Grand Canyon Double Crossing

On Friday, March 27, Chris and I did the double crossing of the Big Ditch, 45 miles and a bunch of elevation gain & loss. Hereafter is the newbie's R2R2R report, in Chris-Speak:

The carburetor had been flushed, working with a stronger fuel to oxygen blend, the training wheels were put aside, we’d taken a couple practice laps to test out the refurbished machinery, so it seemed only fitting to see what the parts would do on a real course – Rim2Rim2Rim. Question was, would the existing parts work well enough with the overhauled to call the day (OK, dark2dark trek, with the larger question being how much darkness on the back end) a success? With some parts somewhat in doubt – hey, at 60, one doesn’t take THAT much for granted, and while I’m too far removed from Methuselah’s 900+ years (how DID he feel at 759, anyway?), relativity of truth plays strongly when one pursues optimism – Sue and I separately guessed 18-20 hours not beyond reasonable expectations. Personally, I was dreaming of 13 hours, just to surprise the hell out of myself. No surprises, of course, but what dream doesn’t come without ‘em?
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Checking in at Bright Angel lodge the night before, the only doofus in shorts and Hawaiian shirt – weather forecast posted on the wall: high of 42, low of mid-20’s – blended in like a mauve ballroom gown amid an NRA convention of cami gun-toters. Sue commented later that REI could make a bundle, even with sacrificing 25 cents on the dollar for location rights, selling to the assembled throngs just itching to prove that hiking fashion does equate to trail savvy and survivability. Me, I had my 15 year old bladder vest (tan) that snapped at both sides (making the wearing of same at least a 5 person negotiation of manipulating fingers); almost matching rust Patagucci wool undershirt, the sleeves of which garbled around my wrist like the neck of a shar-pei, but proved oh-so soft when wiping my nose during the trek; lime green Patagucci silkweight LS shirt that screamed to any lurking mountain lion “don’t risk it, hot rod, you’ll only get gut-wrenching indigestion!”; sky-bluish base color, yellowish and red striped 20 year old New Balance running tights, the elastic of which had long ago passed its prime (see Methuselah above), with the drawstring about as useful as four handles on a shot glass, but provided ample opportunity throughout the next day for getting upper body work hitching the fabric back over my progressively more achingly stretched-out butt cheeks.
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So, in bed too late (after surfing TV channels that looked like a random progression – how does C-Span precede ABC when starting from “2,” when at home they’re at least 75 channels apart?), up too damn early (“it’s happy hour somewhere” didn’t quite cut it as logic pattern), it’s butt cold outside, room service forgot to bring our freshly brewed coffee and poached eggs on whole wheat toast. What an outrage!! Good news was, we could blitz from the lodge to S. Kaibab trail without even slowing down for each stop sign along the way. Woo-HOO!! what mavericks!! OK, the “run”… Dark when we started, ahead of the mules (likely enjoying their coffee in bed…), made it down to the potties just in time for a deposit (ain’t it weird how the soft rush of air from below almost soothes and ignores the other wafting from that nether darkness?), then continuing down under a starlit sky that refused to relinquish space for the sun. But push in it did, and the visually higher horizon broke into a dimly gray horizontal pencil line. Later, about 15 minutes from the river, we pocketed our lights, and cruised (cruised?) into Phantom Ranch with only a handful of overnight guests showing some sign of life (they, too, thrilling over freshly brewed coffee delivered to each tent flap – they and the mules just tick me off!!). Not having had the pleasure of poached eggs, we instead savored the unlikely but most welcome flavor of previous-day-cooked 3 cheese tortellini and vegetable potstickers. Yum-O!! (Truly, they were, and Sue’s brainchild culinary creativity just set a new standard for on-trail delights.) Pack the cold temp clothes, fill up with water, and we’re off up the canyon, first through the tight walls and four bridges of The Box, the canyon soon widening as we approached Ribbon Falls. (From Phantom, aside from 3 people at Cottonwood campground, we saw not a soul again until below Cottonwood on our return trip from the North Rim. Oh, such delicious solitude!!)
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I’d purposely not asked Sue about how much time we were consuming, relying mostly on the slowly rising sun to gauge relative progress. As long as the yellow ball stayed hidden behind high walls, I presumed we were still early in the day. Our general target – again, separately anticipated but not yet vocalized – was 3:30 back to Phantom, where we could at least decide then on whether or not to enjoy a beer, rather than have the decision made for us because the camp host had to retreat to the kitchen to prepare for the next morning’s menu of poached eggs on whole wheat toast and freshly brewed coffee… Fortunately, that deadline seemed many hours away, so we continued our rubber-necking-to-take-it-all-in ambling up the now long, shallow canyon.
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From the South Rim looking into the Bright Angel canyon – see, I’m confused, too, cuz I thought Bright Angel was only on the South Rim, not the whole length of visual territory on the other side behind Phantom Ranch – I’d always assumed one just continued straight up that long chute until one gradually ascended to the rim. Which one can do, though one is no longer on the named North Kaibab Trail. Amazing what a detailed, dotted trail map reveals. So, we hang a left across a bridge onto Roaring Spring Canyon and the North Kaibab Trail; take another short break to grab more water; then about 10 minutes later turn a broader corner to view water gushing out of the side of the mountain. From across the canyon, it certainly looked like some dudes had corked the mountain and framed their work in blending color concrete. The trail placard only told us what rock formations we were transitioning through, not why water was spewing from the rock wall a thousand feet up and cascading toward the canyon floor. So, where’s this nifty Roaring Springs, huh? That question unanswered, we continued, let’s see… oh, yes, up, but now on trail much narrower and showing off near vertical drops farther down than I cared to hang my head over the edge to gauge and wheeze about.
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Of course, as with any other Big Ditch hiking in the vertical, the millennial formations only continued to fascinate. Some rock carved (as John McPhee wrote, though certainly not his words alone, by “wind and water…”) horizontally, some more vertically, much twisted, most in varying hues of the same base, each layer begrudgingly yielding its personality to the kid next door. A couple spots where last night’s freeze draped icicles over ledges, the warming day scurrying water below the icy shield, clear drops arcing earthward in the light breeze, splattering on ice-laced rocks inviting an unwary step. We skirted wide around one ice fall, and hugged the wall as we inched behind another farther up (that same one reduced to mere water when we passed that spot in early afternoon’s direct sunlight). Images such as these bombarding us; or rather, we discovering them for every 1/10th of a mile consumed by our shoes.

