Hiking the Canyon

My son and I recently went on a journey together. We set a challenge for ourselves and answered our own call to action. For others, this may have been a vacation. But for us, it was a journey.

It was a journey similar to that made by fathers and sons since biblical times - think Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance minus the disjointed philosophizing, Finding Nemo minus losing your kid in the ocean, The Road to Perdition minus the abject mob violence. Our purpose was straightforward - to hike the Grand Canyon, but our intention was to spend time together in that pursuit.

For two men - he turned eighteen during our trip - with a relationship fraught with the roller-coaster of reactive emotions and undying love that is coming-of-age, we had a beautiful experience. It wasn't without challenges: missed flights, wrong turns, falling headfirst on granite, bumps, scrapes, and muscle aches. We didn't sit poolside sipping mai-tais. But the challenges make the time together resonate

For Joe and I, the arc of our journey fills out as:

• Hiking the Grand Canyon

• Making a left at Albuquerque (HERE)

• Leaving Las Vegas (Blog post coming soon)

This was my third time to the Grand Canyon and his second. On each of my previous visits, I attempted to hike to the bottom. And on each of those previous attempts, I’ve fallen short: lack of planning, time constraints, weather considerations.

Ours is a goal-driven society, with milestones, resolutions, to-do lists, honey-do lists, bucket lists, and 100-day entry plans. But as both William Burns and John Steinbeck each remarked: the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

A life of deliberate action seeks to overcome that. Stephen Covey illustrates deliberate action with his exercise of big rocks and little rocks fitting in a jar symbolizing our finite time. Marcus Aurellius wrote that “making unselfish actions [your] only aim, seeking and shunning only the things [you] have control over¨ is the way towards taking deliberate action and living with intentionality.

I´ve been trying, sometimes succeeding, at seeking only the things I have control over, of putting the big rocks in my jar first. This trip was an exercise in that.

Our goal was to through-hike the canyon over two days, camping overnight at the base camp. But we weren’t able to secure a permit for that. I procrastinated making reservations (they hamper my sense of spontaneity), and we both were initially non-committal about the trip (neither of us wanted to be emotionally vulnerable by being too eager). In addition to hiking down the first day, we also would hike part way up to the next camp.

We hiked fourteen miles on the first day, and seven on the second. We certainly didn’t skip leg day at the gym that week. We rocked our quads going down, and our calves carried the burn on the ascent.

More than the miles, the trails, and the aching muscles was the time: with each other, our own thoughts, and challenging ourselves together. This was deliberate, intentional, and natural. This was not the busyness of contemporary living, of passing each other on our way to or from errands, jobs, or school. This was two people - father and son - who love each other deeply and don´t understand each other fully - spending time together, in a common pursuit.

Arriving at the Canyon, we set out for an early start. Our bodies remained on Cleveland-time, even his sleep-addled teenage self awake at seven local time. There was unstated mutual respect among fellow hikers - a silent but shared camaraderie as gear was shifted and respective journeys were prepared.

Our stuffed bags drew looks and occasional questions from the early tourists. Gathering with the hikers that morning was a crowd more concerned about conditions at the top of the canyon. When we got off the shuttle bus at the trailhead, they consulted the map for orientation. But for Joe and I there was only one direction - into the Canyon.

And so, down we hiked. The chatter of the tourists, families and couples, friends and foreign visitors receded as the trail, and the descent continued past the first mile. Only a few through-hikers continued past. Stopping as we walked along a ridge, I heard only the wind echoing off the cliffs behind me and the soft crunch of Joe's boots on the gravelly dust in front of me.

As the morning warmed, and the last bits of ice and snow along the trail receded, we each shed both layers of clothes and of our own forced machismo and bravado. It is colder at the top of the Canyon than it is along the river at the bottom, and the signs of Spring, of both flora and fauna and of our own senses of wonder, re-emerged from the dormancy that has been the long winter of our discontent.

An image that remains with me, is of my son becoming himself again as we walked the trail further into the Canyon. He normally carries himself with the clenched, muscle-bound, defensiveness so common among adolescent males. And yet, soon he was peering over ledges, tracing the nascent outline of what he predicted would be the trail’s continuing descent, his eyes scanning skywards, watching the cliffs give way to the rim, and then eventually, as we turned past further rock outcroppings, watching even the rim receding from view. He was relaxed and at ease with himself.

We talked; lightly - did we pack enough food; and heavily - was he ready to enlist. Our conversation veered to looking back in time - remember that time on vacation when mom had to strong-arm me to get me going on our hike in Yellowstone. And then our conversation searched for our futures - what will this be like for you next year?

We chided each other - you got this old man? Better than half the riff-raff you’re enlisting with. We supported and checked in with each other - drink some water. Let’s take a break here.

