A Travelogue
“The Grand Canyon is too grand for a steady diet. It is so overwhelmingly impressive that you cannot continue indefinitely on that exalted emotional level. In the parlance of the connoisseur of paintings, the Canyon is a “museum-piece.” Let the beauty-lover beware of going anywhere else on earth!” Robert Haven, American writer
Mystery
Bright Angel, Hermit’s Rest, Tonto trail. Monument Creek, South Kaibab, Indian Gardens. These names roll off the tongue with evocative pleasure, conjuring images of iron-red depths, endless plateaus, and ancient wonders. They leave one with a feeling almost spiritual in nature, mystery and greatness that is difficult to comprehend. The Grand Canyon, where these places exist, is good at that: a wonder of the world, impossible to fathom, difficult to reconcile and understand.
There are six of us here, giving ourselves to adventure, exploration, and to pain; friends, cousins, brothers-in-law. All seeking a brief disconnect from the breakneck speed and busyness of life. All seeking camaraderie, connection, and fellowship in a place that constantly reminds us of our vulnerability, insignificance, and fragility.
Anticipation
We all enjoyed the preparation, and one could argue that anticipation is half the fun, or more. Months of planning, research, and discussion. Weighing packs and reducing weight, ounce by ounce. Some took on a new quasi-religion: how light can we go and still survive?
Then the training. Nothing can quite prepare one for this type of hike other than this type of hike. My paved roads were no match, even though I have nearby steep hills to climb. We all trained in a form called “rucking:” the simple act of loading up, shouldering our “rucksacks”, and putting in the miles. Squats and running all help to prepare, to build stamina and muscle groups; however, unless you have a place that is steeply downhill, the strain from going rock to rock on rough terrain is tough to simulate on calves and feet.
Training is imperative but somewhat age dependent. We are all in our mid-forties to low fifties. We are no longer twenty-somethings with boundless stamina and strength. We will not breeze up and down that trail.
Descent
Once in the park we follow a slow bus along the winding road from the Grand Canyon Village to where the expedition will begin. As we stop and go, we catch our first glimpses of the adventure ahead just beyond the edge of the roadway. The skies are bright and clear and here at the rim there is a chill in the air, winter only recently gone.
The Hermit Trail is rugged and currently not well maintained. Years ago this trail was built with hand-hewn stone that made for an almost smooth surface. Today it has succumbed to years of erosion and wear although the original trail is still to be seen here and there. The early trail served a small mining camp at what is today’s Hermit’s Rest campground.
We stand outside the van, shivering slightly in the chill, gazing out over the panorama. We heft bulky packs, adjust trekking poles, and slowly make our way to the edge of the abyss. A sign there reads, “Going down is optional, coming up is mandatory.” Another sign warns of the dangers of descending into this wonder of the world. We read the warnings and then take our first steps down, the loose gravel crunching underfoot, while the breeze, like gentle hands across our backs, pushes us forward, coaxing, inviting us into the unknown.
After ten minutes of easy going, on a ledge overlooking the vast and hazy expanse that is the Grand Canyon, we stop and read a verse and have a prayer. We pray that in some way this hike can be to the glory of the God who created all this, who orchestrated the conditions that resulted in something so majestic. It is a momentous juncture, the secure, immovable rock anchored underfoot, the chasm beneath, the wall behind, the alpine growth and spring flowers silent witness to our awe.
For the first hour or two we move relentlessly downward, our legs a constant braking system as our poles reach for the next step. The trail then levels out a little as we wind around buttes and red-rock limestone-stacked monuments. We traverse uncleared rock falls, hopping and straining from large rock to small rock, testing our untried balance, heavy packs adding to the challenge. One thing becomes clear immediately: to descend the canyon you cannot be without water or trekking poles. Both are essential.
