Story: A Pretty Grand Canyon

Mostly, you expect to be left breathless by the Grand Canyon. Not just by the steep trails that plummet you miles down to the muddy Colorado River, but by the overwhelming scale of the thing. Etched in red, orange, buff hues, layer upon layer, a hundred unexpected tributary canyons meander towards the biggest one. Standing at any vista point, the ten crow-miles across the canyon look flat, like a painting you could reach and caress. And then you move a little. Shadows shift, new light gives it new depth and the grandeur of it takes your breath away. This is what you expect of the Grand Canyon. What you don’t expect is the techno music.

Yet techno music is part of the aural experience of camping at the popular South Rim campground. I recently arrived there in the evening, too late to see anything of the Canyon but with just enough light to set up camp and marvel at how many other people were doing the same. Although the campground is set in a beautiful pine forest, multiply 350 car-campsites by an average occupancy of three people per site and what you have is a lot of bodies, a lot of late night drinking and whooping, a lot of unfortunate littering, a lot of mud tracked into the bathrooms and a lot of people behaving as if they are alone in a place where it is nearly impossible to ever be alone. This is the unpleasant byproduct of nearly every mega-destination in the world. Cramming this much humanity into a natural space is bound to result in unnatural behavior, like the inevitable conclusion that it’s ok to crank the car stereo after midnight and blow everyone out of their sleeping bags with breakbeat club music.

Five million people visit the Grand Canyon National Park every year, an international convergence that has the makings of disaster for real nature lovers like me, someone who loves backpacking alone to the quietest corners of the world. But on this trip I was short on time and the less-crowded North Rim was still deep with spring snow, so I was directed instead to the popular viewpoints of the South Rim. After a night of inconsiderate campers and a morning of swollen gift shops, my expectations were low.

The crowded interpretive centers and scenic overlooks turn out to be busy for a reason – they offer the most impressive panoramas of the canyon and its complex geology, always within scampering distance of a bathroom or a hamburger stand. That these viewpoints still manage to inspire wonder is testament to the power of this place; even amongst the constant chatter and camera flashing of the visiting hordes, standing in the presence of America’s greatest postcard is an awesome experience.

It didn't take long though before I grew weary of the crowds. So I took a chance on a five-mile portion of the unpaved South Rim hiking trail, understanding that it was relatively flat and so expecting it to be quite busy. But there is also, it turns out, a shuttle bus that runs roughly the same route on a parallel road. And given a choice, 95% of Grand Canyon visitors will choose this bus over walking, even in the gentle temperatures of Spring. My campground experience and the guidebook lore of this place had prepared me for a full day of jostling, sweaty elbows, road rage and cigarette smoke. But within minutes of stepping off the pavement, I found myself as alone as I wanted to be. And when I stood still, it was quiet enough to hear the river rushing far below, quiet enough to hear a raven’s wings flap overhead. Quiet enough to hear the light percussion of ice melting on the canyon walls. My kind of music.