Of Gardens, Phantoms, and Frenchmen

“... If thou gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will also gaze into thee” (Nietzsche) 

Prologue 

What does this posting of a hike into the depths of the Grand Canyon have to do with mental health? Everything, my friends, everything. Imagine three days with your phone in airplane mode. Imagine three days in the company of kindred spirits... sharing hearts, hardship, and adventure. Imagine sleeping so close to the earth that you can feel its contours and rugged inflexibility.  

Our spirits need a break from the helter-skelter of this crazy life, but we often don’t do well sitting somewhere doing nothing, bored silly... trying our hardest to rest, reboot, and relax. Yes, we do need all of that, but we also need adventure in the middle of some wilderness somewhere where we can be reminded, as I am every time I experience the Grand Canyon, of how great our God is, and how small I am. My issues are insignificant in the face of such greatness, and God often speaks through the quiet solitude found in the depths below the rim. He also speaks in the wind that whistles up through the gullies and swirls around the ramparts, full force gales at times that move one's soul.  

We return from the Canyon sore but refreshed. Exhausted but rested. Worn out but ready to face life again.  

South Kaibab Trail

Part One  

Early morning of a cool day, scattered clouds, good visibility with the San Francisco Peaks to the northeast, Flagstaff to rear starboard, and the Canyon dead ahead. Another adventure in the wind. Trepidation, some anxiety, do we have everything, are these the right shoes, did I pack enough M&Ms and dried mangoes?  

The first stop, as tradition has it, is Starbucks in Tusayan, a few miles shy of the park entrance; a few miles shy of commitment and no turning back. Cheese Danish for carb loading and a hot latte for one last comfort. We met Daryl here, another member of the team, who just completed a 20-hour drive from southern Alberta. He looked fresh and rested, as usual (I wonder if the day will come when he does not look fresh and rested?).  

Once through the gate, we parked along the road as it appeared we could not drive to the trailhead (buses only) and thus our hike commenced at least a half mile sooner than we anticipated. We stretched, tightened the dunnage, extended the trekking poles. This section from the vehicle to the trailhead is called the break-in period, although at this point, no one will admit to alarm bells or yellow flashing dashboard indicators. We are committed.  

The South Kaibab Route is a first for us. Last year we did the Hermit trail, a rough, steep and unmaintained path down to the Tonto, then east to Monument Campground. This year we have a totally different itinerary. Leaving from the trailhead, we plan to head down the heavily trafficked South Kaibab trail to the Tip-Off and then west on the ancient Tonto to Havasupai Gardens (formerly known as Indian Gardens).  

The South Kaibab is much more open – wide expanses of endless grandeur that take the breath away. It's a good trail, well-maintained, where pack mules have the right of way. We set off over the rim and entered the otherworldly desert-scape of the latte-colored Kaibab crust, which is the first layer of this multilayered phenomenon. Not long into our descent, we met our first mule train working its way up, carrying garbage from Phantom Ranch. The sounds of hooves, leather creaking, slap of reins; two bandana and cowboy hat-clad riders; dust swirling off into the wind. We stood aside respectfully and watched this western old-world procession slowly make its way up the steep trail to the rim.  

South Kaibab Trail

After a few hours of descent, we arrived at the Tip-Off, which consists of a large open plateau, 360-degree views, a latrine, and a small shelter with benches for weary hikers. This shelter is a place for hikers to talk about their blisters, how much their packs weigh, where they’re from, and what routes they plan to take. We heard a lot of different accents and met people from the Soviet Union (their words, not ours), France, and Germany, to name a few. We rested there and chewed thoughtfully on our rations, gazing for miles in all directions. 

During our short stay at the Tip Off we met an amiable Frenchman named Thomas and his nine-year-old son, who had arrived from Paris the day before and were planning to spend a night in the canyon. This pair ended up playing an interesting part in our adventure over the next two days.  