As we neared the North Rim, shaded areas revealed lingering snow mounds, yielding previous hikers’ footsteps. At the Rim itself, snow spread equably around us. We gathered in the glistening, posed for our self-portrait, and began our descent to the canyon floor, in this reverse direction continuing to unveil still more wondrous natural sculpting. One diversion on the return – we ventured toward Ribbon Falls, to avoid that silly (and pointless) up and down on the main trail, which resulted in having to cross the Bright Angel Creek at just shy of knee depth. Thank you, Drymax Bob, for a product that let me ignore my feet for several more miles, despite the creek soaking!!
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We missed beer call at Phantom, and we weren’t even that close. (They were probably down to just Bud Light anyway…) So, finishing off the last of the potstickers and chasing with a Snickers – can you imagine drinking a beer with that combo? – we pushed onward, thinking we were racing sunlight that really didn’t give a flying burrito about our progress. But by moving determinedly, the slowly fading light still yielded an evening’s soft view of Garden Creek’s Spring growth, most noticeably red bud trees exploding their blossoms before the green of their leaves. Breath taking, simply breath taking.

One last fill up at Indian Garden, a few campers to ignore, a few deer to greet as we exited the camp, and we stretched toward the South Rim, making it about half a mile shy of the 1.5 Mile mark before finally, reluctantly donning headlamps. These beaming light different eyes returned yet another set farther up the trail. Between flat rocks of a manmade wall, two tiny, almost pinpoint eyes mirrored our lights. Pausing only to say “Hi, Herb, give our best to the wife and kids…” we tried to increase our tempo to reach the Rim, a couple lights from above signaling our proximity to the Finish Line.
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Once cresting, we excitedly, tho almost totally drained, walked to our cabin less than a football field distance away. Opening the door and feeling the room’s warmth, sandstone powder shoes were the first to dirty the floor, other clothes soon piling in a corner as we now focused on our primary target, this one finding voice early in the day – shower, put on clean clothes, and get to the bar to get a burger before the kitchen closed. Sitting in the bar, while some crusty baby boomer with reverse beret and gray beard entertained himself as cover for entertaining a handful of non-REI-gear-glittered patrons sat nearby, we savored our beer, found the burger adequate for the occasion, and high fived each other more than a couple times. Yeah, I think Methuselah probably did feel OK at 759…