beneath the stars

Lessons from the Grand Canyon

Every year I choose a bucket list hike or backpacking trip to cross off my list. It has allowed me to see some magnificent sights: the view of the Yosemite Valley from the top of Half Dome, the colorful arches of the Utah desert, the snow covered peaks of the Sierra Nevadas from the summit of Mt. Whitney. Every hike is special and every mountain teaches me something (more on that here).

In a particularly memorable trip in the summer of 2022, I spent four days backpacking the Grand Canyon. To set the stage, it was the hottest week of the year. So hot, in fact, that two days before we were set to embark, the park rangers issued an emergency warning and strongly advised hikers to stay out of the canyon.

I was signed up in a group with six others, and we were all looped into an email chain by our backpacking guide to vote on whether we wanted to cancel or postpone the trip. The decision was unanimous: bring on the heat.

We met for the first time the morning before heading into the Canyon in the Visitor Center parking lot. There, we divided up the group gear and food and set some ground rules. Because it was so hot, it was decided we would not bring our tents. Instead, we would “cowboy camp” under the stars, with nothing but sleeping bags (though even those were too hot to sleep in). I glanced around at the expressions on everyone’s faces to see if anyone was as nervous about this as I was. I’d never slept without a tent, and to be honest, sometimes even with a tent I was a little uneasy.

We loaded our packs and set out to descend the 11 miles to the Canyon floor, moving slowly and taking several water breaks while the sun beat down on us. Naturally, I became hyper-fixated on reapplying sunscreen, fearing that the copious amount of sweat dripping down my body was melting it off my skin. It was a welcome distraction, one that helped me ignore the ache building in my knees.

When we finally reached our stopping point for the day, we were delighted to have reached the river where we were able to cool off and bathe before setting up camp on the sandy beach. We dispersed ourselves across the beach so as to not disturb our neighbor with the rustling, swishing sound of our sleeping bags while we slept.

Exhausted after the day’s travels, I figured I’d knock out quickly. As darkness settled over us, I apprehensively prepared for bed, lying on my sleeping bag and trying not to think about the critters that might lurk nearby. Soon, the darkness grew so thick that I could hardly see beyond a few feet. The stars were the only thing that felt close, and I looked to them for comfort as I tried uncomfortably to fall asleep.

Without warning, the environment around me began to shift— the wind picked up steadily and the sound of the river intensified. I could feel sprinkles of water coming off it due to the forcefulness of how it began to move. Sand whipped all around me, like tiny needles stinging my skin. It smacked me in the face. I could feel it getting into my mouth, my eyes, my ears—everywhere. I had nothing to protect me from it, but still I made futile attempts to shield myself. Alarm growing, I sat up and looked around me to see if the others were concerned or if we were in danger of getting caught in a storm, but it was too dark to see anyone.

I sat there for what felt like hours, defenseless and exposed, trying not to focus on how miserable the experience was. The sand kept stinging my skin, and the wind howled in my ears, drowning out any sense of calm. I focused on my breathing, willing the panic to stay at bay, but with each gust of wind and each crashing wave of the river, my heart quickened. I hoped whatever was happening would pass quickly, but it only seemed to intensify, as did my unease. After a while, sitting there in the darkness, a new feeling crept over me.

I felt so completely alone. All the other hikers had come in pairs: a father and son, an engaged couple, and a pair of friends. They could turn to each other and be comforted by one another’s presence, but I was alone. Alone and afraid. I wanted to call out and ask if anyone else was feeling afraid too, but my pride stopped me. Though I’m not sure they would have even heard me over the roaring river and whipping wind.

Slow, soft tears trickled down my cheek. It wasn’t that I was feeling sorry for myself or that I thought I was going to die (although I wasn’t completely convinced I wasn’t). I was simply overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment—the experience of having such a raw, human feeling that I wanted to share. I longed for someone to sit next to me, to hold my hand, so we could wait for the storm to pass together.

It was in that quiet solitude, with only the storm as my companion, that I came to understand loneliness in a new dimension. Loneliness isn't just the absence of people—it's the terrifying realization that, in some moments, no one can truly share the weight of your experience.

Instead of fighting what I was feeling, I laid back down and let the tears fall, allowing the emotion to pass through me like a wave. The dancing sand clung to my wet, sticky face, but I let it. I stopped trying to shield myself from the elements. As if on cue, the chaos around me began to subside, and soon enough, it was all over. It was quiet. I think I eventually even fell asleep for a while before the sun rose and light illuminated the beach. Slowly, the shapes and faces of the other members of the group came into focus again. In the darkness they felt so far away, but in reality, they were right there the whole time.

We all smiled and laughed, discussing the craziness of last night while we tried to de-sand ourselves and our belongings. And I learned I wasn’t the only one who was afraid, which was a comforting realization. Our guide admitted that it was one of the worst nights he had experienced in his 80+ trips into the Canyon.

We packed up our belongings and headed out for the remainder of our adventure, which was met with much more pleasant conditions. We all made it out of the Canyon alive, and there were many more lessons to be learned along the way. But for some reason, I always come back to that first night. It’s so vivid that if I think about it hard enough and close my eyes, I can almost feel it all again.

In writing it now, I realize that this night, and the way it shaped me, will always be a part of me. It was the moment when I truly encountered the rawness of nature and the depth of my own vulnerability.

I learned that it’s okay to feel small, to feel afraid, and that sometimes, the most profound experiences are born out of moments of discomfort and isolation. It was in the dark, in the midst of the storm, that I found a deeper understanding of myself—and of what it truly means to be human. And though the world around us may feel overwhelming at times, in our shared humanity, we are never truly alone.

“One day, the mountain that is in front of you will be so far behind you, it will barely be visible in the distance. But the person you become in learning to get over it? That will stay with you forever. And that’s the point of the mountain.”

-Brianna Wiest

walk boldly,

Caroline