In the Footprints of Seldom Seen Smith

 

Edward Abbey was born in Pennsylvania. At age eighteen, he went on a westward trek, by foot, bicycle, and train-hopping; cross-continent to California, and then east to the southwest. When he landed in the four corners area, he knew he had found home.

Interestingly, my journey has some parallels with his. A child of the eastern United States (Kentucky, West Virginia, Ohio, Vermont), I too take awe and inspiration in the great size of the west. At some undefined point on the westward drive, the landscape opens up, the sky and the earth become larger, and one can see for vast distances. Somewhere in the deserts of Arizona or New Mexico, the red monoliths and orange plateaus appear. And the giant cacti and snow-covered mountains. And the oil wells, some with their wasteful flames of natural gas atop, burning day and night. And the haze in the air from coal mines, hidden from sight.

I have been in the southwestern United States for most of the past two years, and have generally been on the western side (coast or inland) for the majority of the past seven. The east still feels like home to me, and probably always will; the west is an alien landscape of wonder, and I am an astronaut on a long journey.

Although my compass may point in a different direction from Ed Abbey's, I have nonetheless come to inhabit some of the same haunts, and even work for the same institution (the National Park Service.) Anarchist rebel Abbey spent some years as a Ranger at National Park Service sites including Arches, Organ Pipe Cactus, Lassen Volcanic, and Everglades.) And last spring, I got to know the direct action branch of the environmental movement, for which Abbey is the spiritual and philosophical founder. His novel The Monkey Wrench Gang—featuring four renegade idealists who decide to preserve wild nature by ripping up highway survey markers, sabotaging bulldozers, and blowing up automated coal trains—is one of the very few fiction books which had a direct and measurable impact on the real world, as radical environmentalists like David Foreman sought to emulate the tactics of Abbey's characters. The resultant movement of Earth First! brandishes on its website artwork based on the original cover to Abbey's book, even today, 38 years after its publication. Abbey's character George Washington Hayduke, the muscular, binge-drinking green beret veteran who applies his combat training to save deserts from "progress," is a character of mythic proportions. And the verb “to monkeywrench,” meaning “to conduct righteous sabotage” (derived from the title), has become a permanent addition the English language. Real monkeywrenchers, like Abbey's characters, follow a strict code of no violence to people; they destroy machines (and take inspiration from the Luddites.)

To be clear, there is more than one kind of direct action—the activist can wreck bulldozers with corn syrup or block their path with her body. The direct action groups which I visited and worked with (such as Mountain Justice) do not engage in property destruction, only civil disobedience. 

And if we're lucky, the forces earth and sky can conduct some direct action of their own. In a vivid early scene in Abbey's book, Seldom Seen Smith (a tall slender “Jack Mormon” and monkeywrencher) rediscovers his religion when he stands before the Glen Canyon Dam. He gets down on his knees and prays to God to send an earthquake, to fix this “temporary plug” in the beautiful Glen Canyon. He receives no answer.

On my visit to the Glen Canyon Dam, I hoped to impersonate Seldom Seen Smith in prayer, purely for fun. Being alone and concerned that I might raise suspicions, I decided not to. I had to take humor at the high level of security at the dam. Patrol cars patrolled, and a big white man security guard trailed the guided walking tour I partook in, led by a young lady Navajo guide, working for the Bureau of Reclamation. The guard kept in the distance, just close enough to be intimidating. Before the tour, I had to run to the car to drop off the Leatherman multi-tool and matches which I normally carry. Any mention of bombs or sabotage on the tour, jocular or otherwise, would result in expulsion from the site. I wasn't bold enough to ask if the same rules applied to a mention of the names Seldom Seen Smith or George Washington Hayduke. I wanted to complete the tour, and take in my fill of pro-dam propaganda. The dam was a fascinating window into the post World War II-era, and America's quest to build big stuff, conquer nature, dam 'em all, and reach a new Manifest Destiny. Something you won't hear about on the tour: many of the early battles of the environmental movement, from John Muir's time through the 1960s, were over dams. After a coalition of environmental groups led by the Sierra Club successfully blocked dam projects for the Colorado River by the Grand Canyon and the Vernal River by Dinosaur National Monument, they did not fight the Glen Canyon Dam, as a compromise. David Brower (then-executive director of Sierra Club) still agonized over this decision, decades later. Today, there are fewer dam proposals and more mountaintop removal, fracking, nuclear plants, and oil pipelines. We have moved out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Strangely enough, the bookstore at the dam still had Abbey's books for sale (but not The Monkey Wrench Gang!) Regardless of politics, Abbey is probably the most articulate and oft-quoted scribe of the desert environment. His memoir Desert Solitaire is considered by many to be the Walden or the Sand County Alamac of the desert. Abbey was a great proponent of getting out and exploring and experiencing the wild world, giving him a fan base among outdoor recreationists, whether or not they share his radical philosophy.

