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As I write this, it has been two weeks since I returned from the Grand Canyon. Not a day has passed since that my thoughts haven’t been drawn back to its immense depths. I close my eyes and revel in images that co-opt my consciousness. It was only six days on the trail, but no other landscape has inscribed itself so indelibly on my consciousness.

Only a few weeks before the trip, my friend, Rick, presented an opportunity that I could hardly refuse, a week in the Grand Canyon backcountry. I had already taken off a good amount of time this year and was saving what little was left of my vacation, but this was something I had always dreamed of doing. It could also extend the waning summer into early fall, and, besides, life was meant to be lived. Rick’s long-time friend Larry had organized a trip and had spaces. Larry’s friend Dave rounded out the party. This would be Dave’s first weeklong backpacking trip. Larry was the only one of us who had been to the canyon before.

My companions all had their favorite individual sleeping systems, leaving me with an excuse to feed my gear habit. Before the trip I purchased yet another tent, this time a single person model that would save me some weight over the lightest two-person shelter I already had. I have to admit that the thought of scorpions, spiders, and mice crawling on me or in my gear at night gives me the creeps, so I opted for a tent instead of a lighter tarp which would otherwise work fine in the climate of the inner canyon where we would spend all but one night.

Day 0, October 6, 2001:

We arrive at the east entrance of Grand Canyon National Park and park the car at the first overlook, Desert View. This is both Rick’s and my first view of the canyon, reifying what we have only experienced vicariously through pictures. A stone tower surveys the canyon from here. On my way to the tower I pass a group of tourists circled around an evil looking spider that is modeling for their cameras. I take this as confirmation that bringing a tent was the right decision. Rick and I climb the tower for a more commanding view. We would later learn that this tower served as a watchful sentinel that surveyed almost our entire route, serving as a distant reminder of civilization. Having taken our first breath of the canyon, we head for the village and our last night in a bed at the basic but comfortable Maswick Lodge.

At the village we obtain our permit at the backcountry ranger office and pump the rangers for information about our route. We had to change our original route just one week before because of the complete lack of water in the seasonal creeks. It has been especially dry. The rangers are friendly and patient as we pepper them with questions. Their appreciation of the canyon is obvious, adding to our anticipation. Their data is reasonably current as it was brought back by one of them who just did a route similar to ours. Our primary concern is the availability of water other than at the Colorado River. Water is the single heaviest item in our packs and the less we have to carry, the better.

Our route takes us down from the south rim on the Tanner Trail to the Colorado. The permit has us staying upriver from Tanner Rapids on the Beamer Trail a mile or two for two nights. The permit system is designed to evenly distribute backpackers and their impact across different use areas. Then we head back down-river, past Tanner Rapids along the Escalante Route. It’s called a route rather than a trail as it is unmaintained and not officially marked. Our exit takes us up Hance Creek and out the Grandview Trail. Larry traveled this route 20 years ago and guarantees that it will be unforgettable. (We would later learn that the route was not as hard as the guidebooks would have you believe. A reasonable level of backpacking experience, fitness, and a taste for heights is sufficient.)

Day 1:

The parking lot at the Tanner trailhead is mostly empty in the early morning. As we get our packs together, a woman offering a box of raisins approaches us, her balance unsteady either through intoxication or a medical condition, we cannot tell. We politely refuse. Our food supplies have been carefully planned and nobody is willing to carry any more weight than necessary. She asks us where we are headed. We give her a rough outline of our route. Oddly enough, this is one of the most incredible things she has ever heard. Clearly excited, she retrieves her camera from the car and clicks away multiple shots of us as we prepare our gear. She says to her companion, "I’ve got to show this to mom. She’ll never believe this." I think we made her day. Feeling not only like a tourist attraction but also heroes, at least in some small way, we begin the steep decent down the Tanner Trail with the woman still clicking pictures as we depart.

