Editor's Letter

The gravitational force between two massive objects varies inversely with the square of the distance between them. Gravity. It's not just a notion; it's the law. And because of it, water seeks the center of the Earth, and will do everything in its power to get there. In late August, that determination made headlines. Twice. First in Nepal, on August 26. And then again, just three days later, in Grand Canyon National Park. Both floods were catastrophic and deadly.

We knew it could happen in the park. Flash floods often follow wildfires. The loss of trees and shrubs and grasses in a burn area increases the speed and volume of runoff during a storm, especially on steep slopes. "Water gathers, channeled by the landscape," Craig Childs says. "Torrents run into washes, arroyos and canyons, sucking and gasping as the flow grabs pieces of earth and tears them free. The flood grows, irrepressibly looking for the way down."

Two summers ago, the Dragon Bravo Fire burned 150,000 acres of montane forest on the Kaibab Plateau, leaving Bright Angel Canyon exposed to a worst-case scenario.

Unfortunately, the worst occurred at approximately 2:30 p.m. on August 29.

As I write this, emergency response crews are just beginning their assessments of the flood, which wiped out bridges and buildings and rocks and trees. "When a flood runs," Mr. Childs says, "it gathers and carries everything it can find like a fervent garbage collector cleaning the streets. With the added force of all of the debris it has gathered, the flood becomes a sand blaster, taking out the live trees and tearing at the cliff walls."

And so it was in Bright Angel Canyon. The footage was dramatic, as it is with any natural disaster. But this hit harder. This was home. Immediately, I started hearing from friends and colleagues with deep roots up there. The Canyonheads. Each of us was wrestling with the same emotions. Fear. Anxiety. Helplessness. Despair. Sorrow.

"I know it's so special to you," Amy Martin said as the evacuations were underway. "And to so many others, too. The solidarity is a salve. I feel grief upon grief. It's a lot. Hug that family of yours, tightly. That's what I've decided to do."

Amy was the first person I thought of when the news broke. Bright Angel Creek, the lifeline that feeds the flora and fauna in that spectacular side canyon, was her Walden Pond. Five years ago, she wrote an inspirational essay for us about that extraordinary place.
 

"The last remaining leaves on the Fremont cottonwood hold the sun as it slips through a notch in Grand Canyon's southern wall," she wrote with the flair of Thoreau. "Trunks and limbs, near-naked in the chill of late afternoon, lay shadows across the footbridge and onto the assorted stones that line Bright Angel Creek. Even in the long light, these stones are boundless in color and form, collected from every geologic layer above. Water and time have reduced the façades of limestone, sandstone, shale and schist to boulder, cobble, sand and silt, all eventually settling in the cradle of the creek bed. The entire scene, from pebble to panorama, asserts nature's artistry as creator and destroyer. There is no resisting entropy."

Everything in the universe eventually breaks. Entropy is the word that physicists use to measure those breaks. I envy the physicists — and the ecologists and geologists. They're better equipped to process the loss that comes from natural disasters. Not the loss of life. That's not easy for anyone. But the loss of landscape. Those places we seek out for refuge. Places we take our children to teach them about the fascicles of pine trees and the footprints of wildlife. Places we go to experience the words of Wendell Berry.

The loss of those places is easier for the scientists. Like the Coriolis effect and the adiabatic lapse rate, they see wildfires and flash floods mathematically. As part of the equation. It’s what’s supposed to happen.

“I certainly mourn the thought of those cottonwood trees,” says Wayne Ranney, a geologist, educator and river guide, “but I have the geologist’s perspective, that these are events that have occurred throughout time. They bring destruction, but destruction always brings a renewal and a rebirth. And I take solace in that. Maybe it’s too early to have those kinds of thoughts, but having a geologic perspective ... it helps to know that, even though we might not be there to see the rebirth of some of these fantastic landscapes, we can know that, because of geology and the passage of time, these beautiful landscapes will return once again.”

I know he’s right. And I want to embrace what he’s saying. But it’s not easy. It’s hard to reconcile the sudden disfigurement of Mother Nature’s most remarkable handiwork. Not everyone is affected, but most of us, to some degree, lament the loss of the natural wonders around us. We hate to see them go, because they’re a part of us.

Bright Angel Creek was a part of Amy. She kept going back, reflexively, to “reground and rebuild,” to put her “soles on the earth” and to let her thoughts “idle among the bluffs.” Her place is different now. Not forever, the scientists will say, but for a while. Quite a while.

Of course, the loss of the cottonwoods along Bright Angel Creek, and the firs and aspens where Dragon Bravo burned, are secondary to the people who died in late August, and we’re grateful to the first responders who bravely rescued everyone else in peril.
 

We have so many things to be thankful for, and this is the month in which we take inventory — it’s built into the calendar. Gratitude, however, extends beyond the fourth Thursday of November. It does at this magazine. Every day we’re grateful for our subscribers around the world. On behalf of everyone at Arizona Highways, thank you for your support. I wish you all a safe and happy Thanksgiving.