One that calls people to it from all corners of the globe. And yet so few of us ventured down from the South Rim one day last week, bundled in four layers of capilene and fleece against the 20 degree morning, our feet strapped into Stabilicers and Yaktraks. Torn between looking down to watch our footing on the icy narrow trail and watching the sun peel back the shadows from snow-covered ridges, we smiled through the first three miles, until the trial became red dirt and we could shed layers.
Though the day was long, the distance was not. We reached the Phantom Ranch canteen before closing time at 4pm for a celebratory cold one. Our group cabin was a humorous bin of flotsam from our packs, everyone mumbling about how much gear they brought, wondering if they should wear all their clothing through the night since our bunks only had thin coverings. Bless Bill for the Grand Marnier, and everyone for not snoring.
If the color of sun against the canyon walls wasn't so captivating, it would be easy to suffer claustrophobia on the canyon floor given the brief day's light. Work crews scurried to put new roofs on cabins and Brian Weir of the park's fisheries department visited his traps to rid Bright Angel Creek of invasive brown trout twice a day, before darkness pulled a fresh blanket of stars over us.
Easily, the most magical moment was starting the hike out in near-total darkness and 25 degrees, warm again in our layers, all matter consumed by the roar of the Colorado River, rushing with purpose through its rocky maze. Fireflies danced on the canyon walls, the only evidence of hikers scattered along the trail. Though it never got above 30 degrees, the wind slept and let us be, and snow stayed in the ice clouds over the North Rim far away.
WOW . . . I feel the awe and almost like I was there with you (I wish that I was).
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