What is it that makes us humans beings look for ways to truly test our personal limits?
I have been searching for things that will test my physical abilities and I've been interested in how far I can push myself? Many people might have a check off list to track their accomplishments, and some have what they call a "bucket" list, but mine I'm calling a "suffering" list (I started with a "joyful events" list, but every time I finish one of these I look back on it with one of the main takeaways being the suffering). After in the last couple of years "suffering" though swimming 1/2 a crossed Lake Tahoe, doing (suffering?) through arguably the toughest Ironman in the world (Lake Tahoe Ironman), and riding my bike 400 miles from one side of Nevada to the other in four very hot days, I just figured my next challenge should be what every ultra marathon runner dreams about the "R2R2R"?
I was going to attend a conference in Phoenix the first weekend in May, and as I researched the run which would take me from one rim of the Grand Canyon, down to the bottom of the canyon, and then to the other rim, oh yeah then back again, it was apparent that the first week of May was a good time to run this to avoid the heat of the summer (most runners do this run either Spring or Fall, October, and April being the most popular times). The more I had read about the R2R2R, it seems that anywhere from one half dozen to a few dozens runners run this daily during the Spring and Fall, looking to test their limits and see the grandeur of one of the eight wonders of the world. Planning this, I just figured that why not, after the conference, drive up to the Canyon and get a little adventure (suffering?) on?
The more I read and studied the route I would run, the easier the whole thing seemed, in my overly confident grey haired head; however, I was totally disrespecting the "Big Ditch" as I found it was referred too. I knew there were two trails that you could follow, the one from the South Rim on the South Kaibab trail to the North Kaibab trail, up to the North Rim, and then turn around and repeat (and hopefully make it back to the South Rim after 41.5 miles?), or I could run The Bright Angel trail from the South Rim to the North Kaibab trail up to North Rim and then back (this was closer to 47 miles). I really couldn't find a difference in the literature why you'd want to run the longer route, except for the fact that a Mule train, that supplies the floor of the canyon (a place called Phantom Ranch), follows the South Kaibab trail and it could be an issue to pass the Mules on the trail? Knowing this I had agreed upon the shorter trek, and to start my passage before the Mule train leaves the trailhead (which was everything I read agreed upon was at 5 AM). This means that I would start by 4:30, and have a plan to finish in the afternoon around 5:00, for total of 12:30 hours. This is where I should have probably realized my journey was going to be more then a "sufferfest", maybe even a survival march? (12.5 hours is 2.5 hours longer then another run I had attempted before). I didn't know really what I was to discover about myself during these miles, but I was sure going to find out?
 
After a very inspiring conference in Phoenix, I headed the Toyota Camry rental car on the most direct route to the Grand Canyon where I had reservations in the nearby town of Tusayan Az. The Saturday afternoon drive was filled with excitement and the thoughts of how much I love the modern architecture and weather of central Arizona (especially Phoenix), not to mention the punch drunk giddiness of what I was about to undertake the next morning. After arriving and making sure that my room was really reserved (I couldn't remember what hotel in town I reserved a room, but luckily for me their weren't too many there, and I had remembered something about a "Grand Hotel" when I booked the room) I organized everything I'd need for tomorrow's adventure. I laid out my Patagonia better then naked shorts (training in these a lot so I could be assured of minimal shafting issues), my nipple friendly Lululemon grey tech shirt (I've had the unpleasant raw great nipple experience a few times and knew this shirt was a better solution then bandages on my mammalary glands), my fairly new Altra Olympus trail shoes (with the 25+mm of cushioning sole) and Injingi socks (a proven combination for steep, technical trails), the Camelback duel hydration waist pack (I have never liked backpack type hydration systems, and the Camelback has a large storage area between the bottles for food, phone, you name it). I filled my pack with gels X4, two Chia bars, one granola bar, Hammer chews X4, some red rope licorice, full baggie of a tailwind lemon-lime mixed with a Pro-carbo carbohydrate for mixing with water and to drink out of my two Camelback 20 oz. bottles. I had researched the water stops for both crossing routes and what I could expect for an early May run, and I knew that I would need to carry enough water for around 2.5 hours between fill ups (the temperature for the canyon floor was forecasted to be in the mid 90's, I was soon to find out that 40 oz. of water would be woefully short). Before turning in for the night, I found a local Tusayan pizza joint and wolfed down a whole vegetarian pizza. Then chased that with a bag of "sweet, and salty" trail mix (these are my two favorite pre-race foods). I figured that with what I was about to do, I could reward myself with what ever foods I choose?