The view from the south rim is so vast as to be abstract. You are completely above the canyon and experience it without being part of it, but soon after we drop below the rim, the canyon envelops us. We still have a lot of elevation to loose. Nevertheless its upper reaches have swallowed us into the landscape.

The trees on the initial drop thin as the trail’s pitch briefly relents. I’m at a knife-blade saddle above the start of the sharply cut gorge of Seventy-Five Mile Canyon, framed on the left by the 1600 feet of wall I just descended and Escalante Butte on the right. In three days we will descend the lower part of Seventy-five Mile Canyon as it leads to the Colorado. I’ve gotten ahead of the others so I find a rock to rest on and drink in the view. My knees are younger than theirs, making the descent easier for me. In time my companions arrive, and we continue down the gentler drainage on the east side of the saddle.

Our First Glimpse of the Colorado

The trail soon resumes its steep drop. A few miles from the bottom, the Colorado comes into view. It seems so close, but the distance is deceptive. We still have a ways to go. Noting that the afternoon is waning, Rick and I reach the bottom, nine miles from the start that felt like fifteen, 5000 feet and a span of a billion years of Earth’s past. Officially our permit requires us to go upriver another mile and a half, but the sun is just setting as Dave and Larry arrive and we are all beat. So we elect to "bootleg" and stay at the nearby Tanner Rapids, about ten minutes away. As if to soothe our weariness, the canyon bathes us in the warm red glow from the setting sun.

At camp we have to keep a watchful eye on the mice as we eat. These little critters are fearless and won’t even move when a boot clad foot looms inches over their heads. This is a popular overnight destination for backpackers as well as river parties, and the canyon's denizens have learned how to get the food.

Day 2:

Our destination today is only a mile and a half away, so we have a leisurely time of it before hitting the Beamer trail to head upriver. The tread climbs onto a shelf, the cliff on our left dropping to the river 100 feet below, the wall on our right topping out 30 feet above us. This is one of the most beautiful trails I have ever been on. The steep drop gives me the illusion of floating above the river, reflecting the blue sky off of its unusually clear waters. The inner canyon is wide enough here to afford an expansive view of both the north and south rims.

Upriver on The Beamer Trail

Our late start puts us on the trail during the hottest part of the day. It’s probably somewhere in the 90’s. A shady alcove in the cliff shelters us from the heat. While we relax here, we reflect on the mice from last night. Are we their gods, bringing manna from heaven, revealing ourselves as we will? Was that an act of faith when they fearlessly supplicated under our godly feet? Our conversation wanders. The landscape stirs our imagination, and we imagine ourselves remaining here, turning feral like the burros did years ago in the canyon. It all started with those four backpackers bootlegging in the wrong use area. Soon they threw all regulations to the wind. Their cars were found abandoned. Canyon visitors soon started reporting glimpses of canyon yeti, wild-eyed creatures wearing nothing but shreds of high-tech performance fabric, snatching unattended Gatorade bottles.

After our rest, we resume our short trek. Picking our way through the tamarisk, we find a suitable campsite on a beige sandy shore of the uncommonly blue Colorado. A Caribbean beach under an Arizona sky. It’s still hot, and the river is inviting. We strip off our dusty clothes and plunge into the cold water. On cue, a river party rounds the bend and even stops on the opposite bank. Lacking any shame, we continue unperturbed. Maybe we have turned feral after all. I wonder if the tourists in the tower at Desert View can see us through the coin-operated telescopes, first naked and now sitting on the shore, pumping water through our filters with a stroking action.

Day 3:

A cloudy, but unthreatening sky greets us this morning. It keeps the temperature down as we retrace our steps back downriver on the Beamer Trail. We pass our campsite from two nights before at Tanner Rapids. Here the Escalante Route begins. We cross the paths of two other backpackers and learn the news that the US has launched strikes on Afghanistan. Until now I had left the recent miasma from September, 11 behind, somewhere on the way to Arizona. The Canyon soon fills my psyche again and I am able to free my mind to of everything but this place. The trail between here and our campsite is unremarkable, allowing my gaze to wander the 360-degree view.