We sat and took a break in the shade and made fun of a group of tree-huggers. We talked with an old guy out on his own, hiking from the South rim to the North and then back to the South rim again, staying at multiple camps along the way. Impressed, we considered following his path, in the end continuing on our own.

The reds and browns of the upper layers of rock gave way to the dark grays of the next ancient layers of rock. The miles and the steps ticked up. The switchbacks down cliffs seemed to double. We shifted our hiking bags to ease the weight.

We stopped for water and to remove another layer of clothing. A train of pack mules was being driven up the trail - three riders and about twenty mules. We knelt in the dirt off the trail listening to the beasts grunt and snort as they shouldered their burdens up the incline, taking each step with dispassionate focus. After they passed, we continued on.

Mid-morning, the now familiar and comforting silence was broken with loud talking. We scanned around and saw two figures well behind us on the trail carving their way down a switchback - their voices, loud, bounding ahead of them down the trail past us.

We were faced with a choice: sit, take a break, and wait for them to pass - hoping that their nonchalance, their negative energy (you could feel the difference both in their volume and the occasional word that fell to us), and their interruption would pass us by. Or, we could double-up our efforts for the next quarter or half-mile, and push to out-pace them, staying ahead of whatever storm they carried.

We each took a slug of water, considering the limited options. Then we doubled up. Neither of us was looking to rush the experience, but a choice had to be made, and with that came effort and consequence.

Even with intentionality, we can't control external events. We can only control ourselves: our choices, our actions, and our thoughts. Yes, the day was beautiful - we couldn't have asked for a better day, with a light breeze, and not a cloud in the sky. But we could no more control the weather than we could control wild animals (unlike our previous attempt as a family, when we encountered both a rattlesnake and a mountain lion), or these particular fellow hikers. For Joe and I, our locus of control lay solely with our preparation (were we physically prepared), our planning (did we have the necessary permits; were our bags packed appropriately), and our disposition (were we up to the challenge).

We can only control what we can control. These noisy hikers were on their own journey, just like the old guy and the tree-huggers we talked with a few miles back, and the tourists we left behind on the shuttle bus. We are all on our own journeys, working our way through the wilderness, with our own plans and preparations and challenges. The best we can often do is the simplest - respect each other, giving grace and space for each others’ journey.

We continued down through the Canyon. We passed other occasional hikers. We were passed by others. Not counting the pack mules, no one came up, not since we left the tourists behind in the first mile. We were in rarified air, hiking a well-worn path few others venture near.

A little past noon we saw the Colorado River below us, and to our left a cable bridge stretching across it, tethered to the granite on both sides. We scrambled down the last bit of trail, giving way to a roughly hewn tunnel through the mountainside. There was no light in the tunnel, and the trail curved inside the tunnel so that you couldn’t see directly through, making the journey through the tunnel one of darkness. Emerging on the other side, we were met immediately by the cable bridge. Between the well-worn and weathered floorboards, the rusty cables, and the sheer magnitude of what it must have taken to place it here nearly a century ago, there was a careful sense of awe as we crossed.

White-water rafts pushed off the opposite shore. They arced to the far side of the river to bypass an eddy, rowed counter a whirlpool, and then carried on downstream all within a half-mile expanse of the river. The water was strangely green as if dyed for a St. Patrick’s Day parade in the middle of nowhere.

The mid-day sun beat down on us as we walked along the river’s edge. You’re in the canyon, but you can’t tell - the walls of the canyon don’t go straight up on either side. The majesty of the Grand Canyon is not only in its depth but in its breadth.

We stopped to refill our water bottles. We talked briefly with other hikers enjoying the riverside respite. We continued on to the base camp and ranger station, where all of the major trails come together. I again considered following the journey of the old guy we met earlier. Joe again wisely suggested we stick to our path.

We carried on. It was near 90 at the base. That night, where we slept, it would drop to the high 20s. We crossed another footbridge across the river. We walked along the river’s edge through sand and silt.

The miles added up. We finally felt the trail turn south, where each successive step became one of going up.

Two older guys hiking down said there were about another two hours to the camp. A group of twenty-something-year-olds with Go-pros on their heads and selfie-sticks in their hands ran down the trail shirtless towards the river, whooping it up as they went past. We looked at each other and wondered aloud if they had run the whole trail down and had they been ass-hats the whole time, while silently wondering if we had the stamina to do that.

Our conversation lagged, not for lack of desire, but out of a desire to conserve energy. We each ate a protein bar and drained another water bottle. A single hiker heading our direction passed us, chatting with us as he did. We felt his positive energy. He wasn’t out-of-breath, but his accent made it difficult to understand him. He said he was heading up. We found out the next day - when we saw him at the top of the Canyon, standing there refreshed in clean clothes - that he had meant all-the-way-up, that same day. We were struggling to find our camp for the night.

