The whole noble picture, calmly glowing, was
framed in thick gray gloom, which soon closed over it; and the storm went
on, opening and closing until night covered all.
Two days later, when we were on a jutting point about eighteen miles east
of Bright Angel and one thousand feet higher, we enjoyed another storm of
equal glory as to cloud effects, though only a few inches of snow fell.
Before the storm began we had a magnificent view of this grander upper
part of the canon and also of the Cocanini Forest and Painted Desert.
The march of the clouds with their storm-banners flying over this sublime
landscape was unspeakably glorious, and so also was the breaking up of
the storm next morning--the mingling of silver-capped rock, sunshine,
and cloud.
Most tourists make out to be in a hurry even here; therefore their few
days or hours would be best spent on the promontories nearest the hotel.
Yet a surprising number go down the Bright Angel trail to the brink of
the inner gloomy granite gorge overlooking the river. Deep canons attract
like high mountains; the deeper they are, the more surely are we drawn
into them. On foot, of course, there is no danger whatever, and, with
ordinary precautions, but little on animals. In comfortable tourist faith,
unthinking, unfearing, down go men, women, and children on whatever is
offered, horse, mule, or burro, as if saying with Jean Paul, "fear nothing
but fear"--not without reason, for these canon trails down the stairways
of the gods are less dangerous than they seem, less dangerous than home
stairs.
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