After a scrumptious steak lunch with a couple of beer chasers, we decided to begin immediately so Bob's relatives could escape the Canyon before the impending storm obliterated the road. We managed to hike a mile upstream with our expedition loaded packs before heat, a precipitous wall plunging into the river, and general exhaustion caused us to stop and set up our first camp at 5:00 PM. Both of us remarked on how sudden the transition from civilization had been. We were now along the river, deep within Grand Canyon, feeling terribly isolated, and with a tremendous amount of work before us. An intense period of breaking in new equipment, and ourselves, lay ahead.

The distance and terrain had convinced both of us to invest in new boots. This was ultimately a good decision, as we managed to wear the thickest Vibram tread off $125 Vasque and Fabiano boots in the following days. Unfortunately, a hiker cursed with new boots, however justifiable the reasons, always ends up with blisters. We were no exceptions. During the first week there were doubts whether we would reach Whitmore Wash, our reprovisioning site, before our supply of moleskin was totally exhausted. The oppressive September heat coupled with a lack of adequate physical training made the first week seem like marine boot-camp for the over-the-hill set. Bob had served in Vietnam as an army intelligence officer and experienced the real thing, but I'd always played at uncontrolled hardship, allowing myself to beat a hasty retreat if things didn't go as planned.

Tediously, we advanced upriver. Sometimes we encountered easy walking but on most occasions we were trapped between river and cliffs, or river and brush; frequently lost within seemingly impenetrable vegetation thickets. Always climbing up, down, around, or through trees, boulder fields, lava intrusions, and cliffs. Since we left on a Saturday afternoon and most boaters reach Diamond Creek on the weekend, river traffic was infrequent for the next several days. Later, we would occasionally see private parties who usually didn't notice us. Backpackers aren't common in the lower reaches of Grand Canyon. One morning we passed a group of four burros on the Tapeats Plateau but as the river pinched in closer to the canyon walls the terrain became too precipitous for even them.

We'd heard that there were impossible obstacles on our side of the river immediately above Parashant Wash, so our intention was to cross the river before we got there. We each packed a two pound raft which when inflated was about the size of a baby's cradle. We weren't eager to use them, as prior experience had revealed that we would each cross three times before our packs and bodies were on the far side. Since the 1963 closing of the Glen Canyon Dam floodgates and the filling of Lake Powell by 1968, the Colorado River is always 45-50° F downstream. Any enthusiasm for river crossings without a wet suit or life vest was suppressed while we patiently watched for a good spot to hail a raft.

Updated on Thursday, November 3, 2011 @ 4:30 MST © 1995-2011 by Robert R. Marley