Arriving at the Edge
I went to the Grand Canyon on Veteran’s Day in 2018.
I drove up from Phoenix early in the morning, before the day had fully decided what it would be. The sun started its slow, deliberate climb as the highway stretched quietly ahead of me. As I got closer, something about the horizon began to feel wrong. Not ominous, just altered. As if the earth ahead had simply… stopped.
The morning light made everything glow in the distance. It wasn’t dramatic in the way postcards promise. It was more subtle than that. The colors and textures were softer. The land didn’t reveal itself all at once. It asked for patience.
When I reached the park gates, a ranger welcomed me warmly and waved me through without charge. It was Veterans Day, he explained. I thanked him, but the weight of that moment didn’t land until later. It wasn’t about saving money. It was about being freely given access - to beauty, to wonder, to something that belonged to all of us because of sacrifices made by people I would never know. The Canyon wasn’t a commodity that morning. It was an inheritance.
As I drove farther in, the landscape surprised me again. Instead of vastness, there was intimacy: a lush pine forest seemed to materialize just inside the gate, closing in around the road, tall, quiet, majestic. The air felt different—older, steadier. And then, without warning, I saw an elk.
It stood close to the road, impossibly enormous and utterly unbothered by my presence. Noble is the only word that fits. It wasn’t there to perform or entertain. It simply was. I stopped, took a few photos, and sat for a moment longer than necessary, as if acknowledging a guardian before proceeding. This was his home.
I followed the winding road through this fairytale forest, and eventually parked near the South Rim visitor center and followed the path on foot. Even then, the Canyon withheld itself. The wind was biting and invigorating. Sounds didn’t quite make sense. They were hollow and expectant. I wish I could describe that better, but if you’ve been, then you know. I was nearly at the edge before I finally saw it. The trees simply opened up, like lush green velvet curtains had been drawn back from a stage. And there it was.
I stopped.
There were no other visitors yet. No voices. No footsteps behind me. Just silence, depth, and scale beyond comprehension. I stood at the edge and felt, all at once, impossibly small and completely connected. It was the most spiritual moment of my life.
The Grand Canyon didn’t make me feel insignificant. It made me feel included. As though I were briefly allowed to see my place in something vast and ongoing. I didn’t need to interpret it or explain it. I only needed to witness it. To feel it. To just let it be.
I’ve often thought that if other people had been there, the moment would have been different. Not marred, but definitely altered. Some experiences require solitude to fully arrive. That morning, the absence of a crowd felt intentional, almost generous. In that one instance, I was alone in the presence of grandeur. It was like a moment created just for me.
And I was changed.
Even now, years later, that moment remains intact. It didn’t fade. It didn’t diminish. It became part of me. And I carry with me the quiet gratitude that my being there—on that day, in that way—was made possible by lives lived in service, by sacrifices that extended far beyond that gate.
That morning I didn’t just see the Grand Canyon.
I was reminded that awe, freedom, and beauty are often gifts passed down—waiting patiently for us to arrive early enough, and quietly enough, to receive them.
