A blast from the past - 23 August 2003 ...
Just after 9 am I was standing at South Kaibab Trailhead. It was a heady moment, culmination of three years of anticipation and planning.
In 2000 I stood here, looking down the first switchbacks and wishing I had time to explore the Grand Canyon's "alternative superhighway". That was when I knew I had to return to the Canyon.
Well, here I was. No point perching on the rim. I shouldered my pack and started down.
The first section was well maintained and I made good time, pausing only to take photographs. The trail switchbacks its way down the side of Yaki Point, then straightens out to head for O'Neill Butte. Initially I had a view east across to Mather Point, and then the trail crossed Cedar Ridge and the view faced east.
While taking a photo partway down I was overtaken by Austin and Teddy, the father-and-son pair I'd shared the taxi with. They asked me to take their photo using their camera, and I obliged.
I also paused to say hello to an old friend, or his relative. A squirrel spent a minute scurrying about my feet. There were a lot more squirrels on the trail than I saw in 2000. Perhaps the drought has driven them down to where they can scrounge occasional human leavings.
After the initial switchbacks the trail levelled out to make its way along Cedar Ridge. The view was spectacular, marred only by the appearance of drifting raincloud and distant thunder.
Cedar ridge — a drop-toilet block with a sign, "No Drinking Water Available". I didn't stop. I was on my pace now, kicking back the trail at a steady three to four kilometres per hour. I felt good. The Canyon does that for me — lifts my spirit even as it grinds down my body.
My next landmark, O'Neill Butte, approached quickly. I was skirting its flanks almost before I knew it. I stopped beneath a tree to top up my main water bottle from one of the refills.
There was a couple resting nearby, on their way out of the Canyon. She had hurt her knee, and they had decided to use South Kaibab to get out because it was shorter. They were beginning to realise it was a mistake. Still, they had done the hard part. The question now was whether they would get out before the storm broke.
Rested, I continued downhill. From the trail I watched a thunderstorm break across a spine of rock that separated two side canyons on the far side of the river, perhaps five or six kilometres away. The shadow of rain cloaking the rock flanks was split again and again by flails of lightning. It was an impressive display of violence, any sense of menace being lost through distance.
However, the Canyon was merely building up the suspense. As I moved along just below the ridgeline towards Skeleton Point, black clouds began to spill over the top of the ridge above me, accompanied by flashes ond booms. It was like watching a breaking wave. Spots of rain began to fall: large, heavy drops pregnant with threat.
I pressed on, hoping to reach Skeleton Point and get down below the ridgeline before the storm broke. I didn't make it. The rain became a torrent, and then the lightning crossed the ridge, striking down into the valley at my right. The flashes and the booms were now only about a second apart: I was passing into the heart of the storm.
Far from reaching safety, I found myself almost on the crest of the ridge, looking west into a flurry of dark clouds and lightning. Hell, this was getting bloody dangerous!
I suddenly realised that I'd neglected to wrap my pack contents in plastic bags. If the rain got in — and it would — my pack would triple in weight, not to mention the risk that water would get to the iPaq or the camera. As a stopgap I paused to pull out my umbrella — not the smartest thing to do in a thunderstorm, but I wasn't thinking too clearly at that point.
I finally reached Skeleton Point, to find three intrepid walkers hugging the path. I ditched my pack in a crevice over the way and set my umbrella to cover it, then went to sit with them.
They told me that at the first nearby flash they had simply dropped where they were. They were on their way out of the canyon and could see that there was no cover ahead of them.
Their position looked rather exposed to me, but at that moment my umbrella blew away in a gust of wind. When I went to salvage my pack and see where the umbrella had got to, I noticed that the trail bent around and down to my left, and that there was a dry alcove above the trail. It looked safer than the path and offered protection from the rain, so I clambered into it.
My umbrella had gone over the edge. I never saw it again.
About ten minutes later I heard hooves clattering up the trail below. Soon three riderless mules came out of the switchback. They were followed a few minutes later by four girls on foot, one of them leading a fourth mule. They asked how far ahead the mules were.
Apparently a bolt had struck almost beside the trail, startling the mules into dumping their riders and heading for the rim. The guide had also been dumped, but for some reason his mule was not one of those I had seen. The guide was back down the trail trying to catch his mule. He had sent the girls after the mules, apparently hoping that the animals would stop once they got over their fright.
The girls wandered up around the corner and out of sight, and just then I noticed that I had other company. The three other hikers were perched in smaller alcoves just along from me. One of them moved along to take up an empty bit of alcove next to me. I asked what had happened. He said that one bolt got so close that they actually felt a shock from it through the ground. Having seen me go around the corner and not come back, they'd decided that whatever shelter I had found must be better than where they were.
So we perched there, watching the lightning whip the flanks of the canyon. It was an awesome experience, made poignant by the knowledge that at any moment a bolt could convert us from observers into participants. Some of the booms were deafening and almost instantaeous after the flash.
The temperature was plummetting and a cold wind was starting to blow. I pulled on my jacket and felt warm enough, still being acclimatised to Melbourne's winter, but the others had nothing warm to pull on. I could hear their teeth chatter even over the roar of the rain.
More hooves sounded, and the rest of the mule train came up the switchback. The guide had recovered his mule. His charges looked as miserable as my own companions. They did not stop, but went on up and around the bend, ignoring the lightning.
Finally the sky began to lighten and the lightning bolts drew away. I gave it fifteen minutes, then gathered my gear together and headed down.
I didn't get far. Another storm came over the crest, more rain than lightning this time. Crouched in the lee of a cliff I dug out my emergency rain slick and used it to line my pack, determined that I wasn't going to let the rain hold me up any longer. But by the time I had adjusted everything and was ready for a walk in the rain, it was over. The clouds lifted and the sun shone. Figures.
The guide had ridden back down in the rain, looking for another missing mule. Some hikers told him it had sheltered with them under an outcrop. As I started downhill again, he came back up, leading his prodigal mule. (I ran into him again at Indian Garden the next day. He said he was sure the lightning would've got me. I replied that a man on a mule makes a better target, but here he was ...)
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