Rescue Not Guaranteed

The Grand Scheme of Things

The idea came to us the way a lot of our better ideas come to us: over whiskey. The topic: vacation. I needed one as winter had seized me unexpectedly, lasting longer than it should (for me, winter always lasts longer than it should) and I found myself feeling itchy with the human condition and taking umbrage with strangers for even the most minor offenses. “Use your turn signal, bitch” or “That doesn’t look like fifteen items or less to me. Good luck with that math major, jerk” left my lips more often than “You’ve got a nice looking dog, bro” or “Yes, I am having a great day. Thanks for asking!”

Jeff had heard enough.

“Wait, you’ve never been to the Grand Canyon,” he said and began to wax on excitedly. The majesty, the mythical qualities, the quiet. He said it might do me some good and I agreed with a warm gulp and suggested another round.

Tickets were purchased within the week. We’d depart a month later.

Always Be Prepared

In the weeks leading up to our trip I bought hiking boots and broke them in over long flat walks through the city during which I thought more about my current state. My winter wouldn’t quit. Was I bored or depressed? Trying to decipher the pros and cons of being either was an annual crapshoot. So what? Who cares? It will pass. Be grateful. Good vibes. Happiness is a choice.

Fuck that.

Yet, to tell you the truth, having something to prepare for WAS doing me good and the long walks were a great way to move within a society I found myself more interested in leaving behind. However, in lieu of reviewing hiking best practices and need-to-knows for backcountry camping, I looked up rock and gem shops in Sedona. I Googled queries like, “Where to find the best smudging ceremonies at the most reasonable prices” or “Shamans Mood Healers Bad Attitude Be Happy Arizona” because maybe the cure to my unrest was a low cost ritual from an on-demand natural healer.

“Did you look at the Grand Canyon camping websites I left open?”

“Sure. Looks good to me,” I lied when Jeff asked if I was ready.

Grandview Trail

Our destination had been chosen for us. We’d hike to and camp at Cottonwood Creek. It was the only permit we could get at the last minute.

The descent from the Grandview Trail to Cottonwood Creek is approximately five miles long, a 3,500 foot drop in elevation, roughly three Empire State Buildings long, most of which is steep, narrow, untamed and unprotected trail. What begins as cobblestone stone switchbacks soon becomes loose broken rocks on paths too narrow for even those with a strong constitution against a fear of heights or dreams of falling.

I don’t like heights, I don’t like the dark and I don’t like to lie. “Am I an experienced hiker? Of course,” I trailed off to the park ranger in the Backcountry Permit Office as she tried to explain the terrain.

Jeff nodded his head. He wasn’t lying. The call for adventure is strong in him. It’s something I love most about him. There were no camping permits available in any other area of the park. This was it and I wasn’t about to let my physical shortcomings let him down.

“You have trekking poles and maps, right? I wouldn’t go where you’re going without them. Only about 10% of our visitors camp in the backcountry. It can be extremely…”

“Hey, where do park rangers live? I noticed there aren’t any neighborhoods between here and Flagstaff.”

“We live in the park. We actually have a school here, Grades K through 12.”

“Fascinating.”

The ranger continued to caution us of the terrain and quiz our preparedness, but I stopped listening and began wondering what Grand Canyon High’s senior prom was like.

Things We Didn’t Bring to the Canyon

Flashlights

Maps

A compass

Enough Water (4 used Powerade bottles full meant to last a day)

Enough Food (2 Clif Bars, 2 Power Bars, 2 ready-made turkey wraps, 2 bags of beef jerky, 1 bag of trail mix)

Hitting Rock Bottom

In my experience, few are willing to admit that the journey southward toward anything but contentment is just as difficult as the journey out. It’s just that the going down is almost always faster and a lot more fun. The same rings true for our descent to Cottonwood Creek.

At first, Jeff and I remained close. He led and I followed. Together we paused to take in the view from one switchback or another. The distant mesas, miles away, looked like painted backdrops. I found myself, as I do now, unable to describe the beauty or even the magnitude. It was breathtaking and it was quiet too. Beyond the trailhead there were no car sounds, airplanes are prohibited from flying over the canyon and most people stick to more tourist-friendly hikes, like the Bright Angel Trail. A long and easy walk followed by a steak dinner at Phantom Ranch.

We moved forward together, step by step, chatting along the way and reminding each other to take in the grandeur. I looked often, but in time lost focus worried that I’d make the wrong step.

Jeff forged ahead, but remained in shouting distance “just in case” and I was left to fend for myself which I didn’t mind at all. I had some thinking to do.

Things I Left Behind

At some point in the recent decade, it’s become acceptable to shun negative thinking only to disguise it by way of snark and insincerity. Happiness is a product we’re all supposed to subscribe to and the moment we’re anything lesser than it becomes a giant moral failure. Go look at your Facebook feed right now. Someone is posting “inspirational” quotations on a sunlit background, something about rising to the occasion or overcoming weakness.

The sun doesn’t shine every day because it doesn’t have to. And neither should I.

If I’m having a bad day, let me have my bad day. All of it. The shitty attitude, the mood swings, the extra nap, the side eyes, the vitriolic litany of complaints covering anything from crappy service at a favorite restaurant to the panhandler pretending to jerk off on the corner of the Interstate. Once I’m done, I’m done and I promise to try and be better until the next time the light inside begins to dim.

However, there wasn’t much room for an emotional inventory in the canyon. As I walked, strapped into a backpack that was nearly half my weight, I leaned into the long stretch ahead. My mind shifted as I thought about the things I could’ve done without.

