Riddle
My friend wore a rabbit’s foot on a ball-link chain strung through his side belt loop. He squeezed it in his sweaty palm and flipped down the smoky visor, making his face a formless shadow. From the neck up he looked robotish—like a rock’m sock’m boxer.
He sat astride a monstrous bike, a 650 cc Triumph Tiger, 300 feet from the base of a thirty degree incline leading to the wooden floor of the Riddle Bridge. His knuckles went white as he choked and twisted the throttle—2,000 RPMs—then flung open his left hand as if violently baptizing the air with water from his finger tips, letting loose his death grip on the clutch. The die was cast. In an instant he was at the point of no return.
The back wheel found traction after a dozen rotations and the front wheel levitated six inches, then more. The Triumph sped along at that precise angle which keeps the front wheel clawing the air, the rider having found a neutral sliver of space between ground’s attraction and backward momentum…and here he rode an acrobatic, barely in control, ride that looks so cool—a perfectly executed wheelie feels almost supernatural. For 200 feet he scooted along on the back wheel before the front one again found purchase and the journey began in earnest. He was a blur when he reached the top of the incline.
In moments…a moment…a snap…he would shake gravity and be airborne. At the point where the road angled down to merge with the bridge floor he had lift-off. The rider stayed on a straight line path into the sky, cutting through it like a dagger sent sailing by a giant cartoon magnet. The rear wheel spun frantically; knobby tires finding no resistance, only empty air. The high winy sound of the two-stroke engine screamed. His hand, as if transformed into an immovable metal cast, held the throttle open wide.
He had flung his bike off the ramp’s end and was climbing through space toward the overhead cross-beam of a rusted metal arbor arching above Riddle Bridge—that now ancient and creaking blend of rusted metal spanning the Gasconade River. The Riddle was old style, comprising scores of steel beams and thick cables, all woven together in a spider web of triangles—a brilliantly functional and artistic design not seen so much anymore. Today, the cunning and intricate steel montage has been replaced by a grey featureless concrete slab.
My friend and his too powerful (for this maneuver) motorcycle were riding through the empty haze of blue sky at a terrifying speed. His helmeted head was an onyx orb sparkling in the bright summer sun, his leather gloved hands’ defiant fists jabbing the air as they squeezed the bar grips in a futile attempt to guide the missile. Incredibly, he was on target…his trajectory looked perfect. “His goal?” you ask: it was to raise high enough to slap the steel beam at the apex of his flight path…very tricky, this move. He had to release his grip on the handlebar—both hands was the rule—raise his arms touchdown style, and make clear and unmistakable contact with the metal beam. Slap it—make it audible—then, lightning fast, find the handlebar grips again, straighten the front fork and prepare for a teeth jarring arrival on the bridge floor.
We watched without breathing. The bike with the black-stone headed rider was a comet. Contact...smack! We heard it; he hit the cross beam. He hit it hard and dead center…with his head. And it came off—his head…all of it. The bike and Ichabod Crane completed the flight, skidding and tumbling across the bridge’s rough wooden plank floor, coming to rest in the thickets along the road ditch at the far end of the bridge. The body, in repose with the bike, quivered.
But we gave scant notice to the bike and body. We were watching, catatonic, as the helmet—the head’s casket—bounced and rolled toward the edge of the bridge. It was going over. No. We could not let that happen. I snapped to reality (if you can call an urge to chase down a rolling head reality) and dove for the helmet. My fingertips barely brushed the smooth hard plastic before it left the bridge and fell like a cannon ball to its dark-water grave.
My hand flailed in the air as I reached to the limits of my grasp. I brought back—oh God—a hand covered with blood.
The three of us—four had begun this adventure—bowed, as if in prayer, across the cable railings as far as we could and watched in horror as the helmet turned over in the water, its dark, shiny face cover reflecting the sun. The sun’s revealing rays penetrated the visor’s cloudy tint to give us a last image of our friend’s eyes, opened as big as half-dollars. They looked alive still, pleading, as the gentle current of the eddy sucked them under.
♦ ♦ ♦
Epilog…what really happened
The helmet I had chased and dove for was quite empty.
The blood on my hands was a scratch from the jagged boards of the bridge’s floor.
The empty eyes were starbursts glinting on the helmet’s reflective surface…our mind’s eyes obligingly giving us the macabre image we were expecting.
The quivering body…which eventually attracted our attention…still had a head, firmly attached.
Our friend was stunned and rattled, but smiling.
It was the best motorcycle jump I have ever seen, before or since.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Buzzard Hunting
Buzzard Hunting
In the 1950s, I was very young and living in East Texas, in a house at the edge of a town that itself seemed on the edge of a human diorama. From my house I could walk out of a brown grass yard, across a road emitting perpetually swirling dust and light bending heat waves and step onto what seemed an endless prairie. I could walk a short distance further and my small white house with red trimmed windows along with the world outside of my imagination disappeared from my view and my consciousness. The small buttes became mountains in a desert wilderness and the burnt blue sky framed no known horizon—I had entered the chimerical world of a child. Pat and I came here to trap a big bird—to latch onto a bony leg just above a monstrous talon. To do this we had a simple plan.
Buzzards, turkey vultures, were always circling overhead above the rounded, barren buttes. Thousands of feet up they rode thermals on wings spanning six feet...pretty and graceful. It wasn’t until they landed and folded away their elegant wings that the small, slick red head, bowed neck, and suspicious searching gate belied their majesty.
I knew they circled the dead, so I devised a plan for attracting and catching one. My friend Pat and I would spirit away bottles of ketchup from our ice boxes (that’s what we called refrigerators) at home and walk into the prairie and up the side of a butte. We would find a sun baked sandstone boulder and lie across it with ketchup dripping from our heads and arms. The buzzards would assume we were dead and begin to circle, eventually they would spiral down. We knew if we were patient enough they would land and try to pick our bones. It is then we would lash out and catch one. What we would do next was not planned; luring the buzzard, bringing it close enough to grab its crooked neck just below its tiny noggin was my only objective—tricking the buzzard was the thing.
We lay for a long time, breathing with shallow breaths to minimize movement. At last, eight-year-old Pat, in his Texas hick manner of speaking, said, “this ain’t never gonna work, Billy.”
“Yes it will. Now shut up, Pat,” I said. “Buzzards can see a mouse twitch its whiskers a mile away; they’ll see your lips move!” (Actually buzzards have unspectacular sight; it is their sense of smell that brings them to dinner…the putrid aroma of decaying flesh wafting along hot air currents is like to us an open window to a bakery.) Through squinted eyes and with great expectations we watched, ignoring trickling sweat and buzzing flies. One or two buzzards flew above us, passing by. No circle of birds ever formed. They were neither hungry nor fooled. In twenty minutes—a very long time to lay across hard rock in the blistering Texas sun—we gave up playing corpse, packed up our ketchup bottles and headed home. I assumed for a long time after that it was Pat talking or our impatience that foiled the hunt. In truth, I suppose it takes more than ketchup and an inert living body to fool a buzzard; very fortunate for us, I would learn later.
When I was a grown man, my Dad told me his buzzard story.
Dad grew up on a small farm in rural Texas in the 1930s. He had a neighbor that plowed rough dry ground with a three bottom plow and a mule. His neighbor was old (fifty maybe), rail thin, creased like an ancient desert Indian, and looked perpetually weary. He would plow long straight furrows in the hot sun for hours, then take a break and lie down in the shade of his mule, left hitched, for a short nap.
One day the neighbor must have been particularly done in because he fell into such a deep sleep he didn’t hear or sense the buzzard alight next to him. The mule did, and he danced in place nervously, only the weight of the plow preventing him from bolting. It would have been better if he had; then the old man may have awakened. But he didn’t. The old man slept like Rip Van Winkle as the buzzard strutted toward him. The sleeping man moved not at all…withered and dead he seemed through the buzzard’s beady eyes. The curious bird thought he caught the slightest delicious aroma of carrion. He sidled toward the sleeping farmer, growing more confident. Buzzards are not all that sharp, just macho. He hesitated only a moment before his neck sprang like a frog’s tongue after a hovering dragonfly. That quick he decided on eyeball for lunch. The old man stirred now, but not as fast as you might think. He awoke thinking he was in the throes of a headache from the sun now hitting his face when he saw, with one eye I suppose, the turkey vulture take flight with something dangling from its beak, glinting in the sun. The farmer’s boney hand went to the left side of his face to feel the blood stream at the same time that he closed his right eye to test the horrifying theory just dawning—that the buzzard had flown away with the left eye. It had.
This was, my Dad insisted, a true story. Man, I obviously didn’t know enough about buzzards to try hunting them that day long ago. What if one had landed on that sandstone next to me…would he have had my eye before I, his neck? Had we fooled them…there would be a story.
In the 1950s, I was very young and living in East Texas, in a house at the edge of a town that itself seemed on the edge of a human diorama. From my house I could walk out of a brown grass yard, across a road emitting perpetually swirling dust and light bending heat waves and step onto what seemed an endless prairie. I could walk a short distance further and my small white house with red trimmed windows along with the world outside of my imagination disappeared from my view and my consciousness. The small buttes became mountains in a desert wilderness and the burnt blue sky framed no known horizon—I had entered the chimerical world of a child. Pat and I came here to trap a big bird—to latch onto a bony leg just above a monstrous talon. To do this we had a simple plan.
Buzzards, turkey vultures, were always circling overhead above the rounded, barren buttes. Thousands of feet up they rode thermals on wings spanning six feet...pretty and graceful. It wasn’t until they landed and folded away their elegant wings that the small, slick red head, bowed neck, and suspicious searching gate belied their majesty.
I knew they circled the dead, so I devised a plan for attracting and catching one. My friend Pat and I would spirit away bottles of ketchup from our ice boxes (that’s what we called refrigerators) at home and walk into the prairie and up the side of a butte. We would find a sun baked sandstone boulder and lie across it with ketchup dripping from our heads and arms. The buzzards would assume we were dead and begin to circle, eventually they would spiral down. We knew if we were patient enough they would land and try to pick our bones. It is then we would lash out and catch one. What we would do next was not planned; luring the buzzard, bringing it close enough to grab its crooked neck just below its tiny noggin was my only objective—tricking the buzzard was the thing.
We lay for a long time, breathing with shallow breaths to minimize movement. At last, eight-year-old Pat, in his Texas hick manner of speaking, said, “this ain’t never gonna work, Billy.”
“Yes it will. Now shut up, Pat,” I said. “Buzzards can see a mouse twitch its whiskers a mile away; they’ll see your lips move!” (Actually buzzards have unspectacular sight; it is their sense of smell that brings them to dinner…the putrid aroma of decaying flesh wafting along hot air currents is like to us an open window to a bakery.) Through squinted eyes and with great expectations we watched, ignoring trickling sweat and buzzing flies. One or two buzzards flew above us, passing by. No circle of birds ever formed. They were neither hungry nor fooled. In twenty minutes—a very long time to lay across hard rock in the blistering Texas sun—we gave up playing corpse, packed up our ketchup bottles and headed home. I assumed for a long time after that it was Pat talking or our impatience that foiled the hunt. In truth, I suppose it takes more than ketchup and an inert living body to fool a buzzard; very fortunate for us, I would learn later.
When I was a grown man, my Dad told me his buzzard story.
Dad grew up on a small farm in rural Texas in the 1930s. He had a neighbor that plowed rough dry ground with a three bottom plow and a mule. His neighbor was old (fifty maybe), rail thin, creased like an ancient desert Indian, and looked perpetually weary. He would plow long straight furrows in the hot sun for hours, then take a break and lie down in the shade of his mule, left hitched, for a short nap.
One day the neighbor must have been particularly done in because he fell into such a deep sleep he didn’t hear or sense the buzzard alight next to him. The mule did, and he danced in place nervously, only the weight of the plow preventing him from bolting. It would have been better if he had; then the old man may have awakened. But he didn’t. The old man slept like Rip Van Winkle as the buzzard strutted toward him. The sleeping man moved not at all…withered and dead he seemed through the buzzard’s beady eyes. The curious bird thought he caught the slightest delicious aroma of carrion. He sidled toward the sleeping farmer, growing more confident. Buzzards are not all that sharp, just macho. He hesitated only a moment before his neck sprang like a frog’s tongue after a hovering dragonfly. That quick he decided on eyeball for lunch. The old man stirred now, but not as fast as you might think. He awoke thinking he was in the throes of a headache from the sun now hitting his face when he saw, with one eye I suppose, the turkey vulture take flight with something dangling from its beak, glinting in the sun. The farmer’s boney hand went to the left side of his face to feel the blood stream at the same time that he closed his right eye to test the horrifying theory just dawning—that the buzzard had flown away with the left eye. It had.
This was, my Dad insisted, a true story. Man, I obviously didn’t know enough about buzzards to try hunting them that day long ago. What if one had landed on that sandstone next to me…would he have had my eye before I, his neck? Had we fooled them…there would be a story.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Alaska Journal, Excerpts
Please consider my feature—a trilogy—from the prospective of an adventurer without credentials; that is, an ordinary traveler in rather exotic areas of Alaska who, by ignorant design and cosmic happenstance, finds a land frightful and exhilarating. Through the eyes of a heretofore dayhiker and lazy river floater a solo float, by folding canoe, on a tortuous tributary to the Yukon through 120 miles of lonely wilderness becomes an odyssey…kayaking Kittiwake Bay and the cold milky Taiya River flanking the Chilkoot trail—in the company of Klondike miner’s ghosts—was transforming…nature’s play in Denali National Park—a tragedy featuring bear and lamb protagonists—was a too vivid reminder of the indifference of the natural realm.
