Colorado River | food

It is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen. Our flashlights trace slow, stunned arcs along floor and ceiling pocked with surreal formations. Here something that resembles tiny coral heads. There thin, sinuous folds, stained by iron, that look like slabs of bacon. The floor is covered with fine dust. The rock, smooth and polished as jade, emanates cool. In some caverns, the ceiling rises so high it's like walking through the insides of some great sleeping beast. Dropping behind my companions, I flick off my light. In the black cathedral hush, it's easy to imagine rock sleeping here for eternities, at least by our measure.

That night we stretch out beneath the stars, the Big Dipper hanging storybook-clear in front of our eyes. Our remaining days produce additional splendor, and with it, appreciation. First light paints the mightiest buttes and the most delicate grasses. Negotiating switchback trails, sun and wind alternately caress our faces. In midafternoon's bake, we draw water from a shaded spring resonating with a triumphant frog's croak and sit in our shaded box seats high above the mighty Colorado River. As the sun sets, shadows run down the vast walls like dark rivers.

Our final night, we leave camp with food and stoves, hiking to the eastern edge of Horseshoe Mesa. Spooning down freeze-dried dinners, we watch the sun set, purple over the canyon, then sit quietly as the stars and a scrim of moon appeared. It is a giddy feeling simultaneously fathoming your impermanence and your ability to enjoy it.