Being There: December 2015

Adrift in the Southwest; December 2015

Cascadia

Amid a wild, melancholy illness brought by the acute gloom of Novembers in our fair Cascadia, I sought cure in the Desert Southwest.

Randi, a friend of mine from my AmeriCorps days, had invited me to fly down to Arizona for a visit sometime around Thanksgiving. As an afterthought, almost, she mentioned hiking the Grand Canyon. The reason being was that I’d been bellyaching with greater than normal frequency at how down I’d felt because of the weather, and Randi (oh praises to her sweetness), who I guessed was holding a certain degree of pity towards yours truly had offered to assist with transportation and lodging. With mileage points piled up, and a string of other petit fortunes striking, including the work approval to take a week off, and the granting of permit to camp beneath the canyons, I found myself on a plane. A family of four humans (two little ones) + 1 dog + varying population of hens living outside of Prescott, two hours north of Phoenix, Randi’s modest abode had in some ways been the subject of envy at my end. Their home housed plenty of musical instruments, decors that implied a fondness for the outdoors, Kayaks and Canoes laid erect like a Rodin out on the front yard, and a collection of whiskey stowed away in the garage. Who wouldn’t be envious?

Hens

Randi, Ross, and the kids picked me up at the shuttle office in Prescott. It was Sunday at 1730h, and we planned to dine with several friends at the Prescott Brewery. The weather was cold, almost similar to Washington State. However, I noticed that the famed Arizona sunset had painted the sky a deep metallic blue and vivid streaks of crimson flurrying like tendrils reaching out into the darkness of night.

“I haven’t seen the sun in two weeks.” I told no one in particular. I still haven’t given that I slept the entire way down, but the sun’s traces were there.

The next morning, a blue sky was evident in the horizon, with several glasses of whiskey imbibed the night before, I languorously readied for the two hour drive and 8 mile hike down on the South Kaibab Trail. Randi's Jeep, which I would refer to here as the Diskins' Jeep (pardon the synecdoche, but I aim for inclusivity), would be my primary mode of transportation through the interstate for the week, and my feet, of course, over the trails.
Five years ago, this path was the inaugural backpacking trip down the Grand Canyon that also launched my fondness for traveling on foot. A loop trail that can be journeyed any number of ways. Unlike last time, my voyage would complete the orbit counter-clockwise.

Atop South Kaibab Trail

I arrived at the South Rim Visitor Center shortly past 1430h and I immediately caught the shuttle en route to the trailhead. It was balmy, which felt strange because the thermometer suggested that the temps were, in fact, somewhere along 46˚f - fairly cold in my book. I lifted my pack, and checked that the ukulele was still in tune, which it was. With everything in proper order, I proceeded to the trek for Phantom Ranch down on the Colorado River.

On the journey, I didn’t need to exert a whole lot of energy descending, however, my knees felt stressed due to the steepness of the decline, and I couldn’t walk faster than I did. At sundown, the campgrounds were still two miles off and realized I would be hiking in the dark. As I furthered my way into the trail, a family of bighorns jumped out to cross in front and I was sufficiently freaked out.

“Goddamn animals.” I shouted.

Zoroaster Temple Seen Along South Kaibab; 3 Miles from Camp

The campgrounds were located on the north side of the Grand Canyon, separated from the trail by the Colorado River, and bridged together by, well, a bridge. When I arrived at the crossing, stars were twinkling aloft, and a faint glow of reddish gold still shimmering across the spire of Zoroaster Temple high above. I set camp, cooked dinner, and breathed the air before realizing that it had gotten very cold; my Suunto sensed 38˚f, this was 1930h. The campsite was spacious and adjacent to the roaring Bright Angel Creek which bothered my sleep - I always preferred sleeping in/near silence. After several hours of trying to convince my brain that it was tired and should really do the Zzz’s, sunlight had began seeping in, lighting up my tent with rapid intensity; this was 6ish. I rose, more tired than last night. When I crawled out of the tent, several backpackers were making their way to the Ranch, a quick two minute walk, and I felt inclined to do the same. When I arrived, I bought postcards, wrote to several friends, and mailed them: The cards would be couriered by a mule up to the South Rim sometime later.

1st Camp

Phantom Ranch was slightly different from my memory of it 5 years ago. There were buildings I couldn't recall from last time, and a new trail across the creek had been constructed. Also, I wasn’t sure whether the area smelled of mule droppings from when I was there last, perhaps it did and I just forgot, but it struck and to gain solitude from the thing was a task that required a little effort. I exhaled and made my way back to camp.

Bright Angel Creek

Phantom Ranch

While sauntering along, I relished the sight of yellow foliage shielding the soil from a glinting sun. I noticed that several colonies of prickly pear as green as emeralds were strewn near the Bright Angel Creek, and many agave plants spiraled like miniature galaxies had lined the rock walls. The sky was deep blue, and the air was cool, I made lunch and packed my things. It was Tuesday, and there were five miles that needed hiking up the Bright Angel Trail toward Indian Gardens where my next campsite would be.

The Bright Angel Trail was mostly a gentle stroll. But as I furthered the distance and the day’s heat growing more oppressively, the walk began to feel taxing. I passed a pair of hikers on the trail, who later passed me, and whom I would again pass somewhere along; we were playing a mildly cruel and subconscious form of tag. In the brief moments when dialogues were exchanged, I discovered that they, too, were headed for Indian Gardens.

When I arrived, there was one other backpacker who was fully settled in and appeared to be looking for ways to kill time.

“Good afternoon, it looks like it’ll just be you and me here.” He said. The place was large and had plenty of good space.

“For now, there’s a couple more coming.” I replied.

His name was Mark. A 50-some year old resident of Phoenix who pronounced “Tonto” as “Tanoe.”

As in:

"I took the Tanoe Trail to get here.” Which drove me to realize that he wasn’t at the standard route upon Bright Angel today.
"That's pretty rad." I thought out loud.

Mark Facing North at Plateau Point

We had a nice chat on the joys of hiking solo before I proceeded to find my own campsite. The sun was still high, but the winds were noticeably cooler than at the bottom of the canyon. The trees were greener there, and the grass was a lot taller, too. Songbirds were abundant, and herds of deer were grazing on and off the campgrounds. The two hikers I was lapping had arrived, and they chose to camp further uphill, closer to the bathrooms.

“Tag, you’re it.” I said, and they laughed.

I pitched my tent upon a patch flooded by sunlight. With last night’s burdensome sleeplessness, I immediately laid inside for a nice warm nap and when I woke, it was already late afternoon. I made tea and began to prepare dinner.

Mark came over for a visit and told me stories of his adventures to which I eagerly listened. Almost instantaneously, the two hikers came down to say “hi.” A brother and sister, Daniel and Theresa, one living in Baltimore and the other, Boulder, respectively. Theresa was drinking wine out of a clear platypus bottle and I eyed it with gusto.

“Care for some?” She asked. Mark refused, but I did not hesitate on the offer.

“Are y’all planning to watch the sunset at Plateau Point later?” I asked, wine swishing in my coffee cup.

Theresa on Plateau Point

The siblings were ostensibly unaware of the place existing nearby, and Mark vouched that it was, indeed, a great area to watch the setting sun. Soon later, we found ourselves marching on the way there.

Plateau Point Trail

When we arrived, a soft Alpenglow had painted the canyon walls. The darkened corners were shapes that seemed like downturned pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The sky was vast, and the river below looked of pale silver. With no one else around, Plateau Point seemed as if it was placed there by the powers that be exclusively for the four of us. As I watched the sun set, I felt awe and thought that the magnificence I was beholding was surely reserved only for those residing in paradise. We sat and gawked at the breathtaking canyons for about a half-hour. When we left on our way back to camp, a mile/mile and a half away, several stars had perforated the darkening sky.

Daniel and Theresa

Colorado River 1500 Feet Below

Sunset On the Canyons

Indian Gardens was colder overnight than down at Phantom Ranch by, at least, 10 degrees. But I slept wonderfully. When I woke, some areas were covered in frost and the ground was hard as a rock.

The following day was again clear and sunny. However, the air persisted upon its frigid nature and I felt compelled to brew several cups of coffee when usually one would've been sufficient Mark came over to announce that he was readying to leave for the trail and 15 minutes later, he was off on his way up the rim. I gulped the rest of my coffee, vapor emanating from my nose, and prepared to pack my things.

“Maybe I can catch up with him on the way.” I thought.

It didn’t take long to pack. Roughly 10 minutes since Mark left, I, too, was off to the trail. The siblings were already gone when I passed by their site - the time was 1100h. This was the final leg of my time here on the Grand Canyon and it felt forlorn; I didn’t want to march back and herald my return into the sinking sadness that was my life. Actually, my life really wasn’t sad at all; the dreary conditions in Washington State often made it seem as if it was.

“There are far greater types of suffering around the world.” I reminded myself.

A little more than a mile later, I caught up with Mark. We lauded the idea of hiking alone the day before, but it felt nice to have someone along for the journey this time.

Grandview Point

Epilogue:

I got back to the Diskins' Jeep at about 1500h and drove east to a hotel in Page, Az. The next day, I visited Horseshoe Bend and the slot canyons. I scored a solo tour of Lower Antelope Canyon, which was, for a lack of a better word, magical. I urge you, dear reader, to go and explore it for yourself. You couldn’t possibly regret it.

That afternoon, I drove two hours to Utah where I breathed the crisp air eddying across Monument Valley. I stood in front of the towering mesas shaped like animals, mittens, or sisters. I took my ukulele and strummed to the tune of bruddah Iz's "Somewhere Over the Rainbow."