For what had been reduced to a 24-hour trip, I didn’t need five pairs of underwear, six pairs of socks, three shirts, two pairs of pants, an extra sunscreen aerosol. I could also do without my continued insecurities, the jealousy, the ghost of distrust, the casual emotional flogging for my imagined shortcomings. What I needed was to move forward.

Jeff and I reached Horseshoe Mesa together. He’d waited for me to catch up. I didn’t tell him that my knees were about the give out under the weight. I didn’t tell him what I had been thinking about either. He already knew.

It was a little over a mile before we’d reach Cottonwood Creek. We could camp at Horseshoe Mesa, suggested Jeff.

“No. We said we’d reach the bottom so we’re going to reach the fucking bottom.”

Our last descent was steep, loose, rockier and more treacherous than I’d hoped for. Again, I urged Jeff to go ahead of me. The sun was lowering itself at a rate that made me worry.

I met Jeff at the creek hobbling, a Tiny Tim with trekking poles. We ate dinner in silence. The sun set. The moon rose. We made love in it’s light. I’ll never forget the sound of the wind raging through the canyon, coming to blow away everything I wanted to leave behind.

Our Greatest Fears Lie in Anticipation

I woke to Jeff sitting beside me. Fully dressed, he’d watched the sunrise and let me sleep. I smelled like Ben Gay and Coppertone. The throbbing in my knees had settled into a dull, but consistent pain. A few blisters appeared overnight, but at least I could feel my feet.

“I want to show you something.”

I rose and half-clothed, Jeff led me up a path to see the view I was too tired to the night before. “Look.”

There, at the bottom of canyon, had I tears to afford, I would’ve wept. Had I been alone, I would’ve wailed. We were standing at the bottom of everything. “There’s only one way out, you know. It’s just a walk. Step by step. We’ll go slow.”

I looked out into the distance. I’d never felt so appreciative to be so small.

To Measure Yourself, At Least Once

Life is hard. Even your own birth is as brutal and violent a thing you’ll ever experience and that’s just the start.

Camping in the canyon’s backcountry is dangerous for the inexperienced. The risk of exposure and dehydration can prove disastrous to even the most prepared hiker. In the event of trouble, rescue is not guaranteed. Had I known this, I would’ve never agreed to it.

For the hike out, Jeff committed to staying behind me. I’d lead us to the summit. I imagined how’d we kiss once crossing. We’d hold each other victoriously. An adventure completed together. But it wasn’t meant to be.

The hike up, although easier on my knees, was proving worse on my back and my feet were threatening to fail me with every half step. We reached the halfway point, just as the climb became more arduous. I stopped us.

Jeff’s face had fallen. Every grunt and “fuck” I unfurled ahead of him had begun to weigh him down. I think he realized this when we spotted a lizard together and instead of telling him that we should take it home and keep it as a pet I said, “Let’s catch him. And eat his guts.”

“I feel like an asshole. You weren’t ready for this and now I’ve dragged you out here and you’re not having a good time.”

I asked him to go ahead of me. Again. Stay within yelling distance and I’d call when I needed help. I promised.

“I need to do this without you.”

What I didn’t say was that without him, I would’ve never done this and this was worth it and what I needed.

The Calvary Is Not Coming? The Calvary Came.

Nature gives less of shit about you than you do about yourself even on your worst day.

I was 1000 feet from the summit when I began to toss my trekking poles ahead of me, opting to crawl on my hands and feet. I looked to up spot Jeff, but he wasn’t there. Instead, two middle-aged men stood pointing down at me. Beyond feeling embarrassed, I crawled on only to meet them at the next switchback. They were day hiking, taking in the view, their last great hike 20 years in the distance.

“You okay?”

“I’m great. You see a guy in with a pack, 1970s Coleman sleeping bag attached to it?” I pointed at mine hanging loosely from the bottom of my own.

“Christ, that thing must weigh 20 pounds.”

“It’s not all that bad. Hey, how far am I from the top?”

“You’re close.”

“Well, I gotta go. A boyfriend, a burger and a bath await.”

I made my way to the next switchback. Jeff gave me the last of our water. He said he’d get to the top and then come back down to take my pack. I told him there was no need.

“I got this. Don’t worry. Just get water. I’ll be up there soon.”

“Meg, c’mon.”

I refused, kissed him and sent him on his way. A series of events I’d soon regret.

With 500 feet to go, my body quit. I made room on the trail as day hikers passed me, sipping on Camelbacks and taking selfies with energy I couldn’t imagine ever feeling again. My feet, my knees and my back locked themselves into place. I couldn’t go further and couldn’t not go further. As I thought to yell out for Jeff, the two middle-aged men I’d seen before caught up to me. My thousand stare gave me away.

“Look. I’m Bill and this is Steve. Let go of your pack. You’re already a hero. We’re here to help.”

I am notoriously bad at asking for help and even when it’s offered, I rarely take it which is a lesson I continue to learn the hard way. The men helped me loosen the straps and it slid off my body replacing itself with relief.

Bill and Steve were from Ithaca, New York. Lifelong friends, they’d done the hike as younger men. They were both married to women named Linda. Bill was a software develop. Steve taught middle school history. They carried my pack the rest of the way. We took a photo together and I promised to buy them a drink if we came across them in Sedona. My only regret is not asking for their address. I would’ve liked to thank them the old-fashioned way.

Jeff was waiting for me at the top. Smiling. “You did it your way.”

“I always do.”

Later that night over the first whiskey I’ve ever deserved, he would ask me how I felt. Despite the fact it would take days for my body to recover, the blisters would burst, Ben Gay would be slathered on my joints for the foreseeable future and I would take to hobbling until my body healed, I had only one thought and it must be why unprepared people take these unguaranteed journeys.

To feel strong, but humble.