Prologue
The trip was originally conceived of as a family venture, but first my father and then my brother dropped out for various logistical reasons. This left, other than me, Patrice and my mother (Jefita) on the list of participants. Not long into the planning stages we discovered that Patrice was pregnant, and would be sixteen weeks pregnant by the time we left, and therefore would not be able to do any rigorous hiking -- at least not rigorous hiking involving major elevation change and a heavy burden on her back. Jefita also demurred from that prospect. It appeared that, at least for the Grand Canyon (commercial site with expanded information) segment of the trip, I would be hiking alone.

It was then that I remembered my friend Scott, living at the time in Albequerque, NM, and preparing to move to Princeton, NJ, where he would enter graduate school in atmospheric science to study climate change.

Scott and I had not seen each other for almost exactly ten years, and had spoken for the first time after that long hiatus only the previous summer. Nonetheless, we both immediately agreed that the ideal way to get reacquainted would be in the glorious setting of the Grand Canyon. In addition, I would be glad of the company since this would be my first truly rigorous hiking since the long rehabilitation of a badly broken leg, and the presence of a buddy would provide me a welcome security blanket in case of injury-related problems. (I had spent nearly a full year in a cast, and my ankle joint in particular had suffered considerable deterioration from which I was not sure it had recovered.) Scott, for his part, was glad of the chance to take advantage of his surroundings before moving to the urban eastern seaboard.

Scott and I had last seen one another in 1989. At that time he had been talking about severing all ties with his past and starting a new life. Indeed, the very next summer he vanished into the New Mexico wilderness. A few months later his family reported not knowing his location, and further investigations revealed nothing. During the ensuing decade, no phone number was ever registered anywhere in the US in the name Scott Groggel, nor did any US bank issue a credit card to a person with that name. His disappearance appeared complete.

It was in June of 1998 that Scott found me, through happening upon my web page. The mystery of his complete disappearance was resolved by one simple fact: he had changed his name, from Scott Groggel to Scott Free. He contacted me by email, and then we spoke on the telephone, perforce postponing any further renewal of our friendship until circumstances permitted something more. The trip to the Grand Canyon provided us that further opportunity.

So it was that Patrice and I flew to Las Vegas, there to rendezvous with my mother for the drive to Grand Canyon Village on the south rim of the canyon, where we would meet up with Scott Free.

Grand Canyon: Planning
A Grand Canyon trip must be planned at least four months in advance, preferably before the first day of the month in which the date four months in advance of the trip date falls: it is at the first of the month four months before the month of a trip that the back-country permit competition begins. Knowing that some of my party would be waiting on the rim in hotels while I engaged in the "real thing" within the canyon, I had decided that three days was the most I could, in conscience, spend hiking.

Looking at the map, my first choice for a three day trip was a north to south crossing of the canyon: this would provide the rim party more variation, since they would spend time on both rims, and would provide the canyon party what looked like a good hike with decent access to the Colorado River for water even on the second night. However, planning a mere four months in advance was insufficient; permits for the "Corridor" -- the trail leading to the only bridge across the river -- were snatched up immediately. In the end we were well pleased at missing our first choice, since the Corridor turns out to be more touristy than I ever would have imagined, with a restaurant and pay telephones and all manner of horrifying nonsense.

The Tanner Trail was my next choice for a three day hike. The trail winds down about 14 or 15 km to the Colorado River from Lipan Point on the south rim. Between the Point and the river there is no water source; the trail is unmaintained, rocky, shadeless, relentlessly steep except for the three km between Seventy-Five Mile Saddle and Cardenas Butte at the top of the Redwall. Rock slides have erased portions of the trail, making it occasionally difficult to follow. A challenge!

Day One we would hike down to the river. In the first two kilometers of trail, we would lose a kilometer of elevation. There would follow the relatively level stretch between Seventy-five Mile Saddle and the beginning of the descent of the Redwall; it was on this level area that we would cache water for our use on the hike out. (For this purpose we strapped a 9.5 liter (thus 9.5 kg) container of water to Scott's pack; we traded off carrying that pack until we cached the container.) From there the trail leads another 9 km or so (1.5 km elevation loss) to the Colorado River, where we planned to spend our first night out. Day Two we would climb to the top of the Redwall and our water cache; Day Three we would make our way out of the canyon.

