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(c) Courtney B. Duncan 1997, 2002

Chapter 7.

The Hike In

The Cold and Dark

The alarm started beeping at 4 a.m.; I hit the snooze button. Next it was 4:04 a.m., it was beeping again. The snooze on this gadget was four minutes; apparently hikers take snoozing more seriously. "Time to get up." I went for my regular shoes and off to the bathroom.

There had been no new rain in the night, the ground was still damp, but most everything nearby was dry, excepting the ground sheet under the tent doors. It was still messy and muddy. I got the lantern going and started sorting items into "goes" and "stays." This was supposed to be easier but much of the extensive planning still had not had sufficient direct impact on this moment. Last night's 'throw out' session had still been a good idea.

"Viannah, time to get up," I rustled at her tent.

"OK, dad," sleepily but more determined sounding than she usually was at 8:30 a.m.

It was completely dark still so far as we could tell. The temperature on the car thermometer was in single digits C, low 40s F. Somehow we had not brought the big outdoor thermometer we usually used for camping. Viann was rummaging around in the ice chest.

"There's nearly no ice."

"It doesn't matter," I answer, "This is about the temperature that a refrigerator wants to keep things anyway."

But the juice boxes weren't frozen. We put a few dripping items in Ziploc bags and in my pack. It was not bulging yet, but it would be tight before we were done. Viannah had no room left at all except for Raggedy Ann, who was about to go in. She had spent every night with Raggedy Ann since she was one year old and this was to be no exception. Juice boxes were next then eggs kind of on top, we didn't want them under much pressure from other junk.

"Are you ready, Viannah?"

"For what?"

"To do your feet."

"Just a minute."

It was cold out here! I put on all of the shirts in my pack, an undershirt, the Rio Vista (Texas) Centennial green T-shirt, the JPL/Galileo yellow T-shirt, the Mt. Palomar warm and purple T-shirt, and then my heavy jacket that had nearly not been brought. I'd save the red "Dad" sweatshirt in case I needed it on the trail after I had left the heavy jacket in the van at departure. This had to be enough, we would be warm in a few hours and I didn't want to carry any more clothes than this. Most of these shirts were staying essentially clean and this cold morning situation was one reason why I had brought so many.

I set up shop under the lantern and foraged for the Dr. Scholl's baggie. Needed to get this done and my shoes on, it was too cold to be out without shoes. I cut moleskin patches. We didn't have anything that really cut these well, the does-all knife and the scissors, and the scissors in the does-all knife just seemed to tear at them. It usually took two people to get a good cut, one to hold, the other to slash. After some digging, a patch was made. It went around my right big toe. Another on the heel followed closely by the gray hiking sock and the boot. I had laced these boots up dozens of times now. The whole idea had been that getting it right would be automatic at this important moment. Still, I didn't get done without a couple of unlaces and adjustments. There, that one was as good as it was going to be. The remaining patch went on the heel of the left foot. Sock, boot, I was done. I could still feel my toes, now starting to warm up. That was better.

Viannah was ready, sitting in the lawn chair under the light. It was cold on her feet right now too. "Tell me where the shoes usually rub." We patched up the appropriate toes and joints. Her socks and boots went on. All four feet were ready.

"We're nearly packed, time to wake up everybody else."

"Get John up," said Viann. I went into the big tent and pulled him off the air mat, putting his jacket and shoes on.

"Do you need to go potty?" Silly question, we headed off for the potty.

Back in camp, Katherine was doing her hair.

"You can do that when we get back," said Viann.

Katherine asked, "Where are we going?"

"To take them to the trailhead. Get your shoes on and let's get in the car."

I folded up The List one last time and put it in the toiletries small out-bag. This was the last time I would look at it for weeks.

"The list doesn't matter now, we have what we have and we don't have what we don't have and we'll just have to put up with it," I instructed, an expert at nothing having to do with backpacking. "Whether or not something is listed on The List is now irrelevant," but I was still going to carry it along anyway, maybe to use as note paper.

I lugged the big pack over to the van and put it in the back, delicately as I could considering that it weighed around 60 pounds, counting all the water hanging off of it, and that it had boiled eggs in the top. Viannah was working on her hair too but didn't need any more prompting.

"Come on, let's get in the car," Viann always wanted to get on with it when the task was clear, and the air was cold.

"Where are we going?" now it was John's turn. One would think we had managed to keep the purpose of our trip a secret for over two years.

"To the trailhead, let's go!"

"What's the trailhead?"

"Where daddy and Viannah are going to hike down."

"Carry me."

Everybody loaded into the car, nearly as slowly as usual. I got back out to help Viannah with her pack. It was hard to zip with Raggedy Ann, finally it was worked out. No broken zippers yet, I hoped our zipper luck would hold. She was wearing her heavy jacket.

"You'll have to carry that all the way if you wear it."

"OK, I will."

"It's cold dad, let's go," Viann says.

"All right."

We were in the van; it was 5:06 a.m., 39 degrees F, partly cloudy dawn fully in progress by now. I took it easy on the campground road. Drowsy people would be up packing or heading for toilettes. Now it was 36 degrees. We passed by the checkpoint, making a full stop at the stop sign, went up the road past the shower house, past the gas station, now 35, onto the main road, down the hill, tight left-right corkscrew turn, down a little. Now it was one degree Celsius! Thirty-three F!

Just as the road pulled back to the left, there was the turnout for the trailhead. Several cars were parked there, most sporting an opaque layer of frost. Thirty-two, zero, it was freezing! We pulled around, no sign of mules in the mule pen, into a parking space. A commuter-like van was idling below at the intersection, people were getting out. Perhaps it was the rim-to-rim shuttle service. Perhaps it was a larger party of hikers like us.

The wind was blowing; everybody was shivering. We got our packs out and set them down. As a last action, I took all the keys out of both pockets and dropped them in my daypack, stuffing it under the middle seat. No need for keys in the Grand Canyon.

John was bundled up in a blanket. Katherine was sitting inside, rolled up to stay warm. I climbed in to kiss them. John was shaking, half from excitement, half from cold, bright eyed. Katy said, "Bye dad," in her deepening voice, not making a move to get out.

When I turned off the van it was 5:16. That would be the official time out. Everybody wanted to get back in the van. Viann was wrapped in her coat and my heavy jacket and a blanket. I fished around in the pack for the red 'Dad' shirt that was too small. With luck, I pulled it out on the first try; things were not too disrupted. I squeezed into it then squeezed into the pack, "this feels familiar, must be the right one." Everybody grimaced. Hat, check, walking stick, check. No need for sweatbands or bandanas just yet. So much for my lengthy family prayer with all of us standing in a circle at dawn at the trailhead. I pulled the door shut; we strolled down to the bulletin board beside the trailhead. Viann followed us with the camera.

"Bye honey, be careful with my little girl," she said, "I love you."

"I love you too, we'll be OK."

"Don't go too hard, drink plenty of water."

"Yes, yes."

"Stand here for the picture. Here Viannah, move over a little so we can see the sign. OK, done. Bye, be careful."

"Bye"

"Bye"

Viannah was off down the trail; the wind was whipping a little. I hiked down to the first trailside sign. Viann was still standing at the top looking cold.

I yelled up, "When are we going to talk on the radio?"

"Oh, not until Wednesday."

"OK, don't call before noon."

"Noon."

She turned and was gone. I turned and started down behind Viannah.

Liftoff!

Moving Fast to Stay Warm

Three other hikers started out just behind us and passed me as we were yelling the radio arrangements. We made greetings, expecting to see each other again somewhere on the trail. I had planned to stop and take a picture at every geology sign. In the first fifteen minutes, we made the first several switchbacks, passing among the pines, past the mule leavings, through the part of the trail we were familiar with from last summer. I was planning a first rest stop at that first geological contact where we'd turned around and returned upward last summer. The location was the same, the Coconino Overlook, but it was cold and exposed. We kept on going without stopping or exploring or discussing. We had stopped here before, the last time in the heat of the day. Going forward we were in new territory, someplace we hadn't been before. It would be like that for nearly three more days now, stomping through dust and mud and rock that had been trodden by thousands, but probably not millions, and never before by us.

The wind was whipping by now. Afraid of losing my hat, I jammed it on tighter then shoved at it again. Viannah had the one with a string under the chin to keep it from flying far. Sunlight was just peeping out on the rim above.

"We have to get a picture of this, where's the camera?" I asked.

"In your pack."

"I'll stand here while you get it out."

"OK."

Camera in hand, I tried to get it open. It was one of those pocket cameras that has a built in zoom and built in lens cover. It had the annoying habit of not opening or zooming, or if it did it would open then shut again immediately and then re-open. Or not. Anticipating trouble up above, we had bought batteries yesterday, changed to them, and brought along the old ones. Both sets measured fine for voltage. We had hopes of being able to operate the camera, at least most of the time.

"I'm going to have to fight with the camera. There it is, OK, right over here, look this way... look happy." Click. She looked cold. This picture had Viannah in it, in full cold dress. "Will you carry the camera now so we won't have to fight with it so much?"

"OK."

Moving along. It was too early to start asking about feet or knees, or to think about them. Orthopedic problems would come up for sure and soon enough and nobody would have to query about them. Still, I tried to use the hiking stick as I had learned in the practice hikes so as to put off the onset of any knee problems as long as possible. It was going to be a long day.

In fact, I had never walked this far in one day before. Ten or twelve miles yes, uphill in full pack yes, fourteen and a half in any configuration or slope, no. I was not too worried about this. Not near as much as I was about the hike out, which was of a type we had only trained for once and then only when we were fresh.

Oh well, we were committed now. There will be plenty of time to worry later.

"Dad, I can't use my hands." Viannah was a Texan, a place where it gets to or below freezing (but little further) several days in a row most years, where you have to have proper clothing and know how to use it for such weather. But she didn't remember anything but California. Maybe she had never been this cold before, certainly not without gloves.

"That's all right, you don't need them right now, just keep going. We won't be able to imagine this by the end of the day. We will wonder why we brought any chilly weather clothing at all." My upper body was plenty warm, particularly against the pack. I would soon be sweating and have stiff, cold hands all at once.

The trail turned to a place a little sheltered by trees. "Let's take a rest here," I ordered.

We had already seen three or four groups of two to four people. Some were in full pack, some were clearly on day hikes and many were in shorts but jackets. I guessed legs wouldn't be too cold under these conditions; mine weren't though I was wearing long blue jeans. A group that we had seen, greeted, and passed once had already passed us again. The day hikers were less friendly. Many of them ignored everybody else. Might as well be on a street in downtown Manhattan, or anywhere in urban California.

We were getting cold and wouldn't be able to rest long until it started warming up. "Let's go." I got in pack and was ready to walk off. Once I was done, Viannah got up on a second encouragement and started getting in pack herself. "I'll have to take this sweatshirt off soon, but not yet," I remarked, waiting, leaning on my stick with both hands.

We started down again, definitely below the rim now. Walking downhill is somewhat harder than walking on the level or even on a slight uphill incline. Parts of the trail were steep and there were erosion breaks with big railroad-tie sized timbers buried in the path at appropriate intervals. In a steep section, this could be every ten or twenty feet. In other sections, every 75 or 100. We called these 'speed bumps.' Different hikers seemed to have different conscious approaches to them. Some smartly stepped over, others smartly stepped on. Based on the footprints, one hiker was putting his or her instep right in the middle of one every time. I wondered if they helped or hindered the mules? Myself, I tried stepping over, barely an extended habit.

