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Here's what I wrote about it on my blog:
DEVIL'S CORKSCREW, NORTHERN ARIZONA MONDAY 3/29/04, 11:30 AM. I didn't know the name of this section of the trail when I was there but in retrospect it was quite appropriate. Especially since when I stopped to catch my breath and seek some shade I would not have been at all surprised if old Lucifer himself moseyed up and said:
"Ok, you little snot. Time to pay for your sins. You arrogantly disregarded all the warnings to not attempt to hike from the Grand Canyon Rim to the Colorado River in one day. Don't you read your own blog? Arrogance is bad and frequently leads to a lot of unnecessary pain and suffering. And if you're gonna tempt fate could you at least make it a bit more of a challenge for those of us on the dark side? You should have just gotten it over with quick by tossing yourself off a cliff. The only bad news is that the Park Service is probably gonna have to go to the expense of hauling your carcass out of here since it's so filled with the toxins you've ingested over the years that even the vultures won't have anything to do with it."
Even though I'm not a spiritual, contemplative kind of guy I couldn't help myself from thinking deep thoughts, since the rest stop at Devil's Corkscrew took place about half an hour after I had spent three hours hiking through scenery of such breathtaking beauty that all I could do was gaze in awe and think to myself: "Holy shit. The universe really tis a wondrous place. I think I'll just sit on this rock and ponder what sort of magical forces could have created it." But before I got too lost in my cosmic reverie the voice of Crash Davis from Bull Durham intervened: "The moment's over."
I dug out my watch and tried to calculate how fast I'd have to hike to ensure that I'd be out of the Canyon in time to meet the folks who were picking me up. Folks who would have been most annoyed and concerned if I wasn't where I said I was gonna be.
How did I get there in the first place? Well, like most of the good things that have happened to me; the epic trip to the Colorado River wasn't planned. The day before the hike our group arrived at the Grand Canyon to look at the legendary vistas and get the low-down on potential hikes. From the Rim I couldn't see the river but I knew it was there and I knew that I really wanted to see it. I was prepared for the possibility of not making it down there but I knew that if I didn't I'd always regret it, in the same way that I regret not being more aggressive about expressing my desires to people that I had crushes on 20 years ago.
I joined the part of our group that walked along the Rim while others looked into the possibility of getting rooms at the Phantom Ranch, the lodge at the Colorado River, since experts agreed that the only safe way to hike to the river was to spend a night there. Our group reconvened and we got the word on lodging at the Phantom Ranch. The two guys who went to the trouble of going to the reservations desk got the last two spots. No room for me. Thud. Another invitation to a wedding where I couldn't honestly be able to wish all the best for the happy couple.
I had half a day to consider options. I studied maps and a plan emerged. I'd leave at dawn with the guys staying at the Ranch. They'd take the steep Kaibab Trail which is a few miles east of the Bright Angel trail that I planned to explore. The map said there were phones every couple of miles at rest stops. I could call civilization and arrange a pick-up after I decided how long I felt like hiking. I went to bed resigned to the prospect of not making it to the river. Maybe I could do it later in the week. The decisive vote was cast by memories of Halloween. That night party hosts asked if I was ok to ride my bike home. I said yes, even though I wasn't ok. I just didn't want to admit that there were things I couldn't do. A few hours later I was in the ER. No major damage except to my wallet. If I can't afford a one-mile ambulance ride then I sure as hell can't afford the cost of sending a helicopter to medevac me out of the Canyon.
In the morning I left with the other guys and waited a few minutes in vain at the reservations desk for more cancellations. It wasn't meant to be so I set off by myself. I hit the trailhead at 6:50 AM and more philosophic thoughts ensued. I'm typing this on a spiffy new computer with loud music from my boombox in the background, knowing that I'm just a couple clicks away from being able to check the Internet for the answer to any research or news question that I wonder about, and if that isn't enough to stimulate me I can toss in a DVD or turn on the TV. Could life get any better? Well, yes, when those options aren't available and weak willed folks are forced to rely on something else for so-called entertainment. Are these electronic distractions the product of the Devil? Well, I wouldn't go that far since you wouldn't be reading this if not for the wonders of technology but once in a while I think everybody needs to get away, far away.
Here's hoping that technology comes through for me and that the photos that accompany this blog do a halfway decent job of conveying what I saw, since I don't have enough talent to adequately describe it. But I realize that the photos have limitations. Two-dimensional images just don't capture the vibe. And an important element of the experience was the sounds or lack thereof. I know it's a cliche but Robert Frost and Simon and Garfunkel were onto something. There really is something compelling about the sound of silence. As I wandered down the trail at dawn that's one of the things I enjoyed the most. Nothing but me and my thoughts.
The beginning of the trip went well. I was feeling robust and energetic. I passed the first phones on the map and noticed that they were for emergencies only. I wasn't sure what constituted an emergency but I didn't really care since I was enjoying myself so much. At around mile 4 the silence was interrupted by the sound of hooves. Mules have the right of way on the trail and the guidebooks say to wait for instructions from the Park Rangers. The Ranger on the lead mule told me I'd need to wait a few minutes. I asked him about the phone situation. He said all the trail phones were for emergencies and that the nearest pay phone was at the Phantom Ranch. I asked him if any ranger would loan me a cell phone to call folks to arrange a pick-up and he said that was unlikely. Well, that settled that. The nearest phone was at the river so that's where I was gonna go. Besides, I was making great time and the morning spring temperatures were perfect for hiking. Next stop Phantom Ranch.