Excerpts
1. Alaska Journal - Beaver Creek Float
…I was not prepared for two signature characteristics. First, the water is marrow chilling cold; colder than I could have imagined—borne of recent glacier and snow melt from high in the White Mountains. Uncomfortably chilled and fearing hypothermia, I began playing out survival plans in my mind should the river take me into herself (quite probable given the commoving waters I would face in the next 120 miles). Second, there are no long lazy eddies. Hard country does not give ground easily—even to torrents of water. To find the path of least resistance Beaver Creek had gouged its channel in serpentine fashion, often dividing and dividing again to get all its water through. This means acute bends where water sweeps in arcs as if forced through a flume—they call these sweepers—or it cascades over rock and gravel in wide, shallow falls—shoals. The shoals will not always float a boat, but look safe and familiar; the sweepers are deep and navigable, but they look so treacherous. The water swirls and breaks…the creek delights in flinging what it bears into the bank at the elbow of the bend: there lie downed willows, spruce, and aspens, their limbs reaching above and beneath the water, eager to clutch and hold fast to what the current brings them.
…it was just two river bends beyond this point that I was to rendezvous with the airplane that would take me from the White Mountains Wilderness. …Beaver Creek would soon enter flatlands at which point the stream will begin to braid wildly, taking many routes through the marshy tundra on its final approach to the Yukon River.
The Yukon Flats has a distant and romantic sound to it, but I can think of fewer more nightmarish fates for a wilderness traveler than to find themselves in a labyrinth of crawling streams that melt into a vast swampland (swamps always conjure images of unnamed creatures that move silently under dark thick water where only the most grotesque lie within the oozing too soft bottom). It is a forlorn place without landmark; with endless horizon and, from water level, no discernable way out. You float in deeper and deeper. There is no backtracking, no retracing; the channels have divided and broadened into lakes that then drain from many fingers cutting through spongy, sodden grassland. By the time awareness of your situation sinks in—that you are in an unsolvable maze—there is no chance of finding the path that brought you in. You will never say, “I remember this spot,” or, “this looks familiar—this is the way out I’m sure.” You simply drift until you die and join the lost spirits of the Flats…for it must be haunted. I’m sure of it.
Just a day before I began my Beaver Creek float I was told by a local (it was late at night, in a roadhouse—a place for drink, food, and lodging often found along wilderness roads far from towns) that once, while floating the Yukon, moving along its right bank, he spied what he thought was a bull moose swimming near mid-stream—he saw the unmistakable broad-rake antlers…but the head was wrong. Too flat, too rigid. This was nothing swimming, nothing alive. And yet it seemed to move along the current with purpose, as if it must carry on, must stay afloat and stay with the river. The man steered his small craft out into the downstream path of the dead antlers to investigate. It was…a coffin. The moose antlers affixed to what must be called its bow, like a clownish—in the weird, child scaring sense—masthead. The box was floating now with only about six inches of freeboard. It may have been an expensive sealer (mortician assuring the grieving buyer that the body within would never suffer (!) from cold water seeping in) but many miles in the milky white Yukon waters would give lie to what surely was a preposterous claim. The box’s inhabitant must now be well drenched. But perhaps that was his wish.
2. Alaska Journal - The Bear and The Lamb
It is late morning and I am off...a road trip…to Alaska…with only the most general itinerary. Mine will be a peripatetic journey. I will float rivers to the Yukon, trek mountain trails, stand on glaciers, and sleep on the ground in grizzly country, somewhere in Alaska.
I drive on, and on…it is weeks later now and I have just completed a float of Beaver Creek—a 130-mile solo canoe odyssey through the White Mountains, to a point just upstream from the Yukon Flats (where I felt the mist and mystery of the Yukon, but had not the nerve to enter). But that’s another story—first, Denali. My wife, Norma Jean, has flown in from Missouri to join me for this leg of my road trip.
You enter Denali National Park only one way—along the east-west Denali Park Road that almost apologetically cuts the narrowest line into the northeast quadrant of a six million acre wilderness. There is no mistaking the guiding philosophy for Denali—this preserve is not man’s kingdom; it belongs to wild animals, and whatever nonsentient plant and insect life the environment can construct. Man’s effect must be minimal. The dirt road runs as unobtrusively as possible 80 miles into the park. It lies lightly on flatlands of spruce and muskeg, and clings precariously to the steep sides of barren mountains. And these mountains gaze enviously southward at the mighty Alaska Range where Mounts McKinley (or, Denali, the High One), Foraker, and Hunter loom above all others; reaching so high that –ironically—they are often hard to see; clouds cover them most of the time, as if hiding royalty from the unworthy eyes of a lesser creation. Easy to see how mountains can beguile, so inviting they are when distance hides cliff and crevasse, and angel hair clouds give no hint of icy cold driving winds that rip you from the high ledges. Later, while passing through the village of Talkeetna, news came that the search for two women climbers lost on Mt Foraker (17,000 feet; climbing difficulty, extreme) had been called off—after two weeks they were presumed dead, victims of a relentless storm. Such a storm would look only like beckoning smoke signals from the banks of the Talkeetna River.
When you are on a Denali Park wilderness bus you join a team of wildlife spotters. Everyone on the bus joins the driver in constant surveillance of the countryside; mostly looking for one of these: grizzly bears, wolves, Dall sheep, moose, or caribou. They are called the big five and folks gage the success of their outing on how many of these are seen.
We climb onto Polychrome Pass (so named because of the many colors seen in the strata of the treeless mountains) and make our first roadside stop. NJ and I hike a short distance to the top of a knoll and begin scanning the mountain ridges. As if on cue, several Dall sheep appear on the crest of a ridge and form a procession along its narrow divide. They are easily visible with the naked eye; their every feature and movement can be seen through binoculars. Standing on a narrow ridge top they have a backdrop of only sky and clouds. They move along this highwire as gracefully as a troupe of ballerinas.
In our peripheral view we catch something else on the move below the sheep…a grizzly followed by three cubs. She looks immense, fat, and fluffy and the cubs trailing behind give the whole scene a children’s storybook look—a bear family outing. Their neighbors the sheep will surely nod hello as they pass. No. More likely Momma Bear is considering mutton for dinner. It doesn’t happen—this time.
We awaken early the next morning in the Teklanika Campground, having slept soundly in our pickup bed statehouse. After a breakfast of gorp and deer jerky we begin a trip to Wonder Lake, located in the marshlands of the Moose Creek Valley where the scenery is spectacular, but the price is a measure of your blood—mosquitoes abound. Later, before catching the last eastbound bus back to Teklanika, we will take a day hike along the Toklat River, walking among and disquieted by the mélange of beasts’ footprints—bear (the one’s with the claw marks of the griz), moose, marmot, caribou, wolf. It sets us in a frame of mind that will serve to accentuate the drama that awaits us.
†
The Bear and the Lamb
It’s a new day in the morning
Anything is possible; it’s all good
For a brief shining moment everything is wonderful
Knock on wood
- N-G D Band
We spotted the sheep first. It is not that difficult; they are not dependent upon natural camouflage for protection but rather seem to delight in being conspicuous. Their world-top sanctuary and their Flying Walenda balance have made them arrogant; I shared their confidence. Except for resourceful man who learned long ago to climb even higher and then rain arrows or bullets from above them, they were safe. No predator could reach their heights or would have nerve or device to move along rope thin ledges of sliding rock where the sheep walk as if on broad flatland pasture.
But I would be wrong. I would also come quickly to remembrance of the sometimes horror of the wild; only the soft edges of a distant view, and the unsophisticated eye that heretofore had seen only cartoon bears or the caged overfed cousins of the wild ones, could make a big headed, lumbering golden grizzly benign. The bear is not the Denali mascot.
We spotted the grizzly just seconds later, moving vertically straight up a steep mountain ridge on an intercept path with fifteen Dall sheep (the kind with the yellowish cornucopia horns) lounging about 200 feet from the summit. The bear seemed to be in no hurry but neither did he divert left or right, even for a few feet to lessen the incline—the shortest distance was a straight line.
The sheep were, for the longest time, unaware or unconcerned. We—12 passengers in a wilderness bus on a mountainside road far below—were as scornful of the bear’s intent as the Dall sheep must have been. Ha! We thought. Good luck, Mr. Grizzly, scaling to their heights. And should you find footing in the soft spongy grass of the highlands for a while, it will only be a tease. Soon you’ll hit scree—loose sliding rock that barely clings to slopes so steep even air falls from them, to become katabatic winds. But the sheep can dance on scree.
So, we were going to enjoy a show--bruin versus mountain sheep. He would threaten. If being scored by a ringside wildlife official he might even win a round or two on points for scaling a piece of mountain side so nimbly, and coming close enough to cause the sheep to scramble. And scramble they did. The bear would bisect the herd if they did not move. Almost lazily they came to all fours and trotted a hundred feet higher. Still the bear advanced; still he climbed arrow straight, as if a grotesque hairy mutant fly, paws sticking to the mountain side.
Now was our first moment of uncertainty. The brotherhood of smugness we shared with the sheep waned slightly, but still… We all remained confident that the sliding rubble of the scree would separate the true wind walkers from the pretender.
And so when the sheep skipped higher yet and then struck a horizontal route along some invisible ledge (perhaps the width of my palm, no more) in the slick rubble we all waited for the bear to brake, or—we hoped—try the ledge and tumble like a furry oak barrel down the side of the mountain.
Did I mention that the sheep herd comprised rams and ewes, and one lamb; a new born, probably only days old. Incredibly the bruin made the left hand turn onto the rocky ledge, if there even was one—a ledge, that is—without the slightest stumble. Then he was level with and about 200 feet behind the last in the procession—the lamb. The baby was trying hard to stay with the line of sheep, all now dashing along the rocky rim. From the bus, we humans were watching as a light brown (golden actually) blob chased a row of white figures. Those with binoculars shouted the play by play.
Grizzlies, I’m told, can run 35 mph. A baby sheep cannot. The lamb’s mother is some distance ahead of the lamb, keeping a gap to encourage it to follow more quickly, but Lamby falls behind. Mom doubles back to her baby…touches it, head to head, then turns and runs ahead again as if to say, “you have to keep up with me, Sweetie. Run.”
Lamby runs, but he just can’t run fast or long on piano stool legs. And lungs and heart are days old only. And what does he know of being prey to monsters with twenty claws and teeth made long, pointed, and curved by eons of selective evolution—nature’s gift to the flesh tearing carnivore (actually, omnivore—they like berries too). Who, what, would hurt a lamb, mockingbird of the mountains?
And so he ran, because Momma was too far away from him. But the danger behind him was not felt—yet.
But we saw. And now, dear God, we knew. The bear was not going to stumble, and Lamby would not outrun him. The distance between brown and white grew shorter and shorter; we tried to will it not to, but soon the inevitable capture could not be denied. It was as if we were watching a beast that was created to be a powerful but harmless giant—like an out of control cyborg in a science fiction movie—short circuit and become instantly evil, preying on the innocent. It was the metaphor come to life that so bothered us I think—the very symbol of innocence was being pursued by another of God’s creations. I know, this is what happens in the real world. But the lamb eats grass, rubs the belly of its pretty mommy, and breathes only clean mountain air; an altogether delightful and harmless creature. But the bear is hungry.
Then it happened. That which only minutes earlier none would have imagined; not when we were enthralled by the theatre of it all, talking easily and smiling over our good luck of being where we were at just the right time. Now we watched only because it isn’t in humans to divert their attention from such drama, even if it sickens us. The brown mass absorbed the white. Through field glasses—like those glued to my eyes—the capture was not so mild. The bear reached and snagged the lamb. To say he hugged him sounds absurdly euphemistic. But that is how it first seemed. The bear pressed the lamb to him, but it was to teeth glistening with hunger fed saliva, not his warm breast. This was a kill not an embrace. Mercifully, it was a quick kill.
Lamby’s mom, however, was not so soon at peace. She circled the bear and her disappearing baby, dipping her head, and pawing the ground frantically…will this make it stop? She could not fight the grizzly and the others—even the powerful and proud rams—would not. Man may have creeds that supplant self preservation at all costs, but among wilderness creatures, survival entreats the strongest.
She watched her baby devoured, and we watched her dance of mourning, and—because the distance was too great to actually hear—imagined her heart-broken bleat. The bear lingered over his small meal. The mom eventually walked in a drooping gate back to the herd, and we, witnesses to the mayhem that must play itself out somewhere every day in the wild, were speechless and somber, and outraged at the injustice and cruelty of it all. Nature, of course, and its unreasoning inhabitants, know nothing of such feelings. They know hunger and, sadly, fear. And, sadder still, they know, even if ever so briefly, grief.
This preserve, set aside by us so that animals can behave like, well, animals, is not a zoo that separates prey from predator. And it most certainly is not a post apocalyptic world where the child can lead the lion, and the wolf (or bear) naps with the lamb. Life lives on life. Soulless, instinct driven animals do their thing; and their habit is to kill and eat what is weaker…it matters not at all that the lamb is our personification of innocence; that it eats grass, walks among flowers, and kicks up its heels for the pure joy of living in the sunshine…at least for a brief shining moment everything was wonderful.
