Journey Before Forty - Part 4
I awoke in searing pain. My back was locked tight, and my legs were burning. I wasn’t ready for this much walking, nor this little amount of sleep. I’d pushed my body past what it truly was able to do. As I struggled to get up, I knew I had to fight my way through the pain. Even if this meant I was going to sit on a bench the entire day, I was going. No way in hell was pain going to stop me. It’s that drive I’ve had to work at. Some people call it stupid, I call it choosing my battles.
After eating breakfast at a local diner in Williams, Arizona, we all got in the car, prepared for the hour drive to the Grand Canyon. I was so excited! I’d seen pictures, even virtual tours of it, but this would be different. I shut the door to the car, when I noticed a tiny pinprick spot in my vision. I tried to ignore it as the sun, but I knew that was wishful thinking. As my vision began to distort and grow into a larger-sized circle, I knew what this was: A migraine aura. Nothing like getting kicked when you’re already down. I frantically dug in my purse and found the medication to treat the inevitable nausea and pain. My will was resolute. I was going to go no matter what, even if it meant I threw up in front of hundreds of people over the cliff into the abyss! Screw this migraine, screw this pain, and screw whatever else my body wanted to throw at me. I was not going to miss this opportunity, nor wait another day to go. I really wish I hadn’t swore at fate, because payback’s a bitch.
Once again, I was amazed at how desolate the landscape was. Every now and then a wide spot in the road would emerge filled with tourist souvenir shops and gas stations. Even a sign saying “School Bus Stop Ahead”, made me giggle, because literally 20 feet ahead would be a lone driveway disappearing miles into the horizon. I think the pain medication mixed with lack of sleep made it particularly hilarious, because I remember saying “Well, I guess that’s the bus stop?” Yet, we couldn’t really tell where it was in the barren landscape.
Then I started to see Juniper trees, or at least that’s what I thought they were. The entrance to the Grand Canyon National Park appeared. It’s amazing how far into the park we had to drive just to get to the actual Grand Canyon. At least six miles or more into a strictly non-deciduous forest the road wound. Then suddenly it appeared. We quickly pulled over and jumped out of the car. I couldn’t see too much because this wasn’t a turnout but what I did see took my breath away. This wasn’t just a hole in the ground. This was massive, and beautiful.
We all ran back to the car, figured out where the nearest lookout was, and drove there. I could see this was going to be huge. What I didn’t realize was how huge. Backpacks, water, camera, and sunglasses were staples. As the girls and I walked up a trail, I must have hit an uneven spot. I rolled my ankle, and stumbled. Luckily, I didn’t do my famous face plant, but I did feel a pop. Oh shit. That familiar sound that immediately tells me I’m horribly fucked. The next step told me what it was. I’d injured my groin, and hamstring in my left thigh. I was so screwed. I had no cane to walk with. I was just going to have to go with it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at R. I didn’t want to be a disappointment. This would severely limit my walking. What I realized later that this would be a blessing in disguise.
I limped up the rest of the way up the path to a clearing. The sight took my breath away. What startled me, was the lack of fencing. If I walked far enough, I could fall to my death. Curiously a few times I had a feeling of wanting to jump, even though that strange panicky sensation in my stomach told me otherwise. It's not an unusual feeling. Not wanting to jump to die, but rather to jump and fly. (I thought I was the only one with this strange feeling, but when I talked to others, they said the same thing.) I decided to sit down on a smooth limestone rock while R and the girls went along the ridge trail.
I had another feeling of déjà vu. I realized what it was about the canyon that seemed familiar. The utter heaviness of silence. There is weight to the silence. There is no echo. When you talk, it’s a strange sensation lacking of echo, as if speaking in mono. A breeze brushed my hair away from my face whistling through the surrounding trees. I realized where I’d felt this sensation before.
