GC double cross. Or rim2rim2rim, if you prefer

I wasn't sure I wanted to write this out. It was a special experience for me in so many ways. Writing it down could reduce it to some kind of normal stature for a running trip. Just describing the canyon from standing still at the lip, holding my breath, peering down and across... words are inadequate. It's almost better to just go ahead and call it a ditch, so that by sarcasm the reader might be able understand the actual beauty and grandeur of the thing before you, the thing you can't bear to waste time trying to describe.

But writing is remembering, and a doorway to re-experiencing the things that have touched me. So, whether or not the effort is in any way complete or adequate, I think the prompt it may offer to bring the emotions, sights, sounds, and sensations back to me is the reason I want to write it down. This is bound to be long. Just warning you. I just want to set down the whole thing. This might take awhile.

I'd seen the Grand Canyon once before, with my parents and Co in 2005 I think. We hiked partway (1 mile?) down the Bright Angel Trail. I couldn't at the time really imagine trying to run down to the bottom and back up. It was hot. It was rocky. It was steep and there was mule poop to avoid. And  - it was a LONG WAY to the bottom. I saw the signs that warn against such a trip, the dangers of dehydration and fatigue, and believed them. To the heart of myself, I thought you'd have to be an excellent hiker to do something like that. Mom joked that I'd rather be running the whole thing, and I exclaimed that, no, hiking was just fine by me. I threw it out to a few friends after returning that maybe we could hike down one day, and hike up the next. It is such an extraordinary place I couldn't help but want to experience it again, and in a different way. A few were interested, but most would have rather taken the mules, especially for the way up, so the proposal fizzled and was mostly forgotten.

So a year or two ago, Bones proposed a down and up trip - in a day. Wow, I was actually able to consider this. I'd done the Leadville 100, so it seemed possible. But preparations stalled, and it got put on hold. But it never left my mind. We talked about a rim2rim2rim trip too... Some others blogged about it, and a video was taken. I couldn't shake the feeling that I had to do this run. The drive to take on the challenge kept surfacing each time I'd think about new things I'd like to do. It was on that list I have in my head of, "Who in the world DOES things like this?!?" the sense of incredibility and possibility at the same time made my pulse quicken and my smile broaden no matter where I was or what I was doing.

An off-hand email comment to Ken, and not only was he as excited as I was, but we found a date that works and made a reservation. Really? Is it that easy? I guess it is. Why wait? And the anticipation built over the intervening weeks. A self supported Rim2Rim2Rim run of the Grand Canyon. Holy cow.

We got there the night before we wanted to start in time to see the canyon... excuse me, the Canyon, in daylight. Scouting the South Kaibab trailhead, the Canyon drew me to the very edge like a fluttering uncertain moth to a flame. I felt like a kid in a candy store, peering at all the treats behind the glass counter. I wanted to press my face against the glass, so to speak, to get as close as I could to the thing I'd come here to see, to do. My heart palpitated as I looked north... and down.. and then north again. To see the whole distance laid out on that canvas directly in front of you without barriers or safety nets, it's intimidating. For once, I had no choice but to think about, to visualize the whole distance at once. It's 42 miles. I'd done that distance before. It's 10,400 in total elevation gain (and an equal amount of loss, of course) and I'd done races with that much gain before also. But I never think about or try to picture the whole distance at once. To SEE 4600 elevation loss. To SEE 21 miles over to the North Rim, hazy but visible. To know I was going to go THERE and BACK AGAIN. I couldn't take my eyes off of it. It was unbelievable that I was going to do this. That I thought I could do this. My heart didn't stop racing until I was well away (distance and time) from the edge and that view.

At the cafeteria for dinner, we spy three slightly tired looking fit people in running shoes. Turns out they had started from the north rim that morning, intending on doing R2R2R, but because they started a little late, spent a little time at the bottom at Phantom Ranch, and spent some time on the South Rim getting food, they decided not to try the return trip until the next day. I was a little amazed at their laissez faire attitude, and their willingness to waste time at each of those spots on the way out, but at least there was a room available for the night and they booked it. They assured us that we wouldn't need yak trax on the north rim (it was Nov. 11th, and they'd already gotten snow). Our own earlier scouting of the south rim assured us that the 100yds or so of trail with snow wouldn't be an issue, though it was a little slick. And they also confirmed water at cottonwood campground as well as Phantom Ranch. It was fun talking with them, and sharing the excitement of the trip. Armed with new knowledge, we set our alarms for 3:00 and hit the hay.

