A long time ago, Bruce and I were flown into the North Rim of the Grand Canyon to spend the winter as caretakers. We had just gotten married on December 4, 1982, and only seven days later, we boarded a helicopter that dropped us off on the rim. It was the start of a honeymoon unlike any other—stranded in one of the most remote and breathtaking places in the country. Somewhere along the way, we were contacted by a writer named Lynne De Michelle who wanted to do a story on us for a Phoenix magazine. We met her in Phoenix while driving to the South Rim to begin our adventure. Lynne was full of enthusiasm and questions—curious about how we met, and why we chose to spend our honeymoon snowed in at 8,000 feet. Two months later, she flew to the North Rim to check in on us and gather more for her article. We showed her our daily routine, introduced her to snowmobiles, and shared the solitude that had become our normal. That day, our District Ranger, Oly Olson, also flew in to help repair a power line. It was one of those crisp, impossibly beautiful winter days—snow deep and dazzling under a bright sky. Then, out of nowhere, a ruffed grouse burst from a snow-covered pine and landed right on Oly’s head. We burst out laughing. I wish we had gotten a photo of that moment—it was pure magic and perfect timing. That winter gave us the rare chance to slow down and truly feel the heartbeat of the canyon in its quietest season. We spent four months snowed in, watching storms roll across the plateau, listening to the silence, and breathing in the beauty. At the time, we simply wanted to experience the North Rim in all its raw glory—before anything could take it away. Little did we know, years later, the North Rim would burn. Now, those memories are all that remain. And they are precious.