In 2019, I visited five national parks in six days on my “Bipolar Express” tour of the American Southwest. On day four, I made a stop at the Grand Canyon—a stop I’d write about later in my book, Love Songs and Suicide: A Travel Memoir, Romance, and Tragic Musical Comedy.

I mention my friend, Louise, a cook at the hospital where I worked as a security guard, in the excerpt you’re about to read. That should be all the context you need. In chapter 27 of my book, featured below, I talk about travel as a potential remedy for depression, among other things.

The Bipolar Express: Day Four

The Grand Canyon

I got an early start on day four, my one and only early start of the trip. With over ten hours of driving planned, plus a scheduled stop at the Grand Canyon, I had no choice in the matter and set out on my 664-mile journey around 8 a.m.

On the curvy road leading to the Grand Canyon’s South Rim, I made one immensely stupid maneuver that could’ve easily killed me, passing a slow-moving truck near the top of a hill. If someone had come flying down that hill as I passed the truck, I would’ve almost certainly died in a head-on collision. But I survived. And for the first time since that ferry ride with my friend Louise, I felt blessed and grateful—happy to be alive.

In my thirty-four years, I’d never seen the Grand Canyon in person, but I’d heard favorable reviews. While researching the park, I learned it had a 99 percent “Fresh” rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

I had made it as far as the Grand Canyon’s South Rim entrance once before, back in the summer of 2007. Just before dusk, I recall having a conversation with a park ranger.

“Hello,” the ranger said, with an oversized and phony smile. “That’ll be twenty-five dollars.” I was grumpy and disliked everything about him: his shrill voice, ridiculous hat, and air of pomposity. The price of admission offended me too.

“Twenty-five dollars? You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I complained. “That’s highway robbery.”

“Take it up with your congressman,” he suggested.

I paused for a moment and imagined the ranger’s silhouetted figure plummeting backwards into the canyon, his screams echoing through the empty space and slowly decreasing in volume.

“Will I even be able to see anything?” I eventually asked.

“It’s almost dark now. You won’t see much.”

I saved my money and turned around, not inclined to spend twenty-five dollars on a self-guided star-gazing excursion. In my daydream, the canyon floor opened and the ranger continued his head-first descent into hell while Tom Petty, flanked by George Harrison and Jesus, performed a gorgeous acoustic rendition of “Free Fallin’” from heaven on a mystical TV monitor in the sky.

* * *

Twelve years later, I used my all-inclusive “America the Beautiful” National Parks and Federal Recreational Lands Pass at the same gate and then stopped at the park’s first viewpoint, fittingly called Desert View. It was a hazy day, but that didn’t detract from my experience.

Five to six million years ago, the Colorado River carved the Grand Canyon. It’s larger than the state of Rhode Island—277 miles long and up to 18 miles wide. Elevations within the canyon vary from around two thousand feet at the bottom to nearly nine thousand feet at its highest point.

The painted desert’s reds and pinks were even more striking to me than the color combinations I’d observed in Utah. Green offspring, born with immeasurable privilege, sprouted from ancient beds of gold and yellow sand. A half-mile beneath me, decorative coats of purple splashed over the mudstone and sedimentary rock.

I spent as much time looking down at the Colorado River, slithering its way through the still and mighty abyss, as I did admiring the canyon. The river’s energy was faint but fierce and palpable from where I stood.

Blue was still my favorite color, followed by red, then gray—menacing gray, like the unforgettable sky I’d hiked under at Capitol Reef National Park. Green didn’t crack the top three. And there at the Grand Canyon, I realized I’d chosen the wrong state to call home for twenty years. It was time for me to say “so long” to Washington.

The Grand Canyon has over a dozen lookout points along its main drive. At Navajo Point, I met a cool older couple named Skip and Randi. Skip was an avid photographer. We talked about the photography conditions, previous stops on our journeys, and locations of origin. They were from New Jersey. We all began and would end our trips in Vegas.

I took their picture; they took mine and then we went our separate ways.

Five minutes later, I saw them again at the next viewpoint. While Randi explored the area, Skip and I continued chatting about the canyon, national parks in general, and careers. He said he was an engineer in a past life.

“You’re retired now then?” I asked.

“I am retarded,” he confirmed.

And yes, that is actually what he said.

When I ran into my favorite retirees from Jersey for the third time that morning, we exchanged pleasantries and commented on our shared sense of déjà vu. Then Skip pointed to a location where he could get a “perfect shot” of me. It was about fifty yards from where we stood. To get there, I’d have to climb down some boulders and onto a narrow ledge.

It seemed to me that Skip’s proposition was tantamount to what my schoolyard chums in the mid-90s would have called a “double-dog dare.” Naturally, I accepted his challenge.

A dozen or so Asian tourists observed the proceedings, creating a spectacle. It was an easy fifteen-foot climb, but the ledge below was only about twenty feet wide and technically off limits to visitors. If a ranger had spotted me, I probably would’ve been kicked out of the park for my irresponsible behavior.

At Angel’s Landing I’d navigated dicier terrain, and I was never in danger at any point on this mini-hike. But it was ill-advised and I wouldn’t do it again. I’ve since realized that it’s okay to say no to double-dog dares, especially if that double-dog dare involves a cliff or the Grand Fucking Canyon.

I reached the “perfect spot” Skip had alluded to in his instructions. From fifty yards away, he and Randi both took photos of me as I struck a variety of poses. The tourists—my audience—marveled at my bravery and stupidity while chronicling the event on their camera phones.

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche once said, “When you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” On the million-year-old rock, I was energized rather than perturbed as I pondered my own insignificance and stared down into the world’s most breathtaking abyss.

I don’t know if there’s a meaning to life or not. Probably not.

But life certainly feels meaningful when you’re standing on the shoulders of a geological giant and tangible miracle, like the Grand Canyon.

I gave a thumbs-up signal to my new friends from New Jersey, indicating the end of our session. One tourist advised me to be careful as I climbed to safety, which was thoughtful of him.

In the parking lot, I reviewed Skip and Randi’s collection of photos. They got some incredible shots, many of which also featured my fans, the tourists, observing and documenting me from the grandstands.

After he completed his portion of the slideshow, Skip told me he was joking. He didn’t think I’d be stupid enough to accept his double-dog dare, cross the park’s unofficial boundary line, climb down the boulders, and stand on the ledge of a cliff.

Guess I showed him, huh?

We both laughed, shook hands, and said our goodbyes. They texted me a best-of photo compilation later that day. My canyon visit lasted less than two hours. It was, without question, the most significant pit stop I’ve made in my lifetime.

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