Story By Jenny Wingfield

It's 4 a.m. when I get on the road from Las Vegas, heading for Williams, Arizona. Over the years, I've driven past the Grand Canyon a dozen times, always in a hurry, always with a deadline. Today it's my destination. Traffic is sparse, and the world is black, except for the lines on the highway and the few remaining stars. The road rises and falls sharply, and curves out of sight, and I am elated.

Black turns to grey, and the sky goes pastel. I can make out pearly mists clinging to indigo mountains. Then sunrise comes full-force. An exquisite explosion of color.

I arrive at Williams, a tiny historic town situated at the base of Williams Mountain, around nine o'clock. At the Depot, the parking lot is filling up. Couples and families tumble out of cars and vans and pick-up trucks, most of them heading into Max & Thelma's restaurant/gift shop to enjoy the hearty breakfast buffet and a good browse before boarding the train. I tag along.

Half an hour later, I'm watching a Wild West Shoot-out in a smallish arena across the tracks from the train. This thing is the real deal-the train that is, not the shoot-out. Period rail cars, authentically restored. The local sheriff is facing off with the Cataract Creek Gang, and the bad guys turn out sucking up dust. Guess we won't be seeing them again.

"ALLLLLL ABOARRRRD!" I'm in the luxury car named The Chief, located at the tail end of the train. Going inside is like stepping back in time. The leather seats, the carpeted floor. I can almost see fancy ladies swishing their skirts and dandies doffing their hats. (No common cowpokes would have been riding in here.) Everywhere I look, there is food and drink. Muffins and pastries and soft drinks and coffee. Take what you want, and enjoy. Bloody Mary's and such are available, too. Ask and ye shall receive.

We're moving. We see mountains unfolding, and volcanic peaks. Ranchlands and rocky terrain. Juniper and sagebrush and towering pines. At the rear of our car, there's a platform where we can go out to hold onto the handrail and sway with the train's (mostly) gentle movement.

At the top of the line, those of us who have elected to "take the tour" are piling off the train and onto big, comfy busses called Harvey Cars.

A few minutes later, we get our first glimpse of the canyon. One second we're looking at rocks and trees, and the next second, there it is. Blue and orange and red and gold and vast. I feel a rush of emotion that I never, ever expected. There are tears in my eyes. I don't know why.

A collective gasp has gone up from the crowd on the bus. I hear a woman beside me saying, "I never dreamed.." I meet her eyes and nod, but for the life of me, I can't talk right now.

When we stop, our tour guide/driver gives us free rein. We can wander off on our own, or we can hang close and learn a little something.

I wander off. Every way I turn my eyes, the splendor is astonishing. The vibrant hues. The sheer magnitude of the drops and swells. The reverent silence, and the otherworldly feel of it all.

I'm reminded of Guillaume Apollinaire's lovely poem:

Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
It's too high.
And they came
And he pushed
And they flew-

God knows I don't want to fly off this rim-although our driver has warned us that sudden gusts of wind can make a body do just that, but, oh, I do so want to soar in other ways. Being here, like this, right now, reminds me that life sometimes pushes us past our safety spots into the unknown and unfathomable realm of never-imagined possibilities.

Down below, in the floor of the canyon, I see a walking path, and a lone hiker venturing along. Another maverick, I think.

When I return to the group, our driver is telling the group about the Vishnu Schist-a two billion year old inner gorge, with walls of green and black, that forms the foundation for the above layers. He tells them also about American Indians who lived here thousands of years ago. The Anasazi and Navajo and Hopi, who came and went, leaving the traces and patterns of their lives for us to uncover and unravel.

At every stop along the way, I'm amazed by how the canyon changes. Now I understand why some artists have dedicated their lives to photographing and painting this Seventh Wonder-and I know that many lifetimes wouldn't do it justice.

After a fairly lavish lunch, we're back on the train. I'm in the observation car called the Cococino. Upper deck. I can see the world, but I've just seen so much, and these seats recline, and my eyelids are heavy. Maybe it's the high elevation that has me worn out and relaxed.

I'm dimly aware of a singing cowboy who strolls in with his guitar and a few songs. I hear the other passengers joining in, but refuse to feel guilty. How often do we get to do just what we feel like doing? I'm doing it now.

I manage to come alive in time to enjoy the champagne that's passed out (along with cider for the kiddees). And then there's a sobering announcement over the intercom. The Cataract Creek Gang has boarded the train. They're not dead after all, and we're being held up! The scoundrels shoulder their way into our car demanding our valuables. We laugh in their faces. We're a brave lot, we are.

Back at the end of the line, I check into the Fray Marcos Hotel. It's 5 p.m.-already growing chilly and dark outside- but in here, there's a stone fireplace, a roaring fire and overstuffed sofas that beckon.

In my room-I call my kids.

"I'm bringing you all here," I babble. "I don't know why we never did this before, but we're coming, and we'll stay a week. We'll stay two weeks. We'll take thousands of pictures, and we'll hike the trails, and-"

"Mom," my daughters ask. "How did it feel?"

"I don't have the words to tell you," I answer them. "You just have to see it."