Karma on the Canyon Rim: Goodness at Grand Canyon
We arrived at the Grand Canyon through the eastern Desert View entrance—quiet, calm, and exactly the kind of welcome we needed after a couple hours on the road. It was a much appreciated slow start compared to the traffic and crowds we would encounter the next day at the busy southern entrance. Here, the canyon greeted us slowly, with wide-open views and a soft wind brushing the cliff tops.
Our first hike took us east from the Visitor Center, along a quiet stretch of the rim. No buses, no lines—just our family, Poky, and that endless view. The kids wandered from overlook to overlook, marveling at the vastness below, and we ensured they stayed on the trail. Poky led the charge with his nose to the ground, tail wagging as he sniffed every bush along the trail. It was peaceful. We didn’t know it yet, but that day would leave us with more than just canyon memories.
In a restroom at the end of the first hike, we unknowingly left behind our brand new Insta360 camera. We didn’t realize until hours later—after dinner, after bedtime routines in the off-grid house we’d rented just south of the park. The realization hit like a pit in our stomach. That camera held so many memories from our journey. There were no guarantees in a place like this—no street address, no “lost and found” button to click.
The next morning, we returned to the Visitor Center with hope but not much expectation. And then—there it was. Someone had not only picked up the camera and brought it in but also left a kind little video saying they’d found it and returned it. No name. No expectations. Just a simple, generous act from a stranger who expected nothing in return.
We took that energy with us as we hiked the Trail of Time, the 2.5-mile walk between the Visitor Center and the Village. It’s more than a trail—it’s a journey through Earth’s deep past. Each step marked a million years, and the kids soaked it up. Adeline spent the walk piecing together whether the dinosaurs or the last ice age came first, while James lovingly kissed nearly every rock that signified a different layer in the Grand Canyon’s geological layercake. Poky trotted proudly alongside, catching the scent of elk on the wind—and sure enough, we spotted a few just off the path.
By the time we reached the Village, the kids were spent. After buying them ice cream cones, I turned and ran the 2.5 miles back to the Visitor Center, Poky joyfully sprinting beside me. I was grateful for the chance to help out, to give the kids a break—and to sneak in a little workout on the canyon rim. Poky was just thrilled for another lap and to sniff the elk.
There was a symmetry to it all. In Death Valley, we’d tried to help a stranger with a dead car battery—offering a jump, and when that failed, finding a ranger to assist. At the Grand Canyon, a stranger helped us—returning something that mattered, without expecting anything in return.
It’s easy to think the world is full of noise and division. But sometimes, at the edge of something vast, you find a quiet reminder that people are still good. And that kindness, like the canyon, runs deep.