As evening came on, we hiked off the trail into the Indian Garden camp, claiming the first campsite we saw and set up our tent.

We took off our boots and walked barefoot in the dirt - allowing our feet to stretch and cool down and air out. We boiled water and ate the best freeze-dried chicken teriyaki we’ve ever had. We talked about what type of food he’ll eat in basic training (like anyone else, he has certain foods he can’t stand, and quirks of eating, that we´re both confident the military won’t abide). And we talked about what his mom and I might do next, with him and his sisters all moving out of the house.

We cleaned up and he laid down and immediately fell asleep. I walked back on the trail about a half-mile and watched the shadows creep up the walls of the canyon as the sun set beyond the rim behind, spied a mule deer buck eating in the brambles off the trail, listened to the wind and the eagles, and stood witness as the fading light gave way to the first stars.

In the morning, we rose early - the cold of the cliffside shaking us easily from our sleep. I made coffee, and we rolled up our sleeping bags and tent, filled our water bottles, and shouldered our bags.

After a mile, the relative flatness of the camp gave way to a series of switch-backs, taking us upwards. We passed a family of mule deer, the fawn peeking playfully over the edge of the trail.

At this early hour, there were hikers going in both directions. Some running the descent, and others, like us, laboring under their packs upwards. A mule train descended with tourists. We stood against the canyon wall, taking a moment to catch our breath and drink water.

We continued upwards. It was his birthday. Occasionally, he would have a signal on his phone, and he would respond to well-wishes. Even in the middle of the canyon, the dopamine draw of social media and constant connectivity drew him in. He mumbled about not even knowing half of the people he was responding to.

More switchbacks. The greenery around the camp was gone, replaced by red rock in the upper layers of the Canyon. We looked down, scanning to find the tops of the trees under which we slept last night. We saw a helicopter circling below us, its rotating blades silent in the distance, landing near those trees.

There are signs everywhere along the canyon’s rim, warning of the dangers below. Lack of water, rattlesnakes, heat, exhaustion from over-exertion, falling off of cliffs - all are among the listed dangers. Yet, for some reason, despite the abundance of visual and verbal announcements, people continue to make poor choices.

On my first trip to the Canyon - in my early 20s - I didn’t heed the signs that strongly advise hydration. My friends and I infamously thought that because we were former-high school athletes, we could handle it. We couldn’t, and we didn’t. It was the middle of July when the entire canyon boiled and baked, and we had to rely on the kindness of strangers to make it back up from the three-mile checkpoint.

Despite both commonsense and official signs warning of the dangers, some people - like whoever needed the helicopter escort occurring below us, or myself twenty-plus years ago - do not heed those warnings.

One of my favorite warning signs is posted conspicuously in the first half-mile of each of the major trails: going down is optional, coming up is not, it warns. It is in the ascent that you have to face - quite literally - the wall in front of you, controlling what you can control one step at a time. Commitment, desire, and obtuse goals may get you started, but consistency and execution get the job done.

As we continued our ascent, the traffic coming down increased. Families, tourists, friends, and foreign visitors headed into the canyon - for a mile or two - looking at us with respect for the accomplishment we were completing. The trail’s surface changed as well, with slicks of ice over the gravel and granite, and piles of snow persisting off of the trail.

We crested the rim, worn, tired, and hungry. We called home. We sat on a bench and gathered our thoughts. A dad visiting with his family looked us over with awe: did we just hike from the bottom? Yes. That´s awesome, I want to do that. You can. Maybe someday, but I’ve got these kiddos here with me now. Come back, and hike it with them.

Hamlet pondered whether to be or not; Thoreau challenged himself to live deliberately. Life is a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death. We are all faced with choices, every day, from the moment our alarm clock first rings in the morning. To do or not, to be or not - our lives, the balance of which hangs between quiet desperation and deliberate action, unfold in those choices.

For me, and with apologies to both Thoreau and Dead Poet´s Society, I want to consciously choose to live deeply. The challenges I want to take on are not measured against others, but against myself. In the end, the race is not against anyone else. It’s against - and with - myself. I want to live deliberately. I want to seek to be the best version of myself.

And to that end, in that moment with my son, I was living deliberately. Hiking the Canyon was awesome. Hiking it with my son was beautiful. We set out with a goal, we planned, we prepared, and we met the challenges and were present with the experience.

We caught the shuttle bus, rode to our car, and then drove to get a victory burger. Ever since, as a family, we first attempted to hike the Grand Canyon, any time there has been an arduous hike, adventure, or task (rafting, kayaking, climbing, etc.), there has been a “victory burger” at the end. Our reward for a challenge accepted.

We sat in the sun and watched the crows scavenge for scraps. We enjoyed our burgers, our muscles began the long progression to relax, and we plotted the next leg of our journey - making a left at Albuquerque (HERE).