In Cameron we hook right on highway 64 and move in towards Grand Canyon National Park. The familiar red and yellow hues stack up, showing the land's age like the rings of an ancient tree. Then it suddenly changes. It's subtle, the way a distant gun shot is subtle. Rising over a ridge we catch a bizarre glimpse to our right. There is a crack in the Earth.
It's a mirror image of the ragged mountains, as if this was the hole they had exited when moving up through the Earths crust. We diverge and lose sight of the abyss as we rise through Kaibab. I'm warned one last time to dispose of any firearms and finally reach the parks entrance.
Pulling into the parking lot we don't say much. It's totally escaped me now why, but we were both pissed at each other most of the afternoon. Something like that is impossible to commit to memory on a day like this. We follow the small crowds down a white concrete path, through oxygen and water starved shrubbery. In one truly awe inspiring instant your line of sight clears and the entire canyon reveals itself. We're still deadly quiet, only the cause has changed and I have fully commited it to my memory. For life.
In a poorly executed pass my camera is dropped and I'm pretty sure it's toast. The first picture is blurry. Really, at the Grand Canyon? It sorts itself out and I get my first ironic photo of the trip, complete with a huge fever blister. You have to love non-genital Herpes!
This was the end of the planned trip. Having fully abandonded Las Vegas we rode a hard line South with no clear destination. Our trusted atlas promised good riding in Prescott a hundred miles out from the park exit. Fond memories of Flagstaff left me enthusiastic about our prospects in this part of the country.
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