A Short Walk Across a Large Hole

I met my non-Flyer friend Alex Mittnacht over the summer/fall of 2003. We were both training for autumn marathons in Central Park and often nodded as we passed. Later, he asked what time I had run, and when I replied, he said he wanted me to train him. I was flattered. We ran Chicago in 2003, and in it he ran 2:53. We’ve been friends ever since, although he’d never persuaded me to take part in his first athletic love—ultra-marathons. I always resisted. In May 2011, I relented.

It’s only possible—or advisable—to run across one of the world’s largest holes in mid-May (the North Rim is closed to traffic before then) or mid-October, by which time the days are shortening and the weather is getting chillier.

Our equipment consisted of a small backpack with Camelbak water reservoir, beef jerky, power gels and bars, scrunched-up salt-and-vinegar potato chips and electrolytes in various guises; our training consisted of runs across the Manhattan Bridge (the Grand Canyon is taller, much taller) or walking up to one’s 40th-floor apartment via the stairs.

Switchbacks above the Colorado River

I was nervous. We had a lift to the North Kaibab Trail trailhead (it’s two miles from the Grand Canyon North Rim Lodge). We took our first step at 3:40 a.m. and did not feel a chill. The trail’s first part goes steeply down along switchbacks and ledges, so it might be a blessing that you cannot see the drop off on the other side. Almost immediately the curse of the run became apparent: Not the elevation (10,260 feet of net gain), not the heat (we were fortunate, I believe, in that the weather was very mild for that time of year at the canyon bottom) and not the distance (both ways equal 42.2 miles) but the wash boards and stones along the trails that do worthy work halting erosion. I am glad they are there, but when you have to step on, jump over or hiking-pole across, the thousands of them become near impossible barriers and add hundred of feet to what already is a fair degree of madness. I tripped on one and bloodied my hands; that could have turned out far worse, as any mishap could in this unforgiving, beautiful landscape.

The switchbacks keep on coming below the South Rim

After a mile or so we came to the first landmark, the Supai Tunnel, a short blast through the mountainside. We kept passing Koreans, a scattered group who were hiking both ways in 24 hours, their endeavor starting at 6 p.m. the previous evening. Soon dawn emerged, which comes earlier when there are no electric lights around and the moon shines off the white Kaibab limestone and yellowish Coconino sandstone (you soon become a geology marvel running this run). As soon as we got to the first water stop at Roaring Springs (an artist raised his family there for 20 years, until last year), the morning had arrived. Stripping off our cold-weather gear, we added water to our packs and gazed at a singing, male Vermilion flycatcher, a small scarlet bird that seemed plucked from an artist’s palate just for us. In all, I saw 15 species of birds as we ran, seven of them being new to me: Cassin’s vireo, Black-throated sparrow, Yellow-headed blackbird, Piñon jay, Lucy’s warbler, Grace’s warbler and Clark’s nutcracker.



Early morning: the North Kaibab Trail
winds along Bright Angel Creek

 The next stage of the run is a eight-mile stretch to Phantom Ranch that seems to be moderately downhill but in fact drops (of course it climbs on the way back) 2,540 feet. This was sensational running. Unseen, the sun had climbed over the North Rim and illuminated the South Rim pink, gold and orange, the racing Bright Angel Creek keeping you company to and beyond the impossibly gorgeous Cottonwood campground. An American dipper, a small, plump bird that keeps sentry on round rocks and then dives in and walks along river bottoms feeding on insects, popped up as if to say hello. We topped up our water. We saw a runner coming the other way and exchanged news about water stops and tough stretches of running.

At Phantom Ranch (day hikers make it as far as here if coming from the South Rim), we met another New York friend of ours, Bob Schulz, who was running to the North Rim, to return to the South Rim the next day after a night’s rest. He was running with his friend Cathy Tibbetts, who came second in this year’s Florida Double Ironman. We shared war stories, filled up an extra bladder of water, which I carried, and carried on.



