Recently my eldest daughter Meredith and I stood on the floor of the Grand Canyon and witnessed what the waters of the Colorado River had carved for millions and millions of years. We stood rock bottom, as day was breaking, and we could see the upheaval of the earth…the history of things and the story told by water, wind, rain, and snow.
And time. Mostly time.
Did you know that some of the exposed walls of the Grand Canyon are billions of years old?
Being there makes you feel so small. And humble.
But I am getting a bit ahead of myself here! Our trip to the canyon wasn’t about rocks and erosion. Rather, it was the culmination of a motivation: do something audacious and daring. Something risky…an extreme mental and physical challenge.
Why?
Let’s start there. Three years ago, I sat in my living room, fat, frustrated and bored. I was going nowhere. Worse, I watched as Meredith struggled, navigating COVID and the chaos of her early 20s years. When they’re young you can move the obstacles and clear the path, but the bittersweet part of parenting is that you get to watch them grow up and make mistakes – and no amount of words, warnings, and wisdom can make a difference. I needed to be a better parent. And that started by being a better person, and showing them – Meredith and Abigail, my youngest, the possibilities.
But still…the grand canyon? Yeah. It was perfect because it was flat out the craziest thing I heard of doing, and a symbolic adventure for life: You knowingly walk down 6,000 ft, into a canyon, trudge across it, then go up – straight up – 5,000 ft. Do that and you know you have the grit to climb out of just about any of life’s canyons.
Getting There is the Hardest Part
So this was not an impromptu thing. It took years to plan, from finances to availability, permits, lottery, and training. I carefully organized every aspect of each day. To do it in the time we had, we’d have to fly to Vegas, and drive 260 miles across Nevada and Utah to the North Rim of the GC. Then do the hike. Especially because it was summer, we had to carefully consider our equipment and timing. Electrolytes and 3L of water, with trail food and cotton shirts! If we made it up the South Rim – 25 miles away from the start – by 1 pm the next day, we could take a 4-hour shuttle back to the North Rim to pick up the car.
That shuttle was not the most fun experience one can have, BTW.
And by the way, For any of you aspiring to do this sort of thing…hiking sites lie! Hard means impossible, moderate means hard, and easy means moderate – but it could also mean hard depending on the site…and you will never really know. After months of research, the most accurate source of truth I found was a google doc I stumbled on, created by a random hiker and attached to a comment on social media…from 2018. The best advice I got was from a friend who had never done the hike. Ever. He was just guessing.
Planning the hike brought into focus another problem: fear. People die doing this hike. In fact, in the past month, three hikers have perished on this same trail. It’s sobering. And as we were wrapping up planning, the news of a grand canyon fatality hit us hard. A local man, about my age, didn’t make it through the canyon … a result of the heat. My wife Christina looked at me, and said “Are you actually kidding me with this?” Just stop and re-think what you’re doing here please.” And it did make me think: am I really ready for this? What am I doing, taking my kid into a situation fraught with wild card dangers? What kind of parent am I, to do this? Self-doubt ruled.
But I knew this was the thing. I went back to the drawing board, more determined than ever but also focused on timing: this crazy rim to rim hike had to be in May, early June, or October. I set my sights on the last week of May, and ended up with a hike start date of June 4th. The forecast called for 70 degrees on the rim – 90 in the canyon. Perfect! Or so I thought.
The Hike – down to the canyon
We didn’t know about the heat dome that arrived on the west coast, the day before the hike. And we didn’t learn that it would sit on top of Arizona for the entire time we were there, sending canyon temperatures soaring past 110. We were prepared. But then no one can ever really prepare to hike 25 miles in 110-degree weather.
It’s hard to describe what it’s like to hike from the north rim to the south rim. Words like Beautiful or rugged don’t accurately convey it. I suppose it’s like walking from one world to another: you start at 8,000 ft among pine trees and greenery. You end in the dirty brown and beige of the desert. In between it’s a moon scape, seared and blackened by the sun and carved out by water.
At first it’s a breeze. A cool weather stroll, and an easy downhill jaunt. But then the trail gets steeper and the sun comes up and starts to climb, while you continue to head into the belly of the canyon.
After a couple hours you feel blisters coming into shape, and your legs are screaming for some flat ground. The farther down you go, the hotter it gets, and before long there are no more pine trees and no more waterfalls. Just the sun, beating down.
About halfway down, Meredith twisted her ankle. Bad enough to stop? No. We kept going.
Along the way we encountered two old hikers shuffling down the North Rim. They were falling down, tripping over rocks; their pants and shirts torn. We asked: “Are you okay?” The oldest of the old hikers laughed at me and said “yeah, well, we’ll find our down – or not.”