We arrive at another beachside camp near the dry bed of Cardenas Creek in the early afternoon, leaving plenty of time to relax and nap. The low sueek of rubber on rubber stirs me from my sleep. Through a cracked eyelid, a blue raft enters my view. It lands on the shore in front of me, soon followed by six more. My reverie has been broken. The river party is not unwelcome, however. While the rafts are an intrusion of the civilized world, we all arrived here nonmotorized, and all of the clients are here for the same reasons we are, to experience this place. They are on a 14-day float down the Canyon. I wonder if I could sit on a raft for that long and not go insane. Although, I am starting to imagine spending that much time and more trekking here, enclosed in the vast terrain of the Canyon. The party debarks for a day hike leaving a few on the beach. In full view, one of the female guides hikes her skirt and squats for a pee in the river. Before they embark for their own campsite at another beach, Dave sweet-talks some leftover chicken breasts out of the guides. They also offer us purified water so we don’t have to decant the river water that looks like chocolate milk today.

The sun dips towards the horizon, and we are again treated with a color show on the formations to the east. As is common on backpack trips, especially one consisting only of guys, conversation degenerates into the usual scatological comments and discussions of bodily functions. Unlike all of my trips in the Colorado mountains in the summer, the temperature in the inner canyon is easy with nighttime temperatures in the mid 60’s. This is in stark contrast to the 30’s and 40’s that prevail in the mountains back home where I have to bundle up, hurry through dinner, and get into a warm sleeping bag before using up all the calories I got out of my meal. This trip is the first time in a long time that I am able to relax at dinner and linger, gazing at the constellations, before retiring.

Day 4:

Our route today takes us about 1000 feet above the river and back down. Near the start the unmarked trail branches. Which way to go? We surmise that so long as the trail contours around above the river, we’ll be on the right track. Whether through dumb luck or sheer route finding prowess, we choose a correct path. After an initial climb we reach a ridge that gives us the last unobstructed view we will have of the broad slopes of the inner canyon upriver and the trail we have traveled for the last two days. As the ranger told us, this is a postcard view, but then again, what hasn’t been. We continue a gradual climb that contours around steeply exposed slopes. Yesterday we met a couple that turned around because of the exposure. This is probably the general area. As with every exposed section we have crossed so far, the danger is more perceived than it is real. While the scale of the wide-open terrain is so vast as to induce vertigo, the trail is solid and wide enough not to be a problem.

I spy where the trail tops out and am anxious to see what’s on the other side. Rick and I surge ahead and are not disappointed. At the top we gawk at a long stretch downriver where the canyon reveals itself with a different kind of beauty. The river has cut a deep gorge that stands in sharp contrast to its gentler passage upstream. Only by traveling deep into the canyon as we have is one granted this vision, a reward that is denied the more casual spectator on the rim.

We descend into Escalante Canyon. While beautiful, we know that this side canyon is only a shadow of what is to come. As soon as the canyon opens at the river, we climb back up and over to Seventy-five mile canyon. This slot canyon is so narrow that it does not come into view until we are right on top of it. We traverse the shelf above it on its eastern side until its tall walls give way. Rick and I arrive first and descend the short but walkable drop to the canyon floor.

Here we encounter our first obstacle, a steep 10-foot pour-off that is not really safe to descend with a pack. We unshoulder our packs, Rick climbs down, I lower the packs with utility cord, and follow. While we wait for our companions to arrive at this obstacle, I scout ahead down the canyon. It doesn’t take long before the sheer walls of this playground wrap around me. Aside from a few dark pools, the creek bed is dry. Hiking back, Dave and Larry spot me from the rim above. Once they get down the pour-off, we descend the canyon together. After climbing two slightly exposed sections around some pools, the canyon presents us with an unexpected test. A narrow cleft drops into a pool eight feet below. The only way around is to climb an exposed section above it. While we could probably climb this section without incident, not everybody in the party is feeling the same level of confidence on rock. A fall would likely result in broken bones, and a rescue from here would be a long time in coming. We decide to drop into the pool.

