GRAND ADVENTURE

At t the first clang of my Baby Ben alarm clock I jumped out of bed like a Jupi-ter-C Rocket leaping off its launching pad. On my schedule for early Tuesday morning, August 8th, was a rendezvous with destiny on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. Like a kangaroo with a hot-foot, I dashed down the corridor of El Tovar Hotel and raced like a flaming arrow to the stone wall flanking the South Rim. As the candlelight of dawn began to quiver far to the east, I thrilled to watch a brand-new day emerge from night's black wrapping paper. But I was totally unprepared for the explosion of color. I looked down into the tremendous chasms of the Grand Canyon and felt as though I were viewing the dawn of creation. From utter voids of chaos and black mystery God was fashioning a technicolor world of flaming beauty.Complete fascination compelled my eyes to take in the bewildering maze of deep abysses, stark cliffs, and twisting, snakelike canyons that vanished in far horizons. I rejoiced at this country majestically rugged, and wonderfully wild. It has never been tamed by the plow, bridled by barbwire, or snubbed by the halter of power lines. Where streams of sunlight splashed against the sides of the Canyon, the rocks of centuries fanned out into spectrums of color like peacocks on dress parade. Whole mountain peaks rising out of primeval depths exploded

The Grand Adventure

As the first rivulets of sunlight trickled down over the eastern ramparts, they flooded the Canyon with dazzling blues that shaded into deep purples. The vast immensity like a giant Koh-i-noor diamond throbbed and pulsated with strange, mystic lights quivering with mystery, fascination, and intrigue. The seemingly never-ending depths of the Canyon lost themselves in regions of baffling darkness. With a dash of imagination you could picture the caverns under where is fettered the thunder that struggles and howls by fits. Or, perhaps, in these dark, inner regions of the earth were chained fire-blowing dragons from the Land of Oz. The flanks of Grand Canyon have been slashed and gouged by the talons of time into such weird shapes and swirling patterns that it could well be the landscape of some distant planet. As I looked at the scenery beneath my shoelaces, I found myself peering down into brooding voids of tumbled space. Autographed by wind and storm, color-splashed cliffs crowd the hush of silent miles. The impact of primitive beauty was overwhelming.in a glare of atomic red, vibrated with periwinkle blue, and burnished gold, then subdued into jade green and driftwood gray and sandalwood. Pinnacles of canary yellow were striped with streaks of Cherokee red, like Indians on the warpath. Far to the north flat-topped mesas and high buttes lost themselves in tantalizing shades of colors that have no name. Here and there sunshine broke in galaxies of diamonds against lofty monoliths and fluted columns that might have been the entrance to the temple of Apollo or Jupiter.

As I lifted my vision from the tremendous voids that tumbled away into mystery beneath me, I noticed that the ocean of purple light that surged before me was blending like magic into tremulous blues that extended above the Canyon's jagged peaks, then seemed to blend and never end in all of space above.I tore myself away from the fascinating rhythm of sunrise over Grand Canyon and retreated to Fred Harvey's breakfast nook to fortify the inner man with a stack of hot cakes and two glasses of milk.

As I left El Tovar Hotel for the second time in the morning, I felt like Sinbad the Sailor about to explore the palaces and bazaars of fabled India. Even Dorothy in the fanciful story "The Wizard of Oz" had no more wonderful adventures. A whole new world was about to open up under my feet.

My motto for the day was to be the inscription over the northwest porch of El Tovar Hotel, "Dream of Mountains as in their sleep they brood on things eternal."

I had decided that if I were to really appreciate the grandeur and majesty of Grand Canyon, I must plumb it to its depths. I would "drop" a vertical mile down to the turbulent Colorado River rushing like a mad dragon towards the sea. I would explore the "upside-down mountains" from top to bottom.

A short, brisk walk west of El Tovar Hotel brought me to the northwest edge of Grand Canyon Village and the beginning of Bright Angel Trail.

