Open sky, more than any other bit of nature I have encountered, gives the feeling of complete connectedness to every other part of the earth. And maybe the vast expanses of sky across the broad plains of desert and ocean are partly what draw me to both places with equal amounts of fervour. But at the root of these feelings is my fundamental need for the beauty of space. This space I write about here is, in my mind, completely and absolutely necessary to even begin to see, feel, hear, and experience the rest of the natural world that lies just beyond our fingertips.
The desert and the ocean are surprisingly similar when you begin to consider the general symbolic representations and stereotypes of the desert and the ocean. Both, from a surface level, are relatively bare, devoid of much other than brilliant colour. It’s only once you start to peel away the external layers of dust and foam that the wondrous discoveries begin to shine out like gems tucked away in undiscovered corners of the earth.
Take, for instance, the Grand Canyon. From a distance far enough away, one of the great natural wonders of the world might just look like a bunch of rocks in fancy formations. But edge closer to the ledge of this magnificent structural cathedral of rock and you will see what is indeed a grand whole, spectacular in that wholeness. That rock is actually striations of multiple rock types. Those rock types include quartz, calcite, clay, gypsum, dolomite, hematite, feldspar, augite, biotite… more than anyone except a geologist could keep straight. But what is particularly spectacular when you gaze across at the Grand Canyon is the mixture of all these rocks and the sheer variety. Names like “Vishnu Schist,” “Bright Angel Shale,” “Muav Limestone,” “Hermit Shale,” and “Coconino Sandstone” only highlight the otherworldliness of this place, the grandest of canyons.
Travel far enough in and you may easily find yourself in a life-or-death situation. Death in the Grand Canyon is more common than you think. Just today, I received a book on the very subject. As of the book’s second edition publication in 2012, around 700 people have died in or around the Grand Canyon. Did you know people have died from causes ranging from falling off the rim or within the canyon to flash floods and from air crashes within the canyon to the Colorado River itself? Homicides, freak accidents, creature encounters, and suicides all certainly play a role as well. Regardless, one of the commonalities in many of these deaths is the very real and very direct effect nature has on human individuals, especially when there is space between the lone human out in nature and the rest of civilisation. Us humans are hardly invincible.
Despite all outward appearances of the invincibility of open desert landscapes and vast, spacious ocean scenes, nature isn’t invincible either. Take the example of marine species into consideration. Even more specifically, take the example of sea turtles. Sea turtles have been around for about one hundred million years. Sea turtles have crawled up on the sandy beaches of prehistoric times when the continents were vastly different and had not yet been shifted to their current places on the global sphere by the efforts of plate tectonics. To this day, female sea turtles continue to haul themselves out of the safety of the vast space of salt water and onto dry, sandy beaches to lay the eggs that may one day lead to even just one adult sea turtle. Indeed, only about one in a thousand turtle hatchlings even survive through hatchlingdom and adolescence to become a fully-fledged mature sea turtle.
Now, this essay isn’t about the inevitability of species deaths on every which side. This essay is about interactions; chiefly, this essay is about symbolic interactions between stone, sea, and sky and the space carved out between those interactions, or perhaps because of them. This essay is about humans and the tangible interactions humans have with the freedom of space within natural environments. So let’s get back to sea and stone, shall we?
A surprisingly tiny fraction of the people on this planet get to experience life under the waves. The vast majority of us find ourselves landlocked and relying solely on words of description and photographic and video evidence that what those lucky few say about life under the waves is actual and real. Similarly, not many people who visit the Grand Canyon every year actually descend into its depths and the space those depths contain. Most of the roughly five million visitors who visit every year tend to stay along or close to the rim of the Grand Canyon. They stay at a safe distance away, gazing out at the empty space without daring to approach. Those who have actually explored and traversed some of the many trails within the Grand Canyon face the undeniable truth that the further you hike into the Grand Canyon, the more remote and dangerous it becomes, devoid as the depths are of other fellow humans. My father used to hike the Grand Canyon regularly for years. He always highlighted in his stories that there is risk even in the most well-travelled hiking areas. The key, he said, was to make smart decisions and be strong and independent. To him, the Grand Canyon is one of the only places that still feels completely cut off from the rest of the world. And yet, there is a great deal of freedom that comes with that sense of distance from civilisation.
Imagine being on a hike in the Grand Canyon by yourself in the middle of winter. It’s cold, well below freezing. Snow is piled high on all sides and several feet high in places. The path, well-worn in the summer, is hidden completely by the snowfall that happened to blanket the canyon just the night before. From the lack of boot prints, you can see that no human has ventured this far, or even in this direction, since at least the day before. But the tracks of little creatures keep you company. Those little creatures, the beasts and the birds still bold enough to venture forth in the snow, are curious about you since there are so few like you in this remote part of the canyon. You are completely cut off on every side from civilisation. All you can see is white snow covering every available surface: the evergreen trees, the dirt and rock floor, the stone cliffs rising up to one side. This is winter in the Grand Canyon. Only a tiny fraction of humans ever experience this side of the Grand Canyon. This is true freedom, feelings devoid of responsibilities to anyone except yourself and your surroundings.
Now, move your conscious imaginings to a vessel, a tiny craft, surrounded by water on all sides. Saltwater waves lap at the sides of your vessel. If you want to romanticise this trip, imagine that the vessel is crafted of painted wood. It’s only you, the water, a few seabirds, and the occasional dolphin fin jumping through the waves in the near distance. The solidarity with nature on all sides found floating in that water is probably a closer parallel to that same solidarity found in the middle of the Grand Canyon than it is to any sort of tranquillity achievable in natural areas closer to human activity, wouldn’t you say?
Now, what I think is that maybe this effect, this tranquillity, is partly a result of space. Nature, any sort of nature, does wonders for the human psyche. But the vastness of space, sheer, empty space, without a soul in sight or sound in any direction, can seemingly mediate the openness of a mind in a way that an enclosed space cannot. Our modern-day lives are so filled to the brink with chaos and crammed with events that necessitate the spending of time that any little bit of peace and tranquillity does us more good than we can imagine. Empty, natural space speaks to us because, in that space, we can actually listen.
Remember that sky? That beautiful sky above? The sky is the ultimate open space that we can experience on Earth. My thesis is that big empty spaces parallel the sky in its absolute freedom. In the Grand Canyon, it is not so much the stones and rocks and cliffs themselves that are breathtaking, even though they are stunning works of geological architecture. No, it is the sheer empty space that fills the Grand Canyon to the brink that leaves us breathless when we stand on the side, looking inward. The ocean is a bit more complex in its parallelism with the sky. Above the surface, you can look in all directions and the ocean is flat. Empty. It directly touches the sky on every side. However, I think the story under the waves is the more convincing story about empty space. We can’t see water in its most pure form; water is simply liquid space. And fish fly through this magical, invisible substance of water-space. Under the waves, any inch of ocean not filled with a sea creature or geological formation is an inch of empty water-space. When you think of the ocean – or, indeed, any body of water – in terms of water-space, suddenly the entirety of the sea’s mysteries open up in the same way the sky does, or the space filling the Grand Canyon does. That space is there, and ever-present in its absence of substantive busyness. One of the grandest parts of nature is the way nature accentuates space.
So the next time you find yourself needing a bit of nature-induced peace, I suggest you look for space. Even if that space isn’t close to sea or stone, the sky will always be around. And you need some space to be able to hear all the other messages that other parts of nature might be trying to whisper in your ear.
