That's MISTER Grand Canyon to you, bitches.

Or rather, Miz.

(Although David Sedaris points out that in French, a language which bestows gender upon any noun, the Grand Canyon is, "inexplicably," male.)

The point is, once you get there, you realize that no one in the park calls it the Grand Canyon. No, it is always, "Welcome to Grand Canyon National Park," or "You will notice that, here at Grand Canyon," or "The geography of Grand Canyon," etc.

Such a humble canyon. "Let's not make a big deal out of the fact that there is only one me," she says. "Just call me Grand."

Let me tell you, it is no easy task to read seriously in temperatures exceeding one hundred degrees. The hike down was difficult, of course, and hot. But not as bad as it could have been. We had some good cloud cover and even a refreshing shower or two at the beginning. We left early, taking the steep (and infamously shade-and-water-free) South Kaibab Trail, traversing its jaw-droppingly gorgeous ridges in five hours on the nose.

We stayed for two nights at Phantom Ranch; I slept in a bunk in the women's dorm, and ranckle slept in the men's dorm. That middle day -- the "recovery day" was a day I'd planned to use journaling, perhaps writing up a draft of a blog entry. But it was just too hot. Aside from the short hike we took in the morning, you could really only (A) sit in the stream, (B) crouch in your bunk, or (C) sit in the canteen (which had fairly un-sittable cane chairs, truth be told ... my one complaint about the place. It may seem trivial to you, but believe me, when you've hiked to the bottom of Grand Canyon, sitting is very important.) None of these postures are conducive to writing much of anything. (Confession: I didn't even bring the book with me. When every ounce counts, one does not stuff Moby Dick into the backpack alongside all those liters of water.)

Day three was the hike back up. Most people ascend by way of the Bright Angel Trail. It's a few miles longer than S. Kaibab, but less steep, and with shade and water along the way. We made that trek in nine and a half hours, and let me tell you, those last two hours kicked my ever-lovin' ass every step of the way. And then that big-horned sheep came out just to mock me with a condescending look when we stopped at the last water station.

Other odd looks came from hikers coming down, who were toddling a mile or two from the rim while we made our gaspy and stinky way to the top. Their deoderant smelled nice.

So I'm home now, and doing my best to continue M.D., finish Adler, and finally make some headway on that enormous reading list for the fall. Confession the Second: I'm panicking a bit. In all honesty, I don't generally travel that much, and I overestimated my ability to read seriously during flights and car rides and such. Now I'm making myself read fifty pages of Adler a day, hoping that I can continue reading M.D., and worrying about the titles I haven't gotten to yet.

But it was worth it. It was beautiful, and I'm glad to know that I can do it.

And the whiskey sour we had at the canyon rim that night has spurred a minor obsession, for me, with trying to perfect the recipe. What's that? Five more hours until five o'clock? Damn.