Grand Canyon Backpack Trip - Late February, 2007

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Back to Index Page Written by Big John, dedicated to Mike and Rena

Day One, or "Taking the Plunge"

On this fine February day I'm taking my 47 year-old body out for a seven day solo foot excursion into the bowels of the Grand Canyon. The chosen route begins far out at the end of West Rim Drive from Grand Canyon Village at Hermit's Rest. The once-superb Hermit Trail was constructed by the Santa Fe Railroad for the purpose of diverting paying tourists away from the privately owned (and privately tolled) Bright Angel Trail.

The railroad's venture came to nothing and the trail has fallen into disrepair in the intervening eighty years. Still, the construction was so good that it remains a doable if rough trail. My plan is to descend this old eight mile beast to its junction with the Tonto Trail near the edge of the Inner Gorge. There I will veer right, away from Hermit Creek and upriver toward Monument Creek.

Both drainages boast reliable drinking water but Monument Creek is toward Bright Angel in the east and thence to Phantom Ranch and beyond. This first day will be hard on the legs and a bit long (nine miles or more), but the next day should be eight flat, easy-peasy miles. I can hack it!

My descent into upper Hermit Canyon begins at 9AM, and boy is it chilly on the rim. The cold wind soon stops within the deep shelter of this impressive canyon and life is good. Lots of rocks on the trail of course, with bits and pieces of the original rock paving still hanging on in places. During the descent I meet a hiker named Seth who passes me going down, but his plan is to stop at Hermit Creek camp to the left, rather than right toward Monument Creek like me.

An hour later I reach the bottom of Hermit Canyon and head down the creek. This long side drainage is a bit curved, thus the main canyon is not yet visible. There are some very fun steep switchbacks, and then suddenly the Redwall cliff drops away at my feet.

This widespread 600-foot-thick limestone layer blocks any further progress down Hermit Creek (except for very fast progress, if you know what I mean), so the trail begins contouring off to the right, trending up and down but always above the Redwall. Shortly I reach Santa Maria Spring, which is keeping a nice water trough filled to the brim with clear cool water. That must really hit the spot after a grueling climb up from below! There's also a very nice rock-built shelter, with spring-fed vines covering the open west side of the structure for shade during those long hot summer afternoons. Inside the shelter are a couple of heavy hand-made wooden chairs, one being a rocking chair. Sweet!

As Hermit Trail runs to the right along above the big red cliff, Hermit Canyon to the left widens just a bit and gets much deeper. Hermit Creek is lost somewhere far below, but the Grand Canyon proper is now visible directly ahead, enticing me onward with its clearly seen temples and gorges.

Trail finding is sometimes tricky here because of difficult old rock slides where many steep watercourses cross the horizontal trail on their way over the Redwall cliff. The hiking continues in this way for a full four miles and it's starting to steal the wind from my sails, but the fatigue is partially counteracted by increasingly awesome views I'm getting from straight ahead.

Finally the Cathedral Stairs appear, dropping in a long series of short steep switchbacks down a narrow slide between the towering cliffs of the local Redwall outcrop. One gets the impression of being in a grandly descending elevator as the surrounding rock masses grow very tall all around. At the bottom there's still another mile of steep rocky descent across broad talus slopes to the Tonto Platform and the junction of the Hermit Trail with the very long Tonto Trail, running parallel to the river.

Now I can feel the price being paid by my body for so much downhill walking in such a short time. It's 3500 vertical feet back up to the rim from here, and that ain't gonna happen soon. Total Commitment Time, baby.

All day I'd been hearing the sound of tour helicopters somewhere down-canyon, but they never come into view. These privately funded noisemakers follow defined routes that keep them away from Phantom Ranch but this far west the sounds are clearly evident, regularly shattering the silence of the Canyon with their distant prop-beats. I suppose the view from them is most exciting, like a new and long awaited thrill ride. However, those below in the canyon pay the price of lost solitude for this not-so-cheap thrill ride in the sky taken by others who will probably never set foot between the Rims.

After a few minutes on the Tonto Trail a low pass is crossed and then the trail begins down-slanting into the Monument Creek drainage, following the Tonto Platform far back toward the rim wall, staying above the sheer cliffs that edge and support the Tonto Platform everywhere. All the side canyons are deeply incised into this platform, so crossing a side canyon really means going way back to their upper ends where their creek beds have eroded up thru the hard rock layers that underlie the Tonto Platform.

I'm very tired now and I can see that it's only a mile or so back to where the camp must be, and downhill to boot. Should be cool cruzing, but no such luck. Experiencing some heat-regulation problems, my thick shirt gets too hot. Off it comes. In my physically drained state the shirt fails to be properly secured to the pack, and sure enough, it soon goes missing, oy. I must go back, perhaps only a fraction of a mile but it's uphill, naturally.