† Epilog
To punctuate our rediscovered sense of reality, just minutes after our bus pulled away from the scene of the lamb’s death we watched as a hawk swooped to the ground, grabbed a small ground squirrel in its talons and flew away. But a rodent’s death did not evoke the emotions we felt for the lamb. And the wolf buoyed our mood. We saw him canter from the thickets onto the road in front of us. He was healthy and bright-eyed; his ears were up. It was as if, to bond, all we need do is step from the bus, extend an open hand and say, “here boy.”
Unpublished Work © 2008 William M. Harris
3. Alaska Journal - Skagway
Whittier looks as if it had been beamed into place, so imprisoned is it by sea and mountains. In fact, were it not for the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel—a one lane (shared by car and train), 2.7 mile, arrow straight, hole through the mountains, there would be no way in by land vehicle. There is an unsettling but oddly alluring mystery about a town so disconnected.
My primary reason for going to Whittier was to kayak in an ocean. I will do this, but without chartering a ferry or attaching myself to a sea kayaking party I would have a difficult time reaching the more distant and exotic bays and fiords. But the bay extending west of Whittier—Kittiwake—was accessible and is one of the most scenic in the area. There are no glaciers, but I had seen many glaciers already. There are waterfalls, sheer cliffs, and a renowned rookery all within a five or six mile kayak trip. The bay itself is miles wide and many miles long, extending from the mouth of Shakespeare Creek, through Wells Passage, and into Prince William Sound. When the sea is calm, it is a most pleasurable small craft cruise.
…Players in epic events—like the Klondike Gold Rush—seem never to want to lose their place in history. They want desperately to be remembered…memorialized. And so, their spirits linger. On my second day in Skagway, I was their guest.
I know it pleased them that I visited the ghost town of Dyea (pronounced, Di ee’ and means, to pack) and walked the grounds, imagining a boomtown of over 10,000 souls. Dyea was built—and died—hurriedly on the high tide bank of Chilkoot Inlet. It was the supply town and jumping off point for the Klondike prospectors. At its height, 10,000 dreamers lived here, most simply enroute to the gold fields 600 miles farther north. The town was ephemeral, lasting only about two years before the railroad from Skagway mercifully killed the Chilkoot Trail overland pack business. Even at its peak, it was something of a façade. Businesses along its main street nested in ugly disorder behind fake store fronts—something like the disembarking gold seekers, whose exterior was the capable, self-assured seeker of fortune hiding what had to be a brooding dread of burdens and dark days between them and the remote chance of success. The dread was borne of premonitions planted and nurtured by reality. The land was brutal and many died or went mad moiling for gold. Still, I think, most of these men were of the nothing to lose, nothing ventured ilk…many refugees of the great depression of the 1890s; desperate.
Herman Ferry worked a river ferry on the Chilkoot Trail in 1898 and recorded this: “I can see down the canyon 5 miles, and every morning it is black with people. This is the most excitement the world ever knew.”
Often, however, the excitement was borne of terror…on April 3, 1898, a warm wind loosed snow on the mountain slopes along the Chilkoot. It was Palm Sunday when the whole mountain side gave up its snow and sent it crashing on the stampeders (what the
canyon trekkers were called) moving along the valley floor. Slide Cemetery holds its victims—some found frozen in running position, like-real life Terra Cotta Soldiers.
The Chilkoot Trail is now a major tourist attraction; thousands of backpackers hike the 33 mile-long trail from Dyea to Lake Bennett (Yukon River headwaters) every year, often riding the White Pass/Yukon Railroad back to Skagway. It is a great and memorable hike, but it is a well marked trail and, though strenuous, never really all that dangerous (bear encounters aside). Folklore, more than challenge, is its allure.
I could not leave the area without taking a kayak trip down the Taiya. I would fly downstream in a 39 pound, 9 foot kayak on the same river that the stampeders used as a frozen highway in the winter months. It took them 3 – 4 weeks to pack a ton of goods from Dyea to Lake Lindeman, 10 miles north of Chilkoot Pass.
My first full day in Skagway the winds were high and the sea rough; I could not kayak, so I climbed A B Mountain (non-inspiring moniker, but writ large every spring by snow filled ravines). …My only real anxious moments—except for the chill I got every time I step over bear scat (often in the middle of the trail and often fresh) or its paw print—were crossing patches of ice fields. The crusted snow is thick—10 feet – 15 feet—and water trickles or gushes from beneath it. My fear was breaking through the crust and the snow falling in over me. It could happen.
Excerpts
1. Alaska Journal - Beaver Creek Float
…I was not prepared for two signature characteristics. First, the water is marrow chilling cold; colder than I could have imagined—borne of recent glacier and snow melt from high in the White Mountains. Uncomfortably chilled and fearing hypothermia, I began playing out survival plans in my mind should the river take me into herself (quite probable given the commoving waters I would face in the next 120 miles). Second, there are no long lazy eddies. Hard country does not give ground easily—even to torrents of water. To find the path of least resistance Beaver Creek had gouged its channel in serpentine fashion, often dividing and dividing again to get all its water through. This means acute bends where water sweeps in arcs as if forced through a flume—they call these sweepers—or it cascades over rock and gravel in wide, shallow falls—shoals. The shoals will not always float a boat, but look safe and familiar; the sweepers are deep and navigable, but they look so treacherous. The water swirls and breaks…the creek delights in flinging what it bears into the bank at the elbow of the bend: there lie downed willows, spruce, and aspens, their limbs reaching above and beneath the water, eager to clutch and hold fast to what the current brings them.
…it was just two river bends beyond this point that I was to rendezvous with the airplane that would take me from the White Mountains Wilderness. …Beaver Creek would soon enter flatlands at which point the stream will begin to braid wildly, taking many routes through the marshy tundra on its final approach to the Yukon River.
The Yukon Flats has a distant and romantic sound to it, but I can think of fewer more nightmarish fates for a wilderness traveler than to find themselves in a labyrinth of crawling streams that melt into a vast swampland (swamps always conjure images of unnamed creatures that move silently under dark thick water where only the most grotesque lie within the oozing too soft bottom). It is a forlorn place without landmark; with endless horizon and, from water level, no discernable way out. You float in deeper and deeper. There is no backtracking, no retracing; the channels have divided and broadened into lakes that then drain from many fingers cutting through spongy, sodden grassland. By the time awareness of your situation sinks in—that you are in an unsolvable maze—there is no chance of finding the path that brought you in. You will never say, “I remember this spot,” or, “this looks familiar—this is the way out I’m sure.” You simply drift until you die and join the lost spirits of the Flats…for it must be haunted. I’m sure of it.
Just a day before I began my Beaver Creek float I was told by a local (it was late at night, in a roadhouse—a place for drink, food, and lodging often found along wilderness roads far from towns) that once, while floating the Yukon, moving along its right bank, he spied what he thought was a bull moose swimming near mid-stream—he saw the unmistakable broad-rake antlers…but the head was wrong. Too flat, too rigid. This was nothing swimming, nothing alive. And yet it seemed to move along the current with purpose, as if it must carry on, must stay afloat and stay with the river. The man steered his small craft out into the downstream path of the dead antlers to investigate. It was…a coffin. The moose antlers affixed to what must be called its bow, like a clownish—in the weird, child scaring sense—masthead. The box was floating now with only about six inches of freeboard. It may have been an expensive sealer (mortician assuring the grieving buyer that the body within would never suffer (!) from cold water seeping in) but many miles in the milky white Yukon waters would give lie to what surely was a preposterous claim. The box’s inhabitant must now be well drenched. But perhaps that was his wish.
2. Alaska Journal - The Bear and The Lamb
It is late morning and I am off...a road trip…to Alaska…with only the most general itinerary. Mine will be a peripatetic journey. I will float rivers to the Yukon, trek mountain trails, stand on glaciers, and sleep on the ground in grizzly country, somewhere in Alaska.
I drive on, and on…it is weeks later now and I have just completed a float of Beaver Creek—a 130-mile solo canoe odyssey through the White Mountains, to a point just upstream from the Yukon Flats (where I felt the mist and mystery of the Yukon, but had not the nerve to enter). But that’s another story—first, Denali. My wife, Norma Jean, has flown in from Missouri to join me for this leg of my road trip.
You enter Denali National Park only one way—along the east-west Denali Park Road that almost apologetically cuts the narrowest line into the northeast quadrant of a six million acre wilderness. There is no mistaking the guiding philosophy for Denali—this preserve is not man’s kingdom; it belongs to wild animals, and whatever nonsentient plant and insect life the environment can construct. Man’s effect must be minimal. The dirt road runs as unobtrusively as possible 80 miles into the park. It lies lightly on flatlands of spruce and muskeg, and clings precariously to the steep sides of barren mountains. And these mountains gaze enviously southward at the mighty Alaska Range where Mounts McKinley (or, Denali, the High One), Foraker, and Hunter loom above all others; reaching so high that –ironically—they are often hard to see; clouds cover them most of the time, as if hiding royalty from the unworthy eyes of a lesser creation. Easy to see how mountains can beguile, so inviting they are when distance hides cliff and crevasse, and angel hair clouds give no hint of icy cold driving winds that rip you from the high ledges. Later, while passing through the village of Talkeetna, news came that the search for two women climbers lost on Mt Foraker (17,000 feet; climbing difficulty, extreme) had been called off—after two weeks they were presumed dead, victims of a relentless storm. Such a storm would look only like beckoning smoke signals from the banks of the Talkeetna River.
When you are on a Denali Park wilderness bus you join a team of wildlife spotters. Everyone on the bus joins the driver in constant surveillance of the countryside; mostly looking for one of these: grizzly bears, wolves, Dall sheep, moose, or caribou. They are called the big five and folks gage the success of their outing on how many of these are seen.
We climb onto Polychrome Pass (so named because of the many colors seen in the strata of the treeless mountains) and make our first roadside stop. NJ and I hike a short distance to the top of a knoll and begin scanning the mountain ridges. As if on cue, several Dall sheep appear on the crest of a ridge and form a procession along its narrow divide. They are easily visible with the naked eye; their every feature and movement can be seen through binoculars. Standing on a narrow ridge top they have a backdrop of only sky and clouds. They move along this highwire as gracefully as a troupe of ballerinas.
In our peripheral view we catch something else on the move below the sheep…a grizzly followed by three cubs. She looks immense, fat, and fluffy and the cubs trailing behind give the whole scene a children’s storybook look—a bear family outing. Their neighbors the sheep will surely nod hello as they pass. No. More likely Momma Bear is considering mutton for dinner. It doesn’t happen—this time.
We awaken early the next morning in the Teklanika Campground, having slept soundly in our pickup bed statehouse. After a breakfast of gorp and deer jerky we begin a trip to Wonder Lake, located in the marshlands of the Moose Creek Valley where the scenery is spectacular, but the price is a measure of your blood—mosquitoes abound. Later, before catching the last eastbound bus back to Teklanika, we will take a day hike along the Toklat River, walking among and disquieted by the mélange of beasts’ footprints—bear (the one’s with the claw marks of the griz), moose, marmot, caribou, wolf. It sets us in a frame of mind that will serve to accentuate the drama that awaits us.
†
The Bear and the Lamb
It’s a new day in the morning
Anything is possible; it’s all good
For a brief shining moment everything is wonderful
Knock on wood
- N-G D Band
We spotted the sheep first. It is not that difficult; they are not dependent upon natural camouflage for protection but rather seem to delight in being conspicuous. Their world-top sanctuary and their Flying Walenda balance have made them arrogant; I shared their confidence. Except for resourceful man who learned long ago to climb even higher and then rain arrows or bullets from above them, they were safe. No predator could reach their heights or would have nerve or device to move along rope thin ledges of sliding rock where the sheep walk as if on broad flatland pasture.
But I would be wrong. I would also come quickly to remembrance of the sometimes horror of the wild; only the soft edges of a distant view, and the unsophisticated eye that heretofore had seen only cartoon bears or the caged overfed cousins of the wild ones, could make a big headed, lumbering golden grizzly benign. The bear is not the Denali mascot.
We spotted the grizzly just seconds later, moving vertically straight up a steep mountain ridge on an intercept path with fifteen Dall sheep (the kind with the yellowish cornucopia horns) lounging about 200 feet from the summit. The bear seemed to be in no hurry but neither did he divert left or right, even for a few feet to lessen the incline—the shortest distance was a straight line.
The sheep were, for the longest time, unaware or unconcerned. We—12 passengers in a wilderness bus on a mountainside road far below—were as scornful of the bear’s intent as the Dall sheep must have been. Ha! We thought. Good luck, Mr. Grizzly, scaling to their heights. And should you find footing in the soft spongy grass of the highlands for a while, it will only be a tease. Soon you’ll hit scree—loose sliding rock that barely clings to slopes so steep even air falls from them, to become katabatic winds. But the sheep can dance on scree.
So, we were going to enjoy a show--bruin versus mountain sheep. He would threaten. If being scored by a ringside wildlife official he might even win a round or two on points for scaling a piece of mountain side so nimbly, and coming close enough to cause the sheep to scramble. And scramble they did. The bear would bisect the herd if they did not move. Almost lazily they came to all fours and trotted a hundred feet higher. Still the bear advanced; still he climbed arrow straight, as if a grotesque hairy mutant fly, paws sticking to the mountain side.
Now was our first moment of uncertainty. The brotherhood of smugness we shared with the sheep waned slightly, but still… We all remained confident that the sliding rubble of the scree would separate the true wind walkers from the pretender.
And so when the sheep skipped higher yet and then struck a horizontal route along some invisible ledge (perhaps the width of my palm, no more) in the slick rubble we all waited for the bear to brake, or—we hoped—try the ledge and tumble like a furry oak barrel down the side of the mountain.
