Moments before midnight, at the Bright Angel trailhead on the South rim of the Grand Canyon, I am alone but for the wind, the cold, and the darkness. As I prepare to drop below the rim on my solo 44 mile ultra run to the North rim of the canyon and back, I pause to dedicate my run to the memory of Stephan Nikolai, a young man whose acquaintance I’d made during my years in Flagstaff, AZ. Stephan had died of an accidental fall during a solo scramble of Pumphouse Wash in Oak Creek Canyon. He left behind a young wife and two infant children, he was a righteous dude. I selfishly tack on my own hope for an epiphany, a glimpse of some greater meaning that will transform my run from mere recreation into one of my life’s pivotal moments. But as the wind blows through me and midnight approaches, I’d gladly settle for safe deliverance.
Flashback: five and a half hours earlier, I’d arrived at the Grand Canyon just as the sun was setting. Too late to enjoy the sunset, but it’s a moot point as I’m on a mission. After passing through the entry gate, I make haste to the Lodge at the South rim and ditch the car in a prime parking spot just outside the front door. This is my first bit of luck, as I will make several trips back and forth between car and lodge as I await the appointed hour. My goal is to sleep for a couple of hours in the back of the rental car after supper, but I realize that it is very unlikely that I will reach that goal; still, the hope is there. After dinner and some abortive attempts at sleep, I’ve still got an hour to kill, so I head to the Bright Angel trailhead, making note of the most direct route to get there. It’s a little confusing with all of the various outbuildings there at the South rim, but having been there many times as a tourist, I know generally where the trailhead is, and pick my route. Even now, after sunset, there is a slight glow in the sky, and I can just make out some of the features of the Canyon. It is vast, and dark, and I can see the flashlights of a few straggler hikers who are still making their way toward the rim after their own adventures down in the Canyon. After locating the trailhead, I notice that nearby is a kiosk of sorts that has spigots for potable water. It’s just a few yards from the rim, and I’m happy to know where I’ll be getting the first two liter fill of my hydration pack.
It’s already cold, even though the sun has only been down for less than an hour, so I head back to my car to stay warm and begin getting my pack ready. The pack and its contents are an all-important consideration on an adventure of this magnitude. I don’t pretend to be an expert outdoorsman. It’s important that I mention this now because I wouldn’t want anyone to mistake me for an accomplished anything. I tend to float through life and chase this or that adventure passionately, until I tire of it and move on to the next infatuation. But like the insane gentleman who famously retorts “I may be crazy, but I’m not stupid!” I take outdoor adventure seriously, and try to prepare as best I can. Your pack and its contents are all you have when you are alone in the wilderness. Know this: the Grand Canyon is as treacherous as it is beautiful. It invites you in willingly, but gives you up grudgingly.
I was savvy enough to know that any adventure below the rim of the Canyon required planning, especially related to weather, water, food, and navigation. This would not only be my first ultra run of the Canyon, but it would also be my first ultra run EVER. I didn’t want it to end in tragedy or even disappointment, but I knew that at the first hint of trouble, discretion required that I discontinue the run and return to the South rim and to safety. The Canyon doesn’t care if you hike out, or run out. It doesn’t care if you are packed out in a bag on the back of a mule, or if it buries you where you fall. When you show up at the rim of the Grand Canyon, you state your intentions and hope that on that day you have prepared enough to meet its challenges. At the end of the day, the Grand Canyon changes you; you do not change the Grand Canyon – it stands inimitable, ready to take on all comers. No feat accomplished in the Grand Canyon can overshadow the majesty, the immensity, or the sheer beauty of the place itself.
