Old Madam's Grand Canyon

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Old Madam’s Grand Canyon


There will never be adequate words for the Grand Canyon. “Monstrous, amazing, big-ass scary and overwhelming” come pitifully close. I live 90 minutes from the Grand Canyon and last year I was repeatedly asked, “have you been in it?” So I had to go. Now the Big C and I have an intense intimate relationship. The darkest rocks at the bottom call-come on down. It’s a combo creator and destroyer, lover and taskmaster. And worth it.

I prefer a day in the woods or on water to anything else. Any day in the forest is a good one. So to begin my Canyon Adventures I started at my namesake “Honan Point” on the North Rim, west end of the Walhalla Plateau. The North is wilder: higher, colder, has fewer people and big wide meadows full of wildlife. Both rims are designed to kill you but here you won’t be found as quickly. NOTE: A little known secret, camp for free in the National Forest outside the Park boundaries on both the North and South Rims.

Having a worthless map and instructions that turn out to be old from the Internet, I parked at the curve leading down to Cliff Springs. A nice, short but steep hike leading to a dripping spring above stinging nettles and below ancient ochre handprints made by people either 7 feet tall or standing on top of each other.

A gingerly step across the mud to the path continues past toward the canyon and danger. There are footprints but a steep cliff going nowhere. Going as far as safety allowed in increasingly hot, near 100-degree f weather, I decided not a good way to go. After a hot strenuous workout I was back at the car to gather more information before attempting Honan Point again. Continuing to Point Royale and the other North Rim overlooks, you see an entirely different side of the Canyon, far fewer people, many of whom are not willing to get too near the sides. It’s steep and scary and a good gust of wind will make you panic.

My campground is nestled near the Arizona Trail, just outside the Park boundary and filled with aspens, pines and lush plants I can’t name. Despite birds gathering around to make sure they pooped in my drinking water, it’s entirely safe and quiet. No skunks, no cougars, no crazy people.

A second attempt at Honan Point, armed with a USGS map, takes me up a “snow white in the woods” canyon filled with flood debris, overhanging limbs and steep cliffs on either side that force me to climb 60 degrees up rock ledges calling out to snakes so they know I’m there. The map contours belie the difficulty and after 2 hours I make it to the last ravine from the Point. To complete the journey, alone in a remote area where I have no idea if there’s cell coverage, I would have to cross another steep canyon down and over, but not being too dim I decide to use the zoom and take a nice picture rather than risk my life alone in the middle of nowhere.

Going back and looking for an easier way down I discover two things: no map can show you the real lay of the land with rocks and brush and one should only hike alone with divine protection. Which I had. I was led down a disused logging road to a cliff with another 60-degree angle nearby so I could walk sideways down, then another sheer cliff leading me down a drainage filled with debris and hopefully no hidden snakes. Despite my advance planning, it was scary and difficult and the poster warning of cougars was on a limb facing the way out, not in.

Giving myself a C+ on my first goal, I next made reservations for a mule trip down the Bright Angel Trail to Phantom Ranch. Normally you can’t get Phantom reservations on a whim, but mule trips are different. For about $500 you can spend 13 hours in sheer terror, give yourself a pain in the butt for a week and meet God all over again, as you won’t stop praying all the way down and back.

My mount was Belle (name changed to protect the herd), who likes to munch a buffet on the trail even if the green is over a cliff and she leans me headlong into the Canyon. The mule folks give you a bota bag which holds as much as a 2 liter plastic bottle, but is impossible to use tied around the saddle horn as you lean back with heels down to keep balance, keep the mule in line and not have a panic attack. It’s steep and the farther you go, it gets narrower. Being on top of a large mule with a mind of her own is not much fun when you “park” facing the abyss. There’s a little over 3 miles of hell before it evens out, a bit. The hikers will look at your either longingly or with disdain; they have no idea of the fear and pain involved.

Half way down is a break at Indian Gardens with grey thugs disguised as squirrels. Just like monkeys in India, aggressive thieves. Luckily my rabies shots are still good and after losing my Oreos, which I really wanted, I was able to wrestle food back from one. The shock on that little vermin’s face was precious.