After a steep two hours through the Waldron Basin and the Hermit Creek gorge, we come to the Santa Maria Spring, where we find a small pipe coming out of the ground, water dripping into a wooden trough. We slip off our packs and step into the little historic masonry-built rest hut, the sheer sandstone layered cliffs rising immediately behind into the blue sky. We sigh deeply, stretch at length, and comment on this new and exquisite ache in our calves. Other hikers are resting as well: a couple of female trekkers, intrepid surely, telling stories of the river bottom and how you need not leave home-cooking behind and settle for those ghastly salt-laden freeze-dried meals. We listen with rapt attention, in dubious wonder, as the lady regales us with tales of baking bread in a small pot over her camp stove and making peanut gravy from scratch. We then notice her large backpack and see she has indeed brought the kitchen minus the sink. We envy her not the upward climb.
Refreshed and succored, we hoist our packs again, adjust our poles, take a final sip of tepid spring water, and single file down the path. The view changes every time we round another red-blackened butte and we stop often to drink in the vast expanse of wilderness.
Our camp is finally reached after a steep leg-crushing descent through boulders the size of small houses, shimmering loose shale, and under layers of sandstone that rise into the late afternoon sun. The monument, for which the creek is named, looms over us, a guardian angel, soulful, sober, frocked in russet red and black. The campsite spreads out among the wiry thorn bushes with little clearings here and there for tent placement. Thoroughly exhausted, we breathe deeply, raggedly, and drop our packs. We limp around on our tender calves and feet, wincing as we set up our tents, air up mattress pads, and spread out the gear.
By the time we are done setting up, the day is starting to wane and our priorities shift. Those freeze-dried meals with their high sodium and carb load are looking to put any Michelin-starred restaurant to shame. We hunker around our little stoves waiting for water to boil like starving men, entranced. We don’t need, much less want, homemade peanut gravy—we will settle for freeze-dried cheesy broccoli casserole and chicken alfredo any day.
The sun lights up the rim like fire as it moves toward twilight. Some try out a bath in the narrow stream that trickles and meanders close by the camp. Others filter water and give sweaty, tired clothes a rinse. We then sit around talking, sharing hearts and musing on the incredibleness that is our home for the night, a home surrounded by towering monuments of stone, protected by sacred minarets, and serenaded by the sound of water. We point out the silhouettes and shapes of spires on distant outcroppings, naming them: the backpackers, the mother with her children, the bowing priest.
The frogs, creepers, and other unknown desert dwellers come alive as twilight deepens. A million stars provide a sparkling backdrop to a sliver of silver moon riding overhead. A fiery falling star tumbles to the west, while the airliners track overhead, their white contrails lit up by the moon. In this amphitheater of God, we find our sleeping bags, and slumber off and on, fitfully; some wake up to do more stargazing and other things at 3:00 a.m. The frogs continue until dawn threatens and reluctantly surrender the stage to the morning canyon wren who tests her voice tentatively and then gives way to the glory of the sun.
Sleep is intermittent, sporadic. I wrestle with my narrow sleeping pad, grapple with my slippery blow-up pillow, and adjust my earplugs. Some lucky campers are not wrestling with anything, they are simply sawing logs.
Worship
Morning comes early. Lively song surrounds us as bright yellow and ochre-smudged birds flitter here and there, busy, excited, speedy dynamos on important missions. It is a little chilly this morning and after a restless night it is difficult to leave the warmth of the sleeping bag cocoon.
To the circle this morning everyone brings a little different kind of instant coffee. Some of these men, my fellow hikers, are serious coffee connoisseurs with highly refined tastes but I see no pour-overs, no expresso machines, no fancy caffeine apparati. It appears they all went for light and instant. Everything tastes a little better when you’ve hauled it over ten miles of treacherous terrain.
My cup of nameless caffeine steaming, I pour boiling water into a freeze-dried egg scramble that is more soup than scramble. It is a frothing pond with floating bits of pale yellow and what I imagine to be sausage chunks. My tastebuds, usually good-natured and accepting, eye this all with anxiety and a slight shiver of repulsion. Its nutritional content is debatable, and I try, like a gastronomical archeologist, to strain out the pieces of egg, sausage, and green and red bits that I assume are the long-lost remains of ancient veggies.