I think most Ultra-runners will tell you that the day (or night in this case) before a big event is much more nerve racking, emotional, doubtful, restless time then the event itself? As I lay wide awake, trying desperately to fall asleep, I was feeling lonely. I was 1000 miles from home, in a small town that felt cold with all the foreigners, and I knew that I was about to spend 12.5 hours battling my own demons, consoling my ego, and truly hoping that I was going to enjoy a part of it all? For me, the talking inside my head is really the main factor that holds me back from many more personal dreams (I think that this is true for a majority of people). Just before I boarded the sleep train, I remembered thinking that I could just sleep in tomorrow skip the run and do some sightseeing, catch an early fight home. This adventure really was all about me, nobody would think twice if I passed on the run this time. The last thought I can recall coming from my overactive sleepy mind was, you have committed doing this to yourself, and you can't afford to let you down, there's not one good reason to NOT complete the journey.
The iPhone's Harp sounds was ringing in my ears, as I reach to turn it off, I was jolted awake by the fact the time on my iPhone read 4:45. I felt a tinge of panic as I tried to comprehend just how I had woken up one hour later then planned? Now fully awake I calmed myself by saying that it might be better that I start this run a little later, because I really didn't want to run in the dark after reading about others blogs of mountain lion encounters on the very trails I was running. Plus, now I could leave my headlamp (or a head torch as the Europeans like to call it) in the car, and lighten up my seemingly very stuffed waist pack. I packed my things into the retail car and by 5 AM I was on my way to the park.
Seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time is really hard to put into words. If I had to describe it to someone that has never seen it, I would say, "go see it for yourself, because nothing I can tell you would really do justice to it." This morning, I was sure, the Grand Canyon was stretching itself just a little deeper and wider then normal, for my benefit? As I stood at the Bright Angel trailhead (this after I walked around for what seemed like miles looking for the starting point to my run), I was dripping with excitement looking a crossed the vastness of America's most visited National park. It seemed like I was frozen there for hours just thinking in my head, "this is it, you're about to start an adventure few others have ever attempted and many others would most likely think is nuts". I didn't even take out my iPhone for a start photo, I wasn't thinking very clearly taken back by the incredible sight before me, or did I start my GPS app or even take a picture of the starting time. There was a half dozen people with packs, and hiking poles taking gobs of photos and being very chatty as they started into the canyon. As I stepped my first step onto the trail, my thoughts were "this is what you've came here for, and what you've been training your mind and body to do, now go enjoy it!"
I started my decent trying to keep my pace slow (I really wanted to hold back how much energy I used up on the first section of the Bright Angel trail to the Colorado river, this section is 8.8 miles and is a very steep decent of about 3500 feet), but I was moving along faster as I just gazed upon the sunlight and the canyon walls as the morning was the most fabulous I've ever encounter. I passed a number of hikers, and as my style has always been, I loved the kind words coming from my mouth, encouraging them to "enjoy the splendor, have fun, and good for you" comments. One gentleman as I passed said, "I would like to see you run that fast on the way back up", and I just muttered along the lines of I'm not even sure that I can make it back up? I passed through a tunnel around 1/2 mile (somewhere I read this is called Suipai tunnel) and something dawned on me, I hadn't documented my start, or started my GPS app (I somehow forgot my GPS watch at home, so I was planning on using the Strava app on my iPhone). I applied the brakes and took a picture of my watch, and fished out my phone to start the running tracking on the Strava app.
I realized after running 1/2 a mile that I didn't document the run start time.
This part of Bright Angel trail is steep and technical. The trail is littered with tree trunks nailed into the trail about every 3-4 feet, each one a foot or two lower then the last, so running down this erosion preventing obstacle was technical to say the least. Just when you think that you've got a rhythm going, the trail makes a 180 degree turn and the steps change. Most of the first 4.5 miles is this way and I was getting a little concerned about the pounding my quads were taking? I couldn't help but wonder just how many switchbacks were in this section of trail. It seems like they just go on forever. Eventually the steps flattened into a really nice dirt single track, that was slightly downhill and flowed nicely. I was approaching the campground area of Indian Gardens at mile 4.5. Here there are some trees to provide shade, and I could hear the murmurs of a creek somewhere off to the left side of the trail (Shade wasn't very common during my 13+ hours and with a sunny, really hot day, I was to find out shade was vital to my survival).
