Aside from being melodramatic, another hobby of mine is hiking. Last Saturday, I decided to go down Bright Angel Trail, by far THE most popular trail here at the Grand Canyon. It's not that it's easier (the first lookout is about 1,131 feet down), it's just accessible because it's right between the Village and the bus stops out to Hermit's Rest and the Market Plaza.
I began my descent at 5:00 am, right as the sun was coming up in the eastern part of the Canyon. Being in the western part of the Canyon has its benefits, such as the sun not hitting you or getting in your eyes as you climb down. That's the way back up.
There was just me and one other person going down the trail this early in the morning, a drastic contrast to my hike down South Kaibab (read: dude peeing on the trail in front of me). It was both a blessing and a curse. I loved not having to cater my pace to other people, but the harsh mountain lion warnings my roommate gave me were swirling in my head, "They like to hang out by the first and second tunnels."
To fight the mountain lions, I have two tools at my disposal. Neither of which are my physical abilities, so running would be out. I have my massive knife that I would not be able to pull out of my pack should I be confronted with the snarling jaws of a hungry mountain lion. I also have a boat whistle a fellow trainee brought us in training in Prince William Forest Park. The significance of the whistle? I read that you're supposed to make noise and hardly anything is half so annoying as a boat whistle.
So as I passed through the tunnel, my heart rate sped up, my palms became clammy, I took my boat whistle and stuck in in my mouth just in case. In my head, this is proper preparation.
I passed a group from North Carolina when I was about halfway down the trail, as they were on their way up from Mile and a Half Rest House. My guess is they wanted to see the sun come up from inside the Canyon. The long stream of hikers came past, with one girl struggling in the back. I looked at her face, heard her labored breathing and knew I was in deep shit when I turned around to hike back out.
But I'd come too far to turn back now, so onward I pushed. I knew I had a limited amount of time before the crowd set in. Around me the Canyon was changing. It smelled like... well, like a garden. And there were birds singing. I'd hiked so far down there was green and life all around me, with a huge rock wall just dauntingly sitting in the background.
At 6:00 am, I walked up the stairs to the rest house, set my pack on the ledge, and enjoyed my granola bar (I'm noticing a trend here of my victory being celebrated with granola bars. This can't be healthy).
At around 6:20 it was getting too crowded in the tiny little open-air rest house, so I packed my bags, refilled my water and started the way up. Twenty minutes later I was undoing the pant-short zipper on my hiking pants just below the knee because it was getting too hot. Then went the hood, the sleeves, and even the sunglasses. I stopped every ten minutes, whether I wanted to or not because you'd forget to drink water otherwise. Also, because in came the crowds. From every country, and every continent, they flooded down with their poor hiking etiquette, flip-flops, and 8oz water bottles. I could tell PSAR was going to have a hell of a day.
I caught and passed that girl from North Carolina (the one who'd passed me right before the rest house) before we'd reached the trailhead. Reaching the top made me feel like I could really do anything, it had only taken me about an hour to surmount 1,131 feet. And also at the top? Mules and cowboys!
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