"The speed bumps would be hard on bikes," Viannah observed.

"No bikes are allowed below the rims," was my reply, quoting from information I had received in the mail, not sure whether this was a cause or effect of, or was unrelated to the speed bumps. They were probably there for erosion control.

In any case, up or down, we were not speeding and this was the subtle humor of our label. My little toes were starting to hurt from being crammed in the front of my boots going downhill. "Are your little toes hurting?"

"Yes, and my fingers still don't work."

"We'll be warm soon enough." I made a little 'seven legged animal' track in the dirt with my walking stick.

The dirt in the trail was a mix of gray and red now, nearly spotted in some places, a pink mix in others. "We're getting into the red geology now," I said. The guidebook said, "Already water is more limited than at higher elevations..." This meant different plant life. We were certainly out of the pines and into the more sparse firs. "Douglas and white firs," that was.

The trail took a torturous path down. Sometimes other hikers were seen or heard below ahead or above behind. The dirt turned all red, it was even a little damp, a little muddy. We rounded a corner and there was a mule hitching area, rest rooms, and a water spigot.

"Time for breakfast," I directed.

We found a ledge near the mule rail, de-packed, and looked around.

Supai Break(fast)

"None of this was on the map, wonder if it's new?" I speculated.

Nothing but the rest rooms looked very new. Maybe the guidebooks didn't advertise facilities much. It was not cold anymore; I took the opportunity to get out of the 'Dad' shirt and tried to stuff it back about where it was in the pack before. After this it might find use as a pillow, probably nothing more.

"Want an egg?" I asked.

"OK."

I delicately handled the Ziploc with the hard-boiled eggs. Only two of the four were cracked already, not bad.

I handed Viannah one, "Dad, I don't want to peel it!" She was a bit squeamish.

I finished peeling mine, wiped off the little shell residue best I could and stuck one end in my mouth, taking Viannah's egg and starting to peel it. After a couple of false starts, the shell slid off in only four or five pieces. 'Pack it all out....' I put the shells back in the Ziploc. Soon some of the Ziploc bags would be empty and we could use them for trash, starting with this one. Maybe I could relocate the remaining eggs somewhere else.

The Frosted Mini Wheats bag already had a hole in the bottom. I took some out with the plan to eat enough to fold the bag back over the hole.

"You want some?"

"I already had some."

"How many?"

'Three."

"Three! Here have some more," I handed Viannah about nine more for starters.

"They're hard to eat, too dry," she complained.

"Yes, yes, well take some water."

A trio of day hikers in shorts strode by without stopping or looking. Another couple passed, gawking. Someone stopped for a little water and went on. Viannah was counting people and switchbacks. I had long ago lost count myself but all I had to do was ask "how many?" and she would say, "Eighteen people and twenty one switchbacks." She was even able to remember whom we had seen and whom we hadn't.

"You know," I tried to kibitz, "you could write down the current totals and only count between stops, that way it would be harder to lose track."

"I don't have any trouble remembering, dad."

"OK...."

A couple of the bananas were already looking pretty bad, "Want a banana?"

"No."

"Well, I'll have one then, before it's completely dead." I guessed the apples would have to wait for later.

I was feeling pretty good so far, it didn't seem worth looking for my vitamins or medicine in the pack yet, it seemed like too much trouble, particularly since they were in the first aid kit way down at the bottom that I couldn't seem to touch no matter how much or how creative the groping. Still, it was a pastime of mine to worry about the oncoming effects of age and what I should or shouldn't be doing at this point in life.

"I may be getting too old for this sort of thing," I reflected out loud.

At that moment, four men arrived from above, all clearly in their mid seventies, doubtless retired. Two of them started fooling with the water spigot, one sat to rest; the other came over to get acquainted.

"Howdy."

"Hi there."

For some reason, it seemed obvious to him that we were on the way out, though to be this far up already at only 7:20 in the morning we would had to have left some official campsite around two!

"You have two or three hours to go, it took us an hour to get this far. Where'd you come from?"

"The trail head."

"North Kaibab?"

"Yes." To have left from the other trailhead would have meant two on Sunday morning!

We looked at our feet and kicked in the dirt a little. Viannah was sitting on the ledge behind me, not missing a detail, it was like I was standing in between, protecting her, though such measures didn't seem very necessary, just socially awkward at this point.

"Wher’ya headed today?"

"Bright Angel Campground."

"Phantom Ranch."

"Yes, the campground right by the ranch."

"Oh, that's a long way down, but we're going there today too." They had only daypacks; they must have had reservations at the ranch itself. "You sure want to want to go by Ribbon Falls, it's only three quarters of a mile out of the way."

"Yes, that sounds like something not to miss," I replied, doubting that we would be going three quarters of a yard out of the way, but who knows, it could go really well and we'd be dancing around all the side attractions.

"You gonna come back up this way."

"No, up Bright Angel Trail to the south."

"How are you going to get back around, the shuttle?"

"No, my wife is driving around tomorrow. We'll meet her and the other kids on the south Wednesday."

"We could use that kind of service!" he replied, looking towards the other guys. "Well, we'll see you down at the ranch tonight, I'm sure," he concluded.

"Yes, I'm sure we will," I was wondering how many more informal trail partings would go this way. There would be a big reunion party at the bottom, perhaps. "How much further to Supai Tunnel?"

"I don't know," he replied, "down the trail somewhere in the next mile I think."

He had done this trip several times, well enough to know the peculiarities of getting the proper hiker's reservations. Well enough to know how much not to be carrying. He rejoined the others, "Time to move on."

"I'm glad I didn't carry any water this far," another said, filling his canteen from the spigot. I glanced at our 24 pounds of water.

I turned back to Viannah, "Guys talk like that. They stand around and kick the dirt and make small talk about some technicality of the current undertaking," I said, kicking at the dirt. Viannah laughed. "Remember when John was in Eagles? Or was it Dolphins?" Eagles and Dolphins were classes in two pre-school age groups at the Child Educational Center, the day care where they had all gone.

"No."

"Remember Bike Day? I think it was Friday. One day I dropped him off on Bike Day. (Actually it was 'Trike Day' for those little guys.) I stood around for a while to watch. He and his friends rode trikes, scooter style around the bike path fast, the whole circuit being twenty or thirty yards. After a couple of rounds, they pulled off on one end in the dirt. In the morning sunshine it looked like a motorcycle gang had pulled up in front of a desert roadside cafe. They were kicking up dirt, laughing and talking, you could nearly imagine them spitting. Maybe it wasn't imagination. I went on to work."

"Ha," Viannah gave a polite laugh.

"Well, this will teach us how to manage our water," one of the those guys was saying, "we shouldn't fill any containers until this stop." I looked at our twenty-four pounds of water, carefully prepared yesterday; between the two of us we had probably put away a quart so far and even that hadn't been necessary. Well, this hadn't been on the map and we hadn't known there would be any hydrants short of the river itself. It was better to go on as planned.

They started down the trail, turned left, and were out of sight. I started closing up the pack and used the ledge to get it on my back. I was getting pretty good at this, no more 'perfect cast' dances to get mounted up. "OK, let's go."

Viannah headed off to check out the bathroom. I got the pack back off and started wandering around, checking the clock a few times. No chores like servicing canteens or anything else to be done. Red rock, red sand, red mud, mules have been here this week, but probably not yet today. Wouldn't the earliest train be leaving about now? I wondered how far along we would be before they caught up to us.

Some people passed on the way up. Had they gone down this morning and started back up already? Where could they have come from by now if not?

Viannah came back out. I got back into the pack and leaned on my stick. She started loading up. "Dad, what am I going to do with this jacket?"

"Here, I'll tie it on top." Modern packs have loops and lanyards hanging off of them for occasions like this. I passed the arms through the one on top and tied them in a granny knot. The pack would have a jacket on it from now until Thursday.

A step down and we were back on the red dirt trail. Down and around a left turn, five yards and there was the tunnel, the Supai Tunnel, blasted out of the rock to make the trail passable to lay people. I looked around behind and to the right. How could anyone have possibly done this section before the Civilian Conservation Corps improved the trail in the 30’s? Slowly and carefully, without a doubt.

A Water Drip

Here began a set of switchbacks in red rock. This wouldn't be much fun going up. Back and forth, forth and back. Following the guidebook we looked for an occasional 'Douglas fir growing in a micro-climate.' I thought I saw one once and pointed it out. Soon we were forgetting such things.

The trailside signs told basically the same story as the guidebook did. We got to where we didn't stop and read them too carefully, or fight with the camera to take any pictures.

We were still in the shade and took a stop under a ledge in a place where the trail straightened some. Above and to the west we could see the three geologic layers up to the top towards Bright Angel Point; two layers were in sunlight now.

"Right up there is along the road up to the lodge." I was surprised a bit by how little map distance we had covered in three or four hours. Lots of back and forth, forth and back. If we were up above, we would be about half way from the trailhead to the lodge, about four minutes worth by car. Wow.

"Look at that formation up there, it looks like a chess set."

"Yeah."

"See the rooks on both sides?"

"Yeah."

"And a fat queen in the middle. And next to her must be a horse."

"A knight dad."

"Yes, a horse."

We got out the camera and fought with it to open and get a picture of the chess set.

Moving on again, after only five more switchbacks or so, "Dad, can we stop and rest?"

I was prepared for this early in the day; Viannah usually warmed up slowly, or went best in short pieces. Still, there was the mathematics of covering the distance, "Let's go a little further."

"Oh, OK," her unwilling answer.

Around one corner there was a tall overhang, maybe 100 feet high; the trail followed an indention, nearly a dugout. The walls were dripping. From one point there was a drip from up top. One drip every three or four seconds, very regular. Another fight with the camera, but no drops come out in the picture. Of course not, you'd nearly have to take ten fast frames (impossible with this recalcitrant thing) or a movie, or a fancy synchronization technique or just plain good luck to have a good shot.

"Well, let's move along and not rest in the mud."

Another dozen switchbacks followed, forward and backward this time. Not crossing back and forth across the fault as before, these were longer. We met some people coming up; they seem tired, one of them a man by himself with small pack. He seemed certainly to be one of the four retired men. He looked worried. He was passed and was out of sight quickly without acknowledgment.

"Dad, can we stop."

We could now see the Redwall Bridge three (I hoped it was only three) switchbacks ahead. "Let's try to get to the bridge and then rest," I slowed down some. This was the longest hike I had ever attempted but it was also nearly the longest day in the year. Being in a hurry would hurt in the long run.

"OK," she sounded a little distressed.

How come I was out in front? I was going to let her set the pace most of the time.

Plod, plod plod, down red dirt, back and forth, to the side, finally we were in the last switchback before the bridge, and then where the trail met it just a hundred yards ahead. Viannah was out front now. She walked up to the first plank and stopped on the side right there. I would have gone on across myself and then rested. Oh well, I joined her on the up-wall side.

The Redwall Bridge

The bridge was made for mules, very sturdy. Iron members and supports spanned an alluvial stream which itself was quite steep. Distance to the bottom from the bridge center was at least fifty feet. The flooring part of the bridge was wood in what appeared to be a mule-prepared style. Planks eight feet wide had four-foot runners raised in the middle.

We sat on our edge studying the dry stream. Hikers, a couple in their late twenties, in full pack both, were approaching from the other side. They crossed the bridge and took a standing stop beside our resting place. I opened, "At least you crossed the bridge before stopping."

"This side was in the shade," the woman answered.

