Made it up the, up the, up the … hold one moment please. Okay, finally made it up to the top of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, but not before consuming a gallon of water, a liquid breakfast of oats and nonsense, one snickers bar; nor before sweating that gallon of water back out in a perspiratory bath of proportions epic enough to suit the surrounding landscape; nor even before fielding 4,647 comments and queries on the open umbrella sidled along my backpack keeping this wilting human structure more or less in the shade despite the sun's eagerly inspecting eye searching out where flesh might be found within this baking pan of earth creased into the ground here in the desert.
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On the way down from the North Rim the day previous, September 14, at about mile 8.5 of 14.5, an unassuming sign indicates that Ribbon Falls may be found by venturing away from destination acquisition for but .2 mi to the west. I was such a sucker and glad I was, for back in this little canyon a green obelisk did appear, covered in growth from a waterfall only time knows when it began. Atop the 40’ tall cone, I joined two other ecstatics dancing in the inexplicable downpour. Andrew, a nurse, and Stephanie, an investment banker, both of Baltimore, brought forth pleasant conversation after offering to photograph me howling into the water's delightful onslaught.
Reaching the canyon's nadir, I was startled to encounter a veritable herd of humans moseying about from cabin to ranger talk to canteen. This place, Phantom Ranch, has a long history of use as a retreat for the able of pocket or leg, dating back to the earliest of the 1900’s; and an even older use owing to the Ancestral Puebloans that had a small community of 3-4 families at least, living in a group home constructed on the banks of the Colorado River, that shows evidence of interrupted periods of occupation, as recent as the 1100’s. Larger numbers likely used the place at other times and other places at the same time, but this sight was still intact when Powell and his gang dropped into and flew the length of this wild river, thus it was noticed and is now preserved, to some extent.
When I obtained a campsite in the belly of the earth, by some wonderful stroke of luck all the regular, desirable sites along the creek were taken, so I was relegated to the overflow site for the mules, then empty. With this land came all the privacy I desired and a perfect place to stretch out on the ground for the night.
Temperatures in the canyon typically increase about 5.5 degrees F with each 1000 feet you descend. Despite this dramatic increase of 27.5 degrees from the rim, the wind and crickets serenading topside were also present and accounted for down down down here.
The wind has been a constant companion since entering the Kaibab Plateau on day two. Most noticed first on the East Rim four days from the start, howling and screaming, and turned the trees, their crying leaves and groaning trunks, even my tarp, into instruments fulfilling its bidding, transmitting the story it wished to tell. On the North Rim, with camp on the canyon's very edge, one may again listen to all the many voices of the force that through the air flows, hear it softly roar in the deep throat of the down below, utter calls beyond comprehension, summon its octaves in a crescendo, then burst forth into the trees above in a staggering fullness far beyond human capabilities; an almighty explosion of multi-toned chorus in all its many yowls, whoops, and rahhrrrs. And now, here in the bottom of this vassal to the Colorado River, the wind greets my face yet again, with no tent or covering of any kind, for the ground itself radiates heat up as if the sun were still boring into my back; the wind roars across and twists my face into glee at its rough caress; and here too, crickets beat a tone into the background, a metronome to this orchestral madness.
Spending the next couple days wandering some old stomping grounds and new ones to boot. Today I'm in a Tuba City cafe here on the Navajo Nation, that I once haunted for a summer back in 2011. Earlier I toured a mess of dinosaur tracks laid out along the road to Moenave, home of that same year's summer. Reveling in a bit of nostalgia of then while taking in the new layer of now. Thankful to be present in the here and grateful for having once been in the known and now treasured.
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Thanks for reading! Starting the hike to Flagstaff on the 18th, then likely continuing from there by bicycle for a change. More updates to come down the way.
A very special PS: chance encounter with an old friend from Yellowstone days, now a Ranger in Grand Canyon. Hello to Ranger Klein Quimby!
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