Chapter 9.
Up at Four; Hike Out by Noon?
A
Hearty Breakfast
I was exhausted, but now it was time for action, at last! At last something could be done against the goal of survival other than to just lie perfectly still. Viannah was off to the bathroom; I experimented with the pocket flashlight, hanging it from various places on the pack that was in turn hanging on its hanger, finally finding a position that flooded the middle of the table. Shoes and clothes for the day were around the edges, there was no sign yet of dawn.
I pulled the clothes out of my shoes, shook and inspected them, went through the Dr. Scholl's ritual once more, put them on and laced them up. Viannah did the same. We pulled up the food box and started emptying it. "Hand me that part eaten bag of Cheerios, I want to finish up at least one of them before we get out." I started nibbling on two-week-old Cheerios. Toastums had crumbled, but the fruit filling kept them pasted together; we opened a package and broke off mashed chunks. I should be eating an apple too, but it didn't sound appetizing. I wished I could always eat this light. My guts were on the edge. So long as I didn't worry too much or get taken up by the panic I could feel like moving around. I was finally able to drown out thinking with action. With a mouth full of two Frosted Mini Wheats and some old canteen water and I started pulling up tent stakes. The tent fell flat; I untied the knots in the yellow clothesline guys, laying them on the table. The sky was dark gray.
Maybe I would feel fine. Maybe I would feel well enough throughout the day. This was the day we hiked out! At least now there was something that could be done. The food needed to be packed, "Do you want anything more to eat?"
"No."
"Me neither." More trash. That would go in last. Bagels, Frosted Mini Wheats, Cheerios, Pop-Tarts, trail mix, a sack with ten apples. Viannah took all of the granola bars and ate a couple.
The sheet, folded up, went in. The long pants worn during the night went in. Everything was in; we tried test-zipping. Raggedy Ann was on top of Viannah's pack, it might still close. The cold-weather jacket was still out. Hats, hiking sticks, check, check.
It was time to roll up the tent; there was enough dawn to see now. We folded it in thirds, starting from the end opposite the door. We folded it all under. It was something to do. I started stuffing it in its bag.
"Dad, don't you tie the ropes around it first?"
"Yes…."
I unstuffed, started tying four yellow ropes. Stuffed it all back in. It was thin enough but too tall to fit. This wasn't the way it had come out. There was no room for the hammer. Hmmmm. The hammer went in the pack, where are the bungees? There was one on the table; there was one in the grass.
"Sorry dad."
"Not your fault."
It was getting light. People were coming and going to the rest rooms. Hikers were already going both directions on the trail, some with only water bottles, some with full packs. I wanted to walk away by 4:45 but it wasn't going to even look at the time until we were ready. We could only do what we could do.
Rolled up the pads, secured them.
Viannah said, "Dad, you have to do mine."
I tried the corner zipper again as I had on the way down. Not symmetrical but it didn't seem to bother her.
Nearly ready.
I banged out the empty food box and laid it upside down by the other.
Viannah asked, "Don't we want to wash the mashed banana out of the bottom?" referring to a mess in the bottom of the box.
"No, it came that way." I was not absolutely sure of this, but I thought we had actually eaten all of our own banana-mush.
We pulled our bandannas out of the canteens; I went off to fill them to the newly prescribed levels. One, full, attached to my pack, the other two, half full, carried by hand. This should be more than enough to get us between water sources. All were wet on the sides so they would cool.
OK, what else? Viannah sat down amidst stuff, working a little on her hair. What else? Looked like everything was loaded, no there's the jacket. "Viannah tie the jacket to your pack."
"Oh, OK." She started.
I put on my hat though it was long before sunlight. There was no better way to carry it. I took the hat off and started trying to zip the pack. It seemed like there must be inches to spare. I set it up on the table and sat on the seat, starting to inch in. Getting in the pack didn't bother me anymore; it only bothered me that it was like weighing 260 pounds when I walked in it. I could see where 10-20 pounds could have been jettisoned; over and above the 10 pounds I had jettisoned Sunday night (and not counting the 20-30 pounds that my body didn't need on it).
Standing, hat back on, walking stick, canteen…. That looked like everything. "Let's go." Viannah started getting loaded, I sat back down to relieve the strain.
In due time, as always, she was ready. I stood up. Hat, walking stick, canteen…. "Looks like we have everything," I looked around. "What time is it? 5:09. Let's go."
The
River
We passed the bathroom for the last time, went back up the narrow campground trail to the north for the last time. In front of the second campsite we passed, another hiker saw my green T-shirt.
"Rio Vista, I know where that is!" he opened.
"Texas?" I countered. This shirt was from the Centennial of Rio Vista, Texas, the event where I had shaken Phil Graham's hand when he was first running for the Senate.
"Oh, California."
I knew nothing about Rio Vista, California except that there was one. I wondered how many more times this would happen today?
"Which way do you want to go, North or South?" This was a quiz for Viannah.
"South, please."
"You're sure?" The student must be confident in their answer.
"Da-ad!"
"OK."
We exited the campground over the Bright Angel Creek bridge for the last time. No mules were up yet, no ranchers were up yet, no rangers were up yet; a handful of hikers were already under way. We turned right, to the south on the trail, our backs to Phantom Ranch for the last time. Two college age girls were in front of us. One stopped. We passed by with some difficulty, the trail being narrow. The guy with the umbrella was in front of us. He had a full pack, about six things (ground sheet, tent, pad, sleeping bag) stacked on the back, and an umbrella out the top. 'Be prepared for rain, anywhere, anytime' all the guides said. The sky was light gray, no clouds, just late dawn. On the plain up above, the sun would be rising now. We passed around a corner by an empty mule corral; it was the Colorado River!
We were at the crossroads and bulletin board, the first ranch and campground information that those arriving from the south would see. To the right was the bridge back over Bright Angel Creek and a trail up to the Silver Suspension Bridge.
"Forward!"
This wasn't half bad. I would be feeling half normal if I had slept half well even once in the last three days.
The mile tenths at the end Monday each seemed ten miles long. This two tenths up to the river bridge was like going up the block to a friend's house. A stroll in the cool morning. Actually, it wasn't that cool. Anywhere else, upper 70s (must be) this early in the morning would mean a hot day ahead. Probably here too. The river was noisy; we passed other unoccupied structures and reached the beginning of the bridge.
"Dad, do you know what 'Colorado' means? Red."
It didn't look red, it looked gray, maybe like that red limestone that was really gray, or was it gray limestone that was really red? "Maybe it's just looks gray although it's died red," guidebook humor.
The silver bridge carries the water pipe across the Colorado River. This is the lowest point in the pipeline from Roaring Springs to Indian Gardens. The pressure here would be the highest, same pressure as if a lake filled the canyon up to the Roaring Springs level. I could calculate it, but it didn't seem interesting right at the moment. Suffice it to say, you wouldn't want it to spring any leaks right here at the bridge. At least not while we were actually on it.
The pipeline looked sturdy, well wrapped in what looks like industrial tarpaper, big and thick. The catwalk above was barely wide enough to walk on. There was a railing about chest high and chain link fence attached between the railing and catwalk. This was a non-standard installation, there were no standard fittings for something like this, but it all looked robust, secure. With me leading, we started across. Viannah had been worried about crossing the suspension bridge from the beginning of the project.
"Dad, how do we get across the river?" echoed up from a past conversation far back in the winter.
