And then Brad Pitt showed up

And then Brad Pitt showed up

It was meant to be a Thelma and Louise kind of journey – minus the driving the car off a cliff, of course. Helen Fielding and her friend Tina packed the hair tongs and headed for one of the wonders of the world.

Unlike some wonders of the world, the Grand Canyon is better in real life than you could ever imagine. Apart from one hotel on the rim which is inexplicably built in the style of a 1970s polytechnic, it is unspoilt, unfenced, silent, awesome and utterly astounding. The shock of the first view makes you gasp. You wish you could have come across it by chance like an early pioneer, or Thelma and Louise. Next best is to arrive, as we did, at night, then get your first glimpse in the silence before the sun and the visitors arrive.

Our trip was actually a Thelma and Louise kind of trip in that Tina and I were bunking off from real life to the desert, though the intention was not to shoot anyone. At LA airport I felt drunk with excitement at going on a plane without infants, delirious at not having to wrestle a pram into the toilets, or spend the entire flight with one hand groping in a bag of squashed banana.

I became Thelma from the outset, owing to bringing an insane amount of luggage. It was all compacted into one smallish carry-on, but rather in the way that written-off cars are compacted into dense cubes of metal in wrecking yards. By the time we got to the gate, I needed a chiropractor, not a mini-break. Hair-straightening tongs? Three changes of outfit? What was I thinking? When we switched to a tiny plane at Phoenix, I ended up crashing down the aisle with the heavier-than-lead bag, now augmented by southwestern souvenirs and collapsible wheels which didn’t work.

“In the unlikely event of a water landing between here and Flagstaff, your lifejacket is under your seat,” said the stewardess as we took off for the hour-long desert flight. In fact, we were more likely to hit a swimming pool or golf course water feature than sand. Phoenix formed an extraordinary geometric pattern of hundreds of thousands of pools, fringed by the green swirls of the fairways. Soon, though, irrigation gave way to arid plains and, as the sun sank, we began a spectacular descent over the red rocks, mesas and ravines of Sedona, plunging so close we feared we might be skewered by a pinnacle.

Flagstaff felt suddenly remote. Night was falling, there was snow on the ground and the temperature was slipping below freezing. We’d originally thought of an open-top car but were glad now to pick up a sturdy FWD Jeep for the 90-minute drive ahead. As we left the city lights and plunged into the blackness of the Coconino forest, the sun was blazing red behind the trees like a menacing fire, and the headlights caught the shadowy figures of elk and the flash of coyote eyes. It was a relief to emerge on to a frozen plain, with the mountains ahead still glowing pink from the sunset. There were buffalo on the plain and, in a remote farmstead, one of the few white buffalo in the world. “Very Lucky,” the sign told us: “Come in and make a wish.” We both wished we could get to the hotel really soon. We were driving through a flat and almost featureless landscape now, yet just ahead was a gash in the earth’s crust so vast it is visible from space. I fancied I could sense its energy pulsing. “Look,” said Tina. “Shut up and watch the road.” As we entered the national park, we both grew silent, anxious that we might take a wrong turn and slither over the edge. When the lights of the tiny South Rim village finally appeared, we gratefully stumbled through the snowy car park, dragging the monstrous bag towards the grand old El Tovar lodge.

The El Tovar is a splendid place, one of several national park lodges built at the turn of the century by the owners of the new rail-roads. Part Swiss chalet, part hunting lodge, it has roaring fires, a huge, atmospheric dining room and dark walls made from tree trunks decorated with the heads of elk, moose and mountain sheep. The lodge was originally called El To Bar after a Spanish explorer but, fearing this might encourage guests to tumble from train to bar and over the edge, the management changed the B to V. This was probably wise since the rim is astonishingly un-protected: no nets, no fences, no warning signs. Apparently a surprising number of fatal falls are the result of people being so relaxed that they pretend to fall in to amuse their friends. But then it is the Grand Canyon, 18 miles wide, 277 miles long. Who are you going to sue?

After dinner we ventured out and rather frightened ourselves. It was dark and icy, with only a low wall between us and the abyss. You could feel there was something huge and terrifying out there but you couldn’t see it. “What hath God wrought?” intoned Tina in a silly voice. But neither of us could sleep that night and our heads, rather than calmed by new-agey vibes, were buzzing with strange canyon energy.

We had been given the two best suites in the house (the rooms on the whole are rather austere and without views), with huge terraces opening right on to the canyon. At first light, we stepped outside and there was the moment: mile upon mile of peaks, rock walls and ravines, unbelievable in the soft grey light. Moments later, a single dent in the rocks 10 miles away turned a brilliant red, catching the first ray of the rising sun, followed over the next hour by another, and then another, until the whole majestic spectacle glowed with a spectrum of oranges, purples and red. It was vital that we got off bright and early for the rest of our epic journey, but after the sunrise there was breakfast to be dealt with and then a walk along the rim trail. We were visiting at the quietest time of year, between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and what with the snow and decorations, it was quite festive and magical. We really were just about to set off when we got a message. The photographer! He turned out to be a charming young whippersnapper – suddenly we were Thelma and Louise again, and Brad Pitt had shown up. I rushed back to tong my hair (thank God I brought the irons!) and spent ages posing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, laughing gaily and draping myself perilously against a precipice, while Tina got more and more Louise-like, hissing, “We’re supposed to be in the Painted Desert.” By the time we set off it was ipm and we managed to get lost in the employees’ trailer park. As we drove repeatedly past the same inflatable Santa and bloodied deerskin drying on a washing line, we felt less and less like Thelma and Louise, and more like extras in Deliverance.

Eventually, we got back on Desert View Drive, which follows the canyon rim for 25 miles, passing a series of jaw-dropping scenic overlooks and some gorgeous examples of 1930s arty national park architecture. Our favourite was the Mary Colter Watchtower, a circular stone tower so rough-hewn that it looks like part of the canyon walls it rises from.

As we left the Grand Canyon and resumed the circular drive back to Flagstaff, we began to panic about time and I put on a tape of calming Native American flute music, at which Tina complained that it felt as if we were in a spa. It suited the landscape, though, as the road meandered along the edge of the Little Colorado River Gorge. This was Navajo country and the Native Americans – racially stereotyping their own proud tribe in order to sell stuff – had punctuated the roadside with luminous signs: “Got Turquoise?” “Bows! Arrows! Peace pipes!” “Nice Indians Ahead!”

Beyond the river, the Painted Desert unfolded, a vista of low rock formations shimmering in shades of pink, gold and lilac, like a not-very-realistic oil painting. As the flute music warbled, the vibe of a hundred American road movies seeped into our bones: the huge skies, cloud formations, gas stations, telegraph wires, and here and there a glimpse of the old Wild West: a herd of horses, a cowboy driving them home. There was so much left to see – a petrified forest, Route 66, Monument Valley a half day away – but we were all but missing the plane.

It was a ludicrously short journey. Had we not spent so long with Brad Pitt and the inflatable Santa, it would have been a longer journey, but no matter. Seeing the grandeur of the Grand Canyon at dawn was a spiritual experience that will stay with me for ever, and to which I now retreat whenever I am struggling with my hair-straightening irons.

Helen Fielding travelled with Kuoni Travel (01306 747008; kuoni.co.uk), which can tailor-make itineraries to the US and offers a seven-night fly-drive to Las Vegas, including flights from Heathrow and car hire.