It was a mirage. It had to be.

Crystal blue water flowed from seemingly nowhere, forming a cool pool below. Lizards and birds drank from the impossible falls; green moss cast a stark contrast to the canyon’s clay cliffs.

It was August 28, 2011, the second of three days I would spend in the Grand Canyon alone. The temperature climbed to 110 degrees that day. Carrying 50 pounds on my back, I was feeling every bit of it.

The mirage’s name was Ribbon Falls and it was real after all. I spent 15 minutes in a shaded spot behind it, watching the lizards scamper with my every move. It was important that I didn’t stay at the falls long, in part because I needed to reach camp before dusk, but, more importantly, because it was comfortable.

I had come to Arizona to struggle.

I was chasing after what I had never had, in the way a curly-haired woman uses a straightener or a bald man tries on a toupee. At 22, I had never missed a meal or wondered where I would sleep. When the weather was hot, I had an air conditioner; when it was cold, I had a heater.

Life was easy so I spent money to make it difficult.

There was the plane ticket that would take me west to Las Vegas and the rental car that would take me east to the canyon’s north rim. There was the backpack that would be my lifeline, the tent that would rip on the first night and the boots which now sit in my closet, still covered in thick Arizona dust. I bought them all and set out to suffer.

Hushed tones were on the lips of the tourists at the visitor center. It was Saturday, August 27. I was filling the last of two three-gallon water jugs when I overheard a young boy blurt out what the others had been whispering.

“Someone died here today?!”

The culprit was unsurprising: heat stroke. My research had told me to expect this; deaths in the canyon were not uncommon in August. By the time I returned to that visitor center three days later, five people had been evacuated from the canyon, including an elderly man and his grandson I had met on my first day. By the end of the year, 21 people had died at the park.

After a final check of my pack, I left the visitor center to begin the descent that would take me to the Colorado River and back. The voices of tourists faded as I walked but I knew they were talking about the dead man. As awful as the news was, it vindicated my reasons for being there.

(This is real. I could die.)

2

Drenched in sweat, I was still miles from camp when nightfall came on that first day. I would have to set up my tent by flashlight, something I hadn’t planned for.

(This is perfect. This is why you came. For the struggle.)

Picking up the pace wasn’t an option; I was on a ledge less than six feet wide. To my right was the safety of the enormous canyon wall but to my left was death in the form of a 7,000 foot drop. No rail, no safety net, just air.

The tent had gone up with relative ease. Exhausted but knowing I wouldn’t be able to sleep, I dug around my pack for a book and came out with two. Both were dripping with irony.

In my left hand, I held Walden, Thoreau’s guide to living a simple, back-to-nature life. As countless outdoorsmen are quick to note, the log cabin at Walden Pond was mere miles from a major city. In my right hand, I held White Fang, Jack London’s follow-up to The Call of the Wild. Set in Canada’s Yukon Territory, it was written at London’s sprawling California ranch as the writer drowned himself in booze.

So there we were, just the three of us. Thoreau, London and I. Three privileged men pretending to be something we were not.

It first appeared in my dreams as a baby rattle. When I woke up, it didn’t go away.

In a cold sweat, I grabbed my flashlight and spun around. In the corner of my tent, coiled, it sat. Only the snake’s rattle was moving.

As I regained my breath, my stomach still in knots, the rattler made its move. Its fight-or-flight evolutionary trigger went off. Fortunately for me, it chose flight.

I stuffed the hole in my tent with mud, hoping it would hold. The knots in my stomach untied themselves but my mind was still racing.

(Damn. That was terrible. Awful.)

(That was great. That was struggle personified. This is why you came.)

3

The strangest part is the silence.

It’s an unending, unnerving sort of silence. You lie awake, expecting it to be interrupted by a car horn or a plane overhead or a bird chirping or a song or something. But it isn’t.

By the second day, the solitude was palpable. I would walk miles without seeing anyone, hours without hearing a sound beyond my own footsteps. It wasn’t a struggle. It was beautiful. Natural, even.

The struggle came in the form of a dry Arizona heat that seemed to absorb moisture out of anywhere the heat found it. I was living on protein bars and peanuts, eating every 45 minutes and averaging three gallons of water a day. The shirt I was wearing seemed to grow larger and my pants struggled to stay above my thinning hips.

(Finally, a struggle. Push on. This is why you came.)

By the second night, there was no energy left to read, no desire to philosophize on Thoreau or write in the margins of White Fang. Thirty hours after leaving the visitor center, I was dehydrated and exhausted. I had overheard a hiker in the tent next to mine tell the tale of a young boy and old man who were airlifted out of the canyon that day. I had met them, had even remarked on the great shape they were in for their respective ages. If they couldn’t make it out, would I?

I fell into sleep before my head hit the ground, the deep, dreamless sleep of exhaustion. When I awoke in the predawn hours of August 29, I had 10 miles to hike, uphill. I stuffed my tent into my pack and looked around.

The other hikers had already left camp. I was alone again.

4

The final day’s hike was up the same trail I had hiked down. On legs that felt like jelly and a stomach bloated by water, I would have to hike uphill in one day the same distance I had hiked downhill in two days.

To shift my mind’s focus from my blistered feet, I spent the trip reflecting on what I had witnessed. While disjointed and scattered, the thoughts had a common theme.

Nature is unrelenting.

It doesn’t care if you’re caring or heartless; if you’re generous or rude. You don’t get a trophy just for participating and there’s no one around to pick you up when you’re down.

In nature, failure isn’t only possible, it’s probable. As I reached the trailhead on that final day, I realized that’s what I had wanted: the opportunity to fail.