It’s 4:30 in the morning. The sun is not yet lighting the eastern sky. It’s cool and crisp here on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. I’m at the trailhead of the South Kaibab trail. This is the day I’ve been training for.
Five years ago, I heard about this hike for the first time. The Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim in one day. Five months ago, I began training. And now I am ready. I am here.
The crisp mountain air tightens the skin on my cheeks. My fellow hikers mill all around, but I am alone with my own thoughts.
The canyon is dark, and the trail is steep and rocky. I wear a headlamp to light the path in front of me. I will need it for the next hour or so, and no more after that.
It’s quiet except for the murmur of my fellow hikers. Most campers in the park are still asleep. I sniff the air. Pine trees and campfires and earth and something else. Adventure, perhaps? Is that what adventure smells like?
I wear a cap and gloves, and layers of clothing on my upper body. Two layers of socks – one wool, one cotton – inside my trail-runner shoes. I wear cargo shorts, not pants. It’s cold here on the rim in mid-May, early in the morning. But by mid-morning, I’ll be a mile lower, on the floor of the canyon. I won’t want to be wearing pants. It will be hot. Really hot.
I learned something important on my qualification hike two weeks ago. It’s easier to jog down the canyon than it is to walk. Gravity pulls me down anyway. It takes more effort to slow myself against gravity than it does to jog.
This initial part of the rim-to-rim hike – about 4.5 miles – will last a little over two hours. Because I jog, I’ll be moving much faster here than at any other part of the journey.
There’s a reward awaiting me when I reach the bottom, the Colorado River. I will cross the river on a beautiful footbridge. Just to the west of the bridge lies a white sand beach. After the 4900-foot descent, I’ll be eager to cool my feet in those chilly waters.
My younger children are at home, asleep. My older children are away at university. My wife may be asleep. Or she may be up doing something. She’s always had an erratic sleep schedule. Or she may have gone to the barn. She goes to the barn to escape the turmoil of our marriage. I go to the wild places.
I am at peace here with these people I do not know, in this place I do not know. I welcome the unknown. She hates surprises. I seek out new experiences. She seeks security.
We are not a good match.
In my mind’s eye, I perceive 5 distinct phases to the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim hike. The first phase is The Descent. I will jog most of the way down and make good time because it’s all downhill.
About halfway down, I seat myself t at an observation point. It’s a natural bench that looks out over the canyon towards the east. I remove my headlamp and stow it in my Camelbak. The sun is above the horizon now. Long shadows shorten across the canyon. Oranges and reds and yellows mix with the blue in the sky. The black and grays and browns of the earth begin to come alive.
It’s getting warmer. It won’t be long before I can take off my jacket.
I take it all in for a few moments, then start down again.
Phase 1 ends at the Colorado River. It’s hot here on the floor of the canyon, and I stow my jacket, cap, and gloves in my pack.
The water runs fast, emerald green. It’s a color I’ve never seen anywhere else in nature. It’s beautiful.
(I will use that word a lot today. It’s the right word.)
To celebrate making it to the bottom, we pull off our socks and shoes, and wade into the 55-degree water. The water is so cold it would be unbearable under normal conditions. But it’s fantastic right now. The cold water relieves the swelling in our feet and legs.
On my qualification hike 2 weeks ago, I had my ritual baptism. First time rim-to-rim hikers are invited to fully immerse themselves into the waters of the Colorado.
I couldn’t resist.
The waters called to me, as the canyon calls to me.
I answered and will continue to answer.
We were young when we married. Young and very religious. I had the fervency and certainty characteristic of young people. I was – as they say – “young, dumb and full of cum.” I didn’t believe in sex before marriage, but I really wanted to have sex.
So, I got married.
I had no idea how to be a husband. For that matter, I had no idea how to make a living. It was all a mystery to me.
My wife had dreamed about her wedding since she was a little girl. One of our first arguments involved the wedding. She seemed shocked that I had so few opinions about it.
I didn’t care about the wedding at all. I’d never thought about my wedding.
I soon realized that my role in the wedding was to be a prop. She couldn’t really have a proper wedding without a groom. And she really wanted a proper wedding.
We were not a good match.
The next phase is a 1.7-mile hike along the north side of the river from the bridge to where the trail splits. To the left, you cross the river again and head up the Bright Angel Trail. That takes you to Indian Gardens and then to the Grand Canyon Visitor’s Lodge on the South Rim.
To the right is Phantom Ranch.
I took the left split on my qualification hike. That’s when I learned about the dangers of hyponatremia: excess hydration.
I was so afraid of dehydration that I over-hydrated. By the time I got within a mile of the top, I was in really bad shape. I had no idea what was wrong. I had poured the water down myself. Yet here I was, almost unable to move.