I grabbed my clothing from the trunk and brought it into the back seat. I had brought a pair of Nike running shorts and a wicking t-shirt, a Nike stretchy mid-layer long sleeved shirt, and my Salomon light weight wind jacket. I brought three pair of running socks, settling finally on my SmartWool ankle socks. My shoes were the Saucony Ride 2’s I’d been breaking in for about 2 years. These are straight-up road shoes, and are as comfortable as they are inappropriate for the rocky trails one encounters below the rim of the Grand Canyon. Still, I chose these shoes over my tank-like Salomon Ultra trail runners because they are light and nimble. I would both regret and appreciate this decision many times over during the course of my run. After my recon of the trailhead, I decided to have a look-see around the Lodge. There were a few folks milling about, and the restaurant, bar, and gift shop were still open, but otherwise, not much was going on. When 11:00 p.m. finally rolled around, I grabbed my pack from the car and went to the Lodge and went through everything one last time. I put fresh batteries in my headlamp and flashlights, packed everything neatly up. The minutes ticked slowly by, and I considered beginning my run earlier than planned, but the mystique of starting at the stroke of Midnight kept me patient, so I waited. At about 11:50p.m., I handed the desk clerk my camera and asked him to take my picture by the big rock fireplace in Bright Angel Lodge. He obliged without so much as an inquiry, and went back to whatever it is they do in that back room of theirs.
As Midnight approached, I began moving toward the Bright Angel trailhead. I stopped at the water kiosk and nervously poured two liters into my hydration pack, sealed it up, and put the pack on my back. I lit my headlamp and sparked up my new LED flashlight. These would be my only light for the next 6 ½ hours until sunrise. In the pitch blackness that stretched out in front of me there on the rim, I could feel the vastness of the Canyon, but I could not see it. The light from my lamps was swallowed completely by the vast, empty darkness that is the Canyon at night. I dedicated my run, made my peace with the Canyon, and without further adieu, dropped below the South rim on the pitch black trail.
I run trails because I love to run trails. For me, the choice between running on trail versus running on a city street is really no choice at all. I prefer to do my running out in nature, far from the pavement that separates us from the Earth in everyday life. But I’m not running now. I’m scrambling and hopping, pitching headlong along the Bright Angel trail over its gnarly, rock-strewn, washed out rutted surface, trying not to face-plant. Many of these early steep sections have timbers that cross the trail and form steps. None of these steps are regular in length, and many have edges that stick up, waiting to catch the toe of your shoe and send you flying. Amid the rocks and timber steps, there are copious amounts of mule poop to be avoided – giant green glops of the stuff left behind by the many commercial mule trains which pack people and provisions from rim to river and back daily. South rim mule poop has kind of a sweet, grassy fragrance, not horrible, but not something that I want to step in or fall into either. My progress is slow enough that I don’t need to worry too much about what’s up ahead on the trail, so I focus on the near-field and hope that smoother sailing is coming soon. After about 26 minutes of this, I pass my first landmark: Mile and a Half Resthouse. Yes, I’m barely moving down this trail, but it’s an appropriate pace for such treacherous footing. I’d love to run at my normal pace, but there’s simply no way. The best that I can hope for is to remain on my feet and keep moving. My lights are working great, but they could never match the light of day. It’s difficult to pick a clean line down the trail even with the LEDs on full throttle. My depth perception is non-existent, but my patience seems boundless, so I continue on.
The run is ON! There are no thoughts of turning back, nor are there thoughts of how far I have left to go. It’s one step at a time. I run when I can, I power-hike when I can’t find a runnable patch, and I move relentlessly forward. I’m working against the clock now. My goal is to be out of this Canyon in 16 hours or less. At mile three, I pass Three Mile Resthouse. Like its aptly named shorter cousin up the trail, TMRH has potable water and men’s and women’s bathrooms, along with a very small pavilion to provide shelter from sun and rain. I mark the time at 54 minutes and continue on. The gnarly trail continues intermittently for a few thousand meters more, but is gradually becoming more runnable. I’m pleased to find that I’m actually able to assume a comfortable running posture and my speed is increasing. My legs feel fantastic and I’ve barely broken a sweat. I’m beginning to relax now, cruising the trail at a safe and comfortable speed. I can hear the wind blowing gently around me, but have no idea what the area I’m running through looks like – I can only see the trail that is immediately in front of me.
