In. Out.

We got out of the car that morning, and saw the signs saying "DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HIKE IN AND OUT OF THE CANYON IN ONE DAY". I was traveling around Arizona and New Mexico with my brother John, dad Bob, and his wife Jan. Bob and Jan began making plans, settling on a lodge halfway down as the turnaround point.
Standing apart, i knew their plans would be no part of my day.
People talk about the Grand Canyon in visual terms, but it didn't affect me visually. As i looked out, i experienced the startling realization that i had gone through a transformation, of a sort that most probably never go through. I had altered the very nature of the way in which i process reality.
For most of my young life, intellectuality had been the filter through which all of my perceptions flowed. I had realized this about myself a few years before, and had been trying ever since to find out whether i could disconnect that filter, or replace it with another.
As i stood at the rim, i was stunned to find out that i'd succeeded.
My reaction wasn't visual, and it most definitely wasn't intellectual. It was visceral. In the deepest parts of my being, i felt a vibration. I could feel myself running and bounding and hurling over and through what lay before me. I almost felt no separation between myself and my imminent interaction with the rock and air and dirt.
I told them i'd be going all the way down. I looked to John and nodded, expecting him to follow my lead. But he demurred, as Bob and Jan attempted to dissuade me. I quieted their protests with the argument that the warning was geared toward the average hiker. No, less than the average hiker. The average tourist.
I had never been to the Canyon before, and didn't know when i might be again.
Not in one day?
I only had one day.
Party on, earthlings.
As we collected our packs, i gave John one last inviting look, and set off. I had plenty of water, and some trail mix. My main body of food was leftover pizza. Not the most healthful, but sustenance was all i would need, and sustenance it was.
I stood at the top of Bright Angel Trail. Another sign revealed that the temperature at the bottom was fifteen degrees hotter than up top. It was August. 105 degrees at the rim.
I plunged down, occasionally running and bounding. The winding path switched back and forth. The angle wasn't steep, i don't think i needed my hands all day. It was seven miles to the bottom. I passed dozens of groups of hikers, who gave me smiles as i breezed along. I smiled my love right back. I passed a couple burro caravans. Before i knew it, i was at the half-way point, where the trail branched off to the lodge where the rest of my party was headed. If time allowed, i might check it out on the way up.
A couple hundred yards further down, i met a solitary hiker who was struggling. She was in good spirits, but her body was taxed. She had camped at the bottom, and awoken early to get back to the top. Her friends had passed her coming up. I gave her some of my trail mix, and took her wobbly body by the arm. I didn't think about how this detour might affect my own day, i was just happy to be there. We slowly made our way, talking about this and that. She was a sweetheart. As we approached the trail fork, her concerned friends appeared. I turned her over to them, and resumed my trek.
On the lower half of the trail, the topography became surreal. The colors of the rocks, the shapes of the plants...it was like i was walking into an alien planet. I took pictures.
There were far fewer humans now, just a couple scattered parties coming up. The solitude contributed to the sense of alienness.
As i bottomed out onto the canyon floor, i saw a few people near smaller lodges where overnight hikers stayed. I kept on.
Standing at the edge of the Colorado, was a moment of such beauty. Such serenity. Then i gamboled about like the monkey i was, letting out whoops and caws, in the futile hope that my party above might hear.
Would you like to know what 120 degrees feels like?
Not much different than 90, actually.
It feels great.
There was a sign by the water's edge: INFECTED RIVER, DO NOT DRINK OR SWIM. The swollen waters rushed past. Anything caught in the current would be out of sight quickly.
I laughed.
I took off my shirt and footwear, and cavorted some more.
I returned to the edge. In that moment of living, there was only one choice.
I grabbed the rocks, and lowered myself in. Soooo cold and beautiful. Holding on tightly, i submerged and pushed myself down to the full extension of my arms. The pull of the current was awesome, lifting me almost horizontal. I stayed in that moment an eternity or so, then hauled myself back into the world. Pulling up onto the rocks above me, my joyful shouts echoed into the universe.
I took a picture of myself.