For the first day of hiking, until we reached the Colorado where an unlimited supply of water could be had, I estimated (based on recent experience in Death Valley) that we should carry four liters of drinking water each. I hoped and assumed that this was overkill, and that that amount would be sufficient for our needs even on the more gruelling climb out on Day Two. My total carrying capacity was 5 liters, and Scott's 4, excluding the water we would cache.

Grand Canyon: Day 1 (Saturday, May 22 )

We started our descent at around noon -- the heat of the day was upon us, but we were not overly concerned about the downclimb, knee-jarring as it was. The first leg of the descent was actually relatively cool, being shaded by trees and by the canyon wall itself. Where the trail led us to the crest of a ridge, or anywhere a view of the canyon floor opened up, the vistas were staggering.

Seventy-Five Mile Saddle provides the most staggering vista of them all. The steep descent suddenly levels out, and the trail leads along the neck of a narrow ridge. A row of tall, flat boulders lines the neck to the west of the trail, obstructing the view -- but where a boulder is missing, like a gap in a row of teeth, the sudden revelation of Seventy-Five Mile Creek canyon is astounding. We felt giddy with privilege, quite overcome by the sensation that in coming here we had stolen more than our share of Lady Nature's favors.

It was as we traversed the roughly level ground between the Saddle and Cardenias Butte that we became aware of a medieval fortress perched at the edge of the Canyon's south rim, some three kilometers from our trailhead at Lipan Point. It was not long before our natural curiosity became full-blown rage, when we realized that this fortress was no less than a stronghold of Spaniards, an untrustworthy band of rogues who, for the rest of our journey, spared no effort to torment and plague us. There were few places on the trail between the Saddle and the river where we could escape the sight of the fortress and the cruel laughter of its Spaniard inhabitants. We cached our water in a shady little spot where two boulders formed a small, cool chamber and traveled on, nine and a half kilos the lighter.

The trail turns sharply to the east and heads steeply downwards through a series of switchbacks just before a grand overlook at Cardenias Butte. The sharp turn is quite amply marked with cairns of stones; nonetheless we entirely missed it. We were, perhaps, overeager for the vista which we knew must lie just over the next gentle rise. That sight was truly magnificent, and we stumbled like drunkards over the inverted bowl at the top of the Redwall, laughing and congratulating ourselves for our brilliance in coming here.

Then began an embarrassingly long search for the trail, including some serious orienteering with the map and compass ("Scott, I have it! Look here -- the map is oriented exactly to correspond to the course of the river down below; this circle here on the map is none other than that spire-formation over there. North is directly that way. We are... somewhere... right around here, at the top of the Redwall. The trail is, therefore... somewhere... near us!"). At last we found it; our problem had been that some previous traveler had carelessly left behind a number of piles of stones right at the turn-off, obscuring it from our view.

Past the switchbacks at the Butte, the trail offers a series of positively spectacular campsites, ones that we made mental notes to remember for a future Tanner Trail expedition. The first hour of this steep third leg of the descent was good fun; we felt energized by our dramatic and spectacular surroundings, and we blazed our way down the trail. However, about an hour and a half before we reached the river, Scott began to slow down, due to a knee injury roused from dormancy by the relentless pounding. At a half hour from the river, I drank the last of my water -- and immediately developed a powerful thirst. I had drunk four liters on the downclimb and would therefore need to carry a full five liters for the ascent. Unwelcome news.

Down at last by the Tanner Rapids, where the canyon is relatively wide, we found several pleasant sandy beaches to sport ourselves in. At first we didn't sport much, being too bushed to concern ourselves with much more than filtering water for dinner. But fifteen minutes later we had the caloric power of olive oil, olives, and anchovies -- along with a bottle of red -- rushing into our bloodstreams. Gradually, as the daylight waned, our energies waxed anew. We explored the area by moonlight for hours, snaking the bait from traps laid by Spaniards and otherwise exploiting our good fortune at finding ourselves in Eden. We slept that night outside the tent, on the sand, under the stars.

Grand Canyon: Day 2 (Sunday, May 23)
We woke late and ate a leisurely breakfast. We took some time to see by day the terrain we had covered the night before, then filtered the water which we would drink on our way to the cache we had left the day before (nine liters total). This was our second or third casual foolishness of the trip, a foolishness which we were certainly conscious of -- namely, to delay our departure so that we guaranteed ourselves the heat of the day for the upclimb. We were happy to be foolish in this respect, confident in our ability to endure a little extra hardship later in the day for the sake of enjoying each moment fully. We were probably even a little proud of ourselves for it.