Did I mention that the sheep herd comprised rams and ewes, and one lamb; a new born, probably only days old. Incredibly the bruin made the left hand turn onto the rocky ledge, if there even was one—a ledge, that is—without the slightest stumble. Then he was level with and about 200 feet behind the last in the procession—the lamb. The baby was trying hard to stay with the line of sheep, all now dashing along the rocky rim. From the bus, we humans were watching as a light brown (golden actually) blob chased a row of white figures. Those with binoculars shouted the play by play.
Grizzlies, I’m told, can run 35 mph. A baby sheep cannot. The lamb’s mother is some distance ahead of the lamb, keeping a gap to encourage it to follow more quickly, but Lamby falls behind. Mom doubles back to her baby…touches it, head to head, then turns and runs ahead again as if to say, “you have to keep up with me, Sweetie. Run.”
Lamby runs, but he just can’t run fast or long on piano stool legs. And lungs and heart are days old only. And what does he know of being prey to monsters with twenty claws and teeth made long, pointed, and curved by eons of selective evolution—nature’s gift to the flesh tearing carnivore (actually, omnivore—they like berries too). Who, what, would hurt a lamb, mockingbird of the mountains?
And so he ran, because Momma was too far away from him. But the danger behind him was not felt—yet.
But we saw. And now, dear God, we knew. The bear was not going to stumble, and Lamby would not outrun him. The distance between brown and white grew shorter and shorter; we tried to will it not to, but soon the inevitable capture could not be denied. It was as if we were watching a beast that was created to be a powerful but harmless giant—like an out of control cyborg in a science fiction movie—short circuit and become instantly evil, preying on the innocent. It was the metaphor come to life that so bothered us I think—the very symbol of innocence was being pursued by another of God’s creations. I know, this is what happens in the real world. But the lamb eats grass, rubs the belly of its pretty mommy, and breathes only clean mountain air; an altogether delightful and harmless creature. But the bear is hungry.
Then it happened. That which only minutes earlier none would have imagined; not when we were enthralled by the theatre of it all, talking easily and smiling over our good luck of being where we were at just the right time. Now we watched only because it isn’t in humans to divert their attention from such drama, even if it sickens us. The brown mass absorbed the white. Through field glasses—like those glued to my eyes—the capture was not so mild. The bear reached and snagged the lamb. To say he hugged him sounds absurdly euphemistic. But that is how it first seemed. The bear pressed the lamb to him, but it was to teeth glistening with hunger fed saliva, not his warm breast. This was a kill not an embrace. Mercifully, it was a quick kill.
Lamby’s mom, however, was not so soon at peace. She circled the bear and her disappearing baby, dipping her head, and pawing the ground frantically…will this make it stop? She could not fight the grizzly and the others—even the powerful and proud rams—would not. Man may have creeds that supplant self preservation at all costs, but among wilderness creatures, survival entreats the strongest.
She watched her baby devoured, and we watched her dance of mourning, and—because the distance was too great to actually hear—imagined her heart-broken bleat. The bear lingered over his small meal. The mom eventually walked in a drooping gate back to the herd, and we, witnesses to the mayhem that must play itself out somewhere every day in the wild, were speechless and somber, and outraged at the injustice and cruelty of it all. Nature, of course, and its unreasoning inhabitants, know nothing of such feelings. They know hunger and, sadly, fear. And, sadder still, they know, even if ever so briefly, grief.
This preserve, set aside by us so that animals can behave like, well, animals, is not a zoo that separates prey from predator. And it most certainly is not a post apocalyptic world where the child can lead the lion, and the wolf (or bear) naps with the lamb. Life lives on life. Soulless, instinct driven animals do their thing; and their habit is to kill and eat what is weaker…it matters not at all that the lamb is our personification of innocence; that it eats grass, walks among flowers, and kicks up its heels for the pure joy of living in the sunshine…at least for a brief shining moment everything was wonderful.
† Epilog
To punctuate our rediscovered sense of reality, just minutes after our bus pulled away from the scene of the lamb’s death we watched as a hawk swooped to the ground, grabbed a small ground squirrel in its talons and flew away. But a rodent’s death did not evoke the emotions we felt for the lamb. And the wolf buoyed our mood. We saw him canter from the thickets onto the road in front of us. He was healthy and bright-eyed; his ears were up. It was as if, to bond, all we need do is step from the bus, extend an open hand and say, “here boy.”
Unpublished Work © 2008 William M. Harris
3. Alaska Journal - Skagway
Whittier looks as if it had been beamed into place, so imprisoned is it by sea and mountains. In fact, were it not for the Anton Anderson Memorial Tunnel—a one lane (shared by car and train), 2.7 mile, arrow straight, hole through the mountains, there would be no way in by land vehicle. There is an unsettling but oddly alluring mystery about a town so disconnected.
My primary reason for going to Whittier was to kayak in an ocean. I will do this, but without chartering a ferry or attaching myself to a sea kayaking party I would have a difficult time reaching the more distant and exotic bays and fiords. But the bay extending west of Whittier—Kittiwake—was accessible and is one of the most scenic in the area. There are no glaciers, but I had seen many glaciers already. There are waterfalls, sheer cliffs, and a renowned rookery all within a five or six mile kayak trip. The bay itself is miles wide and many miles long, extending from the mouth of Shakespeare Creek, through Wells Passage, and into Prince William Sound. When the sea is calm, it is a most pleasurable small craft cruise.
…Players in epic events—like the Klondike Gold Rush—seem never to want to lose their place in history. They want desperately to be remembered…memorialized. And so, their spirits linger. On my second day in Skagway, I was their guest.
I know it pleased them that I visited the ghost town of Dyea (pronounced, Di ee’ and means, to pack) and walked the grounds, imagining a boomtown of over 10,000 souls. Dyea was built—and died—hurriedly on the high tide bank of Chilkoot Inlet. It was the supply town and jumping off point for the Klondike prospectors. At its height, 10,000 dreamers lived here, most simply enroute to the gold fields 600 miles farther north. The town was ephemeral, lasting only about two years before the railroad from Skagway mercifully killed the Chilkoot Trail overland pack business. Even at its peak, it was something of a façade. Businesses along its main street nested in ugly disorder behind fake store fronts—something like the disembarking gold seekers, whose exterior was the capable, self-assured seeker of fortune hiding what had to be a brooding dread of burdens and dark days between them and the remote chance of success. The dread was borne of premonitions planted and nurtured by reality. The land was brutal and many died or went mad moiling for gold. Still, I think, most of these men were of the nothing to lose, nothing ventured ilk…many refugees of the great depression of the 1890s; desperate.
Herman Ferry worked a river ferry on the Chilkoot Trail in 1898 and recorded this: “I can see down the canyon 5 miles, and every morning it is black with people. This is the most excitement the world ever knew.”
Often, however, the excitement was borne of terror…on April 3, 1898, a warm wind loosed snow on the mountain slopes along the Chilkoot. It was Palm Sunday when the whole mountain side gave up its snow and sent it crashing on the stampeders (what the
canyon trekkers were called) moving along the valley floor. Slide Cemetery holds its victims—some found frozen in running position, like-real life Terra Cotta Soldiers.
The Chilkoot Trail is now a major tourist attraction; thousands of backpackers hike the 33 mile-long trail from Dyea to Lake Bennett (Yukon River headwaters) every year, often riding the White Pass/Yukon Railroad back to Skagway. It is a great and memorable hike, but it is a well marked trail and, though strenuous, never really all that dangerous (bear encounters aside). Folklore, more than challenge, is its allure.
I could not leave the area without taking a kayak trip down the Taiya. I would fly downstream in a 39 pound, 9 foot kayak on the same river that the stampeders used as a frozen highway in the winter months. It took them 3 – 4 weeks to pack a ton of goods from Dyea to Lake Lindeman, 10 miles north of Chilkoot Pass.
My first full day in Skagway the winds were high and the sea rough; I could not kayak, so I climbed A B Mountain (non-inspiring moniker, but writ large every spring by snow filled ravines). …My only real anxious moments—except for the chill I got every time I step over bear scat (often in the middle of the trail and often fresh) or its paw print—were crossing patches of ice fields. The crusted snow is thick—10 feet – 15 feet—and water trickles or gushes from beneath it. My fear was breaking through the crust and the snow falling in over me. It could happen.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Under the Ledge
† The Hike…Grand Canyon
The Paiute name for the plateau that the canyon has rent is Käibab, or "Mountain Lying Down." What a wonderful description…the canyon is that, an inverted mountain. The visitor does not climb but rather, falls into Kaibab.
Rim to Rim they call it. We left the North Kaibab (pronounced, Ki’ bab) Trailhead at 6:30 am on NJ’s birthday, September 11, and made Cottonwood Campground by 12:45 pm six hours later. We descended 4,170 feet in 6.8 miles.
The beginning is deceptive…you are immediately sucked into the scent and scene of the forest, lulled into a world of benign natural beauty. The temperature in the early morning will seldom reach above 80 degrees; the air is cool, and, mostly, the path is shaded. The drop down begins through tall ponderosa pines and the vistas are only glimpsed through their bows. The zig- zagging trail along sharp successive switchbacks belies the steepness of the trail...we go down fast. In the timber of the north rim, you get only fleeting looks at the abyss. It stays like this, with the canyon opening up before you gradually for much of the initial descent, the sheerness of the canyon walls, so far, well camouflaged.
When you have opportunity, you set your view to the horizon and see Roaring Springs Canyon stretch out before you. It is a delightful few miles—about four. At Supai Tunnel, only 1.3 miles along our hike, is fresh water, and a bathroom. Where Roaring Springs meets Bright Angel Canyon there is another oasis; a ranger station and a sweating five gallon Igloo cooler full of fresh cold lemonade—courtesy of the on-site ranger. Experts say that for an hour or so of exercise it is best to drink only water; beyond an hour of sustained physical activity, particularly if exposed to intense heat, electrolytes begin to leach out faster than they can be replenished, and more water just flushes them out faster. One must eat, or drink a fruit or sports drink, and eating is best. But an appetite is hard to conjure when the body’s core is near meltdown. Lemonade is perfect.
We are, by now, weary. But not as much as we will be after three miles more weaving down from high in the Bright Angel Canyon. Gone now are the pine trees and hidden ravines. Now the trail is exposed. Now, NJ knows why the blood drained from her face, and she grew quiet with dread when she first glimpsed The Canyon. Now the trail hugs the rock faces, stair stepping down on tight switchbacks, alternating directions again and again. The path, some places, is only two feet wide and strewn with rubble. The trail took us down and down; and yet, the bottom never seemed to get closer.
It is difficult now to remember the great comfort of the North Rim Lodge, our one day and one night residence on the eve of our great hike. We had parked our vehicle in the parking lot of the Backcountry Office on the South Rim and taken a five hour shuttle ride east, north, and west to the North Rim. The hours went quickly; we passed the time in conversation with backpacking enthusiast from around the world—the Grand Canyon attracts many foreigners; it is an international playground (we need more such). We mostly talked with a young couple from England. She was a teacher and he was an officer in the Royal Army. Both were on sabbatical—a ten month world tour. It seems fantastic to us Americans, but their employers actually encourage the occasional extended break…their jobs would be held for them. As it happens, this is a great time for a U.S. vacation, the Euro is worth double the value of the dollar. The Limies had finished their rim to rim and were coming back to the north to retrieve their car. Theirs had been—for reasons known only to them—a grueling, but impressive, two day marathon. They had begun the hike in the dark, flashlights shining forth from foreheads to illuminate a few meters ahead of each step; no need to shine a light left, only rock wall—or right, only empty air.
At the North Rim Lodge we had our own cabin within a stone’s throw of the canyon’s edge. The cabin could not have been more mountain typical…plain but warm; heavy door that you opened with key not card; hardwood floors covered by thick area rugs; conspicuously, no television; a real fireplace—it had the feel of a refuge. Perfect additions to the décor were our bulging backpacks thrown on the foot of the spring mattress bed, our walking sticks hanging from a scarred wooden chair post, and my deteriorating travel journal lying on a yard sale end table. It felt good here. The main lodge was all stone and wood and open spaces…the south side mostly open to the panorama of the canyon. It was rustic in ambiance only; every amenity of a five star hotel was provided. We spent the evening sitting on what has to be the world’s highest outdoor patio; we sat quietly and watched the sunset—like a giant golden coin falling into the abyss. Later, we had our dinner in a great hall, at tables covered in white linen and lighted by candle, the stone walls and high ceilings letting just a hint of cold mountain air circulate—we were at a King’s banquet in a castle cycene. After our meal we walked in the dark back to our strong little cabin on the brink…we arose at five AM, had coffee and pastry in the barely lighted combination bar and coffee shop—only thing open at this time—and boarded a Lodge shuttle for the quick one and one-half mile trip to the North Kaibab trailhead. The morning daylight was finally flowing in from the east. When we stepped from pavement to red sand we wore jackets; after one hour they came off—the heat from the canyon’s core began to be felt, every step taking us closer to it. So had begun, The Hike…
NJ forced herself, at my suggestion, to walk where others before her had, where the path was worn; her inclination was to hug the wall—but the surface was looser there and the risk was real that her backpack would snag on a jagged rock causing her to stumble. The trail surface would likely not catch and hold her. With heavy pack and weariness providing the momentum a body would hit knee, hip, and shoulder only a glancing blow on the trail before rolling over the edge. A few hundred feet down and you would feel your last impact, though your body would experience many more, as it careened from ledge to talus until finding the bottom. But that rarely happens.
