Out West | Part 2: Grand Canyon

 We rolled into Scottsdale like desert cowboys—sunburned, slightly sleep-deprived, and proud of our dusty chariot. The RV looked like it had survived a Mad Max movie, and honestly, so did we. But after a few days of Scottsdale golf, poolside hangs, and far too much guac, we started to hear it: the road calling again.

Someone said, “What if we took the long way home?”
Another added, “Grand Canyon?”
Then someone whispered: “Roswell…”

The vote was unanimous. We were taking the scenic, slightly ridiculous, absolutely necessary route back.

We left Scottsdale with black coffees in hand and dreams of canyon sunsets. The RV wheezed a bit climbing into Northern Arizona, but she held strong. And then… the Grand Canyon.

We parked, climbed up to the edge, and everyone went quiet. That kind of silence that only comes when nature punches you in the gut—in the best way. The sun dipped low, painting the canyon in reds, oranges, and gold. We sat on the edge like movie characters, legs dangling, talking about how small we felt and how big the world suddenly seemed.

When we first looked deep down into the heart of the Earth, our eyes could not comprehend what we were looking at. The shear magnitude of how small we all are in comparison to what lies beyond our thought is overwhelming. I do not know how to describe what the Grand Canyon looks like other than you’re not going believe it when you see it.