burning deserts of drifting sand, great mucky swamps, lava flows hundreds of feet high-now only parts of the multi-colored majesty of the Grand Canyon. Trail signs described each succeeding age as I went backward through geologic history. I said the names over and over, trying to remember them all: Devonian, Silurian, Ordovician, Cambrian-the list got longer and longer.

About ten o'clock, I saw the gash in the cliffwall opposite from which Roaring Springs leaps forth. My parents and I had hiked this far years before, stopped to eat our lunch, and then hiked back up to the top. The water gushing from an apparently dry, barren cliff face reminded me of the rock Moses must have faced when he had to produce water for the Israelites in the Wilderness. This outpouring of blue-green water would have done him proud, enough for a hundred bands of Hebrews. Without dropping down the side trail to the park below the springs, I took a long pull on my canteen, stripped off my jacket, and went on around the corner where the trail seemed to hang in empty space as it hugged the cliff and began a new plunge down, down, down.

The sun wasn't really hot until I had reached the base of those black cliffs. The trail signs said I was down among the remains of the Archaeozoic Age now. Except for two or three tiny figures at the base of Roaring Springs. I had seen no other human being all morning. It was high noon and the blistering trail wound leisurely among boulders and over sanddunes in the flat canyon floor. Once in a while, it followed Bright Angel Creek and I could enjoy the cool shade of cottonwoods. Twice, when the trail forded the creek, I took off my boots and waded across. My rebellious feet, unaccustomed to such a workout, had unkinked and relaxed. Shortly beyond the second fording, the trail came to a large grove of trees, protecting both a small clapboard cabin and beyond, a cluster of picnic tables. A big chestnut horse, tied to the hitching bar, was stamping his hooves and flicking his tail to keep some bluebottle flies from bothering him. Noting the National Park Service sign out front, I wondered why anyone had to be stationed in such a lonely spot. Walking over to the picnic tables, I gratefully dropped my pack and began to dig out lunch. It was a pretty good trail lunch, if I do say so: tomatoes, cucumbers, cheese and pickle sandwiches, cookies, a chocolate bareverything but the orange juice. Dammit! I remembered now. It was probably still leaning against the tent where I had set it last night-on top. Though my canteen was dry, there wasn't any real danger since Phantom was only seven or eight level miles beyond and I was sure the water of Bright Angel Creek would not hurt me if I got really thirsty. But, thinking that the ranger might have some good water to spare, I walked back, canteen in hand, and rapped on the screen porch door. There was a saddle hanging on the wall and two or three old saddle blankets were flung about on the adobe. Though the trees dispelled some of the sun's power, it was still oppressively hot. I took off the batwing stetson I wore for protection from the sun and fanned my face with it. No answer. Finding the screen door open, I walked across the porch and rapped harder on the main door. "Anybody home?" I hollered. I was sure I heard a noise this time and what sounded like a muffled curse. Probably napping, I thought to myself. Thinks there's a fool tourist out here with the usual sort of question: "Ranger, is there any danger from mountain lions?" Feeling sympathetic, I slung the empty canteen over my shoulder and took off, back through the trees. And yet I was sure another board cracked inside the cabin and the prickly feeling at the nape of my neck told me someone was watching my departure. Fighting the impulse to turn around, I put on the knapsack and told my legs to get busy, right, left, right left. The trail was dropping down into the Lower Sonoran zone now, a botanical

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