I grew up literally over the hill from Southwestern Lake Michigan and the benefit of having a private beach meant silence and privacy. I didn’t limit going down to the beach to just the summer months. Fall has spectacular sunsets, but the feeling I had was from winter. In winter, most of Lake Michigan freezes. When I stand there, there is a heavy silence. The wind literally makes an odd howling sound, but when it dies down, you don't hear anything. I equate it to what I would assume the moon is like. The sand is covered by drifts, and the water is frozen. No waves, no sound, nothing. That is what this sounds like. You can talk to the person next to you and there is no echo. Nothing. That's the pervasive feeling I got. Massive, expansive, beautiful, and silent. To answer the question many ask, yes, it really is that red. (none of the pics have adjusted color)
Every step along the trails became more and more painful, which gave me an excuse to sit more and just look at the view. After lunch, R suggested we all take the free tourist shuttle to reach stops that can't be gotten to via car. It was the most wonderful idea because I would have missed an amazing experience at one of the stops: Mohave Point
Mohave point wasn't much different that the other spots. Just the overwhelming expanse of the canyon, except a wide level spot on the rim which I sat on the rocks above it. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming feeling of sadness come over me. The name Aunt Christie came to mind, then peace. My last remaining aunt died 3 years ago, this Thanksgiving. She battled bone cancer for 7 years. She began her bucket list early by traveling to Alaska, and eventually ended up in the Grand Canyon. I remember seeing a picture, of her sitting on a ledge of the Grand Canyon, and suddenly realized this was the spot. I felt her spirit around me as she was so young and so full of adventure. She was in her 50s when she slipped away from us and floated free of pain, wasting, and cancer. I said a silent, "Hello, Aunt Christie, I love you and miss you." The feeling disappeared as mysteriously as it arrived.
Eventually, we reached the end of our journey at Hermit's Rest. By that time, I was emotionally drained, physically in agony, when I saw this:
It was just the perfect emotional release and ending to a huge journey for me. I got to watch the sun set from here, and the shadows cast along the canyon was exactly like the photos I'd seen. We all got back into the car to head back to the hotel, when my husband turned to me and said,
"I'd like to come back in a few years."
Indeed, I think we shall...
After eating breakfast at a local diner in Williams, Arizona, we all got in the car, prepared for the hour drive to the Grand Canyon. I was so excited! I’d seen pictures, even virtual tours of it, but this would be different. I shut the door to the car, when I noticed a tiny pinprick spot in my vision. I tried to ignore it as the sun, but I knew that was wishful thinking. As my vision began to distort and grow into a larger-sized circle, I knew what this was: A migraine aura. Nothing like getting kicked when you’re already down. I frantically dug in my purse and found the medication to treat the inevitable nausea and pain. My will was resolute. I was going to go no matter what, even if it meant I threw up in front of hundreds of people over the cliff into the abyss! Screw this migraine, screw this pain, and screw whatever else my body wanted to throw at me. I was not going to miss this opportunity, nor wait another day to go. I really wish I hadn’t swore at fate, because payback’s a bitch.
Once again, I was amazed at how desolate the landscape was. Every now and then a wide spot in the road would emerge filled with tourist souvenir shops and gas stations. Even a sign saying “School Bus Stop Ahead”, made me giggle, because literally 20 feet ahead would be a lone driveway disappearing miles into the horizon. I think the pain medication mixed with lack of sleep made it particularly hilarious, because I remember saying “Well, I guess that’s the bus stop?” Yet, we couldn’t really tell where it was in the barren landscape.
Then I started to see Juniper trees, or at least that’s what I thought they were. The entrance to the Grand Canyon National Park appeared. It’s amazing how far into the park we had to drive just to get to the actual Grand Canyon. At least six miles or more into a strictly non-deciduous forest the road wound. Then suddenly it appeared. We quickly pulled over and jumped out of the car. I couldn’t see too much because this wasn’t a turnout but what I did see took my breath away. This wasn’t just a hole in the ground. This was massive, and beautiful.