As soon as I had arrived in Indian Gardens I seemed to have moved out of Indian Gardens? The trail runs another mile over a plateau before reaching the top of another steep section with log filled tight switchback (I later found out this is appropriately named "The Devil's Corkscrew", more on this section as I talk about the return trip up this). As I smiled running down the quad busting section, I was greeted by many weekenders hiking back up to the South Rim. I could assume that they had stayed overnight at the canyon floor and were returning? All of them were quiet, putting huge amounts of effort into their climbs. These miles seemed surreal to me, running down the Grand Canyon, feeling great, watching dozens of hikers pass me. It just never clicked in my overly confident mind that I was going to be one of them later that day (and possibly worse?). I would find out just how difficult the "The Devil's Corkscrew" section was going back up. Another few miles seemed to melt away as I blissfully ran towards the Colorado River, and before I knew it, there it was. My running was fluid thought a steep downhill canyon and as the trail turned right along what was the bottom of the canyon the river came into view. It was big. I tried to concentrate on the trail at my feet, but felt myself gazing at the emerald flowing mass of water flowing by.
 
I last mile before I was to reach Phantom Ranch running just yards above the river was very pretty as the morning air was dead still and the sun was breaking over the East Rim of the canyon behind me. I was now passing the 1.5 hour running mark and feeling good. The foot bridge over the river is an engineering marvel, maybe not quite on the level with other famous landmarks like the Golden Gate Bridge or Brooklyn Bridge, but never-the-less I was noticing how the suspension portion of the span were held by massive cables and the inside part that you walk on was constructed from a metal open lattice system that I could run on and look down through it at the river (I checked my pack and water bottles three of four times before and during my transition from one side of the bridge to the other, I wanted to make sure that the Colorado River didn't consume any of my valuables).
 
One of the phrases that many of the R2R2R runners use is; (I think it was first said by a Ultrarunner and previous speed record holder, Dakota Jones?) "The run a crossed the Grand Canyon really has only begun when you cross the Colorado River". Really? That just puts what I was attempting into perspective. For the next few hours that quote became my Mantra. "The run has only begun, the run has only begun, the run has only begun". Over and over in my fragile mind. My legs were already aching and my mind was about as strong as the house made of sticks like in the story of the Three Little Pigs, knowing how weak I felt at that moment, a thought popped into my consciousness. I could just cross the "silver" bridge (that begins the ascent up the Kaibab trail) and in 6.5 miles be back at the top of the canyon (there are two bridges crossing the Colorado River at the bottom of the canyon, a "black" one that I crossed and the "silver' one that connects the Kaibab trail to Phantom Ranch), be in the car in a couple of hours and call the run a "success"? However; I remember the promise that I made to myself that I was to run this no matter the obstacles are in my way. Plus, I had told as many people as possible about this, so that I had a stake in getting it done. This was just the first of a number of defining moments during my day, and possibly the point at which I knew that I was going to complete this crazy adventure no matter what the odds.
Now that I had crossed the Colorado River, I was entering into the Phantom Ranch area (this I was to find out is a nice camp ground and cabins that you can rent for multi-day hikers). The Phantom grounds had a few early raisers and some deer munching on the local pine trees. I love how tame the squirrels and deer are along the trail. I wasn't really sure if the first deer that I had seen would ever move off the trail as I approached him, so I could run by? He was content to have his picture taken, and finish his morning breakfast. I got close enough to slap his "deer hair" butt, then he slowly moved off into the brush.
Would you please move here, I have a run to do.
The next 7 miles between Phantom Ranch and Cottonwood camp grounds are extremely pretty. As I started my ascent from "the ranch area" the trail climbed slowly and it was still brisk outside (I had on a running shirt with my orange long sleeved trail shirt over it, I think the temperature was in the 50's, which I was very much enjoying) I had entered "Box Canyon". The trail runs along Bright Angel creek and the steep walls on either side rise up hundreds of feet giving the feel of what a mouse must feel like in a lab maze? There were multiple short bridges to cross as I climbed slowly up through the canyon, and the run was quite cool and even a little damp being so close to Bright Angel creek. I had no idea that five hours later I would be practically crawling down this section on my return, dehydrated and close to delirious.
