Devastation at the Grand Canyon

It’s often emotional for me, you know, standing on the patio at the lodge, surrounded by rustic wooden furniture. But when the Grand Canyon Lodge and other structures nearby were engulfed in the Dragon Bravo Fire on July 12, it created a void that hit hard. The fire has already scorched over 11,000 acres and appears to be spreading violently. Each time I think about it, I feel a deep sadness in my heart—and I know many others do too, whether they’ve visited or just hold the place close.

In 2024 alone, around 5 million people visited this incredible natural wonder, yet only a small fraction explored the quiet beauty of the North Rim, which sits high and lush, almost hiding some of its thrill. For folks driving hours from cities like Las Vegas or Flagstaff, reaching the Grand Canyon Lodge was always a goal. The lodge, designed by Gilbert Stanley Underwood and built in 1928, has its history of ups and downs—it even reopened in 1937 after a fire. But it’s always felt like a marvel.

Did you know the Grand Canyon is recognized as a Dark Sky Park? It’s fascinating.

Visualize standing before an expansive setting that feels timeless, a grand lodge framed by towering trees and rugged logs, embellished with an aura of simple elegance. You might find yourself lost in the ambiance, imagining what it might be like to share sunset celebrations on the patio, which felt like a blessing. It’s strange how idyllic it was.

My friends—Mike, Ally, Zack, Jig, and others—were a contrast to the usual tourists. We had our own quirks, just like the U.S. Forest Service researchers who inhabited a nearby station. I remember Richard, an ornithologist who had been studying the Kaibab region for years—his passion was infectious.

We were used to a somewhat pretentious wilderness vibe, even snubbing the idea of staying at a lodge. Still, sometimes you just need a slice of pizza and a cold drink.

The North Rim felt like our backyard, and the lodge our clubhouse—now recognized as a historic site. Fridays were particularly lively; we’d often load into trucks and venture out for sunset viewings, battling for good spots against a few wayward tourists.

One Friday, we enjoyed some hearty laughs and discussions about the Hermit Formation, all while escaping an eager Texas oilman’s camera lens. Our little group included not just Richard but many others sharing rounds of drinks on various comfy chairs, even while I strummed a guitar nearby.

And yes, that meant I played piano too. In the lodge’s spacious auditorium, I found an underplayed upright piano. On stormy evenings, I’d weave music influenced by the rhythm of thunder, connecting with the moment despite others’ distant gazes.

One Australian, having enjoyed my impromptu performance, expressed his appreciation, which genuinely warmed my heart.

Now, as I reflect, the vivid memories of the North Rim come rushing back. With the fire’s expansion, the area is closed for the season, and crucial hiking trails have been shut down. The loss of the lodge looms large—it feels like a piece of us has vanished.

But has it really disappeared? I reached out to my companions, reminiscing about those perfect summers spent together, confidently hoping for its revival.

One replied, “We’ll see you on the patio again in three years, once it’s rebuilt. By the way, we’re expecting a baby girl! Hope to share sunsets with you all.”\

Ashes to phoenix, truly.