We all ran back to the car, figured out where the nearest lookout was, and drove there. I could see this was going to be huge. What I didn’t realize was how huge. Backpacks, water, camera, and sunglasses were staples. As the girls and I walked up a trail, I must have hit an uneven spot. I rolled my ankle, and stumbled. Luckily, I didn’t do my famous face plant, but I did feel a pop. Oh shit. That familiar sound that immediately tells me I’m horribly fucked. The next step told me what it was. I’d injured my groin, and hamstring in my left thigh. I was so screwed. I had no cane to walk with. I was just going to have to go with it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at R. I didn’t want to be a disappointment. This would severely limit my walking. What I realized later that this would be a blessing in disguise.
I limped up the rest of the way up the path to a clearing. The sight took my breath away. What startled me, was the lack of fencing. If I walked far enough, I could fall to my death. Curiously a few times I had a feeling of wanting to jump, even though that strange panicky sensation in my stomach told me otherwise. It's not an unusual feeling. Not wanting to jump to die, but rather to jump and fly. (I thought I was the only one with this strange feeling, but when I talked to others, they said the same thing.) I decided to sit down on a smooth limestone rock while R and the girls went along the ridge trail.
I had another feeling of déjà vu. I realized what it was about the canyon that seemed familiar. The utter heaviness of silence. There is weight to the silence. There is no echo. When you talk, it’s a strange sensation lacking of echo, as if speaking in mono. A breeze brushed my hair away from my face whistling through the surrounding trees. I realized where I’d felt this sensation before.
I grew up literally over the hill from Southwestern Lake Michigan and the benefit of having a private beach meant silence and privacy. I didn’t limit going down to the beach to just the summer months. Fall has spectacular sunsets, but the feeling I had was from winter. In winter, most of Lake Michigan freezes. When I stand there, there is a heavy silence. The wind literally makes an odd howling sound, but when it dies down, you don't hear anything. I equate it to what I would assume the moon is like. The sand is covered by drifts, and the water is frozen. No waves, no sound, nothing. That is what this sounds like. You can talk to the person next to you and there is no echo. Nothing. That's the pervasive feeling I got. Massive, expansive, beautiful, and silent. To answer the question many ask, yes, it really is that red. (none of the pics have adjusted color)
Every step along the trails became more and more painful, which gave me an excuse to sit more and just look at the view. After lunch, R suggested we all take the free tourist shuttle to reach stops that can't be gotten to via car. It was the most wonderful idea because I would have missed an amazing experience at one of the stops: Mohave Point
Mohave point wasn't much different that the other spots. Just the overwhelming expanse of the canyon, except a wide level spot on the rim which I sat on the rocks above it. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming feeling of sadness come over me. The name Aunt Christie came to mind, then peace. My last remaining aunt died 3 years ago, this Thanksgiving. She battled bone cancer for 7 years. She began her bucket list early by traveling to Alaska, and eventually ended up in the Grand Canyon. I remember seeing a picture, of her sitting on a ledge of the Grand Canyon, and suddenly realized this was the spot. I felt her spirit around me as she was so young and so full of adventure. She was in her 50s when she slipped away from us and floated free of pain, wasting, and cancer. I said a silent, "Hello, Aunt Christie, I love you and miss you." The feeling disappeared as mysteriously as it arrived.
Eventually, we reached the end of our journey at Hermit's Rest. By that time, I was emotionally drained, physically in agony, when I saw this:
It was just the perfect emotional release and ending to a huge journey for me. I got to watch the sun set from here, and the shadows cast along the canyon was exactly like the photos I'd seen. We all got back into the car to head back to the hotel, when my husband turned to me and said,
"I'd like to come back in a few years."
Indeed, I think we shall...
Posted by kitterztoo at 11/11/2009 11:13 AM 
Categories: Travel
Tags: Amtrak blog forty death emotional feelings train Grand Canyon Arizona vacation bucket list emotions 40 travel
Categories: Travel
Tags: Amtrak blog forty death emotional feelings train Grand Canyon Arizona vacation bucket list emotions 40 travel
I'm approaching 50, and not in any major health risk, but you are making me think about my own bucket list.
Thank you. This is beautiful.
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I found making the list wasn't just about dying, it was driving me to live. Like saying I have things to do instead of waiting to die.
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Great blog Nicole!! I hope this helps put peace in your life.
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