It was mid-day. I prepared my Canyon lunch.
And discovered that my pizza was essentially inedible. I had wrapped each slice in some sort of paper. The intense heat had congealed the paper and food so as to be inextricable. I nibbled at it, getting a bite or two.
I finished my trail mix and drank some water, which i still had plenty of. A bit undernourished, but all i had to do was get out of the Canyon. I filled one of my empty bottles with river water, as a souvenir. Knowing the stakes had been raised, i cut short my leisure, and moved out. The people at the lower lodges were gone, probably along the canyon floor.
I made good time, in the afternoon sun. When i got to the halfway point i was feeling fine, so i pressed on.
Within an hour, fatigue slowed my steps. In the hour after that, dozens and dozens of people i had passed earlier going down, passed me on the way up. Though i was wearying, i was alert and making progress, so i smiled and chatted with them.
I was soon stopping every one hundred feet.
Then every fifty.
Then every thirty. The breaks were getting longer.
I suddenly knew that getting out wasn't going to be a stroll.
Twenty feet.
When i only made ten on my next attempt, i was coherent enough to laugh at myself.
My earlier breaks had been standing or sitting. This time, i lay down. Closing my eyes felt so good. I couldn't see the top, so i didn't know how much further i had to go. I knew if i took one really long rest, i'd be fine.
Most of the hikers were now above me. One of them stopped, and sat with me.
Do you know the difference between heat stroke and heat exhaustion?
I do...now.
My new friend was a minister from Ohio. I had lived in Ohio as a child. He was youthful and energetic, an all-around sweet fellow.
Heat stroke (i later learned) can kill you. Heat exhaustion is nothing you want either, but you can recover quickly enough, without medical help.
My companion talked as i lay prone. He had food, but when it came near my lips, a feeling of revulsion came over me, and my mouth wouldn't let it in.
There's a quick way to know whether someone is suffering from heat stroke or heat exhaustion. If they're pale, it's exhaustion. If they're red-faced, it's stroke.
My buddy, who didn't know these things either, told me how white i was.
He wasn't sure i'd be able to get back up, so he was talking about contingencies. Hopefully someone else would come along to wait with me, while he headed up, to get some kind of rescue going.
I told him i'd be okay. Down, but not out.
After fifteen minutes, i said i might, maybe just might, be able to get something in my mouth, something very light and pure. He went through his inventory, finally coming across a Jolly Rancher hard candy stick. You know, the thin kind, maybe 1"x4"? I said, "Gimme".
But my lips sealed when i brought it close. For five minutes, i held that stick close to my mouth, and was finally able to open a little. A couple minutes later, i was able to touch my tongue. A few minutes later, i was able to leave it there for a few seconds.
The best candy of my life.
Within five minutes, i was actively sucking, and sitting up.
Then i was on my feet.
The shadows were now both friend and enemy. They were lengthening, providing respite from the sun...but this also meant that nightfall was coming. It would get cold, and we might lose the trail.
It was time to go.
I made it a good thirty feet before stopping. After a rest, i did fifty more. A man of god, and a Jolly Rancher.
The shadows kept lengthening. We moved on.
And as the last rays of the day disappeared, we saw the lights of the top, a couple hundred yards away. Before long, someone approached us, to ask whether i was okay. Word had gotten to the top that a hiker was struggling. I smiled, and nodded.
I've always wanted to calculate how many calories i burned that day, compared to how many i consumed. One average breakfast, one modest bag of trail mix, against fourteen miles down and up a one-mile deep canyon, in an average temperature of 110 degrees.
The coolness of the air was nice, now that it was no longer ominous. As we neared the parking lot, my friend gave me his card, and told me to stop by if i was ever in his neck of the woods. We shook hands, and shared a look that had more meaning than any words we could have said.
As he moved off, John and Bob and Jan spotted me. They had heard about a hiker in trouble, but couldn't know whether it was me. I was a little out of it, but i smiled, hugged them, and an hour later, tummy full and a smile on my face, i fell asleep in the car as we headed to our next destination.
In and out.
One day.
One contented fool, motoring out under my own power.