GRAND CANYON: GRAND CANYON

Streaking across the desert skyline, Albuquerque to Grand Canyon in a heartbeat, coasting in on the fumes of yesterday’s drive, the dream hanging on by a thin white line. Riding the high plains highway under moonlight, a fleeting glimpse of a higher truth, spoken in tongues and deciphered in dreams.

The sun slowly dissolves with a golden orange and purple glow as we make our way to the continent’s great divide. We have crossed endless miles of Indian reservations. We have failed in our attempt to find mescal, forgetting that the selling of alcohol is prohibited on the reservation. We remember that the once proud tribes are still ruled by foreign invaders. We remember that these are a conquered people, protected by law from the weakness that helped to defeat them.

It is a strange phenomenon to see Quick Stops and Exxon stations, the golden arches and Super 8 Motels, and to be reminded that this is the last resting ground of the Navajo. We have traversed the land of the Zuni, the Petrified Forest, and the Apache land of the Painted Desert. The medicine woman’s spell still lingers in the warm dry air, her weathered face etched in the primordial terrain. The sacred dance is still performed on the mesa in a circle of red rock formations. The shadow of the ancient shaman still hovers above us in the evening sky.

A lone coyote yaps and sends us on our way. The crow is with us always. No mescal. No tequila. No alcohol of any kind.

We decide against a detour to Grey Mountain, just outside the reservation, and race the fading light to this day’s grand destination. Along the path in two-by-four shelters draped with canvas and plastic tarps are the new Indians, the commercial Indians who scrape by on the fringe of free enterprise. Signs proclaim them the Friendly Indians -- Manhattan Island’s revenge. They sell authentic Indian jewelry, hand crafted silver and turquoise necklaces, bracelets, medicine pouches and jade earrings.

The sun hovers in a brilliant amber glow. We have lost the race and pull over to a trace canyon, a small sliver of the Grand. The merchant Indians pack their wares, give us a glance over and sensing that we are neither buyers nor a threat to their welfare allow us to pass unobstructed to the edge of their little canyon. I am struck with awe and sit to ponder the hand of god. Wiz is less impressed. He has been to the Grand before. He has walked her ledge and camped on her floor while my eyes are virgin to this spectacle. I am aware of the great glaciers that cut and shaped Yosemite Valley but this is a different creature, bearing a distinctly different spiritual sensation. In a part of the world that desperately needed shelter it is as if the earth opened her womb and gave birth to the greatest shelter the world has ever known. It is a universe of its own, a monument of such depth and breadth that it challenges the eye and questions the very meaning of existence. It invokes flight of mind and humbles the most jaded and reticent of men.

We savor the remaining moments of twilight as we make our way to the edge of the Grand Canyon. The name begins to take on mythological proportions. Was it here beneath the infinite stars of heaven that Prometheus descended with the flame of human enlightenment? Was it here that the muses entertained the gods with music, dance and poetry? Was it here that Hades abducted Persephone and carried her into the bowels of the earth? We stop briefly at the first lookout. Here, under the light of a full moon, I catch my first glimpse on the unimaginable. Towering mountains, cliffs, valleys and bluffs, encapsulated by this slice of earth so far below the surface that the mind cannot grasp its fullness. Chasms within chasms, another world, separate and distinct, a monument to all forces greater than humankind. Its vastness is beyond the realm of fancy yet I am struck by the feeling that I have seen this sight before. Another life, another dream, a crystal meditation. Here on this holy spot of earth all things are possible.

It is late and we must find our place along the canyon’s ledge before the park ranger discovers us. We stop at the second lookout where Wiz spots a parking lot for overnight hikers. I stay with the Mustang while he scrambles to look for a temporary site to plant our gear out of sight of the rangers. He returns and we unload quickly: Sleeping bags, small packs, two beers, two golf balls, two tees and a five iron.

We scuffle down the hill to the chosen spot. It is a small rock ledge just below and to the left of the lookout. It is majestic. The canyon branches briefly to our left and opens in all its glory before us. The mountains on the canyon floor are divided by chasms in three directions: One toward the north rim, another branching to the east and a third toward the west below us.

A mist begins to gather in chasms of the canyon floor as we explore our location and scout for other viewpoints. Our explorations reveal that we have chosen wisely by intuition. Or rather it has chosen us. We return to our camp and settle in. It is the only place we have seen where a golf tee can be implanted in the ground.

