That is the magic of the Grand Canyon. Even when you have been there, a part of you cannot believe it. Nor can you forget it.
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO, AS AN idealistic teenager, a friend of mine rafted down the frothing mocha waters of the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, that unearthly gorge once described by 19th-century explorer John Wesley Powell as ”these grand, gloomy depths.” My friend saw something, a place, she has never forgotten, but she no longer trusted her memory, and in the years since she had never talked to anyone else who had floated the Grand. Now I had done it.