If one can forget the precarious location, and you eventually do, the scenery is staggering. The size of the canyon is simply too much for the mind to grasp, let alone pen describe.
Acrophobia (from Greek ἄκρος, meaning "summit") is an extreme or irrational fear of heights My research tells me that Acrophobia can be dangerous, as sufferers can experience a panic attack in a high place and become too agitated to get themselves down safely. Some acrophobics also suffer from urges to throw themselves off high places, despite not being suicidal. Now, NJ in no way has an urge to throw herself off high places (throw me off, maybe)…it is the panic attacks and fears exacerbated by the fear of crumbling, then tumbling off high places that is my concern. So I watch her closely for awhile.
NJ conquered—at least controlled—her acrophobia and marshaled on. So, one hand is raised about hip high reaching for and just brushing the canyon wall, as if she is walking down a hallway in the dark, navigating by feeling the wall between door trims. The other hand—the one that could be extended straight, then hold a bamboo pole a thousand feet long and still brush nothing—holds a REI titanium walking stick. With it she jabs the outside edge of the trail with each step, as if to force her body inward, nearer the wall. The stick is outrigger, keeping the body safely balanced on the steep side of the chasm. Brush…jab…think happy thoughts.
It became routine. I’ve heard it said that you can get use to hanging if you do it long enough. With routine comes invulnerability to outside stimuli, but little things intrude. No longer are you distracted by the beauty or real danger. Now you can indulge irritability and complaints of tired joints and muscles. Rangers tell you to hike no faster than a pace witch allows you to carry on a conversation. But you hit a stretch were conversation is a bad idea…just get in a zone and doggedly trod on. No need risking a “why in hell did you bring me here” argument.
In the desert there is all and there is nothing. God is there and man is not.
– Honoré de Balzac
But one does not have to hike in the desert to have mood swings—the environment is not the source. Here, baring injury, you will snap out of it—guaranteed. A little rest, a little water, and you are again enthralled by the ever-changing landscape; again and again you are rewarded for your decision to take a path less trodden. It happens most when you break camp in the morning twilight and look around. Deep in a canyon the shadowed rock palisades try desperately to block the sun’s rays, and they do forestall them—but the orange fringe of fire cannot be stayed; and it is only announcing a full scorching desert sun. In such stages—twilight to blinding light—the morning breaks. The mountain stream just feet from your feather-light two-people tent burst into sparkles and the west canyon wall, a moment before just a dull giant whetstone, suddenly glares brilliantly, courtesy of the indirect lighting some 93 million miles distant. Shale and multi-colored sandstone begin their job of reflecting light and storing heat. It will be a long time now before this canyon cools again. You know, getting here really was no trouble at all.
We left Cottonwood Camp on the morning of September 12, having spent our first night camped in the Grand Canyon…three nights and only seventeen miles to go. But sufficient unto the day is the journey thereof. I leave the camp minus a very nice pair of prescription sunglasses. I have two theories: one, they floated down Bright Angel Creek (I had left them lying on a large boulder in the middle of the creek while bathing in its clean rushing waters) to the Colorado River, eventually to the Pacific Ocean. They will be found one day by a near-death raft-borne wayfarer who will be saved from sun blindness and so able to see a ship that will rescue him; or, two, they were picked up by that purveyor of things sparkling (the glasses had silver frames), the ubiquitous raven, and now adorn her high canyon nest—making it the finest nest in the canyon, coveted by all her raven neighbors. I mean, what else could have happened to them?
Until we reach the Colorado River we will stay on the North Kaibab Trail. Our day’s trip was modest enough; only seven miles along Bright Angel Creek to Bright Angel Campground near the Colorado River. But it was a spectacular hike…easy, as Grand Canyon treks go. Following a water course, climbing only occasionally to slip through narrow defiles, almost always in the shade, is a walk to savor. We traversed by Ribbon Falls (actually 0.3 mile off trail) and through The Box (where the canyon narrows and heats up…here the limestone is 1.25 billion years old; why is it that rock outlives the living to such extremes…aren’t we more valuable?). Four months in advance we had reserved space in Bright Angel Campground along with three meals—stew, salad, and cornbread for dinner—at the nearby Phantom Ranch. Phantom Ranch sits at the heart of the Grand Canyon on a narrow sliver of bank flanking Bright Angel Creek, one-half mile before it joins the Colorado River. Established in 1903 by David Rust—in the beginning only a ramada and a few tents, it bore his name for only a short while. Permanent structures, designed by Grand Canyon’s grand architect, Mary Colter, were constructed in 1922. The ranch has been an exotic destination of adventuresome people ever since—including Theodore Roosevelt. T-Rex camped here in 1913, using the ranch as a base for hunting trips on the north rim. For awhile, it was called Roosevelt Camp, but, as it should be in this enchanted land, poetry won out over personality and the nearby Phantom Creek lent its name.
It’s dark in Bright Angel Canyon. If there is a moon, only at its zenith could it throw a feeble ray of light where I sit now. Above me are stars so dense it seems all the stars in space must be convening above this spot. The Milky Way is more a giant veil than individual points of light. I am at a table set on a circle of cleared ground along a shushing mountain creek. The campsite would not be noticeable but for the six inch beam of light from the tiny flashlight fastened to my cap bill. The width of my pen hand and one-half page of my notebook catch all the light there is it seems for a thousand miles. Writing now, at our campsite within thirty feet of Bright Angel Creek—a fast, clear, rocky bottom mountain stream sent from Roaring Spring located 3,800 feet below the North Rim—I feel as if I could look up and see my pick-up, and hear car doors slam from picnickers kicking SUV doors shut as they balance loaves of bread and bags of chips on top of trunk sized two-handled Coleman coolers. But when I do look up I remember where I am and , since I’m well rested after a night and day of short walks, cold creek baths, and bunkhouse meals, I am happy to see nonesuch, only stone ramparts, cottonwood trees, cacti, and a narrow dusty trail that leads to Silver Bridge and south…and then, relentlessly, up.
The evening of the first day, after our fine beef stew and cornbread meal, we walk through the dark, hot night and with some difficulty find a small outdoor arena, illuminated by the feeblest and dimmest of lights. Behind this apologetic glow stands tonight’s speaker, a Park Ranger and Biologist (Becky, I think) who must be NPS’s best known bat expert. Here is what we remembered of her excellent lecture: Pregnant bats get huge, because they give birth to one large baby (called a pup) at a time just like humans; they do use echolocation (sonar) to identify obstacles, but all bats can see, and many of them have quite good vision; the wing of a bat is supported by very long finger bones; there are vampire bats, but, regrettably, they do not suck out the blood, or turn their victims into vampires--they use their very sharp front teeth to make little, tiny cuts and then lick the cuts with their tongue to get the blood (hey, black flies do that); they are a top predator of the mosquito. In one hour, one bat eats 600 – 1,000 mosquito sized insects. Therefore, 50 bats are capable of eating a minimum of 180,000 bugs in 6 hours with no ill effects on livestock, household pets or children; they do not bed in your hair (well, that takes the fun out of cave exploring) and are no more inclined to rabies than any other warm-blooded animal; and—my favorite—a bat can hear a beetle walking on sand or a single strand of hair blowing in the wind (so, why do they need to hear hair blowing unless they want to fly to it?). As a bonus, we were given bathouse blueprints (roughly, it is a broad sided, shallow wooden box, about the size of a silverware drawer, placed fifteen feet above the ground) and encouraged to build and put one in our yards. Becky said they would give us natural insect control and hours of fascinating bat watching and listening (you can hear the high tweeting echolocation sound). NJ is excited about this—I secure the blueprints in one of the many small zippered pockets of my backpack.
With time on my hands on Thursday, our second and last day at Bright Angel Campground/Phantom Ranch, here is what I did: From the River Rim Trail I took a short side trip along the South Kaibab Trail. NJ elected not to climb any higher just for scenery, knowing that our trip out would provide plenty, and returned to Phantom Ranch to write post cards home to Missouri—cards that would be taken out by mule train; retrieved from a saddle bag serving as mailbox. A postal cache would vouch for the unusual mode of transportation and give the card its novelty.
The South Kaibab took me up quickly, but the trail was wide. I’d gone only a quarter-mile or so, up maybe 300 feet, when I saw the mule train on the other side of the river approaching the Black Bridge. I waited until the seven pack mules—led and followed by a mule driver—came by me kicking up dust and rolling stones with their black wooden hooves. Mule skinners don’t look like hikers; they wear high crowned western hats, the front brim dipping down in a smooth arc. In a hard rain water would pour over the brim giving the illusion of standing behind a waterfall. The expected Wrangler jeans bunch up over instep and sole of high heeled ropers. Long sleeved tailored shirts—front and cuffs drawn together by shiny snaps—and drooping cowboy style Fu Man Chu mustaches complete the affected impression. The outfit looks sweltering hot compared to the hiker’s sleeveless shirt, khaki shorts and light, vibram soled boots, but it works; I mean, who wants to see a cowboy, or a muleskinner, in khaki shorts?
Asked about their work—taking large Tennessee mules up and down narrow canyon trails—and they’ll tell you the mules are no trouble, but the people… Statistically, 95% of all tourist mule riders have never mounted up, on horse or mule. That is not hard to believe; even the most casual rider would balk at a ten mile ride where most of the trip is along a steep downhill grade with only inches separating at least two hooves from empty air at all times. Death may not be eminent, but fear is—or should be—and soreness in all the worse places is guaranteed.
I photographed the mule train clomping along the bridge, emerging from the narrow tunnel at the left bank, moving up inclines of broad deep steps made of juniper logs anchored with rebar, around hairpin switchbacks, and up ramps of hard packed red dirt. The mules looked bored through it all.
I descended the South Kaibab back the way I had come and crossed the same bridge the mules had, then continued along a trail of history. To my surprise there was, just a few hundred feet from the banks of the Colorado, the ruins of an Anasazi Indian village. John Wesley Powell discovered and mapped the ruin in 1868. Archeologists later dated the ruins circa AD 1100. The Anasazi—ancestors of Hopi, Zuni, and Navajo—left many footprints…but where are they now?
Francisco Vasquez de Coranado looking for Quivira and Seven Cities of Gold was the first European to see the Grand Canyon, but so crazed was he with the thoughts of El Dorado that he considered the canyon only a giant obstacle. He was not impressed. Three hundred years later a government commissioned steamboat sailed 350 miles up the Colorado River from the California gulf. It reached the upper regions of the Grand Canyon near today’s Glen Canyon. The report from the expedition seems foolish today: "It is a wasteland, destined to lie in silence, always the great unknown. In a word, forget the Grand Canyon."
John Wesley Powell would change that. To the curious and adventuresome, a large hole on a map labeled, “The Great Unknown” is but a beacon to follow. It is the sirens' song.
The Canyon’s grandeur was not lost on John Wesley Powell…he was the first to consistently use and publish the name "Grand Canyon.”
I walk on and notice the familiar shape of a burial mound…not familiar because I had visited many above ground crypts made of stacked rock, but because the mind always recognizes the macabre, the symbols of the dark side. My mind’s eye sees a corpse laid on a ground surface that is rock hard, resisting any attempt, by primitive tools, to cut into it. The grave digger becomes grave builder, first ringing the body with fist-sized stones creating a frame large enough to ensure a base broad enough to hold the dry-stacked mound that will not just cover the departed, but entomb him. No scavenger, no high wind or flooding stream can be allowed to disturb his rest. The result is a lovely, if out of place, crypt from native stone, garnished with clusters of mule shoes and plastic flowers. That who rests here must have been a muleskinner is evidenced by the crowning marker, a stiff coiled lariat.
No plaque has been erected to explain this lone grave, so conspicuously placed. But I assume his death was a glorious one—for his kind that is. I think this: The mule driver sat astride a tall slick jenny, making his way along a narrow ledge two-thousand feet up a cliff so steep and slick a lizard would find no claw hold. The mule ambles, and then suddenly rears as a Grand Canyon Pink Rattlesnake rises from the rubble in its path and strikes at his forefoot. Knowing that if the mule continues its antics it will spook the seven other mules behind it—all carrying tourists—the mule man folds the right rein tightly between rough thick fingers, jerks hard in a downward arching motion just as he slams sharp spurs into the panicked ungulate’s broad rib cage…together, they jump from the path into the empty air. The grave bespeaks someone greatly honored—a hero.
My day hike was less than two miles, but enough now that the Torrid Zone was upon me; that period of time between 10 AM and 4 PM when the temperature stayed above 110° F. I made my way back to the Phantom Ranch canteen to meet NJ for drinks of water and to study the map…look over our route out.
Our second and final night in Bright Angel Campground was the hottest; 116° at dinner time, still in the nineties when the canyon went black. And it does go black, except for the sprinkling of pin lights affixed to cap bills bobbing in the dark. You couldn’t see the person on whose head the cap sat, just points of light dancing along the creek bank, like super charged lightening bugs.
Like the night before, I sat at our picnic table writing by the light of my own cap bill flashlight as tiny feather light bugs swarmed. In time I grow sleepy and very tired of waving away insects, or smashing their soft insignificant bodies on my pages. I crawl through our tent’s half-circle opening, unzipping it with a sweeping arc. Lying on my back on top of a nylon sleeping bag which is on top of a one-inch self-inflating mattress, I prop my light on my chest and read, trying to ignore the furnace like conditions, the trickling sweat, and skin sticking to the slick, non-breathing fabric of the sleeping bag. There is no breeze, no relief. Incredibly, we both sleep soundly all through the night. Nothing like hiking miles in the desert to ensure an exhausted sleep—is there a feeling better at the end of the day than physical exhaustion?