Sure enough, I noticed for the first time. We were about to walk out into the sunlight for the first time today. 'Look at that!' I thought to myself.

The couple had re-arranged their Gatorade, wiped off some sweat and started up the hill. "Good luck, have a nice hike."

"You too," I replied.

A few more hikers passed, some going each direction. "How many so far?"

"Thirty nine switchbacks and forty three people."

"And no mules," I added.

"Right, no mules."

We had also seen a guy with an umbrella sticking out the top of his full pack. This feature apparently did not qualify for a separate category.

In a few minutes no one else was in sight. Viannah spotted a deer up the ravine crossing towards us.

"Let's fight with the camera again."

"Yeah." We fought with the camera while he grazed his way across. Just as I got it working, he picked a place to stop with only his nose in view. I took a shot, then aimed and waited for him to move, viewing the grand scenery through a small, dirty viewfinder. He stayed put, chawing down a bush like he was really hungry. This went on for several minutes. It was ridiculous; I gave up. This impatience (among other skills) separated me from the truly great photographers. So did the camera. In a few more minutes I looked back to see if he had made any progress. He was gone, nowhere in sight. Ha!

When we stopped here, the far end of the bridge was still in the shade, now sunlight was creeping inexorably towards us, well out towards the middle. "Time to go," I got up and started to get into the pack. Viannah didn't move. "Let's go, come on."

"OK."

She got up and started moving things around. I was ready to go. Someone crossed the bridge; I had to move out of the way, "Pardon."

"Shouldn't we put on sun block?" Viannah asked.

I sensed stalling, possibly sensing too aggressively. "We'll put some on next stop," I did worry that waiting could be irresponsible.

"OK."

Done.

Eye of the Needle

Across the bridge, the trail hugged a west wall again then turned down a steep canyon. Before long, the sheer drop to our left was hundreds of feet, maybe a thousand and the rise to the right a similar distance up. I was a little nervous about this and glance back often to see how Viannah was doing. She was poking into the edge with her walking stick, I could just see it slipping and her going over the side. More perceived danger here than real, I hoped. Turning around all the time like this could put me off balance too. I walked uncomfortably close to the right, cliff side. This was always silly, I'd have less chance of falling off the trail if I would just treat it normally rather than bumping off the wall opposite the precipice.

"Be careful, Viannah."

"OK."

We could hear Roaring Springs. Beginning now we wouldn't be far from the sound of running water for the next two days. I looked for the 'Douglas fir growing in a marginal habitat' and 'Trail crosses Roaring Springs Fault' without remembering either one at the proper time to say for sure I'd spotted them. Bright Angel Point was behind us, we were in a different sub-canyon now. The walls were sheer on both sides. I stepped to the edge and tried to see the bottom but couldn't. It was obscured. The obstructions themselves were a long way down.

"Note that the Redwall Limestone is really gray. It gets its red color from iron oxides washed down from the Supai Formation above." Viannah read from the guidebook. We looked at each other. Something is either red or gray. How can it be really gray if it is really red?

"Next rest will be a bigger one. Maybe we'll have a snack." My feet were unhappy, I was beginning to feel pretty tired. I had no appetite.

There was an outcropping of rocks ahead on the cliff side of the trail. This looked a little safer. "Let's stop there."

As far off the trail as we could get, perhaps a foot, we removed our packs. I fought with mine to try to balance it right where I took it off so I wouldn't have to manhandle it down then back up when reloading. This didn't work; I let it down on the dirt, trying to keep the trail unobstructed.

"I'm getting out the sun block." It wasn't easy to find. Out came the Ziplocs: the foot stuff, the knife, the toothbrush, the compass. Everything was out; there it was at the bottom. Viannah started with her arms. I put things back and opened the main pack looking for food. "Want a pop-tart?"

"No."

"Me neither."

"Want an egg."

"No."

"I'm going to eat one, we'll save yours in this other bag with juice boxes." I got out two juice boxes and moved the remaining egg to their Ziploc. Now we had a bona-fide trash bag. With the eggshells and a banana peel already there other stuff started going in, granola bar wrappers, spent napkins. I tried blowing my nose on one without much yield and added it to the trash.

Viannah was done with the sun block, I took the opportunity to take off a couple of shirts then did my arms from the fingers to way above the shirt sleeve line and neck way below the neckline and face all over. I wiped off sweat and grit. We might need headbands soon. "You want a headband?"

"No."

I promptly forget about it myself. Long pants, no need to do legs today.

Three middle age men passed by. Were these the three we saw very first? No, I didn't think so.

"How many now?"

There was an accurate reply.

Down trail there was another outcropping. One rock had a notch in it that looked just the right size to stand in. One of the men climbed in and hung out trying to get a picture. The pictures, even at IMAX don't capture the depth and terror of this place. You have to be there.

The sun was crawling down the wall opposite. Part of our shade was gone.

"I bet if you watched, you could see the shadow moving."

"Of course you could, dad, the earth is turning."

This was a bit disconcerting, the shadow evaporating that fast. I stared for a few minutes and thought I could see the shadow moving. As usual, the width of the edge, defined by the half-degree size of the sun in the sky, was large compared to the motion, a half a degree in two minutes. Still, features on the rock face were seeing sunrise while we watched.

I got out the apples and started into one. "You want an apple."

"No," she started digging in her own pack for granola bars and ate about three.

At length I finished up and added the apple core to the trash bag. This packing trash wasn't going too badly yet. We drank up the juice boxes. Putting away trash was more work down here though; everything had to be compressed down to its smallest possible size. Left over juice squirted on my shirt while I tried to do this, that's what these boxes were good for. They were cool, but not cold. We would have to use the other two soon after which it would be just water for the rest of the way.

The whole trail was in sunlight now; there was no more shade. "Time to go." I got up and looked for my hat. Our stuff was more spread out than usual. I couldn't get into the pack with my hat on anyway. I manhandled the pack up on the ledge and backed into it. Sometimes this went really smoothly, more often not. The sun block had a nice orange flavor; it wafted off both of us as we warmed up. We faced down the trail. I started out; Viannah was still getting ready. I stopped at the outcropping with the platform where one might stand, not at all interested in trying it out. This lack of interest was a recent development, an adventuresome streak that I'd lost in the last ten years somehow.

Mules Coming!

Being along a cliff, the trail had to closely follow the western contour of the canyon. We could see far ahead, the trail far downhill, sometimes unbelievably so.

"Are we going to go from here down to there? How?" Viannah would ask.

There were many places where the trail ahead was not obvious beyond the next bend. Sometimes that far ahead place that was so disjoint turned out to be reachable. Sometimes it turned out to be another trail completely. Right now it was turning right then sweeping around left in a sheer wash. At the innermost part we walked on solid rock. Wet solid rock, the slippery kind. It didn't look like a slip would be too dangerous; there was a lot of gravel debris just below, some held in by shrubs or small trees before the next big vertical drop.

Another cavity was overhung. Still it was wet, the walls were seeping. Roaring Springs was getting louder. I was not allowing a rest stop for a while. Learning how much to work and how much to rest was to be part of the lesson of this adventure. Viannah was falling further behind. I heard rocks tumbling down a cliff; she was out of site back there somewhere. I was reluctant to climb back up and see what she was up to but my heart jumped on the chance that something was seriously wrong. I went back up several tens of yards. There she was at the edge kicking gravel down the side. I tried at first to ignore this then noticed some hikers on down the trail looking up our way, a little alarmed, not for their own safety but as witnesses to a well-publicized legal violation.

"Viannah!"

"What!"

"Stop That!"

There was a pause. Another shower plummeted down, it could be heard tinkling and clunking for half a minute. It was a long way down judging from the fall time. I had seen this stalling behavior before.

"Why?"

"Because it is illegal!"

Another pause. No more showers.

"Why?"

"Because it could fall on somebody and hurt them!" I was walking closer and talking more softly now so as to not advertise this gross oversight of the rules too widely.

"Oh." She ceased but didn't move forward. I had seen this stalling behavior before too.

We proceeded into a transverse switchback that led to another cavity and another unbelievable trail drop. This one started in an overhang that was shaded. Viannah stopped at the top and sat.

"Come on!"

"My feet hurt."

"OK, we'll work on them at the next stop."

She remained seated; I leaned on my stick. All was quiet except for the roaring, and the trickle of another stream the muddied up the trail just ahead. I went back up and sat by her. "Are you going to make it?"

"My feet hurt."

"Let's rest for a minute, then hike down to the springs."

"OK."

After a few minutes, we got up and continued. She was limping a little on her stick. I couldn't tell how serious it was. Just in case it was serious, I started worrying. Around the left sweep and through the mud, down some switchbacks we went. A pair of full-pack hikers was resting in the shade of scrub that looked kind of like mesquite. We went on down. Trees uphill from the trail provide what looked like a shade one could sit in. I was ten yards ahead, Viannah was limping fully now. We met some people who were speaking German. They interrupted their conversation long enough to say "Hi" (in English, presumably) to each of us.

"Dad! My feet hurt, can we stop here in the shade?"

"OK." The last major stop could not have been a mile back, but clearly we had to face this and consider how to proceed, perhaps a major change of plans if none of the remedies worked. The first line of attack would be to try copious moleskins. "Take your boots and socks off, we'll see if you have blisters already."

Considering all possibilities so I could worry more fully, I was concerned that she would already have blisters and that would make this harder. I sat amongst our stuff, calm. She got her boots off slowly and sat, relaxed in bare feet. It looked like the shade here would last a while. We would take our time. My own little toes still agonized every step themselves. This was not something I had experienced before even after wearing these boots for four months. For myself I was reluctant to settle down enough to take my own boots off. I didn't think I had external damage, not yet. I kicked at the heals to get my toes out loose from the front.

I looked for the stuff. Sun block, compass, contact lens stuff, everything was out in the dirt again. Here was the Dr. Scholl's Ziploc and the knife-utensils Ziploc.

"We're nearly done with this package."

"What! We're nearly out of them?"

"No, we have two more packages that haven't been opened yet and each has three sheets that cut into at least three patches."

"Oh, good."

"Where does it hurt?" It was her heels, and one of the main big-toe joint patches had worked out of place. I retired the remains to the trash baggie and started cutting a new patch to replace it. "It's always harder to peel backing in the field," I struggled with my fingernails whose length I had planned so carefully to be just right for this precise occasion, useful but not in the way. It had all been part of the huge countdown.

We got patches on and socks over them. She stopped at this point to rest some more. Two men and a teenage boy came puffing up behind us. The teenager was flagging, wanting a rest. They stopped in place; he took off his pack. They were five yards up the trail from us.

One of the men, clearly the father, said, "Well, hurry up and get fixed, if we don't beat the mules we'll have to smell them!"

Mules! Maybe this wasn't a rest stop for them; maybe it was just a standing stop for pack adjustment.

"Mules?" I asked, "Are there mules coming?"

I could see up the trail three hundred yards, no sign of any mules yet. Still, it was time to struggle with the camera. Batteries, guidebooks, maps, ah, here was the camera. Better not open it yet, it will time out and shut itself and we'll have to fight again.

"Yep, right behind us. We'll be eatin' their dirt if we don't get goin'. Nothin' smells worse than mules on the trail."

The other man, perhaps his younger brother, was stoically silent.

"Can we out-run them?"

"Sure, we've been right ahead of them for a couple of miles."

This seemed unlikely to me, but it also seemed to serve as a good reason to get going again.

