A Houseboat On Lake Powell

By Kristy McCaffrey

Last July my husband and I took our four children, mostly teenagers at the time, on a houseboat trip on Lake Powell for seven days. Located along the Arizona/Utah border, this unique area is an outdoor and boater’s paradise. The lake, created by the completion of the Glen Canyon Dam in 1963, offers breathtaking views of buttes, pinnacles and natural arches, encompassed by towering walls of red sandstone. Naturally all of the kids complained that this wasn’t the vacation they wanted. There would be no cell phone service and no internet. How could they possibly last an entire week without texting or Facebook? I secretly smiled, but even my husband worried about no connection with his work contacts. We rallied forward anyway.

Upper deck of the houseboat

We arrive on a Wednesday morning to check-in at the Wahweap Marina, just north of Page, Arizona. Several hours pass before we’re ready to launch our 75-foot rental houseboat. A palace on the water, it’s replete with five bedrooms, two bathrooms, a large kitchen with a full-size stove, microwave and dishwasher, a dining area with a big-screen tv, and a hot tub on the upper deck. The kids—Sam (18), Ben (16), Katy (15), and Hannah (12)—are awed by the accommodations. We all are really. After a lengthy orientation on how this floating mansion works we’re set loose. Thankfully my husband has a working knowledge of circuit breakers, generators, and how to deal with septic tanks, as well as a dose of “this thing doesn’t scare me” because we soon realize that driving a giant boat on a lake crowded with other giant boats is not a task for the faint of heart. Sam follows us from the marina dock driving our 19-foot Bayliner boat while towing two rented jet skis. We were told not to drag any additional watercraft behind our houseboat, despite the fact that everyone else on the lake is doing just that. Once out-of-sight from the marina, my husband ties each jet ski off the rear of the houseboat, to give the Bayliner back the speed it was losing while hauling the smaller craft. This turns out to be a mistake.

To gain access to the interior of Lake Powell we must traverse a narrow, shallow inlet. Let’s just say there was traffic and it’s never a good idea to hit reverse while pulling anything. If the rope on one of the skis hadn’t snapped (after wrapping around the starboard propeller) we would’ve crushed the watercraft beneath the back deck. Instead, it drifts away, forcing myself and Ben onto the remaining jet ski to retrieve it. After that fiasco we feel relieved that nothing really catastrophic occurred, but soon the houseboat experiences steering problems. We discover power steering fluid leaking, quite a bit actually, and are forced to an early campsite to await a mechanic from the marina. Feeling sheepish about the jet ski incident, we hope the two aren’t related. The mechanic, who must do the repairs in two trips, lets us know we can pull boats and jet skis behind the houseboat, just make sure the ropes are long and the knots tight.

My husband and I and Katy. Photo by Katy McCaffrey.

The following day we drive deeper into the central canyon of Lake Powell, the red sandstone cliffs dominating the landscape, lending a postcard quality to the desolate surroundings. I feel almost gluttonous enjoying the view from the luxury of a traveling hotel, imagining how difficult it must have been for early explorers. Major John Wesley Powell, for whom the lake is named, first came through the region in 1869 using wooden dories. He and his comrades spent over three months exploring and mapping Cataract, Glen, Marble and Grand Canyons, and his writings are still read and respected today.

We park ourselves on a beach at the mouth of West Canyon, having covered about 27 miles since our launch. We discover that wide, sandy coves don’t always make the best anchoring spots—the next morning we’re stuck. Fortunately we use our Bayliner to pull us free but our neighbors aren’t so lucky and must call for help from the marina. But getting farther away from Wahweap means less traffic and we enjoy wakeboarding and jet skiing on calmer waters.

The next morning, once we free ourselves from shallow waters, we head for Dangling Rock Marina, a dock only accessible by boat. This marina, open April through October, is entirely supplied by barges. The workers live all summer in housing powered by solar panels. We must get gas and $700 later our tanks are filled. Our energy consumption would never make it on solar. We like being near the local mini-mart so park our houseboat not far from it, at the mouth of Wetherill Canyon, among a rocky inlet, thus avoiding those sandy beaches. Another bonus is that we occasionally gain line of sight with Navajo Mountain, southeast of the lake, and with it spurts of cell phone reception. Sam and Katy clamber all over the sandstone boulders in search of  “Can you hear me now?” We stay here for three nights.