Before visiting Glen Canyon, I visited Zion National Park. There, I overcame my trepidation towards cold water and hiked 'The Narrows.' My adrenaline surge overwhelmed my tendency to freeze, and I charged forward, with frequent stops for photos (most of them terrible because of the weird lighting inside a canyon). “This is awesome!” I declared to a young couple of hikers, as we both stood on the dry land of the same rock before the next plunge. I charged onward for hours, through water knee-deep and occasionally chest-deep, and turned around when my adrenaline started to wane.

Edward Abbey articulated well the feeling of being alive and immersed in the great earth, when he described a similar scene, wherein Seldom Seen Smith led a raft trip through a canyon down a river. “The river, the canyon, the desert world was always changing, from moment to moment, from miracle to miracle, within the firm reality of mother earth. River, rock, sun, blood, hunger, wings, joy—this is the real, Smith would have said, if he'd wanted to. All the rest is androgynous theosophy. All the rest is transcendental transvestite transactional scientology or whatever the fad of the day, the vogue of the week. As Doc would've said, if Smith had asked him. Ask the hawk. Ask the hungry lion lunging at the starving doe. They know.” 

As I warmed my feet by the fire, under the cottonwoods of South Campground with the rock monoliths in the distance, I knew too.

Topmost photo taken at Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument.

Monkey Wrench cover is copyrighted either to its artist or publisher, low resolution reproduction used here for educational purposes only.

The Wonders of Arches and Canyonlands

Chaco Culture and Mesa Verde were places to remember. However, solitary travel wore on me. Packing and repacking the car was always up to me, and so was driving. There was no opportunity for 'I'll plan the course while you fill the tank with gas and thermos with tea'; every small step had to be taken by me, and me alone. Nonetheless, I anticipated gladly arrival in Moab,Utah. My first visit to this place occurred twelve years ago, when I was a freshman at Denison University. The then-president of the Denison Outing Club, a fellow named Andrew, described Moab as a “Mecca” for outdoor recreationists. With Arches National Park right at the doorstep, Canyonlands National Park not far away, and thousands more acres of remarkable public lands in all directions and inviting adventure, Moab is well-situated. I was glad to see that Poison Spider Bicycles was still there, and still had the same ominous mural on the side of the building. The post card of that mural, which I sent to my parents after I rode Slickrock Trail on my last venture to Moab, is still up on the bulletin board, back home in West Virginia.

 I discovered the Lazy Lizard International Hostel by a search on the internet. I arrived at night, with an approximate location given by GPS, but the lights were dim. After circling my blue Subaru Outback a few times around the gravel parking lot of a host of storage sheds, I found the hostel on the other side of the fence. I nervously entered the old refurbished house and payed the uniquely low price of $11 for the first night, for a bed and locker in the dorm, and access to shared bathrooms with hot showers, and the kitchen and common room. In the common room, American and Australian guys gathered on the couches and chairs, and watched and discussed Monday Night Football. Uninterested in the game, I sat at a table near the back by the kitchen, plotted my trip to Canyonlands, and interjected a few off-hand comments about America's most corporate sport. And then something piqued my interest. Three young women, fair-skinned and dark-haired, gathered at a table near to mine, ate spaghetti and conversed in French. After gathering my nerve I approached, and struck up a conversation about the archeological wonders I had seen in New Mexico. As I suspected, they spoke english too. They had come from Switzerland and France, on vacation from their varied vocations and schools, and were on a trek across the western U.S., to experience its marvels. (In addition to universal health care, Europeans get longer vacations, making all of this possible.)

The next day, I toured Arches National Park, alongside my new friends—Laure, Celine, and Flavia (left to right in the full group photo at Arches.) We rode in their red rental sedan, with American hits like Johnny Cash's “Ring of Fire” and Lynyrd Skynyrd's “Sweet Home Alabama” sounding through the speakers. We went from one of the famous Arches and its associated short trail to the next. I was relieved to no longer be traveling alone, and happy to have more than one form of natural beauty to observe in the southwestern deserts.