Sheer willpower got me to the top. It took a while to recover.
Hyponatremia will kill you quickly. Dehydration will kill you slowly.
My marriage has been dehydrated for a long time.
I was raised in the era of 2nd Wave Feminism. The Gloria Steinem, Equal Rights Amendment era. Most feminists didn’t openly hate men. But they did openly despise masculine men.
We were taught that women wanted men to be sensitive, and “in touch” with our emotions. They wanted us to listen and be nurturing. They wanted us to help with the housework and take care of the kids.
In other words, they wanted us to be their girlfriends.
I bought it all: hook, line, and sinker.
It was a disaster.
At the split in the path, I turn right for Phase 3: the hike to Phantom Ranch. It’s not far. By the time we reach the ranch, we’ve logged 7.4 miles for the day. It’s mid-morning. Time to stop and rest a bit.
There’s an old general store at Phantom Ranch. The wooden screen door creaks and groans each time someone comes through it. Flies buzz against the screen but leave us alone.
The store is busier than you might imagine. People visit the Grand Canyon from all over the world. It takes more than a year to secure a reservation to stay at Phantom Ranch. People take it seriously.
We sit at a picnic table outside the store. Drink some water, refill our Camelbaks and nosh on energy bars. We watch the people come and go.
Here on the floor, folks are friendly, open, talkative. It’s a camaraderie born of common struggle.
There are only two ways into or out of the canyon: ride a burro or hike. Most of us are hikers. When we tell people we’re doing the Rim-to-Rim in one day, they marvel. “I could never do that.”
Sure you can. You just have to train.
We meet people from all over the world. Europe. Asia. Elsewhere in the states. From Phoenix. Some come to Phantom Ranch to camp for a few days. A few hiked down with camping gear. They will spend a few days here or at Cottonwood Campground. We are all kindred spirits.
Some people who work at the store actually live down here. They have supplies delivered by burro every couple of weeks. It’s busy this time of year, but almost deserted in the winter.
I imagine what it must be like to live so far from civilization.
Quiet, for sure. And peaceful. Very peaceful.
My wife fancies herself a pioneer woman. But she’s softer than a loaf of Wonder Bread. Everything terrifies her. Everything upsets her. She has the emotional maturity of a 13-year-old girl.
She believes she could have been one of those hardy souls who helped settle the west in a Conestoga wagon. But she can barely handle cooking dinner for the family. She can’t keep the house clean to save her life. She’s a great mom, and for that I am grateful. But she has no skill in or interest in being a homemaker.
She used to complain about being a woman. “I should’ve been a man,” she would say. I said nothing in response. I knew better.
The only way to win some games is to not play.
Phase 4 is the hike across the floor of the canyon. From Phantom Ranch to Cottonwood Campground is 6.8 miles. This is the heart of the hike, and I am alone. The faster hikers are well ahead of me. The slower ones lag far behind.
As I walk along the floor, my senses are overwhelmed. A little creek babbles to my left. All around me, majestic cliffs rise all the way to the sky, farther than my eye can see. The air is hot, but not too dry. It’s cooler in the shade of the cliffs. When the sun is on my right, I am mostly able to walk in the shade.
The beauty here is beyond words. And it staggers me to think that is has been like this for millions of years, unseen by any human. The sheer majesty of it all humbles me. At the same time, I am aware of how privileged I am to see it.
My eyes get to see what few eyes in history have seen.
There are no words. I can only weep. I walk in silence beside this small creek here on the floor of the Grand Canyon. Tears stream down my cheeks.
I’m glad I am alone.
I take the detour to Ribbon Falls. It’s perhaps a mile off the main trail. This detour will add another hour of time and two miles distance to my hike. But it’s worth it.
Ribbon Falls is well-named. A narrow ribbon of water cascades down the side of a cliff. The top of the waterfall is higher than I can see. The water seems to fall from the sky.
Rainbows dance in the mist. A ledge runs all the way around behind the falls. I climb into the mouth of the cave behind the falls.
It’s cool in here. A welcome respite from the heat. Mist cools my face. Here behind the falling water it’s at least 15 degrees cooler than on the trail. I enjoy a little mini vacation.
Moss grows in giant piles all over the rocks around the falls. I stand and look through the curtain of mist and rainbow and falling water out to the trail. After a while, I head back to the main trail.
I have a deadline: sundown.
She lives in mortal fear that people will disapprove of her. It seems she lives her life as if on stage before an imaginary audience.
I have learned to mostly ignore her. Nothing I do satisfies her.
In the fall, I will decide to take a mistress. I am sick of living like this. I want feminine attention. I want to have a sex life again. I can’t get it from my wife.
She barely disguises her disgust around me.
