by Kerri Rawson
My guts were still rolling—my nerves now in full-on intimidation mode.
I’ve never been afraid of heights, yet I couldn’t shake the fear of falling. I’ve never been claustrophobic, yet I felt as if I was becoming unhinged, seized by panic. Of course, I’d never been pressed up against a sheer cliffside thousands of feet below and above solid ground before either.
I was continually having to give myself a pep talk.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
Watch your feet. One boot at a time. One rock at a time.
Eyes in front of you, steady now.
You have this.
I reached out for the red wall I was up against. Heat radiated from it. My head was beginning to spin. Up was becoming down; down was becoming up.
I was staring into an abyss. A black hole. I wanted to quit. Give up. I wanted it over. All of it.
If I were to step a few feet more away from the wall and lean over the precarious drop-off, shifting the extra weight teetering upon my slight frame, I could go over. Landing a thousand feet below on jagged rocks.
I closed my eyes. I could feel my body beginning to lean . . . then warmth surrounded me. A strong presence pressed up against me, right alongside the edge. It was comforting. Peaceful. Felt like something I knew. Familiar. The same presence was in front of me too. It was only there for a moment, but it was enough.
Deep inside me, something I knew before but had forgotten shook awake. I uttered a prayer in my head. Help me. I don’t want to die.
I snapped out of it, shifting my weight back to my center, planting my feet firmly. I took a deep breath, shaking my head, trying to clear it.
I looked down at the rocks below, where my broken body could be lying. I squeezed my eyes shut.
I shook my head again. No. I wouldn’t.
“Whoa, careful now, kid. Why don’t ya get closer to the wall as we keep going here,” came Dad’s warm, steady voice from a few feet behind me.
I stepped back closer to the rock wall, farther away from the drop-off, and kept hiking, one boot in front of the other. My stomach was in painful knots, my body tense, tight—I felt ashamed. I tucked my head low. Dejected, my shoulders hunched over, and not just from the physical weight on them.
I can’t tell Dad and A. D.
But that presence, it felt like angels. Grandpa Bill? Michelle?
I thought for a second they were walking right beside me. Grandpa, warm, assured, with his big feet and his big heart, holding me up, pushed up right next to me. Michelle in front, a brilliant white light, leading me, showing me the way down the path.
But that’s crazy, right?
A bit of hope buoyed my soul. My countenance lifted for the first time in hours.
7:00 P.M.
BREEZY POINT
We hiked another half mile down the trail, then the trail disappeared. Small boulders and a tree had crashed down at some point and piled up, blocking our way. Come on!
We came to a stop as we neared the pile, but it was too precarious and high to walk over. We decided to take off our packs and climb over.
A. D. went first, going slowly, hand over hand with his back to the drop-off. After he was over, Dad passed him one pack at a time. Dad helped me onto the red boulders and I worked my way over, trying not to look down. A. D. helped me down. Dad came last. Whew.
I gritted my teeth as I put my pack back on; my shoulders were about finished. A cairn marked the trail continuing on the other side of the pile. We weren’t the first ones to cross the rockfall.
The sun was lowering, and soon it would drop behind the western reaches of the canyon. We’d been hiking for eight hours, covered five and a half miles, and descended two thousand feet. I was now teetering on empty. Yet it was still another two and a half miles to our campsite.
Disoriented, I hit my mental wall.
Hey, if you’re up there, we’re in a bit of a jam here. Can you help us?
Not long after I tossed out my plea, a rocky outcropping came into view, the first one in miles big enough and flat enough to sleep on. It had a cool breeze and a stunning view. I tossed my pack down and declared, “Done.” I plopped down.
Dad had already gone about twenty feet past me down the trail, heading down a steep descent, trying to make out the trail with his small Maglite.
I stood up, hands on my hips, eyes blazing, hollering down to him with all the might I had left. “I’m staying here tonight!”
Dad turned and, with a quizzical look, walked back up to me. His face was ragged, tired, worn; his eyes small, darting side to side.