Two cups of scalding coffee later, one of our party reads from Psalms 104 of the New Living Translation and we stand together in this cathedral of rock and discuss faith, trust, the greatness of God and our place in the universe. We gaze up in silence and comment repeatedly on this awesome place, the scenic wonder of it all. Down here even these rocks rise up to worship the Creator, their massive bulwarks forming perfect naves, echoes of the endless wind their orchestra of praise. Our soft fragility and puny nothingness are almost laughable; and yet we, in all our infinite weakness, are the crowning point in this vista. It is humbling.
We wash our empty food packets and dispose of the garbage in our take-away zip-locks (leave no trace, pack it all out). It is still early, with the sun washing the high western walls, everything in bright relief this spectacular morning.
We decide to explore the Tonto trail a little further up from camp which means crossing the stream and launching ourselves up the steeply winding path. What appears to be ancient ruins are merely hand built rock structures that mark the path as it hugs the side of the very steep and, in some places, near vertical slope. The views are exquisite as is the pain in our lower extremities. As we start to climb, this time without the weight of packs, we feel like astronauts, weightless, free, our steps light and easy. The pain subsides as things loosen up and I find that after a few minutes I feel great. Wow, what an incredible way to spend a Sunday, in this wild wilderness cathedral.
This trail snakes ever upwards, then drifts down into a saddle, then around another corner and we behold yet another stunning vista, an entirely new panorama of red and gray-layered plateaus and flat-topped peaks. We stop often to tip this cup of splendor to the lips of our souls. This trail is full of spring vegetation, explosions of color blasting the hillsides; flowers bearing serious and sober monikers like Beard-lipped Penstemon and the Hoary Tanser Aster. Others with playful names, the clowns of the desert: the Globemellow and Blue Flax. These all the choir children in this amphitheater of God, bringing color and life to the arid desert depths. The hills around carry a faint smudge of green, no doubt the result of the recent rains and earlier snow.
As I hike alone for a while, an image invades my mind of the famous Louvre, the world-renowned museum of art with its vast halls and priceless works. I think of the endless lines of people waiting to contemplate man’s artistic treasures, observing silently, wondering, amazed at human skill. But the Louvre I’ve found here, this desert place with its vast halls, corridors, and galleries, is a place of sheer artistic and creative license beyond anything that Paris boasts.
Da Vinci had the nerve to keep us guessing on the Mona Lisa, but God had the nerve to allow sheer two-thousand-foot walls; the nerve to place a beautiful, red-flowered cactus beside a thirsty rock-strewn trail; the audacity to create boulders the size of houses and hurl them downwards into a wild abstract heap, a million tons of shattered sandstone and shale in this open-air gallery. And what is amazing here in this Louvre, the Louvre of God, is there are no line-ups, no congested rooms, and no counterfeits.
Rapids
Back at camp we rest, snack, and rehydrate. Granite Rapids is next on the itinerary. This means an hour trek down from camp, a descent of five hundred feet over a mile and a half to the Colorado River. The hike is, again, spectacular, nestled along a winding stream bed, the stream itself showing itself like a shy youngster here and there, disappearing underground for a while only to appear by our sides again, humbly trickling, for the final push to the river. The rock here, at the lowest point of the canyon is known as creation rock, mostly basalt, etched with quartzite and jutting sharply upwards at oblique angles.
We hear it before we see it. A mighty, continuous thunder. The river just upstream here is broad and smooth, and then narrows suddenly into a stunning set of rapids that roar by, waves flying into the air, the wind catching the tops and flinging water towards the bank where we sit on rocks watching this fluid cacophony.
A few of the more thick-skinned explorers among us shed their clothes and submerge in one of the many murky pools, the river swirling along the bank, in and out of the boulder field. They emerge from the icy water, like blue darters, after only seconds. Their sanity is questioned by the rest of the crowd while they claim virility and health. As I do not consider hypothermia and/or the chance of drowning conducive to my overall wellbeing I remain on solid rock, fully clothed and dry.
