(NEAR) DEATH MARCH ON THE NORTH RIM

Out on the Proverbial Limb

It must have been about 9:00 o’clock that night when we realized beyond any shadow of a doubt that we had screwed up. Royally. Not for the first time, or even the last time in our lives, to be sure, but up until this point by far the most seriously.

Vergil and I were exhausted, dehydrated, hungry, cold, and still over two miles of trail and well over 1,000 vertical feet below our goal, the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Our world had shrunk to the North Kaibab Trail’s apparently endless series of switchbacks that seemed to be about 30 feet long with about a 30⁰ incline. We were just about toast.

We had left Phantom Ranch at the very bottom of the Grand Canyon about 7:30 AM on the 14 mile hike to the North Rim. Our original plans to overnight at Cottonwood Campground had been shot down when, between the time we received our Backcountry Permit in the spring and the time we arrived at the park in September, the Park Service decided to close the Cottonwood Campground early for the season to effect some renovations.

We were left with only one option in our eyes: all the way in one day. Heck, it was only 14 miles. We were still young (relatively) and strong (more or less) and knew what we were in for (not a clue). That particular 14 miles of trail constitutes an altitude gain of over 5,000 feet. That’s right. A vertical mile. The first seven miles of trail, running from 2,460 feet at Phantom to 4,000 feet at Cottonwood, is followed by a seven mile stretch from 4,000 feet to 8,250 feet on the North Rim. It was that second seven miles that was whipping our fannies.

                Vergil and I perched ourselves on a couple of trailside rocks, leaned over, and sucked air like only exhausted, dehydrated flatlanders at 7,000 feet can. The cool, clear air was redolent with conifer and an undercurrent of sun-parched dust. We stared out over the landscape. Every feature of the fantastically sculpted canyon was bathed in the ghostly, soft glow of a full moon. We asked ourselves what two guys born and raised in Mississippi were doing here. That answer was simple: dreams, dreams born in years of camping, hunting, and fishing together in the anything but arid climate of the relatively flat Mississippi countryside. We might be older and might have the wherewithal to make some of those dreams come true, but in many ways we were still those 15-year-old kids roaming the countryside with their like-minded friends.

                We heaved ourselves to our feet and started slogging upward again. We were taking turns hauling one pack. We were only spending one night on the North Rim and packing all we would need for that bivouac, we had left the rest of our gear with the rangers at Phantom Ranch. Verg took the pack and set off, as always the faster hiker. A flare-up of a nasty intestinal disorder and the ravages of the attendant medication had rendered my joints a mess and me even slower than usual.

                I could hear the tap-tap of Vergil’s hiking stick. I had located a stand of bamboo near my home and had made each of us a walking stick before we left. For the last 30-40 minutes that tapping was how we kept up with each other when separated.

I rapped my stick several times on a rock in response to Vergil and decided I needed another blow. I plopped down on a rock bordering the outside edge of the trail and immediately fell asleep, my back toward the abyss. I awoke with a slight jerk. Startled, I planted my staff, and with as firm a grip as possible began hauling myself back to my feet. At some point in the process of rising, I fell back asleep, awakening when my fanny hit the rock I had been sitting on.

Steadying myself I looked over my shoulder at the long plunge into the indigo depths of the canyon, the trail a ghostly, gray, moonlit serpent twisting downward and disappearing into the canyon’s depths.

 “OK, Bonehead,” I said to myself, “No more sit downs for you. I don’t care if you have to stop at every switchback, you’re not sitting down again. Too dangerous.” I lumbered to my feet and started uphill, stopping at nearly every switchback and leaning over with hands on knees, sucking air, but I never sat down again.

I hadn’t heard the clatter of Vergil’s stick on the rocks in quite a while despite my repeated rapping. I was getting concerned and tried to call his name. I couldn’t get more than a croak out of my parched throat. Couldn’t whistle either. “Well, keep putting one foot in front of the other,” I told myself. “You’ll get there.”

Suddenly Vergil loomed out of the dark, the grin in his sun-tanned face visible in the moonlight. He didn’t have the pack or his walking stick. His voice was gone too. “You’re almost there,” he whispered. “I dropped the gear at the top. Just a couple of hundred yards.”

It was 11:30 PM and 32° F when we topped out. Flat ground felt wonderful. The rim was dominated by towering evergreens, trunks looming sepulchral in the dark, their height and foliage blocking out the moonlight except along the road by which we were standing  We pulled out our maps to try to determine how to get to our campground. We both agreed we needed to go left, in this case south towards the rim.

We grabbed our pack and started down the road. We still had some walking to do. Minutes later we heard the rumble of a motor behind us and turned to see a pair of headlights strobing through the trees. Standing as close as we dared to the road and ready to leap aside if necessary, we began waving our arms. Shouting was out of the question. We were bathed in headlights and ready to jump when the revs dropped and hood pitched down as the truck, we could see it was a pickup now, pulled to a stop.

Vergil and I walked up to the driver’s side as someone lowered the volume on the radio which was blaring country music.

“Evening,” I croaked, looking into the cab to see two young guys both in plaid shirts and Stetsons.

“Howdy,” the driver replied.

“We wondered if you could help us. We’re looking for the campground.”

The cowboys looked at each other.

“Not right sure,” the driver replied. “It’s around here somewhere, I reckon.”

“Where are y’all headed?” we asked.

“Up to the lodge. For a couple of beers,” the driver grinned.

Vergil and I looked at each other.

“Think they got any rooms available?” we asked.

“Lots of ‘em, this time of year.”

“Can you give us a ride?”

“Shore. Hop in the back and hold on. We’re in a hurry. Gotta get there ‘fore they close”

We did and he was. Soon we were at a cluster of buildings perched on the North Rim. Shelter was the first order of business. At the reservation desk we found that the Pioneer Cabins were the best rate and took one for the night.

Soon Verg and I were sitting in a corner of the appropriately decored Rough Rider Saloon with our hands wrapped around a cold Molsen Golden. Food services were closed, but we had already consumed three Dr. Peppers and two Orange Crushes and were stuffing pretzels in our mouths between swallows. We quickly learned why in all the Western movies when our hero finds a parched soul dying of thirst in the desert, they dribble water into the poor unfortunate’s throat. It hurts. I mean it feels like someone is dragging a wood rasp up and down your throat. It tasted good but it was agony going down.

The bartender sounded “Last call”, but we were so stiff, sore, and wasted, neither of us was able to hobble to the bar in time to place another order. We should have sat closer. On our way out we again thanked the two cowboys for the ride. They nodded and returned to their beers. They had ordered enough to keep themselves busy for a while. We had not been that smart.

Our Pioneer Cabin was surprisingly enough appropriately named, a little log cabin with two beds and a bathroom. We had been three days and two nights in the open desert. Our bodies were dust and salt caked. We took turns in the shower and hopped between clean sheets bare-assed and buck naked. Those beds felt exquisite.

I pulled out my tobacco pouch and packed a bowl, and we lay there chatting amiably. I looked over at my friend. At that time Vergil and I had known each other for 23 years.