The uphill trip is tiring so pack gets set to the side. Soon my shirt is retrieved and then the pack is back on my back. Once again progress is being made when...oh no!! I have failed to don my hat when I got the pack! Arrrgh. I must get that hat back, so the familiar uphill trudge begins once again. Sigh.

Fully accoutered once more, I stagger on into Monument Creek's rear amphitheater and at last reach the camp. By a miracle there is still an hour of winter daylight left and I discover there are some other people camped in this desolate wet spot spot between high cliffs. It's a thirty-something couple with their (apparently indestructible) teenage son. They all came down today as well. Excellent, at least some other people will be suffering too!

I manage to set up camp before dark and socialize just a bit too, and then go to a well deserved slumber. The promised winter cold front is nearing, but I doubt there will be any action this night. The wind ahead of the storm is kicking up quite a lot but it's not actually cold yet. I can endure, but the others failed to consider their tent location viz. the wind and they are getting some pretty heavy buffeting.

As I lie in my lively tent, voices are heard and then the clunking of big rocks being moved. My camp mates have had enough and are shifting their tent to the low ground. I had a feeling that would happen! Oh well, the moon is high overhead so how hard could it be? I roll over and all is oblivion.

Day Two, or "Oh my god, my quads!"

Muscle cramps can be a big problem so I always use magnesium powder on these trips to fight against them. This time tho, it's not nearly enough as both of the quads and their associated muscle groups instantly lock up the moment I open my eyes. Thankfully the spasms are greatly weakened by the magnesium already swirling in my veins and I'm not crippled, not quite.

The wind has lessened and the morning is dreary with the gathering clouds. We all manage to break camp before it becomes really embarrassing and my new friends push on ahead to Indian Gardens on the Bright Angel Trail. I get on the trail about "tenish," and while the leg muscles protest greatly they do obey, more or less. However, I am required to 'stilt' my way down any descents using mostly poles, but happily the elevation doesn't change much on the Tonto, at least not by Grand Canyon standards.

One copter comes out early to brave the gathering storm clouds, and then all is blessed silence and I won't hear another for the remainder of the trip, a great relief.

Now the day is brightening with cloud breaks and the trail soon winds out of the Monument drainage to pass close alongside the Inner Gorge. This small gorge is really only small in comparison to the looming canyon walls far above. It is still a full 1000 vertical feet over the edge of the Inner Gorge and nearly straight down to the green Colorado far below.

That awesome feeling has returned and the dappled sunlight across the landscape greatly enhances said feeling. Somehow the bodily aches and pains become merely details; not really important compared to the amazing Space all around.

The trail here is almost level and thus the day passes like a dream, drifting in and out of several side drainages with easy regularity. The only thing that slows me down are the frenzied clicks coming from the camera that never leaves my hand.

Along about 3PM, Horn Creek appears. Sure enough there is a trickle of good water to be found here, along with a couple of low cottonwood trees. Looks pretty sparse but I'm not complaining. Technically there's time and energy enough to reach the Bright Angel Trail at Indian Gardens like my erstwhile campmates but my plan (and the backcountry permit) calls for me to rest here tonight, an excellent excuse to knock off early. (that's yours truly smirking in the blue jacket)

Horn Creek is rumored to be slightly radioactive due to an old uranium mine high above on the rim, but I fail to observe any three-eyed fish and proceed to take the 'cure' with pleasure. The Rangers say that if you drink from Horn Creek you won't need a flashlight, but I found this to be bogus info. Nothing, not even a tingle! So much for cool superpowers.

A little later Seth arrives from Hermit Creek, and young tho he is he's had enough too. We settle in at the tiny campsite, battening down for the expected storm. Turns out Seth is a history teacher who walked right into the Park and got a backcountry permit on a whim. A major advantage of being here in winter is the lack of demand for backcountry permits. Because Seth was so rushed he just picked up some canned goods for food. Canned goods! Kinda like tossing a boat anchor into your pack, but hey, Seth has all that youthful energy to work off, right?

We chat about this and that, and then it's time to turn in. Once again I'm not camping alone in a howling wilderness, and I really prefer it that way. I've been camping alone, and it's mostly lonely. There's plenty of time during the day while hiking the Tonto to find solitude but in camp a little human company helps ease the psychic pressure of the dark and wind very nicely.

In the gathering gloom just before dark the dying sunlight breaks thru and strikes the face of Cheops Pyramid across the Inner Gorge, turning it to molten gold. This seems to be a good omen and so it is. During the night I awake to hear sleet on my tent, but within a half-hour it ceases and does not return. Whew.

