JOSEMARIA TOSCANO / SHUTTERSTOCK.COM
ambitious men often put their lives at risk for the photos they took. As I pointed to the shack, the striking turquoise and lapis lazuli banded in silver that adorned my left index finger caught my eye. In part, because it was newly purchased from the Hopi House’s impressive Native American jewelry selection. I will never meet the Navajo woman who made my ring, but I could feel her presence within it. I looked across the mesas that stretched for miles on end before me, and I knew that for 10,000 years, members of Navajo, Havasupai, Hopi, Zuni and other indigenous tribes have stood there before me. There is a beauty in making history. Seeing More Than Red Red dirt, red rocks, red dusted shoes. If states had a national color, this cinnabar shade would be Arizona’s. The canyons are composed of this rusted color, but the layers of rock between their crevices take on chameleon qualities based on the time of day. Sulfuric yellows and algae-tinted greens cast their hues in the morning hours, but the canyon that has inspired paintings for so many years is best viewed at sunset.
We took a bus tour that lasted for three hours, delivered us to the major points along the South Rim and ended at what was promised to be the best sunset-watching vantage anywhere along the canyon. The sun was making its initial descent as we took to the top of the Desert View Watchtower. The valley below was surprisingly lush for an otherwise barren landscape. Knowing my childhood affinity for “The Lion King,” my grandmother whispered to me, “It looks just like the Pride Lands.” She wasn’t wrong. We boarded the bus in pursuit of our final destination. I began to fret a little, as the sun slipped further away, thinking we wouldn’t reach our spot in time to see the grandeur of the setting sun. As if sensing our anticipation, the driver accelerated, and we arrived with 15 minutes to enjoy. Rusted red sunk into deep crimson, brushstrokes of purple and creases of cobalt burst through. The sun, a brilliant yellow, mimicked the colors of the canyon as it set: red to purple to blue to black. My sister, my mother, my grandmother … we didn’t speak. Instead, we held each other. TM TALL AHASSEEMAGA ZINE.COM
March–April 2017
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