I don’t remember seeing the Atlantic Ocean for the first time. The ocean is like my mother; she’s just always been there in my every day, in my memory, in the scenery of my life. I often wonder what people feel and experience when they see the ocean for the first time traveling from their landlocked states and their banked rivers and bounded lakes.
I wander sometimes down to our oceanfront boardwalk where the tourists squeal with delight with the rush of waves, and I watch them let the ocean crash into them and then flail a bit in the whitewash of the shore break. These are the lifeguarded beaches. Further up the beach to the North End, away from the tourists and the lifeguards, locals wade with sturdy legs into the sea and watch the rhythm of the waves, waiting for the rise, the lovely reach of water cresting and the brimming curl. We all dive into the wave getting in under the froth seeking the deep, swimming for the calm, out past the breakers. I know I take the sea for granted just as I take my mother for granted. This natural wonder in our lives seems to fade into the daily grind of work and house and kids. But when you travel to new places, wonders never cease and nothing is dulled by familiarity.
On a day trip to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, we had lunch at the lodge, and the canyon was like another guest at the table, and we couldn’t take our eyes off her rusted, rugged terra cotta beauty. A young man appeared outside on the terrace with a broom and a name tag and a plastic trash bag. He lifted the lid of the trash can, pulled out the filled bag, tied it off, flung open a new bag and eased it into the can and replaced the cover. He strode back inside with the bag of trash and the broom in his hand. He never once turned and looked at the Grand Canyon.
Meanwhile, we are mesmerized by the rimmed landscape built by gradual destruction; rifts and erosion, uplift and upheaval, drifting and colliding. These eternal forms of ruin have carved out a world for us that seems to be in beautiful distress. When you stand at the top of the canyon looking out over the stacked, stratified rock formations, they extend as far as you can see. We all keep looking and looking for the end of the canyon, for the skyscrapers to begin, for concrete and asphalt and highways to interrupt the geology. You can easily believe the canyon stretches all the way to the Mississippi. This city of towering rock is boundless and oh so American in its oversized exhibition.
I can’t help but wonder what is the purpose of experiencing nature on this kind of scale? Should it inspire unworthiness, augment my own smallness? Should I leave changed in some way, improved, more attentive in my everyday life? Or, is the canyon just something beautiful to consume for an afternoon?
National Geographic, in celebration of the National Park Service Centennial, devoted an entire issue to looking closely at our brains on nature. The issue affirmed that when we experience nature, we are nurtured. Scientific evidence proves that our bodies relax in nature probably because we are evolutionarily connected to the forests and trees and oceans. I believe that this effect is true most of the time. Nature soothes, scenic views are calming and meditative, running water lulls us like the hush, hush of a mother.
However, if scientists had measured the heart rates or stress hormone levels of parents while exploring the Grand Canyon, we would have blown their theory into oblivion. To experience the Grand Canyon in all its glory, we walked uphill on a trail as narrow as a neighborhood sidewalk. While we ascended on the right side of the trail, people descended beside us on the left side of the trail. Any amount of jostling, it seemed, could have sent someone over the edge of the canyon tumbling like loose rock into the nether regions. We took a few minutes to explain the dangers to the kids, especially to our youngest, Henry, who is used to running free when outside and is only on the lookout for cars and strangers. On this trail, he would have to hold hands, and we would all have to be careful not to stumble. It truly seemed like we could all go down like dominoes, taken out by one clumsy move.
This was the vision of the National Park Service. The masses walking through these majestic American landscapes, the view shared by the 99% not hoarded by the 1% for their own pleasure. So, we walk single file sharing the path with vigilant mothers, energetic retirees and children trying to tug free from a father’s grasp. One mother with a rambunctious child who wanted to run free had to be held in her arms, and he was not happy to be wrangled. He was crying and flailing against his mother’s chest. Like a captured bird tangled in a net, he squawked and pulled to free himself. She was beginning to grow lax with the effort of holding arms and legs; the boy drooped a little in her arms but then would buck up into the loosening hope of his mother’s tiring body. Her husband was close by with an elaborate camera and the intensity of a mid-level manager on his two week vacation cramming the future with memories. She wanted to pass the son off to the husband, but she didn’t want to squelch his Ansel Adams ambitions, that vacation vision of himself.
I heard her say, “Can you take him?” and she made the move to pass the boy off and the shudder of relief was so close, I could almost feel her body preparing to uncleave with pleasure like taking your bra off when you get home from work. But she stopped herself and pulled the begging words back in; she quickly said with no trace of annoyance, “No, you get your pictures.” She backed away, adjusted the weight of the child and endured his burgeoning anger that escalated to little boy fists banging into her with frustration. I knew she couldn’t release him to the canyon. Truly, he would have made a run for it, for the feel of dirt beneath his sneakers, for the rocks he wanted to climb, for the edge he wanted to test, for the cartoon sky that he believed would hold him.
I watched her as much as I watched the light skidding across the canyon walls creating a palette of spice colors. I recognized her endurance atop the Grand Canyon with a Huckleberry boy in her arms. And, I knew about those daily gifts given in marriage, the gifts that don’t sparkle or glitter in celebration of special occasions but rather the plain ones exchanged daily. That spirit of companionship and partnership with her husband was familiar to me. I could feel the exasperation like another pulse, another heart, that girl heart of her own trying to reclaim a long gone independence. But she shushed it and her face was resolute. I know that heart.
We left the woman at the top of the canyon with her wild boy safe in her arms. I walked away thinking one day he will probably scale this canyon or BASE jump off it on a college trip, and she will never know. I’ve read about these daredevil boys who leap from these high plateaus and fly for a moment before a parachute yanks them to safety like a mother. These boys look for a moment like Coyote chased off a cliff in pursuit of Roadrunner, falling to a splatter until the parachute takes hold and straightens them up, and all I see is a mother’s grip pulling a child to safety.
As we descend the trail back to the lodge, I wonder what effect seeing these National Parks will really have on our kids. I don’t think my oldest two will ever test the limits of gravity by hurling themselves into the winds of a canyon. They will carry on the spirit of Roosevelt and Muir’s vision of conservation and appreciation for nature. I can see the reverence on their faces when they look out over the Grand Canyon. One day, however, the youngest might send me a video of him on the side of a mountain gripping an edge and finding a foothold and climbing toward the sky. And there will be nothing that I can do about it except marvel at the wonder of nature.
Truly amazing! Thank you for sharing your experiences with us.