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The Grand Canyon (on a Cold Winter's Night)
There are more stars in the sky over the Grand Canyon than anywhere else on earth. I'm pretty sure it's a proven fact. Most people don't realize it, though, because they spend all their time staring down instead of up. But on one cold December night, I couldn't take my eyes off the heavens.
It was the first week of
December, and much to my surprise, I found myself standing at
the south rim of the Grand Canyon, admiring the millions of
stars that never showed up over Tampa. Just five days earlier,
and 2,000 miles away, I had stumbled onto an airfare that I
couldn't refuse. In a spur-of-the-moment series of mouse clicks,
I had committed to an unexpected journey. My hopes weren't
terribly high, though, since I had seen the Grand Canyon before.
I figured this visit would be much the same. It was so much
more. I booked a room at the Bright Angel Lodge, the historic set of cabins and motel rooms designed by architect Mary Colter. For a single bed and a bathtub, I paid around $70 -- not bad for a room that was less than 100 feet from one of the world's seven natural wonders. By the time I checked in, the sun was already gone. But on this night I was lucky: not only were the stars bright, but the moon was nearly full. From my suitcase I retrieved all the warm clothes I had packed. After outfitting myself with several layers, I ventured out into the 15 degree air. Just steps away, there it was: the biggest, most beautiful hole on the face of the earth. From one corner of my eye to the other it stretched -- all bathed in a soft light provided by powerful moonbeams.
There were a few tourists ambling by. Everyone seemed so overwhelmed with the beauty of the night, that they felt compelled to talk about it. I chatted with a few of them, comparing thoughts on the best viewpoints and most enjoyable hikes. Once the conversations ended, the canyon itself would speak: with winds gently howling as they rushed up the canyon walls. Any other sound disappeared in the vast expanse. I wondered if, perhaps, there was a better place to stare up into the sky, and down into the void; perhaps one where I would be all alone with the stars and the wind. I found it a few miles down Hermit Road, at Powell Point. In winter, visitors are allowed to drive down Hermit Road. The rest of the year, you must wait for a bus. To have such freedom in the middle of a cold winter's night is probably not a good thing. Without a ranger to provide a warning, I was left with only my common sense to keep me from wandering into a remote and lonely place. But my common sense, it seemed, was also on vacation.
The narrow outcropping at Powell Point juts into the canyon, like a limb stretching out from a tree trunk. There were only a few railings to keep me from the edge, and no lights to guide my feet. So I took a moment for my eyes to adjust, then walked slowly out the path.
I might as well have
been walking to the end of the earth. Perhaps never again will I
be so very alone. I could have shouted, but no one would have
heard me. I could have mooned the moon, and no one would have
seen. I could have jumped, and no one would have found me. I didn't stay long. I didn't need to. And before long I realized, I didn't want to. I had wandered off and cleared my mind. I had seen the Grand Canyon bathed in moonlight. The darkness made me feel alone, while the immense emptiness had made me feel insignificant. And the stars, those countless, milky, sparkling stars? They left me speechless. I had visited the Grand Canyon before, but I hadn't been there on a cold December night. It turns out, seeing it in the dark helped me see it in a whole new light.
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