Well, the next stop was actually Indian Gardens, an oasis halfway down the trail. The desert was transformed into a blizzard of green trees and blooming flowers. I stopped to soak it in but not too long, since I now had a goal. I had to get to the Ranch well before noon since the guidebooks say that it takes twice as long to hike out of the Canyon as it does to hike into it. I lurched ahead, oblivious to the miserable expressions on the faces of folks headed uphill. By 10:00 AM I caught the first sight of the river, which as much as I hate to admit it wasn't too awe inspiring. I've seen views just as good from the New River which is just a hop skip and a jump away from my house. But I made it. I defied the experts and I made it. It took another half-hour to get to the suspension bridge that crossed the river and led to the Ranch. At the bridge a couple wanted their photo taken and we exchanged cameras so we could prove to folks that we really made it.
I crossed the bridge feeling as smug as I'd felt since I came close to predicting the exact outcome of the 1981 NCAA Tourney game between UNC and Virginia. Just after I crossed the bridge I ran into the guys I separated from three and a half hours earlier. They had taken the Kaibab Trail to the river. I explained the phone situation to them and they agreed to make calls for me, since the Ranch was a mile away and they figured I didn't need to go that far out of my way.
We said our goodbyes and I went off to refill my water supply, which I guess makes this as good a point as any to launch into a discussion of the 'gear' I used, especially since it gives me an excuse to justify my 'Think globally, buy/act locally' philosophy. Most of my stuff came from a small chain called the Great Outdoor Provision Company. I know I could save a few bucks on the Net but it's nice to go into a store and tell folks what you want and have them give you honest answers about what you should buy, along with reliable answers about places to go to use the stuff you bought. Besides, the centerpiece of my outfit was a gift from that store: a pair of Vasque hiking boots. If there's ever been a more perfect consumer product I'd like to know about it. I've had these boots almost a decade. I've never done anything to maintain them and yet they continue to provide me with great service. They're comfortable enough to wear an entire day and they provide great support for my ankles and they're completely waterproof, which came in handy shortly after Indian Gardens since there were a couple of creek crossings where I slipped off rocks and immersed my feet in water.
As for the rest of the gear, it was pretty simple. A one-liter Camelback, a basic backpack to carry my lunch, extra water and clothes I took off during the hike, along with my secret weapon: a Discman just in case my mental jukebox broke down. I wore a yellow t-shirt from a local charity event so that I'd be conspicuous if concerned folks needed to describe me to potential rescuers. On the trail I saw a lot of people with fancy gear that looked very expensive and that just made me smile, smile, smile. I also carried a notebook and pen since I was delusional enough to think that I'd have enough time and energy to write down my impressions of the trip as they occurred. And of course the obligatory baseball cap which I use in lieu of sunglasses.
I started walking back up to the Rim. My initial thoughts were on how I'd spend the afternoon, since I didn't think the seven-hour estimate for the return would be accurate. I expected to arrive about two and a half hours ahead of schedule. And then my blissful hike slowly but surely took a turn for the worse. First I noticed that the laces on my left boot had broken. Retying them wasn't much of a hassle but I had seen enough disaster movies to know that the big calamity always starts with something small. Then my inexperience as a long distance hiker came into play. I set the pace based on what other people were doing, and not based on what my body was telling me. For about an hour I tried to catch people who passed me. They kept getting further and further away. All I did was wear myself out. I suspect there's a cosmic lesson in there somewhere. I was so tired that I didn't take the half-mile detour to the beach by the river, just so I could dip my toes in it. Besides, at that point I knew that if I took my boots off I wouldn't want to put them back on. I settled for splashing my face with water from a creek that feeds the river.
The next screw-up was setting an unrealistic goal for a place to eat lunch. I was hoping to make it back to Indian Gardens, the mid-point of the trail. Halfway there I was forced to reconsider. My body had reached its limits and I was forced to just find one of the token bits of shade on the trail, which was the Devil's Corkscrew section mentioned at the beginning of this post. It was there that doubts began to emerge. I was exhausted and seven miles from the Rim. Until that day, seven miles was as long as I had ever hiked in one day. Sigh.
The good news is that the only viable option was to keep walking. I wasn't injured in any way, just very tired. I struggled on to Indian Gardens. Folks on the way noticed my condition and gave me a few swigs of water. The bottles I filled at the river ran out about half a mile before the gardens. I took a nice long break at the gardens. I re-filled my water bottles and quaffed some down. I gobbled down some trail mix and dug out the Discman. The Elvis rendition of Milkcow Blues was just what I needed, along with Skynyrd's "I Know a Little." I left the Gardens feeling somewhat refreshed and optimistic. I knew I could make it out and was only mildly disappointed that I wouldn't be so early that I could spend a couple hours at the bar next to the trailhead.
I left the Gardens at 2:00 PM. I had four and a half hours to hike four miles, which seemed doable since I was always taught that average walking speed was about 5 mph. But it was all uphill and I was drained. Not much else of note happened on the way up, except for some very pleasant, humanity affirming experiences. Strangers offering me water and a nifty political discussion with German hikers about how they couldn't stand this country's distinguished leader but loved its people. For the last couple of miles I'd glance at my hiking guide and try to make sure I didn't have symptoms of heat exhaustion or other ailments. I could only walk about 100 yards without stopping to rest, which I knew because I was counting my steps to try and figure out how much further I had to go.
I made it back thirty minutes ahead of schedule. I found the nearest bench took my boots off. My feet have never been so glad to be released from their bounds. I had a couple cigarettes which were quite satisfying since I had refrained from smoking during the end of the hike to preserve my oxygen supply. I was generally ok but I could tell that I was out of sorts, especially since for the first time in 20 years water tasted better than beer.
In sum: one of the best experiences of my life, but one that I'll never attempt to repeat.
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