Uphill, Both Ways...

First light was just beginning to peak over the ridge as I got my day started. The sun was warming but the damp night air had chilled the ridge just enough to make me move from ray of sun to ray of sun as it peeked through the trees. My bear bag was untouched, which made me wonder if I was carrying the best food. I lowered it down and picked  through my breakfast assortment. Hot butter flavored instant grits and coffee to warm my body and soul. I sipped my morning coffee while I  moved through the trees to keep the morning sun on my face.

I was bent on getting an early start on the trail. I knew most of the day was going to be uphill from 8,000 feet to 10,000 feet. I had hoped to get on the trail by 8:30 but when I looked at my phone to check the time, it was already 8:25 and had only packed and repacked Wilma twice. Three times is the norm while five makes me cuss.

Just a few minutes after 9:00 and I was on the trail again. I was feeling good despite the lousy night's sleep. I hadn't walked a half mile when I ran into one of those distant specks that had passed me two days before. There were four of them now. I am not sure what happened to number five, maybe they ate him. They had been calling me Clifford, as in the Big Red Dog. My bright orange rain cover that covered all 900 pounds of attachments to Wilma looked massive, like the big red dog.

I grinned and told them about Chalice and her calling me Taco Man. One of the guys told me his trail name was Poop Hands and his buddy was Chef. The third guy had not picked a trail name neither had the female. Just as he told me that, wearing her trail sports bra, she bent over to roll up her tent. I thought to myself perhaps they should call her Cleavage. Not that I looked or noticed or anything.

Poop Hands was making arrangements to get into Bailey so he could re-supply. His dog had cut his paw and he needed to get some first aid supplies as well. I offered mine, but he told me he was good to go. I bid them good day and good luck and started back on the trail. It was only a few hundred yards to the road and on to segment 4.

I ran into yet another geriatric contingent. They were leaving there Subaru at this trailhead, going to drive another Subaru to another trailhead and hike back. Sounded like a great plan to me and it was downhill. There is something to be said for that gray haired wisdom thing. While chatting with the chief geriatric, I noticed another hiker. She seemed really stressed. I changed gears and focused my attention to her. She told me her name was Holly. I didn't bother to ask if she had a trail name yet nor did I tell her mine. I just let her vent for awhile.

I had noticed Holly on the first night at the end of segment one. She had come into camp near dusk and camped with Dean and Evan. I was too tired to be social and figured our paths would cross another time. I had told her I had seen her at the river but was feeling too narcissistic to be social. I admitted pain and exhaustion had played a roll. She understood. She was looking to get off the trail for a few days to dry out, get some sleep and to allow the pain to dissolve. She told me she was tired of being cold and wet. She was sleeping in a bivey (a one person lightweight tent that resembles a body bag with a hood). Her  hips hurt. Her legs hurt and her shoulders hurt. She was tired of pain and being cold. She got a hold of someone on her cell phone and it sounded like she was making a good connection to get off the trail for a few days. I waved and wished her luck and started up the hill.

Segment 4 takes hikers into The Lost Creek Wilderness Area. The mountain bikers need to detour around this section and pick back up in segment 5. Wilderness areas are in existence due to legislation enacted in 1964 in which certain lands will be set aside and left as untouched as possible. Restrictions are in place that lend to the protection of these areas, one of them being mountain bikes. Hikers enter the wilderness area about two miles in from the road. When entering wilderness areas, hikers need to register and carry a permit. There is no charge for the permit. It is used primarily to track the use of an area. I am kinda thinkin' a turn-style would save paper.

Even though the weight in my pack had been lightened, the constant uphill was noticeable. There was a 2,000 foot elevation change in a seven mile stretch. For those that have hiked the Grand Canyon. The distance from Phantom Ranch to the South Rim using the Bright Angel trail is just under ten miles with a 4800 foot elevation change topping out at about 8,000 feet. I have made this hike numerous times and find it only moderately difficult. The 2,000 foot elevation gain in seven miles seemed to me to be a respectable challenge, but it turned out to be one of the most difficult hikes I have ever encountered.

From the trailhead to my first water source was about four miles. I stopped for lunch and to dry out my tent and make sure my sleeping bag had not gathered any moisture. The watering hole seemed to be a trail social center. There were day hikers and thru hikers passing through and enjoying the time by the creek. I listened to and spoke with several thru hikers. Their experiences was beginning to help me understand that this type of adventure requires a whole different thought process.

I had a great lunch and was motivated to knock out the next  three miles of uphill drudgery. The pack was digging in to my shoulder, the legs were going numb from the weight transfer to my hips and I was hardly moving more than a mile an hour. Breathing seemed excessively labored but I was nearing 10,000 feet and was thinking perhaps this was to be somewhat expected.

Once I made it over the high point, the trail lost a few feet of elevation and opened up into what might be described as a meadow. It was getting late in the day and even though I was exhausted, I had a burst of energy as I made my way down the trail. I was hoping to make up some time and make it to some campsites around mile 11.