I resisted using my headlamp as we walked the quarter mile from the car to the trail head. Somehow, the light assaulted the quiet. The clouds kept the temperature warmer than the 35 we expected, but obscured the stars, and seemed to cloak and muffle the morning. At just about 4 on the dot, Ken and I exchanged excited glances, and I followed him down the path in the darkness. Our lights made holes in the blackness. From the day before I knew I was running through vista after vista; but now all that I could see was the red dirt path sloping steeply away from me cut across by log steps. Switchbacks appeared quickly out of nowhere, slowing us and redirecting our myopic course. I tried to picture where we might be on the landscape I'd seen the day before, but it was impossible. This was almost like I imagine caving to be. I had no sense of direction, only the sensation of running down endlessly. It felt like I was in a bubble - a few times I reached out to touch the cliff wall along side me just to reconnect to something solid. Running in the dark is a different kind of joy. It's solitude. It's close. It's the time to think of escape, full of the freedom to be or do anything. I could tell Ken was being very conservative; I kind of wanted to let loose a bit and fly. The thought of the view the day before and the intimidation I'd felt convinced me to trust his instincts and relax. Down, run-run-step, run-step, run, run, step. No rhythm. I felt like we'd been descending for hours. The descent is only ~6 miles on the S. Kaibab trail... surely we must be nearing the bottom. A grain of frustration - if the descent takes so much longer than I thought it should, what chance is there that I'll be able to "make up time" on the uphill where I'm weaker? I tried to glance at my Garmin, but can't catch a good look in the headlamp light bobbing as I run. Surely the dawn was coming? I looked for the horizon in search of a lightening bit of sky, but nothing. Finally a look at the Garmin showed the fact of our slow pace, and also reminded me to enjoy the ride, and not fixate on the small potatoes. Ken ran metronomically in front of me and I had fun matching his foot placement and watching him navigate. It was easy to imagine we were the only people awake. That thought brought the immediate burst of joy and giddiness - I was running the Grand Canyon with Ken. There was no place I'd rather be.

A tunnel carried us to the bridge, which could have been erected over an abyss of indeterminable depth in the darkness that still surrounded us. Could I finally see a little dawn? no. No, not yet. We ran along the flat trail bordering the river. When Phantom Ranch crawled out of the gloom, I realized I had no idea where, actually, the water was. I didn't know that the first building we came to, marked "Women" was a dorm not a bathroom. I was bewildered to find that door locked. What was I expecting, helpful volunteers to point the way? to pour me water? Big lighted neon signs? I laughed at myself. All was quiet, even in the middle of phantom ranch, as we filled our water and ate a little. Ken thought wistfully about a coffee, but the kitchen still looked to be closed.We found our trail to the north rim among the many paths to buildings and jogged off.

The next seven miles were along a river, barely uphill with some rollers. It was rocky now, as opposed to the (mostly red) dirt of the trail down. I really wanted dawn now. That strong want felt odd. I didn't feel that way at Leadville - what gives? I think I wanted to see what I was running through. I felt like I was missing it. I was tired of missing it. And, then I missed my footing. I went down like a hinge, hard and sudden without even time to windmill. I landed on my chin. Hard. On the bright side, I didn't skid. There was practically no broken skin, just a patch under my chin. I hadn't banged up my knees or jerked a hamstring. In fact, I felt fine. Ken, a little alarmed, insisted I sit for a bit. I didn't want to hold us up, or be a bother. Ken pointed out that striking my chin hard like that could cause a concussion. I protested, but sat for a few minutes anyway. Boy did I feel dumb - there really wasn't anything to trip over. I got up ready to go, and as I started to follow Ken again, I felt a little dizzy. (hm, guess I did hit my head a little hard.)  It passed. The sound of the river kept us company, and 20 minutes down the trail, I could start to make out the cliff face on the other side, trees up ahead, and the sky. I tried turning off my light a few times too soon, but eventually the early light was good enough and I could put away the headlamp. Time to take stock - what was it like down here? Trees lined the river. Immense cliffs and boulders narrowed the sky to a strip right above our heads, still covered in clouds. Around every corner, the rocks formed shapes and angles that caught my eye. I looked up to my right, and wondered when we'd start to climb for real. A few times I thought we'd started, only to crest a small ridge and head down the other side. We came to cottonwood camp ground, but didn't need to stop for water - we did confirm it was on, though. The river sound pleasantly kept us company. Occasionally, we'd stop and point out something unusual. We took turns leading, and the miles quickly passed under our feet. Near Roaring springs, we passed the first person we'd seen on the trail. It was amazing to think we'd had this well known, popular, highly traveled national park trail to ourselves for so long. Roaring Springs itself was full of kids, it seemed like - maybe they'd camped the night before? We hiked straight on through, stopping to chat with those that asked where we'd been. I loved the astonished looks we got when we explained we were going from the south rim, up to the north rim, and back to the south rim all in one day. Almost without fail, the other hikers we saw wanted to chat, to share what they were up to and to find out what we were doing. I haven't experienced that sense of hiking community before. And normally I don't like to chat. I like to say hello and smile, and keep moving. But here, the discussion of routes, the sharing of the day made everything seem more real. I had witnesses now. People who had seen me out there in pursuit of this exciting and hard day. Each one was a valuable part of the experience and added to the joy.