I begin curving to the right when suddenly my heart jumps: off to the left side of the trail I think I see a large pair of green glowing eyes! It’s beginning to get grassy now beside the trail, and tall grass is a perfect hiding place for Western cougars. These animals are drawn dangerously close to areas frequented by humans as they hunt for food and water, and they are nocturnal, which means that I am invading their space! I have no weapons whatsoever, not even a can of pepper spray. I pick up pace and don’t look back. The trail veers to right again and as I raise my head slightly from the ground in front of me I again see green eyes glowing brightly dead ahead – and it’s BIG! I immediately switch to the high beam on my handheld and stab the beam dead-center between the eyes of a crouching…mule deer?
Not just one mule deer, but several. All probably wondering what I’m doing there at 1:20a.m, but not so curious as to show it. The deer continue to graze as I pass by close enough to pet them – but I don’t because…eeew! All of this lush tall grass and now trees can only mean that I’m passing through Indian Gardens at trail mile 4.3. It’s lush and at times swampy here. I stop at the resthouse and fill my hydration pack. I’ve barely touched my water supply, but have tapped it enough to have lost track of how much I have on board. Here then is an important commandment in the Canyon: fill your water bottles at EVERY opportunity. I fail to heed this commandment later in the run and pay the price, but luckily for me, it’s a small price this time of year as the weather is relatively cool.
As I continue down the trail, the sound of rushing water becomes louder, blotting out all other sounds. The sound is that of Garden Creek, which the trail follows for several miles before making an abrupt right turn toward Pipe Creek. I’m forced to carefully walk on rocks to cross several swampy sections with flowing water that the trail crosses. There may also be some short foot bridges in this section, but I can’t recall. Throughout the course of my run, I’ll cross many small, nameless bridges. At about trail mile 6.7, comes the confluence of Garden and Pipe creeks. Now the sound of rushing water is quite loud. I have not consulted my map since prior to starting, yet I recall that the next major milestone is the Colorado river itself, so I continue running, anticipating the sound of serious water. Finally, after about 7.25 trail miles, the trail veers sharply to the right, and I realize that I’m running parallel to the Colorado river. Suddenly I see a flashlight ahead, which surprises me. I’m not sure why I would be surprised; there must be plenty of folks traipsing through the Grand Canyon in the wee hours of the morning, right? The light belongs to a man from Arkansas who’s dressed entirely in camo. He’s sweaty and seems disoriented. He tells me somewhat deleriously that he’s on his way to the Bright Angel trailhead (my starting point). He further tells me that he was hiking, and then he got tired, so he laid down to sleep. Now he’s on the move again, heading unsteadily toward his destination. I answer a few questions for him and then ask him the question that has been most on my mind since the start: “What’s Wall creek doing?”
The North Kaibab trail crosses Wall creek between trail miles 15 and 16. I had read that the creek had earlier in the year been a raging torrent, fed by monsoonal rains up-Canyon. This creek crossing is unique in that if the water is high, there is no avoiding getting your shoes wet. The trail crosses Wall creek just a few paces away from where it plunges over a waterfall. In high, swift run-off, the combination can be deadly. The disoriented Arkansan tells me that he has not had any difficulty on any of the creek crossings up-trail. I’m instantly relieved. It’s an odd encounter, and I never see him again, so I figure he either made it out or found another place to doze off. Either way, he had safely crossed the Colorado river…
Through pitch darkness, I can hear the Colorado roaring to my left, but cannot see it, even with my flashlight on high-beam. I continue to descend, without knowing exactly how far the river crossing is. I have plenty of time to consider the power of this mighty Western river, which has dragged many people to their doom over the past century. The darkness, the roar of the approaching Colorado river, the knowledge of its treachery, and my imagination have conspired to ignite a fearful spark deep in my mind. Suddenly, the river seems malevolent, eager to snatch me and drag me under. I begin planning a strategy in the event that I fall into the Colorado while crossing the bridge: pitch the pack and the shoes, and stroke hard for shore. Try to make shore before being dragged down the deadly rapids at Pipe Creek beach. I run on, consumed by the vision of my shoeless, packless, life and death struggle against the raging torrent when the trail suddenly ends; and a silver suspension bridge looms before me.
