Below the Rim

"It's good to have an end to journey towards; but it is the journey that matters in the end." This quote by Ursula K Leguin literally smacks me on the head at 5:30 am as I dash out my hotel room door on Grand Canyon hike day.  Hanging from my doorframe are streamers, balloons, lip balm, sunscreen and the above sign of encouragement.  The sign also reads "Take away memories.  Leave behind footprints.  Enjoy every moment of your 'Hike for Discovery' today.  Happy hiking."

            Feeling encouraged, loved and fully awake now, I run down to breakfast, relieved I haven't slept through my alarm clock and double wake-up calls.  On my back I carry: 100 ounces of water, 20 ounces of sport drink, trail mix, Power Bar, lunch, ID, rain jacket, room key, money (for post hike beers on the El Tovar Hotel porch), moccasins (for the same), Chapstick, sunscreen, trail map, hiking poles, a knee brace (in case), T.P. and doggie bags (for, eh-hem, taking out what you bring in).  That's not all.  On my body I carry: sweat wicking underwear, T-shirt, flannel shirt, zip-off leg pants, wicking socks, boots, sunglasses, cap, watch, and ID boot tags (required).  In my body are a few unauthorized tabs of Aleve.  My bare-feet are bound with so many Band-Aids, moleskin patches, gel pads, toe tubes and callous cushions that I can barely see skin. The night before, I diligently lay out these thirty-some items.  No one can say I am not prepared.

            My hike team of twelve boards our bus at 6:15.  We're whisked through the gates of Grand Canyon, shuttled toYaki Point where our hike down Kaibab Trail begins at 7 with temperatures in the 50s on the rim (70s on the canyon floor) with mercifully overcast skies. Our guide is made-to-order for me--a petite 52 year-old Mother Earth nicknamed, Mo.  She wears a frayed visor anchoring her tawny braid, hiking boots, prairie skirt, faded 'Life Is Good' T-shirt with little rips on the neck seam where her daypack rests.  She gathers us for introductions and a brief geology lesson.  The canyon is half as old as the earth itself.  When the land began to rise the river did not, instead sculpting the soft rock that settled and bonded, resulting in the vast chasm that we see today.  Looking at the history of the earth as a 24-hour day beginning at midnight, it would take until 9 am to fill the bottom third of canyon rock.  By noon the land would be covered with a giant ocean which ebbs and flows.  At seven minutes before midnight the waters finally recede--birds and mammals appear.  Three minutes before midnight the Colorado carves its vast river.  In the last 43 seconds humanity appears on earth but it's not until the last one-fifth of a second, in our 24-hour clock, that Native Americans come to the Grand Canyon.  I'm feeling insignificant in the big picture, when Mo asks if we're each wearing an ID tag on our boot.  Looking at my boots I answer dutifully, "Yes, and some of us are wearing two, one on each foot . . . in case they get separated."  Amidst the laughter, Mo disappears down the trail shaking her head.  "There's one in every group.  I'll have to keep my eye on you."           

            I step off the rim through some brush, and all at once the panorama is glorious, terrifying, awe-inspiring.  You immediately drop right into it--there's no transition.  Massive peninsulas of brilliant rust, crimson, ochre jut out for miles past the next canyon over and the next, and the next. Thousand foot drop-offs slide through my peripheral vision.  I pull the bill of my cap sidewise to hide the vast chasm--to keep from getting carsick.  My busy mind quiets because I can only focus on this.  But the vistas are shocking--my gasps are not all about being out of breath.  No wonder veteran hikers call this place spiritual and return year after year.  Our team falls silent absorbing the unfathomable view.

            Steep switchbacks and steps test my downhill skills.  Hiking poles help on the 15-inch deep steps, kinda like skiing--saves the knees.  I'm beginning to think the down could be as tough as the up, until I see the ashen faces and grim nods of those passing on the ascent. Switchbacks sear in my memory as groundwork for the return.  I pay attention to drinking lots of cool water and force down some sport drink.  Hydration, they say, will make or break your hike because in heat at 7,000 feet sweat evaporates quickly.  You might not notice you're loosing fluid until you're light-headed, and I do not intend to be dizzy on this trail. 