I was standing on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon at an elevation of 6,870 feet above sea level. Yawning wide open before me was the world's most spectacular example of erosion a chasm 217 miles long (measured by river course) and 4 to 18 miles wide. Somewhere below me in the unseen distance the second longest river in the United States was still at work gouging out the Canyon, and rushing seaward with nearly one-half million tons of sand and silt every twenty-four hours.

Fred Harvey's mule-train excursion into Grand Canyon has long been one of the most popular attractions for visitors. So much so, in fact, that last August I was told you needed a reservation two weeks in advance to be sure of a saddle.

I was selfish enough, however, to want to go the Canyon alone on foot. I wanted to experience the full impact of the Canyon's rugged beauty, to have the rapture and thrill of new discovery hit me full force and enjoy its rhapsody without distracting side talk from a nervous gentleman astride his first saddle who keeps telling you there is nothing like the first mule ride to make one feel better off.

Actually, there is nothing to worry about. Bright Angel Trail is well named. It is an "Angel" that takes good care of you. The Trail is gentle and easy and "drops" serenely by a series of switchbacks that even grandma would find comfortable and convenient. (I came across one grandma on the trail. She was close to sixty, and proud to be toting her own pack with no help from her grandson.) The gentleness of Bright Angel Trail is indicated by the fact that in order to "drop" down a mile to the river, you have to walk approximately eight miles of trail.

Each turn of Bright Angel Trail is dramatic as a clap of thunder, as compelling as the roll of kettle drums. You can almost hear the mountains shout and the canyons ring with laughter. The silence you hear is the sound of tomorrow taking its time. I felt like a Mercury Astronaut in reverse. Instead of catapulting towards the stars, I was plummeting backwards into time.

Like chapters in a book, the rocks told me that I was walking back into a distant past when dinosaurs sloshed through primeval swamps. I was going back in time to the remote ages when that buried sunshine we call coal was a living, growing jungle of trees and vegetation.

The walls of the canyon are a "Time Machine" more fantastic than any dreamed of by H. G. Wells. They tell of eras when the earth sank under great seas, only to rise again. To be submerged again, and to rise again. They tell the strange story of how such fluid things as wind and water have chiseled out nearly 1,100 square miles of unique scenery from solid rock and sturdy cliffs.

As I descended the set of switchbacks through the Redwall, each turn of the Jacob's Ladder flashed a new scene before me. I saw great castles leaping to the sky and pinnacled cathedrals rising from the Tonto Platform. Like legendary ships on sapphire seas' stately galleons sailed beyond the vast horizon. Wherever I looked I found rocks fashioned in such shapes as to remind you of steamboats, Chinese temples, anvils, skyscrapers. You name it. Grand Canyon has it.

Less than an hour after I left the South Rim, the Bright Angel Trail flowed out upon the gray-green of the Tonto Platform, a sprawling shelf that separates the upper heights from the more rugged lower section.

Grand Canyon is not only a “Time Machine” but a vast lesson in geography telescoped into a vertical mile. While “dropping” one mile vertically, I was to cover a thousand miles of climate and plant zones from that of southern Canada on the South Rim, to that of the Mexican desert at the Canyon bottom.

The most unique and welcome spot on the Tonto Platform is an oasis known as Indian Gardens, where courteous old cottonwoods throw generous circles of shade, and a water faucet offers a chance to drink freely. (Your last chance if you proceed deeper into the Canyon.) Since I wished to explore the Canyon all the way to the river, I took a long, hearty farewell of my friend, the water faucet, and proceeded along a dry creekbed that finally tumbled me into the steep inner gorge of sheer granite.

The gaunt ramparts that patrol the inner gorge are so savage, so unspoiled, so beautiful, that they seem to speak out telling man to keep a respectful distance.

For a moment I thought I was lost amid the craters of the moon. It was a world unlike anything I had seen before. It was unearthly. Strewn on all sides were massive boulders, some the size of apartment houses, some resembling giant loaves of bread left by a colossal Cyclops on baking day.

