The Anomaly(7)

“They paying much?”

“Almost nothing. But that’s—”

“—not the point. I know, mate. Congrats. Great boost for the show, too. Blimey. So I guess we’d better try to find this bloody cavern, then, eh?”

“Can’t do any harm.”

We clinked paper cups and stood in companionable silence, sipping very average coffee and watching the sky start to bloom as we waited for the others to arrive.



Molly had somehow organized a humongous thermos of much better coffee to warm up the cold, sleepy faces inside the SUV—and there’s a good atmosphere at the beginning of one of these things, when it all seems possible and exciting, the tiredness and bad temper haven’t yet set in, and you haven’t started to really quite hate each other. Ken spared us the prog rock and there was joking and laughter along the highway, early-morning sun slanting through the windows. Feather proved good at going with the flow. Gemma seemed distant, though as her hair was still shower-wet it’s possible she wasn’t awake enough yet to participate. Or else this was her Observing Journalist face.

Eventually we turned off the main road and went rattling along a dusty track between twisted trees, following instructions from Molly and her trusty GPS unit. We were going to need it. Partly to navigate the very precise requirements of the planned route—which, though I’d admittedly borrowed freely from online sources, genuinely did involve original thinking from me—but also because when we were down in the canyon itself, the phone signal would be weak at best, nonexistent most of the time. And no data coverage at all, thankfully, which meant Ken couldn’t make me do one of the excruciating “live” updates that I was confident were watched by three people and a cat.

Half an hour of desert later, the road abruptly came to an end and Ken parked in a cleared area that evidently passed as a lot. Pierre jumped out of the SUV first, camera on shoulder. Molly followed with the boom mike. I shoved my hands through my hair, waited until Molly nodded, and opened my door.

I stepped down and took a slow look around, then started walking across the scrubby plain in the direction of the canyon, doing my best to appear thoughtful and committed, picking my intrepid way through gnarled clumps of low juniper, pinyon, and cottonwood trees. Pierre and Molly kept tracking while I got closer to the canyon—Ken holding Feather and Gemma back out of shot.

When the canyon revealed itself properly I found myself slowing down, losing awareness of my job in front of the camera, genuinely taken aback by what I was seeing.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’re told that nothing will prepare you for your first look at the Grand Canyon; the fact is nothing will prepare you for your first look at the Grand Canyon. It takes all the superlatives you’ve encountered before—words like “vast,” “inconceivable,” and “mind-blowing,” and drains all the color from them.

It seems to stretch forever. The riot of reds and oranges and ochres in the rock walls is almost beyond credibility. The drop to the river defies comprehension, too, like an optical illusion, or something discovered on a distant planet where they built everything on a more expansive scale, under the direction of gods with a bigger budget.

I reached for an appropriate response, something stirring enough to capture the emotional resonance of the moment. I walked to the edge, stared out across the landscape, and—after a long, pregnant pause—said:

“Huh.”

“Christ,” Ken muttered. He waved to Pierre to stop filming. “Moll, let’s feed Nolan a lot more coffee and a cigarette…and then we’ll try that again, shall we?”



The second take was fine. Centered by doses of my two key food groups, I stood in silence for a moment and then started to talk, gazing out at the astonishing landscape beyond.

“They say nothing prepares you for your first glimpse of the Grand Canyon,” I said with a wry smile. “And it’s true. Mankind may build towers to the sky and circuits too small for the naked eye, but only Mother Nature has the ability to truly take your breath away. I’ll give you a moment to let her do that.”

I stepped to the side. Pierre had the sense to stay on the view for a few seconds and then pan slowly to my new position, by which time I was facing him in to-camera presenter mode.

“I’m sure you’ll agree it’s not surprising so many stories have grown up around this extraordinary place,” I went on. “When mankind is faced with something wondrous, we have a tendency to reach for the stars—for the gods. As we embark upon our expedition, it’s important to guard against that. We have plenty of secrets of our own, and we’re going to look for one of them now. Come along with us…and let’s see what we find.”

I left a beat, then turned and walked along the rim of the canyon with the blithe and confident air of someone who had the faintest idea of where he was going.

“It’ll do,” Ken said. “Log it, Pierre. And now let’s go look at this trail.”



Having been born and bred in California I could hardly have avoided hiking. But though I am a native there and to the manner grudgingly reconciled, I’ve always favored hiking in the sense of a “nontaxing wander through some pretty woods.” It was quickly obvious that getting down to the river from the rim of the canyon would involve hiking of a wholly different stripe.