            After a thousand-foot descent and a mile-and-a-half of precarious trail, we come to Cedar Ridge, a bluff nearly half the size of a football field. Terra firma.  Uncinching my pack, I find comfy rocks, prop up my feet, munch pretzels (see photo) and marvel at the panorama that I've not been able to appreciate on these dangling trails. There's even an environmental porta-potty.  Too soon Mo powers up and we head on.  

Another thousand feet below we come to Skeleton Point where, finally, we see the Colorado River.  It's a tiny green ribbon, yet we are more than two-thirds of the way down the canyon. Scruffy wildflowers surround our 10 am lunch and turnaround point.  We drop into a switchback cove and nestle against the cliff wall, trying to negotiate shade.  No one feels hungry but we eat for stamina: Power Bar, trail mix, sandwich, warm water-- UGH.  A mule team passes us on the horseshoe turn, perilously close to my toes. Yikes.  Mules are afraid of me.

            The sun comes out in full before we begin our ascent.  Our team guidebook describes the Kaibab Trail as steep with no water and little shade, and the elevation gain is 2,000 feet, which will make the hike feel like 8-10 miles of intense uphill hiking.  At 11:30 we reach Cedar Ridge again.  I notice a thermometer--99 degrees in the shade.  We pass an older couple low on water; the woman appears pale and disoriented.  Mo gives them extra water and electrolyte snacks, saying the ranger is coming up behind us.  Even so, Mo kneels next to her and speaks reassuringly. She doesn't mention that the helicopter airlift costs $30,000.00.  One teammate falls apart in tears and wants to stay behind to help, but Mo gently refuses her.  "You'll see others needing help on this trail but it's not possible to help everyone--that's the rangers' job. They'll probably rescue 20 people in the canyon today.  My job is to get you back safely."  We do pass others in need, and Mo hands out her seemingly endless supply of water. All I can do is look down, put one boot in front of the other, like Sisyphus in Hades doomed never to reach the summit.

Again we're encouraged to speak up if our team is hiking too quickly.  My heart pounds loud and fast but I remain stubbornly silent, surprisingly grumpy, as I swig more hot water, chew more trail mix.  My lips will never touch trail mix again.  Since my electrolyte sport drink is hard to reach, I decide to mix it with my hydration system water--the one with the tube going directly into my mouth.  Big mistake. This blue sport drink is called Propel but they might as well name it Projectile because at 100 degrees, the stuff is pretty hard to keep down.  I remind myself that a real adventure is doing something in which you are not altogether comfortable.  How about not comfortable at all?

We come upon an overhanging ledge with shade and gratefully crawl in, scraping our packs on the crumbling rock ceiling.  Row upon row of massive cliffs throw out weird shadows that look like ruffled black petticoats peaking out under a swirling red skirt.  Whoa, I quickly cover my hallucinating eyes.  While we cool off, Mo asks if we'd like to name the people we want to honor on our hike. George, one of our lymphoma honorees, tells of his courageous friend currently in treatment.  Others weep openly naming their honorees. The emotional impact catches us unaware.  With a lump in my throat, I name my mother, my lymphoma survivor honoree Betty Bonner, and I read the list of my donors' honorees. Mo suggests there may be other people we want to honor on this hike, not necessarily LLS survivors.  My eyes fill, "I have another name," my voice wobbles and I change my mind, "but I can't say it."  I gulp back a sob: "I can't afford to lose the salt." 

As we head up the trail I say his name to myself.  I teeter light-headed, tingly, goose-bumpy, struggling to quell my emotional tidal wave.  Did you know that even if you're able to hold back tears in your eyes, they'll just come out your nose anyway?

On the final dozen switchbacks, I begin to sense the euphoria of the achievement.  Mo stops us one last time, and I press my flushed cheek against a cool rock face as she speaks.  "I always pause just before I leave the canyon, just below the rim, to look back and appreciate this majestic beauty.  In twenty minutes you'll be up there with the buses, the exhaust, the tourists and the noise.  Take a minute to thank the canyon or God or nature for what today's given you.  Take one good breath and thank yourself." 

Heat exhausted, dehydrated, overextended and fulfilled, we started with a laugh--ended with a tear, and a Grand time was had by all.  Thank you donors.  Happy trails.