My husband and I at Rainbow Bridge

On Saturday we set out in our Bayliner for a chance to view Rainbow Bridge, the largest natural spanning bridge in the world. Four of us embark first thing in the morning (two of the kids decide sleeping is more important than seeing natural wonders). Located fifty miles from Wahweap it’s the farthest into the lake we’ll go. There’s a dock, park rangers, and well-marked paths. We take many pictures and my husband teases me for carrying a pack filled with food and water since the roundtrip hike is only about 1 ¼ miles, hardly enough to break a sweat. Many Indian tribes have long held this place to be sacred and it’s only through an agreement with the Navajo Nation that tourists are allowed to visit. It’s requested that no one walk beneath the bridge out of respect for these spiritual beliefs, but this can’t be enforced. We decide not to venture under the thick arch.

Hannah and Sam wakeboarding

We spend our days at Wetherill Canyon exploring narrow slot canyons (this is where jet skis come in handy), wakeboarding, water skiing, visiting the marina for candy and milk, and watching movies (I brought dozens of DVD’s). We enjoy the water slide off the back of the boat and all overcome our fear of dropping into the lake ten feet. Katy and I sleep on the upper deck one night, huddled in our sleeping bags while rain sporadically pelts us. We take a fabulous family photo with the lake and sandstone behind us that later graced our Christmas card. We feed pancakes to three ravens stalking our campsite and realize that the bats we witness each evening actually live on our boat, in the canopy up top.

Our fabulous family photo. Photo by Katy
McCaffrey and her tripod.

On Monday morning we move the houseboat 30 miles back toward Wahweap Marina, in anticipation of ending the trip the next day. We find a beautiful placid cove in Warm Creek Bay but it soon turns into a nightmare of chop when the wind kicks up to such a degree that we think we’re on the ocean. We spend the night trying to sleep on a seriously rocking boat, messing with our equilibrium so much that it will take us three days after the trip to stop feeling the ground move beneath us. My husband resets the anchors several times, fearing we’ll unhinge during the night, but thankfully we’re still in place come morning.

Despite having gained valuable experience all week driving our behemoth lodging, we request a worker from the marina to board our boat and drive us into dock. We already fear our hefty deposit won’t be entirely refunded, so best to cut our losses where we can. We send Sam and Ben off in the Bayliner to retrieve vehicles and deposit the watercraft onto trailers for transport home while the girls and I clean up the houseboat. Okay, while I clean the houseboat. It’s enough that they gather their belongings. Soon they’re off to the marina gift shop for ice cream and souvenirs. This wasn’t the vacation the kids wanted but, if only for a few days, those phones and computer gadgets were replaced with deep red chasms and towering cliffs, all amid an endless water playground.

Katy and Hannah

Gematria ~ Hebrew Numerology

By Kristy McCaffrey

Ancient Academies and Mystery schools taught the concept of sacred numbers and the corresponding idea that everything in the Universe can be associated with a numerical value. This proved useful in storing secret information, especially in the form of stories or narratives. Within the Jewish tradition this is known as Gematria—assigning mystical meaning to words based on numerical values.

Today, the modern term would be Numerology, but this has retained negative connotations. This dates back as far as 325 A.D. when the First Council of Nicaea, a gathering of Bishops that resulted in the first uniform Christian doctrine, classified any departure from the beliefs of the state church as a civil violation. Numerology fell into this category, along with astrology and other forms of divination.

 

The practice of Gematria is found throughout Greek gnostic texts (gospels not part of the standard Christian Biblical canon) as well as the Qabalah (a western esoteric mystical tradition). One popular example is related to 666, the number of the Beast. It first occurs in the First Book of Kings in the Old Testament, referring to the amount of wealth that came to King Solomon. The root of the superstition associated with this number, however, can be traced to a passage from the Book of Revelation:

            Here is wisdom. Let him that hath

            understanding count the number of the beast;

            for it is the number of a man; and his number is

            Six Hundred Threescore and Six.

