We rose at the ass crack of dawn on Thanksgiving morning to boldly set forth on our Grand Canyon adventure[1]. Anna drove the way there, zigging and zagging through the tumultuous back roads that connect Sedona to Grand Canyon National Park. I, unabashedly, slept the duration of the ride. When we arrived at the Park, it was (still) pitch black outside. As we rolled up to the admission’s ticket window, Cam woke me with the instruction to ready my National Park’s pass, but his efforts were to no avail: The ticket window was dejectedly deserted. I guess this is what happens when you arrive at 6:30am on a national holiday. Thus, we marched onward without anyone’s knowledge of our presence in the park. It was almost as if we were on some covert, under-cover operation: We rolled in without leaving a trace of our presence while the park rangers slumbered completely unaware of our intrusion. We could have been National Parks saboteurs…And no one would have ever known. Perhaps these thoughts were simply indicative of my post-sleep catatonic state, but I fancied we were pretty badass.[2]
Once we secured our rightful place in the very first parking spot that Anna passionately determined we secure (and let me tell you, the competition was fierce…not.), we emerged from the car and entered a full-fledged winter wonderland. Except, I didn’t find much wonder in the “winter land:” a frost-covered, 31° uninhabited National Park’s parking lot[3]. The girls quickly ran to the nearest bathroom (which was, perhaps unsurprisingly, also uninhabited) to desperately encase ourselves with the meager layers we had packed with the intention of being prepared, and cursed ourselves for the insanity of the adventure we were about to undertake. Meanwhile, even werewolf, cold-immune Cam similarly suffered the wrath of the Park’s fiery frostbiting fury and donned his warmest. This did not bode well: If Cam was cold within seconds of leaving the comforts of the car, then the rest of us were doomed. We were in for a long day.
After each of us had layered up to the best of our abilities, we set out for the bus stop. Before doing so, however, I had the brilliant idea that I would fill up my water bottle with cold water at the outdoor water station. Our hotel water had been warm and undesirable, and I, pleased with myself for finding a solution to our earlier griping, gleefully emptied my entire water bottle only to find that the water valves were frozen: No water for us. Pointer: If you ever intend on hiking one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World, make sure you have more than enough water and sustenance so that you don’t slowly and violently perish in your endeavors. Seems like a pretty basic stipulation of hiking, right? Fail: Grand Canyon-1, Katie-0. Did I mention we were in for a longggg day?
Despite our rough, early-morning start, upon our departure from the deserted park service bus (which, in stark contrast to my previous visit to the Grand Canyon with my family where we rode this very same bus packed to the gills with loud, smelly, and largely non-English-speaking tourists) we encountered the Grand Canyon for the first time and were humbled out of our complaining. We had arrived just as the sun was rising, and the way the early morning light reflected off the upper Canyon walls was simply breath taking. Literally. Between the sweeping views and the frigid morning air, I was literally breathless.
In my wheezing excitement I was overwhelmingly consumed by two complementary thoughts. First, I was taken with how deeply this natural wonder seemed to echo Gerard Manley Hopkins’ ruminations: “The world is charged with the grandeur of God…” Was this scene not brimming with color and light bouncing off of each of the Canyon’s seemingly endless walls, evoking a life-giving charge and jolt of vivacity? Secondly, and perhaps not as bookishly-inspired, I was reminded of my fourth grade self who not only memorized the “50 States” song[4] but also the complete lyrics to “America, the Beautiful.” Instantly I was inspired by the spirit of Katharine Lee Bates’[5] “purple mountain majesties” and overcome with a delusional, disproportionate sense of patriotism for it not even being 7 o’clock in the morning[6].
This drunken delight was only exacerbated by the fact that, upon my unrestrained need to “peek[7]” and rifle through the apparently limitless nature of the 120 colors in my crayon box, I happened to have it on good faith that there was, in fact, a purple crayon dubbed “Purple Mountains’ Majesty[8]” awaiting me in my Pandora’s treasure trove of pigments. My “I-know-what-color-I-am-going-to-blog-next” high, mixed with my “We-are-at-the-Grand-Canoyon-on-Thanskgiving-*colon*-look-at-all-the-color” high sent my spirits soaring and provided me with the adrenaline necessary to overcome the distractions of my chilled body and full-heartedly embrace our impending hike.
We began our descent around 7:15am, just in time to witness the light reflecting off the Canyon walls and casting the purple hue that so fittingly evoked the inspiration for this blog post. The first mile or so of our hike was particularly frozen and icy—which is actually terrifying when you know that, if you were to slip and fall, you would comfortably meet the bottom of the Canyon a mere 6,000 feet below you—, but we fervently pressed onward. Cam, Anna, and I were captivated by just how dramatically the light changed the Canyon’s colors as we slowly descended and wove our way around the numerous mule-poop-laden[9] switchbacks. I was also quite taken with the various hikers we inevitably encountered on the trail; indeed, about 90%[10] of the hikers we encountered were perfect portraits of over-pouring optimism as they spiritedly greeted us with smiles and energetic salutations like “Happy Thanksgiving” and “What a great way to spend Turkey Day!” How could this infectious, good-natured spirit not overtake us?