Box canyon on the cool side, happy to have my long sleeve shirt on here.
Box Canyon opens up into a meadow setting after 3.5 miles. When I had emerged from the canyon, the sun was now high enough that it was immediately beating down on me, and the temperature must have jumped up 20 degrees? No longer by the creek, and totally exposed to the sun this was the first sign of the heat that I'd be dealing with for the next 9 hours. My body was heating up; however, my legs were good and I didn't feel any really tiredness coming on. The negative mantra of "the run has just started", had changed to "the climbing begins soon" and I knew that somewhere just ahead, I was to begin the climb up to the North Rim (at this point I had travelled 15 miles, and been running for close to 3 hours). I was doing some math gymnastics in my mind, figuring out what time I might reach the North Rim and how long the return trip would take me? It was hard to not think about a blog I had read the previous week; that was written by the Fastest Known Time (FKT) runner of the R2R2R in 2013, Rob Krar, where he talks about reaching the North Rim in around 3 hours and 10 minutes and the completes the run in 7 hours and 20 minutes. At the pace I was pushing, I surmised I could reach the halfway point at 11am, thus running the first leg in 5 hours and 20 mins. This became my goal, get to the turn around point by 11am. How tough could that be? I was to soon find out, the climb up the North Kaibab trail was more then I could have ever imagined.
 
I reached Cottonwood campgrounds and I stopped to replenish my energy.
At the last water spot for the next 9 miles, called the "Caretaker's Residence", I filled my water bottles and downed a few mouth fulls out of the fountain. I was catching a 'new beginning" and was really feeling quite good about how I felt both physically and mentally. I knew though that what was ahead my me was my first big test of the run, so I was trying hard to taper my confidence. The climb from here is all up, going from 3800 feet to close to 8000 feet in 4.5 miles. I should have been concerned, but I wasn't. I felt like I have a good bit of run training on the steep trail of the Reno/Tahoe area, and my body seems to move up steep hills with a steam train consistency (powerful, consistent, and never-ending). The run to the North Rim turns out was steeper than most anything I had run before. After attempting the first 1/2 mile running, I began to speed-hike the trail. I couldn't really justify the extra effort I was using trying to run the steep incline, and I knew that I would need some thing later on the return to the South Rim still 6 to 7 hours from now (I hoped), so I began to hike all the uphill sections and run the flat parts (here's the thing I was learning, there aren't really any "flat parts" going up to the North Rim on this trail).
A mile or so up the climb a waterfall came into view on my right side, this I was to learn is called Ribbon Falls, and it was crashing lots of water down from above the trail onto the canyon floor. The sound from the falls was soothing, and I tried to concentrate on it. This section of the trail gets steeper and I was trying NOT to look up through the steep canyon walls ahead of me. I was starting to think that I might have to walk the rest of the way to the top, because my breathing was becoming increasingly labored, my heart rate was high, and I was demolishing the water in my bottles at an alarming rate? The mid day's heat was beginning to scorch the air around me, and the dryness was dehydrating me quickly. As I was calculating the temperature outside and how much water I had already drank, I was realizing that I wasn't going to make it to the Rim's top and back to the only water source in this 9 mile stretch. Oh no, the alarm bells were sounding. In the first 1.5 I had drank a whole 20 oz. bottle, and with no more water, how was I going to survive? A new mantra began for me, "There will be water at the top, there will be water at the top". Though I had read a hundred times online that the North Rim of the Grand Canyon doesn't open, and water supply turned on until the second week in May.
I was one week too early. 
Me half the way up the North Canyon Rim trail, and mostly out of water.