Day Three, or "Too Low For Snow"

Come the dawn, I arise and discover that the nights' storm didn't even make the ground wet, leaving but a few drops clinging to my tent. Cool, no muss no fuss. Today the plan is to complete the journey along the Tonto to Indian Gardens, and thence down the Bright Angel Trail to Phantom Ranch. This is less than eight miles and my quads have become a bit less painful, so the day should be cake. Tomorrow the plan is to head out to a remote camp at Clear Creek for an overnighter but I'm having doubts that I can hack this, given my current debilitated state. If I can just reach Phantom Ranch, any further trip extensions can then be considered at lesiure.

Soon I'm off, with Seth far ahead. Once again these young folk show their heels and I'm left hobbling along all alone. But who cares about that when one has the Grand Canyon laid before one's goggling eyes? Scudding storm clouds race by, admitting only rare and brilliant shafts of sunlight onto the temples across the way as they pass. Again I'm day-dreaming along, altho this time amidst the occasional snow-flurry descending from the nearby South Rim high above. The snow is granular and sparse, allowing it to bounce off in a delightfully convenient way.

All things to the north are shrouded in thicker sheets of snow falling thru air, and the atmosphere becomes very surreal. Before too long the turn-in toward Indian Gardens begins and I day-dream about staggering into the midst of some suitably impressed day hikers, my arm shielding my frostbitten face a' la "Nanook of the North." Alas, the snowfall ceases just short of the campground and I'm forced to make a forgettable entrance in a very dry and comfortable-looking manner. Oh well.

While at the rock shelter near the trail junction, I witness three hikers heading up to the Rim. One guy has a big yellow pack more akin to some kind of emergency inflatable ten-man life-raft than a mere container of gear. A twelve year old boy could easily fit in this pack and I somehow fail to ask what is actually inside it. Probably a baby whale or something, or maybe one of those handy fold-out campsites complete with already-roaring campfire.

Now it's on down the well-travelled Bright Angel Trail toward the river. There's some steep descending but by now I can once again hack it with some difficulty. Three miles later the Colorado River appears before me, in all its turgid glory. A packless individual wearing deck shoes appears suddenly from along the river and explains that he's come to wait at this beach to be picked up by a boat. I muse about what it's like to live and work along the river, handling boats and the people in them as one's stock in trade. Mmmm.

The trail now turns upriver for the last two miles to the ranch, and the gorge here is too precipitous to go along the shore because there ain't always a shore to go along. Instead the trail rises dozens of feet up the cliff side along a powder-blasted ledge in the living rock, with a straight dropoff to the foaming waters below. It's a pretty wide trail here, and that's good because mules must walk along it carrying riders.

After a while I reach Silver Bridge, a new bridge that supports only human traffic and the pipe for the Trans-canyon water system, originating close to the North Rim. The river trail itself continues on upriver for another half-mile to the older Black Bridge where the mules can get across. These steel suspension bridges are made rigid using extra cabling on the sides. The trip over Silver Bridge feels fairly solid, and that's good too because both bridges are 500 feet in length, quite a span with a wild river showing thru the grating underfoot.

Once across the river it's a pleasant easy stroll up Bright Angel Creek, past the public campground and up to the Ranch proper. Now that I'm finally here I want to get the full Phantom Ranch Experience and manage to wangle space in the Mess Hall for late Stew and a spot in the men's dormitory for the night.

This dormitory has five bunk beds in a room just big enough to hold them, but it also has a hot shower. Hallelujah! Moments later I'm squeaky clean and the big ranch triangle outside is clanging away, calling hungry visitors to the Stew.

The food is grand and plentiful with dozens of people jammed in and chattering away like mad. Later it's Beer Hall time and we jam back in for more tall tales and table games. Everyone is smiling really well, and Yours Truly is no exception. I get acquainted with several nice people, among them an older couple who came down on the mules and seem fascinated by tales of "rugged" backpack adventuring in the Canyon.

Somehow this place seems to strip away the usual reservations people have when they are thrown together among strangers, and so all is mellowness and satisfaction.

Before the closing at ten o'clock I wander outside. The waxing gibbous moon has risen over the high walls of Bright Angel Canyon, flooding it with pure silver light. I hear the tumbling creek calling out and allow my feet to drift on up the easy North Kaibob Trail a ways, taking plenty of time. Presently a sign appears, pointing up the steep slope to the right. It's the start of the old Clear Creek Trail.

