It was so immense, so difficult to grasp the reality of its dimensions. It was a huge canvas curtain awash with water colors in faded pastels. Nothing was vivid—the entire view muted and blurred. It looked ancient and worn and dusty, even through a spring haze soothing the distant cliffs and canyons. Yet we wanted to believe in its obvious offer of solitude, a solitude beckoning the novice explorer in each of us.

There was a calm, a silence, almost forbidding in its contrast from the urban life we had escaped. Even the occasional call from a raven—wings stretched upon updrafts—failed to diminish the sensation of quiet, but in fact seemed to enhance it, providing a poignant counter point as it echoed through the apparent emptiness of the depths below.

Visual and aural sensations were enhanced by the pungent smell of Western Cedar and Pinyon, damp from the cool morning dew. It was overwhelming. It was immense. We sat near the edge and stared in amazement.

My first visit to The Canyon, in the spring of 1971, was only a brief side trip on a journey to spend the summer exploring and mapping rock glaciers along the rim of the Aquarius Plateau in southern Utah. We spent two days camped above the South Rim, two greenhorns absorbing the immense possibilities of the wilderness and The West. That visit, and that summer, changed our lives and heightened an already pervasive wanderlust that set us on a course of exploration that hasn’t yet reached its conclusion.

In ‘71 there were considerably fewer people visiting The Canyon, as made evident by the availability of parking, even near the most popular overlooks and especially near the Bright Angel Lodge. A visitor wasn’t forced to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with fellow tourists. They were there—there were people all along the rim—but they were spread out and enjoying the luxury of their personal space. As the years have passed The Canyon has become such a popular tourist destination that many of the urban problems of overcrowding, traffic congestion, and crime have begun to plague the Park. Visitors now spend a good portion of their allotted time circulating through the lots, searching for a vacant spot to park the family van. People along the rim, especially on the south side, often seem irritable and generally unfriendly. The tiny curio shops are more crowded than the malls back home, the lines for ice cream and hot dogs wind like snakes and pass through doorways into the bright sun beating on the flagstones of the patio. To experience The Canyon as a tourist is not the pleasant experience it used to be.

In ‘71 we arrived from Omaha, via a one night stop in Mesa Verde National Monument, around the first of June. We drove a light-blue ‘61 Chevy with a summer’s worth of equipment and supplies stuffed in the huge trunk and back seat. We found a pleasant campsite in the Desert View Campground near the east entrance, and set up our 15 by 9-foot canvas external frame tent. The campground was practically vacant, with only a few couples scattered around by nightfall. After our evening meal we strolled the loop through the campground and waved casually at the other young people huddled around their small fires. It was a good year to be on the road. Everyone seemed friendly and helpful. There was excitement and energy in the air.

One couple waved us over, inviting us into their camp. They were Dave and Judy, visiting “The States” from Canada. We chatted by their fire, helped them drink some of their Sangria, enjoyed their company, and agreed to hike down to Indian Gardens with them the next morning. A sense of camaraderie and adventure mingled with the scent of burning juniper. We were young, we were free, we were mingling with foreigners, and we were finally on our own, stepping along our own life’s course.

Our first night on the road, in Fort Collins, had been a torment of rain and high winds associated with a nearby tornado. Our second night, at Mesa Verde, exposed us to the joys of high elevation camping in the spring. We woke to two inches of snow and thick mud. Our third night out, and our first at The Canyon, taught us new lessons. That night we received Nature’s welcome to The West.

The wind came up and tore at our tent. It pushed and pulled and howled and rattled for hours. We were not so much frightened by the wind storm as we were concerned about our new tent being shredded so early in the season. It was to be our shelter and our home for the next three months. We huddled there in our bags, unsure of what we would do if we lost it that night, all of our meager savings already committed to that trip. But the tent was sturdier than our confidence, and it passed its initiation without so much as a tear. We made it through, as well, but with the loss of a good night’s sleep.

The next morning we rode with Dave and Judy to the Bright Angel Trailhead, in Grand Canyon Village, near Bright Angel Lodge. We looked down into that chasm and were excited by the prospect of exploring the depths of that famous gorge. We tightened the laces on our new leather field boots, filled our canteens with fresh water and hung them from our shoulders, we tucked away a lunch in a small canvas bag, and we headed down Bright Angel Trail. As we stepped below the rim the wind diminished and finally disappeared all together. It was almost like we were working our way into the depths of an ancient tomb.

It was a wonderful 4.5 mile walk. Arla, my marriage partner at the time, had glimpsed the canyon once before, from the rim, when she was a young girl visiting her grandparents in Mesa, Arizona. For me it was the first time I had seen the buffs and tans and reds and yellows of the ancient stratigraphies I had studied in school. Up close, those horizontal layers became vivid textures, laid out exactly as I had learned them from the text books and photos. I couldn’t help but touch the various formations as we passed along, hoping tactile reenforcement would confirm the reality of our journey.

