Yo-ho, yo ho, it’s off to the canyon bottom we go. Just give us black coffee and a plate of hardtack. Who the hell knows if we’ll ever come back?
Waiting for our mounts to arrive at the mule corral hard by the Bright Angel trailhead, we welcomed a pair of German ladies, vintage 65 years-plus, to the upcoming party. “Is this where the horses come?” one of them asked in her passable English. Her partner spoke none. We answered in the affirmative but inquired if they had brought their gear, the canteens and rain slickers like the ones we’d obtained the previous day at the trail office. They didn’t get the drift so we let it ride. Eventually, when the mule wranglers showed up, they directed the two women to the Bright Angel Lodge and they returned with the requisite supplies.
When Wilford Brimley’s evil twin Hardboil showed up to dispense his wisdom to the riders, he was immediately concerned with the couple’s limited understanding of the language. He asked them several questions about riding experience (little to none) and their ability to understand instructions and react rapidly, finally turning them down out of concern for their safety. The ladies were crushed but it was hard to argue that Hardboil wasn’t correct. A little mistake made riding horses through the meadow is one thing, an error under stressful physical conditions on an extremely narrow trail is another. It was nonetheless sad to see the two of them slouch off into the distance, their dream of twelve months or more shattered in an instant. I thought of the women several times during the latter stages of the ride when death felt near. I wanted to rush back and find them at the top of the canyon, give them big hugs and tell them, “Damen, ausgewichen Sie nur eine Kugel!” That would be, ladies, you dodged a bullet. Their Gott was looking out for them.
(Above) Bill at the South Rim, (Below) Mule wrangler Noah with Siobhan on the Bright Angel Trail.
The Descent
MANDATORY FOR TRAVEL: (1) a wide-brimmed hat which must be worn at all times while on the mule. The hat must tie underneath your chin; (2) a long-sleeved shirt, lightweight, to protect from sunburn and dehydration; (3) Long pants, no shorts or capri pants allowed; (4) solid, closed-toe shoes with a smooth, hard sole. Don’t even think about those flip-flops, dimwit! (5) sunglasses are strongly recommended, as is a neckerchief which can be dunked in water.
PERMITTED: one camera or binoculars, but not both. Either must be on a strap or string around your neck.
A small plastic bag is provided for a minimum of overnight needs like medication and a change of clothes. Cell phones are useless in the canyon but you may bring flares to summon your friendly local helicopter rescue. If it comes to that, bring several thousand dollars, too.
The mule wranglers, having limited memories, will refer to you by the name of your mule, so Siobhan was Mabel, I was Maddie and the 6-2, 195-lb. guy in front of me was Twinky. Fortunately, Twinky was a good sport.
Our caravan consisted of a mere six people, Siobhan, myself, Twinky and his wife, Randy, and their two kids, Aaron, a teenager, and Connor, about ten. Both Siobhan and Connor wore GoPros on their hats and most of the trail pictures here were culled from her video. The mule caravans usually number ten but the granny disqualification lowered it to eight. Nobody knows what happened to the other two but they may have gone the wrong way on Las Vegas Boulevard and never recovered. I’ve heard it happens.
The Bright Angel Trail, the most popular and widely-used in the Grand Canyon for hikers, is a 12-mile, 5 1/2 hour mule ride to the Canyon floor, then across the Colorado River via suspension bridge to the Phantom Ranch, where riders spend the night in one of six Spartan cottages with ancient air-conditioners and few amenities. Okay, make that no amenities. The showers are a short hike down the road and the bathroom doors will chafe against a toilet-sitter’s knee if he is over 5-8. The trail, itself, is slightly wider than most in the park and not as steep as some. Water is available about three hours into the ride at Indian Gardens, where lunch is served and everyone is encouraged to soak himself with a hose. After three hours in the saddle, we were all feeling good. The scenery, of course, was terrific and no one had as yet broken any pelvic bones. The temperatures, which were about 62 at the rim when we started, were clearly in the nineties three hours later more than halfway to the bottom. But hey, we were only a couple hours from paydirt. Who said five-and-a-half hours in the saddle is a problem? Well….
Trail photos from Siobhan’s GoPro Video.