Arches National Park is a landscape that inspires. On my previous visit, I did some of my best photography (still to date), with a small 35-mm film camera. Now, I was awed again. The red and pink and orange sandstone, in impossible loops and spires and bridges, towers above and around us, invites climbing, and walking through. The blue sky extends for vast distances in all directions, and errant clouds paint streaks above the arches. In the far distance are snow-capped mountains, after long stretches of desert and layers of shrubs and sandstone. I felt small among the arches, not much bigger than the dark-colored crustose lichens which grew on the rocks. And I felt that I was looking through windows into near and distant worlds, disbelieving that I was still on earth.

Arches gave inspiration to Edward Abbey (1927-1989), where he worked as a backcountry ranger. The cantankerous outdoorsman authored many books, and became an icon to an impressively broad range of earthly people, including outdoor recreationists, park rangers, nature writers, wilderness advocates, and radical environmental activists. Abbey's novel The Monkey Wrench Gang became a sort of blue print for some forms of environmental direct action. Abbey's memoir Desert Solitaire left its mark on me; and I still quote its passages on vultures, and on the many ways to view Delicate Arch....

We posed before Turret Arch, and Double Arch. We looked through Landscape Arch, where the landslide had occurred in 1991. Along the way I chatted with Flavia about skiing the alps, the superior cheeses found in Switzerland, the wonders of Crater Lake, and my sysphian labor efforts when I worked at a nursery with a despotic manager. In the mid-afternoon, we set out on the trail to Delicate Arch, one-and-a-half miles each way. And I fell silent. I caught the mood of the others who walked this path. Like in a church, they spoke only in hushed tones. And so did I, and kept my camera engaged, photographing the red sandstone hills of reverence.

We arrived at Delicate Arch. The most famous of the arches, whose image adorns countless post cards and book covers. The symbol of Arches, and Moab, and the wild southwest. A sandstone landscape in red pink and orange, reminiscent of Mars. Plateaus and ridges beyond, snowy mountains beyond that. Delicate Arch like a looming gateway, with the blue sky shining through its 'doughnut hole,' and the moon above. As the sun dropped lower in the sky, the arch's shadow grew more exaggerated. If National Parks are secular sacred sites, then Delicate Arch is this temple's most holy place.

On the sandstone surrounding the arch, a dozen or so tourists found places to sit or crouch or stand or lie down, or walked about, as I did, to see the arch from multiple viewpoints. I followed a man with a fancier camera, and photographed the arch from a deep 'worm's eye' angle, after he did. More tourists arrived. Perhaps 25 persons were on the sandstone when the sun set, and turned the pinkish terrain to brilliant orange. Seated next to Flavia and Laure, I let my camera rest, and experienced Delicate Arch with my bare eyes, in its final sunset glory. The same “movie” of sunset by Delicate Arch will happen tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. And the panorama of landscape is grander than anything even CGI can produce. Even in the age of the smart phone, these old entertainments endure. (The nightly mass exodus of bats from Carlsbad Caverns is another example.) As we walked back down the trail, I overheard the young man behind me talk to his friend about how it was good to be reminded of the big grand things of nature which exist beyond ourselves, and represent a scale of time grander than we can imagine.

Apparently, the Delicate Arch ritual has changed little since 1968, when Edward Abbey published Desert Solitaire. The old maverick's words ring true as ever....

“There are several ways of looking at Delicate Arch. Depending on your preconceptions you may see the eroded remnant of a sand-stone fin, a giant engagement ring cemented in rock, a bow-legged pair of petrified cowboy chaps, a triumphal arch for a procession of angels, an illogical geologic freak, a happening—a something that happened and will never happen quite that way again, a frame more significant than its picture, a simple monolith eaten away by weather and time and soon to disintegrate into a chaos of falling rock (not surprisingly there have been some, even in the Park Service, who advocate spraying Delicate Arch with a fixative of some sort—Elmer’s glue perhaps or Lady Clairol's Spray-Net). There are inevitable pious Midwesternes who climb a mile and a half under the desert sun to view Delicate Arch and find only God (“Gol-dangit Katherine where's my light meter, this glare is terrible”), and the equally inevitable students of geology who look at the arch and see only Hyell and the uniformity of nature. You may therefore find proof for or against His existence. Suit yourself. You may see a symbol, a sign, a fact, a thing without meaning or a meaning which includes all things.”

The next day, my friends and I explored the canyons. Our first stop was Dead Horse Point State Park. I was stunned to see what looked very much like another Grand Canyon. We went on to Island in the Sky at Canyonlands National Park, which seemed to contain MULTIPLE Grand Canyons. The environments surrounding Moab are truly wondrous.