We’re up at 4.30 AM and break camp in the steadily lightening morning darkness. Sleeping bags are stuffed and bed rolls tied to my large volume backpack. Fully loaded, as it is this trip, it weighs about 45 pounds—manageable but noticeable. NJ’s heavy duty fanny pack weighs in at about ten pounds, but that accounts for a lot of sundry necessities, including travel toothbrushes—believe it or not, lipstick—and at least a dozen food bars. Food bars, gorp, and beef jerky are our Grand Canyon hike diet.
The Paiute name for the plateau that the canyon has rent is Käibab, or "Mountain Lying Down." What a wonderful description…the canyon is that, an inverted mountain. The visitor does not climb but rather, falls into Kaibab.
You cannot see the Grand Canyon in one view as if it were a changeless
spectacle from which a curtain might be lifted, but to see it you have to
toil… - John Wesley Powell
Rim to Rim they call it. We left the North Kaibab (pronounced, Ki’ bab) Trailhead at 6:30 am on NJ’s birthday, September 11, and made Cottonwood Campground by 12:45 pm six hours later. We descended 4,170 feet in 6.8 miles.
The beginning is deceptive…you are immediately sucked into the scent and scene of the forest, lulled into a world of benign natural beauty. The temperature in the early morning will seldom reach above 80 degrees; the air is cool, and, mostly, the path is shaded. The drop down begins through tall ponderosa pines and the vistas are only glimpsed through their bows. The zig- zagging trail along sharp successive switchbacks belies the steepness of the trail...we go down fast. In the timber of the north rim, you get only fleeting looks at the abyss. It stays like this, with the canyon opening up before you gradually for much of the initial descent, the sheerness of the canyon walls, so far, well camouflaged.
When you have opportunity, you set your view to the horizon and see Roaring Springs Canyon stretch out before you. It is a delightful few miles—about four. At Supai Tunnel, only 1.3 miles along our hike, is fresh water, and a bathroom. Where Roaring Springs meets Bright Angel Canyon there is another oasis; a ranger station and a sweating five gallon Igloo cooler full of fresh cold lemonade—courtesy of the on-site ranger. Experts say that for an hour or so of exercise it is best to drink only water; beyond an hour of sustained physical activity, particularly if exposed to intense heat, electrolytes begin to leach out faster than they can be replenished, and more water just flushes them out faster. One must eat, or drink a fruit or sports drink, and eating is best. But an appetite is hard to conjure when the body’s core is near meltdown. Lemonade is perfect.
We are, by now, weary. But not as much as we will be after three miles more weaving down from high in the Bright Angel Canyon. Gone now are the pine trees and hidden ravines. Now the trail is exposed. Now, NJ knows why the blood drained from her face, and she grew quiet with dread when she first glimpsed The Canyon. Now the trail hugs the rock faces, stair stepping down on tight switchbacks, alternating directions again and again. The path, some places, is only two feet wide and strewn with rubble. The trail took us down and down; and yet, the bottom never seemed to get closer.
It is difficult now to remember the great comfort of the North Rim Lodge, our one day and one night residence on the eve of our great hike. We had parked our vehicle in the parking lot of the Backcountry Office on the South Rim and taken a five hour shuttle ride east, north, and west to the North Rim. The hours went quickly; we passed the time in conversation with backpacking enthusiast from around the world—the Grand Canyon attracts many foreigners; it is an international playground (we need more such). We mostly talked with a young couple from England. She was a teacher and he was an officer in the Royal Army. Both were on sabbatical—a ten month world tour. It seems fantastic to us Americans, but their employers actually encourage the occasional extended break…their jobs would be held for them. As it happens, this is a great time for a U.S. vacation, the Euro is worth double the value of the dollar. The Limies had finished their rim to rim and were coming back to the north to retrieve their car. Theirs had been—for reasons known only to them—a grueling, but impressive, two day marathon. They had begun the hike in the dark, flashlights shining forth from foreheads to illuminate a few meters ahead of each step; no need to shine a light left, only rock wall—or right, only empty air.
At the North Rim Lodge we had our own cabin within a stone’s throw of the canyon’s edge. The cabin could not have been more mountain typical…plain but warm; heavy door that you opened with key not card; hardwood floors covered by thick area rugs; conspicuously, no television; a real fireplace—it had the feel of a refuge. Perfect additions to the décor were our bulging backpacks thrown on the foot of the spring mattress bed, our walking sticks hanging from a scarred wooden chair post, and my deteriorating travel journal lying on a yard sale end table. It felt good here. The main lodge was all stone and wood and open spaces…the south side mostly open to the panorama of the canyon. It was rustic in ambiance only; every amenity of a five star hotel was provided. We spent the evening sitting on what has to be the world’s highest outdoor patio; we sat quietly and watched the sunset—like a giant golden coin falling into the abyss. Later, we had our dinner in a great hall, at tables covered in white linen and lighted by candle, the stone walls and high ceilings letting just a hint of cold mountain air circulate—we were at a King’s banquet in a castle cycene. After our meal we walked in the dark back to our strong little cabin on the brink…we arose at five AM, had coffee and pastry in the barely lighted combination bar and coffee shop—only thing open at this time—and boarded a Lodge shuttle for the quick one and one-half mile trip to the North Kaibab trailhead. The morning daylight was finally flowing in from the east. When we stepped from pavement to red sand we wore jackets; after one hour they came off—the heat from the canyon’s core began to be felt, every step taking us closer to it. So had begun, The Hike…
NJ forced herself, at my suggestion, to walk where others before her had, where the path was worn; her inclination was to hug the wall—but the surface was looser there and the risk was real that her backpack would snag on a jagged rock causing her to stumble. The trail surface would likely not catch and hold her. With heavy pack and weariness providing the momentum a body would hit knee, hip, and shoulder only a glancing blow on the trail before rolling over the edge. A few hundred feet down and you would feel your last impact, though your body would experience many more, as it careened from ledge to talus until finding the bottom. But that rarely happens.
If one can forget the precarious location, and you eventually do, the scenery is staggering. The size of the canyon is simply too much for the mind to grasp, let alone pen describe.
Acrophobia (from Greek ἄκρος, meaning "summit") is an extreme or irrational fear of heights My research tells me that Acrophobia can be dangerous, as sufferers can experience a panic attack in a high place and become too agitated to get themselves down safely. Some acrophobics also suffer from urges to throw themselves off high places, despite not being suicidal. Now, NJ in no way has an urge to throw herself off high places (throw me off, maybe)…it is the panic attacks and fears exacerbated by the fear of crumbling, then tumbling off high places that is my concern. So I watch her closely for awhile.
NJ conquered—at least controlled—her acrophobia and marshaled on. So, one hand is raised about hip high reaching for and just brushing the canyon wall, as if she is walking down a hallway in the dark, navigating by feeling the wall between door trims. The other hand—the one that could be extended straight, then hold a bamboo pole a thousand feet long and still brush nothing—holds a REI titanium walking stick. With it she jabs the outside edge of the trail with each step, as if to force her body inward, nearer the wall. The stick is outrigger, keeping the body safely balanced on the steep side of the chasm. Brush…jab…think happy thoughts.
It became routine. I’ve heard it said that you can get use to hanging if you do it long enough. With routine comes invulnerability to outside stimuli, but little things intrude. No longer are you distracted by the beauty or real danger. Now you can indulge irritability and complaints of tired joints and muscles. Rangers tell you to hike no faster than a pace witch allows you to carry on a conversation. But you hit a stretch were conversation is a bad idea…just get in a zone and doggedly trod on. No need risking a “why in hell did you bring me here” argument.
In the desert there is all and there is nothing. God is there and man is not.
– Honoré de Balzac
But one does not have to hike in the desert to have mood swings—the environment is not the source. Here, baring injury, you will snap out of it—guaranteed. A little rest, a little water, and you are again enthralled by the ever-changing landscape; again and again you are rewarded for your decision to take a path less trodden. It happens most when you break camp in the morning twilight and look around. Deep in a canyon the shadowed rock palisades try desperately to block the sun’s rays, and they do forestall them—but the orange fringe of fire cannot be stayed; and it is only announcing a full scorching desert sun. In such stages—twilight to blinding light—the morning breaks. The mountain stream just feet from your feather-light two-people tent burst into sparkles and the west canyon wall, a moment before just a dull giant whetstone, suddenly glares brilliantly, courtesy of the indirect lighting some 93 million miles distant. Shale and multi-colored sandstone begin their job of reflecting light and storing heat. It will be a long time now before this canyon cools again. You know, getting here really was no trouble at all.
We left Cottonwood Camp on the morning of September 12, having spent our first night camped in the Grand Canyon…three nights and only seventeen miles to go. But sufficient unto the day is the journey thereof. I leave the camp minus a very nice pair of prescription sunglasses. I have two theories: one, they floated down Bright Angel Creek (I had left them lying on a large boulder in the middle of the creek while bathing in its clean rushing waters) to the Colorado River, eventually to the Pacific Ocean. They will be found one day by a near-death raft-borne wayfarer who will be saved from sun blindness and so able to see a ship that will rescue him; or, two, they were picked up by that purveyor of things sparkling (the glasses had silver frames), the ubiquitous raven, and now adorn her high canyon nest—making it the finest nest in the canyon, coveted by all her raven neighbors. I mean, what else could have happened to them?
Until we reach the Colorado River we will stay on the North Kaibab Trail. Our day’s trip was modest enough; only seven miles along Bright Angel Creek to Bright Angel Campground near the Colorado River. But it was a spectacular hike…easy, as Grand Canyon treks go. Following a water course, climbing only occasionally to slip through narrow defiles, almost always in the shade, is a walk to savor. We traversed by Ribbon Falls (actually 0.3 mile off trail) and through The Box (where the canyon narrows and heats up…here the limestone is 1.25 billion years old; why is it that rock outlives the living to such extremes…aren’t we more valuable?). Four months in advance we had reserved space in Bright Angel Campground along with three meals—stew, salad, and cornbread for dinner—at the nearby Phantom Ranch. Phantom Ranch sits at the heart of the Grand Canyon on a narrow sliver of bank flanking Bright Angel Creek, one-half mile before it joins the Colorado River. Established in 1903 by David Rust—in the beginning only a ramada and a few tents, it bore his name for only a short while. Permanent structures, designed by Grand Canyon’s grand architect, Mary Colter, were constructed in 1922. The ranch has been an exotic destination of adventuresome people ever since—including Theodore Roosevelt. T-Rex camped here in 1913, using the ranch as a base for hunting trips on the north rim. For awhile, it was called Roosevelt Camp, but, as it should be in this enchanted land, poetry won out over personality and the nearby Phantom Creek lent its name.
It’s dark in Bright Angel Canyon. If there is a moon, only at its zenith could it throw a feeble ray of light where I sit now. Above me are stars so dense it seems all the stars in space must be convening above this spot. The Milky Way is more a giant veil than individual points of light. I am at a table set on a circle of cleared ground along a shushing mountain creek. The campsite would not be noticeable but for the six inch beam of light from the tiny flashlight fastened to my cap bill. The width of my pen hand and one-half page of my notebook catch all the light there is it seems for a thousand miles. Writing now, at our campsite within thirty feet of Bright Angel Creek—a fast, clear, rocky bottom mountain stream sent from Roaring Spring located 3,800 feet below the North Rim—I feel as if I could look up and see my pick-up, and hear car doors slam from picnickers kicking SUV doors shut as they balance loaves of bread and bags of chips on top of trunk sized two-handled Coleman coolers. But when I do look up I remember where I am and , since I’m well rested after a night and day of short walks, cold creek baths, and bunkhouse meals, I am happy to see nonesuch, only stone ramparts, cottonwood trees, cacti, and a narrow dusty trail that leads to Silver Bridge and south…and then, relentlessly, up.
The evening of the first day, after our fine beef stew and cornbread meal, we walk through the dark, hot night and with some difficulty find a small outdoor arena, illuminated by the feeblest and dimmest of lights. Behind this apologetic glow stands tonight’s speaker, a Park Ranger and Biologist (Becky, I think) who must be NPS’s best known bat expert. Here is what we remembered of her excellent lecture: Pregnant bats get huge, because they give birth to one large baby (called a pup) at a time just like humans; they do use echolocation (sonar) to identify obstacles, but all bats can see, and many of them have quite good vision; the wing of a bat is supported by very long finger bones; there are vampire bats, but, regrettably, they do not suck out the blood, or turn their victims into vampires--they use their very sharp front teeth to make little, tiny cuts and then lick the cuts with their tongue to get the blood (hey, black flies do that); they are a top predator of the mosquito. In one hour, one bat eats 600 – 1,000 mosquito sized insects. Therefore, 50 bats are capable of eating a minimum of 180,000 bugs in 6 hours with no ill effects on livestock, household pets or children; they do not bed in your hair (well, that takes the fun out of cave exploring) and are no more inclined to rabies than any other warm-blooded animal; and—my favorite—a bat can hear a beetle walking on sand or a single strand of hair blowing in the wind (so, why do they need to hear hair blowing unless they want to fly to it?). As a bonus, we were given bathouse blueprints (roughly, it is a broad sided, shallow wooden box, about the size of a silverware drawer, placed fifteen feet above the ground) and encouraged to build and put one in our yards. Becky said they would give us natural insect control and hours of fascinating bat watching and listening (you can hear the high tweeting echolocation sound). NJ is excited about this—I secure the blueprints in one of the many small zippered pockets of my backpack.
