Part I: The Lesson
Carefully dodging cactus and yucca, I moved further along the gravely slope of Saddle Mountain, angling to snap a better picture of the North Rim of the Grand Canyon some 10 miles to my west. Less than an hour into what would be a week-long backpacking trip, the epic scale of what lay ahead had me transfixed. I played around with the panoramic features on my new camera. I adjusted the shutter speed trying to capture the brilliance of the late-afternoon sun on the rocks. Finally I realized that the enormity of what was in front of me wasn’t going to be condensed into a snapshot. I turned back to relocate the trail and catch up to the seven other guys who were now ahead of me. I picked up my pace a bit, anxious not to be left alone in the wilderness without a map. After a few minutes trotting down the trail, I still couldn’t see or hear anyone else and began to fear I’d taken the wrong path.
“And just like that, it happens. You step off the trail for a moment to take a few pictures, get a bit turned around, and you’re lost. With no map to guide you and limited supplies of food and water, how would you survive?” I could imagine the words of Les Stroud, host of the TV show “Survivorman,” narrating my predicament.
I cupped my hands to my mouth and let out a loud, “ca-caw!” and strained to hear a response. Nothing. I tried again, but this time a fierce wind immediately flung my words behind me. I could feel a light sweat breaking out as I began to weigh my options: continue down this trail, stop and camp where I was, search for a new trail, or turn around and head back for the parking lot. As I evaluated these choices there was a lull in the wind. Sensing the opportunity, I let out the hardiest, “CA-CAW!” I could muster. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard a faint, “ca-caw” in response.
Encouraged, I continued my trot in that direction and was relieved to see Steve rounding the corner towards me with his hands at his sides as if to say, “What happened?”
What happened was that the desert very quickly taught me a lesson. If you’re not paying attention, you can easily find yourself in real trouble. After spending 5 ½ months hiking the Appalachian Trail in 2005, I assumed I was an expert when it came to backpacking. The mountains and forests of the East Coast are a very different animal from the deserts and canyons of Arizona. I spent a week relearning that lesson. Each day presented a moment, however brief, that reminded me I could die out there.
Those words might seem overdramatic. Sitting at my desk, far removed from the situation, it’s hard to remember how clear the feeling was. In the middle of a vast, unfamiliar landscape, there was no debating the fact. This is not to suggest that the landscape is malicious. There’s a danger in assigning human characteristics to nature. As an alien species, I was made to tread with awe and respect for forces that were much greater and more powerful than myself.
Part of the reason I wanted to hike the Grand Canyon was that I knew it would be a challenge. Fear, mortality, and discomfort are feelings that I often go to great lengths to avoid. In the canyon of my mind, if I never left the rim, how well could I ever know myself? Sometimes there’s nothing healthier than hiking down into the depths to explore.
Scott Kimball says
I needed that week in the wilderness more then I thought I did. Great job putting some of the emotions of the trip into words. I look forwards to the other parts!
Jim Stone says
Nice John!
Steve Lannon says
Great stuff John! The beginning of any backpacking trip is always an emotional experience. I love the part where your senses remember what it’s like to be part of nature. I don’t know whether it’s part of our genetic code, or just the fresh, clean air hitting your lungs, but it’s an amazing feeling. I remember jogging up the trail yelling for you and starting to get wild ideas of the worst things that might have happened 🙂