OutLearn

The sound of thunder shook the afternoon as a spattering of rain fell from a sky darkened, not with night, but with a storm that seemed to be pushing us toward the Rim. The backpacks in the bed of the truck didn’t look wet. Two of us didn’t have rain jackets. It’ll blow through. The dry ground around the Rim greedily absorbed the rainfall.

Things change once the packs are packed, water bottles filled, and unnecessary gear left behind. We begin down the trail. As we descend over the South Rim, we’re met by an arrogant wind out of the west, flinging heavy raindrops sideways. The rock is slick. It’ll blow through.

The canyon around us is wrapped mysteriously in mist, but what we can see is dominated by, as Teddy Roosevelt put it, “a natural wonder which is in kind absolutely unparalleled throughout the rest of the world.” The Grand Canyon. Visible from space, stretches 277 miles across northern Arizona cutting westward from the Glen Canyon Dam to the Grand Wash Cliffs near Lake Mead. The canyon was craved deeply by the mighty Colorado River over five or six million years.

We leap and sidestep the puddles that dot the trail, stained bright orange by iron-rich sediment in the soil and rock. Spirits are high. Rain jackets are few. It’ll blow through. We pass other hikers and backpackers, all in varying states of struggle. A preview of what’s ahead?

Two and a half years earlier, during an early snowfall, I tweaked my left knee skiing. It left me limping, especially when going down stairs. After six months, the pain faded and so did any thought of the injury. Until two miles into our descent of the Canyon. The pain returned, subtle at first, then steady. By the time we reach the bottom, every step spears the outside of my left knee with pain. My anxiety swirls. This isn’t good. I say nothing to the group.

50 miles. Rim to Rim to Rim. Misogi.

A friend recommended The Comfort Crisis, by Michael Easter, a book about doing hard things on purpose. It hit home. We live softly. I wanted discomfort. I wanted something that pushed me. Despite being based out of Flagstaff for a season as a sawyer a decade ago, I’d never been to the Grand Canyon. When I first read about Rim-to-Rim, I thought—why not Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim? It’s supposed to be gnarly. I wanted in. Got a permit. I invited some friends. Two nights in the canyon. Roughly 50 miles. Let’s go.

Bright Angel Campground. Night 1.

We got to camp and the rain, which had stopped, began to fall once again. Under the direction of Nick D., we strung a tent fly over the provided camp picnic table, propped up by trekking poles. We cooked freeze-dried meals, ate cheese and sausage, and shared stories I won’t repeat here. The darkness came quickly, and the pattering rain stopped as the light faded. We inflated our sleeping pads and settled in for a restless night of sleep.

Day 2. 4:00 a.m. | 22.5 miles

We awoke at 4:00 a.m. to a dew-laden campsite, which left our gear and sleeping bags damp. We ate a quick breakfast, packed up camp, and started down a mostly flat, 7-mile stretch of trail that hugged Bright Angel Creek. The sun came up quickly and we could see easily with no need for headlamps by 4:30 a.m.

Anticipation was high for the big day ahead, but for me at least, it was quelled along a rolling section of the trail. My knee was in pain on the flat, my knee was in pain on the uphill, and I could barely weigh it on the downhill. As I made my way down one of the steeper sections, I had to brace with both trekking poles and plant my left leg without bending it to avoid the sharp pain.

“Uh oh, Nick,” I heard Zach say.
I nodded and smiled, “Yep. Unbelievable.”

Months of prep and training and I’d had zero pain in my knee. But the Canyon exposes weakness.

“Did you take anything?” Nick D., a nurse practitioner from Phoenix, asked.
“Yeah. 200mg of ibuprofen.”
He gave me a look. “DUDE. MORE.”
I laughed. “You’re right.”

The sky was clear above us and light started to hit the high, east-facing canyon walls. The creek ran steadily, and we made our way toward Cottonwood Campground.

Upon reaching the campground, we made a quick second breakfast: oatmeal, coffee, and ibuprofen for me. My DIY mix of oats, dried blueberries, protein powder, and powdered milk didn’t quite rehydrate and left me with a warm, chalky sludge. But fuel is fuel and down it went.

We dumped any unnecessary gear and put sleeping bags out in the sun to dry with rocks to hold them in place. We stored food in the food box, refilled water, and set off for the North Rim, 4,200 feet over 7 or 8 miles. We would ascend and return to Cottonwood that day. Light weight, baby.

The South and North Kaibab trails follow the same corridors used by Indigenous peoples for thousands of years. However, the North Kaibab Trail was built by the Civilian Conservation Corps and park staff during the 1920s. More evident on the North Kaibab but true of both, these trails were blasted, chiseled, and bench-cut into canyon walls by workers using hand tools, mules, and dynamite, an intense feat of labor and logistics in brutal conditions completed by hard men during a hard time. And the trail itself is a natural work of art.

Foresight.

In 1903, President Teddy Roosevelt visited the Grand Canyon and was struck by its beauty and ecological importance. He saw the threat of exploitation, as mining and commercial development were rampant across the country. He had the foresight to see that industry could quickly destroy something of immense natural beauty.