                                    [Revelation, 13:18]

For Christians this number has come to symbolize the Antichrist, or the one who is opposite of the teachings of Jesus. At different times this has included Genghis Khan, Napoleon, and Hitler. But the root of this association likely originated with the Roman Emperor Nero, a tyrannical ruler from 54 to 68 A.D. who persecuted early Christians. The emperor Nero (Neron Caesar) in Hebrew Gematria carries a value of 666. But it’s interesting to note that this number not only represents the numerical value of the Sun but also references the carbon atom, the basis of all life. Carbon-12 (a stable, naturally occurring isotope) forms 98.93% of the carbon on Earth and contains 6 protons, 6 neutrons, and 6 electrons.

Could Revelation have been referring to the number of man, the very building blocks of humans, and not to a beast bent on leading mankind away from God? In numerology, 666 adds up to 18, which adds up to 9—the number of man. Perhaps “beast” refers to the physical aspect of man as opposed to the spiritual.

Works Cited

Nozedar, Adele. The Element Encyclopedia of Secret Signs and Symbols. Harper Collins, 2008.

Silva, Freddy. Legacy of the Gods: The Origin of Sacred Sites and the Rebirth of Ancient Wisdom. Hampton Roads Publishing Company, Inc., 2011.

Wikipedia. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon>.

Wikipedia. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carbon-12>.

Wikipedia. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Numerology>.

Peru and Inca Ruins

By Kristy McCaffrey

“It pays to keep an open mind, but not so open your brains fall out.”  ~  Carl Sagan

View of Andes Mountains
from Macchu Picchu.

I must confess that a favorite television show of mine is “Ancient Aliens” on the History Channel. I’ve been known to watch hours of it at a time. Luckily my husband has an open mind on these subjects; it’s one of the reasons I married him. (That, and he has fabulous-looking feet. But I digress.) Common interests are important in relationships. So it was with great anticipation that I traveled last week with him to Peru. Our goal was Macchu Picchu and along the way other significant Inca sites. These are places which my favorite show suggests may have been built by aliens long ago while inhabiting Earth.

A side note—the original term Inka meant ruler in Quechua, the local dialect. It referred only to the ruling family. It was the Spanish who used the term Inca as an ethnic reference to encompass all subjects. Consequently it was the Inca Empire they encountered and conquered in the 1500’s.

The stone walls of Sacsayhuaman.

First stop is Sacsayhuamán (yes, it sounds like “sexy woman”), overlooking the Andean city of Cusco, the former capital of the Inca Empire. Cusco sits at 11,150 feet so despite all that time spent at the Y working out, I found myself dizzy and nursing a low-grade headache as I huffed and puffed up the hillside to the ruins. At the height of its power in the 15^th century, Sacsayhuamán was likely an important military fortress. It took thousands of men over fifty years to complete three ramparts of zigzag walls. Blocks of limestone—some as large as 361 tons—are fitted together without mortar so perfectly that even a piece of paper can’t be inserted. How this was accomplished is still up for debate, hence the popularity of fringe theories such as extraterrestrial technology.

The Sacred Valley.

Next stop are the ruins at Pisac. I will preface this first by stating that the Sacred Valley, through which you must travel to reach all these sites, is an idyllic and imposing place, buffeted by the Andes Mountains on both sides.

More than once the words paradise and shangri-la cross my mind. The citadel at Pisac sits high upon a hill (these Incas never built low) and controlled a route which connected the Inca Empire with the eastern jungles. It features all types of architecture—agricultural, hydraulic, military, residential, and religious.

The terraces at Pisac.

The ubiquitous terraces are everywhere as well as an interesting cemetery on the side of a mountain. Bodies were lowered by rope to be placed inside caves.

My husband at Ollantaytambo.

Ollantaytambo is another important Inca site. Located at the confluence of two rivers (the Patakancha and the Urubamba), it was the location of a royal estate for the Inca Emperor Pachacuti. It is one of the finest archaeological complexes in Peru, containing religious, astronomical, administrative and urban areas. It’s here that we take the Inca Rail to the town of Aguas Calientes, the launching point for entry to Macchu Picchu. (Unless you’re hiking the Inca Trail—anywhere from a 2 to 5 day trek that begins outside Cusco. The Trail leads directly into Macchu Picchu.)

The stonework at Ollantaytambo.

Macchu Picchu.

The next day we awake at 4am. Hotels begin serving breakfast at 4:30am. By 5:15am we walk to the bus station and already there are at least 500 people from all over the world in line. The buses drive much too fast on a switchback road to the entrance of Macchu Picchu but we arrive in one piece. 