We ate frequently and in yeoman fashion on the ascent of the Redwall. We drank prodigious quantities of water and Gatorade. Apparently we were using everything we were taking in, because we hardly urinated at all. We consumed great heaps of cheese, sausage, nuts, oranges, bread, jam, and almond butter, and were ravenous for more. By the time we reached the top of the Redwall, we were both truly beat. It was surely a more grueling climb than either of us aging hedonists had expected.

At the top of the Redwall, comically, our first respective actions were to slink off to shed a few pounds of what we had been packing into our guts during the climb. I pinched an Olympic loaf while gazing out at an Olympic view. A thrill money can't buy.

The Spaniards had tested us sorely all day, but the last couple of kilometers were over relatively level ground, and we reached our water cache without further incident (save for one ambuscado, one deliberately loosed boulder tumbling down upon us, and one sorcerous transmogrification of the trail into a dry wash).

It was not until we stopped hiking that we realized how much energy the climb had cost us. We ate almond butter and jam on crispbread and waited for some strength to return, but we waited in vain. At last we forced ourselves to get moving despite our mind-fogging fatigue. We quite correctly rejected the campsite we had thoughtlessly identified on the way down -- it contained patches of cryptobiotic soil, which it is bad karma to tread upon. We were therefore faced with the prospect of selecting a new spot, but somehow this simple cognitive exercise thoroughly stymied us.

We flailed at the conundrum fruitlessly, and at last decided that our best course of action was for me to prepare dinner while Scott found a suitable spot and pitched our tent on it. We shared a liter of Gatorade and then set about our respective tasks.

When suddenly the sugars and electrolytes hit my brain, it was as though a light-switch had been thrown on. I looked at myself butchering an already bad meal, surrounded by pots and stoves and sitting right in the middle of the trail. I raised my head and saw Scott standing on a steep and thorny slope, struggling to thrust a tent pole into the only available wrong opening on the tent. We were stumbling around like anoxic mountaineers at high elevation. We were absurd. Scott finished setting up the tent. We ate a hurried and unpalatable meal. We moved the tent somewhere more suitable. We hit the sack.

The only dignity we could salvage was that, somehow, the mocking laughter of the Spaniards served rather to redouble our resolve than to break it.

Grand Canyon: Day 3 (Monday, May 24)
Shamed by our previous day's performance, we broke camp and set out before the risen sun could touch the canyon interior. At 6:00 a.m. the sky far above us glowed with an early morning light, but we were hiking in the cool of twilight. We reached the top by 8:30.

Our first move upon regaining the rim was to storm the Spaniards at their very stronghold. Quick investigation revealed that they held a location designated "Desert View" on the charts. Clearly they had underestimated our ability to dodge the many snares they had left for us on the last few kilometers of climbing, for we caught them unprepared. Our onslaught was both fierce and terrible.

Afterwards Scott allowed as they had had it coming, a sentiment with which I could only concur vehemently. Miraculously, we located a working telephone within the smoldering wreckage, with which we contacted Patrice and Jefita. We all rendezvoused at the Ranger Station, where Scott and I said our farewells, well pleased with our reunion.

Without much ado, Patrice, Jefita and I set a course for Bryce Canyon, in southern Utah. What a drive! Our route, via Page, Arizona, took us past the Vermillion Cliffs, Marble Canyon, Grand Staircase Escalante, Paria Canyon, Coral Pink Sand Dunes and more.

Bryce Canyon
Bryce Canyon is a fairly small National Park, and as such is reputed to lend itself more to dayhiking than backcountry camping. It is certainly true that the park's most spectacular scenery is all accessible in short dayhikes from the crowded viewpoints accessible by car. Nonetheless, we determined on this brief scouting expedition that the 37 km backcountry trail from Bryce Point to Rainbow Point would repay further investment of time. Indeed, setting up a base camp for a day, at most two, at Yellow Creek would permit the backcountry camper to dayhike all of the trails in and among the incredible rock formations of Campbell and Bryce Canyons, in addition to the simple pleasures of penetrating deeper into the less trafficked regions. (We were warned, however, that at Yellow Creek we could expect cattle, a camper's most hated enemy after Spaniards.)