Here's where I began to wonder what to do next? As I continued my consistent, but ever so slow march up and through the single track of the North Kaibab trail, I was stressing my mind to say coherent. All kinds of thoughts were racing through it. Should I turn around now and return to the water source, because I was dangerously close to being out of water, could I finish the whole run, if I make it to the top of this side of the canyon could I call for help and finish there? While I still had the ability to reason, I decided that I had to continue and that I would turn around when my water bottles were empty. Now that I had a plan, much like David had a plan against Goliath, I forged on ever so slowly. I remember little about the next two or so miles, but one thing that did catch my attention is the closeness of the trail to death. Most the this trail has towering cliffs rising above it on the left side, and has plummeting cliffs thousands of feet down to the canyon's depths on the right. I found myself hugging the towering walls on my left, because I was worried that in my dehydrating state I might stumble off the off the right side (and my run would come to a tragic end). As I rounded each bend in the climb, I desperately hoped the top would be in sight, but each time I turned the corner there was more very steep, mostly switchbacks starring me in the face.
I came to a very cool bridge, I figured at the halfway point up to the North Rim, as I drained the last of my water/tailwind mixture. With much more to climb and a promise of returning to the last point of water once out, I just keep going. The sun was high overhead and the heat was pounding on my exposed skin (I had taken my long sleeved runner shirt off at Cottonwood). Thinking about my promise I make to myself just a few miles back, it dawned on me that I hadn't needed to pee since I started. That couldn't be good? Everything I could think of pointed to turning around NOW and getting back to the closest water source; however, if I was a reasonable person, I probably wouldn't be here in the first place, so I re-negotiated with myself to climb just 1/2 hour more, then turn back. After all, the return was all downhill, how much water would I need for that?
The next section should be called, "The devil's apprentice's corkscrew" because it was every bit as steep rugged, and difficult as the original Devil's Corkscrew? My new promise of 1/2 hour came and went, and I just keep going up (here I was at mile 21+, and looking back at it at hour 4:30, though at the time I could comprehend time or distance). Here's where I began to feel light headed, and really slow down, because my heart rate was sky high. I had finally given in to my survival instincts and reasoned myself out of continuing on; when just as if God heard my heartbeats, like a lighthouse signaling ship in the night, I stubbled upon multiple huge containers of water (well I was hoping it was water, not really sure because it said don't drink on the side of one). I just keep running on by…
Why hadn't I stopped to drink the water? I'm still looking for that answer. I do remember thinking that these weren't my water containers, and even though I hadn't seen a sole in the last 2 hours, it's just not right to take what doesn't belong to me? I had heard legendary stories of the dying man in the Sahara desert seeing the watering hole off in the distance only when he gets there it's a mirage, as I continued to walk up the trail, I wondered is this what I had seen. I figured that since there were no buzzards circling above my head, it was safe to continue? At the first sign of any birds, even a crow, I told myself that I would turn and run for the water at the bottom of the canyon. All I could think about from this point on was drinking a Coke. Which my mind thought was pretty funny since I don't drink soda, it just doesn't appeal to me normally, but at this point I wasn't my normal self and a ice cold Coke was all I was thinking about (I never did get that Coke).
With no Coke in sight, and my dehydration worsening, something told me to keep pressing on. I knew I was getting close because the desert flora of shrubs and cacti was changing to conifers and was becoming more vegetated. I could also see that the canyon summit was just a short ways above me now. Was I after all this, going to make the top? Could it be possible for me to over come the dehydration, disorientation, doubt to make it to the halfway point? I was shuffling along at a pace that might have impressed "turbo" the snail before he becoming a racing celebrity (in which they made a movie of him), when come around a bolder the size of a house, and run into a drinking fountain. I found out that the Forrest Service website is correct when it says that the water at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon isn't turned on until after, J. Wilkerson finished his R2R2R odyssey. I stood hovering over the spigot, licking the bottom of the nozzle, hoping for a miracle.
What seemed like 10 minutes later, when I realized that water wan't magically going to appear, I continued towards the summit. Not far after the dry well incident I came upon another tunnel (no idea about this one's name, or that there would be a tunnel to pass through here, but it did afford me some brief shade). By this time I was totally going out of my mind, because I began to believe that I was on a far away alien planet. I hadn't seen anyone now for more then 3 hours, the scenery was start to remind me of a science fiction novel, and if I had bumped into somebody right then they would surely think I was from another planet.