We wait then for rafts. We had seen, from the heights of the distant trail, rafting tours come through, but hoped to see them now braving these rapids in close-up clarity. But no go. After an hour here in this place of constant sound and spray we return the way we came.
Wind
Back to camp where we find the afternoon still early, with time to kill before we can light our jolly little camp stoves. Some go exploring, some read under sandstone cliffs by the watercourse, others wash their clothes. The diminutive stream that runs lazily past the camp disappears down a steep decline, and then runs through the most exquisite little canyon of its own, all polished gray granite, creating little pools here and there. It took two of us to navigate this stretch, an entirely invigorating scramble, water rushing beneath our feet.
Back at camp I take the chance to transform my tent into a surgical suite and lance two large blisters, one on each heel. Alcohol wipes, a swift incision, drainage, and the application of antibiotic cream and fresh Band-Aids. The pain, for a moment, jags like a knife, and then subsides. I gaze balefully at my hiking shoes while they peer up at me from the corners of their eyelets; I hear a little snicker then and, upset and disappointed, threaten them with the garbage bin when I get home. I had expected more. They had obviously expected less.
Ah yes, then supper time. Amazing how we look forward to this holy ritual: boiling water on our little camp stoves while reverently tearing open the freeze-dried teriyaki chicken on rice, and don’t forget to remove the freshening packet (although who knows, it may have improved some of the offerings on hand). We carefully pour the water into the packet and zip shut. We time it closely and then stir, as per instructions. As men we may not oft ask directions but when it comes to the life and death matter of food on the trail, we read carefully and do as it says.
Meanwhile, there is the wind.
The wind is different here. Different in the winding maze of the canyon where we sit, listening. I can hear it start way below, a mighty rushing sound, and it flows like the rapids, except upwards and sounds quite similar. A distant roar that comes closer every second, whooshes around the corner of the buttes and rock formations and then, with a crescendo, blows through the camp, whipping our tents, flap corners buzzing and humming.
Tonight someone had the truly bright idea to eat right down at the creek, which is only a matter of meters from camp but windless. There we had stones to cook on, and sit on.
Speaking of sitting: only one member of this expedition brought a chair. The rest of us suffered the cruel fate of sore backsides and jealousy. The one with the chair suffered from a crushing weight of guilt which seems like a fair trade. He was generous, however, and offered the use of said chair rent-free at times. And thusly, as we tried in vain to find comfortable rocks, we all wrote quietly in the journals of our minds: next time bring chair.
As the sun began its fiery slide to the west, the wind picked up again after a brief respite and we watched the skies nervously as a few clouds, then more, larger ones, took its place. Rain we said, I bet it’s gonna rain. Our leader became known for his tranquil and placid rejoinder: “It’s not gonna rain.”
We crawl in early, and sleep is fitful; the wind howls around the camp, the temp falls into the 50s. We burrow deep and try to sleep. Finally, around 4:30 AM we start packing up, our plan being to leave at 6 for the top. I think all of us, perhaps, has some trepidation about the hike back up. Seven hours, or more, tracking back over the trails we had descended only 24 hours previous. How would it go? Would we make it? As the first hint of light quietly touches the distant rim far above us, we prepare our minds for one small step at a time.
Return
By the time the sleeping bags are stuffed, and the mess of camp detritus is all placed back into bags and sacks, the day has dawned. A rather ashen dawn, with only a hint of sparkle on the distant rim. The clouds are moving fast, eager to get from rim to rim. A few sprinkles touch our skin, with a threat of more but it passes, and the clouds eventually tear apart and scatter. The promise of a nice day becomes reality. No worries, men, it won’t rain. And it doesn’t.
We hoist our only slightly lighter packs, stretch our calves, circle for prayer, and head off, single file, quietly, each with our own thoughts as contemplative companions. We nod respectfully to the tall monument that has guarded our camp, leaving it to its quiet and eternal ruminations. We pass the sign to Granite Rapids and The Creek. We angle upwards, around the base of the sandstone cliff where another hiker has set up camp. We start to loosen up, start to feel good, stopping often to look back from whence we came.