He dug in his pocket and brought out a folded piece of typed white paper, thrusting it at me. Tapping on it with his finger, his voice tight, he said, “We don’t have permission to camp here. Only in the places listed on this permit.”
“There are no rangers around, Dad. There is no one around! No one cares!” I waved my arms, pointing every which way to emphasize my point. “It’s going to be pitch black soon. Someone is going to walk right off a cliff if we don’t stop.” I planted my feet. Lowering my arms to my sides, I dropped my voice. “My legs are toast. I’m spent. We can try again in the morning.”
Dad turned to A. D. “What do you think?”
A. D. replied with a shrug, “This will be all right.”
Using our flashlights, we put up a one-man tent for me, the one I’d lugged on my back all day, and a two-man for A. D. and Dad to share. The ground was too hard to drive stakes into, so we anchored our tents with rocks. Leaning through the tent flap, I unrolled my blue foam mat and purple sleeping bag.
We took stock of our diminishing water supply and decided it wasn’t smart to use water to rehydrate a package of dried food. So for dinner, we settled on a hank of beef jerky the consistency of a leather shoe and a ration of a cup of water each, till morning.
I crashed for the night in my tent. My belly rumbling from hunger, my lips parched and cracked, my throat choked with thirst, I longed for the water at the river far below.
Worried about my brother, I wished there was a way to send him a note: Don’t come down, too dangerous, too far, especially by yourself. Stay on the rim!
This had been one of the hardest, longest days of my life, and now I was stuck on a ledge, pushed up against rock walls. I blamed my dad, his bright ideas and overestimating conceit. I blamed myself too—a willing adventure buddy with him.
Mad at myself, sad I was willing to go over that cliff earlier today, sure I would never reach this much of a head-spinning, dizzying low point in my life again. At wits’ end. Exhausted. Dang thirsty. Going to sleep in the middle of a rock-and-desert wasteland.
I trusted Dad—he said we could handle this trip. Instead he risked all our lives. Something in me grew up when I stood up to him. Dad could be scary when you pushed back, but he knew there was no reasoning with me. I knew he would cool off soon enough and be relieved to put his pack down and rest. After the arrest, he said he’s like a pot, slowly heating and occasionally blowing its lid. The key to surviving life with Dad? Watch the pot cautiously, turn down the heat, and know when to get out of its way before it blows.
CHAPTER 12
The Milky Way Makes an Excellent Nightlight
DAY TWO
Hope had risen anew; light warmed my tent, bringing me back to life. I peeked my head out of the flap, finding myself greeted with a stunning sunrise, orange brilliance hitting pink expanses. The air was calm; the canyon was at peace. All was forgiven from the hard day before.
Tucked tight into rocks a thousand feet up in the air, I’d found some of the best sleep I’d ever had. Rested, I was ready to tackle the Cathedral Stairs.
While partaking of a breakfast of trail mix with melted chocolate pieces and a few sips of water, we contemplated the toll our feet were taking. We passed around a nail trimmer, cutting back our toenails even shorter than we had at the rim, hoping to minimize the pain we endured yesterday on the steep descents.
“Got any hotspots,
kids?” Dad asked while inspecting his own feet carefully. “Take care of them now. You don’t want flare-ups turning into full blisters.”
I lifted each foot and worked slowly around my toes and sides of my feet, checking for any sores. Using tiny scissors that folded out of my small pink Swiss Army knife, I cut small squares from the soft moleskin Dad insisted I bring along. Peeling off the sticky backing, I stuck the patches on my red, unhappy skin. My feet protested as I put clean socks on. I slowly coaxed my feet into my boots with a slight groan.
Feet tended to, boots firmly tightened, camp packed and placed on our backs, we set out, navigating down the stairs with clearheaded minds and more confident footing than we’d found yesterday. Looking out on the immense red-walled world around me, I felt awake, more so than I had in a long time. I could hear the beats in my chest; I could feel the air filling my lungs—I was alive.
