Friday, May 28, 2004


And for my 200th post I will tell a tale. A tale that many of you have heard, but it scarcely seems real. Aye, even to this day, I can hardly believe that it happened to me. Gather around, lads and lasses, as I begin my yarn...

The summer of 2003 it was, and Sean and I had decided to take a trip to the Grand Canyon. We loaded up my mom's Honda Accord (I couldn't afford the Gas it would take to get my Jeep there and back) and took off. We went from Houston to Balmorhea State Park the first day, then saw the Carlsbad Caverns and Roswell, New Mexico the next. That night we camped in a tiny little campground with an awesome view West We made it to camp the third night in an area that looked only an hour south of Flagstaff, on the map. We got up the next day and drove the insane (read: 8 hour) drive to the North Rim of the canyon. We kept pace with a friendly trucker the whole time (I brought my CB). We helped him pass when needed, that sorta stuff, he was quite thankful, and was surprised when we told him we were just out of high school. Methinks he won't hate on teenagers so much now.
Sean drove 90 the entire way from the entrance to the rim, through the park. We set up camp, and dilly-dallied around, then went to see the sunset. That night, we made a fire (Two Eagle Scouts, what did you expect?), and cooked, sat around chatting and finally went to bed, deciding we would hike down to the Colorado River and back the next day.
So we got up at 6, ate a quick breakfast, then drove to the entrance of the trail, took a deep breath and started walking.
We get to the rim, and we see this. Good start, eh?
Background: The trail is 14 miles each way, and there is a 6,000 foot elevation change from the top of the canyon to the river. We were going to go down this, then back up in one day. Here are some warnings that are posted:
"The North Rim is over 8000 feet/2438 m above sea level. Visitors with respiratory or heart problems may experience difficulties. All walking at this elevation can be strenuous.
The park strongly recommends that you not attempt to hike from rim to river and back in a day. This is a strenuous two-day journey for most. In summer extreme temperatures can be life-threatening. Rangers respond to an average of 400 medical emergencies each year. Search and rescue operations are often difficult and expensive due to the remoteness of all Inner Canyon trails. During the summer months, when inner canyon temperatures are extremely high, access to inner canyon trails may be restricted to early morning and evening.

For more, see here.
I was carrying the larger pack, which contained almost all of the water and food. Sean was carrying a daypack with some water and snacks, as well as his raincoat and other assorted clothing.

