The Silence on the Rim. A remarkable contrast between the rim and the
Canyon is sometimes found in the absolute silence above, and the roar of
the river below. It often occurs that not a sound of any kind can be heard
on the rim but one's breathing and the beating of his own heart. One
morning I lay for an hour before I arose, and during the whole of that
time, though I listened again and again, not the slightest sound reached my
ears save the two named.
Song of the River. Now descend to the river and, day or night, early or
late, June or December, hot or cold, wet or dry, fair or stormy, the roar
and rush, fret and fume of the water is never out of one's ears. Even when
asleep it seems to "seep" in through the benumbed senses, and tell of its
never-ending flow. After a few weeks of it, one comes away and finds he
cannot sleep. He misses it and finds himself unable to sleep away from the
accustomed noise.
The Wind. In nothing is the difference of "above" and "below" more
marked than in the wind. Last night on the rim the wind blew almost a gale.
The pines sang loudly, and one could hear their roar for miles. A dozen
times I awoke and listened to their weird music.