 We were well and truly on our way up now. The river dropped below us. The effort and rhythm of climbing seemed to have its own momentum and carried me along in Ken's wake. It was easy to slip inside of myself and relax. Almost like a rocking chair. My legs were working; something I could notice and appreciate like a birdsong or a warm breeze. Ken pulled me out of that trance to point out a beautiful high waterfall across the canyon. Once I'd stop to look once, I raised my head over and over again. Looking ahead, looking back. I couldn't tell exactly where we had come from that morning and kept looking for the vantage point that would show the south rim. The north rim was much different than I had expected - more like the east mountains near Albuquerque New Mexico with ponderosa pines, craggy red rock. It was larger than life, even close up. Looking up, I couldn't tell where exactly we were headed or how far it was to get there.

I wrestled the camera away from Ken to get these pictures.

We came to another bridge, unexpectedly, and this was spanning a deep chasm between canyon walls. We passed a spire connected to our path by a small saddle. The pull to see if I could climb out to the edge was only overcome because Ken was a turn ahead of me at that point. Maybe on the way down, I thought.

There was a tunnel on this rim also, and from the far side of it, I could now see what I thought might be the top edge of the rim. The gray rock face was striped - stained with black, red, and pink ribbons of color carried by runoff. Every so often, the trail would level out as it curved and carved its way along a rock face. The north rim seemed wetter. Yeah, wetter, muddy even. And then there was snow. And ice. Climbing now was more of an effort, I could feel my calves working, and I was breathing harder as we gained altitude. Every once and a while, I'd slip in the snow or ice, wasting a step. Ken climbed faster, and got further ahead. He'd stop to take a picture so I could catch up. I kept trying to step out of the way of the view, but somehow always ended up in the shot.

Soon we were entirely on snow and ice, stepping carefully and deliberately. I wrinkled my forehead wondering how that pack of three runners figured we wouldn't need yak trax coming down. Seemed treacherous to me. The snow cooled air was nice to climb through. I couldn't help but consult my watch as the top neared. We had gone through phantom ranch at a really slow time of ~1:40. Both Ken and I had tried to estimate our total time. I thought 11 hours was do-able. The Fastest Known Time for women had just been set around 9 hours, I thought adding a couple of hours was about right. Ken threw out 14 hours, which worried me. But, he rationalized, if something went wrong, we needed to plan in extra time so we'd finish before dark and have plenty of food and light. Starting at 4 AM, +14 hours, means finishing at 6 which is dusk. Still, Ken thought that 12 hours was a better estimate since we weren't racing. Which automatically made me want to do better than 12 hours whether or not I was enjoying the journey. Which I absolutely was. But Still.

It's a long way down... and across...

 As we reached the top? 5:40. So 11 hours was not likely - we had a planned lemonade stop at Phantom Ranch for the way back + accumulated fatigue. But under 12 was definitely in the picture. Tee Hee!

Hiker from Milwaukee, WI

The hiker who reached the top just behind us turned out to be from Milwaukee. Small world! He'd been back country camping for 3 days, and was happy to take our picture:

So, we grinned at each other like two kids, and turned about to retrace our steps. Wow, half way. And now, we get to see it all in reverse - and really see it, too. Not in the darkness, Well, unless something went tragically wrong.