People who go canyoneering are used to swimming through these pools, but this is my first, and I have a little trepidation. The water in the last pool we climbed around had the color of used motor oil and there was a dead tarantula floating and pellet-sized scat on the surface. I know there’s nothing in these pools that could really hurt me, but some evolutionary vestige deep in my brain tells me to beware. I want to confront my fear, so I volunteer to drop into the pool and ferry the packs across. From the lay of the canyon floor, I can’t imagine the pool is very deep, but I have no way to tell. I zip off the legs of my pants and don my sandals. There are no handholds in the cleft in the floor and water has smoothed the sandstone, leaving little friction between me and the rock. After inching my way down, I can’t hold on any longer and have to take a leap of faith into the pool. There is no time to worry about amphibious canyon rattlesnakes with their pet tarantulas lurking just below the surface, in wait of unwary backpackers. Suddenly I splash into the water. It’s only three feet deep, but it’s cold. The depth is good news. Our packs will stay dry. Dave lowers the packs to me, one by one, using some cordage. After I ferry the packs across, the others toss their boots over. Everybody lowers and takes the same leap of faith without incident.

By now, it is late in the day. The sun is just setting, but we are near camp. While this last obstacle was not life threatening or even the most difficult thing any of us have ever done, something special has happened. We are all aglow from working together to overcome this obstacle, being in this unforgettable slot canyon, and having shared this beautiful day. I think it has created a bond between us that, even if we follow our own separate paths when we get back home, whenever we see each other, there will be a silent recognition of this moment.

Day 5.

Our permit is for six nights, and if we stick to it, we have to camp only a mile and a half away. Besides, if we stay all six nights, we will get back home late Sunday and have to go back to work the next day. That’s too sudden a reentry for any of us. So we decide to continue pass our allowed use area and bootleg farther on in Hance Canyon, about a third of the way above the river to the rim.

We leave our beachside campsite following the ambiguous path over the boulder-strewn banks of the Colorado that Rick scouted earlier this morning. Soon we reach the head of Papago Canyon. Unfortunately, entry into the canyon is blocked by a twenty-foot pour-off, preventing us from safely exploring its narrow spaces. The trail from here takes us up the precipitous cliffs above the river.

The initial climb has more exposure than I expected to encounter on this trip. I would have to rate parts of it a 5.0 on the rock climbing scale, doable by just about anybody even with a loaded pack, but the consequences of falling are great. The technical climb doesn’t last long, and the route continues higher over a rough path, topping out on a spit of rock that drops about 300 feet straight to the river. Even this far above the river, we are still dwarfed by the walls of the deeply cut gorge rising around us.

We descend back to the river down an extremely loose scree slope. I can’t help but think about a coworker of mine who died last year in a rockslide on scree. Rick and I have been maintaining a good pace and have lunch at the bottom as we wait for the others. It’s almost mid afternoon when we meet up with Dave and Larry, and we still have seven miles to go. There is just enough daylight left to make it. Neither Rick nor I relish the thought of negotiating cliffside trails in the dark. There is also no guarantee that there will be water in Hance Canyon. The ranger said it was flowing, but things change day to day. We don’t want to carry two days worth of water up there. If we arrive and there is no water, we’ll have to hike another mile and a half up a steep grade to get to Miner’s Spring. So in hopes of getting there early enough to get everything done, Rick and I tell the other guys that our plan is to go ahead, setup camp, filter water, have dinner, and then come back to lighten their loads if they haven’t arrived yet.

Rick and I climb the energy-sapping sand dunes above Hance Rapids to more solid ground. Before we turn up Mineral Canyon we pause to take in the last inner canyon vista we will have on this trip. Downriver the rock is more jagged and forbidding than we have seen so far as the river disappears between the canyon walls.