Silver bridge. I know only that this bridge crosses the Colorado river. I have no idea of how long it is, or how high above the river it is. I know that there is a similar bridge called “Black bridge” about a half mile up river from here that connects the South Kaibab trail to the Bright Angel trail. Why the two bridges are so close together I couldn’t say, and right now, I couldn’t care less. I’m taking my first tentative steps onto Silver bridge. Below my feet are square grates that comprise the pathway. Below the square grates and about 60 feet down is the rushing Colorado river. At first I walk, then I begin to run. Then I stop and shine my flashlight over the railing and down at the river to face my fear. Lots of rocks, I may not survive the fall after all, so now I’m forced to rely simply on fate, and the hope that this slender suspension bridge, which has stood here for who knows how many years, will not spontaneously snap and pitch me into the Colorado. So far it’s holding, so I turn my attention to the grates themselves. What, exactly, is holding them to the bridge? They rattle when you step on them, so they must be loose, right? Fortunately, I only need to endure a few hundred feet of this sinister, rattley deathtrap and I’m back on terra firma – running on the North side of the Colorado river.
It’s a little after 2:00a.m., and there’s still plenty of pitch black single track to navigate before sunrise, but the running is easier now. I’m nine miles into my run and cruising through the Bright Angel campground, heading toward Phantom Ranch. Since I have no plans to sleep in the Canyon, I haven’t done my homework on the accommodations. There are a few tent camping sites at Indian Garden, Bright Angel, and Cottonwood campgrounds. I seem to recall that there were cabins available at Phantom Ranch, but that you need to book them years in advance. I pass through the Bright Angel campground and not a creature is stirring. I stop to fill my hydration pack and put moleskin on both of my big toes, which are starting to develop hot spots. A quarter mile later, I enter Phantom Ranch. I encounter another hiker getting an early start on his climb to the South rim. The timing is perfect, as I’ve become disoriented by the many trails through this rustic outcropping of humanity. The hiker points me in the right direction, and I am again on the run. After Phantom Ranch, I have about a 6 ½ mile run to get to the Cottonwood campground and more water. Actually, that’s not true at all. There is a water stop about a third of the way up-Canyon, but I run right past it without seeing it.
The trail over this 6 ½ mile section is supremely runnable, but it is also an uphill grind, so I run when I can, and power-hike when the trail is too steep. Having missed a perfectly good water stop, and by pulling repeatedly on my hydration pack, I tap- out my water about two miles out from the campground. Being out of water is cause for concern, but I’m not terribly concerned. It’s nighttime, and even though I’m working hard, I’m not losing that much water to sweat, so I plod along, crossing the occasional foot bridge and generally covering ground. When I finally do come upon Wall creek, it’s as gentle as a lamb. I carefully walk across the stones that are placed there, and manage to keep my feet dry. When I arrive at the Cottonwood campground, I’ve worked up a powerful thirst. I find the water spigot which is right next to the trail and well marked. As I prepare to fill my hydration pack, my flashlight is pointing directly at a large brown object about 10 feet away. I stare at the object (which seems to be soaking up all of my light) trying to figure out what it is. I suddenly realize that it’s a tent! I switch off my light and mumble an apology, but no one is stirring. If I had consulted my map at this point, I would have realized that I was a mere 6 trail miles from the North rim. Six miles, that’s a little shy of 10 kilometers. Heck, back home I’d pound that out in about 48 minutes without much effort. But my 6 mile runs back home are not a brutal uphill grind with 4,000 feet of elevation gain.