The pipe beneath didn't block the view much; looking between your feet (and where else could you bear to look?) the river was rushing past below, left to right. I'd had nightmares like this, one just like it where I was out on a long bridge over the Red River between Texas and Oklahoma, and it was flooding. It always seemed threatening but I never got washed away in my dreams. It would be hard to put oneself in danger up here, but the visual cues were less than reassuring.
I could tell from the symmetries that there would be an optical illusion of distance. When it seemed like we were about three quarters of the way across, the supports from above reached their lowest point and those from the side were closest in. This was the exact middle. I tried to turn and tell Viannah but was stopped about a third way around. The fenced catwalk was too narrow for an adult in a pack to stand sideways. I shouted over my shoulder.
"What, only half way?" she responded, sounding nervous.
We kept going; there was nothing else to do. Other hikers were already on the trail ahead, and some followed behind. The other bridge, up stream to the east, was in view. Mules went over that one because it didn't feature a view of the river between one's feet. Trail lore had it that mules didn't respond appropriately to that view.
It was not far across the bridge, 100-200 yards at most, and shortly we were at the south bank, back on dirt trail.
"This is the south side, it's all uphill from here," I announced. I was wrong.
The trail followed the river for another mile. It started uphill, steeply in places, but you could see ahead that it would go back down near the water. I was impatient about this, "I'm willing and ready to go uphill, but I don't want to go downhill again just to have to go back up all the time!" Then we hit a patch of sand. It was like walking in dunes at the beach, but worse. Shortly there was a sign explaining the dunes and where they came from. "How long is this going to last?"
After not long, a few hundred-yard sized patches, and we were back to regular trails, rocks in all sizes and dirt. In one section of river, the main stream was across on the north bank. The water flowing on the south side was upstream, an eddy. So much turbulence! This generated a few whirlpools.
'Swimming in the river not recommended,' all the guides said.
Just downstream from this some rafters were beached. It looked like three boats and eight or nine tents. Only one person in the party was up, he was looking at the river, fully suited up in sweatshirt and pants. Coffee was brewing somewhere. There was a landing on our side too and a trail down to it. Nobody was there today. No side trips for us today. It was up and out.
We passed three people already at an impromptu rest stop. One had her shoes off and her feet up. It was going to be a long day for more people than just us.
We wound around the south bank. More turbulence, more wet chaos, more noise. After a mile or so there was a rest house, the first planned stop, the place to part company with the Colorado after our short acquaintance, Pipe Creek. Most hikers went on by, one set was stopping to soak their shirts for the heat. Being only 75 already, it appeared that everybody was in a mindset to overdo something early. We crossed over to the rest house and unloaded, time for an apple. It was 5:40. The first 1.2-1.5 miles, depending on which map you read, had gone pretty well. Maybe we would be OK.
Trail
to the Sunrise
"We'll rest here ten minutes then do some twenty-tens, or maybe thirty-tens, something like that."
"OK."
"Eight minutes left." This was answered by Viannah’s happy-privileged smile.
These rest houses were always far enough away from the trail that you had to be serious about resting to go to them. Across streams, up steps, mini-hikes in themselves really. The shade, at this point in the day, was no more important than clothes-soaking but the bench was nice. There was an emergency telephone, emergency medical kit and stretcher padlocked to the ceiling. I couldn't tell exactly what the telephone was hooked up to. The apples eaten, the cores went in the trash sack, now half a grocery bag worth. Viannah snacked on something else. It was time to go, I got into the pack and stood up. Viannah started thinking about it. I sat down again; she worked on it.
Up the trail, the river and its sounds were soon left behind. The trail ran along Pipe Creek for a distance. There were a couple of crossings. The uphill had started in earnest but it wasn't severe yet. A mile or so with associated rest stops passed without anything remarkable happening. Viannah had charge of the Bright Angel guidebook. Since the book was written in the descending direction, we were reading through backwards and were now on the second map page from the end. With every stop, Viannah would read more paragraphs about the local trail and surroundings.
After some time we reached the first tough switchbacks, 'The Devil's Corkscrew.' "How many switchbacks?" I would ask.
The answer, always ready and accurate, "Ten." or "Twelve."
The steeper switchbacks called for more rest stops. Direct sunlight was beginning to reach nearby high places; soon we would need to stop for sun block.
"Dad, I know one word in every language."
"OK?"
"OK, two."
"Hallelujah?"
"Yes. And I
know how to say 'hello' in
German."
On Monday we had collected people, mules and switchbacks. Today we were collecting mules, switchbacks and nationalities. So far today we had seen as many German tourists as we had seen people at all on the hike down. I knew enough German from a year of it in college to recognize it being spoken and pick out a word or two. This was never enough to understand even slightly what is being discussed.
All the German tourists knew at least one English word: "Hi."
The top of Devil's Corkscrew wound off to the west where it would soon pick up Garden Creek. From the vantage of every stop, we could see more sunlight approaching from the bright blue sky above. Up and down the trail were many parties, some in motion, some stopped. We passed and were passed in turn by several. They began to look familiar. We were all in this together; the feeling seemed mutual at this depth in the earth. Most were big believers in the brief rest stops, on the order of a few minutes. As we rested in the shade of one overhang a group of six or seven young women in their early twenties stopped for a standing break. Then some of them started taking off packs and sitting under the rock near us. One of them, who seemed to be functioning as an unofficial (or official) timekeeper talked to me about this, "the ten minute breaks make a lot of difference."
"They sure do," I replied, "we take one about every twenty minutes."
They were not moving this slowly, but our parties did lap each other a few more times in the next few miles before they pulled ahead for their final stretch.
The guidebook was concentrating on lower canyon geology and Anasazi pottery now. The Anasazi were here around 1100 A.D., the same group of people who had maintained Agate House as a hotel for 'itinerant farmers' south of here in the Petrified Forest. They had been interesting people to live in the Canyon like that. There were supposedly artifacts near the trails. We didn't see or seek any. We were less aware of geology except for recurring themes in the text, 'Limestone is usually gray, but this appears red because of iron oxides washed down from above.' We were also aware of geological levels as milestones ('mile-layers') in our ascent, but at this point we were still so far down that nobody was counting.
All the shady rest stops were getting crowded. We encountered a troop of Boy Scouts, six or seven with two adult leaders and other adults who seemed to stay near. They, too, were on the way out today. We reached a bend within earshot of a waterfall in Garden Creek, which we were about to join. All the shade was taken up here too. The sun was out. We would be in direct sunlight now for many hours. We stopped and put on our Bullfrog 36 Body Gel Sun block. Today it was not just hands and arms, neck and faces; it was also legs due to the wearing of shorts. My legs were so white they were certain to burn, sun block or not. I was worried about this. One of a hundred unnecessary worries, I was doing nearly all I could to prevent sunburn (and worry, something to worry about: worry). The use of sun block now and avoidance of direct exposure could be considered a scientific experiment, but this distinction escaped me at the time.
A picture was made of one of us in front of the little falls and we moved ahead, now on the third map page from the end. The section along Garden Creek was a lush, swamp-like ecosystem within feet of desert. The juxtaposition of cactus and reed grass in the same picture frame stood out, even to us. Another picture was taken. Deciduous trees, frogs, dragonflies, prickly pear cactus and mud all brushed into the trail. Sometimes above, most often below, sometimes a few dozen feet down. Not certain death like the trailside drops in the steeper canyons, but a certain broken bone to reward a misstep. A broken bone here could be prohibitively expensive, at the very least prohibitively inconvenient and imposing on the rangers.
