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Hell Hole Or Holy Shrine--It's Still The Same Canyon.
By Gregory McNamee
How the Canyon Became Grand, by Stephen J. Pyne (Viking
Press). Cloth, $24.95.
STEPHEN PYNE, A Phoenix-based environmental historian whose
intellectual passions include subjects as broad-ranging as polar
exploration (The Ice) and the place of fire in human history
(Vestal Fire, Fire in America), holds the Grand
Canyon in his heart as others do religion. He's fought fires on
its north and south rims, traveled on foot and muleback into its
depths, floated its length down the Colorado River, poked into
its most hidden recesses. And he's spent years looking into its
history, and especially into what he deems an "intellectual
miracle": how the remote Canyon, long viewed as an impediment
to travel and thus to economic progress, became a celebrated symbol
of the American--and, now that the Canyon is part of the United
Nations' roster of so-called heritage sites, the world's--wild
lands.
In his new book, How the Canyon Became Grand, Pyne explores
this transformation, his sometimes labored prose packed with oddments
of historical data. In the years following the United States'
conquest of the Southwest from Mexico, the Canyon was a known
feature of the landscape, but one to be feared. "Popular
instincts," Pyne writes, "argued that river-dashed gorges
were hazards, not adventures," and the American explorers
who first came to its walls were inclined to describe it in hellish
terms. One of them, Lt. Joseph Ives, remarked in a report to Congress
in 1858, "The region is, of course, altogether valueless....
Ours has been the first, and will doubtless be the last, party
of whites to visit this profitless locality."
But when in 1869 a one-armed veteran of the Civil War, Maj. John
Wesley Powell, floated down the length of the Colorado River to
survey its reaches, he brought to the Canyon a poetic, even romantic
sensibility, calling one stretch of salty water "Bright Angel
Creek," another "Elves Chasm." In a typically celebratory
vein, Powell wrote, "The elements that unite to make the
Grand Canyon the most sublime spectacle in nature are multifarious
and exceedingly diverse.... The rainbow is not more replete with
hues." Through Powell and his companions, especially the
geologist Clarence Dutton, the harsh landscape of the Grand Canyon
would come to be regarded as "the coliseums, temples, and
statuary of an inspired nature," a place of divine presence.
(It's thanks largely to Dutton that so many of the Canyon's features
are named after figures in world religion and mythology.) Of the
Canyon's imposing landforms, Dutton insisted, "If any of
these stupendous creations had been planted upon the plains of
central Europe, it would have influenced modern art as profoundly
as Fujiyama has influenced the decorative art of Japan."
And he admitted freely that the Canyon so defied the imagination
that "the fundamental requirement of scientific method--accuracy
of statement--is imperiled."
And so, as Pyne details, accuracy of statement gave way in some
instances to unnecessary hyperbole as a generation of 19th-century
American intellectuals labored to make the Grand Canyon a part
of all Americans' conception of their newly reunited nation. "The
Canyon claims standing," he remarks, "not because of
its size or antiquity, but, as Dutton had insisted, by virtue
of its ever-evolving ensemble and the ideas continually made available
by which to interpret it." Those ideas--and those of succeeding
generations of Canyon lovers, men and women like Theodore Roosevelt,
Wallace Stegner, Joseph Wood Krutch, Edward Abbey, and Ann Zwinger--would
come to influence the national discussion on all public lands,
not merely the national parks.
As such, Pyne suggests, the Grand Canyon became a laboratory
for the environmental movement as a whole, influential far beyond
the borders of the arid Southwest--in short, as Pyne calls it,
"a planetary monument." It is in its guise as a world
treasure that the Canyon now pulls in millions of visitors a year,
where a century ago tourists numbered in the hardy hundreds. This
adds a new element to the discussion, one that Pyne only touches
on: how to limit visitation to what is, after all, an exceedingly
fragile environment.
For readers with an interest in environmental and intellectual
history, Pyne's book is full of revelations on how well-placed
propaganda can transform a place, in the popular imagination,
from an infernal eyesore to a defining symbol. And for Canyon
buffs, who are already well served by a huge library, it makes
a useful reference.
ASU history professor Stephen J. Pyne discusses and signs
How the Canyon Became Grand: A Short History at 2 p.m.
Saturday, September 19, at Barnes and Noble Bookstore, 7325 N.
La Cholla Blvd. Call 742-6621 for information.
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