The lowest point of my journey so far was the Colorado river, which resides at an elevation of 2,400 feet. Here at the Cottonwood campground, the elevation was about 4,200 feet. The North rim enjoys a lofty 8,250 foot perch. By the time I arrive at the North rim trailhead, I will have gained a total of 5,850 feet, well over a mile straight up! This bears little resemblance to the pastoral, rolling hills of the Midwest. With the increase in elevation comes the prospect of thin air. I’ve hiked many times at altitudes above 12,000 feet, and can attest to the fact that getting enough oxygen can become its own issue. On this run however, elevation never becomes an issue. I hammer up-trail endlessly, switchback after merciless switchback, and the miles slowly pass by. At about 5:30a.m., I notice that the sky is beginning to brighten. For the first time on this run, I’m feeling time pressure. Yesterday, as I passed through Flagstaff on my drive up to the Canyon, I stopped and had coffee with my old friend Way Yuhl. With almost no advance notice from me, Way had agreed to cancel his plans for today and run from the South rim down to Phantom Ranch, where we plan to meet on my return trip. At that time, I had estimated that I would be to the North rim by sunrise: 6:30a.m., and back to Phantom Ranch between Noon and 1:00p.m. But the sky is brightening and I’m still several miles from the trailhead grinding it out.
The scenery is changing steadily as I ascend. I enter Roaring Springs canyon, cross a footbridge and it is there that I encounter the first day hikers who began at the North rim well before sunrise. I recall being happy at the thought that this meant that I was getting close! I pass Roaring Spring, which gushes vast quantities of pure spring water out of the canyon wall. This water is subsequently captured and piped many miles to the South rim, providing most of that area’s usable water. Roaring Spring is no misnomer, I can hear the sound clearly from across the slot canyon I’m ascending. I pass through the Supai Arch – two miles to go. I slog on relentlessly, pushing for the rim. A short time later, I pass the day’s first mule train heading down into the Canyon. I follow Canyon protocol and ask permission to pass the train, which has stopped on a bend in the trail to allow the mounted tourists to take pictures from the Coconino Overlook. The driver bids me passage, and I slowly pass the mules on the inside of the trail. The driver is saavy, his mule is facing the inside of the trail, its backside to the precipice. No sense taking a 200 foot ride straight down on the back of a spooked mule. The tourists and their mounts are taking in the scenery. No funny business here – I don’t want to be responsible for putting one of these souls on the fast track to Roaring Springs. A few more hikers go by, a few other runners. Finally, at 8:30a.m., I burst out of the Canyon and stand at the trailhead of the North Kaibab trail.
The National Park Service strongly recommends that hikers do not attempt to hike from the rim to the river and back in one day. Many of the people that I encounter in the Canyon have been planning their hikes for months or years in advance. Whether their plan is to hike from the rim to the river and camp, or to cross the Canyon in one or two days, they have done their homework and are well prepared. But even these people, who have planned and plotted their trips, studied the Canyon lore, the weather, the maps, the websites, down to the last nuance, are completely astonished when they find out that I am crossing the Grand Canyon TWICE in one day, in the course of one very long run. I am given rockstar status by everyone with whom I talk during my adventure. The woman who took my picture at the North rim trailhead was so excited that she ran to get her daughter so that she could tell her the news. The two of them then ran back to the trailhead and excitedly asked me questions. Word of my adventure difted over to a group of about a dozen women who were about to embark on a day hike into the Canyon. Their guide, a seasoned veteran of the Canyon, was going through her well- rehearsed safety speech when the group’s attention shifted to take in the commotion. I was loving it, but the clock was ticking. I was two hours behind schedule. I filled my hydration pack, ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, shouldered my pack and began running in the direction of the South rim. I still had a trail ½ marathon (13 miles) to run before meeting my friend at Phantom Ranch.
