The Grand Canyon - Rim to Rim to Rim (R3) Part VII

To see Part I please click here.
To see Part II please click here.
To see Part III please click here.
To see Part IV please click here.
To see Part V please click here.
To see Part VI please click here.

We walked a half-mile and then crossed the suspension bridge back to the south side of the Canyon and held a powwow as we walked. I told Chase that I didn’t care if we didn’t make it in the 24-hour window that we had set as our goal. It wasn’t worth any permanent damage to his knee just to make us look cool.

He simply gave me a ‘we’ll see,’ and off we went with him in the lead establishing the pace.

Holy cow, he just took off! I was shot and wanted to just plod up the canyon side, but I didn’t want to interrupt whatever mojo or mantra he had going for him, so I just did my best to keep up. He’d pull ahead and I’d yo-yo out behind him, catching back up when the trail switchbacked. I was dying.

Abruptly we could see a single yellow light high above us and we knew we were going to make it. For an hour it didn’t seem to get any closer. It just hung there, kind of like when you’re a little kid looking up at the moon, wondering as you ride in the backseat of the car if you’re going to get any closer to it or if it is moving along with you.

Then it began to inch closer and closer to us. Or maybe we were moving towards it.

Walking with a headlamp distorted everything, kind of like living in a fish bowl. For hours my ‘existence’ couldn’t exceed the 30-foot beam of feeble blue light emanating from the L.E.D. atop my head. I know for me, it was both liberating and captivating. My thoughts didn’t seem to be capable of penetrating the wall of darkness. I could only think and worry within the parameters of my sight—I could want to see past it, but it was impossible. Since I was inside of the fishbowl, things on the outside could see in and see me, but I was incapable of seeing more than a distorted view of them. Their green and yellow and red eyes stared back silent and unblinking.

Finally Chase stopped for water a few miles beneath the rim. The chance to refill our water packs also allowed me ease the burning in my legs and swallow down the second to last of my gel packs. Again, I reassured Chase to go at the best pace that he could, and that ultimately just finishing was reward enough, that 24 hours was just the benchmark we were testing ourselves by, and that finishing a tad bit slower couldn’t be defined as failure.

Once again, he took the lead. The last few miles weren’t the worst. We knew we were going to make it. We passed a few signposts with the mileage remaining to the rim posted on them. Chase turned around once or twice to make sure I was there, but at this point we really weren’t talking that much. Our energy was being poured into going upward.

(The Milky Way taken from the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. It is a 10 minute exposure.)

Finally the actual edge of the rim was visible, defined as a dark wall against a less dark sky littered with stars. Then there were only a few switchbacks left as far as we could tell. We stopped one last time, maybe only for 35 seconds, enough to double check the time on our watches, to see if we still had a decent chance at the 24 hour mark. We did.

23 hours. 38 minutes. A few odd seconds. We made it.

From 28 degrees to 106 degrees and back to 34 degrees, over 20,000 feet of elevation change, 19 gel packs (one left over) and 10 energy bars, an apple, a pita, a bottle of Gatorade, and about 8 gallons of water, stopped by a snake, dive-bombed by birds, bowed down to by church groups, we were now very, very tired.

We hugged each other, shook hands, no tears, no great speeches, probably something like a mumbled thanks or good job, but nothing that standout-ish.

We walked past the silent, dark, empty tourist overlooks back towards our waiting car. Nearly 24 hours earlier we’d remarked on the loneliness of such a usually bustling place and shivered from cold and nervousness at what lay ahead. Now we perused our own lonely thoughts about what we’d just accomplished.

We’d broken no records, and we’d changed no worlds. The same lone security light shone like a star from across the canyon, but each of us had been dramatically changed—in inexpressible ways. Not that the changes were bad, they could only be good, but they were internal changes. We weren’t physically stronger, right then we were significantly weaker. But we were strengthened.

We walked the quarter mile to where Chase’s car and my families ‘adventure mobile’ were parked side-by-side. Not wanting to significantly interrupt the sleep of my family, who were sleeping soundly after there own canyon adventure (besides the fact that it was once again 3:30 in the morning), we merely woke up my mom, told her we’d made it, received our reward kiss on the cheek, and grabbed our sleeping backs.

We opened the back of Chase’s hatchback, laid down the back seat and folded ourselves into the insufficient space and were asleep instantly.

And I’ve been telling the story ever since.

eazakes@juno.com