Good fortune would have it, PBS has a large library of documentary films. Even if you’ve seen one, watching it again and maybe even again can be a pleasure. For the past few Friday nights Public Broadcasting is featuring the 6 episode series of a Ken Burns Special, The National Parks. Last night was #4 spanning 1920-1933. What makes Burns’ work special is the way he tells the story, with photos and film clips from the period, overlaid with vignette narratives by famous personalities with easily recognized voices. Present day experts make cameo appearances, setting the stage for what comes next: storytelling at its best.
I loved it. No commercials, just long fades with transitions to the next part of the story. I identified with people camping at roadside with their Model T cars and improvised tents, all beneath the backdrop of Half Dome and Yosemite Valley. Film quality was poor but feel for the experience was razor keen. In 1989 when everybody in the family had a job for the summer except my 15-almost-16 daughter, we threw our bikes and sleeping bags into the truck and headed west. In Yosemite Valley we sat on the same spot where the cameraman had taken the 1930 film, staring in awe at Half Dome. Nobody camping on the side of the road in ’89 but I recognize the spot, I had been there.
Several days before that we arrived at Grand Canyon’s East Entrance. Driving west, you are near enough the rim to know exactly where it is with glimpses of wide open space but trees and terrain spoil the view. We drove past the first turnout before we knew what it was but not the next; Grandview Overlook. From the parking area you could see across to the north rim but not into the canyon itself. As we walked closer to the edge our eyes must have been big as saucers. Each step teased our senses. Imagine a darkened theater as the lights begin to come up, the orchestra starts to play and the tension builds. With perfect timing you get the full effect of music, costumes, lighting, actors and you forget to breathe. In our first unobstructed, panoramic view of the Grande, I forgot to breathe. After a very long first impression we looked each other full eye to eye. Those moments come few and far between. Be with someone you love, share an experience that is too big, too powerful to process, same place in time and communicate instinctively, without words. Sharing that link compounds the effect exponentially; a very special, particular moment I’ll never forget.
Every time I see the Grande now I get slack-jawed, it’s always awesome but you only get one, first time. In Burns’ black & white photos and film clips I recognized rock formations and river scenes. I’ve gone back to G.C. several times, more than several times. In 2015 the same daughter and I floated 8 days, down the river. The experience from the bottom looking up is even more grand than from the top. It helps that you spend a week or more sleeping on sandy beaches, breaching rapids that overflow the boat, hiking narrow ledges and slot canyons. In ‘1992, for a class at Northern Arizona University, we spent 11 days on the river from Lee’s Ferry to Lake Mead. The next spring my daughter graduated university and I promised a boat ride for her graduation present. Twenty two years later we took a big hit at Badger Creek, the first of over 80 big water rapids we would encounter. Water temp was 48 degrees. A great object lesson about keeping promises.
When the PBS special spoke of basement rocks, nearly two billion years old, the camera panned across a cliff face and the story moved on as well. But I got up from my chair and opened the curio case where I keep my treasures. From a doily on the 2nd shelf I picked up two rocks, each sized to fit easily in a closed hand. The black one, Vishnu Schist dates out a little over 1.7 billion years. The pinkish/tan one, Zoroaster Granite probably a little older than the schist. While the program shifted to another National Park, I cradled them in the palm of my hand and pommeled them like a craps-shooter with his dice. My basement rocks have their own long story and now I'm just a footnote but a footnote in a Grande story is just that, Grnade. I picked them up in a place where you are not supposed to take souvenirs. At the time, everybody had rocks in their pockets, nobody cared. I don’t think anybody cares now; they are not coming to take them back.
National Parks; America’s Best Idea. Those are Ken Burns words and I echo them. Right now, with Covis-19, enough to scare the B-Jesus out of any sane human I have begun thinking about what comes next. In the first month I worried, would I survive, couldn’t imagine anything beyond the moment and the next day. Anticipating the next year or the next adventure felt presumptuous but I’m getting over that. I need something to look forward to and I’m thinking it will include National Parks. I would like to watch the sun set again from Grand Canyon’s Desert View watchtower, to hike Point Reyes National Seashore and Muir Woods again. I’ve stalked the ghosts at Little Bighorn Battlefield and pondered Custer’s folly there and I need to go back. I’ve never been to the Dry Tortugas or Sequoia but with a little luck I may still have time. When that day comes I need a reason to be. Herding squirrels in my back yard is necessary now but there has to be more. My days of traveling alone are probably over but I’ve already begun looking for the right companion.
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