My first contact with an orrery was in 1971 when I visited my uncle Lyle in Utah. He had to show me the sights and we had a great time. We happened to be at Dead Horse Point Utah where the parking lot fronts almost on the view-point – a marvelous vista of the North end of Grand Canyon where cubic miles of empty air below our feet emphasized the immense scale of the works of nature.
The Park Service was developing a tourist attraction nearby and among the new features was a planetarium, a lecture hall, and among the exhibits there was to be a beautiful orrery the rangers could use to illustrate their evening lectures on the mysteries of planetary motion. The orrery was built by a specialist sculptor. It was a grand glittering piece of brass and porcelain enamel and fine mechanism eleven feet across which arrived in time for our visit.
I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame. Naturally we had to rubberneck.
Apparently its creator was a far better sculptor than driver. He'd un-tarped and un-lashed the magnificent piece and was backing the trailer to get to the loading door when he jack-knifed it slightly. In slow motion the orrery tipped off the trailer, rolled on its wide round base like a huge pie tin across the parking lot, gained speed on the gentle slope, bounced over the curb, and went over the guard rail to roll into the gorge. There came a fine series of diminishing crashes as it fell from terrace to terrace to terrace for thousands of feet to scatter its glittering remains on the bank of the wide Colorado River, a mere ribbon of water far, far below.
A dozen people tried to stop it and a dozen people watched it go down the canyon. When it finally came to rest there was brass and fine mechanism scattered all the way down the slope; over a year's work was ruined and unrecoverable, sparkling wreckage amid a treeless desolation. We all looked at each other and at the weeping sculptor, a tragic figure if there ever was one.
People gathered at the guard rail. There was a grieving hush such that you could hear the roar of the river nearly a mile below. A small voice spoke. "That's a long way to tip orrery."