When I first spotted the eyes of the man who would initiate me into the dark realm of death in less than six hours, I was more uneasy than suspicious. Seated uncomfortably atop a husky mule named Zanzibar, I fidgeted in the wide, awkward, adult saddle, much to the chagrin of Luke, the five foot six Head Wrangler - a man of short stature but tall temperament - as he roughly adjusted the length of my stirrups. Papa, Mama, Jude, and I - along with five other tenderfoots - were perched on the threshold of descent into the Grand Canyon from the South Rim near Bright Angel Lodge. At first, I was too antsy, too preoccupied, to make anything significant of that odd pair of eyes that stared at me from the other side of the corral fence: Strange eyes that seemed like they had been created to look like human eyes, but whose creator hadn’t quite gotten it right.

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