Over the last three decades my Easter has been marked by a pilgrimage to the Grand Canyon. I don't know how many times I have been there but it has to be around twenty. You cannot really appreciate it without seeing it in person. One cannot really take a picture of the canyon. One can at best take a picture of a shadow of the canyon. Like Plato's cave all images are hollow representations of inexpressible grandeur. Even so some of the images can still knock the shit out of you.
We camped on the rim the first night and headed down Hance Trail to the river. The photos below are the views from my tent for three days and nights. On the beach...with the river and the wind and the stars and not much else but the reminder of how small you are.
Here's the bath tub down near the end of Hance Creek where we camped the third night. This is as close to perfect as one can get after a four hour hike on a 80 degree day.
It is not only the large scale that surprises you, sometimes the canyon has some smaller mysteries like a dead Peregrine Falcon. How does that happen one wonders.
One morning I made a piece on the beach from detritus along the river bank. A sun in the sun for my son. This was one of the places we shared and that he is forever linked to.
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