summer 11 / 24:2 - Grand Canyon River Guides

THe tears ran WitH increasing frequency from the
eyes of the eleven year old. He sobbed uncontrollably.
“I’m going to die. I don’t want to die.
Please, Dad…”
I tried to offer reassurance, knowing (or, at least,
thinking I knew) that panic had begun to take over.
“Sid [our hike guide] said if my urine got too clear my
kidneys weren’t working. This morning when I peed
there was no color. I’m gonna die,” he cried. Too clear;
not clear enough— I didn’t know.
Our adventure began months before, in the aircontrolled
comfort of my law office in North Carolina.
Then, a musician, who refused to accept my
legal services for free, insisted on paying for them in
some way he could. It turned out that his dad was an
experienced Grand Canyon hiking trip leader. Dad was
volunteered to plan a trip into the abyss for my boys
(ages eleven and fourteen) and myself (much older)
the following summer. Another (even older) brother
would be on a River trip, a high school graduation gift,
and one objective of our hegira would be to meet his
trip at Hermit Rapid.
So it was that we found ourselves on the first
shuttle bus of that morning in July on our way to the
end of the line—Hermit’s Rest. “Let’s keep up the pace
and not get strung too far out,” said Sid, our leader.
“We’ll stop at Santa Maria Spring to collect ourselves
and refill the water bottles.”
But, we stopped well before the Spring. About 45
minutes in, we were still pretty much together when
we noticed a lone individual literally running up the
Hermit Trail. “For God’s sake, be careful,” he yelled,
as the four of us bunched around him. “Drink your
water. There’s someone dead at the Camp—dehydration—and
I’m going to get the Rangers.”
The boys looked at me and I looked at them, each
with an expression which said, “Hey! Are we sure we
know what we’re doing?” No one even suggested we
turn around; each of us dealt with this new member of
our group as best we could—anxiety became my constant
companion. At least until outright fear replaced
it.
Saint Mary’s spring had come and gone before two
things that were to leave their indelible mark on my
psyche occurred. First, the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh
of the helicopter manifested itself moments before it
dropped literally in front of us and descended between
our legs to the Tonto below. It would make the return
trip later as we descended the Cathedral Steps, trailing
evidence that the hiker we met had been telling
page 20
Ten Steps
the truth (as if anyone would joke about dying in the
Grand Canyon). Black, huge and swaying was a body
bag suspended from the machine’s strut. Who was it?
Was he or she in better shape than me? My eleven year
old? Sid? Older than me?
Second, of more immediate concern than death,
were the tops of my toes and bottoms on both of my
feet. Before I had made it to the Cathedral Steps, pain
had set in. And, I knew it would get worse. How much?
I didn’t know. What should I do? I didn’t know.
By the time I hit the Tonto and headed down-canyon
for a seat at the Camp, I knew my seat was going
to be for more than a few minutes. I wasn’t going on
to Monument Creek, even though that’s where our
permit would have a ranger look for us that evening.
I could barely walk and, as I discovered when I took
my boots off next to Hermit Creek, I was bleeding
profusely. Thank goodness there were no sharks in the
Creek. The blood would have driven them crazy.
I took Sid aside and discussed a change in plans
with him. I didn’t know what the next day would
bring, but I knew that I wasn’t going back up the Hermit
Trail as planned. Steep, lots of rock falls, narrow.
Ugh!! I was scared. I felt that if we went to Monument
the next day, camped there, I could make it to Indian
Gardens the following day. There, no matter what, I
could get up the Bright Angel super-highway, even if I
had to sleep on the trail. Longer, but much easier.
Well, all of my assumptions were wrong. The Tonto
isn’t nearly as flat as I thought. I never calculated
(neither did Sid—Damn!) that much of our next two
days would be in the blistering sun. And, the route was
much, much longer. And, I never realized how much
worse my feet could get.
We hiked on for two days. The fourteen-year-old
was way in the lead, a regular mountain goat; Sid right
behind him. Way behind I came, with my coach and
inspiration, the eleven-year old. Pride was not on this
trip—at least not for me. Ten steps and a stop to let the
pain subside. “Come on Dad; slow and steady; you can
do it!” I needed his help and he gave it, just like it was
the natural thing to do.
My ten-step method had some real advantages. We
had plenty of opportunity to take in the most spectacular
views in the world At times we could see the
River; more often we could take in part of what Powell
referred to as the “grand gloomy depths” of the Upper
Granite Gorge.
Blood free-flowing from blisters on my feet made
the two stinking river miles from Hermit to Monu-
grand canyon river guides