The
next landmark was the fork with the Tonto Trail just before Indian
Gardens. We paced onward and upward,
still resting often. We met a couple
carrying nothing but small water bottles, one each, and dressed very
lightly. Had they just come from the
beach? No, they had camped at Indian
Gardens, they reported (I had not thought this was allowed) and were
hiking
down to the river and back today. We
encountered
them at a stop. With nothing to carry,
what did they have to stop for? Perhaps
sun block, like us.
It was obvious now from the view up that we were in radio range. It was nowhere near noon, but I knew I had plenty of battery in my radio. I went ahead and got it out and turned it on. 'Who knows? Out here, 223.5 should be entirely empty. Any amateurs in the area will be on the more popular 144 or 440 MHz bands.' Nothing was listed in any of the directories on the 222 MHz band here, yet that was the one available to Novice licensees, so that was where we were.
During the very next hiking segment, I heard someone come on and key a transmitter. "That has to be Viann, it's just what she would do and she's likely to be waiting already," I muttered.
"What dad?"
"N5BF from WD5EHM." came out of the speaker.
Hot dog! In one motion I swept the radio off of the pack clip, "N5BF here."
"You are there. I wondered if you'd be on." There was enthusiasm in everybody's voice. I was winded from climbing.
"Where are you?"
"Nearly to Indian Gardens, we are planning a long rest there when we get there in just a few minutes."
"OK,
glad to hear that you're doing so well.
When did you leave?"
"About five."
"Oh, so you should be out by two or three."
"Well, the rangers discourage hiking in the hottest part of the day. We will probably be several hours after that. Right now we're talking about five."
"How
well do you hear me, can I use the radio antenna and get out of the
car?"
"Yes, fine, yes, try it."
"OK, stand by this is WD5EHM.... OK, how is this?"
"Just the same, just fine."
"We're
going to go around and look at things, when shall we call back?"
"In about an hour. How was the
drive around?"
I didn't need an answer to that question; anything dire would have been in the lead transmission, things sounded very nominal.
"OK, we'll call back in about an hour, how's Viannah."
There was no answer about the drive around, no big deal. "Viannah is fine."
"OK, I love you two, WD5EHM clear."
"N5BF
clear."
Indian
Gardens
Nearing a major goal and energized by contact with the outside world, I started to press ahead, we both therefore started to tire more quickly and to rest less. The Tonto Trail fork was finally reached. There was actually a sign there indicating what it was. Studying the first 20 yards, it was an obvious trail, but was clearly used only a tenth as much as the corridor Bright Angel Trail, or less.
Buildings were in sight.
"Dad, can we rest now?"
"Look, we're 'here.'" We kept on walking.
"Ughhh."
Another two hundred yards of light turns and comparatively light rise and we really were there. We passed a pump house that said "3 Million Served." The '3' was crossed out and replaced with '5.' The Grand Canyon was becoming popular as fast as McDonald's once had. Would it one day say 'Billions and Billions?" What a constituency. What a sad paradox.
A sign beside the trail, facing the other way recommended against trying to walk from here to the river and back up in the same day. These signs seemed to be for people like me, ambitious beyond their capacity, not for most of the rest of the people with whom we shared the trail who were 'just doing it' oblivious to dire dangers.
Another few steps up and we were in the grove of trees. People were sitting and lying on benches resting. The ground was packed mud. We looked for a place to sit down ourselves. "This will be a major rest, at least 30 minutes." It was a bit past 9 a.m., we were not going to set any records, but we were doing just fine. I felt pretty good too, considering what we had just done. Viannah, as always, was ready for a 'major rest.'
"You know," said I, "I'm sure that somebody has already set all of the records that can be set, for this trail, for crossing the canyon, for whatever, and that we are not contenders for those records. Knowing this, we should take the pace we can stand and not kill ourselves."
The pep talk was mostly for me. I did not need to be pushing. Nobody would notice when I came out except that I had come out. No stopwatch would be used; no record books would be modified. This was to be a major rest, but I wanted to press on the next mile and a half before stopping for lunch, and the heat.
"Which do you want dad, 'Trail Delight' or 'California Nuts'? This referred to different types of trail mix.
"What? Oh, Trail Delight."
"OK."
A mule pack train arrived, five mules with packs led by a sixth bearing a park ranger. He looked Hispanic; he fit the role perfectly. The team was roped together. They pulled up to a corral house, stopped in place, and he got off and started to open the door. A buzzing sound like an alarm that could be heard for a mile sounded. Everybody looked at the ranger; he seemed not to be noticing. He went in. The mules stood there looking bored.
"Get a picture, Viannah."
"OK." She started fishing for the camera; the driver came out and started to lead them away down a side trail around the corral. She went off after them.
Another mule train bearing people going up arrived. They barreled through without stopping. All those resting watched the commotion. The park ranger driver was finished. With another loud buzz, he locked up and led the train on down the trail. Five minutes later after all the dust had settled, another loud buzz of half a minute duration sounded. This was no alarm for the corral house; maybe it had to do with the automatic operation of the pumping station down the hill. We didn't hear it anymore after that.
Indian Gardens would be a nice place to explore. There was a glade of nice shade trees. Wet ground, water, cool air. A campground was indicated beyond our stopping place. I was in no shape or mood to explore. I lay down on the bench, munching 'delights.' We talked about chocolate and acid reflux disease again.
I felt good enough to take a GPS position. Visibility was not good here, nor was it anywhere down here. I tried anyway. At great length, it got a three dimensional position. Funny, the 'elevation' part was lower than at Phantom Ranch. Oh well, this happened with poor geometry and/or poor visibility. I saved it and shut down. It was nearly time to go. I laid down some more. Extended rest or not, we had been here nearly half an hour, it was 9:30 and I wanted to be finishing up a major part of the trail when the heat of the day arrived.
I was going to need a headband; I dug in the pack for that. "You want a headband too?"
"No."
I got into pack and got up, "Time to go."
"OK." Sulkily.
The first hundred yards were alongside the campground fence and in the shade and moist ground. After that it was searing desert sun. Hot! The first twenty-ten was more like a fifteen-fifteen.
"Dad, why don't we do fifteen tens?"
"Because it will take longer to get to the top if we shave off the effort like that."
"OK." Resigned.
The
Heat of the Day
Today was going to be like yesterday. Now that it was hot, it was going to be hot for many hours. Or hotter. We were using more water. I was tired of plain, straight water. Just about anything else would have tasted good right now; still water was better than nothing.
The transition through Indian Gardens had been like going from a morning stroll along a bubbling brook to a hot summer mid-afternoon in the desert. The dust was dry, it kicked up in the air, it stuck to everything below the waist, boots and packs. Not that we were worried about being dirty; it just seemed so dry.
"This reminds me of the land around Amarillo and the Canadian River. Dry, desert, signs that water flows sometimes but not today."
The Amarillo area is where my parents were from, mother from Borger to the east north east and dad from Canyon to the south. Anytime we would visit there, a quasi-annual family visit, dad and I would go on some sort of hike, maybe out in the river breaks, or towards the Palo Duro Canyon. I remembered very little about these except that we did them, and the one day that we had crossed the Canadian dry river bed on a catwalk of an oil or gas pipeline. That pipeline must have been a mile and a half long and the catwalk had no railing. I was glad by the end that we hadn't tried it on a bare pipe, large though they were. We had seen three rattlesnakes that day. Only two millipedes today, both right in the middle of the trail just asking to be stepped on.
