This year, Yosemite is experiencing a surge of visitors — 730,000 in July, a record for a single month, they say. The park service is happy to be loved, after years of declining or stagnant use. But a lot of people bring their city swagger to the outdoors; they forget that Yosemite, the greatest waterfall show on earth, is also more than 90 percent wilderness.
“Many of these people aren’t used to nature,” said Kari Cobb, a Yosemite park ranger. “They don’t fully understand it. We’ve got more than 800 trails and 3,000-foot cliffs in this park. You can’t put guardrails around the whole thing.”
—New York Times
Oct 4th, 2208
My dearest Margaret,
There comes a time in every man's life when he seeks to challenge himself against the wild places of this earth. It is not vanity, I assure you, but rather the opposite: The earnest desire to place himself, alone, amongst the natural flora and fauna from which his ancestors first evolved, and to experience that utter helplessness firsthand, the smallness of one life among billions upon billions of others, of all sorts and descriptions, all of them seeking to squeeze out some small existence in spite of, or with the help of, all the others. This is the mood that hit upon me, earlier this year, and so I set out making preparations for my own such journey. I would experience those wilds, and brave those dangers, and in so doing perhaps satisfy that primal urge for the natural, the dangerous, and the unexpected.
I set out on July 20th. The tube-train was packed, as usual, and the wait for breakfast was in excess of twenty minutes. I had prepared for this, and stocked in supplies accordingly, so the time passed quickly. I used the time to instead peruse my infomaps, mulling over which stage I would choose for my battle with the elements. Glacier National Quarry? Redwood Park? The Everglade?
In short order I decided on the one that I thought my ancestors would best approve of, and plotted a course for Grand Canyon National Park. It would be an arduous journey, requiring transfers between three separate trains, including one at Great Dallas Station which, as you know, has been experiencing air conditioning failures for upwards of tens of minutes. (I found it slightly stuffy, but bearable, as I switched from the train to one two platforms over: I must confess I was glad for the experience, as I thought it would make good practice for my upcoming battle against a fully untamed nature.)
I will not bore you with the details of the journey. There was indeed quite a bit of adventure (you would not believe the color schemes chosen for some stations, these days!) but none of it would compare to what was to come. I arrived at my final destination in short order, and strode confidently off the train and into Grand Canyon Station itself. I sensed twinges of envy or admiration from some of the other riders, as those of us headed for adventure left the train; I am sure they knew what we were each about to do next.
After a bite of lunch in one of the station food courts, I prepared myself. An underground minitube is the primary means of transportation between the station and the canyon. A quick ten minute ride took our group of a hundred or so to the mouth of rugged nature itself, or at least to the substation directly next to it.
I wish I could fully describe the feeling, upon reaching the base of those final escalators to the outdoors. All around me, men and women were preparing themselves: checking their supplies, testing the wheels of their backpacks and going over checklists to ensure nothing was left to chance. Large signs warned anyone foolish enough to have forgotten that sunscreen would be necessary for the trip, and that no restaurants would be available from here on in: vending kiosks provided those essentials and others, such as backup sunglasses, lip balms, and the like.
After a quick but thorough check of my own, I set out. Stepping onto the escalator sent a thrill up my spine. Above me, at the other end of those silently moving steps, I could see daylight blazing—the literal "light at the end of the tunnel." I passed through the cool misters that provided a bit of additional sunscreen to each adventure-seeker, and before I could fully collect myself, a matter of a mere minute or so, I was in the dazzling brightness at the top. I stepped off, into the fully wild air, and took a quick survey of my surroundings.
I found myself on a wide plaza, open to the outdoors on all sides. The wild air was an astonishing thing. It was so hot that I felt every breath sear into my lungs: This was the true air of nature, unconditioned, viciously dry. The plaza was covered by a single large sunshade, a mere one inch or so of fabric between us and the direct rays of the sun. Around me, adventurers were huddled around misters that had been provided here and there around the plaza; below me, a large arrow pointed straight ahead, to the far end of the plaza, and the words To the Canyon were emblazoned below it in large metallic letters. I opened one of my granola bars and set off on foot.