With my senses dwindling fast, I had pulled out my iPhone to check the GPS on time and distance. I discovered when you're close to delirium, having to open a password protected iPhone became a "are you smarter then a 5th grader test". After what seemed like 50 tries, like magic the Strava app appeared. Not sure if I was reading it correctly, it flashed, 24 miles, and 5.5 hours of total time. With this knowledge I figured I must have gone right passed the top of the North Rim? What was going on, I knew I was close, but all indicators said that I should have already arrived? My watch read 11am, and this is the time I should have reached the summit. I began to wonder if Alien planet time was the same as earth planet time, explaining why I hadn't reach the summit, and this is when I knew that my survival rested on me turning back now and it would be a race for the water at the bottom of the canyon. So, down I went, happy to be dropping elevation after climbing for the last 2+ hours.
Traveling down where I had come up, I regained some of my composure, and I ran as fast as my legs could go. Knowing that the faster I went the quicker I could rehydrate, made me really fly down the trail. As I run towards the Caretaker's Residence, felling pretty good about having passed the 1/2 mark of the journey, I came upon the first runner of the day. We chatted about the climb ahead, lack of water, and just how hot it had become, before parting ways. I ran downhill with my tongue swollen like a bee had stung it and it was barely fitting into my parched mouth, until eventually coming to the watering hole. I proceeded to drink as if the water could stop flowing at any moment, and I was drinking so fast that I could. I could have drowned right there at the fountain. I filled my water bottles to the brim and prayed that they would last me until the next water source 8 miles away (well there was water 1 or so miles down the trail at Cottonwood camp grounds, but after that nothing all the way to Phantom Ranch).
When I arrived at Cottonwood camp grounds for the second time, I stopped quickly to refuel with some red licorice, and the Hammer chomps that I had left in my pack. The temperature was tipping the scales at close to 90 degrees now and the wind that was blowing when I had passed here the first time, was gone. It's amazing that when you're extremely tired, thirsty, and hungry; the same scenery that was so beautiful just 3 hours ago, now I didn't even glance at it. I just plugged along with my head down, concentrated on the trail below my feet, trying to keep from falling down because I tripped over a small imperfection in the trail (this is what normally happens to me when I'm fatigued). I was computing my mileage, and I had figured that I had passed 30 miles by now? I looked at my watch, the time was 1:30, and I was still at least an hour from returning to Phantom Ranch. I was being beat up by the intense sun and there was no shade in the section of trail between Cottonwood and Box Canyon, so I had to drink more water then I wanted to, just to keep hydrated, and just an hour from the last fill up I was close to empty on both bottles again. Two things that motivated me to keep moving forward were, 1. I should have some shade in Box Canyon soon, and
2. I could stop at Phantom Ranch for what I hoped would be a hard earned Coke? I set my sights on reaching 'the ranch" by 2:30.
The Box Canyon section of these next miles seemed to never come? I felt as no matter how fast I tried to run, I only had "slogging" speed (this is what distance runners refer to the "Ultra Shuffle", somewhere between walking and jogging). As I took my last sips of my bottles, the canyon still wasn't in sight, and the thoughts of North Rim climb pierced my brain (delirium, space aliens, and falling off 1000 foot cliffs), I had one advantage during this section of the run. Bright Angel creek was flowing just a short distance from the trail, and if I had too, I could get water there? Finally, I was entering the canyon, but the shade I so desired wasn't to be, because the sun was in just the strategic position to shine between the narrow opening and of course directly onto me. I ran for what I imagined was 1/2 hour without water and the feeling of dizziness began to set in. I slowed to a walk, thinking that I wouldn't make it another step without hydration? As I walk near the creek, I looked for the easiest spot to get to the water and refill my bottles. I wanted to jump into the creek, but I didn't want the sunscreen I had lathered on before I started the day to be washed off my face.
I recalculated my distance to the next water and figured I only needed to fill one bottle to supply me with enough for the remaining time (I didn't want to chance some water borne bacterium that would leave me on the side of the trail puking out my guts and getting dangerously close to dying). I've never been truly dehydrated before today's run, or understand how bad it could be, or what is the point of no return, so I decided to slow my pace and walk the remaining miles to Phantom Ranch. Even walking, I was experiencing a incredibly high heart rate, and dizziness. I was struggling to even walk straight down the trail. I believe in "Devine Intervention", because just as I was going to sit down along the trail's edge, the sun disappeared behind the one cloud that miraculously appeared in the blazing hot sky. The last time I looked, there were absolutely no clouds, and at my true breaking point, one appears. I thanked God, literally for his presence, and kept moving towards the "ranch". The next 2.5 miles took me close to 2 hours to complete, but the clouds were shading me from the sun and the creek water hadn't caused me any violent convulsions yet, so I was happier then a kid on Christmas morning when I finally arrived at Phantom Ranch.