Come now, children, gather round. This here's where me tale gets good!
We actually get on the trail around 7:30. Downhill, this was a breeze. We made it to the 7 mile mark, which is also where you camp, if you plan on going to the river. Skimming by, we were confronted by a ranger that told us we would be in deep sh** if we didn't have a permit and decided that we needed to sleep there overnight. Ominous, but we shrugged the one-eyed cripple's warning off and continued.
We stopped to snap a picture or two. As you can see, we are doing fine. The second 7 miles didn't pass nearly so quickly. It got pretty flat towards the end, so, being invincible teenagers, we decided to take on a quick jog. We passed a couple of families out on day hikes from the cabins at the bottom of the canyon.
Reaching the cabins, we chilled, called our girls, and took a quick breather for the short trip to the river. We made it to the river, and on the way, noticed how the walls of the canyon acted as oven walls, retaining the sun's heat. Cooking a lunch of Lipton noodles and canned chicken (who said you can't have Chicken Fetucinni Alfredo on the go?), we got going again quickly. Getting past the cabins, we picked up our run again. It was roughly 1:00 now, and the sun was beating furiously down on us. I had taken my shirt off and had it sopping wet and draped over my head. I was still carrying the heavier pack, which we had refilled with water. After a short time, I realized that the run was an effort that would kill me, so we slowed down to a fast walk. It was not the last time we would run, nor the last time we would slow.
After hiking out of the shade of the relatively small canyon we had been in, the true heat hit us. Constantly sweating, I was pouring water in my mouth. It was only 7 miles to the next available water source (we also had my Pūr water filter, in case we needed to pump out of the stream that we were following). About 2:30-3:00, I was miserable. I could hardly take 10 steps without stopping. We were spending more time stopped than walking. Not that it helped, there was no shade, and the sun was sitting in the prettiest blue sky I have seen. I was praying for rain, clouds, locusts, anything. Be careful what you ask for.
This is all my doing, as Sean was fine. I was not dehydrated, as I was had about 3/4 of a gallon of water on the trip back alone. I had no more electrolytes. I had water intoxication. After about 45 minutes of this, we made it to the rest area, where, in the shade, I enjoyed a good snack of Easy Cheeze and Crackers, along with two electrolyte tablets. Ever squirted Easy Cheeze directly into your mouth? I don't reccomend it. After a 20 minute break, I was surprisingly refreshed. Trading packs (finally), we got back to the hike, attacking the trail with a newborn energy.
We made it about 2 miles, and reached an Igloo drink cooler outside of a trailside cabin. It was filled with Lemonade, the powdered kind make with LOTS and LOTS of powder, the good way. I left $2 in the donations jar, and with a positive outlook on mankind in general, we marched on. Now we were reaching the extremely steep part of the trail. Sean still had the larger backpack full of water, and I was carrying the smaller one. This part of the trail is about 4-5 feet wide, with a wall on one side and a drop on the other. There is no place to hide here. After about an hours worth of slow climbing, Sean decides to dump some water out of the pack. I agree, as the sun has moved over the cliff and we are in the shade. I notice some ominous clouds off to the East of us. They are fun to watch, lightning dancing from ground to cloud, leaping through the sky, tearing it apart. During one of our rest breaks, I listen and hear the faint rumblings of what must have been grand thunderclaps.
Climbing some more, I turn around to see the clouds advancing on our position. I urge Sean to hurry, and we pour out another gallon of water to lighten his load. About 4 miles from the trailhead, all hell breaks loose.
The heavens open up and send torrents of rain cascading down on us. The sky has now grown black with the clouds. Lightning prances around us, the deadly strikes reminding me of how weak we actually are. Another 20 minutes later, and the rain has not let up a bit. But now, the hail descends. Dime size hail crashes down. We hunch over, hoods over our heads, accepting the beating.
Then we reach the bridge. This bridge spans a minor canyon, but it is still about 50 yds long. And it is 200 feet in the air. And it's made of metal. And we happen to be sitting in the middle of one of the worst storms either one of us has experienced. We take one look at eachother, and sprint across. I don't remember much, but that bridge sure flew by. Once on the other side, we trudge up the now muddy trail, feet soaking wet. The rain has made little rivers run down the middle, side, and basically all over the trail. The hail still pounds down on our heads, keeping time with our pounding feet as he gasp our way up the slippery trail. Twice the rain slackens, and the hail disappears, only to pick up where it left off.
Finally it slows to a sprinkle as the mass of the storm that has been swirling overhead moves off to the South and West of us.Then we hear rockslides. Yes. Rockslides.
Since we are still in a canyon, it is hard for us to tell if they are in front of us, behind us, or across the canyon. So we speed up again. With the slackening rain, and the nice incentive, we make good time. Then, less than 30 yards in front of us, we hear the earth move. The largest slide we had heard. And it was definately right there. We wait for it to stop, and slowly move forward, hearts pounding in our ears. In the low light, we see nothing. When we reach what we think is half way to the slide, half expecting to see the trail washed out, we see a switchback. I have never been so happy to see myself backtrack in my entire life. The slides continue around us for a while, then stop completely. Apparently, the record amount of rain that was dumped creeped under the rocks after eroding the soil, shaking them loose and sending them tumbling down the cliff.
A little bit of fading sunlight returns to mock us as we head for what we think is the home stretch. It's funny how time can be stretched by our minds.
The sun sets, and we are soaking wet. In the dark, we are guided only by a mini-mag and the occasional flash of lightning that taunts in to remind of how close the storm still is. Then Sean goes dillusioal.
He starts walking like he's drunk, weaving all over the trail. Thankfully, we are in the wooded area, away from the cliff now. I offer to take his pack as well as my own, as I feel fine, but he is babbling. Finally he looks me in the eye, being strangely focused for a moment, and says, "I can't go any further, I need a break."
I know this isn't a good idea, as we are still surrounded on three sides by a lightning storm, and as I try to point this out, I realize he's right. He has gone back into babble-mode. All he is saying is, "I need to stop, I need a break".
So I stop, pull out the space blanked (actually a tarp, with silver lining on one side) and have him sit on it. I then hand him the legs to his zip-off pants, then his sweater, then his raincoat, and finally, an emergency blanked (read: Big ole piece of aluminum foil) and help him get wrapped up. He is now shivering in the cold, and the foil makes an eerie crinkling sound in the relative silence of the dripping forest.
I decide to cook him the rest of the food, another serving of Fettucini Alfredo, with chicken. After wolfing most if it down (I had some myself, as it was my last chance for a break before we reached the top), he slowly came back to life. Re-animated, he helped me pack everything up, and I took the larger pack back from him. The last mile was relatively easy, the hardest part being the darkness and a wimpy flashlight. We made it to the parking lot at 9:30 pm, a mere 14 hours after we started. "Two day trip" be damned! We rocked!
To celebrate, we changed out of our soaking clothes in the parking lot, and lit a firecracker. No more fire danger.
Driving back to camp was tough, as the Honda is a Manual, and my legs were worn out. We got there, slipped into our sleeping bags, and passed out. The next day, I was awoken at 8:30 by the familiar sound of thunder and hail. Opening the rain fly, I looked outside to see it pouring and hailing, similarly to what we had survived the night before. After it let up, I walked (very stiffly) to the ranger station and asked the guy about the rain. It turns out that Sean and I had survived record rainstorms. The storm had circled back around during the night and sat above the camp for a while. I told the ranger what we had done, and he gave me the 'look' and said "Well, at least you are alive to tell the story."
That day we hit a few scenic overlooks, did some drifting on dirt roads, and I fell asleep underneath a lean-to outside, watching the fire. On my cot there in the cold darkness, I slept the best sleep I can remember.
That day, we shook the water out of what we could, packed up and headed out to Gallup, New Mexico. The following night, we stayed at Palo Duro Canyon. It sucked. Don't do it. We made the trip home that day, and have told this tale many a time.
Well there it be, kiddies, beleive it or not, e'ery word of that is the truth. May this be a lesson to ya: Remember that ye are but mortals, but don't be afraid to live like the gods.




Story and all Photographs (c) Chris N