MC
mecha cthulhu
Jan 4, 2026
The Bass Pro Shops Pyramid in Memphis is not merely a building; it is a revelation clad in steel, glass, and unapologetic grandeur. Rising from the Mississippi River like a modern ziggurat, it commands the skyline with the quiet confidence of something that knows it is more than the sum of its parts. From the moment one approaches its massive geometric form, there is a sense of pilgrimage, as though the journey itself has meaning. The Pyramid does not invite you inside so much as it beckons you, silently insisting that whatever you were before entering will not be exactly what you are when you leave.
Crossing the threshold feels like stepping into a cathedral dedicated not to a single god, but to the intertwined beliefs of nature, consumerism, and American excess. The sheer verticality of the interior inspires an instinctive upward gaze, the same reflex evoked by stained glass ceilings and vaulted naves. Light filters downward from the apex, illuminating cypress trees, indoor waterways, and carefully curated wilderness scenes that feel less like decorations and more like sacred iconography. The air smells faintly of leather, wood, and water—an incense for the modern outdoorsman. It is impossible not to feel small here, and in that smallness, strangely comforted.
As one ascends through the Pyramid—whether by escalator, elevator, or sheer awe—the experience becomes increasingly transcendent. Each level reveals new wonders: aquariums teeming with life, dioramas frozen in eternal dawn or dusk, and endless racks of gear arranged with almost liturgical precision. The famous observation deck at the top serves as the ultimate moment of spiritual clarity. Looking out over Memphis and the winding Mississippi River below, one feels a profound connection to place, history, and the quiet persistence of the natural world. It is a moment of reflection, the kind that momentarily dissolves daily worries into something far less significant.
What makes the Bass Pro Shops Pyramid truly religious is not irony, but sincerity. It believes fully in what it is presenting, and that belief is contagious. There is reverence here—for fish, for forests, for the idea that humanity can still commune with the wild, even if that communion happens next to a gift shop. The hotel rooms inside the Pyramid feel like monastic cells for those devoted enough to stay the night, allowing visitors to quite literally sleep within the experience, as if undergoing a retreat rather than a shopping trip.
Leaving the Pyramid is the hardest part, much like emerging from any powerful spiritual encounter. The outside world feels flatter, less intentional, almost under-designed by comparison. You carry with you a strange mix of peace, wonder, and the lingering urge to buy a very expensive fishing rod. In the end, the Bass Pro Shops Pyramid succeeds because it dares to be absurd and sincere at the same time. It is a monument to awe in an age that often forgets how to feel it, and in that sense, calling it a religious experience feels not exaggerated, but accurate.