To the Bottom of the Grand Canyon: Passing on the Tradition

Every person should experience the Grand Canyon. I don't mean just peering off the rim, but walking into her depths and becoming immersed into a vastness so immense, that it can't be comprehended.

When I was just a boy, my grandpa did just that for me. Along with my younger brother, Walt, the three of us hiked to the Phantom Ranch via the Bright Angel Trail where we spent the night and then returned the next morning. The experience was impressionable. I had done something that not many kids my age had done.

Now, twenty five years later, I knew that I had to pass the same experience down to my own kids. This was for them. Yes, I was excited to descend into this giant abyss for myself, but more so, I was eager watch the awe and wonderment in the eyes of my children.

It is before sunrise when the three of us climb off the shuttle and quickly follow the throng of hikers to the South Kaibab Trailhead. I notice that the wind is whipping around at a strong gale. We wear beanies and jackets and are still a little chilly. Even though the sun is not up yet, the trail is clearly visible, allowing us to descend without flashlights. And descend we do. Immediately, a series of short switchbacks drop us into the canyon quickly. The walls above grow taller and taller.

In the beginning, it is as if a tinge of chaos has been invited in. Hikers in front of us, hikers behind, some passing us and us passing others. Brisk wind still blows into our faces and snot seeps from our noses. A train of mules pound down the trail behind us and we quickly move aside to let them by. Dust lifts into our faces. A cowboy on the last mule nods his head as he passes by.

All of us are experiencing so many new sensations that nothing is fully digested. None of us realize that we are now hiking through the Kaibab formation, nor that the drop-off at our left is so steep, that one misstep will kill us. We focus on putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward on the trail.

For me, the chaos evaporates when we arrive at what is known as Ooh Aah Point. Maybe it is just coincidence, but we arrive at this place just as the sun is creeping above the horizon. What an amazing sunrise it is! The walls on the south side of the canyon transform into a florescent orange, while the gorge of the Colorado River, like a giant crack in the ground, contrast in a mysterious darkness.

So far, the kids are doing great. Kaitlyn, age 13, and Jordan, age 17, aren't having a problem. From experience, I encourage them to drink plenty of liquid, even though they aren't thirsty. I am also reminding them that this is the easy part. We still have to walk back up!

The South Kaibab Trail seems to be a long path of twists and switchbacks. The trail is wide and sturdy. Expansive vistas stretch forth, often on both sides of the trail, creating a more picturesque hike, I believe, than the Bright Angel Trail. One of the rests that we take is along a narrow ridge that fits this description. We sit down and eat some Power bars while looking over the chasm that they say is Pipe Spring.

Grandpa would have been about fifty-three when he took Walt and I down. That doesn't seem too old now. We went down the Bright Angel Trail, and I remember him worrying about his knees. Even now, thirty years later, I can remember him telling us that the South Kaibab Trail was even steeper than the Bright Angel, and that it would be harder on the knees. He told us that when you are over thirty years old, and you hike down hill like you do in the Grand Canyon, that it can give you knee problems. These words still echo in my mind as I hike with my kids down these switchbacks.

I enjoy being the tour-guide here. I point to a dying, yellow plant with sturdy, barbed leaves, about a foot tall, and with a long stalk growing from the middle. “This is a century plant,” I explain. “When the plant has lived its life, it sends the stalk up, goes to seed, and dies.” I also point to the trail below us, which runs perpendicular to our path, and explain that it is the Tonto Trail.

Kaitlyn is excited and full of energy. “Can we run down the hill, Dad?” The answer is, “No!” First of all, she doesn't understand that I don't have that kind of energy to expend. Also, I don't want anyone slipping and falling off the edge. And then I add, “Kaitlyn, we've got to save our energy. Remember, we've got to walk back up!”

We skirt the edge of a large butte on our left, descend a long path of steps, and come to a hairpin curve called Skeleton Point. So far, this is my favorite viewpoint. On our left, below a crevice in the Tonto Platform, the first view of the greenish-blue Colorado river is visible. It is still three hiking miles away, but the strand that we can see includes a sliver of white-water along the far bank. On our right side, as we stand at Skeleton Point, a series of at least eleven switchbacks descend very rapidly through the Redwall Limestone and disappear around the corner. Before we leave, Jordan pulls out his Nexus and takes an impressive panorama picture of the point. Brittany would have loved this.

Skeleton Point

At this point, I should inject another level of our trip. I should be bringing three of my kids on the hike, but a little over a year ago, my oldest daughter, Brittany, suddenly died. As I was planning this trip, even back then, I made sure to include her in it. She loved nature and all things beautiful, but of all my kids, I knew that she would have the toughest time surviving the arduous hike. Just a month before she passed away, she and I took a long drive at night. I explained the difficulty of the hike (at that time, I thought that we would descend from the North Rim), but at the same time, expounded on the rewards of doing such a hike. “Is that something that you'd like to do?” I asked, secretly crossing my fingers. “Yes,” she said. “That sounds like a lot of fun!” And so, she became part of the plan. Brittany would be fifteen right now.

