Sheep Mountain Spring
to Sowats Point
Day 7 – Friday, May 13, 2016
5:30 am – 12:45 pm
5 Miles
Elevation Gain: 2,200
Last night I have a bad dream and wake up with a shout. Startled, Nancy screams – although she doesn’t remember screaming – and Haley said something like, “Holy Mother of God, you scared me.” No idea what the dream is about but it is obviously very powerful.
Day 7, magical day 7 – the day we get out of the canyon, the day we stop carrying heavy weight, the day we stop hiking, the day we get to use a toilet, sleep in a bed and sit in a chair. Two hard days in a row – today is 5 miles of walking under a hot sun and climbing 2,200 feet on tired legs, with a mile and a half of steep up with few switchbacks. I have been thinking about this day, seriously wondering if I’m going to make it out without collapsing, if I’ll be unable to stand up and continue. I imagine the shame and fear of having to be airlifted out by helicopter, especially if the reason is because I’m too weak to move anymore, without an injury or heat stroke to make it feel a little more legitimate.
I share my concern with Nancy and she echoes it back. We’re both worried, anxious and determined to give these last five miles our utmost effort.
Last night Stefan had suggested we get up early, at 4:00 am, in order to beat the worst of the heat while climbing up that last steep pitch. We all agree heartily. At 4:00 am Stefan calls out that hot drinks are ready and we worm our way out of that tent for the last time. My legs are tired from yesterday’s long hike, but not in pain. That’s encouraging. I shuffle about, dress, eat my last oatmeal breakfast, drink my last cup of instant coffee with powdered creamer, and pack my backpack as fast as I can. The sky is still dark, with only a hint of dawn beginning to dim the stars. We move about the camp with headlamps flashing – strange halogen eyeballs in the middle of our foreheads. Breakfast done, everything picked up, the sun showing off the first color of morning, the area policed one last time, and at 5:30 am we’re off, hiking Jump-Up canyon toward the rim, going home.
The first mile and a half we walk in the creek bed, the same sketchy footing we’ve been trekking over for the last 6 days. It’s easy walking, without much elevation gain, until we reach the section that begins with a series of huge steps carved out of the side of the redwall leading up to the Esplanade. My legs feel okay, not great, but okay. I’m hiking slowly, pacing myself, pulling up the rear, and stopping every so often to take pictures of the sun rising over the canyon walls and moving more firmly into mid-morning. It’s a relief to reach the Esplanade where there is actually a trail that’s relatively flat. The problem is that it seems to go on and on and at one point we miss a cairn and walk a tenth of a mile off the trail. I feel the strangeness of the surrounding area a few seconds before Stefan stops and realizes we’re no longer on the trail.
The second milestone is reaching the copse of Cottonwood trees where we rested on our way down 6 days ago. It’s maybe 10:30 am and as we enter the shade, we meet a couple of older gentlemen who are heading down Canyon. They’re friendly, asking Stefan questions about the trails and the hiking conditions. I sit on a rock with my bruised butt screaming and eat an energy bar. Anyway, I drink water…having run out of the lemon-lime electrolyte tablets the day before. I am mostly silent, and since I’m facing the steepest part of the hike, I’m thinking about the last push. I feel tired and yet I know I have some strength left in my legs. I hope I have enough. At least I’m not feeling sick or suffering from cramps. Small blessings. We rest for what feels like a long time. I finally have to stand up, my butt hurt so much, and start restlessly pacing around under the shade of the trees, half listening to Stefan talking with the two hikers. I drench my long sleeved shirt with some extra water and put it on for the hike up, hoping it will keep me cool.
Finally Stefan suggests that Nancy and I start out since we’re both ready and he knows the steep section is going to kick our butts. So off we go, and it isn’t long before we reach the steep section and begin climbing. As I climb, my steps come more slowly. I’m breathing like a freight train, sucking air in and out. Breathing like that starts to mess with my positive mental attitude. I let it mess with me. Climbing is hard…really hard. It’s hot. I’m tired. And I am done.
Nancy and I hike together for a while. Then she moves ahead, and although there’s a little physical distance between us, I feel her supportive presence helping calm my breathing, soothing my anxiety, and keep me walking.
We haven’t been hiking long before I begin feeling intestinal cramps and tell Nancy I have to stop and take a shit. Of all times… I urge her to keep going, not to wait, to use her strength to make more headway. I pull off the trail, take off my pack and squat on the steep hillside, praying the cramps will stop and I’ll be able to deal with my situation quickly. But no, it isn’t quick and as I squat I’m becoming even more exhausted. I can see Haley and Stefan closing in on me so I give up, pull up my shorts, put on my pack, and start climbing again.
Haley catches up to me and passes by, her 20-year old strength and huge motivation to get out moving her by quickly. She’s out of sight before I manage to climb another tenth of a mile. Nancy is also ahead, going in and out of sight as the trail twists and turns. I look up to see her when I stop to breathe. Stefan is behind me, encouraging me, but I feel his presence as pressure to push harder. I want to walk quicker, but I can’t. I’m breathing rapidly, taking fast, shallow breaths, and I have to stop every minute or so to rest and slow my breathing to a more manageable level.
Finally Stefan suggests that I walk more slowly, try to keep my breathing under control, and increase the time between stopping and starting. He says that stopping and starting every 30-60 seconds is sapping me more than a slower pace and less spasmodic breathing will do. I slow down and am able to continue walking for longer between rests. I imagine I am somewhere in the Himalayas, dealing with the lack of oxygen, moving at a high altitude pace, and feeling even more sure that I never want to climb at high elevations. On I go, trudging and resting, trudging and resting, with Stefan whispering encouragement at my heels.
We finally catch up to Nancy and I ask Stefan to move on ahead. I’ll stay with Nancy and we will hike the last part at our own speed. As he moves out of earshot, Nancy and I look at each other and I think we’re both shocked at the suffering we see in each other’s faces. We talk softly, encouraging, commiserating, and begin moving upward. As I plod forward I realize that I never want to work this hard physically ever again, that I have nothing to prove to anyone else or to myself, and that I have done enough hard pushing in my life. I’m glad to reach that decision and sharing it with Nancy makes it even more real. Sharing it gives me permission to acknowledge how difficult this moment feels, and that I will never put myself in this place again.
We finally reach the section of the trail that’s less steep, rolling along the edge of the canyon walls as we come closer to not having a wall of rock hindering our view. I finally see sky in front of me instead of above me. I know we are close. Tears form and I hug Nancy, finally letting it in that we’re going to make it. As we near the trailhead we meet Stefan talking to a hiker who’s starting down. Haley is nowhere to be seen. We crest the rim and I let go of all the anxiety and stress of the last seven days. It pours out of me like liquid and my body feels like I’m floating when I take the pack off for the last time. I’m coughing a lot and suddenly realize what I’m feeling… This is how I felt years ago when I suffered from exercise induced asthma. Wow, the 7,000 feet of elevation and the exertion of climbing has triggered the asthma and I hack away, hoping the tightness in my chest will ease up now that I have finally stopped moving.
I have already downed an ice cold bottle of Gatorade when I become aware that my body is finally ready for that bowel movement. I move off and rid myself of the waste. It feels so good. Letting it all go. I am “home”. I did it. My 61 year old body that has seen a lot of climbing and a lot of hard, physical work in her life, has made it. I’m proud and yet there lingers in my thoughts the feeling of at what cost? This adventure has challenged me in every imaginable way, and my emotions run the gamut of pure joy to sadness to shame. I’m done pushing myself this hard, finished with strenuous hikes, and I don’t want to return to the Grand Canyon for a long, long time…if ever.