Much to do About Thirty

My husband and I, sandwiched between a middle-aged Russian couple and a trio of Japanese exchange students, fidget in our seats and exchange glances as an argument rages next to us. An overzealous traveler in our group has jumped the gun and dropped the metal ladder from our truck with a resounding clang. The tour guide is not happy, and she isn’t shy about voicing her opinion.

I can’t blame the traveler for taking initiative. We have just arrived at the mouth of Upper Antelope Canyon, the destination that we woke up at dawn to see, and a destination on many travelers’ must-visit lists in the American Southwest, including mine.

Cheryl, our tour guide, eventually cools down about the ladder mishap and gathers us together, explaining some rules before entering Upper Antelope Canyon. Stay together. Don’t carve “Smith wuz here” on the walls. Avoid flash photography if you want decent photos.

Within ten steps inside, I’m taking photos, swivelling left and right, moving sideways and backwards. There’s so much to take in!

Cheryl, used to bobbleheaded tourists, ushers the group along, pointing out rock formations and silhouettes aptly named “the bear,” “Abraham Lincoln,” “the heart,” and “the candlestick”. I hear hushed whispers of oohing and aahing, and it’s really a remarkable sight. Cheryl positions us at the “prime” photography spots, angling cameras in our hands for us to get the shot before motioning the next visitor forward. Those hoping to score serene shots of an empty canyon won’t have any luck on this tour as we’re whipped from one spot to the next.

As we get deeper in, my sleeves unroll. The air becomes still and cool. It gets too dim for my dinky cell phone camera to get good photos. It doesn’t matter because I’m too busy looking around in wonder and avoiding jutting rocks. The only light source comes from above, lending a purple-orange glow to the walls. It’s a sight that photos can’t do justice.

As we emerge from the entrance/exit, the day has warmed up considerably, and I have to squint in the light. I peel down to my T-shirt, slip my sunglasses on and enjoy the ride back to Page, savouring the refreshing wind in my hair and fresh memories of one of the coolest places I’ve seen. Cheryl the tour guide might see Antelope Canyon so frequently that its magic is commonplace. But I didn’t come for the guide anyway.