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. And when the tall, thin man’s gaze switched from my face to that of my sister, Jude, who was mounted nearby on a shorter mule called Trinity, one of his eyes moved smoothly to the right, while the other one waited momentarily and then clicked over, as though it were attached by a small, invisible rubber band that first needed to be taut before the dallying eye could follow suit.

Author Bio