I spied an article in the Moab Sun News, that the local Helen M. Knight elementary had undertaken a special project called “Look Where We Live”, to introduce young folks to the landscape of Canyonlands—by painting outside. The project was launched in part because a survey found that only 30 per cent of local children had ever visited Canyonlands. A colloboration with the Bates Wilson Legacy Fund and the National Park Service, the project will culminate in an exhibition of student art to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of Canyonlands National Park. With or without me, more people are discovering the power of art to connect people and nature. (Or maybe I should say re-discovering: the first person to suggest the idea of National Parks, George Catlin, was an artist, and Yellowstone became the first National Park after congress saw Thomas Moran's watercolor paintings of its shooting geysers and boiling hot springs.)

I hope to return to Canyonlands, and undertake drawing and painting of my own. But for this time, the road beckoned. This adventure was coming to an end. Late in the day as we drove through dusk, Flavia learned of my fondness for heavy metal and Iron Maiden. She had seen the band in concert! Soon “Fear of the Dark” resounded from the speakers, followed by “Aces High.” Then the classic metal riff of Deep Purple's “Smoke on the Water” made a fine compliment to a landscape cast in azure and violet, as we returned to Moab.

The next morning at the Lazy Lizard, I bade farewell to my new friends with hugs and chocolate-covered espresso beans and promises to exchange photos by email. Their red sedan rolled south, bound for Mesa Verde, and eventually California. My blue Subaru Outback went north and east, to go across Colorado and the rocky mountains, through Wyoming, and finally to South Dakota, where work at Wind Cave National Park would soon begin. The prairies awaited, and the great American buffalo.

Photo of Ross at Canyonlands by Celine Vidonne

A Revival for Insects

As I write these words, rain falls in a steady drizzle, across the expansive and flat landscape of the Chihuahuan desert. I'm glad to be inside this old stone house, with a cup of hot tea, listening to the persistent tapping and gushing. The desert needs rain. We have not had enough of it in recent years. Cacti and ocotillo and agave have extraordinary abilities to sustain themselves on low water, but even they will eventually meet their limits. And the drought is the most likely explanation why our numbers of bats have been lower than previously years. Carlsbad Caverns is famous for the Brazilian free-tailed bats that rise from the cave in a giant thunderhead, composed of hundreds of thousands of individuals. Bat flights this year have featured only a thin, steady stream of the flying mammals. The bats feast upon flying insects, mostly moths and beetles. In a drought-stricken landscape, there are fewer insects, which prompts bats to go elsewhere.

Even with the drought, some rugged insects persist. I am familiar with this desert's diversity of ants, as both the large and red and the tiny and black varieties scamper through my dwelling, and leave no tiny crumb of foodstuff or minute leg of cricket uneaten. And there are the cicadas whose song fills the air on the mid-morning hike to Slaughter Canyon cave. The desert is a fearsome, eat-or-be-eaten world, and so many invertebrates are armed, with stingers, fangs, or chemical defenses. On my night walks, I have encountered tarantulas (see previous entry), scorpions, centipedes, and millipedes. By night and by day, wasps and tarantula hawks buzz past.

It will take more than today's rainfall for the desert to recover from drought, but it is a beginning. We must bring a stop to anthropogenic climate change, for it is the cause of much of our recent spate of planetary extreme weather. In the meantime, as a tribute to the insects, I am sharing a few drawings (above and below.) These hornets were inspired by a nest which a friend and I found on a hike in the forests of Oregon. But they are equally fitting to the desert, and its panoply of insects who bite and sting for defense.

Encounter with a Wild Tarantula

By evening at Carlsbad Caverns, people gather about the outdoor amphitheater before the cave's natural entrance, to witness the nightly mass exodus of Brazilian free-tailed bats. When conditions are right, a spiraling funnel cloud containing hundreds of thousands of bats emerges from out of the cave, and rises high into the purple and orange sunset sky. I have not yet witnessed the “bat tornado” in its full glory; bat flights this year have, thus far, been on a smaller scale; some have included a thin but steady stream of the flying mammals. (We do not know the reason for the smaller number of bats, but drought could be a factor.)

At the outdoor amphitheater, some people (especially children) are often distracted by another denizen of the desert. A brown hairy beast, gigantic—for a spider. Tarantulas commonly pass through the theater, or stop for a rest from their evening prowl. Male tarantulas are especially common, as they make their walkabout in search of a mate. Their partnership will be brief. After mating, the male must flee from the hungry female.