After Indian Gardens it’s lush and green with a stream aside the trail until a narrow cliff: Little Jesus, a hairpin turn leading to the Devil’s Corkscrew. This aptly named feature winds down with sharp turns for several miles and affords no end of palpitations on a large animal that does not care if you stay on. There was little opportunity to take a photo from atop Belle who wanted eat, bite the mule in front and kick the one in back. Toward the bottom of this treeless feature you first hear the sound of the Colorado River roaring ahead. This gave me hope for my backside and knees that it would soon be over. No luck.

There’s over 2 miles more to the farther black bridge over the river to Phantom. Mules won’t cross the closer silver bridge as the floor of it is an open grate; they won’t step on anything that’s not solid. I would thoroughly understand this later. I had to apologize to Belle for one little snap of the strop. She never needed coaxing to go forward or harass the other mules, but at a pit stop I did use the “encourager” and shouldn’t have as she was only holding up the group to pee. I felt terrible even though she was doing her best to ignore me. Now I have to admit that I have experience on horses and even did some inadvertent and deliberate stunts, falling off and hitting a mark, dragging behind and doing a picturesque rearing up, so I got in the habit of smacking her lightly on the neck instead of using the bit for 6 hours for control. After our hours long battle of wills we finally entered the tunnel to the bridge. I was exhausted and had to admit she’d worn me out.

Phantom Ranch is an amazing oasis over 9 miles down, just up from the River and with a cool flowing stream of its own, the Bright Angel. It is perfect for steeping in to cure butts and knees. We dismounted, found our cabins and began to explore. The temperature at the bottom is desert hot and in August it will be over 100 at times. The ambitious and clueless are there-- having hiked, some with triumph and some with unprepared fear and dread for now they are acutely aware they have to return somehow to the top.

The cabins are quaint with see through walls, deer saunter near unafraid, birds look for what they can steal and the squirrels find us terribly annoying and scold crazily. The afternoon is free and the snack bar open till 4 when a ranger gives a talk and the canteen closes to get ready to serve two sittings at dinner. You have 3 choices: stew, steak or vegetarian stew. Most of our gang had steak, in fact it’s a big selling point, go to Phantom on a mule, stay in a cabin and have a steak dinner. The veg chili is only charming the first time; otherwise it’s boring, usually cold and extremely expensive. Meals are served family style have quick hands or you’ll go without.

After dinner there’s another ranger talk and…beer. In fact, the Phantom Ranch canteen is all about beer. It’s $5.50 a can, as is a glass of wine, and you’d think it’s Octoberfest everyday. Everything served is muled down and all the empties are muled up so the cost is as much as bootleggers get on the rez. Be sure and spend the extra to send postcards by mule back home, and one to yourself, as a souvenir.

The next morning the breakfast is just as overpriced and disappointing but hey, you’re in a rare place. After a scrambled egg and some canned peaches I’m out the door and there’s my Belle waiting. They say going up is easier but I have a feeling of dread for some reason and we’re off.

About 1 mile down the trail along the river, Belle decides to run up a cliff lusting after some greenery and I have to plant my feet down and rise up in the saddle to pull her over to safety. She’s really full of it. We finally trudge up the corkscrew and past the granary cliffs toward Indian Gardens in silence and pain. My knees are killing me, my saddle is off kilter. The thieves surround, look to your right and left, there’s a squirrel on sentinel. I notice a mule panting in the descending group. The wrangler tells me he’s always doing that because he’s fat. After a brief rest, we pour water on ourselves and start up. The wrangler chanting “UP MULES, UP!” I still feel dread and 2 miles up was to find out why. Another mule, angry and hobbled blocked the trail. He separated our group and got sideways in front of Belle with no more than 3 feet between the canyon wall and oblivion. Whoever he was, she did not like him and proceeded to rear up, just like in the movies, and step backward.

In hindsight, I guess that’s why I got her. I pulled back on the reins and pushed down on the stirrups solidly holding her in place with all the mastery I could as she attempted to jump and fight. A dad and son on the animals behind me luckily stayed still.

Another wrangler finally made his way to the miscreant who started this and moved the larger animal to the side; we edged by slowly, without tumbling over the trail to the canyon below.

