10

Bottoming the Inverted Mountain

AS I STOOD at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, I recalled the warnings against attempting to hike there and back in a single day. Above me stretched a mind-numbing 4,500ft climb back to civilisation in over 110ºF (40ºC) heat. As the rock shimmered in the heat haze and the steep switchbacks of the Devil’s Corkscrew rose before me, I wondered – had I taken on too much?

When first seen from the canyon rim, the 277-miles-long scar in the Arizona desert is too vast to comprehend. Only as the sun crosses the sky does the changing interplay of light and shadow highlight the canyon’s three-dimensional, maze-like internal structure.

Gradually, the countless sub-canyons and buttes that together form this gaping hole in the earth’s crust begin to take on individuality. It becomes apparent that some of the buttes beneath your feet are 4,000ft mountains rising from the canyon bottom, isolated from each other by deep side canyons. They rise as towering walls of rock that resemble Japanese pagodas or Mayan temples. Their names reflect their exotic appearance: Osiris Temple, Wotan’s Throne, Cheops Pyramid, Tower of Ra.

These mountains are rarely climbed. The summit of Shiva Temple, for example, remained untrodden until 1937, when Harold E. Anthony of the American Museum of Natural History led an expedition to scale it. Scientists speculated that the summit, cut off from north and south rims for thousands of years, might harbour dinosaurs or other forms of life that had evolved separately. The press sensationalised the expedition as a climb to the Lost World, but in the event no new species were discovered.

The more I stared at the canyon and its mountains, the more it did indeed look like a lost world, and soon I was itching to go over the edge and explore. The classic hike from Canyon Village, where roads and railway converge on the 7,000ft-high south rim, is rim to river and back. It is usually undertaken as a two-day hike or mule trip, with an overnight stay in the canyon bottom at Bright Angel Campground or Phantom Ranch, where there are bunkhouses and a canteen. Rangers routinely advise against attempting a day trip, but they do it themselves, and the record from north to south rim is held by a Native American girl who took just four hours. How hard could it be?

In an odd reversal of normal hillwalking practice, the day would begin with an early morning descent and end with a long climb back up in the baking heat of the afternoon, with no escape route. I proposed to descend the waterless, seven-mile long South Kaibab Trail and re-ascend the ten-mile long Bright Angel Trail, which is longer but has water at various points.

I went over the edge on the South Kaibab soon after dawn. Leaving the hustle and bustle of the south rim behind, a series of steep switchbacks descended into a magical landscape hidden from above. Across the canyon rose two fantastic peaks – the terraced Brahma Temple and the pagoda-like Zoroaster Temple, whose increasingly Matterhorn-like appearance was to dominate the rest of the descent. Beyond it soared the scarcely less impressive Thor Temple and Wotan’s Throne, all these peaks clustered round a great basin known as the Ottoman Amphitheatre. It was as though I was walking not into a canyon but into a mountain wonderland.

Two-thirds of the way down, at minus 3,000ft, the trail levelled out onto a curious shelf known as the Tonto Plateau where, in summer temperatures that can reach 120ºF (50ºC), cactus and sage brush thrive and animals such as rabbits and rats practise a form of summer hibernation called estivation. It was an adaptation to heat that became increasingly appealing to me as the temperature rose ever higher.

At the far edge of the plateau, the trail plunged into the secret gorge of the inner canyon, and suddenly there it was – the mighty Colorado River, the canyon-maker itself, an irresistible force over 500ft wide. A final set of switchbacks took me down to the Black Bridge, which I crossed to reach the side canyon of Bright Angel Creek.

Hot, dusty and parched, I shuffled along the creekside, past the campground with its lovely shaded picnic tables, to the huts at Phantom Ranch, set among irrigated fields and spreading cottonwood trees. The canteen turned out to be a wonderful, air-conditioned oasis selling snacks and chilled homemade lemonade that was pure nectar. I stoked up on the stuff until my stomach ached, and swapped stories with other hikers, muleteers and river runners.

Such an idyllic spot was difficult to leave. Stepping outside again was like walking into a shimmering wall of heat you could almost touch. I moseyed back to the Colorado, dipped a hand in the swirling, chocolate-coloured current as a symbolic gesture and re-crossed at the Silver Bridge. The open construction of this second of the canyon’s two bridges makes it possible to see the surging torrent beneath one’s feet – a disconcerting experience. Mules refuse to cross it.

Back on the near side of the river, the short River Trail led to the start of the Bright Angel Trail, which would be my return route to the rim. Strength-sapping riverside sand dunes made tough going in the oven-like conditions, and that was even before the ascent began. Above towered cliff upon cliff, mountain upon mountain. It was difficult to believe that civilisation lay up there somewhere.

In the heart of the Grand Canyon on the South Kaibab

The Bright Angel Trail began its ascent with deceptive gentle­ness but soon gave a taste of what was to come at the steep switchbacks of the Devil’s Corkscrew. They say that on ascent you lose two pints of liquid per hour, so I tackled the Corkscrew slowly, trying to maintain a murmur of air around my body. Lizards scampered nonchalantly across my path, as though they knew I would not have the energy to disturb them.

Above the switchbacks lay Garden Creek and, like so many others who passed this way, I plunged into its cool, refreshing waters. Again, it was a difficult spot to leave, but at least it wasn’t far now to Indian Gardens, back on the Tonto Plateau, where Garden Creek Springs erupted from the rock to irrigate the parched land.

The gardens are a true oasis in the desert and were once farmed by Havasupai Indians, who still live in the canyon further down­river. Today there are toilets, a ranger station and a campground. Fountains provide drinking water. Beautiful cottonwood trees planted in the 1900s provide shade for benches and picnic tables.

I sat heat-dazed beneath the trees, mesmerised by the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. Tourists who had come down from the rim for the day looked fitter and more bright-eyed, but many had overstretched themselves and would struggle to make it back up the 3,000ft climb.

Above Garden Springs, the south rim cliffs rose in an almost unbroken sweep, uncluttered by side canyons, ridges and buttes. The trail climbed gradually towards the cliff foot and entered merciful late afternoon shadow. Resthouses at three miles and one and a half miles below the rim would provide further water, so all that was required now to complete the ascent was determination.

The trail tackled the cliffs in a series of seemingly interminable switchbacks, beginning with an especially steep section known as Jacob’s Ladder. The miles were long but time passed slowly as lengthening shadows delineated previously unnoticed rock features below.

When succeeding bursts of determination seemed to bring me no nearer the top, it became increasingly harder to keep placing one foot in front of the other. Grand Canyon topography distorts perceptions, making the rim seem ever closer but indefinitely unreachable, so few who climb from the bottom are not staggering a little as they near the top. As encouragement, whoops of joy from those who had reached the rim drifted down from above, while the surreal whistle of a steam train echoed around the canyon walls.

It came as a surprise to find that there was suddenly no more trail. One second I was struggling ever upwards, the next I had left the vertical for the horizontal and emerged onto the south rim into a different world of hotels, shops, restaurants and crowds. I took one last, wistful glance over my shoulder at the yawning depths below, passed a fat chipmunk who looked at me with a patronising air, and headed for the nearest Häagen-Dazs.