Islands in the storm.
Time was I hiked the Kaibab trail with my father in the '90s. We made it a few miles in, past the first set of switchbacks and over a long plateau to where the trail wound deep into the canyon. It was spring and we hit a whiteout.
For a moment the atmosphere was like a glass of water into which someone had added a few drops of cream, the ancient and stalwart buttresses along which the Kaibab ran disappeared beneath a shroud and the brilliant facade of Arizona and juniper trees retreated to leave a shadow of itself hidden behind a pure and driven snow.
Some fifteen years later and we're back at the canyon. These massive sheets of snow and cloud flutter and flap in the canyon like drapes of heavy linen as thermals from the depths rise and punch holes in the storm.
I ran and slid down the top of the Bright Angel to see what might come my way. For a moment I paused and remembered the Kaibab and the junipers in the snow.
Existence sometimes feels as if it comes in fits and starts and time can be strangely fluid. I often wonder which moments are the islands and which are the storms.