Desert bighorn sheep:
We were not the only runners in this grand landscape

 A few hundred feet take you to the Colorado River. Yellow dinghies are lined up for river adventures, and a long line of mules was crossing its suspension bridge. Mule drivers do not like hikers and runners, and the feelings are mutual, but pretty soon we realised the best we could do was to merely keep up with them. We passed at one point, only to concede the right of way later on. The climb up the South Rim, the heat of the morning on your back, is 7.1 miles of sandy switchbacks, exposed gravel banks and general hell. The views, though, are incredible, the trail seemingly struggling to hang on to the red mountain, the river soon a green thread in the distance beneath us. More day-hikers came down the slopes, as we were climbing them, hiking poles in hand, praying for the next level of rock to be below us. The redwall section, the one before last, seems to go on forever; it is in fact, underneath, a blue-grey colour, the red caused by leeched oxides from the rocks above. Whatever shade it is, it forms an almost impregnable barrier. I was suffering, but we managed even to run a few sections. The name of Skeleton Point did not bode well, but Cedar Point evoked some manner of freshness. We reached the white layer, the last layer. You know this is Kaibab limestone, as there is nothing above it. After a dozen sharp switchbacks, we emerged on to the top. Half our job was done.

Bob told us that he’d left provisions for us, hidden, and we quickly found a camouflage-coloured cooler bag stocked with bananas, crisps and Gatorade. We rested for 30 minutes and talked to three runners from the San Francisco Frontrunners, who were doing what we were but taking the Bright Angel Trail back down.

This is the trail that seems to drop off in mid-air but does in fact follow

What took us 210 minutes to climb took us 90 minutes to descend. This part was fun, we engaging a lopping style similar to Death Valley coyotes as we skipped over erosion barriers, around switchback angles and past walkers, many of who recognised us from our way up. Many said we were mad, but we runners rather gain inspiration from that, don’t we?

We sped back to Phantom Ranch, finding and drinking liberally from the bladder we had hidden behind some rocks, watering a desert plant with the leftovers and watching ravens soar. We took on more water at the ranch, drank a lemonade from its small hiking shop and prepared for the gradual nine miles back to Roaring Springs.

After a mile, I began to shuffle, and then I realised that my long-stride walk was just as fast as my run. Going uphill, that stride became a walk. I could see Alex 200 yards ahead. We were both in our own worlds, but I whistled every half a mile and let him know I was okay, tired but okay.

I thought Cottonwood would never come, but eventually there it was. We saw again the solo runner we had seen in the morning, who told us going up the North Kaibab Trail was a nightmare. I told Alex that I was off to the river to dunk my lower legs in the ice-cold water, but when I was there I was unable to pull my socks off. Every time I tried, I would pull a muscle and jerk back up. I failed. I cannot do it, I said. Let’s just go. I did my fair share of moaning, not a trait I believe I am noted for. Alex asked a runner on his way to the North Rim to tell our friend who would be waiting for us that we’d be a little later, explaining that I was exhausted. He said he would but then added that his friend was worse and asked if we would do the same. Turning around, we saw his friend, lying down and seemingly not going anywhere. We did not see them again. They probably spent the night at the campsite.

I expected another two miles to Roaring Springs, but it came after a few minutes, a wonderful sight. Now all we had was the epic march up to the North Rim, back to where we had started many hours before. A waterfall crashed down the mountainside opposite. I was still able to appreciate the wondrousness of this place.

The switchbacks kept coming, but occasionally there’d be a flat section, and even though we wanted to head up, as up meant the end, it still was mileage covered, and we knew we had only four miles to cover. The three Frontrunners caught us up, but one hung back with me, equally tired. There was only an hour’s worth of light left, and we did not want to dig out our headlamps and windbreakers. It was time to force ourselves through the pain, but on one occasion three separate muscles pulled as I tried to correct the one before it. I dug my hiking poles into the ground and lent over them. Then I carried on.

The Supai Tunnel greeted us, the last landmark. 1.7 miles left. The rock turned from red to white, and that was a beautiful sight, as was the voice and then the appearance of our friend who had given us that lift in the deep of night. How long, I said. Five minutes, she replied.

Terry Baker
Happy but sore, at the North Rim—the end

Alex stopped a hundred yards from the finish and waited for me. We walked together to the trailhead sign. I even managed a smile. 42.2 miles. Victory in a non-race. A man was waiting for friends who were just behind us, finishing a one-way hike, and he applauded. He, too, had done what we had now done, several years ago, and welcomed us to a club: very few members, caution before attempting admittance.

We changed into warm clothes, downed Gatorade and ate salty potato chips. On the ride home, we saw three one-way hikers hiking back to the lodge and managed to squash them into the car. I could not imagine walking another step, so why should they? The lodge was abuzz with the recounting of adventures and the description of scenery that very few are lucky enough to experience, and certainly in both directions with the sun moving full circle.

Like marathons, this journey will be come better with hindsight, but unlike marathons, I’ll never, ever do it again. Well, most likely not.

-Terence B.