Hyuana Picchu.

The first order of business is to climb Huanya Picchu, so we must hurry to the control station on the other side of Macchu Picchu. Only 400 people are allowed to climb this peak each day, famously visible in most Macchu Picchu photographs. The guidebook states that Huanya Picchu is a short, steep hike. That doesn’t even begin to describe it. It’s straight up the mountain. My vertigo presses in and I do my best to keep it at bay; I really don’t want to ruin this. 

From atop Hyuana Picchu. Macchu Picchu is in the
background.

The reward is a breathtaking view of Macchu Picchu from atop Huanya Picchu. Also breathtaking are the surrounding peaks, the clouds rising and falling, the silver line of the river far below, and the lush foliage, courtesy of the just-ended rainy season. Walls and foundations sit atop Huanya Picchu. The Incas love of construction in high places brought them closer to their gods, notably the Sun God Inti.

Climbing Hyuana Picchu.

Macchu Picchu.

The remainder of the day we spend exploring Macchu Picchu itself. It’s a most magical place—simple, elegant, and pristine. The current theory for its existence is that it was simply a winter getaway for Inca royalty. The Spanish never ransacked it because the Incas quickly abandoned it, moving up the valley to another location. Macchu Picchu was discovered in 1911 by Yale historian Hiram Bingham, although the locals had long known about it. In fact, it was a local boy that led Bingham to the area. We wander around, follow our tour guide for a while, enjoy the local llamas grazing, and absorb the wonderful energy present.

The llamas of Macchu Picchu.



It’s here that our guide describes a technique used to cut the impossibly large pieces of stone. Several holes are bored into the rock and a piece of wood inserted. Water is added to the wood, thereby causing it to expand. Because there is quartz in the rock, it breaks along a plane. Polishing tools are used. My husband inspects some of the exposed pieces, finding notches that allowed two rocks to be locked together. The shape suggests that the builders used a margin of error in their measurements; the rocks didn’t have to match exactly. (Both my husband and I have backgrounds in engineering; all this means is that we’re curious about how things work.) Of course the polishing and rounding of the edges would have required proper tools, skills, and endless labor, but there was no doubt in my mind the Incas could have accomplished this. The alien theory simply doesn’t hold up under the most basic scrutiny. An open mind shouldn’t be an unhinged floodgate. But I’ll still enjoy my show and the fantastical extraterrestrial theories. I’m a fiction writer after all.

When it’s finally time to leave I’m reluctant. Macchu Picchu is special; you can’t help but feel it. For the first time, in crossing a destination from my bucket list, I add it again. This is a place to visit more than once. 

Las Vegas, New Mexico

Post by Kristy McCaffrey

When you hear Las Vegas you immediately think of the gambling mecca in Nevada, but there is another. Las Vegas, New Mexico—located east of Santa Fe—was established in 1835 on the Gallinas River, near the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. It prospered as a stop on the Santa Fe Trail and was 30 miles from Fort Union, a large Army outpost.

Fort Union



Las Vegas had a unique combination of Spanish and Anglo traditions, known for the balls and church socials held by the Anglo families and the fandangos, or neighborhood dances, and fiestas held by the Spanish community.



Las Vegas Saloon



The railroad arrived in 1879 and Las Vegas soon became one of the largest cities in the American southwest. The sophisticated town supported an opera house, social and literary clubs, an orchestra and a theater. But Las Vegas also had a reputation for rowdiness, and had its fair share of gamblers, hoodlums, and fallen women. Infamous characters such as Doc Holliday and his companion Big Nose Kate as well as Billy the Kid, Jesse James and Wyatt Earp all passed through in the late 19^th century. The area later became known as a resort town because of its dry, temperate climate and the hot springs north of town, attracting wealthy patrons from as far off as Europe. These luxury resorts flourished during the 1880’s and early 1890’s.



Many movies have been filmed here beginning with silent western films (1913-1915) to Easy Rider, Convoy, Wyatt Earp (starring Kevin Costner), All the Pretty Horses (with Matt Damon and Penelope Cruz), No Country for Old Men (with Tommy Lee Jones and Javier Bardem) and Paul (with Simon Pegg and Kristen Wiig).