And we were awed by the mere thought of actually moving through a scene we had only viewed in books or on television. We were in the wilderness, in the desert, in The Grand Canyon, on an adventure, working our way down a famous path to an ancient world worn by time and its tireless powers. I drew energy and strength from those massive walls. I had found my element.

But it wasn’t all fantasy. As they approached there was the clatter of metal shoes pulverizing sandstone. The famous mules snorted as they strung along the trail with their smiling, tentative passengers swaying upon their dark backs. Many of the riders wore straw cowboy hats and dude ranch attire as they concentrated on staying in the saddle. Some looked up briefly and smiled, or even said “Good Morning,” but most focused straight ahead, trying not to look over the edge. I sometimes wonder if they remember any more of The Canyon than the dark mane of their mule’s head.
A gritty dust swirled with flies and that unmistakable smell of livestock as the trains moved by. And once they had passed, there were fresh, warm droppings and puddles of rancid urine to step around. It wasn’t one of the more pleasant aspects of the trail, but we shrugged it off as part of the experience—part of the ambiance—the reality and the feel of the place. To us those were the tangibles never mentioned in books.

We were surprised by the two rest houses spaced along the trail, at 1.5 and 3 miles below the rim. They provided shade, cool drinking water, and rest to the weary hiker. But we didn’t stop, not on the way down. We were young, energetic, and inexperienced, thinking we should get by on rationed water and little rest. We had been influenced by popular fiction and heroic movies, believing that drinking from our canteens showed an inherent weakness of character. And we wouldn’t allow the heat to bother us either. The night and early morning had been cold and extremely windy. Below the rim it was calm and warm, and it felt wonderful—going down.

Below the Three-Mile Rest House we descended Jacob’s Ladder. The tight switchbacks, steep incline, and continuous downward pressure began to wear on our legs and our city toes, jammed tight against the front of our stiff boots. The bottoms of our feet were beginning to heat as well, but we could see the tall cottonwoods of Indian Gardens looming just ahead. We didn’t allow ourselves to stop. We crossed a short desert area tangled with cactus and thorny scrub, and reached the sanctuary of the shady trees.

We sat on rustic stone benches near the ranger station and removed our boots. Wrinkled feet and small blisters cooled in the dry air. We drank fresh, cool water from the taps provided, and refreshed our canteens. We ate a lunch snack and absorbed the setting and watched several poor souls trudge by under the load of their heavy packs. They were coming from the bottom, heading up. We commented on their persistence and dogged determination, concerned by the strained look on their faces. They were overloaded and mis-packed, but we didn’t know that at that time. They were into another level of hiking we had never attempted. Even in their obvious pain we secretly wished that we could be them. We were just tourists next to those overnight adventurers. We watched them make their weary way across the desert and the approach to Jacob’s Ladder.

I think that is when it first hit me, the staggering realization that we were going to have to climb back out of that hole ourselves. We didn’t have heavy packs to lug, but looking up at that wall of stone it appeared to be a daunting climb.
“Holy cow,” I exclaimed, as the four of us stared up the face of the South Rim. “We’d better get started.”

Judy agreed. “The Ranger told us it takes up to four times as long to get out as it does to get in.”

“I’d believe it,” Dave sighed.

We reluctantly forced our boots on, laced them tight, took a final cool drink, then hit the trail. It wasn’t far up Jacob’s Ladder before we had to stop for the first time, gasping for breath. All four of us were flatlanders, not used to that high elevation. And none of us had done much hiking in our short lives. We took it one switchback at a time, stopping at each bend to fill our lungs with warm air. Huffing and puffing, we made it into the Three-Mile Rest House.

We filled our empty canteens, embarrassed by our weakness, and sat in the shade listening to a group of hikers discuss the superior quality of their boots and packs and sleeping bags, arguing over which brand was better or most expensive, and the lightest. I think that is when I first became aware that light was good.

As we struggled up the last three miles of our maiden hike we stopped often to catch our breath and rest our aching, scorched feet. We were convinced that our blisters were immense. We knew enough not to take our boots off, but we craved that relief. The burning was incredible.

At one point, as we sat along the trail suffering in silence and watching the shadows dance across the landscape that opened before us, Dave asked, “Do you think your government has missile silos down here?”

“How do you mean?” I wasn’t sure what he was referring to.

“You know, the I-C-B-M missiles … to launch against the Russians.”

“I don’t think they’d have any down here. Most are in Kansas and Nebraska.” I shrugged.

“We saw a bunch on the way down from Canada,” Dave assured us. “Their little white noses were sticking out above the ground.” He shrugged. “I didn’t think they’d be that exposed.” He seemed confident in his assessment.