I have, a few times, joined the tourists and pointed my camera at the great spiders. I followed one for a good walk, in search of a better photo. And then I found myself, and the tarantula, right outside the door of the men's restroom. I thought this a potentially dangerous spot for the arachnid. A man's boot might squash the poor beast, accidentally or on purpose. And so I pondered how to relocate the spider. When I was ten years old, I acquired a Chilean rose tarantula, whom I named Espigah, for a pet. I sometimes “held her” by allowing her to crawl on my hand. Luckily, I decided not to attempt the same technique in this setting. Instead, I tried sliding my boot next to the tarantula, to encourage him to move. Evidently, the spider thought my intentions were hostile, and responded accordingly. He rose up, with several front pairs of legs in the air and fangs on display, the classic tarantula threat posture. I needed a different strategy. I thought that perhaps I could slide a newspaper under the spider and move him without causing disturbance. As I reached the newspaper towards the arachnid, he rose in threat again and struck the paper with his fangs. The bite sent vibrations through the pages to my hand, a safe distance away. I decided to leave the spider be, to fend for himself should the need arise. Perhaps I had discovered a difference between wild and domestic tarantulas. This fellow seemed to be more inclined to defensive reaction than my pet tarantula was. (Although Espigah did once throw a cloud of urticating hairs in response to a girl's scream.)

Understandably, I had started the confrontation, as far as the spider was concerned. These hairy beasts are quite harmless, when left unmolested. (And even if they are provoked to bite, the venom has no serious effects, for most people.) They are a joy to observe, in the desert wanderings, with their smooth coordination of all eight legs, which suggests a slow jazz rhythm.

Like all animals, tarantulas must eat. From time to time, their fangs sink into beetles or crickets or small lizards. In the right circumstances, small mammals are also fair prey. And so I have drawn a tribute to the big spiders, with their skill at predation. On the sand and rocks, in the cool desert night, beneath the light of full moon, the tarantulas thrive. Like the cacti and the bats, the ring tails and the roadrunners, they are an essential part of the desert.

The Canyon of Sun and Water

 

In preparation for my hike into the Grand Canyon, I contemplated bringing four quarts of water. Lesley, my friend and hiking companion, persuaded me that two and a half quarts was enough, that we would find more along the way.

Viewed from the rim, the canyon is awe-inspiring, but also foreboding. A gaping vista of layer upon layer, spire upon spire, chasm, within chasm, cast in oranges and reds and grays and greens. The viewer wonders how his eyes could observe such vast expanses of rock, all at once. To the acrophobic, the canyon can be a place of terror, with its cliffs and sheer drops, apparently a bottomless pit. Although I stayed cautious near the edge, my fears and concerns had more to do with heat, dehydration, and exhaustion than heights.

Every year, almost five million people stand at the precipice and view the Grand Canyon. Of those, around two hundred thousand hike the trails into the Canyon, at least for a short distance. Thousands hike to the bottom and stay overnight at a backcountry campground, while thousands more wish they could. Backcountry camping permits are in high demand, and it took a coordinated effort for Lesley and I to obtain ours. Lesley has volunteered for the park's Environmental Education program all spring. She used her connections to begin the permit process and arrange for some of our intended campsites. Next, I made visits to the permit office at eight A.M. for multiple consecutive days, exchanging one waitlist number for the next, until finally getting the prized permit for camping at Phantom Ranch and Cottonwood, at the bottom of the canyon. To get there, it's a long walk.

On a Saturday morning in late April, we began the long walk. We departed from Lesley's residence with backpacks fully loaded with water, food, clothes, sleeping bags, first aid supplies, cameras, a small sketch book, etc. We worked together to pack economically. My pack weighed around 40 pounds, the lightest it has been for any multi-night trip that I can recall. We walked through Grand Canyon Village, and onto the Bright Angel Trail.

Early on, there were multiple warning signs about the trail's difficulty and danger. From my previous Canyon hikes (10 and 14 years ago), I still remembered the cartoon graphic of a stressed hiker against the Canyon backdrop. Pictures are a near-universal language, and essential in a park like this, where visitors (and their native languages) come from all over the world.

We began the descent into the earth's gaping maw. Early on, we went through the first tunnel, a fitting gateway for our passage into another world, like a wormhole from Star Trek. Past fossil brachiopods and chrinoids from a prehistoric ocean, past shrubby sagebrush and Utah juniper. Past pictographs by the land's ancient inhabitants. A California Condor soared above us, a black airplane, a bird of prehistoric proportions. It soared unconcerned over the mile-deep pit.