"Get your boots on, we don't want to get behind mules," I echoed this strangers concern, not at all sure that it really mattered or if it was in fact even avoidable. There's something about being around people with some agenda that makes you want to act like them, maybe for their short term approval, even if this means silly behavior all around. Viannah started handling one boot, without much direction. I started collecting Ziplocs from the dirt and stuffing them into their places in the pack.

"Woep, there they are!"

The first two mules showed around the bend, far back as we could see. I started trying to turn on the camera. All five of us realized that we were not going to be beating any mules now.

"Well, get your stuff out of the trail son, we don't want it all trampled on," dad was getting a little gruff now and was beginning to remind me of Pete, PJ’s dad in A Goofy Movie.

We moved our stuff up further from the trail also. The whole train was in sight now; there were seven swaggering along, all with riders. Nothing to do now but relax and wait. They were coming around the left-hand bend up the cavity; any second now the leader would round a slight right and be in our exact part of the trail. There he was, the wrangler. He had an unlit cigarette in his fingers, tapping it on his mouth as if a smoke would sure be good right now. He smiled a brief trail greeting and the others started to pass. I checked the camera; it had turned itself off. I started fooling with it. Bz. Not this again! Bz. Bz. Hmpfh. Bzzzzr, Bzzzzzz. Bzzzzrup. Finally! The last mule was about to round the corner out of site, quick! I snapped a picture of a mule's rear end rounding a corner. Bright memoir that! I closed the camera, Bzzzzzzrup, finished packing up. Viannah was lacing up shoes.

"Get up son, get moving." Dad now sounded like a downright drill sergeant.

"Right now son," I said in my best Goofy voice, low enough to be only heard by Viannah. She laughed. The teenager struggled with his pack, that looked familiar, but his was quite a bit more modern, smaller, had to be lighter unless he was packing gold bars. He was carrying his camera in a compact bag in his hand. What a concept. The party passed, dad determined, teenager aloof, brother suffering silently.

Another German couple passed going the other way, engrossed in conversation, "...viert, auffen..." they switched into English, "Hi." then carried on in Deutsch. It was hard to perceive much accent on one short word, but it did seem clipped a little. These people rarely had more than water bottles unless one of them had a daypack. Where are they going? Where are they coming from? How come them to be here now in the late morning?

Another mule train! Viannah was getting up; we started getting ready to go. Now they started to pass, seven more. We were standing in pack waiting; nobody spoke much. This team was obviously raising dust, but I hadn't discerned any foul odors yet.

"That's fourteen, dad."

"Fourteen?"

"Yeah, fourteen mules, seventy six people, fourteen of them on mules." Now we were tracking three categories.

Right around the corner, we found our teenager photographing something on a rock, up at eye level. "It's a lizard, come look," I called to Viannah.

"A collar'd lizard," the young man corrected me. The rock must have been too hot to touch, the collar'd lizard was doing little pushups.

"A pushup lizard," I renamed. Viannah giggled. The teenager snapped his camera shut smartly and proceeded, trying to act cool. Well, his camera worked.

The Roaring Springs Bypass

Around another bend and down some more trail and there was a split. This was a mirror image of the Gabriellino / Brown Canyon junction that we had passed many times back home. A third mule train passed us and stopped in the intersection. We proceeded after the last one had turned off, not an easy proposition. This wrangler was a big, younger man; he looked like a lumberjack on horseback.

"That's twenty 'mulees,'" Viannah counted with glee (her feet clearly feeling better). There had been only six in this train.

Up until this moment I had entertained the idea of visiting Roaring Springs, the falling water, the dam, the old pump station. Now it seemed best to stay to the main trail and do our best until we got to the day's destination. We were getting tired, our feet hurt, our packs were heavy. We stopped for a fight with the camera and got a few pictures of the falls in the background then moved on. The side trip would have been over a mile out of the way, maybe worthwhile, but certainly over an hour's delay. It was getting on towards noon and we were still far from reaching the beginning of the second half of today's trip. We might not have an hour of time or strength to spare.

We were now in sight of the confluence of two canyons, Bright Angel and Roaring Springs. Bright Angel Creek went from here down to the river. We would parallel it for the rest of today's trip. We stopped under a broad, low deciduous tree, barely off trail. Viannah read from the guidebook about the source of the water. The plains along the north rim collect water into limestone caverns. From place to place, openings would let the water out. There was enough depth to the percolation process that even during extended droughts, water flowed from the springs.

Imagine that, a water sift so deep that it performed centuries of climate averaging. This was the same way that the temperature was stabilized in Carlsbad Caverns (and all others). The temperature is the climate average for that spot on the earth taken over days and nights, weather changes, summers and winters for years, decades, centuries, maybe longer. Look at all that water running out of there! I tried to explain the averaging concept to Viannah. She appreciated the effort but didn't really grasp all of the profound implications. In a few days I would try this on her mother with similar results.

The teenager and his party passed. He said, smartly, "there's water and facilities just fifteen minutes ahead, no need to stop here." At the rate we went, maybe that would be more like thirty or forty five minutes. How did he know things like that anyway?

A group of five boys, ages about eight to about sixteen rambled by. What was this? A Scout Troop? Who was in charge? They bubbled past. They all had sandals strapped outside their packs. What a luxury! Where were these guys from? Where were they going?

A man who seemed old was coming up the trail from below very slowly, barely putting one foot in front of the other as he went. He had two walking sticks, wrap around sunglasses, a hat with neck scarf and a full-sized pack. He stopped under the tree to speak with us.

"Well, what have we here? You headed up today?" He was headed up, we were sitting, headed nowhere.

"No, down."

"To Cottonwood?"

"No, Bright Angel."

"Oh, you can do that. Great thing to be doing, we're hiking out today, how much further?"

"Not as much as five miles, but most of it is steep, it will take several hours." I was worried whether he would be out before dark at the rate he was going given that it was already midday.

"We were at Phantom Ranch yesterday, great place, great food, you don't want to miss anything, go to the falls, look at the rapids, drink plenty of water." Viannah and I looked at each other; this was one of the stronger sales pitches we had received. "Well, good luck to you," he resumed up the trail, no faster than before.

Two girls breezed up, perhaps 14 and 16, they were with the man, his daughters. It was the younger one's first trip across. She was breathing hard for effect but didn't seem to need to. They were both in full pack, sipping water from tubes. Several people had water bladders strapped on their backs with a little tube running around front where they could drink anytime they wanted without needing to stop or use their hands. In this case the tubes were clear blue.

They stopped under the tree, "Headed out today?"

"No, we're on the way to Bright Angel." We started into the same pleasantries.

"Are you eating at the ranch?"

"Yes, tonight and tomorrow morning."

"Oh, it's wonderful, we were 'sooo' hungry when we came down, looking forward to that hiker's stew was what got us in there. I was beginning to feel faint," the younger one was speaking; she didn't look like she was capable of feeling faint. "You are having the hiker's stew aren't you?”

"Yes, we're looking forward to it," I was trying to show some enthusiasm despite a mounting lack of appetite.

"It's just marvelous, and you get all you want, they bring out big buckets of it and you eat until you can't stand it anymore."

"Sounds great," gulp, I hope I'm anything like hungry by that time.

"This is my first time down, my dad and sister came before, but I wasn't old enough."

The older one added, "she's learning the ropes."

"Yeah, we're burning up trail, we've been really moving this morning."

This seemed unlikely; at least in any sustained sense considering the rate their father was going. He was stopped in the trail about fifty yards up looking tired but determined.

"Well, we better get going, burn up some more trail," said the older.

"Yeah," the younger, "gotta keep going."

They marched off briskly, passed their father shortly and were out of sight around a bend. He resumed his pace. Slow and steady, a tortoise with two hares.

Viannah and I looked at each other. "Hope he makes it," I said. These were odd but interesting interviews. We rested some more; I wasn't much energized by the encounter.

This could have been in the panhandle of Texas, around Borger, in the Canadian River breaks. Even down to details like the lack of water in the closest visible streambed. There were some differences though, the dark purple rocks and some boulders, for example. Viannah had said she wanted to collect a piece of that billion-year-old purple rock. We saw some now, but she had no interest in carrying anything more, even if it had been legal.

The Pump Operator's House

The maps showed the pump station and the pump operator's residence separated by about a mile. The teenager had said fifteen minutes ahead. "Let's get up and go on down to this place with water and services and we'll take a long break there for lunch, it shouldn't take more than half an hour to get there."

"OK."

Once again, I was up and in the pack, renewing the old aches. Viannah started getting up.

"The trail is much easier now, it should stay that way for the rest of the day mostly, still downhill but not so steep," I commented, trying to sound reassuring. I was worried that Cottonwood Campground, the half way point for today, was still over a mile beyond our lunch stop. I was trying to reassure myself too. 'Hey, this is easy,' I told myself, 'just like walking to work and back twice.' That could take as little as five hours. Still, five hours plus one hour plus however long we were going to take for lunch…. Would we get to Phantom Ranch in time for the 6:30 stew seating? Would we feel like eating? It would be nice to get there an hour or more early and rest before dinner. Any margin we had for that ambitious schedule was quickly fading. Well, we could only do what we could do. "How are your feet?"

"Better, I think they'll be OK. Can I take off my boots at lunch."

"Sure."

We passed and were passed by the five boys several more times. We were getting close to the creek now and could hear it running. This was how trails followed streambeds, winding more than the streams themselves did. At a tight point in the trail, we encountered two people, a woman half in the trail and a man off the trail trying to photograph something. They were very still, barely acknowledging us as we passed. Two more curves and we came upon the house. A metal bridge, suitable for mules, was ahead. Just before its threshold was a short stairway down into a yard and an untended lemonade stand with a donations jar.

The five boys were already here, all their equipment including boots piled up inside a ten by twenty foot ellipse. They were playing basketball in their sandals. Ahhh. Still, the oldest seemed barely capable of commanding such a mission. There were other piles of packs around, we headed for the most likely unoccupied spot, the up-trail end of the yard nearest the house, and stopped at the stone fence between the gate into the house yard itself and a stairway down to the stream. There was a large boulder there; I used it to get out of pack and to lean the pack against. For the first time, I detached the sleeping mat and spread it out on a shady side. There were large trees here around the periphery of the outer yard yet at midday there were still significant sections in direct sunlight.

I laid down on the mat, trying to use my hat as a pillow. This didn't work. I laid back using no pillow and tried to relax. Big sigh. There would be time enough for eating later. Viannah already had her boots off and was sitting on the stairway down to the water.

"Can I go down to the stream dad?"

"No," But I wasn't sure why not. Maybe because I didn't want to risk having to get up and do a rescue.

The basketball game, just opposite the gate from us, was warming up and getting competitive. We were bombed by the ball a couple of times. Viannah was paying careful attention and now knew several of the boy's names.

"You want some lunch?" I offered after fifteen minutes of trying to relax, dodging additional basketballs.

"OK" there was some interest in her voice.

The couple who had been standing still taking pictures arrived and took up residence under a tree. Why didn't I see that spot? The woman said to the basketball team, "I thought you guys would have my lunch ready by now." They sat down and started getting their boots and socks off, replacing them with sandals. 'So,' I was thinking, 'this is who is in charge of the scout troop.' Suddenly it all looked like the family of Jim Davis as it might have appeared five years ago. Jim and Cheri had five boys ranging from nineteen to about ten and a girl of five or six, an unusually large family for a Protestant. Maybe the basketball scouts were Mormons; we were close to Utah after all, even closer from being on the North Rim side. Could be, they were all clean cut and well behaved for a pack of boys. “Lots of manpower,” Jim would say.