“Leave it as it is,” he said. “You cannot improve on it. The ages have been at work on it, and man can only mar it.”

As Americans, we don’t always get things right, but we try and when we do, it’s amazing. One of my favorite quotes I’ve heard recently is, “A society grows great when old men plant trees whose shade they know they shall never sit in.” This kept rolling around in my head as I walked past the blast hole patterns that decorated the canyon walls we were ascending. What a special place to experience.

The North Rim was cool in the shade and hot in the sun. We were eager to drop our packs and eat. Nick D. asked his brother Zach for a tuna pack.
Zach responded, “Nick, you’ve been eating all day. Take a nap.”
We all broke out in laughter. We popped our shoes off and settled in for a few hours of napping and snacking. We still had to descend the 7 or 8 miles back to camp.

The Yikes Factor.

As we made our way quickly back down from the North Rim, we passed quite a few parties still hours from the top. It was nearly 5 o’clock and we didn’t have the heart to tell them they likely wouldn’t make it to the top before dark. As we continued, we glanced at each other with concerned looks, the yikes factor of each party increased. We offered what limited support we could and wished them the best of luck.

The Canyon is so accessible, and hiking down is relatively easy. You don’t realize how much work it is to climb back out.

Two Dinners. 8,000 Calories.

In the fading evening light, we talked of food and were eager to get back to camp, hoping our sleeping bags were dry and that those distant southern clouds hadn’t dumped rain. We made it down to camp and doubled up on our freeze-dried meals, trying to replace the nearly 8,000 calories we’d burned that day. We hobbled around with wobbling legs. Every movement was an effort.

We decided to push it tomorrow and get out of the canyon before it got too hot. A 14-mile day that would retrace our steps. Light weight, baby.

We’d get up at 2:00 a.m. and leave camp by 3:00 to cover the 7 miles to Bright Angel Campground, then climb the additional 7 miles up the South Rim before the heat set in.

The night was warm, and my sleeping bag was still damp from that morning’s dew. We all slept better out of exhaustion. 2:00 a.m. came quickly and the Milky Way beamed above us as we rose. I felt how I imagined a mummy would feel after a thousand years in a tomb. Legs stiff. Muscles sore. Every movement a struggle on stilted leg.

We bumbled around, ate a bit of food, drank some coffee, and packed up. The delicacy and care we had on day one was gone. The mission now was to get out.

Day 3. 2:00 a.m. | The Slog

We packed up mostly in silence, broken only by groans and laughter at how we were walking. The 7 miles back to Bright Angel went quickly, considering our condition. Our feet started to ache on the flat. We dodged toads hunting bugs, spotted scorpions, and ducked under bats swooping just a little too close for comfort.

We walked in a kind of silent delirium. The creek was the soundtrack of the morning.

At Bright Angel Campground, I removed my boots and stepped gingerly into the creek—feet, calves, knees. Cold. Refreshing. Numbing. We had 7 miles to climb, and we were going to get up there one way or another.

Shade. Not Much of It.

We hiked up to The Tipoff, filtered some non-potable water, ate snacks, loaded up on salt, and laughed. The sun was already high, it wasn’t even 10 a.m. This was the hardest part of the hike for me. I was hot. I was tired. But I just kept chewing salt pills and drinking water.

In my head, I repeated:
“One step and then another. This is what I am. This is what I do.”

Sweat poured down my nose and seemed to evaporate before it hit the trail. We moved from shade patch to shade patch. There weren’t many, but we made them count.

Tortoise Mode.

We made our way slowly, one by one, into Skeleton Point and rested under a scraggly pine. As we approached the South Rim, we saw more and more people. Most had drifted down from above. We were close now. One more rest.

I joked with a foreign couple that I was the tortoise, slow and steady. They smiled and pointed at the large pack on my back. “You have the shell and all.” I chuckled. They weren’t wrong.

The sun was bright and hot, and the canyon walls reflected it upward, oven-baked. But we were high enough now to catch a breeze from time to time.

I could see the final twelve switchbacks etched into the sidewall of the South Rim.

“One step and then another. This is what I am. This is what I do.”

The trail was crowded now. Tourists gave us wide eyes, we were dirt-streaked, sweat-soaked, packs slumped heavy. We looked like we’d come out of the rock itself. Faces red, etched with exhaustion. We climbed the final stretch in a gritty trance.

Cold Beer.

At the top, there were handshakes. Hugs. Deep sighs. Then cold beer.

There’s nothing better than a cold beer after something like that with people you like, in a place that makes you feel small and alive all at once.

Do hard things. Not because you must. But because you can. It shows you what’s possible. It reminds you that the line between “can’t” and “can” is thinner than we think.

Have foresight. Do something that helps the version of you—and the world—you haven’t met yet.

And leave it as it is.

On the drive back to Flagstaff, I wondered, “Okay, what’s next?” and then fell asleep.