we stayed overnight. the horizontal logs from which the cabin was built pleased me, nestled into a sparse pine forest near the canyon’s edge. the wallpaper and air-conditioning did not please me, me who preferred the primitive — even in its inconvenience — over the facade of it. my mother and I rose before the sun, equally compelled by the lookout point halfway down the canyon — an opportunity to be inside it, which made my lungs inflate. we wandered the forest, both of us navigationally unequipped for a lack of gps, but unbothered, because we were in arizona, we were under the branches and atop their needles, we were on our way to traverse a wonder of the world, and we shared, among many things, adrenaline at uncertainty. we shortly reached the ridge, in spite of incompetence, and did not spare a moment to peer over it. the path was rocky, we were warned, so we were surprised by our velocity as we began our decent. I recall the sharp breeze which whistled through the canyon, a choral welcoming, a stinging cheek kiss. there is a photo of me, taken from behind, fourteen and gangly, wearing converse instead of running shoes, a long-sleeve crew neck and exercise tights, all black, my blonde hair tied in a ponytail that was once high on my head but now sagged near my neck, loose strands hanging about my ears. my arms were held aloft, neither of my feet touching the dirt. I was running. but she was not far behind me, perhaps a metre or two. so she was running too, my mother. I’d never seen her run before or since. we were not afraid. I don’t remember if we cried when we reached the lookout point. a couple of months later we would stand side by side under the northern lights, between snow-covered hills, next to a different rental car, and tears would be dripping down our cheeks. we share this: The Great Overwhelm. I don’t think I remember being at the lookout point at all, only the momentum. I am made of a misunderstanding; a canyon does not exist for its ridges.