单选题
It snowed furiously the night before I stepped over the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. It was mid-May, so the snow was wet and not dry enough to stick. But the moisture stained the soft soil at the trailhead a dove gray and spiced the air with the scent of ponderosa pine. The trail I was following, the New Hance, didn"t dawdle but marched directly to the canyon"s edge, took a sharp turn, then plunged straight downhill, a no-nonsense approach to reaching its destination: the bottom of the canyon and the banks of the Colorado River nearly a vertical mile below.
It may seem implausible to the more than four million of us who come each year to marvel at the Grand Canyon, but this magnificent and seemingly uninhabitable geology, exalted since 1919 as a national park, was indeed once a home. For at least 10,000 years people lived, loved, traded, even farmed in the canyon"s depths. They marked it with names, wove its temple-like peaks and bluffs into their lore, and breathed their spirits into every spring, every marbled cliff and large rocks. And then, a mere century ago, newcomers to the canyon, overcome by its beauty, decided that no human habitation was ever again to mar the canyon park. Landforms that carded a name, a spirit of the past, were named anew.
Above us castle-like bluffs and terraces of rainbow-hued soils rose to the sky like a geological cathedral. We were dwarfs on a desert beach—but dwarfs with a princely flood of water at our feet. So we flung off our packs, dropped our trekking poles, and, surely like those first people to reach the river"s edge, plunged into the cool waters that had carved this canyon, the grandest canyon on Earth.
Native people are, in fact, still farming in the Grand Canyon, if not in the park itself. In Havasu Canyon, a narrow side spur, the Havasupai, or Havasu "Baaja—"people of the blue-green water"—end fields where they"ve lived for at least 700 years. About 450 of the tribe"s 650 members live here in the village of Supai. There are no roads or cars, so almost everyone takes the eight-mile trail in by foot, horse, or mule.
The trail switch backed down the rim in long, steep turns, then merged gently into Havasu Canyon. Watahomigie, a slim-faced local fellow, pulled up his horse and pointed far up the canyon, among the pi