We travel up the easy tread on the east side of the broad Mineral Canyon and cross over, climbing out to the top of the next canyon to the west, Hance Canyon. The sun is low, casting a warm light on Vishnu Temple, dominating the north side of this section of the Grand Canyon. Jagged fins overlap each other in the narrow depths of Hance Canyon below us as it leads to the river. With the glowing light and dramatic setting I feel like I’m in a Maxfield Parrish painting. All that’s missing is the girl with the flowing gown gazing into the distance. Rick is a poor substitute. Once again the scale of the scene seems unreal. The distant formations so completely fill my vision that my mind deceives me into believing I could reach out and touch them. I know when this trip is long over, I'll always be able to close my eyes and return to this scene.

It’s getting dark as we hike up the rim of Hance Canyon. The trail clings to the edge of the shelf that sometimes overhangs the canyon. By the time the canyon gets shallow enough for the trail to cross over, the sun has set. Rick and I quickly find a campsite. There is water in Hance Creek, albeit a trickle. While we filter water, a mouse is raiding the snacks in my pack. When I get back I see the mouse and a hole in the pouch I carry my snacks in. Mice haven’t been a problem since Tanner Rapids, but this looks like a frequently visited site that the mice have gathered at to worship the giant food bringers.

We set up camp, cook dinner, and rehydrate. It’s about 8:30 now and Dave and Larry haven’t shown up. We arrived at about 6:00. We know Dave and Larry are both capable. Nevertheless our concern causes us to imagine different scenarios that would explain their absence. Did they get part of the way up Mineral Canyon and decide to turn back around to get water and camp by the river. Would they somehow have decided to go up Red Canyon instead? Maybe they are almost here. We don’t have much information to go on, but we conclude that no matter where they are, they are probably safe. The most likely scenario is that they decided to spend the night somewhere along the trail. If this is the case, they will need water in the morning.

Because they will probably need water and we said we would come back down the trail to meet them, Rick and I strap on our headlamps and head back with six liters of water. Given my encounter with the mouse and the rustling we heard around our campsite, we elect to carry our food with us in our packs. It’s a good thing we familiarized ourselves with this trail while it was still light. As the trail skirts the drop-offs, the light from our headlamps disappears into an abyss. We haven’t seen any sign of them after an hour on the trail. Both of us are getting sleepy. Not wanting to break the silence of the night, we reluctantly blow calls on our whistles. No response. We write a note and place it on the water bag in the middle of the trail. They should find it in the morning. I’m asleep as soon as I hit my sleeping bag back at camp.

Day 6:

As Rick and I sit at breakfast, we hear a whistle. I answer. Soon Dave and Larry stroll into camp. I don’t think they had a very comfortable night, but they are happy to find us and to have found the water along the way. Rick and I are relieved they are safe and that we didn’t have to go back again to search for them.

This is our last day, and I want to drink in every last drop of this place. After an initial gradual climb, the trail steepens and takes an exposed route up a cliff over tight switchbacks. Somehow copper miners once found this area profitable enough to negotiate the tortuous terrain. The exposure makes it slow going for Larry, troubled by an unexpected acrophobia that developed on this trip, culminating at this point. We all know turning around is not an option and work through it together to make it to the top.

We are now on the Grandview Trail. This is a popular day hike, and even though it is seldom maintained, it is a veritable sidewalk under our weary feet compared to the trail of the past days. As we near the rim, we are in shadow. A cloudless western horizon passes the last long rays of the sun, filtered through the haze of a forest fire on the north rim, painting the canyon red, casting deep shadows, another vision I will not soon forget. On the rim I gaze back on our route. The sun has set, but a soft pink light remains.

Day 7:

The snow storm on Vail Pass on the way home is too incongruous. I choose to ignore it and draw on a reservoir of good memories from this unforgettable trip. There will be time enough for snow. For now my thoughts remain in the canyon.

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