Ride over, Belle and I parted company. Would I do it again? IF I was a regular rider and I knew the animal, yes. Even though mules have a sense of self-preservation horses don’t and have been on these trails for over 100 years, it’s a hard way to go. Next time, which will be in a month, I’ll boat.

River trips are the BEST. I’m a nut for boats and any water. The only down side is there’s the same vegetarian food curse on these trips too. You can book a Colorado River trip fairly easily with commercial firms from April to October. But get ready to get wet, sandy, stinky and close to a bunch of strangers you can’t escape. There will be a lot of drinking and perkiness, and teens unless you make sure you book when school is in session. Grab those Pringles before the little monsters get to them or they’re gone.

River trips are expensive. Mine started at the Holiday Inn in Flagstaff where you can have a free breakfast, but don’t. My complimentary yogurt was obviously stored above the optimum temperature and almost ended my trip with the trots. I was fortunate we had to stop once before leaving town and almost bribed the driver to stop again in Cameron, the halfway point, when he pulled over on his own. Empty and okay, I determined not to drink anything more for the day, having learned in India – nothing in, nothing out.

Lees Ferry is a hub of outdoorsy folks hiking, fishing, loading up massive boats for the adventure to come. The water out of Glen Canyon Dam is so clear you can see the trout below. This won’t last long.

While they recommend you not bring a good camera, ignore them. You’ll need a nice digital and it won’t get ruined if you’re careful. I took their recommendation and regretted it.

We are a total of 13, 3 crew a few families and some friends; I’m the only solo and only local. In fact, most locals don’t take these trips but wait until they make friends with a river runner. The wages in Northern Arizona are notoriously dismal and the cost of housing on a par with Aspen.

Those of us who live here know that river runners are notoriously LIARS and FLIRTS and thoroughly entertaining; it’s required. My goal is to enjoy the river and try not to ruin anyone else’s trip by being unsociable but they are so damn gabby and clueless about what they are looking at and I attempt to only add to information and not be a smart ass but I’m not sure I succeeded.
We launch. The first small rapids are just below Lee’s at the confluence of the Paria River and from here on the Colorado will look like chocolate milk and even in mid-summer be freezing COLD.

Under the Navajo Bridge the only riders getting a good shot of a nesting pair of California Condors have brought a decent camera.

The river descends and the walls change higher and stranger as each layer shows off. We stop or camp on tiny beaches filled with ants, scorpions, blue herons, salt cedar and surrounded by higher and higher cliffs. Springs and waterfalls leap from the walls, the rapids bounce and delight. One must pee in the river and poop in the “duke” a large ammo can with a toilet seat on top, set apart from the camp. The signal it’s occupied is the toilet paper is with the user. Very private, and I’m now used to going in the woods so the only concern is not to sit on the wrong thing or impale yourself.

Luckily I took the care to specifically make a very simple veg food request, easy to do and inexpensive. However, they had fungi and goo so not believing their office people was a good thing, I ate my own protein bars throughout the trip.

At Saddle Canyon beach, I changed my mind about the group hike as my big name river shoes were not up to the task and my hiking shoes were packed away. Under a cedar I found something shining. Not a diamond but a strange tiny plant. With my crap camera I couldn’t take a good picture so I measured and sketched it. The break gave me time to dance and sing away from the perky families and the voracious youth, nothing like being alone in the Big C, just you and God’s amazing stuff.

We reached the confluence of the Little Colorado where there’s a contest to see who can spot the first tire, dead cow, some debris. We pass the scientists stunning native fish and run more rapids, crashing against the canyon wall. Sit in the front of the boat and you’ll be drenched, in the back you can escape, maybe.

Along the route, there will be other boats, even small wooden skiffs and kayaks. The Canyon is full of insane people risking their lives daily and it is a miracle there is not more death. I’m nervous about the impending hike out.

We spend our last night on a beach beneath incredible stars; the non-westerners find epiphany above and scorpions below, and in their tents. The last rapid on this trip is above Phantom Ranch and takes us through massive black rock walls, creating a flume ride. The river is truly freezing and bone chilling, it’s August and we’re shivering.

