On the small Atlantic island there was a small forest. The trees were ancient. Enchanted, even. Dana and I walked beneath them and watched the fog rush over the ridge line, through the limbs and dissolve into the sun. We talked about where we were going to go next.

We wanted to visit one more place in Europe before we went home. But, in the absence of conviction and a world of options, we were paralyzed by choice.

On the drive back to our friend’s house we stopped along the road to admire an expansive canyon that ran from the peak of the island down to the ocean.

“It’s like this island’s Grand Canyon,” I mused. (So original.)

“Maybe we should end our trip at the actual Grand Canyon?” Dana countered.

Damn. Maybe we should?

That seed of an idea quickly sprouted into flight searches, then flight bookings, then a flight. Eighteen hours later we were back in the US

We’re on our way to the Grand Canyon now. Wish us luck.