From there the steep descent ended for us, at least for this day. We hoisted packs once again, said goodbye to Thomas, and set off on a lateral course across the side of the Canyon on the Tonto Trail. This is a lovely, meandering single track that follows the Tonto platform, where the Tapetes sandstone meets the bright Angel Shale layer. It's relatively flat with lots of sharp-stickered scrub, darting lizards, and the occasional deer.  

After a couple hours of this traverse, we arrived at Havasupai Gardens, which is a lovely and expansive oasis nestled in a massive slot canyon along the Bright Angel Trail. The Colorado River lies beyond the point in the distance and approximately 1500 feet below. Some areas down in this region were closed due to water line breakages last fall and thus we had to do about half to three quarter mile detour. This was a rather tough detour with a short but very steep loose, gravel switchbacks. We were many hours in, and, by now, trail weary. Two of the members went ahead, staked out a lovely little spot, and once we arrived, we took in the heavily treed oasis, the streams running through, our fellow campers, and then set about the tasks of camp life. Tents were set up, and of course, most importantly, our famous, matching lightweight chairs were assembled and placed in a circle. One cannot—absolutely cannot—camp in the canyon without a small lightweight collapsible chair. This was our main takeaway from last year when the score was five to one—one hiker had the chair, five did not. All six of us now had identical chairs. We were no longer distracted by disabling jealousy (not to mention sore gluteus maximi).  

The park ranger came by, checked and approved our permit, and then informed us that a ranger lecture would be held in the small amphitheater at 5:00. We all faithfully attended said lecture. Ranger Kate gave an interesting presentation on search and rescue in the canyon and started by dividing us into two groups and presenting us with a scenario. We needed to discuss and decide how we would deal with the situation with the stuff we had with us. Our scenario involved finding a 30-year-old male stopped on the trail hiking up from the river; he was found vomiting, dizzy, and in full sun. He had enough water, having packed at least 3 liters on his way from Phantom Ranch to the rim. What were we going to do? Well, we said, after some thoughtful stroking of our collective graying beards, we will cover his head with a hat, get a wet towel on his face, try to get him to drink some electrolytes or stick some salt under his tongue. Kate nodded in approval and agreed with the plan. She then regaled us with rescue tales and showed us pictures of choppers perched on small, red-rocked landing zones in impossible places; long-lining injured hikers to the rim and looking for fallen bodies.  

Later in the evening we were waist deep in a discussion on biblical doctrine, contentedly sipping on hot chocolates and coffees, waiting for the full moon to come up, when all was cut short by a yell from a nearby sleepy camper: “Hey guys, it’s quiet hours!” As it was only 8:00 PM, this came as a bit of a shock. But it dawned on us—or dusked, better said—that, while we were lost in animated conversation, the other campers had all snuggled into their tents and things were quiet in the campground. The hush that subsequently settled was rapid, and it wasn't long before we also headed into our tents to grab some much-needed rest. Not that any of us slept that much, by all reports, but we did rest. A few of us were up at 2:30 in the morning observing the full moon lighting up the Canyon. We could have easily hiked in the light of that moon... mesmerizing, otherworldly, casting a white glow on the desert landscape, offset by the imposing, sharply defined shadows of the endlessly rising ramparts. 

As we rested, the bullfrogs in the creek played their basso profundo every hour on the hour, like some irreverent and rebel medieval band in a desert cathedral. The sound of early morning rustling began around 5:30, and by 6:00, the sun was lighting up the distant skies and the camp was rousing around us.  

Part Two 

After breakfast, we readied ourselves for the trek back across the Tonto Platform to the Tip-Off, then down to the river and Phantom Ranch. Packs were relieved of anything we deemed unnecessary for the trip, and we set off... water bottles full, electrolytes in hand, hats on, sunglasses in place.  

Early morning hikes in the canyon with the sun shining on distant walls and sending shadows across the panorama are an altogether breathtaking sight. We weaved our way back, stepped across Pipe Creek, and finally arrived at the shelter where a team of mules was again heading up the South Kaibab, making the slow, dusty trip to the rim. At this time of day, a few hikers had arrived, but overall it was quiet and still.  