Are WeThere Yet?
Yo-ho, yo-ho, it’s off to the canyon bottom we go! Our asses are tired and our arses are sore. The temperatures sit at 104. If we don’t espy the Phantom Ranch quickly, our fine dispositions will promptly turn prickly.
After about four hours, the fun is gone and the battle for survival begins. My 75-year old body is asking me to explain the plan and I’m sure it won’t accept “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Adding to the anguish is a lack of ambition on the part of Twinky, who sees no reason to hurry. The riders have been instructed to keep their charges nose-to-butt but the animals have protested that this is clearly not in their contracts. Twinky is particularly resistant, being fat and lazy and having been advised by his parents to always remain three mule-lengths behind the onager in front to prevent serious traffic accidents. His rider, known in some circles as Adam, is reluctant to use his crop on him, particularly on narrow pathways, so Twinky often falls significantly behind, irking the wranglers no end. When Adam finally gives him the whip, Twinky zips to comply and my mule, Maddie, who is quite aware of the rules, jogs along to catch up. I stand up in the stirrups during these bouncy flurries of activity to prevent further derriere damage, but after a couple dozen little romps it gets a bit taxing. When Noah, the wrangler riding behind, notices my water intake is getting a little too frequent, he advises against too much drinking. Geez, you just can’t please some people. We stop, Noah dumps some water in my hat and on my neckerchief and we continue. Siobhan, directly behind me, asks me 75 times if I’m okay and I reassure her that I will not die for at least 2 1/2 hours, so call back then. Finally, we spot the narrow bridge we will cross to get to Phantom Ranch. It seems to take forever, but we finally negotiate the crossing and arrive at our destination. A kindly old lady is waiting with tiny glasses of fluid which she tells us include electrolites and taste suspiciously like diluted dromedary urine. We comply, grateful to be standing on solid ground. Siobhan goes to the store for supplies and I collapse into the bed in hot and humid cabin No. 1. Phantom Ranch, indeed. The Phantom wouldn’t be caught dead here.
Adam on Twinky, wife Randy in front during a meditative moment.
Yeah, But It’s A DRY Heat.
What that means is you’re just as hot but you don’t sweat as much. Unfortunately, the air-conditioning in cabin No. 1 had only signed up for night duty. It didn’t work in the daytime. Oh, it huffed and puffed and pretended to be functioning but it was all a cruel charade. It began to stir when the sun went down and the moon came out and the people gathered ‘round and they all began to shout. I staggered off down the road to the showers, then Siobhan and I went to dinner. Dinner was steak, like it or not (Siobhan didn’t), with a large baked potato and assorted vegetables. Oh, and a nice piece of chocolate cake if you were a good diner and pushed your dishes to the end of the table to expedite cleanup. After that, I went back to bed and Siobhan went off to listen to a ranger talk, after which she prodded him about the location of the canyon elevators, which he denied existed.
I got to thinking she might exaggerate my feeble condition, looking for an easy way out, and word might get back to Hardboil, who would render me unfit for travel, leaving me in the dank recesses of the Grand Canyon forever. When I went to the dining area, the presumed location of the ranger talk, and told a waitress about this, she advised me that if I became a permanent resident they were always looking for dishwashers, so that was good. Eventually, I got to the proper spot where I gave acceptable answers to probing medical questions and was cleared for takeoff the next morning. The ranger provided good news: a cloudy day was expected with lower temperatures. I’ll believe it when I see it, I told him. Five-and-a-half hours down the canyon one day, five-and-a-half hours up the next. Shouldn’t we get a rest period in there somewhere? What happened to “Stop and smell the roses?” Is there any chance we might get a snow day?
Yo-ho, yo-ho, it’s down to the canyon bottom we go! The flesh isn’t willing, the body is weak. I ask them if we can go back in a week. I offer them all I can beg, steal or borrow. They say nope, we’re back in the saddle tomorrow.
That’s nowhere near all, folks. Tune in next week to learn what perils await our heroes as they attempt to escape the Giant Maw. And assuming they do, what exciting adventures await in their search for Truth, Justice and another bizarre road to follow? Yo-ho, yo-ho, a minuscule seven more days to go!