This being a short trip, and Jefita's first experience sleeping under canvas, our modus operandi was quite different. Upon arrival, we hooked Jefita up with a helicopter tour of the park while Patrice and I set up camp in the Sunset campsite area. These preliminaries out of the way, we cast about for a bit of a dayhike.

Bryce Canyon: Day 1 (Tuesday, May 25)
We selected the combination Queen's Garden - Navajo Trail route for our first foray, starting from Sunset Point and ending at Sunrise, an easy 4.5 km without much elevation change (160 m). The elevation change was all at the beginning and end of the trail, so we descended sharply through a sometimes quite narrow canyon to a valley floor below. We were accompanied by busloads of East Germans with whom I insisted on conversing, despite the fact that their replies were invariably unintelligible to me.

The hoodoos and other crazy formations carved out of the soft rock of the canyon were like nothing we had ever seen before. Time after time our amazement would overwhelm us, and we would gibber like idiots, helpless in the face of such eerie beauty. "Es ist so schön und merkwurdig; ich kann es fast nicht glauben," I would say to the good-natured Germans, who would reply with what must surely have been resounding affirmatives.

The walk was just the thing to stretch my legs, so brutally abused by the Grand Canyon upclimb of the previous days, and stiffened by the enforced inactivity during the long drive from Arizona. I fooled around bouldering and climbing dead trees, while Patrice fretted below and the Germans expressed what sounded like sympathy. Patrice did not find the walk too strenuous, despite the fact that she was walking for two.

In all the canyon country of Utah, we had never before seen anything like the rock formations along this trail. If the early Mormon settlers were looking for a place where they could feel close to god, they were no fools to pick the land they did. "Ganz einmaliges," as I pointed out to the Germans, who appeared to agree.

Bryce Canyon: Day 2 (Wednesday, May 26)
The following morning brought with it a heavy downpour which we were forced to wait out before Patrice and I set out on the 6 km loop (275 m elevation change) to the formations known as the "Hat Shop" and back.

A light drizzle occasionally touched us on our outward hike, and we could see driving rain falling at various distances all around us. The trail to the Hat Shop is nowhere very steep, but there are a few spots -- one in particular, a dubious stretch along the contour line of a steep hill -- that looked to me impassible for a pregnant woman in a driving rain, and I was always conscious of the danger to Patrice should we be caught in a downpour such as we had seen earlier in the day. This gave us plenty of incentive to set a cracking pace. Otherwise, the trail provided a pleasant walk offering wide vistas of the Pink Cliffs, the Yellow Creek valley, and beyond.

Happily, along this trail we escaped the crowded masses of the day before. The masses avoid at any cost a walk labeled "strenuous."

The "Hat Shop" itself is indeed a millinery for stone giants -- a whole stretch of hillside is covered with gravelly pillars topped by caprocks which have selectively guarded the columns beneath from erosion. Solid, chthonic formations, making a change from the frothy, ethereal, fey sculptures that had overloaded our senses the previous day.

Almost immediately after we reached the Hat Shop the rain began to fall in earnest. Luckily, the rain stopped before we reached the dubious stretch I had noted on the way down, and our return was so void of incident that we decided to whip through some portion of the 8 km Peekaboo Loop before returning to Jefita; to our disappointment, we were thwarted by the closure of the trail. Peekaboo Loop was, for the time being, accessible only from its other side, namely the Navajo Trail we had played on the day before.

The morning's hike completed, we picked up Jefita and drove to Rainbow Point, some 40 km away at the opposite and southernmost end of the park. Rainbow is also Bryce's highest point, and as such provides a spectacular view. There we walked the 1.6 kilometer Bristlecone Loop Trail, named for the Bristlecone Pines that it leads to; we were able to find two exemplars of the breed. Bristlecones are capable of living to a ripe old age, and some count a Bristlecone as the oldest living organism on earth at 4000 years old -- clearly, this distinction depends on the criterion as to what qualifies as a continuously existing single organism. In any case, the pines on Rainbow are relative younguns, at 1600 years old.

On the drive down from Rainbow Point to the park exit, we made brief stops at Iron Springs, Ponderosa Point, Agua Canyon, Natural Bridge, and the Whiteman Connecting Trail/Swamp Canyon.

Return to Archived Trip Records

Return to Outdoors Web

Return to Homesite