The final day at Phantom Beach, the next passengers are waiting and (ick) they will use our same sleeping bags. They hiked down the day before; we’re going out tomorrow. Now that I’m a Phantom alumna, I know the lay of the land but I hadn’t stayed in the bunkhouse before. Don’t. You will never sleep as all the beds are interconnected metal and one person’s cough becomes everyone’s shake. One person’s fart becomes everyone’s chore. The soap provided is akin to lye and there’s no sleep to be had. I had decided to leave in the middle of the night to save frying when the sun rose.

My dinner was the same dismal chili so I made sure I got enough corn bread, salad and the top of the dry cake for the morrow. The mules will be bringing up our satchels later in the day.

It’s 1am and I can’t sleep anyway so time to pack. My headlamp is ready and I need to top off a new water bladder, the bota bottle from the mule trip and a Nalgene bottle with Gatorade mix. I turn from the spigot to find a cat-sized animal on my pack, a ringtail. Everything here at night has glowing eyes. The stream purrs besides the ranch and the river roars below.

I have a companion, a fellow boater from Canada, who had doubts about the trail and may just be going with me so I don’t go alone. But having muled it, I know I can find it in the dark.

We cross the silver bridge out of Phantom and it seems to have become longer. The next two miles of sandy trail along the Colorado seem to take forever. We find a fellow traveler at 2am at the 2-mile house, a rest stop at the base of the Bright Angel. Soon it will be time for the Devil’s Corkscrew.

In the dark, you can’t be afraid of the cliffs, you can’t see them, only the immediate trail in front of you. We cross watercourses, eventually leaving the loud river and hearing streams along the side of the ascending trail. Slowly, slowly up. Behind us as we turn and turn through the Corkscrew we see another bright headlamp booking on the trail. I’m impressed with the speed. My companion wants to keep going and not wait for this speed demon, so we keep moving, stopping, going. My new water bladder breaks, I pick up trash on the trail. It seems to take forever to reach the Baby Jesus turn that signals the eventual leveling out to the next mile to Indian Gardens. A deer’s neon eyes glow in my headlamp, he’s massive.

4am we reach the half way point and can see the lodge lights on the cliff above. There’s water here and we refill. It’s too early for anyone else to be around and no one passes us from below. No one.

Soon the trail becomes even more steep and difficult, the last 3.5 miles are the worst but there’s nothing you can do about it. We hear a family at the 3 miles house. I can’t believe anyone would bring a 6 year old on this monster trip, but they suspect our thoughts and tell us it was her idea. They had stayed the night at the campground below, taking several days to do the trail. Now I feel sorry for the parents because they don’t look in the best of health and the hardest part is yet to come.

What can’t be cured must be endured so step by step. We stink, we’re cranky and there’s no more night to hide squatting to pee. By the 1.5 mile house, unhappiness has taken hold. Nice smelling people in tennis shoes with traveling coffee cups are mincing down the trail. The last section is torture and by the final turn and tunnel there was no joy. The teens in our group pass us.

At the top, a tremendous sense of a right of passage being done. Seven hours and 9.6 miles, not bad for two middle aged ladies and at 9am not too hot. My first choice is ice cream, mint chocolate chip. My calves are rocks.

We’ll spend the rest of the day sitting, lying, shopping and waiting for the rest of the group. The mules finally bring the satchels and we take a van to Flagstaff. My promised ride was not there; I had given my last change to the van driver, so in addition to the hike out of the Big C I walked the 3 miles home. We all agreed we wanted to do the Phantom to Lake Mead section next year.

On arriving home, I found my sunglasses, prescription lenses with Barry Goldwater frames (sold to me by the same 80 something optician). That ringtail? For the next few weeks I would call and email the National Park Service lost and found to no avail. I was determined to find them myself if possible.

September after Labor Day, the kids are gone. At 3am I’m on the trail with hiking poles, headlamp on and poles at the ready. My knees have my old stunt pads. A bug flies into my lamp and I scream as it echoes throughout the dark. At the 1.5 mile house I hear a low growl, a cougar! Fear on my right, and the cliff on my left. No, those are voices, that growl is a massive snore.