I could relate to that. The hardest part of this hike is the mental torture you put yourself through. They say that walking down is optional – walking up is mandatory. And they’re not wrong. By the time you get to the bottom of the canyon you’re tired, in pain, and maybe a little scared. You are also irrevocably committed.
By the time we got down the bottom, we were begging for an uphill trail – the pounding on our legs was excruciating. Meredith’s ankle was worse – but we were past the point of return. The heat had cancelled the mules on the north rim — and a helicopter rescure was not an option for a sprained ankle. We could camp, or we could rest, ice, add some compression, and get back on the trail.
Onward!
Chapter 4: The Box
The area of the grand canyon that sits between the north rim and the Colorado River is called the Box, because that’s where you are on flat ground with no shade, and where the canyon walls narrow into the world’s most brutal oven. This is where most people die, or begin to truly suffer from heat stroke. It’s also one of the most beautiful places on earth. These massive and ancient canyon walls soar up from the floor of the canyon, black from the heat, as the Roaring Spring flows right through – doing its imperceptible and relentless work.
Here’s the start of the box.
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sTVmuwLcsvmj6LWa_fJhCRVLwjG4Ib8l/view?usp=sharing
https://drive.google.com/file/d/1sTVmuwLcsvmj6LWa_fJhCRVLwjG4Ib8l/view?usp=sharing
We made it through by staying wet, by soaking our clothes and floating in the creek and staring up at the massive walls. We made it through by taking our time and staying within ourselves. Stop and wonder. Go forth with care. Sit in the creek and soak. I am sure that the temperature in the BOX hit 120 while we were in it. Yet it was nonetheless my favorite memory, and one I will cherish forever. I just can’t express the wonder of floating in a creek between two blackened and massive canyon walls.
Chapter 5: Phantom Ranch and the River
To my mind, making it through the Box and arriving at Phantom Ranch, and the Colorado River, meant that we had made it through. Yes we still had miles to go. But how hard could 6 or so miles be, after a meal and good night’s rest? It was time to celebrate but instead we fell asleep on a picnic table waiting for a dinner of beef stew (perfect potatoes, too much corn) and lemonade. In the morning, we crossed the Colorado River and stood on the Silver Bridge, and witnessed the work of the river. The moment was epic. It was transcendent. In that moment, with the sun not yet peeking over the canyon, with the Colorado river flowing beneath, I felt like I could do anything – anything at all.
This feeling doesn’t go away:
https://drive.google.com/file/d/19lp6_iKW7WoI_Sk-5Gw7p2w28ekcE-F2/view?usp=sharing
Chapter 6: The Climb
That feeling didn’t last long. Once we crossed the bridge we started to climb. And climb. And climb some more. The sun cooked us at a temp of 110, with no shade except from boulders. We reached Havasupai Gardens, met a rattlesnake, and began to climb through the Devil’s Corkscrew – so named for its 100 or so switchbacks and over 1,000-foot climb in about a mile. In total the climb out is about 5,000 feet up over about 9 miles.
This video sort of sums it up
https://drive.google.com/file/d/17Ozvyd00Wp4Nya9WgWsQwvbxzFoxT_GK/view?usp=sharing
During my moment of crisis on the way up, I learned that there are approximately 7,800 steps from the 3-Mile Rest House to the Trailhead; I know this because I counted each in excruciating detail. I am not ashamed to say that it is the only way I made it up to the top of the rim. For those last three miles, I counted 250 steps. Rested. Then 250 more. And again, until the top.
Chapter 7: Lessons
Lots of different people do this hike. It’s a bucket list item for many people. Many do it often, and others do it in just a day. I am amazed at that because for me it was an extreme mental and physical test: the pounding intensity of this experience brought unique joy and suffering driven by a purely basic proposition. Simple enough, right? Not really. The reality is that it’s not the 25 miles, or the 5,000 ft. climb. Or even the heat. It’s the unexpected boulders, the changes that get shoved in your way that force you to adapt.
You make a plan – create a baseline. But then everything changes. That baseline is what helps you adapt, change, and succeed. We didn’t know about the heat dome. Or the sprained ankle. Or, really, the true brutal nature of the hike. The adventure didn’t happen the way we planned it. There were crises. The challenges were greater, the moments more fraught with both joy and worry. It was up to us to adapt, reframe, and carry on.
You walk down into a canyon billions of years old, walk across it, up, and out. In the process you put yourself to the questions. Find your answers. And live with the lessons.
As for Meredith, I know that the grit she showed through that ancient canyon is a reminder of her character, and that the experience will pay dividends of confidence and resilience. That no matter how deep her canyons get through life, she has the power and will to climb out — and onward.
For me I learned about how strength comes from broken moments; about how difficult it can be to adapt to those unexpected changes — and how the way forward is through deliberate steps under the sun.