It was early afternoon on a hot August day in 1989. Sweat dripped from our brows as two friends and I trudged up the South Bass Trail in the Grand Canyon. The increased elevation brought cooler temperatures compared to those deep in the canyon, which this time of year was more reminiscent of a blast furnace than a national park. When we finally reached the rim, the typical euphoria of having accomplished the task, the satisfaction of conquering one of the seven natural wonders of the world, the pleasure of standing on the rim and looking down thousands of feet on beauty we had just experienced – all of that was missing. Our 4-day backpacking jaunt had in fact been cut short by two days. Two of us felt rather distraught over the matter, having our attempt to reach Royal Arch scuttled. The other was elated to be out of the canyon. This newbie couldn’t wait to cover the 30 miles of rutted dirt road back to civilization, away from this hell hole. He had had enough of the two kooks who had brought him to this wilderness inferno where life hangs in the balance of water in one’s backpack and green-slime bedrock pools which may lie around the next bend or may not exist at all.As I dropped my burdensome backpack to the ground and felt the instant relief to my back and shoulders, I became aware of two other hikers preparing to head into the canyon. A where-are-you-going, where-have-you-been conversation ensued. When one of them mentioned a shorter route to Royal Arch off of Point Huitzel, my mind was suddenly off the ill-fated hike we had just completed and onto the next adventure. When I pressed for details about this other route, he simply said, “Harvey writes about it.”
He didn’t bother with a last name. The other hiker was a complete stranger. We had never met and weren’t likely to again. Yet the name “Harvey” rolled off his tongue as if he were referring to a mutual friend or one of my brothers. He knew that I knew who Harvey was.
It seems a bit pompous when Grand Canyon Explorer John Wesley Powell, the first to float the Colorado River through the canyon, commands three names instead of one. In contrast, the man who “walked over more of the Grand Canyon than any other alive or dead”, is simply known as Harvey. To any serious hiker who has experienced the backcountry of the Grand Canyon, Harvey is a mentor, a friend and a teacher. Never mind that he died a very old man in 2002. His presence and influence lives on.
Through his “Grand Canyon Treks” books, Harvey clued me and countless others into the wonders of such places as Royal Arch, Elves Chasm, Deer Creek, and Thunder River. If his books are Holy Scripture for the Canyon enthusiast, they are written in the language of Isaiah. They sort of make sense, but the real message is only gleaned by the most devout follower. Harvey didn’t give details on how to reach a destination as much as he pointed in the right direction. While nearly every hiker with Grand Canyon fever holds Harvey in near reverence, nearly all have near cursed him when drinking water ran short and with sun-parched lips they struggled to find a route using Harvey’s cryptic words.
Recently I got a book for Christmas, “Grand Obsession, Harvey Butchart and the Exploration of Grand Canyon”. When I finished reading it today, it caused me to pause and reflect. I already knew a little about Harvey the hiker. Now I knew Harvey the man.
Harvey’s fever-like obsession with the Grand Canyon was an extreme full-blown case for sure. In comparison, mine was mild. If Harvey is the Michael Jordan of Grand Canyon hiking, I’m a division II college player at best. When I add up all the days I’ve spent below the rim, they total a few months. Harvey’s add up to years. I’ve hiked hundreds of miles. Harvey hiked thousands. Fortunately the canyon never claimed the life of one of my hiking buddies like it did Harvey, but it scared me senseless when it threatened to. I can relate to Harvey’s frustration with hiking partners that could not keep up. While Harvey is in a different league, I feel a kinship through similar experiences, from a hungry and horrid cold night below the rim in shirt sleeves, to drinking green “pollywog soup”.
Who would have thought that this revered man, a quiet math professor, had the flaws that he did. Until reading his biography, I couldn't imagine Harvey being a litter bug or starting a brush fire by illegally burning toilet paper. The account of him hanging upside down from a failed rope ascent was comical. Though I’m envious of Grand Canyon places and sights that Harvey experienced that I never will, there is one experience that I’m happy to do without. Harvey’s obsession cost him years of marital happiness when his wife played “second fiddle” to Grand Canyon. I’m grateful my own canyon fever was never that severe.
I offer thanks to Harvey the hiker who was responsible for showing me so much of the Grand Canyon. I thank authors Elias Butler and Tom Myers for introducing me to Harvey the man. And, a big thank you goes out to all who have shared my Grand Canyon hiking experience over the years, including:
Monte Baldwin
Don Davis
Nate Fuller
Nick Fuller
Lynette Baldwin
Ryan Baldwin
Jerry Nelson
Brad Brown
Leon Fuller
Dan Fuller
Jerry Fuller
Loran Dennis Fuller
Jeanette Martin
Rick Charon
David Fuller
Jennifer Wraught
Rob Brusman
Carol Brusman
Rusty Spencer
Jack Grimm
Bill Grimm
Brad Edwards
Steve Dahmer
Bill Townsend.