Strange to think I was once wary of continuing on this path, but it doesn't seem so hard now. I even start up the trail a ways, but it's steep, rocky, and late, so regretfully it's back to the Ranch. Tomorrow there will be time enough and more.

Once inside the dorm it's like an echo chamber. One guy seems to be engaged in a major woodworking project, or at least it sounds that way. Between him and all the bumps in the night, sleep is hard to come by. Insomnia is one problem not faced in summer when dark-time is all too rare. Now in the winter there's plenty of time to sleep and as a result I'm so alert that I can hear tiny mammals burrowing under the dorm. Oh well, one missed night's sleep won't be fatal, probably.

Day Four, or "Again, Tonto"

Around 5AM the guys going to early breakfast begin to rustle around and it gets very annoying since I'm scheduled for the late breakfast. The bustle culminates when the guy opposite me allows his entire external frame pack to fall over and strike my iron bedside. Oh joy.

A bit later I rise and head over for the flapjacks. The ingredients for them were carried down here nine miles on the back of a mule and it seems to have imbued the food with a heavenly quality not found elsewhere. Most interesting. Having finished breakfast it's decision time, and I now choose to follow my original plan. A ranch worker helps out by claiming to have have done the trail in 150 minutes, but Clear Creek Trail is nine miles one way and I'm skeptical. Still, it is a good sign.

Around 9AM I take off up that rocky trail I discovered by moonlight, climbing steeply to a fabulous point overlooking the ranch and the river. Quite a huff, but with great views. Further on the views get better and better as the trail runs parallel to the river, just below the lip of the Inner Gorge. Wow. Opposite me is the start of the South Kaibob Trail which rises directly from the south end of Black Bridge. The switchbacks on that steep trail rise impressively before my eyes and soon a mule train begins to climb. I get spectacular views of their progress from across the gorge. This is getting seriously cool!

So far this trail is a lot like the Hermit Trail, all rocky and eroded, but before long the trail finds a gap in the cliff above and rises to the North Tonto Platform. After that it's fairly smooth sailing for over six miles, proceeding along and above the Inner Gorge toward the east. Awesomeness is everywhere again altho now the storm clouds are fading away, leaving a cold snappy breeze behind. I don't mind the wind while I'm hiking and it only adds to the drama of the passage.

In the early afternoon the trail curves past one last major point and several miles into the very long northern drainage of Clear Creek. Then a final one mile descent down to the creek bottom, and yes I have again found drinking water, altho not on the scale of Bright Angel Creek. The camp looks a bit torn up from flooding with rocks and cobbles strewn around and new gullies slashing across the area. There seem to be several flat spots visible under the cottonwood trees and rows of rocks too, so someone must have been here once.

All day I'd observed trail tracks but they were rained down and I couldn't tell how old they were. Maybe this would be my first night alone? Nope, upon entering the camp I notice a food bag strung between trees. There's also a tented tarp with a low wall of rocks lining the edges of it, probably to block the rather strong cold wind coming up-canyon. No sign of a camper tho so I settle down, and a bit later a white-haired old man appears from out of the small gorge leading to the upper Clear Creek wilderness beyond. 'Stickman' Ray is his name, called that because he carves beautiful walking sticks in his spare time, one of which he had with him. (okay, Ray's hair isn't really white, and he's not all that elderly. I just imagine anyone with such amazing carving skills should look like that!)

We chat, and it turns out he's been up-canyon all day trying to get a photo of Cheyava Falls, the highest in the Grand Canyon. Cheyava in Hopi means 'intermittent,' and that's because this falls only runs for a few weeks while the North Rim snow is melting. Poor Ray is too early and it's his fourth failed attempt too. Such are the vagaries of Canyon life. It's probably not that big a deal, as Ray says he's kayaked the 2000 mile Yukon River twice. Time may have a slightly different meaning to him.

Ray needs to head out tomorrow, so maybe I'll have walking company for once. It hardly matters as I find I like walking alone thru that immense Space. Right now tho we need to eat and get under cover from the cold biting wind. Not too much later the wind drops to a breeze, thank goodness. Gonna be really chilly, come the dawn!

Day Five, or "Chasing Ray"

Sure enough, by morning the temp has fallen dangerously close to freezing, albeit with little remaining wind. (Okay okay, temps in the mid-thirties are not THAT life-threatening, but it's the closest I got to actually "roughing it," gimmie a break)

I'm concerned with starting out cold up that first steep 600 foot climb waiting on the trail back to the Ranch. Ray happens to know of some old beehive granaries the Anasazi Indians built a ways up the creek, so I trot over there for a look-see and to warm up for the climb to come.