Not having seen the “white noses” that he spoke of I couldn’t respond with more than a “Could be.” Later, as we became more familiar with the western landscape ourselves, we discovered the white noses ourselves. Dave’s missiles were actually VORTAC sites, navigational aides for commercial and government aircraft. The pilots use the VORTAC radio signals to triangulate their position and course. Thinking back, I found it amusing, knowing that Dave returned to Canada convinced that the United States was spotted with missiles ready to send deadly force against the Soviets. The missiles, indeed, were out there, but much less obvious than Dave had thought.

Once we made it to the top Dave and Judy went off to buy ice cream. Arla and I were content to sit for a while, letting our naked feet cool in the afternoon breeze. We sat on a stone wall near the trailhead, staring across that immense chasm. Below, we could see traces of the Bright Angel Trail we had just traversed. We knew from the maps that it crossed the river over a suspension bridge and passed through a place called Phantom Ranch. From there the trail coursed along a side canyon and made its way up to the North Rim. It was about a 25-mile stretch.

As I stared out at the dark band that was the North Rim I said, “I want to hike to the other side.”

Arla looked at me. “Not today, please.”

We both laughed, and looked at our wrinkled, swollen toes.

“But that might be fun,” she added, “if we were in shape.”

I sighed. “Yeah. That was a tough hike. Only nine miles round trip. Can you imagine what kind of conditioning it’d take to make it all the way across?”

She nodded.

“If we’re ever goin’ to do it,” I continued, “we’ll have to do it before we get too old.”

“Like I said,” Arla confirmed, “we’re going to have to be in great shape.”

I gave her a youthful, confident smile. “Then we’re gonna hafta do it before we hit thirty.” I was thinking that if we didn’t do it before then we'd probably be too far over the hill. I was an old man of 34 before I made it all the way across—the first time.

In the years between my first visit and my first crossing we moved from Nebraska into the heart of The West; first, to Tucson, Arizona; then, to Ely, Nevada. I worked in Exploration Geology in various capacities, most of which required hiking over the ranges of Nevada and California. Those were wonderful experiences and I gained a better appreciation of what was required of an individual to survive in the few wild lands left in this country. We also camped and hiked all over the southwest, gaining a better understanding of what was needed to be comfortable along a trail. And the entire time, we circled around that big hole in the ground, as it called to us to try again. Eventually we could no longer resist.

We took our son, Chris, and camped in the same campground, took the same trail, and had a much more pleasant hike. At that time, in our early thirties, we found the South Rim and Grand Canyon Village to be crowded and hectic, not like we had remembered from our first visit. Eventually we found a parking spot near the trailhead, secured our well worn hiking boots over thick socks, filled our Nalgene bottles with Gatorade, slid them into our day packs, slid the packs over our shoulders, and headed down.

The hike was mostly uneventful and I believe we made it up and down in good time. We did see some unusual things that have stuck in my mind, for some peculiar reason. We met a pair of soldiers on leave who had mounted an expensive looking 35 mm camera on a wooden rifle stock. The owner of the device had rigged the camera so that by squeezing the trigger of the rifle the camera would snap a photo. It had a large telephoto lens and the whole contraption looked something like a crossbow. The soldier explained, “The lens has a cross hair in it, made from a spider’s web. I can draw a bead on a critter, snap the shot, and know I would’a got it without actually killing it.”
His partner explained, “That’s the only way you can legally hunt in the National Parks.”

I also remember a Ranger stopping us on the upper trail and warning us, “Drink plenty of water. Don’t ration.”

“We’ve got several quarts each,” I assured her.

“And Gatorade,” Arla added.

“And we plan on stopping at the rest houses to fill up,” I assured her.

“That’s great,” the Ranger forced a smile. “Make sure you drink it, even if you don’t feel thirsty. It doesn’t do you any good sitting in your pack.”

We all shook our heads knowingly.

“And,” she went on, “I wouldn’t venture any farther than Indian Gardens.”

“That’s our destination,” I confirmed.

“Good. Don’t be lured farther down, just because it’s easy.” She looked off toward the Tonto Platform. “You gotta always remember you have to climb back outta here.” She gestured back up the trail, toward the rim. “A hike to the river and back in one day is not practical, even for experienced hikers. In fact, it’s extremely dangerous and foolhardy.”
“That’d be eighteen miles round trip, right?” I peered down the dusty trail.

“Yes. Eighteen miles.”

“That’s a bit too far for us,” I tried to assure her. “We’ve done a bit of hiking, but I think the nine miles to Indian Gardens and back is far enough for us.” I glanced at Chris.

The Ranger smiled and went on her way to warn others.

I also remember having sore knees, and wearing knee braces for the entire hike. We hadn’t learned the uses of a walking stick yet. Hiking has always been a learning experience, I don’t care how many trails we have walked.