I slip on the steep sandy trail and fall on my butt. There’s a moon. Everything stupid or bad I’ve ever done in my life comes to mind. Above Indian Gardens I hear the mule train coming down for the morning run. At IG there’s another Canadian, he’s glowing and just fallen in love with the Big C, planning his next trip. I’m encouraged seeing a couple older than I coming up the trail.

The rest of the descent is in daylight and getting hotter. I’m on the second half and coming up are the Phantom dwellers who waited for breakfast, and now they are DOOMED. The Corkscrew is full of miserable unhappy people and just above the 2-mile, a group of youngsters with one water bottle each ask where the next spigot is, sadly for them it’s miles above the steep switchbacks. I find the wrangler’s radio immersed in a stream, it still works.

On the last 2 miles there’s a corpulent mom and son at 9am; it’s already hot. Hint: don’t bother with breakfast in the summer; you’ll be too late on the trail. I find several new cleanser containers dropped by the miles and pack them in with the radio and the tip to one of my new hiking poles from weeks ago. Burdened down, I now face the silver bridge and realize--I don’t want to cross it; I must have a mule gene. The only way over, rather than hike another mile to the mule bridge is to focus on a rock across the roaring river and go, no looking down.

It’s hot; I don’t have a campsite or a bed. My plan is to find my glasses, take a nap and go back up in the dark. This could work if it was not the Canyon, which is killer and you will be more tired than you can imagine. I gave my loot to the staff and commenced the plan. Napping, sitting in the creek, napping again, looking through the bunkhouse, on the trail, in the lost and found box, no glasses. At the 4pm ranger talk, I am informed they were found on the North Kaibab trail. Ringtail, guilty as charged. But they are on their way to the Park lost and found on the North rim, so no dice. The ranger talk is all about the pink rattlesnakes only found in the Canyon. There’s only one youngster in the group, but we are offered the chance to become junior rangers and most of the adults take up the offer because you get A PINK RATTLE SNAKE PATCH! And it is the coolest thing you can only get at Phantom Ranch. What’s also amazing is the youngster and her dad actually saw a pink rattler at sunset, a lovely fat one at that, all curled up and shared the photo with the rest of us at the later ranger talk. I also got to speak Hindi with a man from Sacramento and practice at bit.

Naps and ranger talks over, I started back. This is why a turnaround for me is a bad idea; it is a scary ass deal and I’m more tired that I know. The silver bridge is still seemingly endless, the first 2 miles too. At the rest house I decide to have another nap to calm my nerves while the wind howls shaking the building and the river roars below. It’s September and there’s no one anywhere near. At midnight I decide to suck it up and begin the next leg, across water, slowly ascending to the Corkscrew.

Turn, up, turn, seemingly endless when I hear a sound 10 feet in front of me. It’s draped directly across the trail. A pink rattlesnake. I keep my headlamp on it, not nearly as pretty as the photo taken at sunset but a real one nonetheless. After a time, it moves far enough that I can slip past it.

I reach Indian Gardens and refill my drinks, taking advantage of a bench on the side of the trail for another nap. But this time the wind is howling and I mistakenly sleep on my bladder mouthpiece, drenching my clothes. Wet and cold, I start the final leg. Behind me is the clip clop of what sounds like horses. A young couple passes me, they smell really good and pass upwards. Oddly above me I hear them galloping again and farther up the trail I surprise them at a turn; they start away, still sounding like running animals. The Canyon creates strange thoughts in the dark. My water is running out and I’m worried just before I reach the 3 miles house. I take a nap in the dark and something bounces onto my hip, I turn on the light again to keep the animals off. The next leg is the hardest and I pray that something comes along that makes it tolerable. There are little frogs on the trail, there are deer tracks that look like the Royal Crown cola logo, there are deer in the flesh jumping in front of me. At the 1.5 mile I start finding odd tracks, there are giants on this trail! A face is in the rocks, a yellow bird is singing, clean smelling people coming down the trail are making a big deal over me, very sweet.

I’m up and out on Sunday morning and make a stop at Babbitt’s general store for coffee and make a day camp in the forest before going home. My quest is not done.

It’s easy to get a single at Phantom last minute, since I live here, taking advantage of a cancellation is easy. My plan is to hike down a different trail, the South Kaibab, which is steep with no water or shade. It’s November and heat will not be a problem and I’ll come up the Bright Angel that has water.