Can we talk about mule poop? I’m not sure if it’s due to the presence of more moisture on the North rim, or if perhaps there’s more mule traffic, but the North Kaibab trail, from the rim down to about the Supai Arch STINKS! Unlike the semi- sweet smell of South rim mule poop, North rim mule poop is gross! It’s also ground into the trail in many places, creating a thick paste that can cause your feet to slide out from under you. (Throughout my run, I had obeyed another of the Canyon’s commandments: Stop first, then look. Hours ago, while stopped in the darkness a few hours into my run, I’d looked up at an encroaching canyon wall and pitched over onto my right side, scraping my right elbow.) As I bombed down the North rim, the last thing that I wanted to do was to take an unexpected fall into the poop-mud or worse yet: the mule urine puddles! Enough said about that.
Having launched into my return trip across the Canyon, I was both elated and stressed out. Elated for the obvious reasons. Stressed out about how far I’d fallen behind schedule. Having left the North rim trailhead at about 9:00 a.m., and needing to run a ½ marathon before arriving at Phantom Ranch to meet my friend, I was feeling time pressure. My fastest (and only) trail ½ marathon to date had taken place about 3 ½ months earlier in June at Devil’s Lake State Park. At that race, I’d run the ½ marathon in a little under 2 ½ hours. That’s respectable for trail, and if achievable in the Canyon, would get me to my destination by 11:30 a.m. I’d told Way to expect me between 11:00 and Noon, so this was within the relevant range. But of course, this was the Canyon, a place to which time has no significance. Regardless, I motored on. I cleared the intense switchbacks of the upper rim, screamed past Roaring Springs, and marveled at how intensely HUGE the Grand Canyon is. As I descended deeper and deeper into the Canyon, the weight of the distance that I’d need to travel to get back to the South rim began to sink in. Every landmark that I approached seemed dauntingly far away. I stopped frequently to take pictures of that which I could not see on the first leg of my run. It was crazy to me that I had passed through such an immense wilderness in the dead of night and hadn’t even grasped it! In the dead of night, when all I could see was the few feet of trail that my meager lamps could illuminate, the trail seemed long but manageable. NOW, in the bright sunlight, it appeared endless.
Four miles down from the North rim, I stopped at the Pumphouse Residence and filled my hydration pack (I’d also filled up about 2 miles earlier near the Coconino Overlook and had my picture taken again by some folks in a mule train). As I filled my pack, a party of hikers came in and de-packed and started breaking out the moleskin. There was also a small trail crew and some horses who appeared to be doing something or other. As I finished filling my pack, one of the trail crew announced that in a few minutes, there’d be a helicopter coming in to haul out some of their gear. The crewmember told folks that it would probably get pretty dusty, but that they could stay if they wanted. I was ready to move on anyway, so I continued on along the trail. A few minutes later, as I ran in the direction of the Colorado river, I heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. I was on a ridge overlooking the Pumphouse, so I snapped a few pictures of the helicopter as it came in, hovered, and hooked onto a bundle of equipment using a long cable. I saw the helicopter two more times as it ferried gear back to the South rim. That ride costs about $5,000 if you’re injured in the Canyon and need to be flown out, but at least they don’t hook you onto the cable.
Less than two miles later, I was passing the Cottonwood campground. Having just filled my hydration pack at the Pumphouse, I didn’t bother to stop to top it up here. I didn’t really want to take the time, but I also didn’t see the point. In retrospect however, this turned out to be a mistake. Had I consulted my map at this point, I’d have realized that there is no other potable water between Cottonwood campground and Phantom Ranch. When I sucked my hydration pack dry with over a mile to go, I was forced to walk that last mile to conserve the water that I had in my body. Paradoxically, there was a robust stream that ran for miles along the very trail that I was on. Presumably this water was coming down from Roaring Springs. Having no water purification equipment with me, I was not willing to take a chance on it, so I began walking. I had broken one of the Canyon’s major commandments: thou shall fill up your water bottle at EVERY opportunity. In Summer, this would have been a major strategic blunder with possible dire consequences. In mid-Fall however, it was merely an inconvenience and a valuable lesson. That last mile would have been easy running, and walking was putting me further behind schedule, but it was the right thing to do. I finally loped into Phantom Ranch at 1:00 p.m. After a few minutes of looking around at the various buildings that occupy the site, I found my friend, who had arrived just 15 minutes before me.