We took a quick break here and then headed over the ridge and down the trail. The surrounding scenery of the Tonto morphed into a deep iron red with purple accents—this is the Hermit shale layer and, in this area anyway, drops almost to the river where it meets the oldest layer of rock, called the Vishnu Schist or basement layer. These multiform layers that make up the canyon are fascinating, telling a story of massive flood waters that likely etched and laid down this grandeur over the course of weeks and months. Sorry, evolutionists, your million-year theories just don’t pencil out here.  

The descent required mandatory stops to admire the deep jade green of the Colorado as every turn and sharp switchback brought us closer to the Black Bridge that leads across the river to Phantom Ranch. As we descended, we met the heat and sweat clouded our sunglasses and washed the rims of our hats; we found our bottles of electrolyte water running low. Thus the canteen at the ranch was a welcome sight, and we gratefully, with satisfied sighs, lowered our packs onto the ground... Only to hear a woman shouting nearby after discovering a furry rascal had just chewed a hole in her pack, no doubt laying a new mining claim to some tasty granola. We considered ourselves duly educated and placed our packs prudently on a shaded bench, keeping a sharp eyeball out for the overly aggressive squirrels who slunk around eyeing us like we were their only hope for survival. It was at this point that we heard this canteen carried snacks, and a strange and exciting beverage called iced cold lemonade. You want to talk about rejoicing! Admittedly, it was the most expensive lemonade known to mankind, but one must keep in mind that it was brought down a long and steep trail by mules. Boy was this beverage delightful with refills at the bargain price of a dollar. We savored every drop and chewed the ice with the meditative intensity of an orthodox monk facing a long and hot pilgrimage to some distant icon.  

Lunch was taken in the shade of a large cottonwood tree, along with some friends we had made on the trail. Along with these friends, the Frenchman Thomas and his son showed up, looking rather alarming: haggard, drawn, flushed. It was at that point that we began to get concerned (perhaps we had been earlier already, I don't recall) and offered to split up their packs and accompany them back to the Tip-Off. Others, including the manager of the canteen, were also concerned as the trifecta for potential injury loomed: excessive heat, heavy pack weight, and the required hard elevation gain to get back to Havasupai Gardens. Thomas was adamant that he was ok, it was his boy who was suffering, and, he informed us, he had already taken some of the boy’s gear. He said they would be ok, as he loaded up with water and prepared for the hard climb ahead. We pledged to keep a close eye out, and some of us agreed to stay with him and travel back together.  

On the way out of Phantom Ranch, those with thicker skin, or perhaps Arctic sea-otter in their DNA, enjoyed a quick bath in the cold stream flowing down from the North Rim. A few of us went on ahead, not as inclined to swimming in freezing streams, the blistering heat notwithstanding.  

It turned out that the rearguard found Thomas and son stopped up the steep switchbacks a ways. Thomas was dizzy and vomiting. Sound familiar, like a certain ranger talk we listened to the night before? Sure enough, almost to the T, here it was, the scenario we had been informed of. Our lads did all the right things—apply wet towel, cover head, salt under tongue, slowly introduce water with electrolytes. They then traded packs, and our guys took Thomas’s pack which ended up being a heavy haul, probably between 45 and 50 lbs. No wonder he was struggling; this is an excessive weight to haul through the rather inhospitable terrain we faced.   

They began the slow trudge to the Tip-Off. Meanwhile another team member in our party arrived at the shelter, shucked his pack, and ran back down the trail to assist. Eventually the whole crew, with a recovering Frenchman, arrived at the shelter. We traded packs again and he said he and his son would be ok; they would probably stop for night along the Tonto at one of the creeks we had told him about. We exchanged phone numbers and hugs all around and set off. But not before he informed us that he owned a luxury Airbnb in Paris and it was ours to use anytime, no expiry date. He said: “You guys saved my life.” While this is doubtful, it is a nice sentiment.  

