were a consistent rich, red hue, with roadside stands offering Navajo artwork and textiles. I stopped briefly just outside Jacob Lake, an hour off highway 89, still two hours from the North Rim entrance to Grand Canyon National Park, and consulted Google Maps. The sun was still high in the sky, but the tickle in my throat was moving down to my lungs, and the fatigue was overwhelming. When the map made it clear that I would have to backtrack in order to get to my campsite, I decided to skip the North Rim stop in hopes of setting up my tent in the daylight and getting enough sleep to help my immune system fight the cold. I headed back the way I came and continued down highway 89.
Entering Grand Canyon National Park, I handed my National Parks Pass to the ranger, who commented on how many Minnesota visitors she had seen in recent days. Almost immediately after the entrance, I pulled into the first parking lot touting vistas. My first glimpse of the Grand Canyon was nothing short of breathtaking - the scale and grandeur of this world wonder proving greater than I had imagined.
I stopped at several other vistas along the route to Mather Campground, where I had reserved a campsite a month earlier. Every turn revealed another sliver of the canyon, a new vantage point illuminating new colors, textures and expanses below.
Just before the campground, a series of cars were pulled over on the side of the road, their occupants watching a herd of elk grazing in the woods. I crept by, eager to set up my tent before dark. I found my campsite, and while assembling my tent I saw movement in the distance. Not far from a neighboring site, two elk wandered into view, grazing beside the paved road. Soon two more joined them, and then more. A herd of elk were just yards away, apparently so acclimated to human companions that they thought nothing of using the campground as their pasture. I made dinner and quietly observed, feeling as if I had stumbled into their family gathering.
The sun was setting as I finished my meal, and I realized this would be an amazing opportunity to see the Grand Canyon at dusk. Without consulting the map, I assumed that a vista would be too far to walk before dark, so I hopped back into my car and headed to Mather Point. The parking lot was nearly full - clearly others had the same idea - but I found a spot and ran toward the rim. The sky was perfect - enough cloud cover for a brilliant sunset. Pinks and blues mixed in the sky and turned the canyon itself every possible shade of blue as the sun descended.
The sun set, and I headed back to the campsite to sleep. The temperature dropped - quickly - landing in the mid-30's. I bundled up in my sleeping bag and spent the night coughing and trying to raise my head by folding my tiny travel pillow in half and adding a sweatshirt beneath it. I hoped I wasn't keeping other campers awake, and regretted not picking up Nyquil that day.
In the morning, sleep deprived, with aching lungs, I was grateful for hot tea and oatmeal, which rejuvenated me enough to push me to follow through on my plans to hike. I drove to the visitor center and decided to take the shuttle to the end of the line - Hermits Rest - and hike back toward the visitor center. I figured if I was feeling ambitious I could hike the full 9 miles, but if my cold got the best of me I could hop on a shuttle and head back to my car.
I was one of three people on the morning shuttle, which the driver - Mike - said was his first route of the day. He was an extrovert, I quickly learned, eager to talk with anyone who would listen. Mike lived and worked in the park in the summer and fall months, taking his RV further south for the winter. An amateur photographer, Mike talked about working on a series highlighting the juniper trees on his bus route. "They don't grow straight up," he said, "they're all crooked and squiggly." He lit up when talking about the juniper trees, clearly inspired by their unique, rugged, twisted beauty.
At Hermits Rest, I flirted with the idea of hiking into the canyon, but after reading the sign at the trailhead, which stated in bold all caps: DO NOT HIKE ALONE, I stuck with the original plan of hiking along the rim.
I enjoyed quiet and solitude for most of my hike, occasionally catching up with a group or passing occupied vistas. The sun had warmed the air, and the activity felt great, though I was still fatigued from my night of sub par sleep. I paused for snacks and water, enjoying the wondrous grandeur before me. Gazing into the massive canyon, with the iron-colored Colorado river, and ridges with red, gold, and green striations, I felt inconsequential in comparison. It was calming, as if my insignificance was reassuring in some way. When faced with something so monumental, it felt as though there was only one thing to do: surrender. Accept. The Grand Canyon is so far beyond the control of humankind - we couldn't have dreamed up something so awe-inspiring if we tried. So we relinquish the need for control and just - be.
After about five miles, my cold had won - exhaustion overwhelmed me. At Mojave Point, I boarded the shuttle heading eastward, back toward my car. Coincidentally, Mike was my driver again. He was chatting with a group of tourists (including one who spoke little English, but clearly was enjoying the conversation regardless), telling bad jokes, happy to have a larger audience.
I thought about his fascination with the juniper trees, several of which I had passed by on my hike. What is a juniper tree if not a metaphor for this life we live? Our lives are far from a straight line. The twists and turns are what make it both painful and beautiful. Perhaps it is a matter of perspective - would you rather see the contortions as imperfections, as flaws? Or as unique parts of the story, the things that make the tree one-of-a-kind? My twists and turns make me who I am. Perhaps they are what make me me, and by embracing them I might find meaning in them. Life lessons from a bus driver.