Forbidding granite walls leaped to the sky like battlements built by Mars. They stood defiant of time, space, and puny men. With silent strength they guarded the approaches to the roaring waters still far below.

I was stabbed with thrust after thrust of wonder and delight, deep, fierce, beautiful. Here was a magnificent country strong and free as the roving winds; untamed and vigorous as a golden-maned palomino stallion racing with the breeze. Here was a mighty land, broken and tumbled by a powerful hand. Peak stood on peak, and canyon walls rose to peer over their neighbors.

Deep ravines tumbled off into unseen depths. Towering canyon walls gleamed in the hammered gold of sunlight. Weird regions took mysterious shapes like nightmares from a dream. Peaks tipped with molten sun gleamed like towers of fairyland. Listen! Perhaps you may hear the horns of Elfland softly blowing.

The very air was like opalescent jewel. Far overhead the sky opened up like a soft blue flower. I felt as though I were soaring on the splendid golden wings of morning and heard the wind whistle my name. And after that a silence, and a thousand heartbeats of motion.

This was ecstasy and thrill, the heart's swift running out to meet delight. Here the vision of a day that would remain forever bright and shining like a dazzling diamond sparkling in the treasure chest of happy memories.

I thought of that first message Samuel Morse sent racing through telegraph wires, “What hath God wrought?” Here, indeed, was an answer. Mighty mountains leaping to the sky spoke with a voice of thunder of His power, His majesty, His grandeur.

How appropriate were the words of Psalm 103, “O Lord my God, thou art exceedingly great. Thou hast put on praise and beauty; and art clothed with light as with a garment. Who makest the clouds thy chariot; who walks upon the wings of the winds. How great are thy works, O Lord? thou hast made all things in wisdom.” Even the very rocks seemed to echo the words of Psalm 99, “Sing joyfully to God, all the earth: serve ye the Lord with gladness. Come in before his presence with exceeding great joy.” The trail which up until now had been patient as a burro, now became a wild mustang rearing on its haunches to paw the sky with its hoofs, now plunging like a mad bronc trying to dislodge its rider.

Even the outcroppings of grass and weeds had disappeared. I picked my way along a trail that dodged giant boulders and dipped suddenly into depths of sheer stone.

Here was a rhapsody in rock, a symphony in stone shimmering to glittering cadenzas, rumbling to deep bass kettle drums. An ocean of motion caught and held forever in solid granite. A sudden turn amid narrowing canyon walls brought me to the roaring waters of the Colorado!

My heart skipped a beat at the wonder of it all. I hastened to skip over the boulders so I could kneel and dip my hand in the swirling waters. Here was a moment to cherish forever. It was exactly three hours since I had left the South Rim, and now I was enjoying the cool sound of rushing water splashing against time-smoothed boulders. The refreshing song of the running waters played a dream concerto on the strings of my heart. Like a harp gently caressed, my mind echoed with vibrations of surprise and delight.

The Colorado had always been a name with a magic glow, and now here it was before me, a seething ribbon of motion, a galloping mustang with foam-white mane, a swirling cauldron of action, or Pegasus with Winged Horse thundering down the walls of time. However pleasant the jewel-bright setting, I knew I must be back on the South Rim to catch the evening train for Williams Junction, and then on south to Phoenix. So I must prepare to leave this mystic land of the upside-down mountains.

During my trip down into the Canyon I had passed by some dozen people on the trail from the South Rim to Indian Gardens. I passed by no one from Indian Gardens to the bottom of the Canyon.

On my trip up, however, I did meet one young man who was making his way down from Indian Gardens. From Indian Gardens to the South Rim I met about fifteen people on foot.

Going dow down into the Canyon in the cool of the morn-ing I was delighted with the impact of primitive beauty. On my way up out of the Canyon the beauty was still there, but I was "impacted" by two new items gravity and heat.