I know our marriage is over, but we still have children at home. I want to get them raised and out of the house before we split up.
I must summit a small hill between me and Cottonwood Campground. I didn’t know about this one. The hill is not too high, but coming down, my quadriceps scream in protest. This is why I jogged down the South Kaibab. But I am too tired to jog.
I’ve logged over 15 miles so far today. And – once I’m over this hill – I will already have about 6000 feet of elevation change.
I need to rest.
I stop at Cottonwood Campground to eat lunch. Baked potatoes and hard-boiled eggs. Easy to carry and high in energy potential. I also suck a couple of electrolyte packets. They taste vile, but after my experience with hyponatremia, I’m taking no chance.
It’s hot and quiet. Cottonwood is a primitive campground, but a ramada shades us from the sun. A fellow hiker is there. We sit close, but do not talk. Lost in our own thoughts. Silent before the majesty of the canyon.
The last and hardest phase is next: the climb to the North Rim, 8241 feet above sea level. From Cottonwood to the North Rim is 6.8 miles of trail and 4200 feet of elevation gain.
This is why I put in those months of training: the final, unrelenting climb.
I refill my water, tighten down my pack and hit the trail.
My parents have a good marriage. They seemed to be well-suited. My dad is an introvert and certainly on the spectrum. My mom is wildly extroverted, (like I am), and very good with people.
My dad was mostly absent from my life. When he was around, his primary role was Sheriff, Judge, Jury and Executioner. It was not the type of relationship I hungered for.
I felt my dad’s absence – both physical and emotional – as an acute pain. It doesn’t subside. This is why my one driving goal my entire life has been to be a great dad, to have a deep emotional intimacy with my children.
I have mostly succeeded.
Marriage though?
I watched my parents interact, and I just assumed that’s how marriage would be. They genuinely liked one another. My wife genuinely does not like me.
In fairness, I don’t think she likes herself either.
Several places along the North Kaibab trail are no more than 24 inches wide. On my left, a sheer cliff climbs straight up. The top is beyond my sight. To my right is a sheer fall thousands of feet to certain death. The bottom is beyond my sight.
This is no place to be if you suffer a fear of heights. But I have no fear.
I dangle my toes over the edge. Once again, I give myself over to the majesty of this moment.
I gaze across the valley. Water pours out the side of a cliff. Impossibly high, beautiful beyond description. In spite of my exhaustion, I marvel. I am one of only a handful of people in the history of the world who get to see this.
What a gift. What a world.
A couple of miles from the top is a place called Supai Tunnel. It’s a natural tunnel formed out of the rock. The trail goes right through it. This is my last major landmark before the top.
I’ve been on the trail about 11 hours. Some people in my group have done the rim-to-rim in less than 6 hours. They didn’t detour to Ribbon Falls. They didn’t stop at Phantom Ranch or Cottonwood Campground like I did.
Still, less than 6 hours is an astonishing time. I’ve heard of people doing it in less than 5.
I guess I shouldn’t feel surprise. It’s not as long as a marathon. If you don’t detour to Ribbon Falls, it’s around 22 miles. Unlike a marathon though, it’s well over two miles of elevation change. Parts of the path are so steep that one wrong step could tear up a knee or ankle. Or worse, send you plummeting to your death.
I am weary, but elated. My eyes have seen things few people in the history of the world have seen. Or will ever see. I am almost there.
This time a year from now, my marriage will be over. We have slogged through for 24 years of self-imposed misery.
In a couple of months, we will take a vacation alone together: a drive up the Pacific Coast Highway. We won’t be happy, but we will be a little less miserable than normal. At Christmas time, everything will come to a head. And by January, we will be split.
But I don’t know that now.
Right now, all I know is that I have another hour of relentless climbing. And I am very tired.
I’ve reached the mental part of the hike. My mind thinks I am done, though I know my body can go much farther. I tell myself, “one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. Step by step. Step by step.”
I will need this memory next year when I am estranged from my children. There will be many times that I will feel I cannot go one more day, or even one more hour.
Then I will remember, “one foot in front of the other. One step at a time. Step by step. Step by step.”
The entire hike takes me 12 hours. I’ve logged almost 24 miles and around 12,000 feet of elevation change.
Around 4:30pm, I can see the rim. In my imagination, I thought I might feel a surge of adrenaline at this point. But I feel nothing. I am numb. My emotions are flat after the extreme highs of the last 12 hours.
At last, I step onto the top rim.
I turn around and look back at the way I came. It’s too big to comprehend. And I am too weary to dance.
Inside though, I feel satisfaction. My problems shrivel to nothingness.
This place is far bigger than me. Far older than me. It will be here long after I am gone.
But for now, it is a part of me.
And I am a part of it.
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