The trail begins to trend relentlessly upwards, then down again in brief respite, into saddles and passes, around corners and then veers sharply up a strewn boulder field. Finally, we arrive at a notorious, but beautiful spot called the Cathedral Staircase. The trail here switchbacks steeply up what appears to be a loose chimney and we quietly attack this, slowly, one brutal, burning step after another. We break to look over the view, catch our breath, grab water and snacks, and continue the climb.
Finally, after 6 hours of sweaty toil, we are back at the Santa Maria Spring and the little rest hut. There we stop for a while to heat water, make some lunch, and rehydrate. The spring is utilized, and water is filtered as we meet and visit with some other hikers. Now for the grand finale, arguably the steepest part of the hike, the most unrelenting final push to the rim. Here we will gain 2000 feet of altitude in the last 2.5 miles. We tell our limbic systems to never fear, we can and will do this.
As we near the rim we start to meet more hikers, mostly day hikers, coming down for a taste of the canyon. They meet us, six exhausted guys placing one weary foot in front of the other and ask where we’ve been. All the way down, we say, proudly, this our badge of honor. We have street cred now, we’ve been there. I, for one, have blisters to prove it. Legs are burning by now and the rim is tantalizingly close and yet so far. I begin to crash, and my buddies haul out the emergency rations of M&Ms and dried mango slices. Miracles are found in Mangoes and M&Ms. Energy renewed. The top is close now, we can taste it, feel it. Just. About. There.
Reunion
Being out of cell service for 48 hours is a deeply satisfying blessing in this present world. No updates, no notifications, no messages. No endless email. No reminder that your electricity bill is due, or you qualify for student loan consolidation. However, we also have no contact with our wives who are doing their own thing beyond the rim; things like sampling each coffee house in Flagstaff and hiking in Sedona. I wonder momentarily if perhaps they will be in attendance for the glorious return, but it is a fleeting thought and without service we have no way of knowing. I figure we’ll meet back in Phoenix for supper.
We stagger the last final steps, and someone says, a little surprised, hey I think we’re here, this is the top. We shift our loads and take one last ragged breath. We look down, past the rim, to the distant bottoms, exhausted, grateful, amazed.
As our phones power up the messages come in and what a surprise to see our wives have made the trip to the village to hail our triumphant return. They are on the bus, coming our way, be there shortly. Well, by the time this is figured out we are in the van, going their way. Unknowingly, we pass each other and thus they cannot be at the trail head to take our packs and walk with us that last glorious couple of feet. We eventually meet at the Grand Canyon village and are treated like returning heroes.
Minutiae
The Hermit Trail is well worth the time and energy. According to reports, the Bright Angel and South Kaibab trails are much better maintained but also see more traffic, including mules and donkeys. Like any of the campgrounds, a permit is required that involves a lottery entry, which was done for our group four months prior. You are then given a time slot and choose a trail and campground. The cost of the application is $150, and the park entrance fee for 5 days is $35 per vehicle.
It is imperative to be physically ready for this hike. It is difficult to prepare for such terrain but there are exercises and training that will give you the best chance. Most of us trekked our local roads wearing loaded packs. Squats and cardio, such as brisk walks and runs, build stamina and strength.
Bring enough water and wear good shoes that have been well worn in. Trekking poles are a required piece of gear in order to navigate the uneven, loose-rocked path and help balance a heavy pack load. A hat is important as the sun can beat down as you leave the shade of the cliffs.
Most of us took 50–65-liter packs and had a total weight anywhere from 20 to 35 lbs. You will thank yourself on the way up for any money you spent on lighter gear.
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The canyon leaves you with physical pain, true enough, but also with a keen sense of longing. A longing to go back, to experience again the vast and brutal majesty of its depths. You will experience something called canyon withdrawal which feels akin to a certain nostalgic depression for a few days afterward. It will make you reminisce, recall, and then, ultimately, cause you to begin making plans to return.
BF
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