"I’ll tell you – let me know how I do. You made these bats stronger –The second day, we take the river rim hike; a route that takes you across two Colorado River bridges—the Silver and the Black. Both are suspension bridges about 400 feet long. The support cables, each well over 400 feet long, could not be brought in by mule (too heavy); they had to be carried on the backs of men. My assumption is that several (?) men walked in tandem, each carry as heavy a coil of cable as possible. Sounds like a super human feat to me…a chain of men tethered together by a ribbon of weighty steel plodding for ten miles along a cliff hugging trail into the deepest canyon in the world. Only one had to slip for the chain to slither over the brink, like a giant bracelet of human charms it would spiral and dive into the searing chasm.
more intelligent – and carnivorous!" "No! – omnivorous!" "But why would you do that?""Because I’m a scientist. That’s what we do." - Movie,
Bats
With time on my hands on Thursday, our second and last day at Bright Angel Campground/Phantom Ranch, here is what I did: From the River Rim Trail I took a short side trip along the South Kaibab Trail. NJ elected not to climb any higher just for scenery, knowing that our trip out would provide plenty, and returned to Phantom Ranch to write post cards home to Missouri—cards that would be taken out by mule train; retrieved from a saddle bag serving as mailbox. A postal cache would vouch for the unusual mode of transportation and give the card its novelty.
The South Kaibab took me up quickly, but the trail was wide. I’d gone only a quarter-mile or so, up maybe 300 feet, when I saw the mule train on the other side of the river approaching the Black Bridge. I waited until the seven pack mules—led and followed by a mule driver—came by me kicking up dust and rolling stones with their black wooden hooves. Mule skinners don’t look like hikers; they wear high crowned western hats, the front brim dipping down in a smooth arc. In a hard rain water would pour over the brim giving the illusion of standing behind a waterfall. The expected Wrangler jeans bunch up over instep and sole of high heeled ropers. Long sleeved tailored shirts—front and cuffs drawn together by shiny snaps—and drooping cowboy style Fu Man Chu mustaches complete the affected impression. The outfit looks sweltering hot compared to the hiker’s sleeveless shirt, khaki shorts and light, vibram soled boots, but it works; I mean, who wants to see a cowboy, or a muleskinner, in khaki shorts?
Asked about their work—taking large Tennessee mules up and down narrow canyon trails—and they’ll tell you the mules are no trouble, but the people… Statistically, 95% of all tourist mule riders have never mounted up, on horse or mule. That is not hard to believe; even the most casual rider would balk at a ten mile ride where most of the trip is along a steep downhill grade with only inches separating at least two hooves from empty air at all times. Death may not be eminent, but fear is—or should be—and soreness in all the worse places is guaranteed.
I photographed the mule train clomping along the bridge, emerging from the narrow tunnel at the left bank, moving up inclines of broad deep steps made of juniper logs anchored with rebar, around hairpin switchbacks, and up ramps of hard packed red dirt. The mules looked bored through it all.
I descended the South Kaibab back the way I had come and crossed the same bridge the mules had, then continued along a trail of history. To my surprise there was, just a few hundred feet from the banks of the Colorado, the ruins of an Anasazi Indian village. John Wesley Powell discovered and mapped the ruin in 1868. Archeologists later dated the ruins circa AD 1100. The Anasazi—ancestors of Hopi, Zuni, and Navajo—left many footprints…but where are they now?
Francisco Vasquez de Coranado looking for Quivira and Seven Cities of Gold was the first European to see the Grand Canyon, but so crazed was he with the thoughts of El Dorado that he considered the canyon only a giant obstacle. He was not impressed. Three hundred years later a government commissioned steamboat sailed 350 miles up the Colorado River from the California gulf. It reached the upper regions of the Grand Canyon near today’s Glen Canyon. The report from the expedition seems foolish today: "It is a wasteland, destined to lie in silence, always the great unknown. In a word, forget the Grand Canyon."
John Wesley Powell would change that. To the curious and adventuresome, a large hole on a map labeled, “The Great Unknown” is but a beacon to follow. It is the sirens' song.
The Canyon’s grandeur was not lost on John Wesley Powell…he was the first to consistently use and publish the name "Grand Canyon.”
I walk on and notice the familiar shape of a burial mound…not familiar because I had visited many above ground crypts made of stacked rock, but because the mind always recognizes the macabre, the symbols of the dark side. My mind’s eye sees a corpse laid on a ground surface that is rock hard, resisting any attempt, by primitive tools, to cut into it. The grave digger becomes grave builder, first ringing the body with fist-sized stones creating a frame large enough to ensure a base broad enough to hold the dry-stacked mound that will not just cover the departed, but entomb him. No scavenger, no high wind or flooding stream can be allowed to disturb his rest. The result is a lovely, if out of place, crypt from native stone, garnished with clusters of mule shoes and plastic flowers. That who rests here must have been a muleskinner is evidenced by the crowning marker, a stiff coiled lariat.
No plaque has been erected to explain this lone grave, so conspicuously placed. But I assume his death was a glorious one—for his kind that is. I think this: The mule driver sat astride a tall slick jenny, making his way along a narrow ledge two-thousand feet up a cliff so steep and slick a lizard would find no claw hold. The mule ambles, and then suddenly rears as a Grand Canyon Pink Rattlesnake rises from the rubble in its path and strikes at his forefoot. Knowing that if the mule continues its antics it will spook the seven other mules behind it—all carrying tourists—the mule man folds the right rein tightly between rough thick fingers, jerks hard in a downward arching motion just as he slams sharp spurs into the panicked ungulate’s broad rib cage…together, they jump from the path into the empty air. The grave bespeaks someone greatly honored—a hero.
My day hike was less than two miles, but enough now that the Torrid Zone was upon me; that period of time between 10 AM and 4 PM when the temperature stayed above 110° F. I made my way back to the Phantom Ranch canteen to meet NJ for drinks of water and to study the map…look over our route out.
Our second and final night in Bright Angel Campground was the hottest; 116° at dinner time, still in the nineties when the canyon went black. And it does go black, except for the sprinkling of pin lights affixed to cap bills bobbing in the dark. You couldn’t see the person on whose head the cap sat, just points of light dancing along the creek bank, like super charged lightening bugs.
Like the night before, I sat at our picnic table writing by the light of my own cap bill flashlight as tiny feather light bugs swarmed. In time I grow sleepy and very tired of waving away insects, or smashing their soft insignificant bodies on my pages. I crawl through our tent’s half-circle opening, unzipping it with a sweeping arc. Lying on my back on top of a nylon sleeping bag which is on top of a one-inch self-inflating mattress, I prop my light on my chest and read, trying to ignore the furnace like conditions, the trickling sweat, and skin sticking to the slick, non-breathing fabric of the sleeping bag. There is no breeze, no relief. Incredibly, we both sleep soundly all through the night. Nothing like hiking miles in the desert to ensure an exhausted sleep—is there a feeling better at the end of the day than physical exhaustion?
We’re up at 4.30 AM and break camp in the steadily lightening morning darkness. Sleeping bags are stuffed and bed rolls tied to my large volume backpack. Fully loaded, as it is this trip, it weighs about 45 pounds—manageable but noticeable. NJ’s heavy duty fanny pack weighs in at about ten pounds, but that accounts for a lot of sundry necessities, including travel toothbrushes—believe it or not, lipstick—and at least a dozen food bars. Food bars, gorp, and beef jerky are our Grand Canyon hike diet.
Everything packed and inventoried, we find our way between creek and rocky canyon wall to the canteen, about 0.3 of a mile upstream for a family style breakfast of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Backpackers ring four, 12 feet long rectangle tables and the feed immediately starts…as soon as one hiker can reach a bowl. We eat hurriedly and exchange war stories between gobbled bites…it is tempting to linger over coffee and another pancake, but the temperature is already ninety plus and for a few hours there will be shade on the east and south canyon walls. Twilight is not to be squandered.
Frequently posted notice:
From the cool shade of the canyon rim, it is difficult to sense how hot it is below.
One-and-a-half to three miles down the trail, you are in the Danger Zone!—that
combination of distance traveled, elevation, temperature and direct sunlight
that will overwhelm your body's ability to keep itself cool, fueled and
hydrated. Avoid trouble by following the principles of smart hiking:
-Plan your hike before you hike.
-Know your physical limitations and don't go beyond your ability.
-Hike during the cooler, shadier times of the day.
-Eat salty foods and drink water or sport drinks.
-Go slowly, rest often in the shade and stay cool.
Our pace was one of half-day hikes…break camp, strap on packs and hit the red dusty trail (always before 6.30 AM); walk and walk, stopping only for brief snack and water breaks. By noon or so we always reached our day’s destination. The pace was steady but always it gave us time to stare at the incredible sites of the chasm. The expression “one with nature” has been overused to the point of making it trite. But when there exists a deep scratch in the earth’s skin, and you, a sentient creature, crawl into that cut and walk between its sides, shuffling along the bottom, you can, with some legitimacy, claim to be one with nature. No longer are you just viewing and remotely sensing Mother Earth’s elements, you are one of them. I understand Abbey’s comment, “I am not an atheist but an earthiest. Be true to the earth.”
Today we will cross the wild Colorado, bear west along the river—downstream—for about 1 ½ miles before the trail jogs southerly along Pipe Creek. The segment of trail we are on as we follow the Colorado is called River Trail, but to say it follows the bank paints the wrong mental picture. Mostly, the Colorado’s banks are Canyon walls.
The trail undulates over the irregular surface of the walls and jogs occasionally into and around short side canyons. Always we were at least 100 feet above water surface. The Colorado—which means red river—once, in its glory days, raged through the canyon a ribbon of thick red water. It was said that the river is too thick to drink and too thin to plow. It carried red rock sediment with pride, caring little for human fondness for sparkling waters. But then, in 1963, we built Glen Canyon Dam. Never let it be thought that we cannot harness nature, at least temporarily. I think that when the last square yard of concrete hardened and the great red river hit the barrier we so arrogantly erected, the river’s spirit wept. Evidence: like its blood, the red drained away, replaced by emerald green—exsanguinated, it is to us a prettier river; to the canyon it felt like anemia and sickness.
When the river flowed thick and red John Wesley was struck by the beauty of the crystalline water gushing into the Colorado at one of its few clear water tributaries. Uncharacteristically unimaginative, Crystal Creek was the name he logged. But later, in a more contemplative mood, words of a favorite Methodist hymn (one can infer from his name that John Wesley Powell was a staunch Methodist) came to him.
Shall we gather at the river
Where bright angels’ feet have trod
With its crystal tide forever
Flowing by the throne of God.
Thus the more fitting name, Bright Angel Creek.
If, like me, you view rivers as living creations, you feel as if you are witness to an assault with intent to do great harm. The river is still mighty, but no moreso than our hydro-engineers will allow. I would like to see it free again, like it was when John Wesley Powell—the one-armed civil war Major—saw it on that incredible 1868 float trip in his small wooden boat, the Emma Dean.
Still, it is the Colorado of the Grand Canyon; this river, along with her companion forces—erosion by nature’s breath and walking tectonic plates—have, over millions of years created one of the world’s wonders. Even if the river has been to a degree subdued, it yet lives and moves as if everlasting, relentlessly fine-tuning its masterpiece. Walking by it side for a while is a privilege.
Just before we hit the mouth of Pipe Creek we see a huge (maybe 20’ x 6’) rubber raft hove to on the left bank (a river’s left and right banks are from the downstream perspective). The raft is waiting for hikers coming down from the South Rim. We will meet one later, about one-half mile up canyon. Shortly after we will begin a particularly challenging leg of our trip out—a segment of the trail aptly named, “The Devil’s Corkscrew.” This series of precipitous switchbacks will take us out of Pipe Canyon and over the ridge dividing Pipe from Garden Canyon. The trek is arduous but as always our efforts are rewarded with the beauty of the world around us and the perverse thrill of being disquieted by our precarious situation. We are barely stuck to a sandstone wall that extends thousands of feet above and hundreds below our feet; the sky is blue without blemish, translucent and soft. It seems that if we squint we could catch a glimpse of heaven itself, so full of light and unobstructed is the air through witch we are looking…but, paradoxically, it isn’t heaven one thinks of on this piece of trail named for the Prince of The Bottomless Pit. Hour by hour the sun burns the sky, fading the blue to near white and torturing every green plant reaching to meet it. The sun scorches the living and the dead—like the river, the desert never questions or deviates from its natural purpose. It bakes as relentlessly as the river flows.
At one point we enter a spot of vegetation that seems oddly misplaced. Created by a trickling, but perennial flow of water from a side canyon, the half-acre or so of tall grass and soft sand has obscured the trail. I think of, but don’t mention, as we pick our way across pooled water on stepping stones, of what I read once about quicksand in the desert. It exists—quite a lot of it actually—in places just like this. Once you step into quicksand, the only way out is to fall forward and use slow motion swimming moves (actually, you can float in quicksand, so there is no reason to panic) to break the suction and ease yourself to shore. To struggle is to lose the battle; running motions take you down—down to where is hard to predict…knees?...waist?...neck?..could be there is a wagon train in a murky bottomless hole beneath the surface of the darkened sand we are crossing now. Forget that, even if you do not sink lower than you stand, you must extricate yourself somehow—quicksand does not pull you in, but it does set a trap. It may not drown or smother you, but it may starve you to death. I should have mentioned this to NJ; maybe the steep switchbacks would actually look inviting.
