5 Days in the Grand Canyon
One reason young people are encouraged to backpack through a region, a country, or a continent is to learn how little you need to get by in this world. All of your essentials—food, clothing and shelter (and maybe money)—you carry with you.
In October 2015, I got my chance to embrace such simplicity. My goal was to come out of the Grand Canyon a different person than when I went in, and I knew that could only come about with some discomfort.
First though, I needed to shed some weight.
The Bitch and Her Sister Sacks
My friend Tracy called her 50-pound backpack “The Bitch.” Dory’s weighed a little less but looked more menacing on her tiny frame. Margi and Maxine somehow carried their weight without it looking difficult. Me? I never warmed to my 42-pound backpack, let alone gave it a nickname. It broke on the first morning of use and failed to fully accept it had to haul contents beyond its official capacity.
A little later than expected, we pulled into Cottonwood campgrounds. I learned how to set my tent (which would be saturated from torrential rains that night and flooded by a leaking hydration pack the next).
On the 10-mile trek up the Bright Angel Trail, I gained mental momentum with each mile. It helped that it was cool and clear for a change. Hours after reaching the top, celebrating with ice cream and my first shower in five days, I realized we’d each undergone a transformation, especially those on our virgin voyage through one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
My friend Tracy called her 50-pound backpack “The Bitch.” Dory’s weighed a little less but looked more menacing on her tiny frame. Margi and Maxine somehow carried their weight without it looking difficult. Me? I never warmed to my 42-pound backpack, let alone gave it a nickname. It broke on the first morning of use and failed to fully accept it had to haul contents beyond its official capacity.
A little later than expected, we pulled into Cottonwood campgrounds. I learned how to set my tent (which would be saturated from torrential rains that night and flooded by a leaking hydration pack the next).
On the 10-mile trek up the Bright Angel Trail, I gained mental momentum with each mile. It helped that it was cool and clear for a change. Hours after reaching the top, celebrating with ice cream and my first shower in five days, I realized we’d each undergone a transformation, especially those on our virgin voyage through one of the most beautiful places on Earth.
In the months and weeks leading up to our epic hike, I cut corners. I simultaneously trained for a half marathon, so I skipped many weekend invitations to hike with a weighted backpack (which I bought way too late, anyway). I never practiced pitching a tent or boiling water from camping gear. I got lucky my last-minute-purchase sleeping bag fit both my body and the trip’s night temps.
I tried to make up for my lack of preparation with enthusiasm, which was easy to do going down the South Kaibab Trail. Every turn brought stunning vistas and a few gut-wrenching drops.
It was on the second day, with on-and-off rain showers and a gradual climb toward the North Rim, that I hit my low point. My pack was slowing me down. Straps tore into my shoulders, smothered my heaving chest and shifted awkwardly around my aching hips, causing my legs to quiver. I stopped often to unload this huge burden and talk myself into making it just one mile more. Or half a mile. Maybe even a quarter.
Through unexpected elevation changes, rocky ridges and swift-moving stream crossings, I sweat profusely and cursed to myself. I knew my future health and happiness depended on both acceptance and adjustment. Plus, I had no choice but to gripe and bear it.
Going the Distance
Unable to sleep, I walked out into the quiet darkness around 11 p.m. and watched lightning and thunder move toward our inner canyon, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and invincible. The following night I rose from my tent at 1 a.m. and just stood in damp sandals and dry undies staring up at the stars, listening to a roaring creek and realizing this serendipitous wakeup was a gift.
Unable to sleep, I walked out into the quiet darkness around 11 p.m. and watched lightning and thunder move toward our inner canyon, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and invincible. The following night I rose from my tent at 1 a.m. and just stood in damp sandals and dry undies staring up at the stars, listening to a roaring creek and realizing this serendipitous wakeup was a gift.
By the time we packed up a day later for another campground, I felt stronger, more competent. My pack by then weighed only four pounds less (wet gear will do that). But the future felt lighter, my load more manageable.
I was ready to hike a mountain in reverse.
Hello and Goodbye
Only later did I learn that one of us had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. She's fine but probably not up to another hike like this one. Another decided to make her adventures last longer and moved with her husband and dog to Ecuador for about 18 months.
I vowed to become more fit and organized once I was back in my regular routine, rife with daily distractions, family stress, unrelenting work and endless errands. I was hooked and, fortunately for me, so was Tracy, who happened to live in New Hampshire and wanted to summit more mountains. I was in.
Only later did I learn that one of us had just been diagnosed with breast cancer. She's fine but probably not up to another hike like this one. Another decided to make her adventures last longer and moved with her husband and dog to Ecuador for about 18 months.
I vowed to become more fit and organized once I was back in my regular routine, rife with daily distractions, family stress, unrelenting work and endless errands. I was hooked and, fortunately for me, so was Tracy, who happened to live in New Hampshire and wanted to summit more mountains. I was in.
Next time would be different, I told myself. And, let me tell you, it certainly was.