Just before sunrise the elk and deer are out, massive bulls saunter through Grand Canyon Village ignoring the few stragglers around. There’s a special shuttle to the South Kaibab, it’s freezing, it’s cloudy and a dozen of us stumble out and line up for a final pee in the dark outhouse before the descent. I’m slow and take my time. The trail is muddy and treacherous as the sun rises. It’s also the jock trail and the extremely fit pass confidently. This is a special treat. The moving clouds and damp weather create a kaleidoscope of purple, turquoise and pink rocks and cliffs. Steep and filled with puddles. As I turn toward the “tip off” I’m reminded of a first view Manhattan, massive structures that make you stop open mouthed to look up.

If I thought it was steep till now, that was nothing to what’s to come. I have kneepads and need them for the jarring descent. Anyone with a fear of heights, and I have discovered I do, will find this a butt kicker. But here you are, there’s no way out except up or down and there’s a lush oasis at the bottom. Sucking it up, I offset the jarring steps down on steep rocks with my poles and marvel at the rock chunks with wavy ridges that clearly were under water but are now hundreds of feet up the cliff.

I make it to the dark bridge, through the tunnel and across the river. A dozen or more private small boats are docked at the beach and I arrive at Phantom after 7 slow hours on the trail. In the women’s bunk I find the least movable bed and take a hot shower and have the most exquisite nap of my life alone, tired and warm in the early afternoon.

Later I go back to the beach and find another of my mystery plant hidden under a salt cedar. Turns out this tiny thing has never been known to be in the Canyon, it’s not in any of the book and the Park Ranger who knows plants the best confirms it’s an oddball. My sketch is not enough, I need a photo and there it is.

Our afternoon ranger is a buff guy, he can get up the South Kaibab in 2 and a half hours and when it’s his day off, leaves at midnight. Another ranger confirms, “your body gets used to it” and of course they’re both half my age. However, age is not a barrier here, I met a woman who came down with her husband after conquering Everest (Cindy Abbott featured on NPR), where she says your poop freezes and you must carry it out. I’ve also met people who fell and nearly failed on these trails trying to keep up with someone else. Keep your own pace; it’s not a place to take risks.

I meet another Hindustani who wants to go solo on an obscure trail without a water filter or a good map and try to talk him out of it, or at least ask the ranger’s advice. This is his first hike in such a place. My eventual bunkmate will be a woman who cannot lie still, she’s in tears, sick to her stomach with leg cramps, having run out of water and steam on the way down trying to keep up with her group.

Since I won’t be able to sleep again, I’m off at 1am. There are no animals at all now, it’s too late in the year. The trials and rigors are the same but I’m rested and hit the Corkscrew at 2am. Then, for the second time between 2 and 4am, another bright headlamp going very fast is on the trail behind me, also for a second time no one will pass me. I suddenly hear a CRACK, in the dark there’s a rock fall in the dark.

At Indian Gardens there’s no one but a pair of ravens as I fill my water. The slow pace up continues and you think of songs, “Jacob’s Ladder” by Huey Lewis was one, step by step, one by one.

It’s raining and chilling cold and they’ve turned off the water at the 3-mile house. I have enough to finish the trek but I’m dripping, shivering, taking pieces of clothing on and off with the steepness and my own heat. The final layer of rock at the top comes into view and if the good smelling people ask I council them they can’t get to Indian Gardens and back with just the coffee cup they’re carrying.

Finished. My calves and knees are stiff. A large white car from California parks behind me as I unload, wanting me to leave now. But I have some shopping to do at the lodge and general store before the Lost and Found opens after lunch. I can hardly walk let alone jump in and drive off to suit them.

The rain starts, I have mocha coffee and potato chips while I wait. The lost and found is hidden far from the tourist areas. At 1pm I enter and find a lone worker in the warehouse. She kindly opens the lost and found and there, in two bins with hundreds of glasses, are mine. Success.

In the next weeks I hike part of the Grandview and Hermit Trails and will plot a rim to rim for Sept 2011. The Park Service posts there are two well-known reactions to being IN the Canyon: you are sorry and vow to never do it again, or you can’t resist it. It calls.

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