We looked through our packs for food. Viannah got out the perishable sandwiches; I got out the last egg, a black banana and the juice boxes. The rest of the stuff in sight didn't look very appetizing. Actually, this didn't either. I started into a sandwich, "want an egg?"

"No. Dad, this one has meat in it." Viannah was vegetarian.

My sandwich, about half gone, didn't have meat in it. "Oh, rats, here." We traded; I started peeling at the egg. The game was over now, the basketball at rest on the dirt court. Viannah needed to go to the bathroom. This didn't seem the ideal place for sneaking off into the bushes; still, what were the alternatives? The residence appeared to be private. I briefed her on an elaborate plan to get out of sight somewhere nearby that wouldn't do too much damage to the local ecology. This didn't appeal to either of us. "OK, here's what I'll do, I'll go through the gate here and see if I can find a rest room we can use, when I come back you can go there or according to the prior plan."

"OK."

Up, three steps over to the gate, and in. It was not closed or locked. In plain view was a side porch to the house, and on the porch, two doors. The one on the right had an opaque window through which mop handles and cleaning supplies could be seen. It was locked. The one on the left had a large sign on it that said:

Public Rest room

(Bring Your Own Toilet Paper)

Public, of course, another surprise, despite maps and guidebooks.

Inside it was clean, bright from a skylight, and there was even a tiny bit of a roll of toilet paper left, presumably for those who might arrive unprepared. Finished, I went back out to Viannah. This troublesome, dreaded adventure had taken about 2-1/2 minutes. We laughed.

Someone was sitting out "in front" of the house. This was the direction away from the trail and around to the right as you headed toward the public rest room. Was there someone with them? Signs everywhere said "private residence." I presumed this meant they wanted to be left alone.

A helicopter droned and chopped out the sound of the creek. The littlest basketball player yelled, "Gosh, what's that, a body bag?" Viannah was watching, there was a large black bag-like object suspended well below the helicopter. I was not watching. They didn't seem to be coming here, despite the helipad on the private side of the house. Fatigue overcome by curiosity, I got up and looked around. The helicopter was slowly headed up a canyon to the left (facing back up trail). This was a place I didn't know how to get to from the maps or the trails I knew of. He was up near the top, going slowly just a few hundred feet from the cliffs. Was he looking for something? Somebody? Someplace? Shortly he was out of sight. No more mechanized vehicles would be seen today or tomorrow or the next day and no more body bags.

Cottonwood Campground

I worried about our rate of progress and was unable to rest very well. Heat or not, we had to go on. Cottonwood Campground was next on the map; it was hard to tell how far because the private residence was not a milepost on the map. Maybe it was 1.4 miles; maybe it was 1.4 plus 1.2, 2.6 miles. In either case, we needed to get down there. People had come and gone while we were here. The two men and the teenager were here when we arrived and were already gone. A group of five or six young adults stopped for a few minutes, one of them bought lemonade, another rearranged his clothes, the others didn't even come down into the yard. They were gone. Looked like the basketball team and their parents were going to be staying here somewhat longer. Some of them were asleep. They were doubtless stopping at Cottonwood tonight. They could stay here for several hours, through the heat of the day. What a good idea.

'I'm from Texas. Heat is nothing to me!' I thought. Actually, it had been over ten years since I had been there for any length of time. Viannah had never been there for more than a week or so since she was two. I was a little concerned about our heat staving capacity. Oh well, sweatbands, soaked bandannas, we had done our best and now we would have to 'sweat it,' "Let's go." I put away the mat, stowed the trash, zipped everything up. I was ready. I didn't feel like getting up, but was scared not to. I wriggled into the pack and got up. It was a little more awkward than usual; I was tiring. Viannah started putting things away.

In a few minutes we had climbed the stairs at the lemonade stand, turned left, and were across the bridge. This really looked like the Canadian River breaks. An oil well (heresy!) or pipeline was all that was needed to complete the scene.

Occasionally, in fact, the trans-canyon pipeline could be seen. Water from Roaring Springs supplied both rims. It was pumped up to the north and had a gravity-pressure feed up to Indian Gardens on the south from which it was pumped up to the South Rim. Also, there was a three or four wire telephone line, that's all it could have been, that paralleled the trail for many miles. Most times it was in view. It didn't appear to be in use anymore. Significant lengths of it were broken, tangled, down or unstrung.

This was a section from which the South Rim could be seen quite well. Although it looked a long way off, it looked closer than I would have expected. What was it, seven, nine, eleven miles away? Seventeen by trail, minimum. It was hot out here, but not oppressive, mid nineties probably.

"We'll be on the creek for the rest of the way today."

"Great, can we stop and rest now?" Usually at midday, Viannah tired at about the same rate I did, still, we needed to get there today.

"Let's go a little further."

"OK."

This section took a whole page in the guidebook.

Somewhere in this area was the 'Tapeats Narrows.' That may actually have been at the residence where the creek bed was narrower and the walls around it steeper, or perhaps it was here, further down. Either way, we were passing it as a milestone. Other than to have been here as a part of this adventure I was not very interested right now.

We took two rest stops and lots of water. We were going too fast for Viannah, she was really wearing out. "We'll take a major rest at Cottonwood Campground and the trail after that will be much easier, kind of like this for most of the rest of the way." I was trying to be pre-emptive.

"Can we stop?"

"Soon as we get to the campground, it has to be right here somewhere." At this point we saw a picnic table and the roof of some structure near the trail ahead.

"Can we stop now?"

"As soon as we see a camp site with some shade that somebody is not already in."

Nearly to the middle of the campground, on the uphill side of the trail from a structure that was either a storage shed or the ranger station (in either case, it had solar panels on it, this was a solar ranger station), there was an unoccupied group campsite under two large trees. We went straight in, used the tables to get out of packs, and laid down on them. Coins rolled out of my pocket, clinked on the table, and hit the ground. Viannah laughed. I didn't feel like moving to get them but, hey, they were money. I got up; feeling a little nauseated, took some water, picked up my money and tried to arrange my pockets so I could lay back down without having this happen repeatedly.

"Can we stay here dad?"

"I'm considering it."

How much trouble would it be to talk the ranger here into letting us stay tonight and go on down to finish our Bright Angel reservation tomorrow? Drawbacks: I rarely changed plans for anything. What are plans for after all? The instructions with the Backcountry Permit clearly stated that there would be no change of arrangements once on the trail. All three meals that we'd prepaid for would be lost, seventy some-odd dollars. That wouldn't be a safety problem, we had plenty to eat with us without those meals, though none of it was interesting and the bananas were, by their rapid ripening, forcing themselves to be nearly the only things being consumed. Perhaps worst of all, a change of plan now would make the Wednesday uphill hike the big one rather than a minor one by comparison. Still, minor compared to this? Probably not.

I checked the clock. It was two. The heat of the day, midday. Nobody felt well. The day was more than half over; we'd been on the trail for nine hours. Half of the miles were still ahead. Maybe a talk with the ranger wouldn't be such a bad idea. Viannah wasn't moving. She was sleeping, or at least acting like it. I was worried. Would we be able to get to the next campground even before dark? We had a flashlight and plenty of batteries; still, I didn't want a twenty-hour day on the trail.

I went off to the nice, well-illuminated, composting toilet. As at the first stop with toilets near Supai Tunnel, two were open and one was locked, probably due to some sort of composting rotation. No irregularity today anyway. That was good. Back to the rest site for some more water and some more resting. I tried napping without luck, studying the bright sun through green leaves for a while, then through the inside of my hat for a while. I contemplated our predicament for a quarter hour, feeling slightly better, that ripe banana was kicking in.

"Tell you what, Viannah."

"Yeah, what." She sounded like she might feel a little better though I was probably just hearing through optimistic ears.

'Always suffer rather than interact with some unknown person, i.e., the local ranger, that's my motto,' I thought. "Tell you what, here's what we'll do. In fifteen or twenty minutes, we'll load up and walk out of here and we'll either do forty-twenties or twenty-tens."

"What does that mean?"

"That means that we'll either hike forty minutes then rest for twenty or we'll hike for twenty minutes and rest for ten."

"I think I want to do that last one if I understand what it is."

"OK, twenty-tens it is. Now, we should be able to go between a half mile and a mile in twenty minutes since the trail will be mostly flat and easier, so we should be able to go seven miles in as little as seven twenty-tens, that is three and a half hours, that is, five thirty or six tonight." That wasn't so bad. Of course, on the other end, it could be nine or nine thirty. In that case, it wouldn't be too much time in the dark, but we'd certainly miss our biggest, most expensive meal. I didn't want to think about the pessimistic end.

So, what was on the map ahead? The next page showed a crossing of Wall Creek, then the cutoff to Ribbon Falls. In the middle of the map after that was The Box. The Box is the last feature of the path before arriving at the ranch and campground. Maybe we could do a page of the map in three twenty-tens. That would total six or seven, close to the optimistic estimate. Maybe it was not so bad. I tried relaxing and resting some more. My stomach, more accurately, my lower abdomen was churning. What we had undertaken was difficult. We had allowed all day for it and it might take more than that. We would probably make it, but it wouldn't be cushy. I tried relaxing without much success.

The Heat of the Day

Two thirty. "Let's go," between a command and a mumble.

"Dad!" This bordered on whining.

"We'll just go twenty minutes and wherever we are we'll stop and rest."

"OK, I need to go to the bathroom."

"OK, go ahead and when you get back we'll head out."

She was gone for more than ten minutes. "I take a long time whenever I go to the bathroom," she said. I noted the sign in the composting toilets not to throw in anything except human waste and toilet paper. Maybe that was a hint.

"It's two forty-six now. We'll hike until three oh-six then stop."

"OK."

This bit-at-a-time plan had me feeling like we could do it. Of course, what always happened to such an outline was that the twenties would get shaved and the tens stretched. Still, we would be able to plug away and finish up eventually.

Out of the campsite and left onto the trail. The toilets were high up on the left; two story structures with the user end on the second floor. Much like pit toilets with the pits above ground, doubtless more sanitary in a long-term sense. We passed more campsites and the signs welcoming hikers from the other direction then were out on the hot, arid trail again. It looked flat, gently downhill, as far ahead as we could see. Twenty minutes or not, I'd like to get to Wall Creek in this segment so as to calibrate the maps versus our on-off plans. I was looking for a stream to cross. As far as Bright Angel Creek went, we would be on it's left, that is, on its east for most of the rest of the way excepting the destination campground itself.

"How long dad?" Viannah was trying not to whine but didn't feel like going very far at a time. I pulled out the camping alarm clock, popped it open like a Star Trek communicator, and reported "six more minutes."

"OK," the tone was resignation, but she clearly had the strength and will power for six more minutes.

In four more minutes I started looking for shade anywhere near the trail. "We'll stop in that overhang," I was indicating over a hundred yards up the trail."

"OK."

Sometimes it helps to know how far you're going. 'This is going to go much better,' I thought. Much of the day so far, she had started asking for stops after about twenty minutes. This would be about right. Forty-twenties would have been a bad version of a good idea; twenty-tens were going to be just right.

"It's three oh-five, we'll get back up at three fifteen."

"OK."

We were sitting in the shade. "Take some water."

"OK."

I took some water then took some more. "Read from the guidebook."

"OK."