I came to some log buildings along the trail, eyed some hikers in front of one of the buildings and struggled with getting words out of my parched throat, "You know where the canteen is"? I'm not sure if I was more happy that they could barely understand what I said, or they their answer is I'm standing in front of it? Was this luck, or some other assistance, in my time of need? No matter which, I clumsily fell inside and stood for what seemed like 5 minutes before I could process what to do next? I ordered a lemonade and a energy bar, knowing that I was down to my last bit of food. You get to fill up your own cup at the lemon aid station, so after topping off the cup with ice, I took the deepest breath I could and downed the large glass of lemon sugar water without even swallowing. After repeating this twice more, I stumbled out the canteen to a picnic table to recover from another bout of dehydration.
During my 30 minute recovery, at least a dozen people sat down near me, but not one was impressed that I had just run 38 miles, and been on my feet for the last 10 hours. I wanted to shout, "I have ran from the South Rim to the the North Rim and back, who's impressed", but I didn't have the energy to even talk to myself out loud. I was thinking about how I was going to make the last 8.8 mile, 4500 foot climb out of the canyon? I thought came to me that I could just lie down on the picnic table and rest until the sun goes down then walk out, but I remembered that I didn't bring a headlamp, so after eating the last of my food, and trying my best to over hydrate my body, I stood up and pushed for the South Rim summit.
The clouds had left and the sun made the best of the opportunity to shine it's rays down on me again, almost as if it knew that I was on the "ropes" and he was moving in for the knockout? I weaved my way out of Phantom Ranch, and I was surprised to look down at my feet and see them running. I'm pretty sure that my mind didn't tell them to do that? What a little recovery time, hydration, and nourishment can do to the will. I crossed the "black" bridge for the second time, and I was immediately greeted by a rude climb. I had to tell myself that I was stronger then I realized and I can keep walking until the goal of completion is met (plus I knew that I had no choice, many of the signs along the trails read, "Going down is an option, coming back is mandatory").
As I left the Colorado River, I couldn't quit thinking about that saying, "coming back is mandatory". The canyon leading, from the river, seem to get steeper during the 10 hours since I was last there, and I was concerned how I was going to get up the dreadful "The Devil's Corkscrew"? I wasn't even sure that I could make it to the "The Devil's Corkscrew", let alone climb is torturous switchbacks at this point. I found myself stopping to sit on the rocks along the trail every 100 feet or so (I could keep my heart rate down, just a few steps after resting the pounding of my heart was deafening in my ears, and I just thought I might have a heart attack?). This is how the The Devil's Corkscrew climb went; sit for a minute, get up walk for a 100 feet, look for the best rock to rest on, and repeat. The sun was getting close to setting over the west rim of the canyon and shadows were beginning to be thrown down the canyon walls. I think that if I hadn't now been close to 12 hours into this run, I might have noticed their beauty better, but for now my concentrating was on making it another 100 feet. About 1/2 up the mile long Devilish climb, I encountered something that I had heard about before, but never experienced, CRAMPS.
At the end of one of my sit, walk, sit, cycles I endured the first of what was to be a series of excruciating painful leg cramps. When I sat down on a trailside rock, my left leg seized so violently that I almost fell over and plummeted 1000 feet to the canyon floor. The first thoughts after realizing that I didn't fall over the edge was, "Why had I gotten these before now"? With all the dehydration issues I had experienced I knew that I was lucky to be this far into the run and not have had the cramps. Five miles to go, just five more miles, I just hoped I could fend off the cramps enough to get out of this abyss?
I immediately drank the rest of my precious water, and wished I had brought along salt tab supplements (knowing that I was low on both hydration and slat intake). Now my 100 feet turned into 50 feet before the cramps grabbed my calf. This was going to take a eternity to complete the last 5 miles, plus I was now out of water again, and really didn't know how much further the next refueling spot, Indian Gardens, was? I hobbled along fighting the cramps for the next mile until I came to a small creek running in which the trail crossed. This time, not only did I drink freely from the creek water, fill my bottles, I also ended up laying in the creek until I cooled down (this was the best decision that I would make on the day, because the cramps ended, and I felt as if I had only run 10 miles not the 43 that I had actually completed).