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Kristy’s second book THE DOVE takes place in Las Vegas, New Mexico in 1877. The heroine, Claire Waters, lives at The White Dove Saloon with her mother and young brother. When the hero, Logan Ryan, finds her he mistakes her for a saloon girl, but her real desire is to become a doctor.

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Works Cited

Gottschalk, M.C. Pioneer Merchants of the Las Vegas Plaza. Local printing, 2000.

Wikipedia. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Las_Vegas,_New_Mexico>.

A Word About Colons

Post by Kristy McCaffrey

I’m here to write about punctuation, not the human intestine. Just wanted to be clear up front.

I’m really not a fan of the colon. And I’m really not a fan when a writer uses it ad nauseam. I recently finished a book in which the author used colons with such abandon that at times I was confused about what I was reading. Every paragraph contained at least 4-5 of the buggers and it was a very long book. I won’t reveal the work because despite my punctuation frustration I REALLY liked this book. The writer told a fabulous story and, for the most part, used colons correctly. But I believe that authors should try to be as invisible as possible, and anything that draws attention to the fact that ME THE AUTHOR was here should be removed. The colons were a huge distraction, and the author’s love of them even more so. Periods and commas work very well; never underestimate the power of simple writing. Here’s a sentence that had me throwing my hands in the air:

The home page of shaadi.com exhorts the unmarried to have faith: “20 million miracles and counting: Register free.”

Yes, grammatically this is correct, but two colons in one sentence? Really? I suppose this wouldn’t have irritated me if hundreds of colons hadn’t already preceded it. I should note that I used a colon to set off the quote. Applied sparingly they’re as invisible as any other punctuation should be. Strunk and White define that a colon should be used “after an independent clause to introduce a list of particulars, an appositive, an amplification, or an illustrative quotation.”

I’m currently reading another book in which the author uses colons (and semicolons, periods, commas and quotation marks) incorrectly. It’s a pre-publication copy given to me in exchange for a review. The author conveyed to me that the book is still being edited, which is a relief because this is the most unpolished manuscript I’ve ever seen. What I’m reading is a first draft, and no one but the author should ever see this. She drops colons into her dialogue and sentences like they’re commas or periods, clearly smacking the colon button whenever the mood strikes. I’ve nearly thrown this book at the wall too many times to count. However, like the first book mentioned, the story is quite good. And so I persevere in deference to the Story God.

As an author, am I too severe on the work of others? Possibly. In some ways becoming a writer makes reading less enjoyable. It can be a challenge to simply enjoy a story without critiquing it. With therapy and medication writers can overcome this. (Okay, I’m kidding.) I try hard to appreciate storytelling even if the mechanics of writing don’t line up. However, there’s no excuse for a sloppy format, and every author should strive for excellence in their work.

If you find that you have a deep infatuation with the colon then it might be time to create distance in the relationship. Stop hanging out together and rewrite sentences so the cute double dots don’t creep their way in. Save the spotlight for when it’s truly needed—and that would be the emoticon, of course. :-)

Native Americans: The Comanche

By Kristy McCaffrey

            The Comanche Indians likely originated somewhere north of the headwaters of the Arkansas River in the mountainous country of what is now Colorado and Wyoming, but it was in Texas that this most feared Plains tribe made their mark. Until 1875 they were the most difficult adversary the Texans dealt with, carrying off what loot they could and burning the rest, and frequently killing or capturing men, women, and children.

            Warfare was a major component of Comanche life. Raids into the Mexican state of Chihuahua for horses, captives, and weapons were usually done during a full moon, when the Comanche could see to ride, and this led to the term “Comanche Moon.”

            Comanche ate buffalo, elk, black bear, pronghorn, and deer. During scarce times they ate wild mustangs, their own ponies, or raided ranches for longhorn cattle. Because they constantly travelled, they didn’t use pottery that could easily break. They made nearly everything from the buffalo, crafting tools, household goods, and weapons from the animal’s horns, hide and bones.

Quanah Parker

            The most famous Comanche was Quanah Parker. Born around 1850, he was the son of a Comanche Chief named Peta Nocona and Cynthia Ann Parker, a white girl who’d been taken captive in 1836. In 1860 Cynthia Ann was recaptured along with her daughter, but after living with the Comanche for 24 years she was unable to adjust to life among white people. She died four years later following the death of her daughter.