According to the guidebook, the trail went over (not around!) some hills ahead. Just what we needed, not so level as it could have been. I checked the clock, "Two more minutes." Viannah just looked at me, not in distress, but just pained at the thought. "I think we're going to be OK, these twenty-tens are going to work out better. They match your rhythm better and I can stand an easier routine too," I added, trying to be encouraging. Actually, I was encouraged, I didn't feel great, but I felt like we were going to make it and there was better than half a chance we would be there for that well promoted hiker's stew dinner that didn't sound so great.

We were up and off again. I hadn't seen anything that looked like Wall Creek. Maybe it was easy to miss. Maybe we were in trouble.

These were the deepest geologies we were going through now. Some were over a billion years old; some were over two billion, maybe as much as half the age of the earth itself. This was the oldest rock I had ever seen so far as I knew and it did not look like anything I had ever seen before. Most of the view looked like those desert hikes up in the panhandle of Texas but then once in a while a purple rock or a big purple boulder, or a huge purple cliff will loom up and that didn't look familiar. We were down in the bottom lands now.

The trail was away from the stream some. We could hear it but not as loud. At least we were out of the straits, wherever they were. "Dad, how much longer?" She was like clockwork. I checked the clock.

"Four minutes. I don't see any shade coming."

"Do we have to rest in shade?"

"I'd rather."

I would rather be in the shade enough to stretch this twenty a little. We would make it. I saw a boulder and some trees way up ahead. It looked like a little side trail went off into the trees. Not a much used side trail. Indeed, we were not seeing many people on the trail right now. "Most of the people who we would have met here would have been through much earlier this morning. Where would a person be going who we met right now?" It didn't occur to me that this was the heat of the day when people weren't supposed to be out on the trails. While I thought about this, a party of three was coming up the trail to meet us. So much for my impeccable logic. Wonder where they could be going?

The trees were close now and didn't look as promising. I waded off the path anyway. At length we ended up behind the boulder on its opposite side from the trail. The afternoon was dragging on; some of the sand just here was in the shade just now. It looked like water stood in here sometimes. This was the kind of place where you would find a snake or reptile, we checked carefully before de-packing. I got my pack hung on a low-hanging tree walking under. Umpfh! I had been uncharacteristically patient today, but there were some things that would make me swear just from reflex. This was one of them.

"Want to play dominoes, dad?"

"We don't have time to get them out, maybe tonight in camp. Or tomorrow. We'll have all day tomorrow. Boy, it will sure be good not to have to hike anywhere tomorrow. We can sit around all day with our feet in the cool stream water. Momma was a genius to strongly suggest that we not rush through this but, it being a once-in-a-lifetime trip, we should spend a day at the bottom and enjoy the scenery. We all should have suspected that this would be the only way to actually survive the ordeal as well."

"Yeah."

My feet agreed with this too. I took some water and thought about trying to eat something. 'Nah.'

Another party of two or three passed going up trail. "How many?"

"That's ten people and seven switchbacks."

"Woe, what happened to all those this morning?"

"I wrote them down at the campground and started over."

"Ahhh. Wonder where all these people are going?"

"Don't know."

I checked the clock; we had been sitting here for fourteen minutes. By the time we could get up it would have been a twenty four-sixteen. "Let's go. <sigh>"

"Do we have to already?"

"Yes, we have to get out of here today."

"OK." She started up.

"One more twenty-ten to Ribbon Falls and then maybe three from there to the bottom. I think we'll be fine."

I tangled with the same low tree getting back in pack. Hmppfh. We were back on the trail. More trail and more trail. It began to all look the same. It would be nice to reach one of the landmarks in the guidebook to know that we'd made some progress. I was not going to think about how far we had probably gone. I didn't want to be depressed at how long the miles were.

"Dad, I know why they don't have any mountain bikes down here."

"Why, because it's a canyon?" I was trying to make a joke, not very skillfully.

"No, because they couldn't do all these speed bumps. They would have to get off and lift their bike over every twenty seconds."

Ribbon Falls

"I see a hill ahead. Maybe that's the alluvial hill across from Ribbon Falls." This hill grew ahead of us for ten minutes. It still didn't look truly close when the next twenty minutes ran out. By contract, we stopped under a boulder that nearly made a cave facing west onto the trail. Then after another fourteen minutes down, we were up and on the way again.

Two twenty-tens were taking more than an hour. We would be somewhere between the optimistic five thirty and pessimistic nine thirty. Seemed a shame to have to worry about such things on this special day, but we had that meal waiting for us and I would like to make it if at all possible. I liked to make my appointments, particularly the prepaid ones.

Ten more minutes and we had a choice of trails. There was actually a sign that said that the fork to the right went to Ribbon Falls. People had left their full packs at the intersection and walked to the falls without all the baggage, apparently not worried about the prospect of losing them. I certainly wasn't going to carry anybody's 50-pound pack away!

Despite the pain and worries, there was a slight temptation to go the 1.2 miles out of the way. The fork to the left wound up the alluvial hill. This was the way we had to go. Viannah concurred without discussion. The trail headed up moderately steeply, we slowed down without discussion. "This reminds me of that place on the Gabriellino trail that goes way up away from the stream and then back down into a campground."

"Where is that?"

"Oh, you know, the place where you walk in the stream bed for a while, then go up switchbacks and around a dam and then back down."

"Oh, yeah, it is something like that."

We eventually reached a sharp corner in the trail; it turned left away from the creek. It was a little windy here. "There's no wind in the Grand Canyon," I quoted from a salesman at Sport's Chalet back home, mashing my hat on tighter. There was a tree at the corner. We stopped and rested under it. It must have been at least fifteen minutes now; nobody wanted to time the pace. In any case, we could see Ribbon Falls, half a mile away up a side canyon to the west. "Here, let me have the camera, I'll try to get a picture, we'll say it saved us two hours."

Viannah sat under the tree, I tried to find a place where I could actually stand and get her, the tree, and the falls in frame. There was no trouble with the camera now, maybe it liked being warm; I zoomed it in as far as it would go and had to adjust the framing again. "Look this way! Do what you were doing before," some resting pose that looked hiker-photogenic…. Click. Then I zoomed out to a bigger field and got another of the same shot. "We should have two or maybe three twenty-tens before we get to The Box and then one or two inside before we're done. We're nearly there." My mind was playing optimism tricks on me again.

Somewhere about here, we were breaking our day-hike record, represented by the Mt. Wilson climb of two weeks ago. I misread the map and was over-optimistic for the last two miles there too. I was 'on the wall' for the last mile and a half. After it was over, I was sick all evening, couldn't eat, couldn't stay awake. I was really glad to be in my own bed. Next morning I was fine. That would probably happen again today, I was depending on springing back by in the morning, at least by sometime tomorrow so I would live through the Wednesday return to the top.

The trail was uphill for a way further. The guidebook said 'Good exposure of red Hakatai Shale.' I pronounce 'Hakatai' in my best Japanese accent, not knowing what type of word it really was. All the cliffs in all directions looked red from here, I wondered what in particular they are talking about.

There was a time when I would have been strict about the twenty-tens, if one came out late, it would have to be made up next time. Not only does such an approach make the mathematics of it all more complicated than I was prepared to deal with today, but also it would have been too hard. The point here was to make a deal and get there, not to enslave us to a clock. Every time I took note to start a twenty or a ten, we'd just try to hit the target on the other end of that one segment and not worry about any further history.

"Memoryless" is what they would call this in the field of stochastic processes.

And so we tromped through three more twenty-tens, after a fashion and had still not reached the top of The Box, much less the bottom.

We encountered a section of 'horizontal beds of Hakatai Shale that had been turned vertically as a result of faulting.' One set was standing in the middle of the grass, parts eroded away, to make it look like a dozen bookends left out and forgotten or a loaf of bread with slices missing. We stopped for a picture. The camera cooperated.

The trail went right through little stagnant side streams, ecosystems with minnow-sized fish, tropical island-looking plant life and stepping-stones. I tried the stepping-stones but the water was not deep.

Still no Box. It was closing on five o'clock now. The Box appeared to start in the middle of the next to last page of the guidebook and the destination was at the bottom of the last. This was a long way, even for self-deceiving optimists. I was not even sure we were on that page yet! Well, The Box looked smaller on other maps.

I was tired of saying, "looks like just one more twenty-ten, two at the most." I had been saying this for about five twenty-tens now and it was starting to occur to me that twenty-tens, good idea though they are, couldn't go on forever. One could only do six or eight before having a larger rest. At this rate, how many were left? Four? Five? What were we to do?

The Box

One more twenty-ten and we stopped in the shade of a large cliff in a wide right-hand bend of the trail. The canyon was clearly narrower here.

"I declare that this is the top of The Box," I said.

"Oh, Good!"

We were resting in the middle of the trail, not having seen anyone else in some time and not expecting to. It was late afternoon but there was still plenty of daylight left. It was hot but not intolerable in the shade and there were occasional light breezes. It was after five. If The Box was only one more mile, we had it made, but that wouldn't jive well with the map. There were two bridges, then the entrance to Phantom Canyon, then two more bridges, a trail split and the next landmark was the ranch itself. We had it made but would we be there in time for dinner? We were past the steep parts, it was just trail now, and most of it would be 'easy.' We’d said that before. Much of this part of the trail was blasted out of the walls to make it easier.

A hot breeze was blowing out of The Box.

The shadows were overtaking the walls behind us. "Come on, let's get going, we're not going to be early but we can still make it to dinner." At this point, Viannah was not enthusiastic but I had seen her get a second wind around this time in a day and jog ahead of me to the finish. I was not worried, but what we really needed right now was more like a 'fourth wind' than a second wind.

So, as we stepped off into The Box, I was determined to get to the first bridge before stopping again. I was unconsciously deciding to break the twenty-ten contract in order to make a schedule. This was a bad move.

At length, the bridge came into view some distance down the trail still. "Dad, can we stop?"

"I want to get to the bridge and then we'll stop."

"Dad!" But she kept on going. This was not fun anymore.

It seemed like half a mile to the bridge. We stopped on the far side and threw rocks in the rushing water. We were on a little shelf to the right of the bridge, out of the way of anyone who might come by. No one had and no one would but we were still out of the way. We tossed a few rocks into the rushing stream, looked at the distances down, found a few items people had lost, bottle tops, parts of packing equipment.

"Time to go again." It hadn't been ten minutes, but it has been more than five. I didn't feel like going, but I didn't feel like being late either. Viannah was less happy than last time. By the map, the next bridge should be right away, probably already in view, maybe one tenth, at most two tenths of a mile. It was not. We hiked for what seemed like well over twenty minutes, not making good time but not dragging. The walls were steeper; the canyon narrower, all this heat was in shade now. Still no bridge. Viannah was rebelling.

"Dad.....!"

Eventually, the second bridge was reached. We crossed. This was the point in the guidebook that was marked as the beginning of The Box. We were nearly on the last map page. Viannah started a twig down the stream, it floated away slower than we walked. That was not the way to get there fast either.

More Box

With my face set towards the ranch, we plodded on. All aches and pains were now accepted as fate. I was now in the end game where I keep on going without being careful about pacing. I was 'on the wall,' resigned, unhappy. I was not looking at the clock, if we made it, it would be just barely. I was getting scared and didn't want to know the facts that I couldn't do anything about anyway.

