August Fireballs and Waterfalls
By Noel Laflin
June 3, 2010
By Noel Laflin
June 3, 2010
Deer Creek Falls - Grand Canyon
The
spectacular fireball roared across the hot August night. It caught me by total surprise as it flared out of the west and tore over our mountain, eastward bound. Our Friday night campfire had concluded a short time prior to this and
folks were heading back to their lodgings, as was my intent. Walking alone, my eye was suddenly drawn
skyward as this massive greenish-blue meteorite streaked above the tree line
leaving a glowing trail in its wake.Now, I have seen a lot of shooting stars in my life, but never the likes of this big boy. It was magnificent to say the least. Although silent, as it ripped the night apart, I could only imagine how it sounded upon impact – wherever the hell that was. It appeared to be so close overhead that I feared it had struck Green Valley Lake itself, a mere two miles away. It couldn’t be, I reasoned - one would have heard the explosion and felt the mountain shudder.
“Jesus!” cried an unknown staffer from the dark. “Did anyone else see that thing?” he asked, with more than just a bit of trepidation in his breaking tone.
“Yes,” I shouted in reply. “Wow!”
By then we could catch the sound of other voices coming from afar, all exclaiming similar oaths of wonder. The forest had suddenly come to life.
“I’ve got to call this in to the forestry service,” I said aloud. “That thing had to have hit our mountain.” And with that I rushed off to the night owl’s station where an outside phone line was available.
Much to my amazement and slight embarrassment, I later learned that the fireball had landed in Arizona – not even remotely close to the San Bernardino Mountains. So far away, I thought; how could this be? It was right overhead, or so it appeared. How could it land some two hundred miles from here? Well, I was both relieved and disappointed at the same time. Not that I had wanted a scene similar to the one out of Siberia back in 1908, when a great portion of the Tunguska forest was obliterated by a blazing meteorite or comet of some sort … but, I was hoping for some kind of minor excitement nonetheless.
Looking back on it I realize now that the true spectacle was in the mere witnessing of this particular space rock blazing its way across the strata and burning up in our atmosphere. Maybe it was the altitude of our mountain that gave me both the advantage and clarity of seeing this behemoth for what it may not have appeared to be in the smoggy murk below us. At any rate, I am grateful for a glimpse of something so truly colossal - something that I have been on the lookout for ever since - but have never seen again.
Six years later I found myself in Arizona. I wasn't hunting meteorite debris - rather I was in the depths of the Grand Canyon, staring up at a magnificent waterfall.
In the muggy monsoon summer of 1982
I had the privilege of rafting through the Grand via the mighty Colorado
River. It was my first, but by no means
last time to do so. It was both hot and
rainy that particular week in August. Temperatures would easily climb past a
hundred each day; thunderheads would then begin to dominate the horizon and
soon pounding rains would devour us.
Rain gear should have been in order, but it was easiest just to stay in a
pair of swim trunks as you dried out immediately after the frequent showers. It was never cool. We slept atop the sleeping bags as opposed to
inside them as the nights never dipped below the eighty degree range. Despite this, you could not beat the
adrenaline rush of just being in this ancient land.On day three of this trip our boatmen put in at Deer Creek Falls - one of just several beautiful waterfalls hidden within the canyon. The water fell from high above to the sandy beach below. It was an excellent place to shower off the layers of Colorado colored mud which had leached into our very pores. Leaving the rafts tied up at the river's edge we began the hike to the top of the falls. One had to hug the wall as the trail narrowed around a few challenging bends. As we climbed, the boats and river grew ever smaller.
But once we reached the top of the esplanade we spotted the many painted hand prints of some of the Ancient Ones adorning the opposite wall across a deep chasm. The age of those small outlined hands are not known exactly, -anywhere from five hundred years and counting by most estimates. And how those folks scaled what appeared to us a formidable height is remarkable. It was a sacred site, we were told by our boatmen and to treat it as such. We did - for it is said that when these former dwellers of the canyon died, spirit guides led the departed to seven sacred points in the canyon - this being the last stop. As they crossed the final chasm, to the side of the rocks where Deer Creek came bursting forth, they then passed on forever.
It is both a beautiful and haunted spot. I have since been back two more times over the last three decades, making the climb and viewing the hand prints of ancient daredevils who left their indelible human stamp behind. I am never at a loss for humility when there. You can feel something tugging at your very soul each time. Others have commented on the same feelings as well. I was witness, once again, to a thing I find hard to explain adequately.
But the years since have taught me to be at peace with such mysteries. I am simply grateful for the experience - whether it be on a western mountain top on a warm August night filled with sudden brilliant light or an intensely hot August day standing beside a sacred waterfall deep within one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World. Jesus, can anyone ask for more?
Someday, when my number is up, I’d like to follow a spirit guide on one last tour of the seven sacred spots within the Canyon and cross over to Deer Creek Falls. I will be looking for painted hand prints on the red rock wall and listening to the sound of rapids way below. I am sure I will be grinning from ear to ear anticipating the next great adventure - not to mention the solving of a mystery or two.
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