The up-canyon views coyly beckon with long deep Spaces visible now and then, but I resist their siren-song (with great difficulty) and regretfully turn back to camp and the Trail to Civilization (specifically the plumbing at Phantom Ranch). I have yet to even begin packing up but Ray has got to get going at once because he's just changed to light clothing for the strenuous climb out. Ray leaves and I pack fast while still in bitter shadow.

By 10AM I hit the climb with gusto. That old spring has come back into my step at last and the leg pains have gone for good. Bathed in full morning sunlight the climb goes quite rapidly, and then I'm up, cruising on the Tonto Highway once more.

Today there's a real mission, to catch up with Ray. Should be no trick, he's only got a 45 minute lead and he wears sneakers rather than strong boots like most. About an hour after starting I see movement ahead but it's too soon to have caught Ray. Instead it's a middle-aged couple coming on at top-speed with light packs, and they whizz by with barely a wave. Odd.

After another hour I'm back in the main canyon area and along comes another couple, this time a bit more sedately. They explain that the first couple are engaged on a mission to do the Clear Creek Trail both ways in a single day. Whoa, that's eighteen big fat miles! Well, they sure picked a great day for it, warming nicely after the storm but still crisp under flawless blue skies. Wow again!

This business of having each day be twice as good as the last is something I accidentally invented on this trip. I'm looking into getting a patent. :)

I never do catch up with Lightfoot Ray. Rumors are heard from another hiker that he had just passed, but leprechaun-like, Ray stays clean outta sight. I don't feel like making it a death march, not in this profound Space, so I stop chasing Ray and start rambling, my preferred mode of locomotion. That's better!

(besides, what happens to my ego if I DON'T catch up...noooooooooo!)

Anyway, another dreamlike day starts floating by. Eventually time and tide deposit me back at the Ranch, with thirty full minutes remaining in the afternoon Beer Hall session no less. Coolios! Heroically I down a couple of cold ones (for taking the edge off the "trail-pains," don't you know), then blissfully amble on past the noisy dorms and down to Bright Angel Campground, sandwiched against a tall looming cliff by the big burbling creek.

This camp is pretty large; a long double row of sites with a trail/aisle running down between. At the center of the line are flush bivvies, courtesy of the oh-so-civilized Phantom Ranch Sewer System, hurrah. The sewer actually is a very good idea, considering the "load" imposed on the Canyon at certain times of year.

There's lots of cottonwoods around for the summer shade and each one has wire fencing loosely wrapped around the trunk up to a height of five feet. I'm told this done is to deter the beavers from killing all the trees. Apparently trees never existed near the river, but only far above in side canyons where waterfalls block the beavers from advancing up the creeks. Clear Creek Camp has such a falls below it, but the Ranch and its campground do not, hence the armored shade trees currently found in those areas. Chew on that, you beavers!

I set up camp in a likely site and then amble on down to the bridges for some evening snapshots. There's plenty of time tonight and more tomorrow, with just a short five mile walk up to Indian Gardens. I planned this next easy day in preparation for the Big Climb Out on the last day.

As I return to camp an Inuit Ranger comes along to check on backcountry permits and he gets to chatting with the three guys in the camp opposite me. I get my permit out and go over, and it turns out these three guys (the 'Mule Meat Camp'ers according to their little sign) are all military vets of different vintages. Cool, I served four years in the USAF, so I easily insinuate myself amongst the conversation.

Before the Ranger leaves he mentions two celestial events due to happen very shortly that evening. First, the ISS or International Space Station will cross directly overhead, and a bit later a sun flash off an Iridium satellite will squarely strike Phantom Ranch from the north. Once more my amazing luck shows its muscle.

On schedule, both events take place to the delight of all, framed in a small dark sky by the inky cliffs all around our narrow canyon. I don't see how the Ranch can manage to put on entertainments of this quality, but I guess they must.

Ray is here too, just down the aisle a bit, apparently none the worse for wear. He will head out tomorrow very early, so I won't see him after this.

Tonight there will be no Stew, alas, as I neglected to make reservations back when I could have, and now they are full up. At least I'm able to squeeze into the early breakfast, but it starts at a very brisk and dark 5:30AM. Well, it certainly will be good for my character, right? And it's not like I have to do anything hard, just walk a few hundred yards. In the dark and cold. To eat...hot flapjacks? No problem! Anything to get away from that oatmush I usually eat, oy.

After dinner and then the man-made celestial lightshow it's off to the Beer Hall for lots more chatting and boasting and embellishing. This building also happens to house some special Phantom Ranch merchandise, so I splurge on a cool baseball cap and some imprinted Nalgene hiker's water bottles. Won't my brother be jealous when I flash those beauties on our next Sierra trip!

