Thirst. Heather Anderson
up to the South Rim first thing in the morning. Instead, he said, “Hmmm.”
His very blue eyes were probably noticing the frayed Velcro sandals, purchased from Walmart, that I’d kicked off next to the clunky external-frame pack I’d borrowed. They weren’t exactly hidden from view. He was definitely not dressed in cut-off denim shorts and a cotton T-shirt like I was. Instead, his synthetic khaki pants and loose, long-sleeved, button-up shirt looked like they’d be cool and comfortable in the blazing sun. Not to mention protective. I realized I’d forgotten sunscreen.
“Good luck. It’s a pretty big climb, but probably very beautiful. I went partway over there today. To a place called Ribbon Falls.”
“That sounds nice. Is it close to the North Kaibab Trail?”
“Oh yes, a short side trip. It’s well worth it. I even got to climb right up on the pulpit rock under the falls and take a little shower. Felt like I was on top of the world.” He grinned at me.
“I’ll have to check that out tomorrow. I can probably afford to do a short side trip. My friends aren’t picking me up until 4 p.m.”
“You absolutely should. Not planning to hike back across then?”
“No way! Rim to rim to rim is just plain crazy. That’s like forty-five miles or something.”
He seemed amused by my response and polished off his cup of water. It reminded me of something I’d been worried about all day.
“Is that the only place to get water along the route? The falls? I borrowed this filter and a hydration bladder from a friend, but I’m not sure how much I’ll need to carry.”
“Oh, you probably won’t even need the filter. There are water faucets in the campgrounds and another one at the base of the ascent . . . at the pipe master’s house.”
“Pipe master?”
“The bloke who lives down here and caretakes the water pipe that runs across the canyon. There’s a drinking fountain right in his yard you can fill up at.”
“Oh! I have heard of him. I didn’t know there was water there.”
“There is. If you decide you want to do more tramping in the future, you might get some of these though. It’s what I use.”
He slid a small, white bottle across the table to me. It had a chemical formula and some warnings written on it, but they were nearly illegible. It was obvious from the wear on the label that he had been carrying them in a pack pocket for at least the seven months he’d been traveling—if not longer.
“What are these?” I held it to my ear and shook it, hearing a rattle.
“Chlorine tabs. You just put one in your water and let it sit for twenty minutes. It sterilizes the water. And, it only weighs a fraction of that filter you’re carrying.”
“Amazing! Where do you get them?” I pushed the bottle back toward him.
“Keep them. I’m hiking out tomorrow, then heading to Las Vegas. I won’t need them there.”
“Are you sure?”
He smiled and stood up. “You’ve got a very long day ahead of you, and many more adventures after that. I won’t keep you.”
“Oh, thanks. I suppose I should get to bed. I’m going to need to get up early.”
“It’s dark—would you like me to walk you to your campsite? I have a torch.”
I thought of the warning signs about mountain lions, rattlesnakes, and scorpions I’d seen, and the stories I’d heard about them wandering through Bright Angel Campground while campers slept.
“Yes, that would be great.”
We walked down the path with elbows linked. He wisely carried a very small light that illuminated the ground almost as much as daylight. I’d never even thought of borrowing a flashlight. Obviously, I still had a lot to learn about hiking. I thanked him again as he left me standing at the edge of my site. He squeezed my arm and wished me a safe journey. I watched his light disappear back toward Phantom Ranch and I shook my bottle of chlorine tablets, smiling as though it was a bottle of gold. My eyes adjusted to the darkness well enough to see the outline of the three-person tent that had taken me over an hour to set up. It seemed much smaller now that darkness enveloped it. The hair on the back of my neck prickled, and I hurried over to the tent and crawled in. I slipped the chlorine tablets into my backpack and closed my eyes.
It was barely light the next morning when I finished shoving the voluminous tent into my pack and hoisted it, first onto my knee, then my back. Kate would be at the North Rim, fourteen miles from where I stood, in ten hours. Much of the trail was straight up, which left no time for dawdling. I passed through Phantom Ranch before anyone was awake, relishing the chill that hung in the air. I knew it wouldn’t last.
The last question Mark had asked me before we’d parted ways was if I’d ever hiked fourteen miles before. That was when I first truly realized that my series of five-mile (or less) day hikes over the previous weeks may not have adequately prepared me for what I was in the middle of attempting. Yesterday had been the first time I’d ever carried an overnight pack, and I was bruised from it. I wiggled my shoulders, trying to settle the pack more comfortably on my body. It didn’t seem that comfort would be possible.
I tripped. The weight on my back plowed me into the ground with unexpected force—as though I’d been run over by a charging bull. I threw my hands out and they, along with my knees, skidded across the rocks until I stopped. I lay with my cheek in the dust for a few moments, too shocked by the fall to move. I winced as I pushed myself back up, turning to search for the rock that had tripped me. The trail I’d just crossed was surprisingly smooth.
“What the hell?” I looked down at my knees, assessing the damage. Along with the blood oozing from several scrapes, I noticed that the sandal on my right foot was deformed.
I leaned against the rock wall and picked up my foot. The entire sole of the sandal hung loose, attached only at the heel. In disbelief, I lifted my other foot and saw that the sole of that sandal was also peeling back from the toe.
“This can’t be happening. I have twelve miles to hike.”
I tried to walk a few more steps and nearly tripped over the flopping sole again. In frustration, I tried to tape the soles on with duct tape. Within a mile, the tape had worn through and they were both back to flopping. I set my pack on the ground, sat down next to it, and pawed through it, finding nothing of real use for repairs other than the duct tape and an ankle brace.
I ripped what was left of the sandals off of my feet. Angrily, I stuffed them into my backpack. I yanked the ankle brace onto one foot and wound duct tape around it. I was glad to be carrying half a roll now, despite its weight. Then I entombed the bare foot in tape as well.
I got back up and started walking. I could feel every rock poking into my feet, but the duct tape was some protection. I hoped it would last, since I’d used it all. Soon I reached the turnoff marked “Ribbon Falls.” I staunchly refused to let the destruction of my footwear ruin my day. I marched left.
Just as Mark had described, a huge pulpit rock stood under a thin shower of water plummeting down from a brink some distance above. I shrugged my pack off and climbed up behind the falls. The sun had yet to fill the inner gorge and the thought of getting in the cold water did not sound as appealing as it had the night before. I closed my eyes and rushed a few steps forward into the spray.
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” My scream echoed in the silence as the water pummeled my head and shoulders.
I stepped out shivering. I wasn’t sure I’d ever felt so alive before.
By the time I reached the drinking fountain at the pump house a few hours later, the duct tape had completely worn through to the ankle brace and had mostly come unstuck from my bare foot due to sweat. I plopped down next to the