"We've got to rest." That was no twenty minute stretch, but it was really hot out here. We were closing on the 10 o'clock, destination: Three Mile Rest House.
A mule train was coming down. How come half of the people were breathing through handkerchiefs? Must be the dust. We stood up on a rock and looked the riders in the eye as they passed. Always starting with the wrangler, we initiated, "Howdy. Hi, Hi there, Mornin', Howdy, Hi." All but about one would usually respond to our greetings and nods. One of these wranglers was chewing on an unlit cigarette just like we had seen Monday on the way down. It must have been a wrangler thing to do.
The mules past, the dust settling, it was time to go on. We took more water, got in pack, took more water and trudged ahead. It was bright and hot.
Another mule train was coming. This time the only way out of the path was to step down and off. This left us at eye level with the rider's knees and the mule's shoulders. No greetings this time, just dust and clopping. Now we had dust on everything above the waist too.
It was now possible to look at the surrounding walls and imagine the top, still there must be four or five tall geological layers to go, or maybe more, maybe some of them would be subdivided on closer inspection. The cliffs off to the right looked like they had huge graffiti on them. This was no graffiti, unless you counted 'graffiti of the gods.' Indeed, aside from the trails themselves, there was little sign of human impact in any age from 1100 A.D. to the present. And even on the trails there was no trash. The users followed the trail trash rules pretty well. Occasionally you'd find a cigarette butt in the trail that looked like it was dropped there sometime in the 60s. That was about it. Still, there was that palm tree along the trail, clearly out of place, which the guidebook blamed on some hiker in the past, or an animal. Even nature itself could produce such anomalies, absent even of man!
Surely not!
The twenty-tens were getting shorter. The heat was holding up. Were we at the bottom of Jacob's Ladder yet? We could see hikers up ahead. How come everybody else looked fresher than we felt? Yes, this must be Jacob's Ladder.
"How
many switchbacks?"
"Twenty seven, and twenty mules."
It seemed like each switchback and a half required a rest stop. Maybe it was two and a half and I was just losing count. We were supposed to be passing through a geological contact here, that meant yet another layer beneath us. I didn't pay enough attention to notice. I could see a switchback or two ahead but it was not obvious where this trail was going. Were we going to exit the top of this canyon slightly to the right of straight ahead? I didn't see anything there that looked promising. Were we going to pass somehow through or around this wall to the left at some point and see a trail up and ahead in the next canyon over? Well, the trail ahead was obvious itself. It was hot. It was after 11:00. We needed to keep moving.
We were in the red rock, red dirt, red sand now. Actually, it was some of that 'normally gray limestone stained red by iron oxides seeping down from above.' Yes, yes. It was all deep red. It was hot. The Rest House was ahead; we could see it now. It was a bit off the actual trail, as usual. There were people around it. We skipped another ten-ten rest and pressed ahead to it.
And
so we arrived at Three Mile Rest House, two-thirds of the way up, about
11:30
a.m., well into the heat of the day.
This was no Indian Gardens, but we were going to be here for at
least a
few hours.
Three
Mile Rest House
Off the trail, we headed straight for the Rest House door, the only obvious shade in sight. There was a crowd inside; an inch of red mud water covered the floor. The fountain at the far end leaked water slowly and there was a line of people waiting to fill up water bottles and soak shirts from it. It looked icy cool. There was not really much of a place to sit. We staggered up to a small space on the bench on the right and I sat down. Some annoyed looking people moved over a bit. I got the pack off; it rested outside. The Rest House had no walls but was dug into the ground about four feet and had a roof. I figured that we would be here long enough to establish a better presence than this, but it seemed important for even the initial stop to be in the shade. That water looked cold, the line of people persisted with more arrivals. Water in my canteen was not hot, but was getting warm. I would wait until the faucet was uncontested for a bit before getting up to use it. I just needed to sit still for a while. People were grudgingly accepting.
Three or four languages were being spoken here among the couple of dozen people under this small roof, English, German, something like French or Italian. Truly, this was a trail with international popularity.
The water on the floor was annoying. The entrance was higher than the floor, setting the shallowest part right there, about half an inch. People waded in the red mud, some tiptoed, some didn't seem to care at all. One man just emptied his water bottle right onto the floor before refilling. This seems a little insensitive even to me in my state of mind. Viannah pointed, we looked at each other and laughed.
On the downhill end of the side with the faucet, the water was an inch and a half deep. Outside on the downhill side there was a shelf eight or ten feet wide and beyond that was a drop of several hundred feet. A man and a preschool girl were resting on the shelf. The girl was afraid to go on the tight path past the fountain to the shelf and went all the way around the house instead with some help from the other users.
The ceiling of the house berthed another stretcher, also padlocked. Outside on the fountain side a box of emergency medical supplies was chained to a tree, locked shut. It looked like it would make a nice table for lunch but somebody was already sitting there in the shade of that tree. Maybe they would move on. I didn't feel much like getting up and moving yet anyway. We were going to be here for a while, no need to rush anything like that next move.
Finally, I couldn't stand watching other people fill up their bottles with cool water, I got up for my turn, standing in a line about two people deep. The water was not cool; it was warmer than the tepid stuff still in our canteens! Blech. I emptied the canteen into the broken drain, refilled about a quart, and wet down the outsides thoroughly. Maybe it would cool down to 'bearable' in a while.
Back in the seat, the clientele was turning over slowly but the crowd was staying about the same size. This seemed to be the ultimate destination for many day hikers. Many discussions of whether to turn around and start back up or continue on down for another mile and a half then all the way back up were being conducted. By this hour of the day many, particularly the parents with children, were deciding, even changing their plans and returning right from here. Others, mostly the young adults, continued on.
The medicine box outside was vacated; the shade was nearly gone. It was high noon. We got up and took it over. I disconnected my pad from the pack and stretched it out, about half in the shade. Sun block 36, that meant nine hours of exposure was equivalent to 15 minutes unprotected, just enough to start a burn. This meant I still would want to minimize exposure. I lay down, trying to position my hat on the leg in the direct sun. That didn't work and I needed the hat for my face and eyes anyway. I tried folding part of the pad over. This kind of worked if I could get it lodged on something. Bright Angel squirrels were interested in us. "Shoo! No food here." They seemed unconcerned with my gesticulations. With a canteen pillow, I dozed for a while.
A park ranger arrived at Three Mile Rest House, announced his presence and his purpose and set up shop.
"How long was I asleep?"
"About ten minutes," was Viannah's reply, with a laugh.
Now the ranger was talking to individual groups. "Everybody here should be staying here until at least four o'clock. This is no time of day to be out on the trails." He looked like a twenty year old version of my friend Rob Aanstoos, and acted like one too. Tall, lean, slightly muscular, extra energetic, organized, focused; he was posted in the doorway, mixing some Gatorade water in his bottle. He looked like he was ready to out-talk anybody who happened by. People kept coming and going but about half as often as before. The ranger didn't stop anybody but did talk sternly to people and acted like he might take further action. He came around to the water fountain, noting that the rock sink was out of place and enlisted the aid of another hiker to lift it back up. There, that looked better but it was still just running and running, making a little stream down the side and off to the cliff below, feeding some out-of-place ecosystem beneath.
