Quotes About Canyon

I was accustomed to being in far, far riskier environments. So I thought going into that canyon was a walk in the park - there were no avalanches, it was a beautiful day and I was essentially just walking.

Lessing's ditch, which argues for a canyon between the Jesus of history and the Christ of faith

It was the drive-in restaurant, a product of the Great Depression's crimp on the free-wheeling lifestyle that had grown up around movie-happy Hollywood. Drive-ins sprouted in city parking lots and spread along highways and canyon drives.

Laurel Canyon area music is legendary.

Warm fog swirled in the canyon as we gradually descended. A hundred feet in front of us everything was lost in the fog and a hundred feet behind us everything was lost in the fog. We were walking in a capsule between amnesias.

To many Native American tribes the Grand Canyon is a sacred place: site of numerous origin myths from the Havasupai to the Zuni; hushed repose of the Hopi dead. If I were forced to choose a religion, that's the kind of religion I could go for. The Grand Canyon confers stature on a religion, outclassing the petty smallness of the Abrahamics, the three squabbling cults which, through historical accident, still afflict the world.

I could throw 56-pound words clear across the Grand Canyon. As a matter of course, I went into politics.

As the middle child of the Laurel Canyon Adams Family, Whit was surprisingly chill on the subject of ampire-vays.

The first concert that my parents took me to was in this canyon in Saudi Arabia called Buttermilk Canyon. You sleep under the stars in the desert, and ex-pats - German, Swiss, Canadian, American - would play classical music that filled the whole canyon.

I caught a couple of landmarks and knew we were on Benedict Canyon Drive, getting up into the hills. I'd driven here several times before—in happier days—and I knew almost all the road. It was hilly along here and there were steep clifflike drops and sloping ones. Maybe Dutch would let me jump off a cliff. Suicide. I strained at the rope on my wrists, but it was tight.

All right, cupcakes. You are about to see the Grand Canyon. Try not to break it. The skywalk can hold the weight of seventy jumbo jets, to you featherweights should be safe out there. If possible, try to avoid pushing each other over the edge, as that would cause me extra paperwork.

There is a canyon within a reasonable distance of nearly every school in the city," [Elaine Brooks] pointed out. What an exciting prospect, she said - a network of natural libraries for teaching children about the region's rare and fragile ecosystems - and about themselves.

Of course." I glanced at Lucy on the deck. She and Ben were at the rail. Ben was pointing at something far down the canyon and yakking, but Lucy seemed neither to hear him nor to see. As if the other presence were out there, too, and drawing her attention. I felt my own eyes fill, but, like Angela Rossi, I also knew the tricks of survival. "We're not going to walk away, Angie. We're not going to leave you hanging.

The love interest and climax would come when a man and a lady, both strangers, got to talking together on the train going back east. "Well," said Mrs. Croot, for it was she, "what did you think of the Canyon?" "Some cave," replied her escort. "What a funny way to put it!" replied Mrs. Croot. "And now play me something.

They got out and ran toward half of a bridge. Below the bridge's twisted end was fire. Fire crawled away from the greater blaze, stopped, convulsed, then fell still. The car burned, casting its bonfire light on the canyon and the stream at its bottom.

A few hundred feet below the car, jumping from foam-flecked rocks to dark, cool pools, a mountain stream churned over boulders, laughed back the sunlight in sparkling reflections, filled the canyon with the sound of tumbling water.

I wish the little rivers under the laughing kingfishers in every canyon were fire, and the ocean Fire, and my heart not afraid to go down.

Secretary of the Interior Stewart Udall, and his chief construction engineer on the site, an Arkansas-born bulldog named L. F. "Lem" Wylie, Bureau of Reclamation Commissioner Floyd Dominy had sanctioned January 21 as the day the diversion tunnel in the west wall of the canyon would be sealed.

This was the third dam in Glen Canyon. The first, slowly shaped by sand and fed by a persistent stream, blocked a side canyon sometime before history began, forming a thin sweetwater lake that ultimately survived a civilization. The second dam belonged to the Anasazi, the people who forged that fragile civilization out of the rock and niggard soil. Their dam, built of sandstone blocks and sealed with clay mortar, stood in the canyon bottom at Creeping Dune.

The first dam stood near the head of little Lake Canyon until November 1915.

Trapping the river between the canyon's serpentine walls, the dam would create a slackwater reservoir 186 miles in length, the longest in the world, covering Creeping Dune to a depth of 350 feet, reaching up Lake Canyon as far as that dune which itself was once a dam.

Baseball it is said is only a game. True. And the Grand Canyon is only a hole in Arizona. Not all holes or games are created equal.

Life is a thin narrowness of taken-for-granted, a plank over a canyon in a fog.

The river, the canyon, the desert world was always changing, from moment to moment, from miracle to miracle, within the firm reality of mother earth. River, rock, sun, blood, hunger, wings, joy—this is the real, Smith would have said, if he'd wanted to. If he felt like it. All the rest is androgynous theosophy.