We've just finished our supper – a totally satisfying ham-and-cheese-and-avocado sandwich, accompanied by a bottle of beer we had carried with us since Apache Junction - on the balcony in front of our 'EconoLodge' room in Kingman, one of the bigger towns along historic Route 66. Sitting in the warm late afternoon sun it's as good a place as any to rest and recover from what has easily been the toughest hike we've done so far.
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Tuesday morning
The line-up waiting for the
'Hikers Express' shuttle in front of the back-country office is
shorter than the morning before: it is nine o'clock, and this is the
third and last of the shuttles specifically assigned to take hikers
to the South Kaibab trailhead about twenty-five minutes away. It is a
mixed group: some, campers like us, carry packs with tents and
sleeping gear as well as food, others are less heavily laden and
bring only day packs; they are the ones booked into the Phantom
Ranch. While they carry less they will do the hike back up in one
day, without the half-way stop at Indian Gardens. All of us will
carry lots of water, the one thing that has been emphasized most in
the instructions from rangers and any written material, plus on signs
all over. There is no water on South Kaibab until we reach the Bright
Angel campground at the bottom of the canyon, while Indian Gardens
has water on the way up.
Age-wise, too, there is a quite a
variety, from teenagers to septuagenarians. Some, like us, are doing
this for the first time, others are old hands and know the trail
well. Happy anticipation is in the air. One more trip to the bathroom
at the trail head, water bottles topped up at the water station, packs
checked and adjusted ...
By ten o'clock we are all on our way.
It is still cool, and soon after we leave my hands are getting cold
enough that I pull out the gloves. Unlike last year there is no ice
left on this first shaded part of the trail, however, and we didn't have to
pack the crampons: a little less weight where every gram counts.
Johann's pack contains all the camping equipment: tent, pads and
sleeping bags (and – one nod to luxury – the small down-filled
pillows we've come to enjoy on our backpacking trips back home),
while mine is filled with foodstuff, the 'pocket rocket' (our handy
little camp stove), a small pot and clothing items, plus notebook,
Grand Canyon field guide, binoculars, camera etc. As usual we will
likely have packed too much food, but the official recommendation is
to eat twice as much as normal, a rule I embrace much more
wholeheartedly than Johann, who seems more oblivious to the comfort
of it after a strenuous day. Well, I will have to carry this excess
weight – not such a hardship on the way down, after all – just
like that of a 330 ml plastic bottle filled with red wine, a small
glass for each of us for each night to celebrate the day's
accomplishments. It will get lighter as time progresses and we use up our supplies.
My pack doesn't seem to fit as well as
usual, sits too low and presses on my hips: likely a result of the
way we distributed the weight: too much heavy weight is sitting at
the bottom. At Cedar Ridge, the first major stop at 340m down, we
re-pack, putting my sleeping bag at the bottom of my pack and
stacking the heavier items above – much better!
It has taken us an hour to get here,
just like last year, but this time we don't venture out onto the
actual ridge for an even more spectacular view: we have a long way
ahead of us, after all. From now on it will be all new to us.
We try to follow the switchbacks below
with our eyes to see where exactly they lead, but eventually we lose
sight of the trail. Assured by fellow hikers who have done this before that
it is never unmanageable or even truly difficult to negotiate we
follow its course further to the bottom.
Growth is sparse here: prickly pear
cacti, some spectacular thistles, here and there tiny tender plants in the few places where some
moisture has been retained in a rocky niche in the shade ...
Otherwise only the rocky wall, sometimes to our right, sometimes to
our left, and the ever descending steps. These are of different
lengths, the risers big logs anchored in the ground with metal
spikes, often worn down so much from human feet and mule hooves that
they are hollowed out, spikes sticking up above the surface of the
wood. Between the risers are small rocks, often ground to the finest
sand, and sometimes it is sheer rock we walk on.
About an hour or so after Cedar Ridge
we arrive at the second major stopping point, Skeleton Point, this
one, too, with a restroom. These restrooms – 'Phoenix composting
toilets' – are amazing! They are so clean, so well maintained and
so free of any unpleasant smell that it is hard to believe they are
frequented by so many people, so far from running water. A solar electric fan is whirring much of the time; I'm not sure if it is
possibly equipped with a motion sensor.