The Boy Scout troop was impatient. There was a little shouting between the boys and the adult leaders. After several sporadic exchanges, I started paying a little attention.
"It's 107 inside my pack and 120 outside!" said one of the leaders. He would just as soon be moving along too, but he wanted to appear to be commanding compliance. Compliance is one of the major products of scouting. They weren't happy, but they were staying, and the older ones knew how to act about it.
"Well, hand me that first bag of Honey Nut Cheerios, I still want to try to finish at least that before we get to the top," I asked.
I
nibbled at some, dropped a few, tried to pick up and eat all the ones
dropped,
missed a few of those. Unwitting
squirrel food no doubt. Something else
illegal probably. Well, I had tried
hard not to litter with food if that was worth anything.
"I think I'll eat one of those apples
too." The 'Big Half Lunch.'
Viannah wolfed down three bagels with nothing on them, several granola
bars,
and a few Frosted Mini Wheats. We
shared water that was now on the cool side of tepid rather than the
warm side
of tepid. Anything but water would have
been good about now, unless it was also tepid or warmer than this water. Blech.
If we
stayed here until 4 o'clock, we would have been in this little muddy
refuge
nearly as long as we had originally been on the trail today. Worse, it would get us out well after dark
unless we really picked up the pace.
The steepest part of the trail was still ahead; even maintaining
the
pace we had done so far seemed pretty unlikely. What
time was it? About one.
What was there to do? Why does
there always need to be something
to do?
"Dad, let's play dominoes."
"OK."
I'd had to move the dominoes out of the way to get to everything I'd needed for three days now. Now, by self-arrangement, they were at the very back, I had to unpack an entire side bag to find them.
The dominoes were tiny, about a half inch by quarter inch and a sixteenth thick. They would hardly stand up on edge on a level surface. The medical supply box was the best table available but it wasn't level. If there were a medical emergency it would be the end of the game.
They were little to handle too. We tried shuffling. Some were discolored, if a player were sharp that would help him play. Not feeling sharp, I just laid my dominoes out where everybody could see them. Viannah didn't remember how to play and score exactly, so I started. We went over the basic concepts: spinner, matching, scoring. I took out the trail guide and found the only blank spot, about half of the back cover, dated and labeled it, and started keeping score. For someone who didn't remember well how to play, she was making fifteen, ten or five on nearly every play. My only edge was the skill to domino, that is, to go out first and collect all the points, that is, spots remaining in her hand. I blocked the game in one hand and wanted to collect on that too, but she objected strenuously and I let it slide. The final score for the game was 265 to 260, my favor but just barely. Viannah wanted to play again.
We started in, but I couldn't stand sitting this way, curled, in the sun and tired. We quit after 100 points resolving to finish sometime up top. I lay back down for a while to rest. I considered getting out the spiral notebook and journaling, but decided that I didn't want to be sitting up. It would have been nice to take our boots off; Viannah asked if she could.
"No," I said, "the ground is hot." Sandals would have been nice. I didn't know why I was always opposed to taking boots off. Were we about to leave? No. Were we afraid of a stampede of bears? No. Earthquake? No. Heat? Yes, but what did that have to do with boots? Well, the ground was hot.
OK, what else was there to do? The pace of work and city life are hard to shed. We could be sitting here enjoying the heat and the view from red layers. Even playing dominoes seemed a slight travesty. Oh well. What else was there to do?
There was supposed to be a nice view up a little side trail from here. Several people had gone out and come back in short periods of time; it must not have been too far. We were already five yards along the way being under this tree. "Let's go over and see the view." A hike of any length without full equipment was always a treat, though the feet still screamed.
It wasn't far, not fifty yards. The trail went further but the view in question was near. Other resters were hidden in the foliage nearby, a couple here and a couple there. There was some abandoned heavy equipment, a truck-sized block for tackle, part of a jig used to help put in the trans-canyon pipeline perhaps. There were a few felled logs.
The view from every level was the same but different, the same landmarks but from different angles and with different lighting. This was one of the big reasons I liked doing expeditions like this, to get some of the less common perspectives, to experience some of the continuum of view points. As an exhaustive survey of that type, this trip had not gone well, but that was not what it was all about. It wasn't about geology, it wasn't about hiking, it wasn't about going someplace in particular, like the bottom. It was about choosing a big challenge, attacking it, sticking to it and doing it. Kind of like the moon landings. There too, geology had been an afterthought. Sightseeing was an obvious by-product. The goal however, had been to set a huge goal and achieve it. And we were close.
Couldn't quite see the river from here. Couldn't quite see Indian Gardens, but could see the swampy stream below it. Could see way up the North Kaibab Trail but not the ranch itself. Couldn't see too much to the right or left, upstream or downstream. We were already surrounded by side canyon walls. Turning around, it looked to be a long way up. I wish I had thought to bring a canteen on this little side trip. I was glad I had brought my hat, I was learning a little. A picture or two was taken; we headed back without many words.
Now it was after two. I tried resting some more, but there was no more dozing. I tried nibbling some more but there was no 'big' eating. Viannah went to the water fountain and soaked her hair in it as she has seen several other people do. This looked comfortable. The Boy Scouts and most of the other guests were settled down for their 'heat of the day' fate.
The ranger was talking to somebody about rescues. "There are about forty assists in the canyon every day. When we have to take somebody out in a stretcher it takes three or four of us." I couldn't hear the details very well. "The more people I can talk out of hiking right now, the less the chance of having to go somewhere to rescue somebody." This thought hit home to several bystanders, me included. Thinking about it, I had probably counted as an assist yesterday, if only a static one. He was not here to play cop, he was here to make his own job a lot easier, and to reduce the pain and suffering of hikers. These were people most of whom were just like us, prepared to some extent but not really up to this magnitude of exploration, accustomed to driving themselves and in dire need of taking it easy, playing it smart, in need of some inside advice like this.
There was theology in this….
Maybe all that water on the floor in the hut was on purpose. Maybe it was a passive cooling system.
I heard snatches of some more conversation. "Yeah, people break up their groups all the time and get in trouble. Some feel better than others and go on ahead, but it's a really bad idea, they should wait on everybody." They were discussing the fate of a professional football player who, split from his group, wound up dead from dehydration. They hiked back in to get him but by the time they were there it was too late. I didn't follow football enough to recognize who it was or even the team. There were postings around the rims about this and other disasters.
Where do these rangers go? Where do they sleep? When do they sleep? They must be assigned to different sections of different trails. There must be ranger bunkhouses at various places, campgrounds and elsewhere, where they stay. All of this is transparent to the canyon visitor. Of course, they were in about three times the physical condition I was in and they traveled a good deal lighter, indicating some invisible infrastructure. They didn't seem to be packing any of their own stuff except water. The rest of their packs were ranger stuff, first aid supplies, a radio, a hat.
The ranger was standing guard. It was hot. I rested for a while more.
More people were arriving; a few more were leaving. It was about three. "OK, it's time to re-pack the tent. I'm tired of getting hit in the butt with every step." Viannah giggled.
I dumped it all out and untied the ropes that had been tied in the gray dawn. Unrolled, we shook out some dirt. I refolded and re-rolled it. It was still not going to fit.
"Dad, don't you fold it one more time."
Of course....