The meadow reminded me of the area where I had gone on so many nine day campouts with my scout troop as a kid. Steep ridges on either side with water running through the kinnikinnick. I was in my element and had gotten a second wind. Feeling ten feet tall and bullet proof, I picked up my pace and was bent on making it further up the trail. I was hiking along at about a three to four mile an hour pace feeling good and feeling fine (singing "Do wah diddy diddy dum diddy do") when all of a sudden out of nowhere, it felt as though I had been punched in the middle of my chest. It literally stopped me in my tracks. It was as though someone reached into my chest, grabbed both lungs and my heart and said STOP! YOU AIN"T GOING NOWHERE HOSS! Ok, you have my attention, I had thought to myself. The pain eased up somewhat but my pace was back down to less than a mile an hour. I thought momentarily that I had a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot in the lung, which is pretty much a trip ender) but the pain became mild and what I might call more of a minor annoyance. I was still struggling with the good air being hard to get in and the bad air hard to get out as I poked along down the trail. I decided I would make camp at mile 8.

Several others were camped in the area and with safety in numbers, I crossed over the log bridge, dropped Wilma like a bad habit and leaned against the sign board trying to get more of the good air in. A dog had come out to greet me and was closely followed by his owners. A younger couple had a nice camp set up just up the hill. We chatted for awhile, mostly about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. I managed to work it in to the conversation, in two to three word sentences, that I was having some problems breathing and if they knew the area very well. I had noticed a road near their camp and asked if that road snaking out of the trees was a road that led to town. I didn't really care which town, just as long as it had a medical facility, cold beer and dancing girls.

They did know the area and the road did lead out. It was, however, a long rarely traveled road and the chances of flagging someone down was less than likely. The road crossed the path of the next trailhead but it was unlikely there would be anyone else there either. And as any good wife would do, she threw her husband under the bus. She told me her husband was going into Bailey tomorrow and if I was still feeling bad, I could catch a ride. He confirmed the offer. I told them I would see how I felt in the morning and would touch base then.

I could see Poop Hands and his crew making their way down through the meadow. I was amazed how they had made up for lost time. After a two to three hour layover near the end of segment three, they had still managed to walk into camp only a few minutes after I did. They were encouraging to the Taco Man but it really began to settle in just how slow my forward progress had become. It was a little concerning. They went their way to find a place to set up their tents for the nights, as did I.

There were too older guys that were, by their own admission, out of shape and over weight but yet quite comfortable in their slower progress. I called them Bob and Ray (the later years. You might have to google that one too). They pointed to several areas near their tents that looked suitable for camping. I found one about twenty to thirty yards away that already had a flat spot and a fire ring. A fire might lift my spirits but I knew I did not have the energy to go search and find enough dry wood. So I just set up there just in case I might need a fire ring later. You know, to keep the bears away or signal a passing space ship or something.

I set up my tent, grabbed something  easy to nibble on and made my way down to the bridge. I sat there and wrote for awhile. I was making a pro/con list about being on the trail. I could only think of four good things and 18 things that I just simply hated. I probably could have made a longer list but the sun was setting and the chill in the air became more than I wanted to tolerate (ok, 19 things). I made my way back to my tent, stashed my edibles and hung my bear bag. I chatted with Bob and Ray about my tent. They too were sleeping in body bags disguised as tents. They were impressed with the size of my tent, the weight and the price tag. We were all tired and I wanted so badly to feel rejuvenated by morning that I bid them good night, aired up my mattress again and tried to drift off to the land of Nod.

Another restless night. Go figure. This was becoming an unsettling routine. Once inside the tent, the whole world should simply disappear until you unzip in the morning. You should be left feeling refreshed in the morning, but that was not the case. Poop Hands and company were sitting around telling stories, which encompassed laughter. I love laughter but it seems to pierce the darkness more than a scream. They weren't being rude, I could just hear them. I can't be certain, but it seems to me that both Bob and Ray were both snoring before they zipped up their tent. Nor did they stop until just before they unzipped in the morning. Then of course there were the usual night noises from the nocturnal critters, you know- sasquatch, swishplop and of course the chupacabras. Tonight's night critter sniffed with a lisp, which was equally annoying while mildly entertaining. Like a member of a Motown quartet, I spun and swayed through the night until my 4:15 wake up call caused me to sit up, check the time (like I needed to) and return to the best sleep of the night. I made it until 6:00. I could hear Bob and Ray stirring, coughing up a lung and safely passing gas once they got out of there tents. I get the last one. Once you get to a certain age, you simply cannot trust your bodies ability to discern whether it is about to pass a solid, a liquid or gas, or all three, with reckless abandon. Being trapped in a body bag with this type of emergency is a blessing no one should ask for.

With the world stirring, I moved out of my tent to greet the day. I felt better but not rejuvenated. I checked to make sure my ride had not slipped out in the middle of the night. I watched in amazement as one hiker made his way across the mist lying low in the meadow. He had an earlier start on the day than most and wasted no time as he disappeared into the trees alongside the trail. After my morning constitutional, followed by a cold breakfast, I began to tear down camp. I did not want to lose my ride because I was not ready and coffee only seemed like a distraction on this particular morning.

I shoved everything into my pack and made my way over to the little red Ford Escape. They were making room in the cargo area, which I naturally assumed I would be sharing with the dog. I did not fully understand that Wendy was going to head out of camp for her trail run, which left the front seat open for me. I would have been fine with riding with the dog. I was feeling both blessed and humbled. With Wendy's Camelback loaded with water and her granola bars tucked safely in the back pouch, she verified their rendezvous, gave Dennis a kiss and was off on her run. We loaded up and made our way up that road that snaked through the trees. It really was uphill both ways. Just sayin'...