Now comes the last and most strenuous
part of the descent. The views are spectacular, like everywhere on
the South Kaibab: every turn in the trail opens a new perspective.
Further and further we walk back in time, the pale limestone layer
giving way to deep red sandstone, the trail under our feet changing
colour accordingly. Not yet have we arrived at the hardest, oldest
layer at the bottom, although we have glimpsed the Colorado several
times now.
After Skeleton Point the trail descends
in one smooth line, for a while at least no longer zig-zagging but
describing a long sweep along the side of the mountain, visible in
its entire length when we set out along that stretch. Once completed, we are back to the steps, now even steeper and harder to negotiate than before to
accommodate a speedy descent to the river.
And there it is, finally! The mighty
Colorado is within reach now, the sturdy suspension bridge spanning
the hundred-or-so meters waiting to take us to the other side. We
reach it through a short tunnel and cross on thick planks covering
the metal construction, the wood worn down from the many mule hooves
crossing it every day.
Yet we are not quite there, and the
remaining mile or so seems to stretch endlessly. We are tired now,
our hip joints and thighs aching from the steady negotiating of those
high steps with the weight on our backs. We look forward to
stretching out in the tent!
The path winds along the river before
it veers off to the right into the narrow tree-lined valley we saw
from quite high above already. We turn left and cross Bright Angel
Creek on a short bridge, then right under a huge cliff overhang, and
enter the campground.
There is room for about ninety people, and we
find a nice spot along the cliff wall where we can put up our tent.
Picnic tables are provided, the ground is sandy and wonderfully soft,
and we are screened from our neighbours by shrubs just starting to
leaf out. The aspen along the creek – only a few metres away so
that it can sing us to sleep at night – are fully leafed out
already: we have arrived in a Spring landscape.
We put up the tent, hang our packs on
the provided poles, stow our food and anything made of plastic in big
metal boxes that, in an earlier life, served as ammunition boxes for
the army and are now used to protect too-street-wise wildlife from
the negative side effects of their human visitors. A volunteer comes
by, checks our back-country permit and gives us a talk on the
importance of keeping all
foodstuffs in the boxes at all times,
covered with a lid. Too many animals have suffered after ingesting
plastic bags, and the easy access to food makes them bold towards
humans and hurts their ability to survive in the wild.
Finally we can take off our hiking
boots! I enjoy the feeling of the sand under my naked feet, bury them
in its coolness, thankful for this relief. Too tired to do anything
else we crawl into the tent to have a nap: it is about four pm.
We wake up in time to make it to the
ranger talk at Phantom Ranch, about ten minutes up the trail along
the creek, but decide against it. Getting something to eat and more
rest is more important. Johann returns to the tent after our meal
of noodle soup, bread, cheese and ham, with some dried fruit for
dessert and, of course, this evening's allotment of wine.
I, however, sit in the gathering dark,
watch the bats on their hunt for insects and listen to the creek.
Looking up, I see Orion's three belt stars perfectly lined up in a
gap between the branches of the cottonwood tree that marks the border
of our camping spot. More and more stars appear, and since it seems
suddenly warmer than before sunset I regain some of my energy and
decide to walk down to the bridge over the creek where the valley is
a bit wider. Maybe I can even see the moon rise? I know the full moon
rose around seven pm two days earlier, but realize that it must be
rising more than an hour later already today, which will be too late for me. It doesn't matter. I
stand on the bridge, the velvety darkness above filling with more and
more stars until the sky is a sheet of silver light. There is no
sound but the water under my feet, the only sign of human life the
dimly lit windows of the ranger station, here and there a little
moving dot of light in the campground up the creek: other campers
moving around with their headlights on. I have switched mine off long
ago, trusting the brightly lit sky to guide me where I want to go.
The sandy path is easy enough to see, and I slowly make my way back
to the camp, filled with the wonders of this day.
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