The Glow of Silence - Lost at Bighorn Canyon.

When I step out of the house, it's so cold that my nose almost falls off in shock. I can just about hold on to it and pull down the rainbow-colored hat, that my American friend had lent me, over my forehead.
I lost my own hat somewhere back home in Germany, and it gets damn cold in the Rocky Mountains by mid-October.

By the way, I lose things all the time. On this day, almost my mind. In a place that spoke to me without saying a word.

Today I'm going to tell you about the thundering silence of the Bighorn Canyon, about soulmates, infinity, and moments that quietly but powerfully change your life.

By the way, I froze my ass off without a hat or jacket for this picture just to look cool.

We're sitting in the car and I'm trying not to complain about the cold too much. Because then my caring friend always feels obligated to turn on the heater, and I feel like a wimp. I want to face the icy fall in Wyoming with a cowboy attitude instead. Ha, I am so tough! My eyelid flutters because I'm lying.

We leave the city with its wooden houses and swinging traffic lights on streets that just seem way too wide for such a small town. Off into the countryside we go! And there's a hell of a lot of countryside in Wyoming. The state has the second lowest population density after Alaska. 

The gray asphalt with its sun-yellow center line stretches like a petrified lava flow through the steppe-like hills. It feels like my heart crashes through the windshield because I can no longer hold it back. I love this place. I felt something very special here last year on my big solo trip through the USA, and my return has intensified this feeling a lot. 

Dark gray clouds are hanging over the steel-blue sky as the first mountain peaks begin to tear the horizon open. 

It's a two-hour drive from my friend's town to the Bighorn Canyon. But driving through Wyoming for two hours is like eating chocolate for two hours. Except that you don't get sick. At most, you get sick with joy.

Just before the Bighorn Canyon Recreation Area begins, the rocks slowly turn red. I always thought this was a phenomenon of the southern US states only, but I have to admit that I apparently had no idea. The rock formations pile up like mousse pudding, interspersed with gnarled bushes and tiny yellow flowers. In between, endless vastness. Not a soul in sight. When we get out of the car, I want to spread my arms and scream. And never stop. I don't know if you've ever had the feeling of having truly arrived. Not at McDonald's or in the bathroom, but inside yourself. I could sit down on the asphalt and watch this one blade of grass for hours as it resists the wind gusts and is repeatedly buffeted by it.

Then we continue on to the Bighorn Canyon, which divides the recreation area into two parts. Well, there are tons of canyons in the USA. And somehow, the Bighorn Mountains pale in comparison to Yellowstone National Park. Or maybe not?

When I see the deep, wide gorge with its bright green water, in which the light refracts like a million stars, for the first time, I know that I am completely lost. Like a child, I run along the railing, pointing at the incredibly beautiful landscape, yet unable to find the words.

“What do you think?” my friend asks.
I think for a moment. “That I'd love to throw myself down there to express how I feel. It's just overwhelming!”
Of course, I don't jump. I forgot my swimming cap. And ice clumps in my hair are uncool.

The entire area is about 5400 ft² in size and located on the State Line between Wyoming and Montana. The first traces of humans can be traced back 12,000 years.

After hiking one of the many trails, I spot a kind of terrace made of red rocks from a lookout point, which immediately catches my attention. Mainly because there doesn't seem to be an official path down there.

“I'd really love to scramble down there ,” I say.
“Then let's do it,” says my friend and sets off.

I smile. Just do it. Just be wild, don't overthink, live. Like talk and laugh non-stop in a car with a friend for four hours. Spot animal shapes in the clouds or drive 85 million miles just to see a stupid waterfall somewhere in the middle of nowhere. My friend mirrors all the childish, adventurous madness in my head. It doesn't matter that there are almost 5,000 miles, a few decades of age difference, and an entire culture between us. We met over a year ago on my big four-month solo trip through the USA, and since then we've been e-mailing back and forth, so much that I could wallpaper all of New York with. I always found the term “soulmate” a bit overused. But this is it. The perfect word for us.

As I stumble on my way down and try to hold on to a branch, I notice that the wood looks strange somehow. I pick it up and can hardly believe that I can see remnants of antlers. I euphorically wave the broken piece above my head and excitedly shout grammatical nonsense into the wide landscape. It really is antlers from a reindeer! I wouldn't have found them if I hadn't wanted to come here. What a wonderful happening!

Eventually, we actually make our way to the plateau. I breathe hard like a hippopotamus into my thick scarf and have to sit down for a moment. The Bighorn Canyon stretches out in front of us in several bends. Sun and clouds dance in the sky, making the rugged edges look like marble. White birds fly above the water's surface, looking like tiny dots.
My friend sits down next to me. And only when my breathing calms down do I hear it: the most beautiful silence in the world.

Normally, there is always a harsh loud wind blowing in the mountains. Normally someone laughs or a car drives by. At least a bird cries out. Always. But here at the edge of Bighorn Canyon, there is nothing. Nothing at all. I listen and listen, because it feels as if someone has stuffed earplugs into my ears. It can't be, I think. There's no such thing as silence like this. The changing sunlight makes the water appear green, then brown, then light blue. I were to shout now, the sound would simply be swallowed up by the magic of the moment.

“Can you hear the silence?” I whisper.
“Yes,” my friend replies.
“Have you ever thought about infinity?” I say, still quietly.
For the next half hour, we philosophize about Plato.
Then I just lean against his shoulder and we remain silent. The silence is so powerful that I can hear my own blood rushing. My own thoughts. And our hearts. My gaze slides down the walls of the canyon and I feel a piece of my life crumbling and falling away into the abyss.

I think: “Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time.” (Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist)