Another Walk in the Park

It’s an hour after sunset and the temperature on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon is 8 degrees. Hmmm.

But that’s alright. Watching as hikers file into Bright Angel Lodge, their faces crusty with memories as they turn towards the glowing stone fireplace, their packs sliding from their shoulders, we are reminded that not only can it be done, but it’s more than worth doing.  The tourists wander between the bar and gift shop, peeking tentatively outside at one of the seven wonders of the Natural World.
Word spreads quickly among those heading down: broken water pipes at Phantom Ranch. No hot showers, no water to flush toilets with. Someone must have turned off the drip, allowing a pipe to freeze up and burst.

Layers; it’s about layers.

And carbo loading.

We head to the cafeteria at Maswik Lodge for pizza, pasta, potatoes and a nice green salad. We top that off the next morning, balancing forks and spoons between our mittens, with hot oatmeal, fruit and some unspeakable meatish things the guys pretended to like. Lacing ourselves back into full body armor against the cold, half our group headed to Bright Angel trailhead (two miles longer, but gentler on the joints), the other half crunched a snowy path to the shuttle stop en route to the South Kaibab trailhead. While waiting we studied the topographic maps of the canyon and weighed our backpacks on a hook suspended from the ceiling. Most were in the 20-24 pound range. I managed to top 34 because of my camera gear. Do I look like a mule? (Don’t answer that).

Overnight the temperature got down to .5 degrees. That meant ice on the trail for the first two miles, so we strapped our Stabil-icers and Yak-trax to our boots. Stuffed from all the food, wrapped in capilene, fleece, down and gortex, now perched on spikes, we checked all the boxes on our “before you go” mental lists and leaned downhill.

As the sun reached for the cliffs on the north side, it was eclipsed by jagged vertical spires on the south, casting shadows across sedimentary and volcanic rock cliffs. As the sun rose higher, the long shadows receded deeper into the canyons, peeling back to reveal dark purple tapeats sandstone, said to be 525 million years old, and the supai group, a layering of red sandstone, shale and limestone quite the junior layer at 315 million years old. We were walking in the toroweap formation, the gray and white shale-limestone terrace just below the rim; a mere teenager at only 273 million years of age.

Mules came plodding up the trail. We plastered ourselves against the canyon wall, lest a random head butt send us down the embankment. Other hikers came from behind us and passed, one wearing a long wool skirt over her thick long johns and hiking boots. Clearly we didn’t get the memo about fashion. She was a veteran of this trail and warned us of ice around the next hill that they’d seen two days ago.

We shed our down coat layer and yak-trax before plummeting into the first stage of switchbacks our companions on Bright Angel knew well enough to avoid. One can’t help but appreciate not only those that first cut these steps, but those who regularly maintain them, and the mules who navigate them without tumbling into the canyon below.

A couple speaking Spanish and carrying nothing but a video camera bounced past us heading down.  

A lone hiker sped by us heading up; he’d started at 3 a.m. on the North Rim. We couldn’t tell if he was planning to turn right around and go back once he touched the South Rim or not. He had enough daylight to make it if he kept up the same pace. But what was the point? Maybe an adventure racer in training.

Our fashionable friends had turned around and were on their way back up already. Clearly they too were training for something bigger, a tougher hike somewhere else. The Grand Canyon was big enough for us for now, thank you. And at a pace with which we could stop and marvel as purple rock landscapes gave way to pure lichen green hillsides, followed by our immersion into pure red rock once more.

We crossed the black bridge over the mighty Colorado just as a team of kayakers were beaching, and all of us arrived at the bar in Phantom Ranch together. Outside, gold cottonwood leaves laughed and danced in the breeze while we dropped our packs against a wall, propped our feet on chairs, toasting with lemonade and Tecate in a can. Worth every cent of $4.75. Gradually our whole crew of ten filed in, and as we spread our snacks across a table for a happy hour feast in our hiker’s cabin of bunkbeds, we saw through the window that a staffer was snatching the “water pipe break” notices off the cabin doors. There would be showers tonight!

Calamity averted, we cheerfully swapped stories of canyon trips past, though all of us deferred to Carol, this being her 19^th trip. Our youngest was Ryan at 19, a newbie, who was accompanying his grandfather Jerry, a retired career Air Force pilot of bomber jets, including a tour in Vietnam. He showed no sign of slowing down now at 79; and Ryan demonstrated he was certainly cut from the same cloth.

The food is always plentiful and delicious at Phantom Ranch. Never mind the fact you’re always hungry, which makes things taste better. Fresh green salads, hiker’s stew, cornbread and cake. The menu never changes. Ask Carol.

Outside, the stars held nothing back. Between the high canyon walls sandwiching us in, enough stars gleemed through the frozen darkness to see the trail by. We all slept deeply enough (after we rolled one snorer on his stomach) to nearly miss the breakfast bell at 7. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, lukewarm coffee and hot water for tea. The menu never changes. We asked Carol.

It was our rest day. And with half a dozen trails leading out from Phantom Ranch like wagon wheel spokes, most of us ended up hiking at least one, or in my case three of them, walking some 12-15 miles that day.

I started towards the river early, while it was dark enough to nearly walked right into a herd of deer straddling the trail munching on leaves. I followed a goat trail on the north side of the river by the silver bridge till the trail became a crumble of rocks and cactus. A stiff breeze lifted the cold off the river. If I were a condor, I’d be flying low looking for breakfast right there. But I’m not. And they weren’t.

So I retreated back into the box canyon towards the North Rim, crossing paths with others from our gang returning from the four bridges or Ribbon Falls.

Sunlight only reaches the bottom of the canyon for five hours a day. As I returned from the four bridges, the mid-afternoon sun had lit the tinted cottonwoods on fire like a match dropped in dry leaves.

Three of us rallied to scurry up the six-mile loop Clear Creek trail winding behind the ranch in the afternoon. We could smell dinner being prepared. Aka the Phantom Phone Booth because cell phones actually get a few bars in the saddle there, this trail commands stunning views of the confluence of carved canyons creating the clearing that became Phantom Ranch.

We stepped back into camp as that last splash of light was being sucked back over the lip of the canyon walls. Happy hour. Tonight, the mission is eat and drink everything so we don’t have to carry it out tomorrow.

Meals are served family style at long tables. The servers are usually young people who’ve signed on for at least a year. Sharing a bunkhouse, they have few possessions, a great attitude and supreme fitness. Every ten days they are released for a four-day weekend. While we might toil on the Bright Angel trail all day, taking breaks, photos, changing gear around, they’ll be up to the rim in 3-4 hours. It took us 4.5 hours to descend the South Kaibab; our waiter did it in two. You are bound to meet interesting people at meals as you pass around the salad bowl. The couple opposite me on this last night hailed from Long Beach. Tomorrow they would be heading up, then to Zion and Bryce Canyons in Utah. Their last visit to Phantom Ranch in winter was during a snow storm. The trail was closed just after they’d started down, so they didn’t know it was closed until they reached the bottom after walking for miles in sleet. Drenched to the bone, they trudged into the ranch where a surprised crew greeted them but with no electricity or heat all they could offer was cold canned food and a dorm where they piled every blanket available on top of themselves for warmth. They started up the next day in still-damp clothes. Two miles from the rim, the trail was merely a channel through three-feet deep snow. They had it all to themselves until they came face to face with a bighorn sheep headed down their channel. Deferring to the sheep, they stepped into the snow bank to let him pass.

Nothing quite that dramatic transpired the following day for us. Fueled up on buckwheat pancakes, we hoisting our packs and headed out, falling into groups of two or three. Young Ryan, tall Don and I kept apace, reaching Indian Gardens, (the halfway point), in two hours. It was cold cold cold here. We three  agreed to take the 3-mile splinter trail out to Tonto Plateau and back, and I’m so glad we did, and not just because it was in the sun. Lounging on an impossibly balanced pile of shale shards suspended over the river was a bearded condor counter, armed with radio receiver and notebook, scanning the cliffs for three birds “out there somewhere”. He was full of information and the point was truly a geological wonder. That and the purple paddle cactus with knitting needle sized spines, made this a very worthy diversion.

By the time we’d returned to the main trail everyone else had passed this point and was ahead, save for Genya who was planning on a leisurely lunch at Tonto Point. Climbing into snow now, the cool air felt like a friend. The snow on the trail was never icy enough to warrant putting our yak-trax on, but we stepped carefully.

A frozen waterfall appeared, then a tunnel, and the petroglyphs John and Kathy told about when we rested with them at Three-mile House. Now the day tourists were appearing on the trail. People in flat-bottomed sneakers half dragging, half hanging-onto their kids. A Japanese couple appeared, and the man asked Don, “How far till we see the good views?” We looked over our shoulders, then at one another: this wasn’t good enough?! His girlfriend understood and laughed, but they kept walking down. Hopefully they were eventually satisfied with a “good view”.

Through the last tunnel, past the museum and shops, into the bar to applause from our fellow hikers, Fat Tire never tasted so good. After Ryan had left Don and I, he’d caught up with his grandfather, so they were waiting for us in the bar with Jane and Skip, who’d blazed mightily up the trail as well. Jane said hikers use about 7,000 calories making the trip up from Phantom Ranch, so we had no remorse ordering a second beer and more fries, and promises to be back again.

 

I am not a morning person

Just kidding. Sort of.  No, really.

I mean, I’m not the type who brings flowers and donuts to work every day singing Good Morning! To everyone I see before 8 a.m.

 

 

But if I have a decent sleep (4-6 hours), or if I smell strong coffee, or there’s the promise of good surf or a cool breeze in the mountains, a hint of snow or a full moon setting…. I’m in. Usually alone.

 

If I’ve dragged someone else into my adventures, I try to wake my friends with the smell of hot chocolate or pancakes as they stir in their tents, just to thank them. I like to spoil people.

There is a decisive moment, eyelids half open in uncertain twilight, weighing the pound for pound value of sliding one leg after the other out from under a stack of warm blankets, to follow a notion, out through the cold, wet curtain of morning, then comparing that rich potential to the alternative: blissfully sliding back into a decadent deep sleep, creeping in stages toward an unhurried cup of joe, while seated, at home.

To say there is no wrong answer makes you a morning person.

There are gifts: the color of light, the industrious rustling of birds for whom dawn is midday, the smell of melting frost on new grass. It is the stirring of things not human… a reminder that where we choose to direct our energy is how we choose to be at play in the dance of all things.

Eventually, after many dozen morning adventures, there is a transition from “rising with the sun” to “where would I like to be when the sun comes over the horizon?”

If you didn’t have an addictive personality before, this is how you create one. Not the predictable sense gratification addiction like chocolate, soft cheese, jacuzzis, porn, etc.  It’s more in the habit realm. Some addictions cause pain: coffee (hypertension, bad breath), shopping (bankruptcy), lifting weights, heroin.

And even “good” obsessions can lead to catastrophic extremes. Like the newborn endorphine junkie who starts with a 20-mile bike ride then works feverishly towards becoming the peleton at Giro d’Italia or Tour de France; face it: those guys look miserable.

Balance.

But I digress.

Much of the beauty of morning is that surround-sound of clicking, singing, melting, falling, foraging and landing on water that will later be shouted down by the buzz of engines. One merely has to be there to share in it. Attendance is required.

Here in the dawn, we discover our tribe. There they are: spinning by on bikes with headlamps like so many fireflies. On a trail I look for signs of footprints crunching through frosted leaves. Sometimes I hear a rhythmic splash followed by a faded silhouette that never quite becomes anything more before it recedes into fog. We begin to believe in totems; the animal spirit that greets you first that day. A sea lion, Cooper’s hawk, a crow, an osprey, raccoon, pelican.

On New Year’s morning 2013 it was a pair of dolphins just outside the surf line after my human companions had gone in other directions.

Rachel Carson said to an audience, after writing The Sea Around Us, and long before Silent Spring: “I am not afraid of being thought a sentimentalist when I stand here tonight and tell you that I believe natural beauty has a necessary place in the spiritual development of any individual or any society. I believe that whenever we destroy beauty, or whenever we substitute something man-made and artificial for a natural feature of the earth, we have retarded some part of man’s spiritual growth.”