A phone call came a few days ago from the other side of the world. My wife and I were relieved to hear from our oldest son after 7 days of “radio silence” while he backpacked alone in the wilds of Tasmania. The area was so remote his charter flight dropped him off on a remote dirt runway. The area is described as, “pristine wilderness, unaffected by humans”, with weather that is “highly changeable, and can be severe”. For several days he slogged through thigh-deep bogs in rain forest conditions, doing his best to discern tree roots from the plentiful black venomous snakes. He didn’t see another human being until his 5th day, which accounts for his remark, “I’ll never feel more alone than I did on this hike,”
When I hung up the phone, I was very thankful for his safety. At the same time I chided his foolishness for hiking alone. I also remembered being just as foolish more than twenty years ago.
During my Grand Canyon infatuation years, I became obsessed with finding the Point Huitzel route to Royal Arch and Elves Chasm. One late November trip took me by motorcycle from Phoenix three hours north to the Canyon, another hour ride across the Hualapai Indian Reservation on rutted dirt roads, then another two miles on foot through the pines to the south rim. After a cold frost-on-the-sleeping-bag night, I dropped into the Canyon expanse to search for the route, aided by a topographical map and Harvey Butchart's directions.
I was able to pick out landmarks and was certain I was on track until I hit the Coconino sandstone which guards the canyon from almost all would-be intruders with 400-foot vertical cliffs. Try as I might, I could not find a route through. As I searched, I saw a ledge about 8 feet below me which looked promising. With excitement I slid down to the ledge on a near vertical wall. But a look over the ledge gave me a severe case of vertigo rather than a route down. There was nothing but air for 200 feet below me. Unnerved, I turned to climb back up the way I came down. My heart nearly leaped out of my chest when I found it too steep to climb.
I was in a pickle. A precariously slanted 8-foot wide ledge was all that stood between me and a 200-foot fall to certain death. I couldn’t go down. I couldn't go up. I verbally chided myself for getting myself into such predicament. The old adage “look before you leap” never meant more. No one knew where I was. I was hours and many miles away from civilization. I might rot on that ledge for weeks or months before my bones were found. How could I be so stupid?
I said a pleading prayer. My prayer was answered when I saw a 8-inch wide vertical crack in the rock. It was too narrow to squeeze my whole body in, but I was skinny enough to get in a little more than half. With fists and knees wedged into the crack, I was able to inch my way up like a worm, all the while hoping I did not lose grip, fall, and roll off the ledge to my death.
When I finally pulled myself up and rolled onto safe ground, I felt a rush of relief. That was enough for me. I pulled on my backpack, climbed out of the canyon and hiked back to my motorcycle. I was exhausted, and was even more so after the 4-hour ride home. It was the evening before Thanksgiving when I arrived. The aroma of homemade pies, a loving wife, and three beautiful children greeted me. Indeed I was grateful for them all.
I returned to the Grand Canyon a few months later with hiking partners. We found our way through the Coconino, which required climbing through a very interesting hidden crack and down an Anasazi Indian tree-trunk ladder to some ancient petro glyphs, and finally to the Esplanade plateau. Afterward, I took that same route several times on trips to the Royal Arch and Elves Chasm. It should come as no surprise that subsequent trips were never done alone.