Descending a thousand feet and a mile and a half from last night’s impromptu campsite, we reached the junction of Hermit and Tonto around midmorning. My head and shoulders were up, not hunched over. I was doing this. I’d accomplished something—I’d hiked miles down into a canyon. It felt insane, but I was doing it. It felt dang good after the failures and losses of the past year.
“Well, that wasn’t too bad, right, guys?” my dad asked with a slight chuckle and shake of his head. “Good thing, though, we don’t have to go back up that way, huh?”
I warily looked back up, where we had come from, bit my lower lip, and muttered, “Yeah, good thing.”
A. D. shrugged. “Nah, it wasn’t that bad.” He pointed to a large cairn and a wooden sign marking a fork in the trails. A lone, lost sandal hung from the sign. “Now which way do we go?”
“Should we push on toward the Colorado River?” I asked as I swished around the remaining water left in my last bottle. I was wishing for cold, unending water, a beach, and my flip-flops.
Looking over his map, Dad took charge. “East is the river and Granite Rapids, where we camp today. It’s four miles away, though.”
He looked up, toward the other direction. “West is Hermit Creek, where we were supposed to camp last night. It’s got water and should have shade. It’s only a mile. We need to head there before we run dry. Before the canyon heats up any more today.”
“So a mile to water and five more to camp?” I asked.
“Yes. We can’t do another four without restocking our water supply. Got no choice.” His face set firm, he turned west toward Hermit Creek. “Come on, let’s go.”
The trek to the creek gently curved up and down through the Tonto plain, only dropping three hundred feet in elevation over a mile. It was a nice break after the hard miles along the rock wall yesterday and the steep descent earlier that morning.
But Dad was right—the open plateau was heating up quick. My stomach was beginning to ache again, but I kept going, hoping with each downward crest of a hill we would arrive at the creek.
We finally reached our destination, setting our packs down next to a good stream of flowing water. Almost twenty-four hours had passed since we stopped at the spring far above. I crouched down anxiously next to Dad, waiting for him to carefully siphon from the creek into our awaiting bottles.
Water! I chugged half a Gatorade bottle’s worth. Until these past two days, I’d never known what it was like to be without this basic necessity. To be thankful for simple water from a creek. And definitely not caring that it tasted faintly of iron and fruit punch.
We ate lunch with our boots off, tempted to stay and lounge, but we decided to head on. Topping off our water containers, we felt assured we could make the five miles to our second campsite before nightfall. If Brian was heading down today, he would expect us to be at the river.
We retraced our footsteps back near the junction.
Less than a mile later, I felt wiped out again by the relentless midday sun. It was straight above our heads, small, bright, intense. Heat rose from the ground, surrounding us, forming mirages.
I became lightheaded. There was no clear-headed thinking now. I looked back at my dad, who was pale and quiet. The weight in his pack seemed to be getting to him.
We should have stayed back at the creek for the rest of the day.
I stopped on the trail, leaning over, holding my stomach. “Hey, guys, should we turn around? Go back and try again in the morning?”
A. D. spoke up. “Over there is a huge boulder. I bet it has shade.”
“Dad? What do you think?” I asked, hoping I could cease moving.
“That will do,” Dad said, resigned. It was hard to watch him be discouraged. I wasn’t used to seeing him like this, physically weary. He was one of the strongest guys I knew.
“Come on, guys, let’s get out of this sun,” I said, gesturing to a narrow, worn footpath that led to the boulder. We propped our packs up against it, took off our boots, stuffed our socks inside them, and lay down, side by side, under the shaded protection of the great rock.
5:00 P.M.
We were woken late in the afternoon by the sound of voices coming down the trail, the first people we had seen since lunchtime the day before. An older man and woman, fit, hiking lean with lightweight packs a quarter of the size of ours. They stopped and inquired with concern about us, three sleeping lizards under a rock. They tried to coax us back to Hermit Creek, but we stubbornly wanted to go on. We bid them a good trek and packed ourselves up, setting back out eastward.
Since leaving our napping spot two hours ago, we’d been hiking steadily but had only made it a mile. After passing the fork, we’d come over a ridge onto the broadening Tonto Platform. Cope Butte was looming over us as we headed east, crunching dark reddish-brown talus under our boots, surrounded by sparse vegetation.
