It was an easy ride down to the junction with Highway 264. I stopped and gassed up at the Hopi trading post at Keams Canyon. On a big rock on the other side of the road some disgruntled Hopi with a can of spray paint had created a petroglyph of his own: NAVAJOS ARE ASSHOLES.

Heading westward over the Hopi mesas, the wind began to pick up, cold and gusty, slapping at me like a great invisible cat. At Hotevilla I stopped to walk around a bit, leaving my camera on the bike; a sign warned against taking pictures. Old pueblo buildings stood at the edge of the mesa; here and there ladders emerging from round structures marked the presence of the sacred kiva chambers. There weren't many people around, though I did meet up with a fat woman with a squash blossom hairdo. She didn't look happy to see me; the whole place had a slightly unfriendly atmosphere, not really hostile but clearly I wasn't welcome. I didn't blame them; if I'd been them I wouldn't have wanted me hanging around either.

As I was getting remounted, though, an old man strolled by and said hello. I made some complaint about the weather. He asked where I was going; I gave him a quick sketch of my plans. He chuckled. "If you're going down in that Death Valley," he said, "you better take a sack of this cold wind along with you."

Beyond Hotevilla the landscape was bleak and empty, the wind now enormous, tearing at me and screaming around my helmet: a malevolent witch wind that didn't want me there. I began to feel as if I'd spent my whole life scuttling across a high blasted plain into a killing wind, armored head down like some ungainly beetle....

Then suddenly up ahead was the first vehicle I'd seen on the road since Keams Canyon: a big shiny motorhome, stopped in the right lane. As I came up I saw the reason: a burro, stray or feral, prancing about in the middle of the road. I pulled around the Winnebago and an elderly white man stuck his head out the window. "He's going to get run over!" he cried.

I looked at him a second. "It's not my ass," I said, and rode on, feeling much better.

Beyond Tuba City, back on the Navajo rez, I turned south on 89, and found out that the wind had just been kidding up to now. It was like no wind I'd ever encountered, even on the plains of Anatolia; it wasn't just unpleasant, it was genuinely dangerous. Now and then a gust would blow me clear across the road, into the oncoming lane - if anything had been coming I'd have been dead - and a couple of times I came close to losing it altogether. Turning off at Cameron only made matters worse, because the road was a winding one and the wind made it impossible to corner normally; it would try to push the bike to the outside, making me go dangerously wide. There was spectacular scenery on either side but I didn't dare look at it.

Finally the road entered the Kaibab National Forest, where the trees broke the wind somewhat; but by then I was exhausted. It had been the most grueling bike riding I'd ever done.

And then I came around a bend and there it was, off to the right: the biggest God-damned hole in the ground in the USA.

I'd never seen the Grand Canyon before, except once from the air. I stared dully at it for a few minutes, but I was too wiped out to have any particular feelings. Finally I started the Suzuki again and rode to the campground, where I was told I was just in time for the very last campsite they had open. The price was outrageous, but I didn't really care.

After making camp I rode slowly back up to the rim and got off and walked around a bit, trying to take it in. So much has been written and said about the Canyon that it's probably impossible to come up with any original thoughts, but I was too tired for anything more profound than the automatic wedding-night reaction: "My God, it's huge!" I did walk down one of the trails, just a very short way - my legs needed the stretch - but turned back after a very short descent.

The campground had a pay shower and a pay laundromat, both of which I needed badly by now. The laundromat was full of healthy-looking collegiate types in bright outdoor outfits, but none of them spoke to me or even gave any indication of noticing my presence. I found myself missing the Navajos.

In the last light I pulled the carbs again and changed back to bigger jets. Tomorrow I was expecting to be losing some serious altitude.