Let's Run!

My worry about the footing on the way down wasn't realized. I slipped a few times, but no more on the way up. There were grippy parts on the snow pack, and it wasn't an issue to run carefully on them. So we descended. And once we reached the rocky packed dirt, we went faster. It felt great to run after spending so long hiking. We got to the tunnel in a flash - I couldn't believe what had taken seemingly so long to climb could be reversed so quickly. I skipped for a few steps with happiness for being in a wonderful place, for being able to run through it, for the great company, for the mountains, trees and rocks, for the gratitude of having such a trail by which to experience it all. I told Ken about the spire and the saddle I wanted to explore. I neglected to mention that I kinda wanted to scale or climb around the spire. I thought I'd just hold that in my back pocket for now. The bridge also came more quickly than I expected. The memory of Matt Hart's ultrarunning video and the runner crossing the bridge came to mind, and then I had Coldplay's Viva la Vida in my head. Don't watch that video, it'll only infect you with the desire to run all the races I want to run.

At the saddle and spire - flummoxed.

At the spire, I crossed the saddle to it, but there doesn't seem to be a great way to climb up or around it. I figured I'd save that adventure for another time. I was looking forward to running along the flattish section near the river to Phantom Ranch, and pretty eager to see the rest of the canyon. I felt buoyed by the completion of the first half, so confident and happy about the trek so far. I slowed and let Ken get a little ahead of me so I could look around a little more. On a step pretty much like all the other steps I'd taken, I felt a sharp stabbing in my right calf. Ack. I'd never felt that before, but I stopped and stretched. Ken was out of sight already. Ow, that really hurt. I stretched and massaged, but the feeling only came back whenever I stepped. Worse when I ran. Ow.

Ooops.

Ow.

Vishnu Schist! Zoroaster Granite!

Well, I thought, it was probably a calf strain or something. I can walk. Running is pretty painful; but maybe it will be better on the flat or uphill parts to come. I'm more than 1/2 down to the bottom, and 17 miles from the end. Better catch up to Ken, who hopefully is waiting somewhere (probably with the camera out). At least the view couldn't be beat! As I spotted Ken, I really hoped that whatever this was would pass and we'd be able to keep going more normally. I didn't want to crawl out of the Canyon after dark. Phooey. I told Ken the sorry news, and we walked for awhile. I enjoyed the hike as much as I could - still great company, still great views. Eventually, though, I couldn't stand it. I wanted to run the darn thing. I wanted Ken to get to run. I thought about taking an ibuprofen, and decided to wait until I got to phantom ranch. But I didn't wait to start running. It wasn't fast, by any means, but it scratched the itch. The pain dulled a bit; the calf clenched painfully every time I stepped over something - which was frequent with the logs and rocks set into the path for water diversion. Running along the river wasn't quite as free and fun as I'd expected, but it was a joy to see the things we'd passed by in darkness. My brother Fred had told me to look for certain geologic formations - the Vishnu schist cutting through the Zoroaster granite. I thought the chances I'd be able to see this were slim to none, so I was tickled to see clear examples of this. I had Ken take several pictures to send to Fred. Which I haven't actually done yet, shame on me (but here's a picture to prove I did it!). Some formations fascinated me - one looked like fins of black rock standing on edge in the grass.

Getting the chance to admire and witness huge formations, intricate formations, visible weathering - it was not too hard to put the calf pain in a box and close the lid.

That's not to say the lid stayed on, but it was ok.

At phantom ranch, we met the three runners that had spent the night on the south rim - they were taking a leisurely day getting back to the north rim and were happy to see us. (one of them is missing in this picture - probably getting his lemonade!)

I popped some ibuprofen with my lemonade, which was quite tasty! I could tell Ken was getting antsy at the ranch. Sitting down in the middle of a run and taking a load off is anathema to him, so we headed out pretty quickly. That was fine by me; in case my calf got worse on the uphill, I wanted plenty of time to hike to the top without worrying about the onset of the darkness and the cold. It was certainly stiff after the 10 or so minutes at the ranch, no need to give it more time to freeze up completely!