Another mile went by but the landmarks said it was only a quarter mile. I didn't believe these markings. These maps were all wrong! Every tenth of a mile down here was half a mile long. 'I'm going to count paces,' I thought, 'I'm going to count from right here where I know where something is.' The bridge was a good 200 yards back, but I would start from zero here anyway, this wouldn't be an accurate scientific measure but it would reveal hints about this factor-of-three difference between map miles and walked miles.

Paces are generally taken as two yards apiece. Two steps, two yards. Since I was a teenager, a typical pace for me had been five feet. I remembered a time when my friend Rob and I were making a map of an edge-of-town site we were studying for pollution control. I wanted to just pace off distances, as I'd learned in Boy Scouts but he wanted to use a tape measure. In a test to settle the argument, I paced off fifty feet and stood in place. He measured the distance and found it was fifty feet, within an eight of an inch. I had been lucky but my paces were the standard for the rest of the measurements that day. We were not the Geodetic Survey, after all. Next time we came to the site, which we called the "NDA" (there was a sign nearby "No Dumping Allowed"), our equipment had been stolen. This and some of the follow-on stories from this one would be good ones to tell Viannah. I was not in the mood for talking anymore. Viannah was really struggling now, so was I. I was not going to lengthen my pace, I would just count five foot increments.

'So, how many would that be to the mile. Eighty seven, eighty eight, eighty nine....' I tried to do the math while counting. 'Let's see, seventeen hundred sixty yards is, uh, 5280 feet. Oh, of course!' I was getting exasperated. 'Guess I should be counting quarter miles. That would be 440 yards, 1320 feet. Forty five, forty six, hmmm.... Is this six hundred forty seven or seven hundred forty seven? I'll try passing the canteen back and forth, right hand for even hundreds, left for odd. The swap with the walking stick sent it clattering to the ground. Ughhhh. I didn't like stooping to begin with, especially not right now. It was no fun at all in this pack. 'Every fourth hundred I will take a little water. I shouldn't have trouble remembering whether I'm on four hundred or eight hundred.'

Every step seemed to take a minute. We reached a quarter mile. No new bridges, no new canyons, no new landmarks. Where was everything? Maybe we missed it. No, unfortunately not, it was all still ahead.

Three men were coming up trail. All were wearing white shorts and shirts. One was in full pack and looked happy. One was carrying a large TV camera. One was carrying nothing but a small water bottle. He looked like a TV preacher. Going up the canyon to proclaim the Word of the Lord, perhaps? He nodded in a guarded way as we met and passed.

Well, at least we were definitely in The Box now, it was now undeniable and I was counting out my second quarter mile. 'This can't go on forever. We have to get there before I get to one million!' I was losing patience, walking faster, not caring how I felt. 'I feel awful, so what! Eight hundred eighty... I forgot water last hundred.'

"Dad." Viannah was sobbing. "Can't we stop!" I was caught off guard. I swung around to find tears running down her face. She had determination in her face, she would keep on going if I said so, but every step would cost two tears.

"Oh, honey!" 'What a jerk I am,' I thought, 'nothing is this important.' "Here, sit down right here," there was a convenient rock, couch size.

"OK," she was relieved but still hurting.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push so hard; it's not worth this. Here, we'll stay here until you feel better, it doesn't matter when we get down, if we miss dinner we miss it, we have plenty of food (that didn't seem very appetizing right now anyway) in our packs. If we have to eat in the dark, that's fine. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That's OK, dad," she was sounding partly conciliatory, but mainly just glad to be stopped.

"Here, take some water."

"OK,"

"Take some more."

She did. She was not hot, she was not sick, she was just on the wall herself and I had been marching ahead like a maniac, counting steps trying to make the last two miles disappear without effort like a math problem. How asinine.

We stayed for fifteen minutes, talking about unrelated things so as to not think about our troubles or the rest of the day's walk.

"Tomorrow we don't have to go anywhere. We can sit with our feet in the stream all day."

"I think I'll do that."

"Do you feel like going on now?"

"OK, I can do this, I'm going to finish this," her determination was ahead for the moment.

"You lead, you set the pace, let's go a little slower. When you feel tired we'll slow down some more."

"OK." She started out while I was still loading this time.

We hadn't seen 'Phantom Creek, an interesting side canyon' yet. It was much further from there, all flat, for all the good that would do. More heat, more walls, more water, it was all running together. I was not interested in plant life or geology anymore. I had completely missed the palm tree that somebody accidentally planted beside the trail, ecological terrorism you'd think from reading the guidebook. Still, it would have been nice to have seen. We had seen about ten more people, they all looked like day hikers. I didn't feel like asking anybody how much further. I already knew; it was a long way.

"I have to stop here." It was my turn to beg now. My legs were fine, my feet were hurting, but it was overall exhaustion that I was stopping for. The water in our canteens was tepid, "beats nothing," I hypothesized. There was no place to stop or sit here, I just dropped the pack beside the trail and laid down with my head on it in gravel, rocks and all, feet up on a small boulder. Viannah laid down too. We laughed at the absurdity of it all. "You shouldn't pass up a campground that was obviously put there for an obviously good reason," I quipped, weakly.

"Yeah, we should have ridden a mule."

"You can't ride mules this far from this side, or all the way across."

"We should have come down the other side then." Viannah liked horses, riding a mule would have been fun for her. Actually going across wasn't, in itself, that important a goal either. It seemed like this was the first time this fact had occurred to me.

Someone was coming down the trail. He was in an odd, light looking new pack with front and back and parts sticking out to the sides. The silhouette was Dudley Dooright. He walked like Dudley Dooright. It was Dudley Dooright! It was a park ranger on patrol, going the same direction we were, catching up from behind. He pulled over to us, "Good evening folks."

I felt silly laying on the ground but felt even less like getting up, "Hi."

"How'ya doing?"

"We're resting." This seemed obvious to me.

"Headed to Phantom Ranch today? You have a reservation," he was nodding 'yes' to his own questions.

"No," I rolled over to look for the Backcountry Pass, "Bright Angel Campground."

"Oh, all right, you have a Backcountry Pass?"

"Yes, right here," I was indicating a place on the pack, where it wasn't.

"Here it is," he had found it, he read aloud, "Bright Angel Campground tonight and tomorrow, good. Who is the group leader?"

"I am," this also seemed obvious to me; it was my pack that the Backcountry Pass is on, after all. I was the only one in the party over twelve years old.

"You need to sign this to make it legal."

I started fishing for a pen.

"Here's a pen right here," he produced a ball-point from one of the protrusions in his mod-space-pack, "this acknowledges that you and all members of your party know the rules and regulations printed right here."

"Oh, yes." I suddenly remembered receiving the pass in late February and going over all seventeen rules, then receiving further mailings about them. And I suddenly remembered that one of the things to do in the week before leaving was to sit down in that solemn signing ceremony and read all the rules together as a family, particularly Viannah and I. This had completely slipped my mind and through the cracks. I signed.

"There you go, have a nice hike."

"How much further to Phantom Ranch?" I gasped, weakly.

"Oh, sir, not far, right around this bend is a side canyon, it's about a mile from there."

"Will we make it to dinner?"

"Well, let's see, 6:04, when is it? Six? Hiker's Stew?"

"Six thirty."

"Yes, you can make it just fine."

I doubted this; he would certainly make it just fine.

"Good luck, see you at the bottom."

He was off in his odd outfit and around the bend two hundred yards away in what seemed like thirty seconds. He would make it indeed.

I decided not going to count paces anymore. Knowing how far I had gone and how far I thought I lacked wasn't going to help anything. We just had to get up and walk now until we got there. Every Grand Canyon tenth of a mile was now over half a mile long, except for the rangers. This just had to be accepted and faced. While I was up on my knees, it seemed like we might as well get going again. "Ready to move on?"

"OK." She was not as resigned as before. "Gosh dad, we haven't been legal all day, until now. Thanks a lot!"

"Oh, it doesn't matter, I meant to read over the rules soon before we started down and sign it then but completely forgot about it. At least I brought it along, properly attached to the outside of the pack."

We slogged on another mile and just when it seemed like there was no hope and no end to The Box, a double cliff appeared up on the right. Another seven hundred yards and we could see up the side canyon. Phantom Canyon. The guidebook talked about this and it's name. Maybe we would read all about it sometime. I didn't feel like doing anything but getting to the end of this walk. The next bridge was actually in view. We stopped again there and, after a short rest, moved on. Six twenty.

"How many?"

"Ninety six switchbacks, a hundred and seven people, and twenty mules."

"And one ranger," I add. "I can probably keep track of that category."

This part of the trail was downright crowded. Some people in full pack were headed up hill, but most were day hikers, or were just fooling around the stream, some looking at plants, some wading. We couldn't be far, but these were probably mule riding Phantom Ranch guests out for an evening walk around the place. A mile out and back wouldn't seem like much to someone who was on a relaxed outing, fresh in a cooling evening, working off a steak dinner from the 5:00 seating.

"One more bridge, then the split to Clear Creek Trail and at that point we ought to be able to see it." Yet another blindly optimistic interpretation of the map.

"Great," was the disbelieving reply.

One thing I hadn't pointed out yet was that it looked like you had to go all the way down to the river and back up into the campground from the south. Another six-tenths mile, but at least that would be after supper; we certainly wouldn't be making that hike three times tonight. Sometimes maps are wrong or out of date. This would be a good time for luck like that.

More people, some spoke, some didn't. We were from different universes, perhaps, day hikers and in-the-heat cross country hikers.

'I'm not looking at the book anymore, not looking at the clock anymore, we're just going to finish,' I resolved to myself.

"Dad, I'm tired."

"Me too, we have to be nearly there, look at all these people."

We crossed the last bridge. There were signs with mileages in tenths. Grand Canyon tenths of course. Phantom Ranch 0.3, Bright Angel Campground, 0.6. I would count paces actually, but wouldn't be able to keep the numbers straight anymore. Dusk was falling, we still had good traveling light, but it was clearly nearing dusk down here in the deep valley.

More walking, more aching toes, more sips of stale water. A side trail approached on the left, the sign telling what it is faced the other way. It was Clear Creek Trail. We were nearly there. "We're nearly there, I think I see a building up ahead."

Formal Dining At Phantom Ranch

The last steps into the ranch were painless. "We're saved! We've made it! I'm getting out of this pack." The eating house was nearly first, around it were hiking benches where one could set a pack above, sit down and slide out of it. We stopped on a boulder and did basically that. It was 6:50; we were 20 minutes late. I could see the cook through the window of the kitchen, people were eating inside, nobody was milling about. The only thing to do was ask.

We approached the kitchen window, which looked like a short order stop. A worker came up, "Can I help you?"

"Yes, we have reservations for the dinner."

"That's strange, I thought everybody was here," he checked a list.

"Duncan?" I hinted, hopefully.

"Just a minute, I'll get the host."

A young lady came to the window. "Yes, we were expecting you, there are two seats left, just come around to the front and come on in." Not only were we saved, we were going to be able to eat that hiker's stew after all, that is if we could walk around to the front of the building.

It didn't seem to me like our stuff will be in any danger. We left it there, right by the satellite pay phone, the rest rooms, the limping people and the kitchen window. It was thirty feet around to the door, five agonizing steps up, how could they make them so tall! We were inside. The chairs were right there, both sides of the door end of Table 2.

Each place had a bowl, a plate, a small glass, and silverware. A bowl of salad sat nearby, it was nearly empty. I scraped at the bottom, freeing a few leaves of lettuce onto my plate. I was excited, not really hungry, I gulped down two cups of water, Viannah was doing about the same.