Way and I go way back, back to the days when I lived in Flagstaff. He and I are good buds, and we have the kind of easy rapport that good friends are supposed to have. We share a similar world view and sense of humor, and are the type of fathers that enjoyed hanging out drinking beer around the campfire after our Cub Scout children had gone to sleep in their tents. We also thought nothing about grabbing a sixer and taking the kids to the park to play while we downed a few and shot the breeze. Way’s about 7 years younger than I am, and he’s had real Canyon experience. I get the sense that he’s always been physically fit, although I may find out after he reads this that at one point he weighed 300 pounds. Whatever. Suffice it to say that Way has always been up for getting into the outback for a hike or whatever, and he’s always been able to go the distance. I was stoked when I found out that he’d be running down to Phantom Ranch to join me for the last, arduous 9 miles of my journey. He had confessed however, that he’d not done any real training in some time, least of all running. Nonetheless, he had again risen to the challenge and had run those 9 miles down to Phantom Ranch, where we greeted each other with mucho gusto.
Phantom Ranch is unique in the Canyon, as it has a store/restaurant, in addition to a few cabins, clean bathrooms, and a telephone that hikers can use to call the outside world. After quaffing two lemonades each, I told Way that at this point, I was plenty tired, and wouldn’t mind at all just hiking the last 9 miles out of the Canyon. Way seemed instantly relieved at this suggestion, as the run down to Phantom had taken its toll on his untrained body. Thus it was resolved, and I suggested that it was time to hit the trail. Way commented that his feet were hurting, and that he thought that he might be getting some blisters. I recommended that he cut up some moleskin and deal with them now, but he was hesitant, not wanting to take his new, unbroken-in, slightly too small shoes off. I said “Dude, what are you doing running the Canyon in new, unbroken-in, slightly too small shoes? Holy crap!” Way did not want to see his feet, but I finally convinced him that it’d be better to get a jump on the blisters now than to wait until we bagged the South rim. I’d brought along a full-on first aid kit. Reluctantly, Way removed one of his shoes, and then his sock. I stood there for a moment and looked at his foot. I thought it was odd that he had these long, red, leach-like things on his foot. It looked like someone had taken a red candle and dripped long, red, wax lines in various places on his foot. I suddenly realized that these were long blood-blisters! I handed Way my pocket knife, antiseptic spray, some bandages and a Kleenex. He began to lance each blood- blister, squishing out the blood into the Kleenex, spraying them with antiseptic, and then bandaging them. Way announced that at that point, he thought he’d probably be losing both of his big toenails due to impact trauma. Upon inspection, both big toes had wall-to-wall blood underneath the nail.
Despite our earlier resolution to hike, we took off out of Phantom Ranch on the run. In less than a mile, we were standing on Silver bridge. Way asked if I’d like to have him take a picture of me on the bridge, and I told him that that’d be great. I handed him my camera, walked a few paces out onto the bridge, and he took a photo of me that I will cherish for the rest of my life. In the picture, I’m standing on the bridge, one leg bent, hands on the railing on either side. I look happy and amazingly clean. Way would comment later upon seeing the picture that I look like I’d just showered and gotten dressed a few minutes earlier! This is the value of not falling on the poop-strewn trail.