With all its barren rock surfaces to reflect light, the Canyon gets hot, perhaps 20 degrees Fahrenheit hotter than the landscape of the surrounding rim. Lesley was concerned that I still wore my standard long pants and sleeves, which protect from the sun, but also add warmth. I sweated, but remained confident that I could handle the heat. I recalled my experience last spring, of work in the blazing sun all day, watering and caring for plants, in an extensive outdoor nursery, where breaks were verboten. Although the nursery was harder, the Grand Canyon still proved trying.

Despite the general heat and drought, I was pleasantly surprised by the frequency of water in the Canyon, especially along the Bright Angel Trail. First at the mile-and-a-half rest house, then at the three-mile rest house, we passed watering stations (which were parts on an elaborately-engineered hydraulic system). Four and a half miles from the trailhead, beyond the steep cliffs of the Red Wall Limestone, we reached the famous Indian Gardens. The site of several natural springs, which fuel the growth of Cottonwoods—blessed shade. Naturally, therefore, a longtime site of human activity. Where humans and mules alike can rest their weary bones.

We took a short rest, refilled water, and walked on. One foot and one hiking pole in front of the other. It only grew hotter, but as we approached the base of the Canyon, we also walked alongside Garden Creek and Pipe Creek, which feed the Colorado River. At periodic stops, Lesley swam and I dipped my hat in the water. Even in this heat, I was reluctant to immerse myself in cold water, which I react to like a cat.

In this earthen oven, plants thrived, and used varied techniques, to gain and keep water. The cacti are the most famous desert plants, and the Canyon had them in abundance. It was spring; they were in bloom. Prickly pears and beaver tails and claret cup chola. Flowers pink and red. Beautiful blossoms above menacing spikes.

Lizards thrived as well. We encountered desert spiny lizards, collared lizards, and common-side blotched lizards. They basked in the sun and scurried among the rocks.

We saw abundant human life as well. The Bright Angel Trail is not the place to hike in solitude. As some go up the trail, others go down. Some chatter about business meetings in Seattle; others discuss the national parks of Japan; many stay quiet, and open their senses to the present moment.

By the time we reached the Devil's Corkscrew, few casual hikers remained. On the way down, the steep winds and bends caused sore calf muscles. And what was hiked down, must be hiked up.

Even at my third hike to the Canyon bottom, its depth still had the power to amaze. As deep as the Canyon appears from the rim, one still doesn't see the bottom. Along the hike, it felt like canyons within canyons within canyons. One presumes to be close to the Colorado River, then hikes more miles forward, and thousands more feet down. The walls envelop the traveler, and the trailhead is lost in the distance, like the vanished earth, in a spacecraft bound for the stars.

We took brief respite at the river resthouse, which was built by the CCC. We drank water and ate homemade “clif” bars, and hiked on. Shortly thereafter, we passed the Colorado River, nine miles from the trailhead. I breathed a welcome sigh of relief, and thanked the stars that I wasn't hiking back out of the Canyon today. In my previous two Canyon treks, I made went the distance from the rim to the river and back to the rim in a single day. If necessary, I could do it again. But this time, I was happy to take a more measured pace, and experience more of life in the Canyon.

Around the river, we encountered more walls of red (part of the “Grand Canyon Supergroup,”) and a special challenge for Lesley. She had an acrophobic reaction to the uphill beside the river, with steep drop-offs beside us. We sang Christmas songs together for distraction and reassurance. And, with determination, she overcame her trepidations, and walked across the scathing coals.

After a walk across the Silver Bridge and more walk through the Canyon, we reached Phantom Ranch. At the bottom of the canyon, under the shade of those beloved cottonwoods, a developed “full service” campground. It had not only running water and bathrooms, but a cantina where the concessionaire sold lemonade, wine, and snacks, and even served meals, for those with reservations. And Lesley and partook in that famous novelty of communication: we stamped postcards and put them into the outgoing mailbox at Phantom Ranch. The postcards were stamped with the words “carried by mule out of the Grand Canyon”. There were cabins for staff and cabins for guests with reservations, a law enforcement ranger who patrolled the campground and checked permits, and a ranger who delivered interpretive programs every afternoon and evening. All of this took place nine miles from the nearest road, with the only ways in by foot, mule, or helicopter; and the latter is reserved for emergencies or an occasional large load of needed supplies. There was something surreal about this outpost of civilization, within the vast wilderness. I was glad for the lemonade with ice.