This is not a travelogue of every moment of the hike. I will say that we finally make it to the bottom. We descend even more switchbacks, pass another group of mules, take another break, meet a nice couple from Tuscon, and finally enter a short tunnel, of which when we exit, we find ourselves on the black bridge that is suspended over the mighty Colorado River.

It was upon first meeting the Colorado River that my grandpa admitted to us that he was kind of nervous, because if Glen Canyon Dam happened to break, we would have no chance at all. The same thought crosses my mind now, thirty years later, and I share the memory with my kids.

We spend time at Boat Beach, nibbling on Twizzlers and jerky, and watching the other groups that are loitering around. Then we move up-canyon to the Phantom Ranch. Our boots slosh along the sandy path. Manure and mules emit a stench that hovers in the air. Phantom Creek tumbles hurriedly along-side the path. The water in the creek appears clear enough to drink, which we don't, perhaps because the stench of the mules is still present.

Soon, we arrive at small cabins, and eventually the modest lodge. I take the kids inside and explain that this is where Walt and I ate dinner with my Grandpa the evening we hiked into the canyon. At the moment, the lodge is empty. Several rectangular tables with vacant chairs lined around them decorate the room. I mosey around and glance at the photographs upon he wall. Not much is here.

We step outside again and fill our water bottles with the spigot that is just outside the lodge. I splash water onto my face. This is our first chance for fresh water since leaving the rim. We pull our packs onto our shoulders and continue back toward the river. As we pass the cabins, I explain to the kids that inside of those little rooms is where Walt and I slept when with my grandpa. The rooms were small, but sufficient.

Once at the river, we turn right, instead of left, and begin on new territory for the kids, but into familiar territory for me. We cross Silver Bridge and begin our trek onto the Bright Angel Trail. We trudge nearly a mile along a sandy path and past the occasional Joshua Tree, walking parallel to the river.

We arrive at the junction with Pipe Creek and follow its flow to the the mighty Colorado. This is our lunch break. We find a sandy section of beach that contains a few smooth rocks to sit on. The shoes and socks come off. So do the back packs. For an hour, we just rest. The break is as relaxing as a Swedish Massage. We nibble on a sandwich and granola bars. Our bare feet take turns wading into the green water of the Colorado, into the wet sand that slowly sucks our heels and toes into it. The water is cold, and becomes frigid after only a few seconds, but is a contrasting welcome from the hot hike at the canyons depths.

I know that Brittany would have liked this part. Barefoot, wading in water. This is what she loved to do every time we went to the beach in California. My mind, this day, is often with her. This moment right now, I had planned the entire time. I pull a 5 x 7 picture of her out of my backpack and set up my tripod on a nearby rock. For the next ten minutes, we compose a picture of the four of us, me holding the picture of Brittany. She is with us on this hike. It breaks my heart to do it this way, but these are my kids and we have to have a group picture.

Our hour-long break is over and it is time to slip the socks and shoes back on, wear the backpacks, and hit the trail. This is where it becomes difficult. No more downhill from here. The pathway cuts directly away from the river and toward the towering ledges far in the distance.

To sum up the next five and a half hours, I will say that we travel up and up and up. And then up again. There are some exceptions to this. We take ten minutes to rest inside the tunnel of an old mine shaft. It may have been a copper or silver mine.

 We wash our faces, fill up our water bottles, and watch fighting squirrels at Indian Gardens.

At one spot, only about forty feet off the trail, I show the kids some ocher-colored pictographs. We huddle beneath a ledge and watch below us as every hiker who passes along the trail is completely oblivious to our presence. One old man even sits down on a rock, precisely where we left the trail. I admit that I am fascinated with any evidence of ancient Native Americans in the canyon. I know that there are foundations of dwelling structures, graineries, and old Indian trails in other spots of the canyon. I can't imagine entering the canyon without that dynamite-blasted trail that made it so convenient for me.

The final three and a half miles of the Bright Angel Trail is brutal. I'm not even feeling as light as I did the last time I hiked the canyon. Kaitlyn is becoming weary and we have to take a few more breaks for her. Jordan trudges on, but I can tell that the constant uphill monotony is wearing on him also. This is the point in the hike where the canyon floor is becoming farther and farther away, but the top of the rim isn't getting any closer.

Yet, we do make it. At last, our tired legs walk the final switchback, and we exit the canyon onto the busy look-off point above. Hundreds of tourists gather here. All for a glance of the canyon. Most can't even come close to comprehending how much effort it takes to arrive at that little ribbon of water called the Colorado.

I have one last promise to keep. We find the closest business with a soda machine. We wait in line and spend eight dollars on two Cherry Coke's and one Dr. Pepper. All are happy.