Captivated Me

I wake up at 2AM, somehow feeling refreshed and ready for the three and a half hour drive ahead of me. I am hoping to make it to Page by sunrise, and with road closures directly east of the Grand Canyon, the trip will take around one hour longer than the usual two and a half hours.

I get ready quickly, as if I’m running late, then step out into the chilled early morning. I stop and take a breath – a million stars twinkle overhead. As I pull away from the lodge, a family of five elk traverse the road in front of me, highlighted by the front beams of the car as they cross. Unbothered, they walk gracefully and calmly. I watch them in awe. I wait a few moments to see whether additional relatives will join them from the direction they came from. Then I drive on.

I drive south through Kaibab National Forest, east through Coconino National Forest – meeting two more elk along the way – and then back north once I arrive in Flagstaff. I meet no cars on the road for the first hour and a half of the journey. (Granted, it is three o’clock in the morning on a Thursday. Who in their right mind would be up at this time?) My route takes me a very short distance on historic route 66, and I start to notice hills spanning along the highway north of Flagstaff. The slopes are gently but forebodingly highlighted by the soft moon. A small wildfire is seen along the route, lighting the sky in smoky orange. As I drive on, the hills seem to continue for miles.

I arrive at the Horseshoe Bend trailhead two minutes shy of its opening at 5:30 AM. One car pulls in directly ahead of me, and it happens to be the attendant who is there to admit cars to the trailhead parking lot. She moves the barricades, and myself along with one other car that has since arrived drive ahead. I pay the $10 admission and exchange smiles with the kind worker who shares that conditions were perfect for the upcoming sunrise this morning. “Make sure to hike out with your headlamp!”, she says. “The drop-off sneaks up on you, and is hard to see before the sun comes up.” Noted.

As I pull into a parking lot, I look at the sky overhead and see a sharp, bright streak of light flash across the sky. It comes and goes in less than one second. A beautiful shooting star to start the hike. I lift a prayer, feeling seen and delighted by what feels like a gift from above. Two other cars pull into the parking lot, and we each find our way to the path.

I hike the mile-long trail and start to see a deep, dark, arching crevice in the ground. I can’t make out the details within, at least not yet. All I can see are vague structures of charcoal and navy along the ground with the faintest trace of dawn in the far distance. The morning is cold, and even though I am layered like an onion, the chill soaks in deeply. I cannot wait for the sun to rise and warm the day! Stars still populate the sky above, and I am one of four attendants facing west to witness the show.

Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, a ribbon of orange is illuminated at the horizon line as the sun begins to awaken behind us. As the ribbon widens, crawling toward us along the ground, a shade of powder blue gradually extends upward from where the ground meets the sky, drowning out the starlight with daylight. For six hours, I stand there, walking along the ledge as shades of pink and orange and purple evolve along the ground accompanied overhead by blues and yellows. The Colorado River becomes more visible, defined as the sun rises and exposes its contours. And for hours, I watch the colors change, the people come and go, two tiny kayakers braving the river. A woman with panda drums carries out a live meditation on one of the rocky overlooks. A goldendoodle named Hazel comes to say hello. But most of my time is spent staring at the riverbend as shadows waltz along the walls of the canyon.

Hundreds of photos later, I hike back to my car in the warm sunshine. The sky is screaming blue, the earth is vibrant orange. The land around the bend is flat overall, but with small ripples as if a wavy water surface has been petrified. My stomach is grumbling with hunger, so I sit in my car and eat my lunch – A turkey wrap, granola bar, and apple. I drink some water and remember the name of a sweet coffee shop I had read about the night before that I think is nearby on North Navajo Drive. Coffee sounds like an excellent decision right about now. I turn the ignition, then I turn left out of the Horseshoe Bend parking lot, following signs toward downtown Page. I twist through unfamiliar roads until I find North Navajo Drive. As I continue along, I come upon a small strip mall and see the sign: LP Espresso! I park, secure my mask on my face, and walk inside. The spacious café has an eclectic atmosphere, with beautiful artwork along the walls featuring the same orange earth – blue sky dichotomy that I spent time enjoying this morning combined with quirky word art. I order a vanilla latte and almond croissant, then scoot back outside into the sunshine.

I have two hours to enjoy before my next adventure, so I make my way to the Carl Hayden Visitor Center with my coffee. I spend a few moments looking out over Glen Canyon Dam, and my eyes trace the azure waters of Lake Powell bound up behind the impressive wall. I rest and reflect on the day so far – the sweetness of a shooting star, the beauty of a riverbend, the hearty coffee in my hands, the sunrise, the warm rays. I am grateful.

After walking along the short paths around the visitor center, I set course for Glen Canyon Dam Overlook, a short five-minute drive away. This is a small but mighty park with rocky steps descending to another spectacular view of the dam. From this vantage point, rather than a view of Lake Powell, I can see the Colorado coursing southwest downstream from the dam. I sit on the rocky ledges at the overlook which have been warmed by the autumn sun, enjoying the views a moment longer. Then, I pile back in the Eclipse and make way toward Page Municipal Airport.

The airport is nearly vacant when I arrive. Very few cars rest in the parking lot, and no passengers are present inside, only employees. I again secure my mask, cross the entrance toward the counter designated “Grand Canyon Airlines”, and I check in for my next adventure. A helicopter ride.

I am one of three scheduled passengers sharing a six-seat helicopter for a 20 minute ride over Lake Powell this afternoon. An orientation video plays, reviewing the safety specifications for the helicopter, and I cannot believe I am about to ride in one. I meet the pilot and the two other passengers, and we get situated, spaced out and strapped in the helicopter. I am in the front, feet from the outside, feeling as if I am in a bubble that is getting ready to fly. We start to rise from the ground and everything feels weightless.

“You’re living, and that’s a good thing.”

My mom said these words to me two nights ago. A reminder of how God moves and heals and loves us to life through the trials and storms we encounter on our journey. A reminder of His unbridled grace extended toward me and others. A reminder that no matter what happens to us, we have a choice as to how we respond to it. A reminder that it is not selfish, but instead important and wise and fruitful to pursue rest. This is hard to stomach, coming from a society and a profession where self-care is not a built-in rule and instead has to be fought for. And after over a year of processing through such things, what a blessing that my heart feels as weightless as this helicopter ride. U2 plays on the headset: It’s a beautiful day. Don’t let it get away. My eyes water for the umpteenth time with joyful, grateful tears.

I enjoy every minute of the tour, thank the pilot profusely afterward, and stop at one more park in Page as the sun begins to tuck itself in. A few more deep breaths, then I hop in the car and begin the journey back to the Grand Canyon. This turns into a 5 hour drive involving a detour (i.e. period of time that I was very lost) through the beautiful Navajo reservation as a orange-purple sunset unfolds, and subsequently onto a deep sandy fire road in a desertland with no cell service where I nearly get the rental car stuck. Miraculously, I meet three kind people at interval along the way who I am convinced are angels, all directing me back to the correct highway. The rest of the way is smooth – full of acoustic hits, prayers of gratitude, and phone calls to family.

I chuckle as I reflect on the last 20 hours. Today was an adventure. And I am exhausted and delighted and spent. Tomorrow is my last full day in Arizona, and I can’t wait to see what’s in store.