HUALAPAI INDIAN RESERVATION, Ariz. — Few tourist attractions at the Grand Canyon have generated as much hype as the Skywalk, the mammoth glass-bottomed deck that extends 70 feet past the rim of the canyon and offers breathtaking views 4,000 feet over the canyon floor.

It's being touted as nothing less than a spiritual experience. David Jin, the Las Vegas businessman who paid $30 million to build it, goes as far as to say that it enables visitors "to walk the path of the eagle."

Really? I was ready to find out.

When the Hualapais opened the deck for journalists this month, I arrived early and worked my way to the front of the line. Police ushered me and several others onto the carpeted staging area, handing each of us paper surgeon's slippers to cover our shoes and protect the glass.

I stood up, took a breath, and looked out into the abyss.

Something seemed to happen to my legs as I stepped onto the Skywalk. I had to concentrate to move my feet.

Was that a wobble? Maybe.

The Skywalk is like a huge steel diving board. Architects embedded shock absorbers into the railing to dampen the vibration. The result felt a little like being on a cruise ship.

I pressed on.

The Skywalk's builders have said repeatedly that the deck is extremely durable. It's essentially a huge steel horseshoe, capable of withstanding 100 mph winds and holding several hundred 200-pound people at a time.

I had no reason to doubt them. But out on the edge, my mind was racing: I tried to remember if any government regulatory agency had checked how well this thing was anchored to the cliff. I wondered what it would sound like for a million-pound hunk of metal to uproot and tumble 4,000 feet. Like an earthquake, I bet.

I wasn't sure I liked this. I'm not a tall man, and the glass wall didn't even come up to my shoulder. The canyon winds were whipping all around me, and it seemed like a good swift burst would be enough to push me over.

Maybe I was being crazy.

A few dozen journalists had joined me on the Skywalk, and nobody else seemed as concerned. They perched their chins on the glass wall and looked down. In front of me a British reporter laid on his belly and pressed his face to the floor.

I shuffled past them, hunched down and clutching the railing, just to be safe.

Finally, at the farthest point on the Skywalk, I stopped and peered through the transparent floor.

And there it was.

The cliff descended several hundred feet before it hit a narrow boulder-strewn shelf. Then it was straight down again, past a rainbow of strata, a few more chiseled ledges and into a dark crevice at the bottom.

This must be what Wile E. Coyote sees, I thought, just before gravity takes hold and he plummets into a little cartoon poof.

Far to the left, I could see ripples in the Colorado River. To the right was the triangular dip in the canyon wall that looks like the outstretched wings of a bird and gives this place its name: Eagle Point.

It was gorgeous.