The two hours of Beer Hall go by fast as always, forcing us reluctantly out into the chilly night. I set my alarm to 'Bloody Early' and then turn in.

Day Six, or "I think something's on fire..."

Early the next "morning," groggy and cold, I lurch across a little bridge over the creek and up to the Mess Hall, just as the crowd is passing within. They like people to be prompt at these meals and I break into a shambling run, attaching to the tail of the crowd as it clears the doors. Impeccable timing!

Hot foody substances are devoured by the assembled host, between more constant chattering. It's hard to eat when you have so much to say! Finally the deed is done, and as I step outside the sky (or what little of it can be seen) shows the first blush of dawn. The air is calm and 40F, a perfect moment to take in the 'river walk,' down across one river bridge, along the half-mile of ledge-supported trail between bridges, and back across the other.

I head over to Black Bridge, so named for its dark color (go figure) and linger a while to let the Sun reach my lowly spot. Soon it does so, illuminating the northern ranch-end of the bridge as I watch from along the river trail opposite. Then more luck as an early four-mule train with riders comes along from the Ranch, enters that brilliant spotlight, and crosses the bridge while I'm ideally situated for a good long lens shot. Woohoo!

Later as I cross Silver Bridge (light colored) these same four mules pass by the end of the bridge and on down the river trail, heading for the distant and mucho-high South Rim. This is the same route I will soon tread once more.

Now it's time for a leisurely camp-break before sauntering on up to the Gardens. Back at camp the Mule Meat gang are busy packing too, and as expected it's quite a scene. Lots of cussing and moaning and friendly insults are passing around. Mike is a big Army Ranger and Tom is a 4-year vet like me. The third of the trio, Phil, is more interesting with long gray hair like General Custer but with a gray soup-strainer moustache as well. Phil and Mike are over 60 and they often refer to places like Alaska and 'Nam. I guess this trip must be an easy vacation for them.

Phil is more than just fancy hair tho as he dons first a bright red jacket, then a shapeless but also bright red wool hat, and to top it off a bright red backpack. My eyes! I can hear frightened beavers scrambling up the sheer hillsides nearby in a desperate bid for escape. As a semi-rational human being I have no choice but to act as normal as possible under the circumstances. Lucky beavers.

But now Phil shows yet another side as he whips out a fag and lights that sucker up! While the smell of ripe nicotine drifts across the idyllic campground I marvel at what it implies. To be exact, Smokin' Phil is going to have to walk a vertical mile up to that lofty rim, under full pack. Can Phil survive the ordeal? Will he be forced to mule-jack some harmless tourist? Oh the humanity...

I decide to let my new buddies get a good long head start while I explore the bottom end of a "secret" trail starting straight up and out of the campground itself, rising at an impossible angle directly beside the small footbridge. This "Banzai Trail" is named for the feeling you get when descending it towards the campground, when it seems you are almost in free fall (or soon will be). The trail is reported to climb high above and then across to an upper arm of Bright Angel Canyon called Phantom Creek. The Banzai joins that creek just below where it turns up into (and becomes) the Haunted Canyon. Sounds scary. Oh well, save the Banzai Trail and Haunted Canyon for next trip, no time now. Sigh.

I load up and head down across Silver Bridge one last time. The 1000 foot climb beyond is not difficult due to all the recent leg training and in a twinkling I've cleared the steep section at Devil's Corkscrew. Just past where it levels off I come across Phil and Mike. Phil is wheezing a bit and he's in a bad humour, but still kicking. When he spots me he snarls "You WOULD have to catch up!"

I discount this to mere fatigue and disregard the remark, but maybe it's best if I get on out of sight quickly. So it's onward and upward, following a nice rushing creek with dormant cottonwood trees spaced along the center of a tiny canyonette. Here I meet a cute young girl with a pack and snap the kind of fabulous photo one can only get thru sheer happenstance.

All too soon I'm at the Gardens, picking out a good site among the many empties available. Before long this place will be packed but winter still lingers as of yet. Surprisingly, Phil and the others appear promptly, and by unspoken agreement we again camp side by side. This camp is different than down below, with no loud creek to drown out camp noises. Also the canyon sides are much higher and more remote, and if anything even more constraining than before. Morning won't come to this place until 10AM, and by 3PM the Sun has already disappeared behind the west wall. Only to the north is the vista clear, beyond the mouth of this huge-but-short southern side canyon.

Energy is surging in my veins and I refuse to slouch about in this dark cooler of a campground all afternoon. Bright sunshine is clearly visible down on the extended Tonto Platform in the center of the main Canyon and I remember passing an easy trail spur out to Plateau Point when I first arrived here on the third day. Now it is time, and past time, to visit the principal shrine of this photogenic Eco-Mecca of a Canyon.