            Quanah led his tribe of Kwahadi Comanche in a bloody war against the U.S. government, refusing to surrender from 1867-1875. Finally, with his people weary and starving, he acquiesced, leading the last free band of Comanche to Fort Sill, a reservation in Oklahoma. Although Quanah refused to become like the white men, he had the foresight to understand them. He learned English, became a reservation judge, and lobbied Congress for the cause of the Comanche Nation. He died in 1911 and was buried beside his mother, whose body had been reinterred at Ft. Sill Military Cemetery. Quanah Parker had become a true Texas hero.

            Today the headquarters for the Comanche Nation is in Lawton, Oklahoma and operates many businesses and a college.

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In my first book, The Wren, I feature a heroine returning to her Texas home after living as a Comanche captive for ten years with the Kwahadi tribe.

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Works Cited

Kavanagh, Thomas W. The Comanches: A History 1706-1875. University of Nebraska Press, 1996.

Neeley, Bill. The Last Comanche Chief: The Life and Times of Quanah Parker. John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 1995.

Wikipedia. <http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Comanche>.

Hiking Grandview Trail in Grand Canyon

By Kristy McCaffrey



View from Grandview Trail

            Grand Canyon offers several access routes   from rim to river. Grandview Trail, from the South Rim, is one that’s been in use since 1890 when miner Pete Berry began working the Last Chance Mine. However, Hopi Indians gathered mineral paints in the area (Horseshoe Mesa) long before Berry arrived.

My dad on the icy switchbacks

            On a sunny and somewhat chilly March morning I set off to hike the trail with my dad and my husband. Day hikes in Grand Canyon don’t require a permit so we plan to trek as far as we can and turn around before the sun sets. Although I’ve hiked one of the main corridor trails—Bright Angel (during July no less and yes, it whipped my butt)—I’ve learned to never underestimate the Grand Canyon and Grandview Trail didn’t disappoint. The uppermost sections are steep, grueling switchbacks, and because long stretches were covered with ice and snow, very dangerous. One slip could lead to a tumble over the side. And it was a long way down. But my dad made sure we were well prepared with microspikes. Regrettably I left my walking poles in the car. They were missed.



Me on the trail

            We spend the next three hours dropping about 2500 feet in elevation. The scenery is breathtaking. I'm dumbfounded staring at the sheer cliff we descend, the trail all but invisible above us. We cling to the rocks like mountain goats, offering a strange satisfaction of having met the canyon on its own terms. But this sense of accomplishment will be short-lived.

My dad and I close to Horseshoe Mesa



My husband and I

            We make it as far as Horseshoe Mesa, a total of 3.2 miles. Several old copper mines are located in the area and the paths are fairly well-marked, along with signs warning of radiation. From my research I learn that excessive amounts of radon are present, so no spelunking inside the dark corridors. We hoped to continue out onto the Mesa and enjoy a view of the Colorado River, but it was now 1 p.m.—our designated turnaround time. We rest, eat lunch, and use the facilities (yes, there’s a toilet here). I remove as much clothing as I can since it’s much warmer than on the rim, but I still sweat more than anticipated for a winter hike.



Me hugging the cliffside

            The return traverse follows a fairly flat route until the switchbacks reappear like an annoying friend you wish to avoid. For over two hours I shuffle along with tiny steps, and though I exaggerate, I feel certain I’m going straight up the cliff. It doesn’t help that near the end, while at my most exhausted, the trail narrows with nothing but blue sky to offer a buffer. This is when I become afraid. The next 30-40 minutes are an exercise in controlling a panic that I would slip off the side and die. (I should mention that I suffer from vertigo.) I hunch over the trail, trying to counter the weight of my pack lest it throw me off balance. Tears threaten. My husband offers to carry my pack but I refuse. He’d done as much on that Bright Angel trek years before and I was determined to prove my mettle this time.



The end of our hike





            Staying focused on one step, then the next, and then the next, I hold the tight grip of panic at bay, desperate to get to the top and the hell out of here.

            Finally we’re done, back among the land of tourists snapping photos. I sink to the ground to remove my microspikes while silently paying homage to Grand Canyon. It always kicks butt. It’s silly to think it won’t. But this time I persevered, keeping my burgeoning fears at bay long enough to finish the hike. Perhaps Grand Canyon and I can become friends after all.