The hike began late, because of mishaps, forgotten equipment, whiskey, mystics, and men. Deep orange sediments passed underfoot, long strides down, until darkness fell over our heads and left us wandering down into the inferno, down deeper into the circle of the bolgia. We knew at some eventuality that we would reach the river, but when and how was our question. Doubt, and a little fear mixed until we could hear the roaring Colorado, The River, down in the Tipoff.
Very little lived on the pathway, down in these depths. Crushing pressure and trillions of years brought on layer upon layer of fossilized materials, striations lateral and vertical, flickering and dancing crystal colors in the glow of our lamps. Finally, on last approach with the sweet sound of running water, we entered a tunnel and a black bridge spanning the gorge. Barely visible in the pitch black of night, the water passed beneath, cool, black reflection and little light of the moon. The water was empty, the water was full. It told all the tales of former passersby, visitors, and of the American Indians who lived in the deep down, one day leaving it all behind without rhyme or reason why.
And there is more, of the sleep, the fine sand shore of the The River, the thick stars in the sky. The climb in the heat of canyon and sun. The burning ball of light hung over us, searing neck and eyes alike, the trees, the sand, indiscriminate to all. The pure white disk, Paradiso, ascent into white light of midday. Each step in a grueling slow motion, we learn to respect the disk, the heat, and the incline of the Angel trail. Muscles and sinews ached and burned down to the bones, frequent breaks for rest in the sun. Passing souls along the way, some diving in, others climbing out, none of us belonged here in this kind of dry. It was an experience, once in a life perhaps, a circular journey that should be taken for the hell of taking it.
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