The entire spur is less than two miles of easy wide horse trail from the Gardens, gently descending out to the middle of the Big Space overlooking the Inner Gorge. The air is cool but not yet cold, so the boots are cast aside in favor of my trusty Keen water sandals which are like regular sandals on steroids. Despite a deliberately lackadaisical pace I arrive at the Point with full sun still shining, giving me time to take it all in.

Plateau Point essentially stands on the edge of a 1000 foot vertical cliff with the river almost directly below. Obviously some folks have trouble with this arrangement, so a sturdy iron fence has been installed at the "best" spot where the vertigo-challenged may clutch onto it with white-knuckled hands. (the one shown in the photo is just a horse rail) I don't happen to suffer from this particular mental malady so I sidle around beyond the 'safe zone', daring the cool capricious breezes to snatch me from my high perch.

Tonight is the night of the full moon and I intend to remain here, witnessing its rise from the heart of the Canyon. Trouble is it's too soon yet, and the thwarted breezes are having their revenge by chilling me down. Most of the others have gone off by now except for a couple of guys from some South American country. They have no problem as they whip out a soccer ball and start practicing their moves up on the small hilltop behind the point. I have no ball so I hike off across the scrub along the edge of the gorge.

A few minutes of wending among the low blackbush and slabby rocks near the edge does warm me a bit and I'm thinking of turning back when I spy a non-natural object on the ground ahead. It's just a little one foot high Christian Cross, formed of two wooden dowels with the crossbar passing thru a hole in the larger upright. The wood looks very old and bent with small bits missing here and there. It's planted straight into the dirt between the loose cobbles, mere feet from that tremendous drop.

What does this Cross signify? Is it a memorial to someone who fell here? A cremation burial perhaps, with ashes scattered over the edge to the waiting river far below? There's no way to know. In a more somber and reflective mood I return to the Point, awaiting moonrise.

Somehow the time passes more easily now, and to help things along the Canyon stages its evening ritual before my unbelieving eyes. All those cliffs and temples across the way are now burning red with the unobstructed sunset light and as the deep shadows from below start to rise and claim the heights, I can't tear my eyes away. I've never seen this sight before and it's overwhelming from such an ideal vantage.

While blinking to wet my dazzled orbs, something small catches their gaze. It's a bird, high over the Inner Gorge and rising in lazy circles. There's something kinda funny about this bird, and I realize that its turning radius is very slow and wide. It's also terribly far away to be so clearly visible.

This is no ordinary buzzard, it's a condor! Higher and higher above it climbs, far into the darkening sky, seeking the altitude needed to reach some remote nesting cave high on the rim wall. Soon the black bird is lost in the gloom and the lightshow is nearly done, leaving me to continue my quiet vigil. The wind has died and I sit a long time watching the rimwalls slowly go dark.

The soccer guys are still up on the hill, so finally I go back to say hi and warm up. Passing the time, I employ a compass and some basic astronomical knowledge to foretell that the moon will rise directly over far-off Cape Royal to the east. Like a conjuring trick, Old Luna soon obediently appears, spang on top of that distant bluff! What a call. I expect to hear coyotes greet the moon, but they are strangely silent. Perhaps it's too early in the year?

Now the light is brightening again and I head back towards the campground, lost in the total blackness of the big side canyon far ahead. No need for a flashlight now; all things here are clearly picked out by the silvery rays. The walk back is uneventful until just before entering the shadows, when a mixed group of fifteen young-adult backpackers comes out along the trail. They ask me about the way to Horn Creek, and as they go off on their happy moonlit journey I wonder how all those bodies can ever fit into the postage-stamp-sized campground I once shared with Seth. Well, they'll work it out somehow.

Plunging into the darkness of the Gardens camp area, I discover that my budds have already gone to bed. It's only 8PM, sheesh! I attempt to make dinner very quietly and then bed down for the night. Tomorrow is the big day.

Day Seven, or "Into The Heavens"

Once again day dawns very cold, and this time we can't expect any sun for a long time. The trip out from here is only 4.6 miles so it should take me less than six hours. Therefore I let things drag until 10AM when the Sun strikes us at last. Now it's time to take my leave of the Mule Meat gang since they are resting up for another day here, probably for Phil's benefit. I hate to leave them but one has commitments, so there is nothing for it but to tackle the infamous Upper Bright Angel Trail and subdue it to my will.

