The Canyon Kept Saying No

The Crew

Bright Angel Campground was closed. Flooding had taken it out, and everyone at the backcountry office agreed it would stay closed for a long time. That part was settled. What wasn’t settled was the trail from Havasupai Gardens down to the river. One ranger told us it would open. The next one told us it wouldn’t. Same office, same week, opposite answers.

So we did what you do when the information runs out. We gambled. The night before the hike, standing at the backcountry office counter, we added a second night at Havasupai Gardens and bet on the river.

Four of us made the trip: me, my brother Dave, my friend Dan from Ohio, and Dan’s brother, who is also named Dave. Yes, two Daves. No, we never came up with a system. You just say “Dave” and whoever looks up, looks up.

Spoiler: the canyon called our bet.

Elk at Mather

Our first night was at Mather Campground on the South Rim. Since the plan had grown to two nights below the rim, we made a run to the store for extra food, set up camp, and spread everything out to repack. Then the elk showed up. Big ones, walking straight through our campsite like they had a reservation and we didn’t. Not a bad way to start.

The 5 a.m. Cab

The park shuttle had shut down for the fall season the day before we needed it. So at five o’clock in the morning, we were in a cab to the trailhead. I did not have “take a taxi to a hiking trail” on my Grand Canyon bingo card, but here we are.

The payoff was worth it. We were on the trail before sunrise and watched the light come up over the canyon as we descended. Absolutely stunning. That’s the part you can’t plan for and can’t buy.

About half a mile in, the trip shrank again. Dan’s brother Dave wasn’t feeling well, and he made the call to turn back. It’s a hard decision to make with the whole canyon in front of you, and it’s the right one when your body is telling you something. He headed back up to the South Rim, and then there were three of us. And only one Dave, which honestly simplified things.

Down the Tonto at 103 Degrees

We dropped down to the junction and headed west on the Tonto Trail. All in, about nine miles and roughly 4,000 feet of descent.

It started cool. It did not stay cool. By the time we were out on the Tonto, we clocked it between 100 and 103 degrees, with almost no shade anywhere. Rocky switchbacks, constant downhill, and the sun just sitting on top of us.

The saving grace was water. There are two spots on the Tonto where a stream crosses the trail, and we dunked our shirts in both of them and put them right back on. That’s not a luxury out there. That’s a survival strategy.

Unrelenting is the word. Brutal is the other word.

The saving grace was water. There are two spots on the Tonto where a stream crosses the trail, and we dunked our shirts in both of them and put them right back on. That’s not a luxury out there. That’s a survival strategy.

A Cold Stream and a 7 p.m. Bedtime

Havasupai Gardens felt like a reward. We had a good site with a small pavilion and a picnic table, and a stream close enough to sit in. So we sat in it. For a long time.

We filtered water, cooled off, and let the cold water work on our legs. We talked with the ranger and with a handful of other hikers doing trips like ours. We also met some day hikers who, to put it politely, seemed severely unprepared for what they’d signed up for. The canyon is beautiful from the rim. It’s a different animal from the bottom, and not everyone gets the memo.

The ranger also delivered the news. There was no way the trail to the river was opening. Our gamble was done. We canceled the second night and turned the trip into an overnight.

I’d love to tell you I was crushed. Some of me was. But the honest truth is our legs were already trashed. If that river trail had opened, we would have done it, and we would have regretted it somewhere around mile three. The canyon made the call our bodies were about to make anyway.

We made dinner, packed for the climb out, and were in bed by seven. Grown men. Seven o’clock. No shame.

Headlamps at 4 a.m.

The alarm went off at 3:30. We were on the trail by 4:00, hiking by headlamp in total darkness.

If you ever get the chance to hike the canyon in the dark, take it. You climb for a while in a small circle of light, and then the sun starts to peek over the rim and the whole place slowly fills in around you. Over the next five hours, we watched the canyon change color and shape with every bit of light. It’s the same canyon we walked down into, but it doesn’t look like it.

The climb out was about five miles, and with the early start we barely saw direct sun. It felt easier than the way down, which is not something people usually say about hiking out of the Grand Canyon. Spirits were good.

About half a mile from the top, Dave (the other one) came down to meet us, and we finished the hike together. The guy who turned back half a mile in walked the last half mile out with us. There’s a symmetry there I didn’t appreciate until later.

We passed a mule train near the top, and we were out by nine in the morning.

The Recovery Tour

With the canyon cut short, we suddenly had time and a rental car. First stop: a post-hike burger and beer in Flagstaff. There is no better meal than the first one after you climb out of a hole in the ground. It’s recovery, it’s nutrition, and it fixes your mood in about four bites.

From there we went east to Walnut Canyon National Monument to see the cliff dwellings built into the canyon walls.

Then came the hardest part of the whole trip: deciding where to sleep. We had no hotel. We went back and forth between Flagstaff and Sedona for longer than I’d like to admit. Four easygoing guys, nobody wanting to force a decision, and the clock just running. We eventually landed a hotel in downtown Sedona.

The plan in Sedona was to hike. The reality was one of us still feeling sick and another nursing a sprained ankle. So we drove around for an hour or two and took in the views. Sedona is beautiful, no surprise there, but we never got off the beaten path. Not ideal. The best we could do.

We wrapped up in Phoenix with a couple of breweries and a Diamondbacks game against Miami. No alarms, no switchbacks, no decisions harder than which beer to order. Exactly what we needed.

What the Canyon Taught Me

This trip got smaller three times. The campground closed. The river trail stayed shut. One of our four turned back before we’d even warmed up. On paper, that’s a trip that fell apart.

It didn’t feel that way. We still watched the sun rise going down and come up going out. We still sat in a cold stream at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. We still got the burger.

We planned this trip hard, and the canyon rewrote it anyway. The planning still mattered. It just wasn’t the plan that made the trip. It was what we did when the plan stopped working.

Standing at the edge of the plan that didn’t happen.

Up next: Plan Like Hell, Then Let It Go. What this trip taught me about planning, adapting, and why every group needs one person who decides.

Activities via Viator. Booking supports Schwan Travels.