An Ordinary Odyssey

The following is a poem I wrote about the Dragon Bravo Fire at Grand Canyon National Park. I was hesitant about sharing this in any capacity for multiple reasons. I’m new to writing poetry and have never shared my work before, even to friends! And having never even stepped foot on the north rim, it feels like it isn’t my place to write about. That’s for those whose lives are grounded in that place.

But, that’s the whole point of what I wrote. I think grief comes in many forms, and all forms are valid. It can’t be compared or measured. Grief for something that never was, that you never had in the first place…it’s confusing and not acknowledged enough. So I wrote down my feelings in the hope it may resonate with someone else and help put words to your feelings as well.

Some context: I first saw the Grand Canyon in 2022. I’ve included the picture at the top that is referenced at the beginning of the poem. I was with non-hiking friends so I have yet to even dip a toe beneath the rim! But I began training last October for a multi-day backpacking experience. I’ve lost multiple lotteries for backcountry permits and had not been able to snag a spot as a runner-up. I live in Wisconsin with a full-time nonprofit job, so can’t be very flexible. I had just won for November and my slot for booking was Monday morning—the day after we learned we lost the north rim. I’ve tempered my plans, but still booked something in hope for the future.

Grief for the Canyon, and Love Without A Home
by Christine Noelle

I never stood on the North Rim —
but I saw it once.
Across the great silence
while standing on the South.
A photo caught me mid-thought,
gazing toward what might be.
Already, I was imagining
the toil of the crossing.
Could that be me?

I never touched the stone walls of the lodge —
though I trained for the trail
that would lead me there.
Months of planning.
Early mornings.
Long days. 
And late nights.
Legs grown strong,
and a mind full of calculations.
Was I ready?

I never walked the silence of the North —
where the crowds thin,
and the world falls away
below the edge.
With fellow hikers,
sitting quietly on the patio,
bodies spent,
souls cracked open by the climb.
What does the silence sound like,
when you’ve earned it?

I never stood among the pines —
the cliff-clinging,
wind-battered kind.
Rooted in red rock,
green against the canyon rust.
Holding fast in thin soil,
at the edge of everything.
Why did I think they’d always be there?

Still —
I grieve.

I trained for this —
for miles and months,
endless stairs and endless hours.
Stacks of books lining my floors.
Lotteries lost.
A thousand searches in my history.
I learned the trail names,
the elevation gains,
the drinking water stops.
Like old prayers.
Isn’t that a kind of devotion?

I knew this place would be different —
quieter, older.
A throwback to glory days,
and simpler times.
To arrive not just at,
but through.

Now —
ash and stone
and broken hearts.
Don’t tell me I mourn too much.
Don’t ask for proof.
An Instagram reel.
A selfie at the edge.
A receipt from the gift shop.
Is longing not enough?

I think we carry some places within —
not just in imagination
but deep in heart and mind,
where focus and longing
weave them into who we are.
That loss lives in my chest,
as if juniper roots
had wound through my ribs,
quiet and unseen.
What else is grief?
Is it not just love without a home?

Is it foolish?
To love a place I never touched?

No.

The Earth does not require
our presence in a place,
to claim us as Her own.
We carry these places
in the ache of dreams.
In the wild parts of us
that always remember:
we belong to Her,
and She to us.