It spreads out in front of us like a pit of fire, flamed red, gold and orange in layers of rock. It is so big that you can look from left to right and wonder if the land will ever come together again. I have seen this from a plane, but so far away it was like a thumbprint on the window. I keep expecting someone to take down the painted backdrop: that’s all folks, you can go home now-but nobody does.
There are plenty of other cars parked at this “PICTURE SPOT” along the highway that borders the Grand Canyon. People popping flash cubes in the afternoon light, mothers pulling toddlers away from the protective railing. Rebecca is sitting on the railing. She has her hands on either side of her hips, a brace. “It’s huge,” she says, when she can sense me behind her. “I wish we could go into it.”
So we try to find out about burro rides, the ones where they take pictures of you on the donkey to put on your living room table when you get home. The last tour, however, has left for the day- which doesn’t really upset me since I have little desire to ride on a burro. I agree with Rebecca, though. It is hard to grasp like this. You feel inclined to take it apart, to see it pieced like a jigsaw puzzle before you consider its entirety.
I find myself thinking about the river that carved this art, the sun that painted its colors. I wonder how many millions of years this whole thing took, and who got to wake up one morning and say, “Oh, so there is a canyon.”
“Mom,” Rebecca says, missing the beauty, “I’m getting hungry.” At her feet is a gaggle of tiny Japanese children all wearing the same blue school uniform. They carry little one-step cameras, and half take pictures of the canyon, while the other half take pictures of my daughter.
Reaching over the children, I pull Rebecca off the railing; she is making me nervous anyway. “All right. We’ll find a diner.” I walk toward the car but on second thought step back to the railing for a final look. Enormous. Anonymous. I could hurtle myself down the walls of this chasm, and never be found.
Rebecca is waiting for me in the car, arms folded tight across her chest. “All we had for breakfast was that beef jerky from Hilda.”
“It was free,” I point out. Rebecca rolls her eyes. When she gets hungry, she gets irritable. “Did you see signs for anything on the way?”
“I didn’t see anything. Miles and miles of sand.”
I sigh and start the car. “You’d better get used to it. I hear drivingin the Midwest is lousy.”
“Can we just go,” Rebecca says. “Please.”
After a few miles we pass a blue metal sign that says JAKE’S, with an arrow. Rebecca shrugs, which means Yes, let’s turn. “Jake’s is the name of a diner if I’ve ever heard one,” I say.
The interesting thing about the environs surrounding the Grand Canyon is that they’re ugly. Dusty, plain, as if all their splendor has been sucked out by the area’s main attraction. You can drive, even on a highway, for miles without spotting desert vegetation or the hint of color.
“Jake’s!” Rebecca screams, and I slam my brakes. We do a 180-degree turn in the dust, which points us toward the little shack I’ve passed. There are no other cars, in fact there isn’t even a diner. What is there is an airfield, and a tiny plane in the distance, puttering.
A man with very short yellow hair and spectacles approaches the car. “Hello. Interested in a ride?”
“No,” Rebecca says quickly.
He holds his hand out to her across my chest. “Name’s Jake Feathers. Honest to God.”
“Let’s go,” Rebecca says. “This isn’t a diner.”
“I fly over the canyon,” Jake says, as if we are listening. “Cheapest-deal you’ll find. Unlike anything you’ll ever see.” He winks at Rebecca. “Fifty dollars apiece.”
“How long?” I ask.
“Mom,” Rebecca says. “Please.”
“As long as it takes,” Jake tells me. I get out of the car and stand up. I hear Rebecca swear and recline her seat. The plane, in the distance, seems as if it is rolling forward.
“You ain’t seen the Canyon unless you’ve seen it from the inside. You won’t believe it till you do it.”
I have been thinking this very thing. “We don’t have the money,” Rebecca whines.
I stick my head in the window. “You don’t have to go.”
“I’m not getting on that plane.”
“I understand. But do you mind if I do?” I lean in closer for privacy. “I mean, we can’t ride the burros, and I think one of us ought to see it. We came all the way here, and you know, you can’t say you’ve seen it-”
“-if you don’t see it from the inside,” Jake says, finishing my sentence. He tips an imaginary hat.
Rebecca sighs and closes her eyes. “Ask if he has any food.”
Minutes later, with my daughter waving from the hood of the car, Jake takes me up in his Cessna. I do not believe this contraption is going to fly, with its rusted studs and notched propellers. The control panel-something I’ve always conceived of with flashing lights and radar gadgets-is no more complex than the dashboard of the station wagon. Even the throttle Jake uses for takeoff resembles the knobs for the air conditioning.
As we lift off the ground my head whacks against the metal of the airplane’s frame. I am surprised at the roughness of the flight, the way the plane chugs as if there could be bumps in the air. Next time, I think, a Dramamine. Jake says something to me, but I can’t hear him over the engine.
Inside this plastic bubble I can see panoramically-the trees, the highway, Rebecca, getting smaller, disappearing. I watch the ground run behind us and then suddenly there is nothing there at all.
We’ve fallen of a cliff, I think, panicking, but there’s no drop. We turn to the right and I see the perimeter of this beautiful gully in a way I haven’t seen-ridges and textures so close they become real. We pass lakes in the valley of the canyon, emeralds that grow larger as we inch farther down. We fly over peaks and past furrows; we hum across carved rocks. Under us at one point is a green village, a trembling ledge dotted with the red roofs of homes and minute fenced-in farms. I find myself wanting to go to this village; I want to know what it is like to live in the shadow of natural walls.
Too quickly we turn around, letting the sun wash us full-force, so powerful I have to shade my eyes. I breathe deeply, trying to internalize this amazing open space where there is no firm footing, where there once was water. When we fly back over the edge of ordinary ground, I see Rebecca sitting on the hood of our station wagon. As Jake lands I wonder what cities and sculptures lie millions of miles beneath the sea.