We continued our descent, keeping a cheerful, consistent pace. We routinely stopped for our Cam-mandated water breaks, and, as we began to trek further and further down the Canyon walls, the temperature steadily and encouragingly rose, prompting us to triumphantly shed portions of our “Randy from A Christmas Story” bulky layers. Although our knees began to hurt, we were buoyed forward by the promise of the Colorado River.
Soon after we reached “Indian Gardens[11]” lush with its luminescent yellow-leaved trees, we encountered deer on the trail just several feet ahead of us. We were shocked by how wholly un-intimidated they were by us—it was almost as if they were suggesting, “Move along, folks. Nothing to see here!” We saw seven different “nonchalant” deer over the course of our hike. No big deal.
Finally, just before noon, we reached the final mile-and-a-half flat stretch of trail (thank God!) before we would come face-to-face with the Colorado River. Notably, as we had been descending we could see this flat expanse of trail for quite a while, and it had looked so tiny and impossibly far away! Now we were hiking on it, and, trying to look back at the vast expanse of terrain we had traversed, we realized that we had gone so far down that we weren’t even able to identify our starting point. Talk about perspective.
Anxious for the PB &J lunch we had stuffed in our three backpacks, we continued on the flat road and almost ran to the Canyon rim[12] when we heard the forceful rush of water from below. There it was! We took about 20 minutes to hug each other in celebration, marvel at the expansive, unrelenting views that engulfed us, undergo a photo shoot, and vocally rejoice in our accomplishment before we settled down for a much-earned Thanksgiving lunch. There’s nothing like enjoying a picnic by the Colorado River whilst deeply emerged in the Grand Canyon to cast perspective on just what it is you are thankful for.
After we had filled our bellies and rekindled the excitement we would desperately need to tackle “the way up,” we set forth on our uphill adventure. Contrary to popular opinion, I actually thought hiking was easier on the way up because it didn’t put as much strain on my knees: Burn, baby burn! Although it was difficult, the three of us were filled with enthusiasm and optimism as the adrenaline of our soon-to-be-accomplishment coursed through our sweaty, weary bodies. We became the cheerful hikers we had encountered on the way down that joyfully greeted strangers despite the physical exertion and taxing quality of the upward climb.
Although we needed to take several stops (although, notably, not many more stops then our built-in, Cam-mandated water breaks called for) for water and to re-layer (Boo!), we surprised ourselves with the concentrated intensity and energy that we put forth. All in all, it took us six hours to hike the 12.5 miles up and down the Grand Canyon to Plateau Point—six and a half hours if you count our lunch break— and we reached the upper rim shocked that we had plenty of daylight to spare. Drenched in frozen sweat and overcome with exhaustion, we all went in on a group hug and reveled in the sweet victory of our Thanksgiving Day feat!
Our holiday was made even more perfect when we piled back into the car and spirited our way home joyously belting Christmas tunes. Upon arriving back at the hotel, we promptly showered, called our families, poured wine, heated up the yummy Thanksgiving sides we had picked up from Whole Foods the day before, and satisfyingly sat down for our less-than-traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Given the extent to which we “earned it,” it was one of the most satisfying meals I have ever consumed. And that is something truly worth giving thanks for.
[1] A quick note about why we left at the god-awful time we did: Upon diligently conducting research, we discovered that it typically takes hikers about twice as long to ascend the Canyon as it takes to descend it. And, provided that we were determined to reach “Plateau Point” where hikers can behold the Colorado River for the first time during the hike, we wanted to allow ourselves enough of a “cushion” so as not to complete our hike in the dark. Hikers suggest 9-12 hours, so, despite our desire for sleep, we planned accordingly. Pretty smart, right? For all the moms out there who doubted us: We are, in fact, capable of not killing ourselves.
[2] Yes, I have now used “ass” twice in this paragraph. You’re welcome.
[3] The cold never bothered you, anyway? Really? What kind of crack are you smoking, Elsa?
[4] As a result of my music teacher’s seemingly endless drill-sergeant-like zeal, I still maintain this capability and am, consequently, quite proud of myself…
[5] Yes, we have the same name: Get at me!
[6] Clearly I needed more coffee.
[7] Yes, I was (and continue to be…) THAT KID at Christmas. Guilty as charged.
[8] Who knew, right? I guess a box of 120 crayons calls for some serious unrestrained, nature-inspired creativity.
[9] Hey, the Canyon’s breathtaking views and colors were distracting, but not that distracting as to prevent me from beholding (and inhaling) the feces-strewn pathway. Mules, this “road” that you are walking on comprises one of the Seven Natural Wonders of the World: Have a little decency!
[10] Noticeably, there is a decided 10% lack: Here’s looking at you grumpy old men with 100-pound backpacks and self-consumed European hiking fanatics who don’t have the decency to know that Thanksgiving is a day where you, inherently, give thanks.
[11] Not to be confused with the restaurant, “India Garden,” in South Bend, Cameron Houk.
[12] Just kidding. The flat stretch we were on made it very apparent how high up we still were. There was no way I was going to run.
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