We jogged to the bridge spanning the colorado river. On the way, we passed a woman standing off to the side facing the river. Just standing there, not moving. And then I realized she was watching something. I looked quickly to where she is looking, and perhaps 10 yards away was a deer grazing on some leaves. Totally unconcerned that three people were mesmerized by its eating habits, it went on munching until Ken and I couldn't see it any longer.

Over and over again on the way to the top, I had the same reoccurring thought: "Wow, this is what I was passing this morning in the dark? I was here less than eight hours ago?" I really enjoyed crossing the bridge and getting a good look up and down the river. The river that you can't really see from the top. And at the bottom, there isn't the feeling of amazing expanses of space that you have at the rim. For me it felt conversely hidden, secluded, very immediate. Red and black canyon walls isolate you on the path. There is only forward and backward to consider.

As we started heading up, I insisted that Ken go ahead of me - he'd been following me since my calf starting hurting. I wasn't moving quickly, and I didn't want to feel and pressure to try and go faster. I was so pleased that I had been able to run along the river, that my calf wasn't getting worse. I actually enjoy following - to me I feel less responsibility, and less watched. I could stop as I liked to look at the view that we ran through before. I liked watching Ken hike easily ahead of me - covering the ground and avoiding obstacles and seeming relaxed, too. I aspire to that.

I was still shuffling my feet so that the best leg would go over the obstacle - I probably resembled an elementary school kid trying to figure out the hurdles. Up we went, pausing every so often and never running out of exclamations on the scenery. Some of the flatter sections we actually ran - I was surprised, but though my calf clenched, it held up.

I love scrambling onto ledges and into nooks and crannies, and this hike was no exception - when the trail ran along side a carved out cave/niche with a hole in the roof, I had to climb up into it and have a look. I was having a blast. I couldn't believe we were on the final few miles of this adventure. It was incredible, and I wanted to soak it all in. The sun finally peaked out on us in the last 3 miles, lighting up the red rocks, highlighting the crevices, weathering, and angles of the rocks and rock faces that surrounded us at every turn. Looking back, we could see the trail we had descended and now climbed threading its way down into the canyon, disappearing and reappearing around the bends in the trail. No forest here on the south rim, and the contrast from the wetter ponderosa and pinion studded couldn't be ignored. Somehow that environmental difference made the scale of our day seem even larger.

Unlike along the river, I was having to work quite a bit on this climb, even with baby-ing my calf. We passed several groups. One pair, a father and daughter I think, we had seen on the way up the north rim. They were hiking Rim2Rim that day. The father was quite over-weight (which says nothing about how much hiking experience he had) and you could tell he was working very hard on the climb. He congratulated us on making such good time on the way back and we talked about how lucky we'd gotten with the weather. It was neat to see how proud the daughter was that her father was climbing the Grand Canyon. A little farther on, we ran into a group that had come partway down S. Kaibab and now was on their way back up. Just as I was passing them, a young teenage girl fell across my path, clutching her calf and yelling in pain. The kids around her didn't seem to know what to do. I remember getting calf cramps in HS track and not knowing what the heck was going on. So I told her she had to stretch the calf out to get it to release. I showed her how to use a nearby boulder to stretch, and stayed with her until it released. She was a little bewildered at this strange woman helping her, in running gear, sweaty and everything, but she was relieved once the pain went away. I told her it'd probably happen again before the top, and just to stretch it out when it did. This made me look up, to try to figure how long we had to go to the top. How much farther? I could tell the afternoon was wearing on; my watch read after 3.

I couldn't see where the trail met the top, so I kept moving. We came to the icy parts. They hadn't bothered us much on the way down. Now, with tired muscles and poor reaction times, I was bent double trying to stay upright and keep moving forward. Ken even got a picture. So close to the top, I was still admiring the view, but my focus was on the finish. I still wanted to beat 12. I passed more people. Ken was well ahead of me at this point; the steeper pitch (it seemed like) + the ice + my calf + my fatigue meant my pace was quite slow. I knew I was on the final switchbacks, and so kept moving forward. At last, I craned my head to look up, and there was Ken, at the end of the trail. What an amazing feeling, to complete something so incredible. A group was at the top, admiring the view. They asked what we'd done, and we explained. They were astonished - then again, so was I. It's hard to believe I did that. I was elated, and grateful, and tired. It had taken us 11:46 to finish. Not 11 hours, but less than 12. It was an excellent compromise.The post run meal + wine never tasted so good.