The greenish-blue Colorado River was now only eight hundred tantalizing feet below us but still miles away. I could taste it in the slight breeze blowing up from the inner gorge we were hiking above. We couldn’t make out the steep drop to Monument Creek, which we would have to traverse to turn toward the river. After the drop would be another mile to Granite Rapids.
God? Any ideas?
After ascending a never-ending darkening ridge that made me question my sanity, I stopped to catch my breath. Ready to stop, I said, “Sun is going down again, guys. We’ve got plenty of water. Could we bivouac again?”
Not long after I asked if we could stop, we came upon a jutting-out, large, flat area on a plateau. We parked it and dined with a view. Dad took stock of our water and determined we had enough to cook with—measuring out what was needed, careful to not let any spill. He poured it into a lightweight metal pot and mixed in a dark reddish-brown package of dehydrated BBQ meat.
Dad attached a small red cylinder of cooking fuel to the backpacking stove, which sprang to life with a hiss and hot blue-white flame. The pot went on the stove, and after a short time and some stirring, we had dinner—BBQ stuffed in pita pockets. It’s still to this day one of the best meals I have ever had, in one of the finest locations ever to be found.
A. D. became the hit of the evening, pulling out of his pack a ginormous bag of sunflower seeds, cans of Welch’s grape juice, and Sprite.
“Seriously? Where was that last night?” I fell over laughing with glee. Now life was getting good.
I was so happy to be right there, I yelled, “To heck with tents. I’m sleeping out tonight!” I laid down my plastic ground cloth, rolled out my mat, and tossed my sleeping bag down.
“You’ve got a first-rate idea there, kid,” Dad said, laying his bedroll out next to mine.
Not long after dinner, Dad and I scooted into our sleeping bags. We softly pointed out constellations to each other and the occasional shooting star. Some of the best moments of my life had been with him, outside, in quiet companionship, under the stars. I could hear his breath shallow and even out, and before long, he was gently snoring.
I lay awake awhile longer. I’d never seen the Milky Way this way—stretching across the sky. There was nowh
ere else in the world I’d rather be, although precisely where we were was hard to say.
Brian?
Was he high above us? Coming down Hermit? Maybe he’d wait for us on the rim. My stomach tightened and I sent a silent plea out into the canyon—please, don’t come down; stay where you are. God? Can you hear me?
Drifting, my thoughts faded out into the canyon—out into wastelands.
DAY THREE
Dad woke A. D. and me up while the light was still low and murky, wanting to get moving before the sun hit. I was ready to get going, knowing we would have an endless supply of cold water hopefully before noon.
I checked over my feet; the moleskin had worked. I put on clean socks, laced up my boots, and packed up my gear, surprised at how I was adapting.
We set out on Tonto, continuing east, rounding massive buttes, and rising on stunning vistas overlooking dark cliffs that dropped straight down into the river. Nearing Monument Creek, we dropped down along a steep, narrow footpath, taking switchbacks into the inner canyon below. This is not a place you would want to be stumbling around in the dark, I thought.
Monument Spire towered above, greeting us at the fork where we turned north. We stepped off our last switchback and found ourselves in a dry inner wash. Smooth reddish-black rock loomed over us on both sides.
While covering the last winding mile, our boots got slowed down in large rounded gravel. There was no trail, just cairns. They marked the trails all the way down—a source of solace. On this day, I bent down in the creek bed and built my own. Stacking rock upon rock atop a boulder was life-affirming. Hopeful.
CHAPTER 13
Find a Stream in the Wasteland
DAY THREE
NOON
GRANITE RAPIDS
Euphoric might be the word that describes how we felt, finally reaching the mighty greenish-blue, ripsnorting, roaring, chilly-as-all-get-out Colorado River.
Water! All the water you’d ever want. I wanted to drink it, filtered or not, but Dad told me to wait as he pulled out the pump. Within a few minutes, we had cold, fresh water in our bottles. I chugged half of mine and asked for more.