The Grand Canyon Legacy of Pete Berry
It was 1895. Pete Berry sat on the back of his mule, Delilah, as they climbed the narrow, winding trail from the Last Chance Mine up toward Grandview—the modest wooden structure he’d built by hand on the rim of the canyon. The trail curved along sheer edges and weathered switchbacks, and below, the Colorado snaked in and out of sight like a long breath. Above, the light was changing again. Clouds broke open to reveal a wash of purple, rust, and sandstone gold—colors that belonged more to dreams than to geology. Even after all these years, the view still got to him.
Pete and his partners, the Cameron brothers, had first come to the Grand Canyon in 1888. They’d chased rumors of ore, camped in cold shadows, and spent long months hauling supplies in and ore out. In 1890, luck met labor. A vein of copper revealed itself on Horseshoe Mesa—rich, high-grade. They registered the claim, carved out a trail from canyon rim to mesa, and got to work.
That trail—Pete knew every twist of it. Every drop and rise. Today, he rode at the head of a ten-mule caravan, each animal carrying 400 pounds of copper ore in heavy canvas bags. Delilah, as usual, had her own ideas. She tossed her head, tugged at the harness, slowed to nibble at brush. “The unruly,” they called her. And yet, she always found her way back in line.
The ore was still good, but not as good as it had been. Costs were climbing. Transporting everything to El Paso was eating into what little margin they had, and Pete had heard the Santa Fe Railroad planned another price hike. He’d need to talk to Ralph and Niles. Something had to change.
The canyon was quiet except for hoofsteps and the distant call of a hawk. Pete’s mind wandered as it often did when the rhythm of the mules set in. He thought about the hotel he’d been sketching in his head—two rooms so far, sometimes rented out to the rare souls who braved the bone-shaking stagecoach ride from Flagstaff. They always arrived tired, dusty, and hungry. Maybe, Pete thought, if he had a proper kitchen. A place to rest. Maybe a lodge. Maybe even the first hotel at the Grand Canyon.
And then, there were the other thoughts. The ones he didn’t like to admit took up more space than they should.
“It wasn’t love,” he said to himself, low enough that only the canyon could hear. “It was duty. When John got himself shot, I stepped in. Took the saloon. Took the kids. Took Mary.”
She was sharp. Clever. Talented in ways he hadn’t expected. But she’d left. Not quietly either. She left with Frankforter—the same man Pete had once trusted with his business. He’d caught up with him once, drawn blood, but it hadn’t changed a thing. They were gone.
“I wasn’t the best husband. God knows I wasn’t present,” he admitted. “But with that man?” He shook his head.
He missed his brother. Missed the simplicity of Colorado before it all came apart. The canyon didn’t judge. It just held things—old bones, buried ore, and the pieces of a man too stubborn to give up.
As the trail leveled off near the rim, Pete stood tall in the saddle. Thirty-seven years behind him. Dust on his boots. The weight of a whole life in his chest. “It’s not a novella,” he muttered, half-smiling. “Though it reads like one.”
He let out a shrill whistle. Delilah surged forward. Somewhere in the distance, he imagined the outline of a lodge rising from the rock. A place for strangers to arrive, to look out over this land and feel what he felt.
Epilogue
In 1897, Pete Berry and his new wife, Martha, opened the Grandview Hotel—the first lodge at the Grand Canyon. For a few brief years, Grandview became the gateway to the canyon, its trail the path into its heart. But in 1901, the Santa Fe Railroad reached Grand Canyon Village, eleven miles west, and tourists followed the tracks. The hotel faded. The ore thinned. Pete moved on.
But his trail remains. If you find yourself near Grandview Point, pause for a moment. Look out over that impossible view. Somewhere in that wind, in that color, in that quiet—you’ll find the story still lives.
Pete’s story isn’t just history—it’s part of the emotional landscape that still echoes through the canyon. As an artist, I’ve often found myself trying to capture that same scale, silence, and layered meaning in my own work.
If you’re curious how the Grand Canyon’s immensity translates into abstraction, you might enjoy this:
👉 Riveting Stripe Paintings – A Series Of Stripe Compositions
An artistic interpretation inspired by the vastness of landscapes like the Grand Canyon.