Difference between Rim and Canyon. The climate at the Grand Canyon refuses to be defined in a paragraph. What is true of the country along the rim is not true of the banks of the river itself. The midway region, half-way down the trail, likewise has a climate all its own. For as you go down in summer, the thermometer goes up; and as you come up, in winter, the thermometer goes down. The difference of nearly a mile in altitude between the surface of the Colorado River and the rim of the Canyon is equivalent to going hundreds of miles north and south on the level. Hence it is that when it is winter on the rim, it is like spring down in the depths; when it is spring on the top of the world, the heat below is tropical.
Weather not Extreme. Bear in mind, though, that neither the cold of winter nor the heat of summer, in northern Arizona, are as frigid or as torrid as the readings of the thermometer may seem to indicate. The cold or heat is not felt to such an extreme as in the East. A minimum of humidity is the basic reason for this wide difference between, for example, the July or January climate of New York, and the July or January climate of the Grand Canyon. Extremes that in New York drive people to the cool seashore or To California's winter warmth, here bring no discomfort. You don't feel the weather changes so much, just because the air is so much dryer.
Mild in Summer and in Winter. Again, the altitude of the Grand Canyon rim--in places nearly a mile and a half above sea-level--makes the summers cooler than the latitude would indicate. It is ten degrees cooler, in July, at Flagstaff, Arizona, than at Salt Lake City, three hundred miles north in Utah. In turn, the southerly location of this titanic wonderland causes the winters to be milder than in Colorado, Utah and Montana.
Average Condition. Visitors should bear in mind that the Grand Canyon is an all-the-year-round resort. Unlike the Yellowstone and many other far west scenic playgrounds, one may visit there with comfort any time of the year. While certain periods are more favorable than others for outdoor life, each season has its distinctive joys.
As a rule, this part of Arizona is a true land of sunshine. Sunny days are largely in evidence.
As a rule, the air is dry. Even the rains don't soak it through.
As a rule, except on the edge of the rim, the wind velocity is under the average.
As a rule, one may ride, walk or loaf outdoors, without fear of overexertion. The air is like wine, it builds one anew.
Yet the weather is not perfect. You may strike a small sandstorm in midsummer. You may hit a blizzard in midwinter. A torrential shower may drench you. A fervent sun may unduly tan you. But these deviations from Paradise come only occasionally; they are the bitter that makes the sweet more sweet.
I can safely promise you, nine times out of ten, pleasanter weather than you would find if at home. And that is the best test.
Rest-cure. Those who visit the Canyon oftenest and stay longest find the least fault with its weather. For myself, I never complain; rather I always look forward with great joy to an outing here. For besides being an unparalleled scenic spectacle, the Grand Canyon is the greatest of rest-cures. I know of nothing better for tired nerves and worn-out bodies than to summer or winter along its rim, and down below where the river runs.
Because the weather one year never is like the year before or after, I cannot accurately forecast what you will find of heat or cold, wet or dry, when you visit the Canyon. Even the "weather man" is not infallible in his predictions. I only can outline a reasonable average, resting upon observations made during a score of years.
Winter Months. From late in November to the end of April, snow may be expected at any time on the rim, though many of the most delightful days of the year occur in these months. Snow usually does not fall until after Christmas. Some years the winter is almost snowless; other years there is enough snow to make fine sleighing. June and July are the warm summer months, with August hot; but the heat is likely to be tempered by the rain. From the middle of July to about the end of October, rains may be looked for at any time, and the days after the rains are generally cool, delicious and altogether desirable. Now and again, both before and after a rain, the air will be moist and sultry, somewhat as it is in the East, but this condition is so rare as to cause surprise. Generally the air is dry, and the sun shines warmly, so that "catching cold" is infrequent.
Late Fall Most Pleasant. In my varied experience at the Canyon, I have found the months of September, October, and November most agreeable in spite of an occasional hot day in September. January and March are often perfect months, and while there may be a little (or much) snow on the rim, I regard the winter as the most delightful time for trips into the Canyon. The snow may make the trail slippery and disagreeable for the first mile or so, then one reaches the dry and snowless region where, practically, snow never falls, yet where the heat from radiating rock walls is tempered and subdued by the coolness from the snow above.
May Good for Visitors. May also is a good month for visitors, with more possibilities of agreeable days than February or April, though the warm days begin to come on apace soon after the middle of the month.
Fog in the Canyon. Upon rare occasions, fog banks sink into the Canyon deeps, and even now and again completely hide it from view. Do not let such a sight disappoint you. The fact is, you are being highly favored. If you will but exercise patience, you will see many marvels when the sun begins to work upon the fog. Slowly the great mass begins to show signs of uneasiness; large and small masses become broken off, and struggle as if to ascend; then, stretching apart as one stretches a mass of white cotton-batting, they are speedily dissipated into mist, and disappear. Below, in the deeper reaches, the fog rolls and tosses as if sleeping uneasily in its rocky bed. Great detached masses of rock that the eye had not been able to discern before are now made clear, the white fog behind them revealing their outlines in startling clearness. Indeed a fog may be called "the great revealer of the inner mysteries of the Canyon." It certainly shows forth more of the separating walls and canyons, and the detached buttes, than the most observant can discover in a month, without its presence.
