... A huge gliding condor, an endangered breed here, circled closer and closer, eyeing our lunch. Word spread: Do not feed the condors. That goes for all wildlife in a national park. It dulls their survival skills, and it can make them ill. The bird swooped in and landed dramatically on the railing a few feet away, just to give us a look at his plumage and his eightfoot wing span. The slanting sun offered an ever-changing mood of color on the tall rocks. The cliffs, nevertheless, were lethal. A guide said two careless day hikers had slipped and died not so far from here a few days before. (During a weekend presentation, a park ranger said that, of four million Grand Canyon visitors each year, about five people die, most from cardiac arrest during too-strenuous hiking.) It was time to unhitch and head back. We stopped often, without dismounting, to let the mules rest a bit on the arduous way up. The trail turns are so sharp that we came, without warning, upon a family of deer almost at arms length. They didnt shy away. The guide, familiar with our citified, barely adequate ways of mule-riding, good-naturedly berated each of us in the tradition of joshing humiliation that animates these old-fashioned western outings. But the beauty of the scenery shriveled whatever embarrassment there might be. We all knew, without needing to say, that we were in a sweet spot of the world, having braved weather and doubt to find our way here. It was a detoxifying day, a stretch of emotional repair work, time out from bad news and traffic jams and tiny metallic gadgetry (no one dared bring a cell phone) of 21st century routine. Rumbling along on a mule, exhausted by the rugged days ride, grateful for the mules uncomplaining competence, you ponder the importance of facing the unknown to stretch your sense of confidence and identity. (Canyon hiker-author Colin Fletcher once wrote: “It is worth remembering, I think, that some element of fear probably lies at the root of every substantial challenge.”) It was about 3:30 p.m. when we returned to the corral. The air was thick with sore-legged accomplishment. The guides, all smiles now, handed us little rolled-up certificates, which proclaimed completion of our memorable adventure and declared each of us worthy members of the “Order of the Master Mule Skinners of the Grand Canyon Trails, with rights and privileges to boast of this accomplished feat forevermore.” Worn out, we were advised not to schedule a nap just yet but a good long walk instead to shake out the stiffness. We would feel better for it in the morning. So my bride and I walked a mile along the South Rim, a cold afternoon in the wind, before bidding farewell to the mules and the canyon, then drove to a Flagstaff bed and breakfast. The post-mule constitutional must have worked. We awoke the next morning to discover we had slept 11 hours.