Fortunately for us the trail follows the morning shade, and shade makes a difference…it is always ten to fifteen degrees cooler were we are and, mercifully, the breeze blowing into the canyon is not yet the habanera breath of the desert. The sun, unchecked, will burn you to death and make of you a small pile of white lovely bones (dehydration first enervates, then lays you down, then kills). The giant California Condor, now at home in the Grand Canyon, checks daily for the dead and the near dead (days earlier, while walking along the South Rim Trail we saw several of these behemoths; then a novelty, seeing one now would be like glimpsing the Grim Reaper walking the ledge above us, his scythe unshouldered). Even the lizards know the strength of the mid-day sun and will never hesitate in the full-power of its rays for more than seconds; you see them darting faster than the human eye can follow from shady spot to shady spot. Every living thing in the desert hunts and feeds at eve. In fact, shine a blacklight (and who doesn’t carry a blacklight with them when they hike) on the desert floor at night and you are likely to see armies of foraging scorpions; enough to ensure you will shake out your sleeping bag every night after—just another amazing fact learned during an al fresco lecture at Phantom Ranch.
[The Grand Canyon] is the most sublime and awe inspiring spectacle in the
world. – Clarence Dutton, USGS Cartographer, 1880
It is still morning. So, we walk, bent forward, straining over rock and high stepping where the trail has worn away from the logs set to dam up the dirt and rock in stair-step fashion. It is a slog and yet one done with great pleasure. It is too true that nothing good comes without toil. I think of a tattoo on my son’s muscled arm—without struggle, there is no progress, it proclaims. A fitting mantra, for everything in life is to be earned. But the rewards for perseverance can be high. The essential ingredient the ancients tell us is faith; stay the course, push forward for the prize. All things excellent are a difficult as they are rare. I remember that gold had great value long before it had any utilitarian application (you could make no tool with it; it only adorned)…it was coveted simply because in shined, it never rusted, and it was a rare find.
Backpacking helps one accept the eternal truth of effort and reward—and the side benefit of treasuring the journey. One walks and walks, trods on through torturous desert and fair valleys alike; always moving toward a longed for destination—like the sad journey of the Israelites looking for a city—then, occasionally one stops and looks back. Then at once, the whole trail behind you comes into view; and with it all the passed mileposts and the journey’s gifts given along the way. And you think, ah, I’m making real progress.
Then you turn again toward your goal, move your walking stick—your staff—forward and follow its command…self-assured and happier now.
At last we crest the ridge and begin our final leg to tonight’s campsite; we are walking now up Garden Creek Canyon. As canyon walks go the way is easy, but still we are happy to see the tell-tale cottonwoods (the Tree of Life in the desert) and increase in pedestrian traffic signaling the nearness of Indian Garden Campground. From here it is only 4.6 miles to the Bright Angel Trailhead at the South Rim…it will take us about five hours.
Indian Garden is bustling; several hikers come here for a quick turnaround from the South Rim. It is also the intersection of a trail to Plateau Point, only 1.5 miles from the campground. For a view of the Colorado River, Plateau Point has no rivals. Plateau Point, as the name implies, is the end of a mesa peninsula. And what an end; the sandy flat soil of the plateau narrows at its very tip to rock outcropping; at the end of the rock is, nothing. There is, affixed to the rock, just inches short of air, a little span of iron pipe fence curving with the shape of the promontory, more boundary than barrier separating the elements of earth and wind. Below and far away is about ten miles of the Colorado.
A series of rapids can be seen and I fool myself—maybe—into thinking I could run them in my kayak. Later, I would have a taste when I ran a ten mile stretch of the Colorado along the edge of Arches National Park. The Grand Canyon uses a ten point rating system for their rapids, rather than the six point (six being most extreme) International Scale of River Difficulty. Those I am seeing are probably class III to V on the Grand Canyon scale. A ten is a freighting thing—like a miniature person on a fantastic voyage in a washing machine. One day I will kayak the Colorado through the Grand Canyon, Insha’allah (God Willing).
I hike to Plateau Point and back but NJ does not, preferring to save her juice for Jacobs Ladder—the beginning of the steep ascent to the land of the surface people. Even with a six AM start it will be very hot before this canyon is quit.
Jacob’s Ladder—so aptly named…the stairway out of Gehenna to the cool breezes of the South Rim.
Trailhead in sight, oh the joy. I borrow this line from the Lewis and Clark journal entry upon seeing the Pacific Ocean. They had polled and pulled a keel boat up the Missouri river for 2,000 miles, from mouth to head, taking side forays in canoe and on foot throughout the unexplored (by anyone that cared to record what was seen) American West for four years; in early winter, when snow and cold should have killed them, they left the Madison fork, climbed up and over the Bitterroot Mountains and somehow found their way by stream and Indian ponies to the Columbia River that took them finally to the Pacific. Oh the joy indeed. Presumptuous of me to compare our hike to theirs and yet there is a sense of accomplishment, of a difficult worthy prize attained. Why is it that ordeals demanding physical strength and overcoming deprivation, fear, and discomfort fill us with the greatest sense of accomplishment? Why does physical prowess impress us so much more than intellectual? Climbing a mountain does more for our self esteem than, say, solving for three unknowns or spinning a rubrics cube into proper order. It was not reason or brainpower that was taxed on this trip; no, it was our grit, our dogged determination to overcome fatigue and suffer thirst, heat, and phobias. Wrestle with the elements; place tremendous demands on your body; count on resourcefulness and resolve as yet untapped; suppress your fears and put yourself where you must perform or suffer humiliation at best, or—at worst—die. Win a battle in such an arena and you feel, by God, invincible.
I do not exaggerate. Establish a goal, one that can be reached only by taking a path through dark woods, ghostly canyons, and beast’s lairs. Never indulge a thought of turning back. Such a trip is as essential to the health of the human animal as the air we breathe. The self-confident rush is short lived to be sure. Soon a new challenge must be embraced…there is no finest hour; life is relentless effort. It is how we get through life and appreciate the journey; a relay of stories written and lived by a brave protagonist. It makes us feel, in a small but essential way, that we create our own destiny—we are not born to it. God watches the traveler; he does not set him or her on rails.
A series of rapids can be seen and I fool myself—maybe—into thinking I could run them in my kayak. Later, I would have a taste when I ran a ten mile stretch of the Colorado along the edge of Arches National Park. The Grand Canyon uses a ten point rating system for their rapids, rather than the six point (six being most extreme) International Scale of River Difficulty. Those I am seeing are probably class III to V on the Grand Canyon scale. A ten is a freighting thing—like a miniature person on a fantastic voyage in a washing machine. One day I will kayak the Colorado through the Grand Canyon, Insha’allah (God Willing).
I hike to Plateau Point and back but NJ does not, preferring to save her juice for Jacobs Ladder—the beginning of the steep ascent to the land of the surface people. Even with a six AM start it will be very hot before this canyon is quit.
Jacob’s Ladder—so aptly named…the stairway out of Gehenna to the cool breezes of the South Rim.
Trailhead in sight, oh the joy. I borrow this line from the Lewis and Clark journal entry upon seeing the Pacific Ocean. They had polled and pulled a keel boat up the Missouri river for 2,000 miles, from mouth to head, taking side forays in canoe and on foot throughout the unexplored (by anyone that cared to record what was seen) American West for four years; in early winter, when snow and cold should have killed them, they left the Madison fork, climbed up and over the Bitterroot Mountains and somehow found their way by stream and Indian ponies to the Columbia River that took them finally to the Pacific. Oh the joy indeed. Presumptuous of me to compare our hike to theirs and yet there is a sense of accomplishment, of a difficult worthy prize attained. Why is it that ordeals demanding physical strength and overcoming deprivation, fear, and discomfort fill us with the greatest sense of accomplishment? Why does physical prowess impress us so much more than intellectual? Climbing a mountain does more for our self esteem than, say, solving for three unknowns or spinning a rubrics cube into proper order. It was not reason or brainpower that was taxed on this trip; no, it was our grit, our dogged determination to overcome fatigue and suffer thirst, heat, and phobias. Wrestle with the elements; place tremendous demands on your body; count on resourcefulness and resolve as yet untapped; suppress your fears and put yourself where you must perform or suffer humiliation at best, or—at worst—die. Win a battle in such an arena and you feel, by God, invincible.
I do not exaggerate. Establish a goal, one that can be reached only by taking a path through dark woods, ghostly canyons, and beast’s lairs. Never indulge a thought of turning back. Such a trip is as essential to the health of the human animal as the air we breathe. The self-confident rush is short lived to be sure. Soon a new challenge must be embraced…there is no finest hour; life is relentless effort. It is how we get through life and appreciate the journey; a relay of stories written and lived by a brave protagonist. It makes us feel, in a small but essential way, that we create our own destiny—we are not born to it. God watches the traveler; he does not set him or her on rails.
After emerging from the depths, NJ celebrated with
an ice cream cone; I had an ice cold fountain coke and began laying plans for hiking the Hermit Trail, a minimally maintained path that takes the quasi-misanthropic hiker to the Colorado River by way of a scary route down precipitous (but then,
there are no gradual slopes in the Grand Canyon) side
canyons. NJ wanted to sleep in and souvenir hunt the next day, you know, rest up. I wanted off the busy South Rim, where the tourist hordes swarmed and cars and buses sailed behind you even as you gazed into the eighth (or is it seventh) wonder of the world (talk about a spell-breaker). Hermit would be
perfect…I would take a day hike of about eight miles, down to
Dripping Springs. Up at four AM, walking stick in hand, three water bottles and a sandwich bag of beef jerkies lying lightly in my waist pack (a gnat compared to the backpack I’d been hauling for the last five days) I head out in the pre-dawn
(that is dark), pointing a narrow flashlight beam on the
path winding through the campground, for the shuttle stop. I’ll ride the bus west about eight miles to Hermits Rest (an old-time waystation designed by Mary Colter, constructed of mismatched rock and rough-hewn beams) and the trailhead. Hermit trail is a
path; maintenance is mostly by footfall, but it is clearly iscernable. I begin my hike just as the sun sets fire to the
sky. All day, I encounter only one human, a ranger woman (I thought, one day this could be my naturalist-in-training
daughter-in-law…easily I can see her donning a broad-brimmed hat and striking out into some Rub al Khali). The ranger is
out for her daily 1,000 mile hike—chipper, she was, and full of
Canyon anecdotes about novice hikers with NCS (no common sense) and a predilection to panic. Although, every day, at least five persons are hauled out of the canyon by whirlybird, at least a dozen more are slapped (figuratively) and told to get ahold of themselves; you see, they have water and have no injuries…they just suddenly come to an awareness of where they are and scream for someone to get them the hell out. Helicopter rides are
not for crybabies.
Surely she can see that I am not a by gosh crybaby…I continue my day hike and make it to dripping springs and back without
incident. On the trip out, I pass a weathered wood sign tacked
to a short listing post that points the way to Tonto Trail. Now there is a trail worthy of my time, I think—it goes on for miles and miles, up and over ridges, across plateaus, and along river’s edge. With a self-promise to return one day and stay in the canyon for as long as it takes to make the Tonto – Bright
Angel loop, I move along. I told NJ I would be gone no longer
than eight hours…back well before dark. I am, and regrettably this is our tenth and final day at the Grand Canyon…an unforgettable place.
Later, after hours of climbing, I meet a woman in clean white tennis shoes carrying a purse…like a sailors long at sea encountering birds and surmising that land is near, I realize the end of the trail must be looming. Just a few final short segments of the last series of switchbacks and there it is—the back of what must be the Bright Angel Trailhead sign. I’m ahead of NJ, on purpose…I want to get her picture stepping onto the South Rim. I make my way through a throng of tourists walking the Rim Trail. Now, I say Rim Trail with some derision, for it is the path of the timid; the tour bus crowd, not the seasoned backcountry hiker such as myself and NJ. NJ summits…she is a weary hiker whose journey of five days in the desert hole is over. She is also the winner of a prize quite valuable—two, actually…her well-deserved sense of accomplishment and my very great pride in her.
We took a hard trip together; there was no leader, only fellow travelers. We could not hold hands as we walked for the path was too narrow and too steep; but always we were connected. There is a type of union that, once formed, pays scant attention to physical separation. It seems less mysterious to me now, this notion of spiritual bridges. Having transected the place where the earth has been rent; having made my bed between two parts separated by a wide and lonely chasm, I came to realize that what divides also joins. A river runs through it keeping things fresh, and unseen fingers reach across and intertwine. NJ and I could no more be separated by a few feet, or a thousand miles, of space than the North Rim can be separated from the South—the rest of its body and soul.
Now I know…spiritual bridges on girders of love span the galaxies.
We took a hard trip together; there was no leader, only fellow travelers. We could not hold hands as we walked for the path was too narrow and too steep; but always we were connected. There is a type of union that, once formed, pays scant attention to physical separation. It seems less mysterious to me now, this notion of spiritual bridges. Having transected the place where the earth has been rent; having made my bed between two parts separated by a wide and lonely chasm, I came to realize that what divides also joins. A river runs through it keeping things fresh, and unseen fingers reach across and intertwine. NJ and I could no more be separated by a few feet, or a thousand miles, of space than the North Rim can be separated from the South—the rest of its body and soul.
Now I know…spiritual bridges on girders of love span the galaxies.
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