I was invited to be part of a trio adventuring down to the middle of nowhere to a hidden treasure called the Havasupai Indian Reservation near the Grand Canyon. I recently returned and I’m still in the afterglow I always desperately and futilely cling to following a thrilling event and I wanted to be sure to talk about it, to someone, somewhere, before I lose it.
I’ve discovered, perhaps by necessity, that I’m more of a joy in the journey kind of adventurer, rather than one eager to get to the destination. Which is especially easy to do if the journey is increasingly beautiful. This trip was a testament to that and the fact that good things make you work for them and also pay attention along the way.
Generally speaking, once you arrive at your destination, you have to immediately grapple with all your anticipation, your preconceptions, your imaginings and expectations, and that’s a lot to deal with. But the journey can also be laborious and cause blisters. So on the 10-mile hike to the campground, when we got tired, when it felt disproportionately long and worrisome projections of the future were entertained, I told my friend,
“For me—I live here now. That’s how I have to do it. Wherever I am, that’s where I live.”
Meaning, that’s how I get through the hard parts. I pretend I came for this moment alone, this hike to this spot, this rock or tree. I make a space for myself and settle in. I make progress, I have an ultimate goal, but also each step is my goal. Also, I have to pretend this is where I wanted to be all along because otherwise all of the aforementioned idealization or dooming becomes much too overwhelming and I start to diminish. I must exist where I am and know that in order to gain, I must give. It’s a bartering of the self for something vaguely more.
I also love knowing where I am on the map. We drove seven hours to a town along route 66 that felt isolated but was still geographically Arizona. Then we drove two more hours through the reservation to the trailhead. From there we descended down into the canyon, further and further in where I am convinced we passed through a stargate to another realm. The hike to the campground is ten miles and the deeper in we traversed, the less certain I became that I was still on the same map I started from. The process of getting to a place so remote and wild, unmarked, untarnished, hidden and remarkable, is important. I want to emphasize this part of my journey.
When we arrived, there was a strange camaraderie with other campers. We had all chosen this. We signed up for it—deliberately and perhaps spiritually. The connectivity was strange. When done right, humans + nature is a good combination. Humans + humans + nature is something a little more complex and I was glad to share in that.
Nature’s always been the best kind of spa but Havasupai seems particularly designed with healing in mind. After you set up camp, sleep, boil your water and eat your freeze dried meals (something I kind of loved: “What am I going to do when I can’t get all of my food by just opening a bag?”) you get to pack your bag with snacks you actually need because you’re expending so much energy in the course of the day. Food as fuel? And not mere pastime? Whaaa?
You fill your hydration packs from the natural spring and you choose your course for the day. Will it be this 2-mile hike to absurdly magnificent hidden falls, 50 feet high and 100 feet wide? With turquoise water that looks almost drinkable it’s so clear, lazily lapping over soft red sand? Or will it be this 4-mile hike to shimmering layered pools, with the most stunning falls along the way that don’t even feature as the main event yet could hold their own alone in any waterfall standoff. A fall-off? (what a weird competition)
This was what baffled me. That beauty abounded everywhere and with such magnitude. The path through the lush meadow nestled between the tall red cliffs of the canyon. The variety of terrain that constantly screamed (but in a subtle, spa way) of being something special and leading to something special. In every step, in every breath. There were no markers or signs telling you what it was or how to feel because just being there constantly overwhelmed the senses. I couldn’t get over it in what was an eventual numbing, resigned kind of way. I tried desperately for words and ended up cycling through the same pathetic few:
Grandeur. Magnificence. Immensity. Awe-inspiring. Awesome— We tried to use that as its true, original meaning.
“It’s awesome. But like, for real.”
Thoreau is shaking his head at me right now but maybe you get what I mean.
Actually, you know what, I’m feeling really embarrassed toward Thoreau. I’m sorry, HD. To make it right, here’s an attempt at a poem I started near some falls to describe my feelings:
Majesty after majesty
The deeper waters fall
The lesser my capacity
At attempts to contain them all.
I am being made smaller
And, surrendered to the space,
I offer meager reverence
To thou unheeding place.
Mortal noise is muted
Hushed by temples’ roar
Today admittance deigned
Afoot Her secret store.
I beg that I might keep it
But borrowers are we
Passersby in happenstance
Through eternity.
Vanity my cup
At outpour from the shrine
Majesty after majesty
And none of it is mine.
* * *
In the end, I gave myself over to it and—as if it were ever mine to decide—let it go unnamed, uncategorized, unexplained. That’s how I left it, and how it left me. Though I’m certain this was not a symbiotic experience or remotely a fair trade, I know at the very least, an exchange took place of some mysterious kind, and feel the change and increase because of it. I hope to return and refill one day. And oh, how I beg that I might keep it.
You nailed it! Loved looking at the trip through your eyes. That place changes you.
Wow! You are right, there are no words. Thanks for sharing of your experience.