The people next to us, a family of four counting the two teenagers was just finishing up. They were from South Carolina. They had come down on mules. They looked like they could eat without retching. They seemed thrilled to be in the midst of this nineteenth century adventure. I was dying to tell them about freezing temperatures at the top this morning and did. "When did you leave?" one asked, on hearing my story of incredible bravery in the face of the elements.

"A little after five."

Another pointed out that it had been freezing on the South Rim early this morning too.

"Really?" I was a bit surprised at this, "I would have thought it would be at least slightly warmer over there."

"No, it was freezing at five this morning."

The nineteenth century world was full of brave people.

The hostess brought out a large pot of stew. Though only half full, there was enough there to feed a family of eight double helpings. She also brought a new salad-serving bowl, filled to heaping over. I filled up my bowl and plate respectively. Viannah made a slight exception to being a vegetarian on some occasions. This was one. The meat was ground into the stew and would be impossible to pick out or recognize anyway. She dug right in, put away a full bowl, and got some more. I was picking at everything, trying a few slivers of carrots from both sources. None of this looked good, I felt sick. I felt sick just like I had when we had come down from Mt. Wilson that night. I hadn't eaten then either. We had pushed hard to get to this meal in time and now I couldn't eat. At least Viannah seemed fine. I would rather have this worry about myself than her. I knew how to deal with my own ailments.

"Let me know when you're ready for dessert," the hostess was now passing out chocolate cake to everybody else. There was also a platter of cornbread and butter. Viannah took two pieces and smeared them over. She had them polished off in about one minute; meanwhile, the small round potatoes in my stew were looking downright disgusting. I cut one in half and nibbled one of the halves, then removed the others. What was left in the bowl only filled it about a third of the way, but now it looked possibly edible. I half filled the spoon with the meat stuff and stuck it in my mouth. I wished there was more to drink. The one filling of iced tea was gone, I refilled with water for the third time. Other guests were starting to get up and leave. They tried not to look, or maybe I just felt paranoid, wretched. The cornbread did not look good.

"Are you OK?"

"Yes." Viannah was smiling again; she looked like she wondered why I should ask such a thing. This was remarkable resilience. I was not sure I would be able to stand up again this evening or eat again for the rest of my life and she was wolfing things down in more quantity than I had ever seen before. She usually ate like a bird.

I had done my best, the bottom of the bowl was nearly clean and all the potatoes were off to the side, five wholes and a half. The chocolate cake was sitting there waiting, a huge piece, maybe three inches cubed. Viannah was putting hers away. "Do you want mine too?"

"No, this is fine."

"I'm not supposed to eat chocolate, you know."

"Why?"

"Acid reflux, I'll tell you all about it sometime." I wondered where my pills for that were.

I cut off half a fork full, a quarter of an inch thick and nibbled at it, leaving some. I was not going to be able to eat this. "You ready to go?"

"Sure."

I was feeling cramps; it was time to make use of that rest room over there by the packs. I started to get up, "Arghooheez!" and plopped back down. Soreness was everywhere. More carefully and using both hands, I managed to get nearly erect. Each step toward the door had my feet wailing, my back crying and my legs whimpering. They had all thought they were done for the day. Down the stairs using the sturdy hand holds. We headed for our respective rest rooms. I forget to lock my door, couldn't really figure out how to in the time allowed by the circumstances. Nearly cramping, soft cloud-like stool, the last stage before diarrhea. I twiddled with the curtains, read the rules about what you could and couldn't flush, what you could and couldn't put in the waist can. The waist can was tiny, an individual bedside size, clearly intended only for towel waste of the provided towels and nothing else.

Back outside, two women were waiting patiently for the women's room. Viannah was taking a longer time. After ten minutes the ladies checked, guarded and used the men's room. Now I was wondering where Viannah was. Both ladies were limping.

You could easily tell the guests from the employees at Phantom Ranch. All were dressed about the same: casual, cool attire with hiking boots and hats, but the guests were all limping and staggering. Whether by mule or by foot, it was a long trip down and there was no other way to get here.

All was quiet; darkness was falling. Five more minutes passed. I was not eager to move a muscle, but would like to know that Viannah was all right. Finally she came out. "Another half mile and we can set up the tent and go to bed."

"Yay."

It turned out not to be required to go past the campground, cross the creek and come back up, that was an old route that was now blocked off. Leaving the dining room, we passed guest cabins, then the mule corral, then the stables, then the ranger station on the left and the wrangler bunkhouse, then right onto a heavy duty metal (looked like aluminum) bridge that crossed the creek straight into the northernmost campsite, which was unoccupied.

Bright Angel Campsite #22

The campground was long and thin, two campsites wide, one on each side of the narrow path. The map about the entrance had been wrong as we had hoped, 'Thank you Jesus.' People were coming and going; we had to avoid head on collisions several times. All the campsites on both sides were full. We were going pretty slowly. "If we get all the way to the end and haven't found a site, we'll have to come back up to the one by the bridge." Although satisfactory, that site, lacking any shrubbery, seemed too exposed. All of these had hedges and trees, at least. Still more campsites, still more occupied. I wondered where the rest rooms were down here. Ah, here they were, and the rock side campsite just this side was available. No, was it? Yes. We turned in and plopped down on the picnic table. Out of pack for the next, err, thirty-four hours.

"Yes!" rang out a jubilant duet.

I was in a hurry to get the tent up so we could lay down and stay that way. Viannah wasn't much interested in helping with this and fooled with things in her pack. There were six-foot high hangers made of inch metal pipe, clearly for backpacks with food in them. We each took a side. This unique vantage helped me get the equipment detached from the outside more easily than usual. The tent was down. I did a cursory, too brief, inspection of the grounds and put in one stake at a corner. There was still enough light to see but there wouldn't be for long. For activities that required any visual acuity, every minute counted now. In went four more base stakes, the last one, in the corner by the table wouldn't go in more than half way. I tried different angles, different hammer strokes, nothing worked, an immutable rock below. I was wasting time on this, left it half out of the ground, it was too bent to hammer right anymore now anyway. I knew it was a travel hazard. So was working on this after dark.

"Help me with these ropes." There were two long, for the post ends, and two short, for the sides.

"OK," she took the one by the door and I went around back. "We don't have to put these on the sides do we?"

"Only if we want to be able to get in without the sides resting on us." She thought this was funny. I did them both; the tent was up. My mat was unpacked, slid inside. Viannah's went in on the left. It was warm inside; I had forgotten to try to open the window on the other end. Dark enough for the flashlight now, I fumbled around and found it, along with several other items not needed at the moment. It was time to take my contact lenses out of my eyes. The lens-stuff Ziploc was needed. It was on the bottom, everything else had to come out first.

I popped open the holder. There was already a set of lenses in there. I had just picked a holder that looked empty, there were several around the house, and it contained some old lenses! This was a bad habit of mine, to save old lenses that weren't wearable anymore, but they had once cost sixty five dollars apiece and now were eighty, and I certainly couldn't just throw something that valuable in the trash now could I? Especially not down here where there was no trash. Well, what was I going to do about them? I had no brain power left for such complex problems, I just replaced the soaking fluid and plopped my lenses fresh out of my eyes on top of the old ones. If I was careful they wouldn't get mixed up and the one on top would be the one to wear. 'Well, darn, these are side by side, which is which already!' I shut it all and put it away.

One last trip to the bathroom and it was time to try and sleep. We climbed in the tent about the same time, kissed goodnight and Viannah turned over to go right to sleep. My stomach was churning with reflux pain; my mind racing. This had been a big day and we had to do it again, maybe a little worse, to get out of here. 'Boy, I sure am glad we don't have to do that tomorrow.'

"I sure am glad we don't have to hike out tomorrow. Can you imagine getting up at four and packing up and doing this all over again? I'm glad we have to do absolutely nothing tomorrow."

"Right, dad," she mumbled, drowsy.

Breakfast seating was supposed to be at five. I wondered how late we could get up and still make it? I set the alarm for 4:45. 'On second thought, better make that 4:30.' The action performed, I tried to get the clock where I wouldn't easily roll on it.

We were at the bottom of the Grand Canyon trying to sleep in a tent. It was hot.

A Rock in my Back

A large, round, smooth rock was right in the middle of my back. I tried to use some of my six-inch freedom of movement to get off of it with only partial success. At best, it was going to take up the third of the mat in the middle of the tent. I got on the other two thirds toward the edge. Maybe it wouldn't rain. It didn't look like it coming in. There were very few clouds, just like Viann wanted, but the ones we had seen were near the rims.

Our bug screen was broken, we bought mosquito netting to substitute for it but there were no bugs. Well, there were cicadas screaming in the trees. I had never heard bugs so loud, even growing up sleeping in steamy rural Texas with the windows open. And the stream itself was loud too, twice as loud as the nearby freeway back home. Wednesday was going to be tough and I felt rotten. This was not good. Maybe I could just ignore it and go on. That would probably work for a while, but for a long ten mile, five thousand foot up day? Well, I didn't know.

The mosquito netting was folded up for my pillow. It was about as much of a pillow as four Kleenexes. I folded up the Dad shirt into a three-inch square, six inch high piece and carefully balanced my head on that. Pretty good, this might work.

'I'm not going to think about Wednesday. Tomorrow we are doing nothing. After breakfast we don't have to do anything or go anywhere. Those ideas I had about little day hikes tomorrow, they're all off. We'll sit in the shade all day and when it gets hot we'll put our feet in the creek, maybe even go swimming.'

'I don't need to be thinking about Wednesday or tomorrow, I need to be sleeping.'

After an hour or so, I dozed restlessly, only to wake up on the rock and have to turn again. This mat was never terribly comfortable, but it was a great improvement over bare ground twelve years ago when I started using it. Every rock counted back then, still, in recent times I had gotten accustomed to sleeping on the air mattress in the tent. What a luxury. Viannah was snoring lightly. I drifted off into half-sleep-half-worried thoughtfulness. I wondered what they did with people who couldn't make it out. It was against my nature to ask for help until it was right at the edge of too late. I wondered if I would get to that point somewhere up above Indian Gardens on Wednesday.

I wondered if I was at that point right now?

'Wednesday! I'm not thinking about Wednesday! Viann, in her indirectly applied wisdom talked us into staying two nights down here, we have all day tomorrow for me to recover. I'll be fine, it won't be comfortable, but we'll make it.'

'I'm being optimistic. I'm not sleeping.' The cicadas stopped, nearly all at once. Three stragglers lasted a few seconds more, then there were two, then there were none. A new ensemble of sounds to adjust to, I dozed again.

'Mmmm, it's a little cold.' I got out the clean hiking socks for this. Locating them near the clock, I sat up and pulled them on. 'That's better.' While sitting up, I reached out and got a canteen, spreading the Dad shirt on it for a pillow. Now that was much better.

It was sometime after midnight. Somebody ran the hand dryer in the adjacent men's room, no paper towels in rest rooms in the Grand Canyon! I got up and went myself, came back and tried to get settled again. Somebody went in there every fifteen minutes; I seemed to hear about half of them. I wasn't worried, they just made technological noises as they came and went. The door squeaked at a high pitch. I got out the sheet and pulled it over us. Viannah seemed to welcome the slight warmth in the slight chill. I drifted into a troubled-dream-filled light slumber, waking up to toss dozens of times. It was dark and cool and dry. The stream roared away right over there. The bathroom hand dryer buzzed some more. It was night in the heavily traveled part of the Back Country.

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