Refolded in four with three creases instead of in three with two creases, it was going to fit but would be fat. The ropes back on, I tried stuffing it in it's sack. The poor sack was full of holes, the hammer had gouged some and being the landing pad every time I sat down had rubbed and torn out others. We stuffed it in, it held. The stakes sack went in the middle, but wouldn't go in far. Would it manage to fall out later? The hammer was not going to go in, it would have to ride home in the larger pack. Remounted the bungees. Done.
I was ready to go. "Let's load up and go, wait just a minute, I'm going to soak my shirt."
We had discussed the heat of the day timing enough that Viannah was not going to argue anymore about leaving forty five minutes before four. Besides, the ranger was there to discuss this. He was discouraging people from going down more than from going up for some reason. We were going up and out and that was the last he would see of us! We had watched several groups walk on by after being counseled.
Suddenly there were four people in line for the water. I got in and waited to take my turn. Should have brought a canteen, I could have done that too. The shirt done I put it on and doused my head. This done, I went back for the two loose canteens. The third one was still attached to my pack, still full from this morning. I emptied and filled the other two about half way and soaked the sides. The third one I didn't want to mess with, it was too hard to untie. If we got to where we needed to use it, we would just use it for utility, or use it to soak itself so that it cooled to the point of being drinkable.
Pack on, hat on, stick in hand, I was ready to go; it was 3:16 p.m., still 'a few seconds before four.' Viannah got up and started to get ready. I sat down on a rock opposite the medical box. People were leaving nearly in droves now but there didn't seem to be any fewer people milling about. The light and the shade had changed in the four hours we had been here. It was a different place. The canyon view had changed too.
Viannah was ready; we hiked off towards the trail. The ranger was nowhere to be seen.
The
Heat of the Day, Reprise
Getting away a little early seemed important to my goal of getting out before dark. It was still the heat of the day. The sun still beat down just as it had for the last hours of our approach to Three Mile Rest House. Shortly we were headed uphill and sweating as before, already tired. Our feet already upset.
Viann called on the radio. "How far now."
"About 200 yards further than when we last talked." When we last had talked four hours ago. That must have been discouraging on her end. Well, this was our hike, we had to make it out, they just had to be patient up there where it was cool and flat.
We shared a rest stop with a man who was on the way up from the bottom with a day pack and water bottle. He was doing much better than we were. He asked where we were going from and to as a preamble to telling what he was about. Later this evening, as it was getting dark, he was going to start back down to go as far as he could in the full moonlight. He had talked to a ranger about it. They didn't mind people hiking in the dark at all. Any kind of light was plenty to stay on the trail. It was cool; night was a good time for hiking. The ranger had once been in a night thunderstorm and had seen a full rainbow by moonlight. Clearly, our companion had this in mind for his nocturnal journey tonight. It didn't look to us like there was a chance of any precipitation that evening. Pity really, a nice cool shower would have been fine right then. I would not have missed an umbrella.
He went on his way, a spry strut up hill. We continued our rest. Why bother to go all the way out and then come back in, I wondered to myself. Viannah and I looked at each other.
"He's crazy," she said. "When we get out of here I'm staying out!"
We forged ahead in the heat, sometimes barely getting one foot fully in front of the other. This was the part of the hike where Viannah had more reserve and could go slightly ahead but still wanted lengthy, frequent rests. She was developing a feel for the mathematics of the struggle. "You don't make progress when resting," I would say often. Rest enables progress but doesn't constitute it. I didn't say that part; it didn't need to be said.
We developed a new pattern. I had usually been first up from a rest and ready to walk before Viannah would begin to move, but rather than waiting as I had before, I would just head on up the hill. I could labor maybe fifty yards on, keeping her in sight behind while she got started. She would easily catch up. Soon we would stop for another rest, usually me first, and it would all start again.
Ten times I surveyed the surrounding geology and what was still above. Ten times it hadn't changed a bit.
The sun was getting near the wall tops to the west. Sometimes the trail would pass through a piece of shade. We saw a dozen sunsets, each one a blessed relief. A 'little reprieve' in trail grade (something we celebrated constantly) was nothing compared to a 'little sunset.' After a half mile of this, we saw the sun set behind a cliff for the last time. We might not see the sun again today. It was time for a real celebration, let's stop and rest!
The
Nearly Final Assault
The Scout troop was stopped just fifty yards ahead on a wide, long outcropping, a better spot than we had. One of them had a fishing rod. He had been fishing. We later learned that the rod and reel had broken. He had only tried fishing. There was not much big to catch in the creeks below. I wondered if it was possible to catch fish in the Colorado? Pretty turbulent.
A couple on a day hike stopped beside us, obviously not needing to. We had seen and spoken briefly with them before. They were curious about the undertaking of major backpacking. Between this and charity, the man offered to take my pack the rest of the way out. "You still have a couple of hours at least," he said, "I'm interested in seeing what it's like to carry a heavy pack up the trail."
I was thankful but explained that for it 'to count' we had to lug our stuff to the top. Viannah went along with this but made it clear later that, once past the trail head, she was perfectly willing to let anybody carry anything.
"You're sure?" we looked tired, they felt sorry for us.
"Yes, how much farther is it? Could that be Two Mile Corner right up there?" I asked, pointing a hundred yards beyond the Boy Scouts.
"Yes," he said with confidence, then not sure, "Maybe this is it, oh, it's here somewhere."
We said our good lucks and they walked away, looking fresh. I labored back into the pack and started after them. The Boy Scouts were now underway, nearly up to the corner. It had to be Two Mile Corner. We had surely progressed one of the final three miles. Well, when we got to the corner anyway. The way we had been going, there might be another rest stop before we completed that fifty yards.
"Let's pick up the pace a little," I ordered. "We're nearly out, just a couple more miles." Again, this was a mistaken notion. I knew this from tons of under-prepared end-game experience. This would not speed up anything. Still, I took bigger paces at the same rate. We reached The Corner and stopped to read the sign. I was nearly completely out of breath from the increased stride. The sign was about wildlife, didn't say anything about two miles, but this had to be it. Our benevolent friends were waving from on up the trail, "Two miles!" they shouted, "you're nearly there!" We moved ahead at the new pace. The next rest stop came much sooner. Nobody was counting minutes anymore. It didn't matter; we had to go and stop and go and stop and go and stop and go until we got to the top. The top was in reach, not close, but in reach.
"At least we don't have a deadline today, dad."
This was correct. If we came out in the moonlight that was OK, there was no need to push; we just had to finish.
The Scout Troop was resting; we came up next to them. One of the leaders asked if I'd heard about the woman down below who was having trouble breathing.
"No."
"The ranger went down to help her, somewhere down below Three Mile House."
So that's where the ranger had gone.
"Probably just got worried and started hyperventilating or something, probably not serious."
How did this guy know?
Sometimes the ranger got called off for somebody he hadn't had a chance to warn off. Sounded like somebody who was coming up from the bottom today spent the heat of the day at Indian Gardens and realized mid afternoon that they were only half way and probably had appointments or reservations or something up top and panicked like I had all night last night. Oh, what did I know, I was just be making this all up like my scouting comrade here. Maybe it was somebody who didn't know before now that they had a heart condition.
It was not long before we met another ranger on the way down, a young woman probably on the way to help. She was in a hurry and not very talkative.
