So a few months ago a friend of mine approached Simon and I about doing to rim-to-rim hike in the Grand Canyon. Prior to moving to Arizona, I didn't really know much about the Grand Canyon. I knew it was there, obviously, and had visited it a few times prior to moving here, but the fact that people hiked not only to the bottom of it, but all the way to the other side, was something completely foreign to me.
The rim-to-rim hike is apparently something that people from all over the world place on their bucket lists. It's the thing to do to experience the Grand Canyon if you're more adventurous than the average tourist, who is content with merely standing at the edge, taking a good look, and then wandering into the gift shop to buy a magnet and t-shirt to commemorate the occasion. And I'm definitely not judging the look-and-shop Grand Canyon visitor, because by and large, that's what the Grand Canyon has been for me. Although I no longer buy t-shirts and since I already have a magnet, I just buy an ice cream cone instead. Yes, they have an ice cream shop at the Grand Canyon.
Doing a rim-to-rim hike is no small feat, and I had reservations about it from the beginning. In short, the total hike is about 26 miles, give or take a few...honestly, who keeps track after that many miles anyway? Not only is it 26 miles, but there are some significant elevation gains and losses going from top to bottom to top. The Grand Canyon is a mile deep. It's about 7 walking miles to traverse that one mile to the bottom. Which means it's about 7 miles back to the top once you've reached the bottom. Well, it's about 8 miles, technically, because the north rim of the Grand Canyon (where we would end) is about 1,000 feet higher than the south rim (where we would start). 8 miles of grueling switchbacks going up and up and up. So there's that.
Doing this hike requires that we carry with us anything that we might need on the hike. Supplies including, but not limited to: tent, sleeping bag, sleeping pad, food, water, clothing, cooking supplies, camera, toiletries, emergency supplies, etc. It doesn't sound like much, but it all adds up. Take into account that one liter of water weighs 2.2 pounds, and you're looking at close to 10 pounds in water alone, assuming that you're going to be carrying 4-5 liters, which is ideal and probably necessary for a long, active day in the sun.
And then there's the heat....oh boy, the heat. The Grand Canyon, at the bottom, can get up to 120 degrees in August, which is when we're planning our trip. I know it's a dry heat, and there is some merit in the dry heat, but 120 degrees is absolutely miserable, I don't care how dry the air is. I'm not a very heat tolerant person. I get very irritable when I get warm, especially when there is no easy way to cool off. If I'm warm at night, I can forget about getting a restful night's sleep. Spending a 120 degree day next to a lake where I can jump in and cool off is one thing, spending a 120 degree day at the bottom of a sweltering, dusty, canyon is quite another. Given that we will be doing the bulk of the hiking in the wee hours of the morning before the sun comes up, I wonder what we'll do the rest of the day when the sun is at its most relentless. Will there be shade? Will there be water to play in? Will there be an escape? Will I be lying there dumping my drinking water on myself in an effort to cool off?
So...Distance + Elevation + Pack + Heat = Uncertain Disaster for Stefanie. Fitness wise, I know I can do this. I can carry a pack, and I can pack it really light. I can hike a long way, and I can even hike uphill if I have to. The heat is the wild card. If anything is going to turn my attitude, it's going to be the heat. And the kicker? This isn't like a road race where I can just walk off the course and disqualify myself and go home if I'm not having it. Once I'm at the bottom of that canyon, I'm at the bottom, and the only way out is to hike my bad attitude out. Or, if my electrolytes get too funky, I can be taken out by helicopter, but I'd rather not go that way if I can avoid it. Hiking out with a bad attitude is actually preferable to that sort of helicopter ride....at least in theory.
I don't want to sound like this whiney, negative person, but I just don't know that I'm up for it. Don't get me wrong, I think it would be an amazing trip and it would definitely be a story to tell, but my heart's just not in it. And here's the very simple reason why. I don't like to struggle. It sounds silly to say that, because at the end of the day, who does like to struggle? The attitude that a normal person applies to struggling versus my attitude towards struggling is where the difference lies. I'm not one of those people who sees the merit in accomplishing something that requires a fair amount of struggling to get there. I applaud other people for struggling towards their goals, but I'd just rather not. If I embark on this trip and it's a constant struggle with the heat, with the distance, with the pack, with any adversity along the way, I'm going to hate it. And that hatred will not dissipate once the trip has ended. I will recall the trip in great detail, but with the memory that it was hard, it was painful, it was terrible, and that I had a bad attitude the whole time. I realize this is a personal problem and an obvious character flaw, but the fact that I'm aware of it has to count for something, right? I can choose my attitude most of the time, but there are times when it just gets the best of me.
I remember 7 years ago when Simon and I hiked down to Havasu Falls, also here in Arizona, in a canyon that eventually makes its way to the Grand Canyon. We went with Simon's sister Abby, and her friends Erica, Kristie, and Peppin. Despite the fact that it was a 10-mile hike to the campground, it was beautiful and it was fun and we went swimming everyday and played in the water and went on really cool hikes and we had ourselves a great time. But what is one of my strongest memories of that trip? The hike out...more specifically, the last bit of it which was all uphill, in the sun, in shoes that were eating away the skin on my heels and a pack that left bloody sores on my collarbones. The hike out began jovially enough, but by the time we were all exhausted and tired, conversation had stopped and we were just plodding our way along, slaves to the heavy packs on our backs and the sun beating down on us from above. The canyon walls which at the beginning of the trip were so beautiful and amazing had become oppressive and claustrophobic. I actually kind of hoped one of the mules from the mail train would run me over and end it all. The only conversation was Simon's sister intermittently asking what time it was. As we were nearing the end of the hike, on the terminal end of the brutal uphill climb, Abby asked once again what time it was, trying to determine how long it took us to hike out, and without missing a beat I said, "who fucking cares?" And I still feel bad about it. And how awful for them to be around someone with such a crappy attitude. It was an innocent, simple question, and I didn't even have the decency to, at the very least, not say anything at all.
It is that "who fucking cares" moment specifically that is giving me the most pause in relation to the rim-to-rim hike. I don't want to be like that, and I don't want anyone else to have to deal with me when I'm being like that. I know me better than anyone. I know my attitude when faced with adversity, and it's not pretty. It's not fun for me, and more importantly, it's definitely not fun for anyone else. Most people don't get it. There is merit in the struggle, I'll be so happy with the accomplishment when I'm done, it's a once-in-a-lifetime trip...these are all things that I've heard from people as I've been waffling back and forth between going and not going. I want to believe them, truly, I do. Some might wonder what the point is in my doing anything at all, given that life in general is varying degrees of struggling along the way. But therein lies the key...varying degrees of struggle allow me to gauge what will bring about success with a tolerable level of struggle. Struggling does not equal fun. At the end of the day, I guess I'd just rather not struggle unnecessarily.
Sometimes I think it would have been better had I not known anything about the hike, then I would have no choice but to suck it up and do it, not knowing any different. Sometimes knowledge is power, and sometimes it's a burden. Perhaps I'm overthinking this. Perhaps I'm not. Perhaps I should just go and if I have a meltdown, I have a meltdown. There's got to be places in the canyon where I can give myself a time out and take a nap, right? Maybe? Or perhaps I should just do myself and everyone else a favor and stay home, maybe do some day hikes in Flagstaff, where at the end of the day I can sleep in my own bed, with my swamp cooler on high, my little dog snoring by my side, with the full knowledge that if things get unbearably hot, I can just go someplace air conditioned and hang out. I sound like such a sissy. Probably because I am. Oh well. There are worse things in life than being a sissy.
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