Grand Ascent by Jane Ruby

On the trail before sunrise, I point my headlamp at the group member in front of me. Boots crunch and pole tips clunk on the firm pebble-laden creek trail. We hike at a moderate pace to the Silver Bridge that crosses the Colorado River. My muscles appreciate the two layers of clothes I’m wearing

Hiking over four thousand feet and nine miles sounds easy, especially with mule porter service. I carry only food, clothing, and water needed for the journey.

A Winter ascent, poses a few problems:

Phantom Ranch temperature is 28°F, and Rim temperature is forecast to reach only 10°F, so we need to pack extra layers of clothes.

The Rim has six to twelve inches of snow, so our boots need an extra layer of socks and crampons for the last few miles of ascent.

The only source of water is at Indian Gardens—halfway up the Bright Angel Trail. Other water stations are shut down, so we need to manage our water intake.

The night before we leave Phantom Ranch, we organize our packs. I can’t decide what to carry and what to pack for the mule. I lose sleep wondering if I had made the right choices. Finally falling asleep, the 5:30 alarm sounds! I dress, strap on my pack, switch on my headlamp, and carry my duffle bag to the mule-staging area. I stress when handing over my extra granola bars, electrolyte powder, and battery packs. What if an avalanche blocks the trail, and I run out of provisions? I pray my pack jammed with water, energy bars, and Antarctic gear can sustain me.

Crossing to the south bank, we kick through the deep sand of The River Trail. The resistance gets my heart pumping, but I’m used to it. We make good time reaching the River Resthouse. The sky lightens, and although the trail lies in shadows, I pack away my headlamp. The trail to Indian Gardens steepens, but I can maintain a good pace. So glad I had trained for this event!

We cross a few running creeks—pleased with my waterproof boots! At Indian Gardens, my thermometer reports a ten-degree drop, but I feel toasty enough to stop and munch on an energy bar. A hand-written sign on the water spigot urges users to keep it open to prevent freezing. Useful advice—keep moving to avoid freezing and, more importantly, be less of a target for avalanches!

Ascending the next three thousand feet, the canyon hues transform from earthen to glacial. At the Three-Mile Resthouse, my thermometer reads fifteen degrees, yet I don’t feel a need to add extra clothing. Our guide advises us to put on crampons. Greater inclines, deeper snow, and thinner air cause my stride to shorten and my lungs to heave. Got to keep moving!

I feel nature calling at the Mile-and-a-Half Resthouse. Climbing the steep steps to the restroom, I haphazardly drop my poles, backpack and gloves behind me. Inside the stall, I sit on the commode, my bare bottom getting an exhilarating shot of air from underneath! Fear of avalanche and death fall with my bodily fluids into the dark void beneath me. Wish I could sit forever! But an avalanche could happen anytime—and I don’t want to be here when it does!


For the last mile, our group thins out as their paces vary. Being in the “fast” group, I plod through the shin-high snow. Two of my group members—from Flagstaff and having Sherpa lungs—sprint ahead to photograph my momentous first-ever ascent to the Rim. To me it feels more like summiting Mount Everest, my lungs burning and muscles cramping. I suck for water from my water tube, but it is frozen! Seeing my difficulty, the two Sherpas descend, throw off their gloves and massage my water tube. The ice melts, and I am able to re-hydrate. My muscle cramps dissipate!

Reaching the lower tunnel, my new best Sherpa friends ask me to pose for a photo. I decline, not wanting to stop my torrid shuffle. Besides, frozen frothy nostrils can’t be too photogenic. At the upper tunnel—less than half a mile from the Rim—I agree to stop and de-ice my face for a photo.

Fifty yards from the Rim, my Sherpa friends let me and another rookie finish first. I burst for the trailhead sign. A ten-degree breeze hits my face, but doesn’t stop me from smiling. I drop my poles and embrace my fellow rookie. Elated, we cheer each other. We turn to thank our Sherpas, but they’re already loping down the trail to the slower group members—like it’s another day at the office. I have deep respect for these pulmonary protagonists.

The trailhead area is empty except for two Italian tourists. Knowing little English they still sense our victory and offer to take photos with our cell phones and cameras. We linger for a short time, but our tour guide urges us to retrieve our duffle bags at the mule barn. Duffle bags—who needs ‘em?

from Arizona Authors Association http://ift.tt/2amyuKd
via IFTTT