When I arrived at the Indian Gardens Campground, my spirit was broken. The last hour I was thinking that when I got to Indian Gardens I had only 3 miles to the summit of the canyon? As I walked into the camping area, I was greeted by a GC parks sign that read Grand Canyon Village 4.5 miles. Wow, that was like a strong blow to the stomach by the heavyweight champion of the world. I knew that I was very fortunate to have overcome the cramps, but another 4.5 miles, with what I was estimating 1500 feet of elevation, that would really test my resolve. In the campground I found a bench to rest my weary body and cramping legs, and as I contemplated my final ascent, a park ranger came by, I blurted out, "Is there a shuttle, quad, or donkey that could take me to the top of the rim"? I'm not sure that she thought I was kidding, because she came to sit next to me. I'm sure she was assessing my mental capacity, and from the way I probably looked, who could blame her? She ask me lots of questions, where'd I come from, when I started, how much had I eaten, and how much I was hydrating? After 20 minutes, I guess that I passed that sanity test, because she wished me luck and sent me on my way.
The first 1/2 mile out of Indian Gardens is a gradual climb, I found myself doing the Ultra shuffle for this short section. Then the switchbacks, steps start again, and I knew from the decent I did nearly 12 hours earilier that this was to be how the remainder of the run was to be; a death march.
The view as the sun set over the canyon (halfway up the final climb).
All the very little energy I had left I concentrated on getting one foot in from of the other. My thoughts were way do people do these things? I was thinking of challenges that could be tougher then this run? Not many things came into my mind. Knowing I was getting close, I stopped for a few photos of the beautiful sun setting over the canyon. The temperature was dropping like a rock thrown off a skyscraper, much the opposite of what happened during the late morning when it jumped up 20 degrees in a matter of minutes. I was so exhausted, the precipitous drop in temperature barely registered for me, even though I had my long sleeved running shirt attached to my pack and I could have easily put it on, I didn't.
As I climbed towards the finish, the numbers of hikers I passed increase exponentially, 3 miles out, I passed a couple taking photos of each other, looking so happy, I thought, who gave you guys the right to be so happy? You should be suffering like me. At the 2 mile mark, I came to some bathrooms that had close to 6-8 people, I ask one of them for a final distance to the top, and they tried to tell me but I could understand their broken english. Each mile I counted off with a little celebratory song in my head. "Under two miles, I will be done", then, "under 1 mile, I will be done", on and on. The emotion of being so close to completion got the best of me when I reached the Saipai tunnel for the second time, and a tear drop formed, ran down my cheek, and leaped onto the crushed dirt below me. I'm not known as an emotional guy, but something caused the flood gates of emotions to burst. As I rounded the last few switchbacks, what was left of water in my arid body was left as tears on the trail. I made my last turn, and as much as I would have liked to sprinted to the trailhead, I didn't muster anything more then a gallop. The dirt trail turns to pavement during the final few feet, and I had completed the R2R2R.
47+ miles, 11,000 feet of climbing, 13.5 hours total, and 5 gallons of water, burned 7000 Cal. An experience that I'm glad I did, but don't plan on doing again. A true test of my resolve, my will, and my endurance. This left me wanting more, just as long as "the more" is nothing like this was...
Epilogue: I have been training around 30-50 miles/week as I prepare for my first 100 mile run the Tahoe Rim Trail 100, so my fitness level is pretty good. I wouldn't suggest that anyone do this with less training then I had. Looking back I was woefully under trained for this run, and someone looking to do this should study the route, water stops, and might want to entertain doing it with a running partner too? Also, I only passed two other runners the whole day, so if you have a health issue, fall down, or other problem, you may not be found for a few days? If I was to do this again (but I'm not, just to make that clear) I would pick a cooler day, train more, run the South Kaibab out and back (it's only 42 miles), and slow down on the first half. The climbs up to the tops of each rim are really hard, steep, and I think even the fittest Ultra runner would be wise to walk these? I also took some video during parts of the run, and what is on there is scary. After viewing these videos, I feel very lucky to have made it out alive. It turned out to be an experience that I will never forget, for many reasons…
Here's a taste of what you go through during this double crossing, I love this video...
Go make your dreams come true…
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Saturday, May 10, 2014
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