As we wandered outside the cantina to the water spigot, a trail runner saw the first aid kit in Lesley's hand, and asked for assistance with a blister. It was like a chewing-gum bubble of skin across the woman's left big toe. Lesley gladly assisted the runner with draining and bandaging the blister. Now, our new friend had but nine miles more to go, uphill, today. But she had a diverse crew of eight other trail runners to accompany, in the last phase of their 'extreme' trek. For many decades, mule was the popular way to travel into the Canyon. In the 1960's, hiking saw a dramatic increase in popularity. In recent times, we have entered a new age of extreme physical challenges, super-marathons and ultra-marathons, impossible hikes, bikes, and swims. And so The Grand Canyon sees its fair share of those who seek to put their endurance to the test. The “rim to rim to rim” hike (50 or so miles of rough terrain and rough weather) has become a popular event, which trail runners embark on day and night. Even though all the guidebooks say not to walk all the way the Colorado river and back in one day, much less that threefold. As we chatted among the hikers and trail-runners, it came up that Lesley and I were short on iodine. A pair of backpacking men gave us some tablets. Travelers in the Canyon are quick to form a community; we all look out for each other in this challenging environment.

We ate black backs and rice and tuna on a beach by the Colorado River, where the water looks calm, but strong currents lurk beneath. That night, back at Phantom Ranch, we heard the ranger program by the campfire, and watched the western pipistrelles (tiny bats) flutter and glide, some right past our ears, others high in the sky.

I remember little of my first overnight in the Canyon, because I slept soundly. In the morning, I lingered a bit to draw the cottonwoods in the sketchbook, while Lesley slept a little late. We made the mistake of departing camp at 8:30. We saw the supply train of mules go by, and I handed Lesley the camera.

With the red cliffs of “The Box” towering above us, we hiked the North Kaibab trail. Our late departure put us hiking through the hottest part of the day. Like in the sauna, I felt the droplets of sweat form all over my body, and trickle downwards. The trail roughly followed the Bright Angel Creek, and Lesley jumped in water whenever it was available and safe—but the distance between trail and creek grew. Away from the stream, we rested in shade, which was rarely found. I even reconsidered my stance on clothing, and hiked for a stretch in my swimming trunks. Problematic for me was my hat, a warmer one of solid fabric. Without water to soak it in, I went hat-less for a bit, and nearly felt the sun burning my head. We continued to drink water and eat trail mix, and walk on our sore calves.

This stretch of trail was less populated. Periodically, a pair of young women, light travelers with camel packs and shorts, passed us, then we passed them, like leap frog. Evidently, their heat tolerance was high, as they sometimes rested in the searing sun.

Near our destination, a slight detour took us to Ribbon Falls. A true oasis from the desert oven. A cliff by pinkish-reddish rocks which, like most of the Canyon, appeared to be colored with oil pastel. From out of the cliff, a grand carved horseshoe shape. Within the horseshoe, a giant's domed hut of moss (actually a rock face covered in the spongy greenery.) From above, water crashed down upon the moss-hut, sprayed in all directions, joined the pool below, and then flowed downstream. A creature frolicked, going in and out of the moss hut and water. It was a dipper. Small gray bird. On the cliff face, on the high walls of the moss hut, she danced in the cold shower. She jumped. Fluttered her wings and slowed her descent, all the way to the ground. She entered the cold pool and explored, with a distinct bobbing up and down of the whole body, sometimes called “the dipper dance.” In her mouth, she carried moss, collected on the walls. She flew in the hole in the moss hut. Within, in a smaller hole in the rocky cliffs, her babies peeped and bounced in the nest. She added the moss to her nest. The dipper carried about her work, unperturbed by our presence. We looked into the cave to view the babies while the mother carried on with her waterfall hip hop.

At Ribbon Falls, I put aside my inhibitions, and entered the watery chill. (And Lesley took to the water like a fish, as usual.) Perhaps it wasn't only the Canyon's heat that drew me in. Perhaps, even with the untrained senses of a white man, I was drawn to spirit power. The Zuni tell stories of Ribbon Falls as their place of emergence, and of the mystic healing properties of the water. The landscape felt sacred to me as well.

The desert was still hot on the way to Cottonwood. We trekked the remaining distance. We entered the camp, found a suitable site—only to discover that our site was already occupied by a collared lizard. He scampered onto the log at site's edge, and conducted repeated “push-ups”, classic territorial display. Evidently, he needed to remind us who is boss in this Canyon. And considering his superior adaptations to the desert, I was not one to argue. We kept the site, for it had a tiny bit of shade, while other sites had none. But we respected the lizard's sovereignty by putting our tent a good ways away from his declared log.

