Sunday afternoon, June 11, 1978 — Grand Canyon National Park
We were making our way down the Bright Angel trail, heading to Indian Garden Campground before we lost the afternoon light. No gear besides small woven rugs wrapping snacks and makeshift water bottles — barely sufficient for three teenage boys. The descent was easy, exhilarating.
Our family had spent the previous week working with a small church that served the Navajo people, and had arrived at Mather Campground that afternoon. A trip to the camp store turned into a hurried planning session once we discovered there were openings at the campsite halfway down the canyon wall. Of course we should make the trip — what else could we do.
We dropped our meager supplies on an old wooden picnic table, grabbed our sole flashlight, and hurried out to Plateau Point to watch the sun set over the inner canyon. Knowing we would be up by four to finish the descent and then return to the rim by the end of the day, we bedded down in the warm night air.
Sometime after midnight, just after the moon set, a rustle in the brush woke all three of us. The flashlight clicked on — a skunk had found our bag of fig newtons. He scurried back into the brush, and we tossed the open bag into the dark as a sacrifice with a plea to leave us be. We spent the remainder of the night sleeping on the picnic table.
We Bought a Bag of Ice
When the pre-dawn light filtered into the canyon, we rolled up our few supplies, filled our water jugs, and headed down the trail. By the time we arrived at Phantom Ranch, we realized we had nowhere near enough water for the trip back to the plateau. There were water stops on the upper half of the Bright Angel, but none between the ranch and Indian Garden. We waited until seven, when the camp store opened, and bought a bag of ice — figuring we could drink it as it melted.
On the way back to the plateau, we saw hikers going up whom we had passed earlier that morning on our way down. The ice bag was nearly empty by the time we arrived. From there on out, we could rely on the water stations along the canyon wall.
The canyon wall. Hot. Dry. Dusty. The desert summer sun baking the trail for five miles and 3,000 feet of elevation. Much more than we had bargained for.
A kind hiker on his way down shared some salt tablets with us at one of the water stations. My brothers led the way, but at the last station I waved them on so I could rest a little longer in the shade.
By late afternoon I walked out onto the rim — exhausted, partially dehydrated — and made the final mile-and-a-half to join them at Mather.
Twenty-Five Years Later
In July of 2003, I had the privilege of another hike to the bottom, this time with my own teenage son. A little better prepared. No less exhausted.
This story went out to my Trail Notes readers first. Every couple of weeks I send one more from the trail, the page, and the porch — and they get it long before it ever lands here. Join the list →