As the Sun finally reaches us, Phil takes up a small wooden receptacle with a bit of white birch from the Dakotas smoldering within. Speaking in very fluent Lakotan he offers lengthy thanks, facing in turn the Four Directions and asking good fortune for the day's hikers. (Phil repeats much of the prayer again in English for our benefit) I gather that Phil performs this ceremony every day and I feel privileged to witness it.

Then it is Time, and at long last I turn to face my Nemesis. You can't see the top of Bright Angel Trail from here without leaning over backwards and that's risky with a pack on, so I avoid doing that. (actually, you can't see the trail up there anyway 'cause it's much too far away)

By now my once-decrepit legs have developed some mighty thews, thus presenting a golden opportunity to display serious physicality in a very public and energetic way. Let's pray that it's all I display this day.

At first the trail is fairly mellow uphill work until the easy canyon ends and the mule ladders begin. These are just small logs set across the trail every 10 feet or so which help retain the dirt that would otherwise quickly erode off the trail. The grade is semi-steep, but at a slow pace I'm able to maintain a rhythm, climbing slowly thru the many geological layers. A few others are also climbing and a couple of mule trains come thru about midway up. Did you know that the mules get frequent rest breaks going up this trail? Well they do.

Another fun fact is that mules can apparently contain a small ocean of water which sooner or later must come out. Those water bars on the trail don't just retain dirt, they also retain water quite well sometimes and the occasional "trail-lake" must be negotiated with care. Where do they keep it all?

At about 2PM, fallen snow begins to make an appearance trailside but it's very minor and not a concern. I won't be using those nifty lightweight crampons I purchased in the village before the descent, darn it. Oh well. Higher up the snow is thicker but it's also mixed with dirt churned up by the mules, so my crampon skills remain untested.

Now there are a lot more "hikers" coming down from above for a look-see and most have inadequate clothing for the conditions, particularly after 3PM when the Sun stops shining down for good. Some of the more impulsive/fit/dumb ones will go all the way to the Gardens and then the shiza will hit the fan as they struggle up a 3500 foot climb in rapidly cooling and darkening conditions. Many will complete the climb long after dark, fingers and earlobes buzzing with the cold. At least I assume they will, since I have heard no recent reports of frozen bodies found along the trail in the morning.

This trail is extremely seductive at the top end and it only gets better the lower you go, resembling a lobster trap; easy to enter but hell getting out.

That's not my problem tho as I step out onto the cement landing, very tired but with a surprising amount of leftover energy. Off to the side there's an old brown house on the edge, the famous Kolb Studio. Nowadays it's a bookstore with an alcove that seems to hang out in space. I had just come from the Canyon and even I had trouble approaching that picture window!

After getting a book or two I mosey on over to the main promenade where even this early in the season there are dozens of gawkers strewn about. If it's like that now, what must it be like in May? I shudder to think of it. This grotesque vision is dispersed as a couple of sweet sixteenish girls approach me and ask about the feasibility of their "going to the river." Keeping a tight rein, I patiently explain that it's nearly 4PM and they have no warm clothes, no boots, no packs, nothing but beautiful smiles. After pointing them toward a nice stopping place twenty minutes down the trail, I head into the Bright Angel Lodge for a tall cold brew.

I get the beer and go to a big window facing the setting sun where to my surprise I meet those same two older people I chatted with during Stew at Phantom Ranch, four days ago! They came up on the mules right away but decided to rest at the Lodge a few days, making our reunion possible. Happily we renew our acquaintance and chat about recent experiences.

Too soon I must leave to take the evening bus out to my van at Hermit's Rest, so I bid my old/new friends adieu. Throwing the pack across one shoulder I stride majestically to the bus stop like some grizzled hulking prospector out of legend, arriving just as the final evening bus pulls up. John's Miracle Luck strikes again! I had just assumed there was plenty of time, but with luck like this who needs to pay attention?

No vacation I've taken (barring one certain trip with a friend) has ever approached this one in sheer enjoyment. Sure, luck played a part but it's more than that. The Grand Canyon seems to exert a subtle influence on all who pass below its rims and stay there any length of time. While you're Inside, the rest of the world almost ceases to exist. You can't see out and there is a big physical barrier between the two worlds. People sense this instinctively and it changes their attitudes and behaviors, mostly for the better.

Maybe it's different in summer but in winter the folks you meet in the Canyon are usually dedicated outdoor types. These are the very people who are most likely to feel and respond to the inner magic that runs like an invisible river throughout this place, leaving nothing and no one untouched.

Soon the bus (with me as the only passenger) stops at Hermit's Rest and I find my trusty vehicle waiting patiently. The horizon is rising to block the Sun but before I go, time for one long last look into the dark Canyon. Big sigh.

There is no doubt at all that I'll be back again, count on it.

Big John
March 2007