I tee up my ball and carefully clean the path of the club’s backswing. As I address the ball I find two imprints in the granite ledge that perfectly fit the soles of my moccasins. I have no doubt that this is the spot. Like Carlos Castaneda rolling around on the porch of Don Juan, the Wiz in his mad scramble zeroed in on the only place our vision could abide. It was not only the right spot; it was the only spot. Had he not found it our destiny would have been altered in ways we can never know.

We are Zen Golfers. A Zen Golfer does not slap or punch a ball into the Grand Canyon. To do so would be sacrilege, an affront not only to the Canyon but also to the game that has come to symbolize and guide our lives.

I plant my feet in the indentations of the ledge and carefully rehearse the swing. I am aware that the force of a golf swing is more than enough to propel the golfer several yards in any direction, including straight forward. I do not mention this knowledge to Wiz who is relatively new to the game, just as one does not mention water on a water hole or out-of-bounds on a long par four. I will give instruction only by example, by preparing for the shot with due caution and sincerity. Balance is the first lesson.

There will be no second chance.

Satisfied, I lay the club along the line where the toes of my feet will be in my stance. Then I sit and wait for the moment. Again and again I visualize the shot. I see the swing, the rotation of the body, the release and the flight of the ball into the canyon. I free my mind of all other thoughts, focusing completely on my center, and wait.

Finally, as the mist rises in the canyon below, I see the white of the ball glowing as if from inner illumination. Moonlight has sprung through an opening in the overhanging shrubs, forming a sacred triangle around the ball. I rise, take up the club, address the ball and suddenly, as if some external force has taken hold of my body, I begin the swing. Like a pendulum, the club head starts its backward motion, the left shoulder swings downward below the chin, weight shifts inward toward the right knee and hip, wrists cock at the top of the swing, hands spring forward as the weight of the body follows closely behind to the point of impact. The coil is unleashed. The club head, still on a downward plain, strikes the ball squarely, snapping the white tee crisply into two equal halves. The body squares to the target of the canyon as the club completes the cycle on its own momentum. My feet remain planted. The ball has disappeared on contact. A sacred shot into the largest hole on the planet. It is my first hole-in-one. We do not mention that it is indeed possible to miss.

Wiz steps forward, tees up his Hogan and addresses the ball. His preparation is not as lengthy but no less sincere. His swing is powerful, full and fearless. He draws sparks from the granite fractions before the ball, a clear sign of solid contact on a downward plain. As before, the ball vanishes on contact. Another ace.

We have succeeded more gloriously than we could ever have imagined. Now we sit back to reflect and bask in the wonder of the moment. Instantly we are both exhausted. There is only time for a little more jostling and a brief visit from the park ranger above, who does not discover us, before sleep envelops us in her dark womb.

We awaken several times over the course of the night to witness the startling changes in the canyon below us. It fills with mist until the clouds below are joined with the clouds above. A more mystical sight cannot be seen in the physical realm. I wonder if Wiz is struck by the same curious urge to jump into the void. The curiosity is that it is by no means a death wish. It is the suspended belief that we are spiritual entities capable of walking to the stars or floating to the canyon floor. I have felt a similar sensation while driving down Highway One on the northern California coast at sunset. It is the sense of being outside oneself and beyond the hold of gravity.

In the morning, while Wiz is off exploring, I open my eyes to discover my sleeping bag has slid down the ledge. My feet are dangling over the precipice. It is time to rise. I stare at the site of the sacred golf shots for a time before I pack my things up and join Wiz in exploration. Tourists have begun to arrive. A German couple seems shy, perhaps humbled by the Canyon. A Japanese man and woman sport broad smiles. The man lets loose a yell that echoes down the canyon walls. Before we leave our sacred place, a place the tourists do not discover, two large crows rise up from the canyon to greet us and send us on our way. One settles on a bush directly before us, scans the canyon, and peers into the space behind my eyes.

It is said that if you look into the eyes of the crow you will see the future. I am filled with calm and wonder. We stop once more to see an Indian dwelling, a stone tower, round with nonlinear windows for lookout. It has been rebuilt and fashioned as a gift shop for tourists. It is still too early to be open but already a crowd is gathering. More Germans, Japanese and French nationals with their cameras ready and wide-eyed curiosity. It seems strange that there are far more foreigners at the Grand Canyon than Americans. Why is it that we never fully appreciate the beauty and majesty of our own back yard?

We leave the canyon the way we came, east and north through the reservation. The park station is unmanned. We are allowed to come and go without charge. This is the way it should be. A ten-dollar bill is deposited below the floor mat on the driver’s side where it will remain until it is needed.