It was high noon when I began my climb back up out of the inner gorge. I would have waited until the cool of the afternoon had I known just how long it would take me to reach the top. But I had to catch a train, and hence wanted to allow as much time as possible.

Beams of strong sunlight ricocheting like stray bullets off solid rock walls pierced me to the marrow of my bone. I knew now how a California plum must feel in the process of dehydrating into a prune.

During the morning trip I simply had to "let myself go" and gravity took over the job of bringing me down. I had to use my feet mainly as brakes to check too rapid a descent. On the way up, I had to fight gravity every inch. The first few miles flew swiftly by, but as the hours lengthened, I almost developed a secret wish for a Fred Harvey mule. But I soon found that even life without a mule could be surprising, and had more than its share of compensations.

In the morning I cascaded down the trail like a run-away wagon wheel bouncing with excitement. My eager feet crunching on the ground telegraphed my approach to all inhabitants of the Canyon. Once I had climbed up past Indian Gardens and was nearing the top, and knew I had plenty of time to spare, I enjoyed the luxury of sitting quietly in the shade of a big boulder or kindly tree and letting my eyes drink in the vivid beauty of the scenery that kept falling away beneath me.

After a few minutes of quiet contemplation of the magnificent vistas before me, I suddenly discovered that the Canyon was teeming with wild life. A beautiful deer and two fawns came so close to me through the brush and timber I could have touched them with a fishing pole.

During other stops I observed numerous small animals who claim the Canyon as their home. Six hours after I left the tumbling waters of the Colorado River I was back on the South Rim. I took a leisurely walk around the stone wall to try and identify the various points along Bright Angel Trail. I had come to the end of a perfect day. Here was an adventure of a lifetime, and one I had dreamed of through many long winters. Down the days and down the nights, and down the arches of the years, this day would remain forever bright and shining the day on which I had ventured to the bottom of Grand Canyon and dipped my hand in the Colorado.May such an adventure come your way some day.

PALE MOTH

A satin-winged moth flutters past In silent erratic flight, Living the span of its tenuous life In the mesh of a single night; Perhaps that's the reason it whirls so madly Around the brilliant light.

THE WIND IS MORE

The wind is more than a stir of airIt's exultant laughter, a grateful prayer, A whisper of hope, a sigh of content, A hint of the peace that is heaven sent; It's a mystic song of the earth and sky, Of all things lovely it passes by. Yes, the wind is more than a stir of airIt's a breath of beauty from ev'rywhere.

DESERT TURTLE

With a sailor-swinging motion Born inherently of ocean, Does a desert-turtle creep Toward a lost nostalgic deep? On a sea of sand does tortoise Search for sailing ship, for porpoise, Or a cooling crested wave Buried in an arid grave? Where are sun makes dry things garish And all flood-mirages vanish Does a shell desire a shore Though the sea there is no more?

DESERT DUNES

I cry the sanded hills upthrust That wear no underbrush as shawl, Nor garment. Not a hint of green, No trees . . . no, nothing there at all. Those ancient dunes lift up to sky, For they are blistered by the sun; And they are ridged by ruthless winds That broom them fiercely as they run. How stark! How unadorned! And yet With what bold majesty they stand, Where curve and slope and groove spell out The wonder-work of the Master's hand.

DESERT FLASH STORM

The winds, that twisted fans of rain On feathery mesquite, now are stilled; And all the creeks are smooth with sand That were so briefly water-rilled. Through murky sky, where piercing shafts Of light on dazzling drifts below Finger the sagebrush, spotbeam jewels Adorn it with a purple glow. The whirling-clouds break up with one Last thunderclap far overhead; Then suddenly across the sky The desert gold of sun is spread.

PEACE

Let the wind blow, the wild wind blow, The lightning flash, the thunder roll, And the storm crash, And peace will be upon my soul.