Clouds and Rain. There are times, in August and September, when rain is to be expected, that the whole heavens are patched over with clouds. The sun shines on and through them, and the atmosphere becomes murky and sultry to unpleasantness. Then, suddenly, there is a change in the temperature of the upper air, the moisture is condensed, and refreshing rain falls to cool and cheer the earth that before was parched and thirsty.
A Battle Royal. One morning I watched a battle of the clouds over the Canyon. The wind had been blowing hard all night. About five o'clock I arose, attracted to the rim of the Canyon by a great black cloud that seemed banked up and resting on the north rim, covering, as with a blanket of blackest smoke, the long, visible stretch of the Kaibab Plateau. By and by the sun shot piercing beams of golden glory underneath the cloud, yet, strong and powerful though they were, they could not penetrate the cloud itself. There was the great wall of the Canyon; fierce, fiery, crimson-golden rays shooting in thin streaks above, banked over and pressed down upon by a towering mass of angry clouds. The wind blew strongly and fiercely from the east, bringing fleecy-edged clouds with it. Down in the Canyon the effects were wonderful. The walls reflected the anger of the clouds, and the fire of the sun. Here and there a wall, a tower, or a pinnacle would be lit up with a golden glory, but all around was smoky and forbidding. It even seemed as if a grayish black smoke was ascending from the depths beneath, through which the sun--invisible behind the cloud above--shot lancelike beams, which silvered the smoke and made it a little more gray. On the far western walls, rich purples and reds appeared. Then, suddenly, a soft and fleecy cloud appeared in the clear blue of the morning sky, floating towards me. It was awe-inspiring and yet startling, for it came like a giant battleship, resistlessly and silently shouldering its way along. Entranced I watched it, almost inclined to run, so as to give it free course, for it was low down and apparently very near, and moving with more than ordinary speed. Suddenly another cloud appeared, travelling after the first. As it came, the earlier one veered to the north, and began to cross the Canyon, losing some of its serenity and calmness of manner as it did so; for now, either as the result of conflict from within, or silent influence from without, it began to writhe and change its shape. Ugly angles were thrust out from its hitherto smooth sides, and sent waving and tossing aloft. While this was occurring, the second cloud veered, and when I gazed again, after withdrawing my attention for a few moments, the two were one, the subtle yet powerful forces in the air having wedded them. Together they slowly floated north and east. In the meantime, other clouds had been coming from the east. They sailed along serenely until they came within what appeared to be a few hundred yards of me, and then suddenly they veered to the north, crossed the Canyon, and joined the vast army of clouds that lay in solemn quietude, waiting for the decisive battle of the day. I went away from the rim for an hour or so, and when I returned not a trace of a cloud was to be seen.
A Beautiful Fog Effect. Another morning I saw the Grand Canyon as one hears an exquisite poem, a soft strain of music on violin, 'cello or oboe, or sung by the human voice. It was no longer terrifying and awe-inspiring; it affected one as beautiful flowers do, as the blessing of an old man or woman, as the half unconscious caress of a sleepy child whom you love. It was poetry personified; the spirit of beauty revealed; the inner glory of an artistic mystery unveiled.
There had been rain nearly all night, preceded by considerable wind. The clouds had massed together across the Canyon on the Kaibab. Winds had seemed to blow from every direction, but mainly from the southeast, and there were a few "sunshiny showers" in the late afternoon. The rain began after the sun had gone down, and it descended easily but steadily nearly all night. At six o'clock in the morning, not a glimpse of the Canyon could be had. It was completely buried, wrapped, enveloped in clouds. About nine o'clock these began to move. The rain ceased, tiny patches of blue shone through the clouds overhead, though east, west, north, south they were still black and lowering. It was cold almost to chilliness after the warmth of the preceding days, so there was no haste, no hurry, in the dispersion of the cloud blankets that covered the rocky walls and plateaus below. Slowly they began to rise, then to stretch out and become attenuated. Tiny gusts of wind played with them, and tossed them hither and thither. Banks of smoky gray lay over certain portions, but there was no regularity, no evenness, either in the clouds themselves, or in their disposition. East and west thick masses hid all vision; immediately at our feet the clouds filled the lower canyons below the plateaus, with a glorious, fleecy, silvery white, that tempted one to walk upon it into the realms of fairyland and wonder. Fleeces of irregular shape, but a mile long and two miles wide, slowly lifted themselves from a horizontal position to a vertical one, thus converting themselves from blankets into curtains. Yet behind and through them,--as a coy beauty half reveals, half conceals, her charms,--so the walls and buttes, the pinnacles and buttresses, took on a new and delicate beauty, a subtleness of charm and refinement that only such a veiling could produce. Every moment the panorama changed. This was veiled completely, that entirely uncovered, while other features were dimly discernible, or so softened by the fleecy, attenuated clouds that they seemed the airy fabrics of a child's dream of oriental splendor. Now as filmy steam, then as densest vapor boiling up from a world-deep cauldron of unearthly beauty, the moisture moved, here catching rapidly ascending currents of air, there lazily floating with serenest ease. It was hard to tear oneself away, and the mind still lingers and will often again recur to it, as one of the many never to be forgotten experiences of this most wonderful place.
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