We arrived back at Havasupai spent. What we had thought would be an already heavy day of 14 miles turned out to be more like 18. This included a 4500-foot total elevation gain. We all felt rather accomplished and satisfied with a day well spent. We missed the evening ranger talk on the California Condors that can be seen occasionally soaring through the canyon looking for carrion. Unfortunately, we must now go through life not knowing much about this large bird.  

Trail from Tip-Off to Phantom Ranch

Part Three  

Our second night was more restful. I speak for myself. Certain adjustments were made to sleeping bag and pad and the night passed. Morning brought the knowledge that this was it, our foray into the canyon was coming to a close, and along with that thought came a sense of sadness. Not to mention the fact that we had the untrekked Bright Angel trail ahead of us yet. As we were preparing to leave, still munching our freeze-dried oats and drinking our coffee (I decided I would have been better off mixing some bright angel shale in water—I must find better instant camp coffee) who should come hotfooting through camp but Thomas and son. They appeared surprised to see us, excited exclamations ensued (“My saviors!” in heavily French-accented English), and shortly thereafter they had found their way off the trail, through the trees, and to our camp, where much fist bumping took place. He looked much better, and son was cheery-eyed and looking strong.  

As we stood in a circle, he told us again about his luxury Airbnb in the coveted heart of Paris and told us it was ours for nothing anytime we visited Paris. We exchanged phone numbers and more hugs all around and watched them trudge up the trail.  

As the sun began to ignite the surrounding cliffs and the morning bird song reached a crescendo, the Bright Angel beckoned. For the last time we hoisted our packs, said goodbye to other campers we had met and exchanged stories with, and began the trek, our sore calves loosening with every step. We had approximately 4.5 miles to hike ahead of us with an anticipated 3000-foot elevation gain. We left around 7:30 or so and hoped to reach the rim by 11:00.  

At one point during our ascent, we were suddenly aware of rotor blades above. We all stopped and looked up to see a rescue helicopter hovering directly overhead, a paramedic hanging out the door, a long line trailing beneath. After a minute, the chopper slowly flew sideways towards the wall of the canyon and disappeared for a minute, raising a cloud of dust. Then, just like that, it lifted skyward and there on the line was a stretcher with a paramedic strapped to the side. We heard then that a hiker had become unable to walk—rumor has it a broken or sprained ankle—and was airlifted out. The interesting thing here is that according to Ranger Kate, these rescues in the Canyon are of no cost to the hiker as long as a National Park Service helicopter is used. At this point we all felt tinges in our ankles and wondered if we would qualify for what looked like an exhilarating ride.  

Otherwise, the hike up was as usual. How is that, you ask? What is usual in the canyon? Carrying 35-40 lbs. is a slog. But when you are surrounded by some of the most picturesque landscapes on earth, the pain becomes pleasure. One step at a time, just keep moving slowly, and stop at places to sit on a rock and just take it in, marveling at the changing colors as the sun tops the rims and ridges and bathes the desert scape in a million shades of red and purple, with a hint of springtime flush on the steep scree slopes. As one ponders the greatness and munches M&Ms, there can be no better feeling.  

Except. When one is ten minutes from the top of the rim, the trails are full of day hikers and casual tourists and suddenly you pick out your wife coming down to meet you. She is likely more interested in your leftover mangoes and M&Ms but you can hope she is happy to see you and may even accept a stinky, sweaty, smelly hug from a three-day canyon trekker with a big grin on his face.  

And thus another GC hike reached its termination. As we stood there, us guys and the wives, for one last long look over the panorama disappearing into the haze, here came Thomas and son, their long trudge almost complete as well. Introductions all around and one last invite to Paris. Hopefully someday there will be a sequel to this that will be titled “From the Depths of the Grand Canyon to the Eiffel Tower” or something of similar weirdness.  

As we hobble to our vehicle, we are already planning next year’s hike. 

BF