The Time- traveler

The colossal abyss is hidden behind a ghoulish wall of misty snow the first time we lay our eyes on it. We are being teased by an ill- mannered cloud of white. Alas, the ghoul disappears, vaporizing into thin air, revealing a void unparalleled to any sight I had seen. My eyes are stimulated with sensation. The myriad of rock cliffs falling deep, deeper into the unknown below.The feeling of transportation to a prehistoric time leave me in a trance of grandeur.
The rim is iced with fresh snow as we enter the Grand Canyon's abyss. With every unstable step deeper, hard ice crunches, giving way to red hues of mud and eventually stabilizes to hard ochre rock. I feel a sense of fear of encountering a prehistoric animal as we continue our journey into the belly of the gorge. The distance between us and the reality on the surface seems immense. Time has taken us back to an age where beasts with scales caress jagged rocks, leaving dusty footprints the size of cars. I can almost hear the eerie warning cry of a primordial bird, echoing through the infinite stone valley. We spend two days and two nights in the abyss. Nights with only the muted light of the moon and stars to remind us that we still on earth. Days filled with sensory engagement alongside the urgent Colorado River.
We exit the abyss slowly, breathing heavily from the steep incline, leaving behind a different time, entering a new presence.We reach the iced rim as the pale sun sets behind a curtain of winter cloud.We barely have a moment to shake the red dirt off our shoes, when Time arrives.
In a blur, we find ourselves on a silver train chugging through the ceasing afternoon and into the unsure night. Fatigue overcomes and we give in to the luring darkness of sleep.
I wake to the sound of a city. A sprawling metropolis of concrete and sea. We enter the city of Angels as the west coast sun begins his lazy orbit over the dreamy city. A thick, metal snake sails down his familiar route on the freeway, hissing hoots and screeches,as his temper simmers in the heat. The hustle. The bustle. A neon sign outside a diner flashes ‘Open’,welcoming the first Californian customers with percolated coffee and processed biscuits. A nipped and tucked, bronzed and buffed blonde skates past.
Surreal, completely surreal.How did I end up with here, modern drones in my ear while mere hours earlier I had been in a prehistoric time?
Simple.
The beauty of travel is falling in the trap of the unknown, and ceasing to fight.