It was a full hundred yards to the edge of the canyon. With every step I could see a bit more of it, more clearly, but it was not until the final steps that the magnitude of what I was witnessing became fully apparent. Before me lay a wide, vast expanse of unspoiled ground; the videos do not do it justice. In depth, the canyon was probably only half as deep as the chasms of New York or Chicago, but the sheer width of the thing was astonishing, and nearly indescribable. In most places, the other side could not be seen at all, through the haze, but there was here and there enough to at least hint at where the other side might lie, and it was a truly terrifying spectacle to witness. Below me, within the canyon, individual buildings were few and far between: a mining operation here, a set of condominiums there. (I hear that for a princely fee, you can even rent such a thing, staying for a day or more at a time surrounded by the desolation of the place, but I cannot imagine the fortitude required to actually accomplish it!) From the west, a bona-fide wind pushed against me, and if possible it made the air seem even hotter, and even drier.
After a brief respite under a nearby mist nozzle, I decided that I was as prepared as one could be: I was going to venture down into the canyon itself, just as I had previously planned. A quick glance at the plaza maps showed me where I was to go, and I soon arrived at a small balcony set apart slightly from the rest of the plaza. This spot marked the trailhead—only the bravest of the brave ventured beyond this point. Signs warned that hikers should be in excellent health, and again warned of the dangers of traveling without provisions. Life size bronze sculptures of native birds and reptiles surrounded the plaza, with descriptions of their basic habits. It was prominently noted in each description that even to this day, hikers could possibly spot one of the creatures themselves, if they were sharp-eyed and exceptionally lucky.
My heart was pounding at even the thought, but I pressed forward. Looking down into the canyon, I could see the trail winding down, farther and farther, a small black thread weaving its way down from top to bottom. What mystery! What intrigue! It was as if nature was itself pulling me forward, calling me back to a more primal state. Setting down the trail, I felt both accomplishment and relief, for I had done the thing. I was starting on the most difficult part of my journey.
The black walkway hummed beneath me as I stood; the sunshade, a mere few feet above my head, following the trail exactly. At every turn of the trail (while they were spaced far apart, the turns must have numbered in the range of a dozen or more, as the trail bent around major outcroppings) I stepped off one walkway, and onto another. The walkways kept a brisk pace, and I found myself making good time in my descent. At one point I was feeling exceptionally bold and in commune with nature, and ventured to reach my hand out, over the handrails and into the direct sunlight: It was a shocking feeling, like putting your hand in front of a handwarmer but there was no visible handwarmer; it was the sun itself providing the heat, as if I were a plant or solar cell!
After ten or so minutes I reached the bottom plains of the canyon. From there, it was another ten-minute trail across the plain, but this one was dead-straight and required no transfers from walkway to walkway. That trail led in turn to small balcony overlooking the smaller, inner canyon: below me, the Colorado River itself! To my great delight, I had arrived during a week in which the river was turned on, and so I was able to experience it in all its majesty, a murky blue-green ribbon that supported oases, here and there, of various small trees and brush. It was as if I had been transported back to the Jurassic era; I nearly had to pinch myself. I celebrated with a margarita smoothie at one of the various shops at the edge of the overlook, consumed another protein bar, and I must say, felt the glow of accomplishment as I never before had in my life, or ever expect to again.
As you can imagine, after such sights the trip back was hardly even worth mentioning (although I could swear I possibly saw a pigeon at one point, though merely out of the corner of my eye). Another ten-minute ride on the return trail led to an elevator (descending into the canyon is one thing, but ascending via trail would be an entirely more difficult affair, I expect) to the upper plaza; escalators down led to the minitubes; the minitubes, to the trains. I was home with not a moment to spare before my usual suppertime, and was so exhausted afterwards that I seriously contemplated not watching any television at all!
Enclosed please find a small trinket to commemorate my journey. It is an aboriginal artifact unique to the area, handcrafted according to ancient customs. I am told by the locals that the googly-eyes represent the awakening of the mind and soul, after one's journey through the wilderness, and the polished rock underneath represents the now solidified bond between man and nature. I leave it to you as keepsake.
As for myself, I am not sure I shall ever embark on such an arduous journey again. I think once is probably sufficient, for all but the truly reckless or insane: that is why they call such things once-in-a-lifetime adventures, after all. But I feel better for the experience. As mark of my adventure I do believe my very skin changed tone ever so slightly in the resulting days, though it may merely be my imagination, and any such change was short lived. Regardless, I can now count myself among the many in history who have braved such journeys, the kin of those who summited Everest in the very first trams, or who visited the remains of the Antarctic Ice Fields, back during the Snow Age, with naught but a chain link fence between themselves and penguins the size of autoscooters.
From now on, I can count myself as an adventurer.