IN RUMANIA: . . . I thought you'd be interested to know that your magazine ARIZONA HIGHWAYS was one of the most popular items of the book section of the U. S. Information Agency's exhibit "Graphic Arts USA" in Rumania, a show seen by more than a half million people during its tour of the three cities, Bucharest, Ploesti and Constanta. Mrs. Joseph Nurenberg, our Rumanian-speaking guide who worked in the book section, said there were constant cries of admiration and wonder at the beautiful photography. The show was accompanied by three American artists and ten Rumanian-speaking guides, who were constantly beseiged by eager questioners hungry to know more about the Amer ican way of life and expressing a fervent interest in everything American. Exhibits is one of the U. S. Information Agency's many media of reaching the people of the world with the story of America, correcting misunderstandings and distortions. Other media are Voice of America, the radio arm; motion pictures; television; press; libraries and personal contact. The Agency has 1500 foreign service officers stationed in 106 countries. We were happy to have your beautiful magazine on hand to give a picture of our country.

Mrs. Olga Arnold Office of Public Information U. S. Information Agency Washington, D.C.

ROCK-WRITINGS:

Recently I received ARIZONA HIGHWAYS, Vol. XL No. 9, September 1964. With great interest I read the article about "Ancient Manuscripts on American Stones" by William Coxon. But, as I could see, special scientific literature was unknown to the author.Prof. Dr. Herman WIRTH, living in Marburg/Lahn, Gerichtsweg 9, Western Germany, published in 1928 a voluminous work Der Aufgang der Menschheit (The Rise of Humanity), where he pointed out the spiritual community in prehistoric times between Europe and America. He is the best expert in Megalithic Religion and symbolical signs. From 1930 to 1936 he published two volumes with photos and symbolical signs: Die Heilige Urschrift der Menschheit. Arizona is mentioned on 48 pages. This work is, perhaps, more important. And in these volumes you will find an answer to many questions rising in the article of Mr. William Coxon.Several days ago, I returned from an expedition, lead by Prof. Dr. H. Wirth, to the rock-writings situated in Bohuslan/Sweden. The connection between "hallristningar" and the rock-writings in Arizona is evident. Would you be so kind as to send me a list of the literature of Mr. William Coxon (with price-list).

Dr. Med. Joachim Weitzsaker, Brackenheim, Württ, W. Germany

RANCH WIFE:

I have just finished reading Ranch Wife by Jo Jeffers and am both pleased and impressed. She maintains throughout the book the same charm and human warmth which so characterized her article, Ranch Wife, in your magazine of September, 1962. Thank you for recommending it to me. Please send me two more copies and bill me. I am using them as gifts.

Mrs. A. H. Ahern Pasadena, California

"TOROWEAP EVENING-GRAND CANYON." BY CARLOS ELMER. Toroweap Point, on the north side of the Grand Canyon, looking east. This is one of America's great viewpoints, but one that is seldom seen by the tourist. A few hundred people each year share this rare experience of gazing straight down at the Colorado River thousands of feet below. It is a feeling not soon forgotten. 4x5 Burke & James Press camera; Ektachrome; f. 16 at 1/50th sec.; 6" Goertz Aerotar lens; April; Meter reading 250: ASA rating 10.

"ALONG TAPEATS CREEK-GRAND CANYON." BY DEBS METZONG. Taken at the bottom of the Grand Canyon about three miles south of Thunder River, along Tapeats Creek which empties into the Colorado River. Tapeats Creek and Thunder River join together about four miles north of the Colorado River. To get to Thunder River and Tapeats Creek one would have to drive to Fredonia, Arizona, from there a dirt road winds its way to a trail which leads you to the Rim of the canyon. From there it is a tiresome eighteen mile hike or horseback ride to the bottom and Thunder River. 4x5 Crown Graphic camera; Ektachrome Professional; f.22 at 1/25th sec.; 135mm Optar f.4.7 lens; April; bright sunshine.