Luckily, Cottonwood had potable water, and we didn't need the iodine. We boiled and ate orzo and lentils, as the sun set. We heard the frogs sing. That motivated us to explore the brooks, despite our sore calves. The sky was first dark blue, then black, and thousands of stars were quick to emerge. Pippistrelles, in silhouette, fluttered and dove. At the pond, many canyon tree frogs, more than I could count, with their pupils eyes round as marbles in the dim moonlight. We illuminated them with red light, and they continued their song. We filmed the performance. The rushing water was louder, but the song was elegant. The frogs hopped and swam and sang.

The next morning, we awoke at 5:30 and set off, having learned about the importance of an early start. The way back across the red and pink landscape was easier in the morning cool, and we passed other hikers rarely. We revisited Ribbon Falls when it was still the mid-morning. We retraced our route, back to the Colorado River.

Back on the Bright Angel Trail, the path was more populated, with dayhikers, backpackers, trail runners, mules, and occasional park staff and volunteers. We crossed back over the Colorado River a little after noon, and passed groups of hikers just arriving at the river. They would hike back up the trail in the heat of the day.

Not far past the River, on the way up the Canyon, Lesley caught movement from the corner of her eye. A white quadruped with narrow horns watched us from a steep slope, maybe a hundred yards away. It was a female bighorned sheep (their horns are not as big as those of the males). Simian and ungulate watched each other across the gulf of canyon, and we pointed her out to other hikers. Then the bighorn jumped its way up the canyon walls, one tiny ledge to the next, with alacrity and confidence, like a wilderness Spider-Man. 

We trekked through some heat on the way to Indian Gardens, but took the opportunity to douse ourselves in cold water again; we re-entered the shade of the cottonwoods in good form. We stayed in a staff cabin that night, equipped with running water, electricity, and even a shower; strange luxuries in the Canyon wilderness. We conversed with the backcountry rangers and a volunteer for the preventative search-and-rescue (PSAR) program. PSAR staff and volunteers make it their collective duty to stop every canyon traveller, ask their plan, inform them of risks, and help when things go awry. The “preventative” aspect of the program was launched in 1997, and the number of annual medical emergencies dropped dramatically as a result. Our new friend explained the fun and rewards of explaining to unprepared hikers, in crocs or high heels, of the trail's distance and hazards. He also expressed frustration with the rim-to-rim-to-rim trail runners, who ignore all his warnings. He also noted that he carries four quarts of water or more, to be prepared for any situation, including malfunctions in the Canyon's plumbing.

At night, the desert came to life, with more singing frogs, hopping toads, and insects abuzz. Lesley strode through the sand and mesquite, and I was close behind. She heard a rattle, and we stepped back. We re-routed the give the small pink rattlesnake a wide birth. How civilized of the reptile to warn us about our intrusion. Human and snake each departed without a scratch. Later, we saw a scorpion on patrol, with claws outstretched and tail coiled back. Thus armed, the arachnid strode with confidence, hungry for insects.

Back at the cabin, I used the shower, having forgotten that such heights of cleanliness were possible. I combined our remaining foodstuffs into a mixture of various soups and noodles, featuring beans and vegetable proteins. At first I tried to use the same pot and spoon for everything; I slowly re-adapted to the furnished kitchen. We saved a bit of the mix for the morning, having eaten virtually all of our food stocks, even the trail mix and 'cliff bars.' When I next hike the Canyon, I'll bring more. Rangers in the Canyon use a general guideline of “drink drink drink, eat eat eat.” Although this moniker applies to any challenging hike, its relevance intensifies in the extreme setting of the Grand Canyon.

In the early morning, we hiked out, up the Devil's Corkscrews, past the pictographs, back through the porthole, and back to the civilization of the Canyon rim. Where showers and ovens and computers and souvenir t-shirts are abundant. I would miss the wild world below the rim, but would be glad to return to my books and internet and rest in a bed, for a little while, before the next adventure. My next destination was only further south; the Chihuahuan desert, another hot and dry place, now gripped by drought. Most of my work would take place inside the caves of Carlsbad Caverns, but I would experience the desert as well. I resolved to drink healthy amounts of water, and hope that the wells stay fortified. And I anticipated new adventures among new friends. At Carlsbad, like at the Grand Canyon, I would join the millions who had discovered earth's wonders; created pictures, stories, and memories; and made an individual interpretation of a collective sacred place.

Image Credits:

Top two photos (of the Canyon from the rim and from the Bright Angel Trail), eighth and ninth photo (of North Kaibab Trail and Ribbon Falls) by Ross Wood Studlar.  All other photos by Lesley McClintock.  Copyright ©2013 to respective creators.