Grand experience had shades of two worlds

A hike through the Grand Canyon is a trek backwards in time.

It is a test of endurance, a lesson in ecology and a tribute to evolution.

To me, it was the adventure of a lifetime.

My wife first proposed the idea last Christmas. She wanted to backpack from the north rim to the south -- 30 strenuous miles and 9,000 feet of winding switchbacks and elevation change.

It seemed daunting. Even after months of training, it was. But over four splendid September days, it went off without a hitch.

If there is one thing we learned, it is that there are actually two Grand Canyons.

At the commercialized rim, there are gift shops, tour buses and baby strollers. It is the Grand Canyon of Wal-Mart shoppers.

Far below, in a different world, lies the Grand Canyon of John Wesley Powell, whose 1869 expedition unveiled the area to the rest of the world.

We wanted a taste of both.

After a long, pre-dawn drive through Arizona's Kaibab Plateau, we found ourselves shivering in the damp, mountain air of the canyon's rugged North Rim.

Our guides, Brian and Bob, gave our party of seven some last-minute instructions. Food was divided up and bulging backpacks were strapped on.

The first day of a rim-to-rim hike is the toughest. The downhill pounding takes a toll on the knees and can blister the feet.

"We will go slowly," Brian told us. "You have to drink lots of water, too."

The descent took eight hours, with lots of stops. The trails were narrow, with steep cliffs and magnificent views. Potty breaks were a challenge to the girls. Mules always have the right of way.

In all, the climb down took us through 12 separate geologic layers going back 1.6 billion years. As we descended through each layer, the dust of different epochs changed our boots and clothing from brown to pink to blue.

We had lunch on a ledge of pink granite -- and refilled water bottles at a spring surrounded by fossilized sea creatures that swam 260 million years ago.

In the canyon, deeper means warmer. Heat exhaustion, Brian told us, is the No. 1 cause of evacuations. Eating salty foods and drinking water, he added, was the No. 1 way to survive.

Like newborns, we were fed every two hours, when Bob produced gallon bags stuffed with Payday bars, Lance crackers and other salty snacks.

We made our first camp at a primitive site called Cottonwood. My wife, Tammi, had planned to stay up and play cards; instead, we were all asleep by 7 p.m. We had descended 5,500 feet.

The second day was simpler: we hiked a meandering path along Bright Angel Creek with only minimal elevation change.

There is nothing redundant in the Grand Canyon. Each picturesque view is different, and each sculpted mountain changes color as the sun moves across the sky.

We photographed mule deer and I wished for a flyrod as we watched fat rainbows finning in the clear stream. We cooled off in waterfalls and examined Indian arrowheads and pottery shards strewn along rocky ledges.

For a National Park that lures 5 million visitors a year, the bottom of the canyon was remarkably empty.

Brian offered aid to a heat-stricken hiker who could not return to the rim.

"Some people never learn, and don't prepare," he said.

We followed the remnants of a trans-canyon telegraph line built in the 1920s and picked our way through "the box," a narrow, superheated pass of angular black stone known for its baking midday temperatures.

By the second evening, we were at Phantom Ranch, a small camp at the base of the canyon. We got our first glimpse of the Colorado River and dangled our sore feet into the icy water.

At the time we arrived -- late afternoon -- the camp thermometer measured 138 degrees in the sun. In the shade, it was only 112 degrees. It was an "ah ha" moment. We posed for pictures with the thermometer. We stayed up late -- past 8 p.m. We saw our first tarantula -- and photographed a ring-tailed cat. A skunk blocked my path to the restroom.

The climb upward began the next morning as we crossed a footbridge over the Colorado River. During the night, the water changed from clear and green to muddy and brown -- perhaps from a landslide or flash flood upstream. It was a reminder that the canyon is alive and ever changing, even after millions of years.

The day's climb would take us up about 1,500 feet and through a rugged, steep series of paths known as "Devil's Corkscrew." There was also a place known as "Heart Attack Hill." No one asked why it had such a name.

Our third night was spent at Indian Gardens, a fertile oasis of cottonwood trees irrigated by springs. We took a side hike out to Plateau Point, a postcard-perfect place to have dinner and watch the sun slide beneath the mountains. The two-mile walk back to camp was in total darkness. We wore headlamps and must have been visible for many miles. From our open tents, we could see the distant twinkling lights of the South Rim a few thousand feet above us.

Our final climb on our fourth day was a reluctant one, although the girls were all eager for a shower (OK, maybe I was, too).

The ascent was steep, but there were water stations and rest areas every mile or two. As we made our way closer to the South Rim, we passed more and more hikers.

Most were day walkers with canteens and running shoes. Several were sunburned and sick, even after walking only a few miles. A thermometer at one of the rest stops proclaimed, "This is your brain on sun" and warned against trying to travel too far.

Other hikers stared at us. Some gave us a thumbs-up. We felt like superstars. Unshaven, covered in dust and hauling huge backpacks, we obviously had ascended from "down there" and we were damn proud of it. As we popped up, single file, at the trailhead, amid the bustle of the South Rim village, we were giddy. We cheered, hugged and shared tears of accomplishment. Soon, we mingled with tourists and enjoyed a celebratory glass of cabernet (actually, several glasses).

After four long days on the trail, we treated ourselves to a luxurious night at the historic El Tovar Lodge at the South Rim. We shared fellowship and fine dining. Later, as the sun fell, Tam and I walked outside to gaze at the canyon we had crossed. Neither of us spoke. Our silence said it all.

Reach Rob Pavey at 868-1222, ext. 119 or rob.pavey@augustachronicle.com.