We crossed the suspension bridge, and I recounted to Way my anxiety at having crossed it at night, and how I’d built up this nightmare scenario all those hours ago. We hiked on, gaining elevation with each step. The trail veered South, away from the mighty Colorado. At this point, we were well above the river, looking back at it from a distance. I snapped a picture from this vantage point, then spent a few moments just staring at the scene that lay before me – the river, the rocks, the Canyon soaring a mile high above us. Too freakin’ much! At this point we were at the Pipe Creek Beach rest house, just a tad over 7 miles from our destination at the South rim. We turned our backs on the Colorado and hiked on. Way began to complain of feeling ill, and wasn’t really sure what was going on, whether he was dehydrated, or perhaps over-hydrated. Regardless, he felt awful, and I was beginning to wonder how these next 7 miles were going to play out. Taking ill in the Canyon can have serious consequences. The best case scenario is that you’ll be forced to march many difficult, grueling miles feeling God awful. The scenarios after that are less appealing. I began the task of mentally check-listing what I would do if my friend suddenly cratered out. Fortunately, Way held, and we managed the next 2 ½ miles to Indian Garden without incident.
We took an extended break at Indian Garden, and after a rest, Way rallied. With 4 miles to go, we exited Indian Garden and hiked along Garden creek, gaining elevation with each step. At some point, the trail meandered away from the creek, and we entered into a section of serious climbing that would last for over three miles. These were the final miles of the ascent of the South rim, and in those 3 miles, we would climb over 2,500 vertical feet. At Three Mile Rest house, we filled our hydration packs and ate a snack. Shortly thereafter on the trail, we hit a series of gnarly switchbacks known as The Devil’s Corkscrew that garnered us a huge chunk of elevation gain. When we had hiked further up the trail from the switchbacks, Way pointed them out and I took a few pictures. Looking down on them from up-trail, it was incredible to think that we’d just hiked up them!
The final three miles were brutal. Not so much because the trail was so steep, it surely was, but because each time that we’d look up, it seemed like we were no closer to our destination. Each time, the South rim appeared to be just as far away as it had been the last time we’d looked – towering impossibly high above us. The photographs taken during this climb tell a different story however. With each successive picture, the Canyon walls are changing, showing irrefutable signs of our progress along the trail. On the trail itself however, as each step was meted out, and each switchback led to yet another switchback, time seemed to have stopped. With two miles to go, the clouds that had been gathering for the last hour or so finally let loose and we were hit with rain and gusty winds. Although steady, the rain was not heavy. It soaked us but did not drench us. At the Mile and a Half Rest house, we ducked under cover. Way sprawled out on the cement pad for a rest, and I chatted with two hikers who had just hiked down from the rim. The rain stopped, and a faint rainbow appeared above the Canyon. As with all rainbows, I took this as a good omen.
We were moving again, making progress. Within a mile of the South rim trailhead, it grew dark. When it finally became too dark to see the trail, I re-employed my two handheld flashlights, giving one to Way. We continued up switchback after switchback until at some point, I looked up and my light was hitting the side of one of the historic South rim buildings that are perched precariously on the rim of the Canyon near the Bright Angel Lodge. Within a few steps, we were congratulating each other at the trailhead.
Epilog: It was 7:00 p.m., and I had been below the rim of the Grand Canyon for 19 hours – 17 of those hours had been spent in relentless forward motion. I’d covered 44 miles, crossed the Colorado river twice, run further and for more hours than I’d ever run before. I’d been frightened, courageous, anxious, euphoric, tired, energized, famished, and nourished more times and in more ways than I could ever recount. And while I never did have the epiphany that I’d hoped for, I did gain insight into myself, the nature of friendship, and the power of joint struggle. In a sense, this experience has defined me. Not as a person who can traverse the Grand Canyon twice in a single day, but as a person who, through determination, can accomplish what he sets his mind to. I’m well satisfied with that, and hopeful that my children, and others who may read this story, will someday discover this about themselves.
