One of my life’s first vacations was a trip to the Grand Canyon in September of 1983. I was just over a year old, riding comfortably on my dad’s back with a granola bar in my hand. The story of that granola bar is perhaps the most frequently told from my entire childhood – I’d grown so attached to it that whenever I dozed off I’d wake up in a panic if it had been lost. Thankfully, my parents were always there to retrieve it so that I could resume my sightseeing with confidence.
Don’t ever say I was spoiled.
With two months to kill while waiting for the approval of my Japanese Work Visa, I thought it would be a great opportunity to revisit my roots with another trip to the bottom of the canyon.
So at 7:30am on July 15th, Nick, my dad and I started the 7-hour drive from Los Angeles to Grand Canyon National Park in Arizona.
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