How far can Two Mile Corner be from Mile and a Half Rest House? Four tenths of a mile, according to the guidebook. We were at the top of the second map from the front of the book, itching to turn the page back to the first where Mile and a Half Rest House appeared. I could see a structure up above. That must be it. Viann had mentioned seeing a structure from a particular vantage on the top. I had been sure that it wasn't the Three Mile House. We were converging. We were nearly in sight of each other. Based on this, we had arranged to be photographed at that stop; she was on the way over to the viewpoint now.
And there it was! Mile and a Half Rest House up to the right and, on a side trail to the left three of those big, nice, composting toilets (one of which was probably locked). We both needed to go. I sat at the fork in the road in the sunlight one last final time and got out of the pack again, leaving it there. It was nearly sun set at the toilets; everything else was in the shade.
It was thirty yards up a trail and seven foot-and-a-half steps up to the toilet entrances. For composting pit toilets, these were nice. I thought the thing that helped them most was the clean, white walls and clean skylight. Viannah took the near one; I took the far one. Finished, I sat in front of the door and rested and waited. Viannah came out and turned down the stairs. Someone came up and seeing me, thought I was waiting in line, and waited nearby too. I got up and walked off. Now he was waiting for two empty toilets (the one in the middle was locked as expected, that hypothetical composting rotation no doubt). Viannah didn't get it. I didn't know what to say. I opened my mouth to say something that would certainly be awkward if not plain stupid. On the motion, he got it. "Oh," he smiled and went on in.
Viann needed to call if she wanted that picture. This was obviously what she had seen. We needed to keep moving, I didn't want to stop for an indefinite length rest right here waiting for a picture when a rest house with water was a hundred feet away. I loaded up and started walking.
The Rest House was also up twenty steps from the trail. I guessed they must have had to build it out of the way. I guessed getting out of the way meant going up or down hill. I guessed they had preferred going uphill for some reason.
We re-met an older couple in the Rest House. We had been passing each other most of the ascent too. The Boy Scouts were just leaving, it was the last time we would see them. Another hiker was running the water to get the hot part out of the pipes so we could have it cool. This did nothing but to use up water. This supply wasn't cool either.
"We're going to jettison the reserve water now," I announced, emptying out the gallon, eight pound canteen attached to my pack. I wished I had done this first thing this morning. Did I think I had to carry twenty four pounds of water across the Grand Canyon too? I serviced the other two canteens while I was at it and lay down in the broad, long window of the Rest House. There was no opposite window at this one; it was up against a rock wall.
We are chatting with the older couple while resting. They were doing about the same pace that we were, much less heavily loaded. In mid sentence, the call from Viann came in. The lady seemed a bit taken aback. I read this as an accusation of cheating, talking to someone on the outside while we're in the midst of the camaraderie and stress of the Canyon Experience. They smiled politely and went on ahead, I was unable to part properly due to talking on the radio. It was like being interrupted by a telephone call.
Viann was not happy that we had missed the photo opportunity. I explained about needing to move ahead and rest. This was another part of the up-top versus down-in tension. She was being extremely patient, for someone up-top. We down-in, could only try so hard. I told her that there might be another position for a photo around the next bend, stand by and when we got underway in a minute we would see. She was not satisfied but did stand by.
After minutes of restful reflection, I decided to go a bit out of the way. "OK, Viannah, leave your stuff here, we're going back down to the potties."
"What! Why?"
"For a picture."
"What picture? Do I need the camera?"
"Yes, bring the camera."
Down the stairs and down the trail. This was not the right direction. We rendezvoused by radio.
"There is someone in a dark shirt standing where I think you should be."
Yes, there was someone standing at the fork in a dark green shirt.
"Yes, that's us walking up to him now."
"Yes! I see you! Wave!"
We waved. "Where are you?"
"We're waving now."
I looked up at what seemed like four miles up and four miles over and saw no motion anywhere. I scanned the rim left to right. There was something that looked like a twig at what could be an observation overlook. There was no motion, just looked like one. No, two, I probably couldn't see John, just Viann and Katy, that was them! "I see you." I squinted to see if I could see three, but could just see two. No, one. They were barely discernible.
"I don't know how this is going to come out. Move back over, you have to be against something contrasting."
I saw what she was talking about and moved back down trail a little.
"Yes, right there, wave. OK, got it."
"Here, I'll take your picture too." Through the viewfinder I could definitely see one person, sometimes it seemed like two. This was like looking for the Galilean moons of Jupiter in binoculars. Occasionally you could distinctly see all four but most times you saw two or three and strained or guessed as to whether you were seeing more. Our Edmund telescope would be nice right now. Yeah, nice to pack out! "Click," there was enough dark in the field of view to trigger the flash.
"I saw the flash!"
"Yes, that was us." I took another. It didn't flash. I could really only see one figure. Not really a figure, more of a digit.
"OK, we're moving on."
We returned to the Rest House and loaded up. Back down the twenty stairs, left turn onto the trail. It was up hill. One foot in front of the other, take a sip of water. We were on the first map in the guidebook!
The Final Assault
The Rest House was just after a geologic contact. The dust and rocks were mixed there, but they were turning from red to gray. That meant two more layers, I looked up. Three, <sigh>.
Three by my count, but who knew the official reckoning? Who cared? A mile and a half (one point six according to the guide) and at least a thousand more feet up. It was cooling off.
The guidebook showed the "Fault Switchbacks" and two tunnels before the top.
"Let's rest at the bottom and the top of the switchbacks and at the two tunnels and that will be it," I suggested, attempting to the end to provide meaningless planning guidance.
"OK."
Why I had the need to make these ridiculously advanced plans, I was beginning to wonder.
Two more rest stops and we were at the bottom of the switchbacks. "How many switchbacks?" "Eighty Seven."
I was exhausted. "A Dr. Pepper would sure be good right now."
"Momma will let you have anything you want once we get up there."
"Yes, we still have to get there. This was like so many other things in life, we could be helped in many advanced ways, but we had to get ourselves to the source of help. We had to get up and out of here and then we would be saved. It was time to get up and walk some more. The switchbacks were steep. This was some of the steepest trail we had been on since the beginning on Monday, nearly like stairs for incline.
"I've got to rest."
"OK, dad."
I got the pack down and lay down next to the trail, head on the low side. This was what the book said to do. Got some of the blood out of the legs for a while, helped get those waste products out of those muscles, ostensibly preventing some soreness tomorrow.
Soreness tomorrow, who cared about tomorrow, we were trying to get out of here today. I got back up, got back in pack, struggled forward. "Via Dolorosa," I muttered under my breath.
"What dad?"
"Via Dolorosa, 'The Way of Sorrows.'"
"What's that?"
"Christ carried his cross from his sentencing to Golgotha. Tradition has it that there were seven stations on the road to the cross, 'The Way of Sorrows,' they call it." I didn't know that this was the exact terminology for the tradition, and I had more to say, I could make up a good story about it on the spot, but I didn't have enough breath for manufactured expostulation. In an economy of words, I had gotten the point across, or if not, it was not that important.
We stopped again, Viann called on the radio. "How's it going?"
"We're making progress, we're not to the second tunnel yet, if you're coming down to meet us you should start down when we get to the second tunnel."
"How long will that be?"
"I don't know, I don't know just where we are, it could be around the next bend if the map is accurate, but I'm known to be too optimistic about such things." You could say that again if you had the breath to do it!
"OK, I'll call you later."
"OK, have you seen the Boy Scouts come out yet?"
"No, I'll look for them."
