Warner Springs was a ghost town. No one was outside. No cars drove by. With the resort closed down, it seemed a shell of itself compared to 2005. Back then, the hot springs resort had been an oasis for hikers. There had been a gas station and store. There had been people. The memories haunted me. I could hardly believe I was in the same place.
Back at the trail crossing, I spied a man outside the fire station. I walked over to him.
“I’m a PCT hiker and the community center is closed. Is there any place here I can fill up my water bottles?”
The firefighters were generous, inviting me to rest in the shade and take as much water from their spigot as I wanted—water that did not taste like a chemical cocktail. I recovered some of my appetite and took a bite of a granola bar. I choked on its dryness and spit it out. I drank more water and took a smaller bite. As I sat out one of the hottest hours of the day in the blessed shade, two separate firemen came out and plied me with bottles of Gatorade. To save my phone battery, I played with my watch’s buttons until the alarm was set for 5 a.m. I also turned on the hourly alarm. Maybe with a reminder, I could manage to take in a small amount of calories more regularly. I shouldered my pack, now holding three and a half liters of water, and stepped inside to thank the firefighters. Then I headed out into the heat of the day—to again cross this arid, exposed terrain that shimmered with mirages and memories.
GRAND CANYON, ARIZONA / MAY 2001
I had never seen the desert before I arrived in Arizona. My only experience with it prior to that had been the black-and-white John Wayne movies my dad watched repeatedly. I expected rippled dunes and scrubland where people crawled on their elbows toward a mirage, only to die of thirst beneath circling vultures.
To my astonishment, it was nothing like that. It was beautiful in a way I had not imagined. Soft colors belied the rugged, rocky terrain. The South Rim was thickly forested with pine trees. Kaibab squirrels, with their tufted ears and fluffy, white tails, ran amok in all directions. From the office, I collected paperwork, the key to my shared quarters, and a stack of uniform clothing before stepping outside to take in my first view of the Grand Canyon.
Even in my sleep-deprived state—having dozed fitfully on the floor of the Las Vegas airport the night before—I was unable to turn away from the view. I sat on a short brick wall for forty-five minutes and stared, transfixed.
By age eighteen, I had read enough of adventure to know that I no longer wanted to simply read about it. I wanted to experience it firsthand. I began by traveling with school and volunteer groups: first to Germany and then Alaska, South Dakota, and West Virginia. My first year of college, I found a brochure advertising volunteer ministry work in the national parks while working an additional summer job. I decided that I wanted to see the Grand Canyon, so I filled out an application and mailed it in. A few weeks later, I not only received an acceptance letter from A Christian Ministry in the National Parks, but my employment packet from Xanterra, the park concessionaire managing the Grand Canyon. I’d be spending my summer living at the South Rim and working in the Yavapai Lodge.
The next day, my new coworkers invited me to hike down into the canyon. Although I was suffering from a raging blood infection in my foot from stepping on a broken fence right before leaving home, the side effects of the antibiotics for that infection, and mild altitude sickness from being above two thousand feet for the first time in my life, I said yes. There was no way that I wasn’t going.
I swallowed my morning antibiotics, grabbed a small bottle of water, and put a granola bar in my pocket before following the other four people from our housing area to the Bright Angel Trail. We walked down toward Indian Garden, spiraling through the eons frozen in the rock layers. I was too enthralled by my surroundings to feel the ache in my foot. I couldn’t believe such a place existed, nor that I was actually here.
One by one, everyone turned back except one of my roommates. She was determined to reach Indian Garden and I was determined to follow her. She was a collegiate basketball player; tall, willowy, confident, and strong. I was sedentary, overweight, and completely in over my head, but, wanting to be what she was, I refused to stop until she did. The temperature rose as we neared the broad, flat Tonto Platform. My infatuation with the scenery could no longer keep me distracted from the pain in my foot, heat-induced drowsiness, and the cramps in my legs, but I refused to turn back.
We reached the lush oasis of Indian Garden as the sun reached its apex. The large thermometer on a post alongside the trail read 120 degrees. We sat on a bench in the shade for a few minutes, drinking water from the faucet nearby, before beginning our climb back out. I’d never walked more than two miles before in my life—the roundtrip from Indian Garden was going to be at least four times that distance.
The world spun. I felt nauseous. Rest areas with fountains were spaced a mile and a half apart, yet I still ran out of water. My foot, throbbing, was swollen against the straps of my sandals. My head pounded. A mule team approached—a string of animals carting other overweight, sedentary folks down into the canyon. A voice in the back of my head chimed in over the sound of hooves clanking down the trail: People like you don’t hike, Heather. They ride. In cars, on mules, in airplanes. I leaned against the striated walls to let them pass and prayed not to die. When I started moving again, I could see that my roommate had pulled ahead of me. For some reason, all I could think about was my high school gym teacher. How I’d thrown the shot put in class almost as far as our state record holder. I thought of his repeated requests that I join the track team. He’d seen potential there, somewhere. I put my hands on my thighs and pushed down with every step, focused on not losing sight of my roommate.
I lost all sense of time as we hiked upward. My world was a spinning kaleidoscope of sky and swirling, colored rock layers, with my roommate at the center of my vision. Steadily, I inched upward through time. Finally, we crested the rim of the canyon.
GRAND CANYON, ARIZONA / AUGUST 2001
The Canteen at Phantom Ranch was crowded, even though dinner had ended. Post-meals, non-guests were allowed to relax in the cozy space filled with community games and quite a bit of talk and laughter. I had left my dark campsite near the Colorado River and shyly picked a spot at an empty table to sit and journal. In the midst of writing about my experience descending the Bright Angel Trail that morning, and my afternoon spent building a sand castle on the bank of the Colorado River, a shadow fell across the notebook.
“Mind if I join you?”
I looked up to see a young man with disheveled blond hair and a battered knapsack standing across the table. His accent was decidedly British and his appearance fit my romanticized idea of a world traveler. I was immediately intrigued.
“Of course,” I closed my notebook. “I’m Heather.”
“Mark.”
He plopped down across from me and smiled. “Journaling?”
“Yes, I try and write every day. Have since I was about nine. Although sometimes I don’t have much to talk about.”
He nodded and fiddled with the cup of water in his hands.
“I keep a journal too. Especially when traveling.” He pulled a battered leather journal out of his pack and set it on the table. “It’s been to seventeen countries and three continents . . . so far.”
“Wow. That’s really cool. How long have you been traveling?”
“This is month seven of a planned yearlong holiday. How about you?”
“I’m actually working at one of the hotels on the South Rim for the summer. I wanted to try and hike across the canyon before I leave. So, I hiked down today. Heading to the other side tomorrow.”
“Impressive. That’s a long day. You must do a lot of tramping.”
“Sort of. Day trips mostly. Actually, this is my first overnight. I had to borrow everything from my coworkers.”