We signed off, got up, started up a broader part of the path. It didn't kind of match the map. In a few hundred feet, we were at the second tunnel. First, that was, to us. We kept going, having just rested. The second tunnel was at the top of the switchbacks.
A boy, probably eleven, passed us on the way up. "The ranger made me come back up," he said," I don't have a flashlight or anything, he says I won't make it to the bottom and back out tonight without more stuff." He was carrying only his sunglasses, which he wouldn't need for about twelve more hours in any case. He continued on ahead in his sandals and disappeared around a corner.
The sun was still up in parts of the canyon. The shadow lines were nearly horizontal now in the places where there was sunlight at all. Blessedly it was not here.
When hiking under these conditions, one spends a lot of time looking at one's feet. You notice tracks, mostly different kinds of shoes. This was interesting for the first mile or so, then became about as fascinating as the geology, that is, not much from our current standpoint. Now there was a barefoot track in the trail, I pointed it out to Viannah, "Look at this wild animal track!"
"Wow, is it a bear?" We had seen bear tracks on training hikes in the Angeles National Forest.
"No, it's a human being."
"Wild animal?"
"Well, maybe, who knows?"
A ranger jogged down the trail fast. He looked distressed; he was sweating and panting. He acknowledged my greeting but descended without slowing into the increasing darkness. He was clearly going to help the person in trouble below, that made three that we knew of plus anyone who had come up from below. The purposefully primitive nature of the below-the-rim canyon dawned on me. They only used the MediVac helicopter when the need was immediate and when it was available. That was about once a day on the average. Except for that and the two way radios that all the rangers had (there were no cell phones here and wouldn't be yet for some time to come according to the ranger at Three Mile Rest House) it might as well be a hundred years ago. The only access, even for the lesser medical priorities, was by foot or mule. The rangers who worked here jogged up and down trails to serve their constituents. I was nearly out, I was going to make it, I was not going to be one in need of assistance if I just took it at the pace that I knew I could make. It was certainly less than one mile now.
One and a half more geologic layers. Progress was being made. The trail ranged around, we could see people far ahead and far behind. The trailhead was not obvious yet. The trail turned right and got so steep that blocks like railroad ties were needed to hold it in place. This was one of those 20% grades. We proceeded up about ten feet and I stopped for a rest. My legs were fine but everything else about me was entirely exhausted. Was I feeling nausea again? Food didn't sound good, at least not any food that we had with us. Cereal? Blech. Apples? Blech! I tried taking a sip of straight water and not thinking about food. It wouldn't matter if I couldn't eat tonight; I had the rest of the summer to recover. But I didn't really think I would have any trouble eating or sleeping tonight, once out, the pressure would be off.
Once out.
A family of goats appeared just above the trail about twenty yards back.
"Look dad!"
"Get the camera." There were two shots left.
It was a momma goat, a daddy goat, and a baby goat. The two parents came right down a little ridge that you'd worry about watching a squirrel walk on and started eating into the vegetation right on the side of the trail. The youth goat walked back and forth at the top, not sure how to come down. He seemed worried. The parent goats didn't seem to care. Viannah closed in with the camera.
"Try to get all three."
They were not concerned enough to do more than back down just a bit. There would be lots of tourists with cameras up this high, I suspected.
We had to keep moving. I got up, exerted my way back into the pack, turned around to face up and, with an effort, started putting one foot in front of the other yet again. One foot in front of the other. I took care to get the heel of the one foot fully in front of the toe of the other each time, letting the rate be as slow as necessary to accomplish this consistently. I was making progress uphill, but it was slower and slower. 'Cover half the distance every time and it takes forever to get there,' I thought. I kept trudging. Viannah was off to the sides trying to get pictures from different angles; then she was out of film. She loaded and started up, twenty yards behind me. A large group of tired hikers came up behind us, ten or fifteen people. They continued in motion. This trapped the goats and Viannah into one big crowd that looked like the Exodus. I looked back and fifteen yards behind me a dozen people and three goats were trotting up the hill together. This was nearly funny. Any other time I would have laughed. I turned around and faced up the trail. Two little girls in bare feet were coming down. They stopped in their tracks, trying to judge the scene ahead of them. It must have looked like the children of Israel coming up out of the Red Sea.
"This is far enough," one said, and they turned around and ran back up the trail.
It couldn't be far now; we were seeing little people like this in bare feet. 'Wonder if the guy who was coming down to see moon-bows has started down yet?' We hadn't seen him.
The goats broke off, the dozen people marched on by, I took the opportunity for a standing rest. Viannah caught up.
"N5BF from WD5EHM."
"Yes?"
"How is it going?"
"We're <puff> still <puff> moving <puff>." I took some breaths, continuing uphill. "We're well beyond <puff> the second <puff> tunnel."
"We saw the Boy Scouts. They said 'Yeah! Rim to Rim!'"
"Good."
"Do you see us?"
"No, are you going to start down now?"
"Are you close enough?"
"Yeah, go ahead." We signed.
We rounded a left corner, the trail was definitely less steep now, walking was easier, the top was in view, individual people could be identified all along the viewing areas. A hundred people were in view on the trail ahead. Another hundred were sitting on fences and barriers along the top. "There's the first tunnel, that must be the top right there, do you see momma and John and Katy?"
"No."
"Me neither."
"There they come, John is jumping up and down." It looked like we would meet about at the tunnel. The end was in sight. We met at the tunnel; it was time for pictures.
"John, don't get too close to the edge," Viann said, "Katy, keep to yourself, this is no place for horsing around."
We were home. A hundred more yards and we would be out.
"Just one more picture, John, you get in front of daddy. No, stand where we can see him!" Click. We were moving. Walking sticks digging into the well trampled dust, one foot in front of another, well in front now. The rate was slow; everybody was walking along at our rate. My rate.
"No, they don't want us to carry their packs until we get out," Viann said.
"That's right, near two mile curve, a guy on a day hike offered to carry mine. I told him it wouldn't make much difference, and besides," now in duet, "it's the principle of the thing," "Yes," I concluded.
There was the top; people were sitting on the stone railings. "We're tired of walking," I said, talking loud to override babbling kids tone and volume, then breathing for half a minute. Viann looked over. "We're tired of geology." Everybody laughed.
"We missed you guys."
"We missed you too." Twenty more yards, then ten, then a sharp right and up to the trailhead.
"We're out!" Splashdown!
"Where are we parked?"
"Right over here, it says Ranger Parking Only but I just ignored it, I figured it was for occasions like this."
Twenty more yards to the car, all flat, all developed. We were back in civilization. The rear hatch was popped open; I got out of the pack for the last time and lugged it in.
"We got you some Dr. Peppers, do you want one?"
"Of course, anything but plain water. Everybody else down there seems to have Gatorade mix."
"You could have used something like that."
"Yes." I was trying to wedge the walking sticks into the back of the van. This was a familiar problem, back in civilization.
We had made it. I felt like eating. We had dragged ourselves back to the world of city-life conveniences. Other people were coming out. I vaguely saw other mini-celebrations going on around the trail head. We waved walking sticks at other groups. Maybe they were waving back; maybe it was my imagination. We stuffed Viannah's pack in the back on the right side and I walked around to the front passenger seat. The kids got in the back; Viann drove. Viannah was in fine shape, but glad not to be walking for once. Nobody said, "Where do you want to go?" The van started up, we left the parking lot; it was 7:45, sunset on the rim. The sun was already out of sight below the nearby trees.