Our Rim to Rim Hike And How It Didn't Go As Expected

“Finish it. Even if you have to crawl.”

As we rode the 5 am shuttle to the South Kaibab trailhead, the starting point for our 21-mile hike across the desert complete with extreme elevation and climate changes, packs on our backs, hiking poles in hand, I knew one thing for sure. I was experiencing my last few moments of comfort.

As an individual who highly values putting myself outside of her comfort zone and challenging myself to be uncomfortable (it builds character, resilience, and fortitude) I was excited. As a human being, I was nervous. I knew I was voluntarily about to be uncomfortable for approximately the next 9-12 hours. And I was right, except for one critical detail- the duration of time we would be uncomfortable.

As we headed down the South Kaibab trail, descending into the canyon, the views were incredible. To the point, it’s almost silly to even try and describe.

The Canyon is so massive, so immersive, it swallows you whole. It doesn’t look real from that view- It’s truly as if you’re hiking through a painting. Or like you’re in a room with a green screen surrounding you and the background is merely an illusion.

The trail was steep, and designed in a “switchback” way, with four-foot-wide paths hugging the very edge of the cliffs, switching back and forth in opposite directions every 20-50 feet as you drop lower and lower towards sea level.

At 5:30 am the air was crisp and not yet hot, and on the particular day we went, the winds were whipping at 30-40 miles per hour. I had an awe-inspired, yet uneasy feeling the first hour or so, realizing the very real possibility of a fall off the edge.

At one point I was trying to do the math in my head of if it was possible for a 40-mile-per-hour gust of wind to lift me and my 18-pound pack up and off the path over the ledge. Then I reminded myself I'm bad at math and quit trying to figure it out. It was almost impossible to not walk and have your head on a swivel, staring wide-mouthed at all the glorious views surrounding you in a 360-degree fashion, but imperative you practiced enough self-control to keep your eyes directly on the path ahead so as to not take one step in the wrong direction.

My husband and I promised each other we would always look forward and down, and stop to plant our feet before taking a picture or admiring the Canyon.

Despite there being a few very narrow areas of the path where it felt as though we were suspended 6,000 feet above the ground without even a canyon wall beside us to place a hand on for comfort as the winds gusted and we held our Tilly hats tightly against our heads as to not lose them into the abyss below, I eased into my discomfort fairly quickly. Dare I say I even got used to it? I am terrified of heights and I knew this would be one of the toughest aspects of the hike for me mentally. I took a few moments to look over the edge and stare my acrophobia in the face and reminded myself the ledge couldn’t hurt me. I had plenty (… four feet..) of ground to stand on, and I simply had to trust it. And myself. So I did.

Settling into this mindset was what allowed the first part of this hike to be some of the best hours of my entire life. Getting glimpses of the green Colorado river below (the body of water that audaciously and independently carved out the Grand Canyon in its entirety), looking back up and seeing how far we had come and the impressive switchbacks we had already traversed, stepping aside and standing perfectly still as a mule pack walked by us with 3 feet to clear from the edge, the greens of the fields, the blues of the endless skies, the browns and tans and reds of the repeating Canyon ahead, I felt good. I felt full. I felt alive and happy and so SO small in the most humbling way. I felt grateful and awe-struck, and blessed to be experiencing every fleeting moment. I told my husband it was like our wedding day- so much anticipation, the best day of our lives finally arrived, and I knew it would be over before we knew it.

We descended down to the bottom and were walking on the Black Bridge over the Colorado river seemingly before we knew it.

We took a few moments to look to our left and our right, then carried on.

We stopped just over the river and filled our water bladders at the first available potable (clean, treated) water station available and I was happy to see my bladder was just about empty, meaning I was right on track with taking sips frequently enough to keep myself hydrated. I dumped my carefully calculated 6 packs of Tangerine Liquid IV (electrolyte powder, important to avoid losing too much salt through sweat and having a dangerous electrolyte imbalance occur within the body) into my 3L of water, shook it up, and took a nice long refreshing swig of the cold, lemonade tasting mixture. We ate our salty snacks, took in the view of the river one last time, and moved on.

We arrived shortly after at one of the most sought-after attractions in the whole world- Phantom Ranch.

A tiny little canteen situated at the very bottom of the canyon, serving as an oasis for hikers coming by way of the north or south, offering bathrooms, potable water, even bags of ice, famous lemonade, and salty snacks. The lemonade WAS good and I took the time to purchase a stamped postcard, filled out my own address and a short message of how proud I was to my future self, then dropped it in the box designated for things to be carried out by mule the next day.

By this time it was getting hot. Very hot. 100+ degrees hot. I took off my windbreaker, and ran my buff under the potable water, then draped it around my neck, grateful for the cool fabric against my sweaty skin. I grabbed the cotton tee shirt I had in my bag and soaked it in the cool water as well, then put it on, dripping wet, over my sweat-wicking long-sleeved REI hiking shirt. Lastly, I soaked my Tilly hat, slung it back onto my head, grabbed my stuff, and as soon as my husband was also thoroughly wetted down, we continued on.

The bottom of the canyon (the stretch between Phantom Ranch and our next stop at Cottonwood Campground), also known as “the box”, was a very long stretch, both beautiful in scenery and brutal in heat. In contrast to being on top of cliffs and hugging ledges like the first part of the hike, we were surrounded by towering walls on either side and close enough to see the differing types of rock that marbled the Canyon.

There was a creek that ran in the direction opposite of our hike along the left side of the trail that at times was small and babbling and at others transformed itself into cascading waterfalls.

I noticed the water in my bladder was a bit warm the first few sips, which was slightly off-putting, but I drank up anyway, careful to avoid dehydration and gratefully taking in the electrolytes. My snacks were getting a bit melty and unappetizing, but I kept on nibbling away to keep ahead of the thousands of calories I knew I was burning. It was undeniably hot, and my body started to let me know it was acutely aware that conditions outside were not normal, but I felt good, and we continued on.

We came upon a part of the creek that had an access point, and I told my husband we needed to get into the water. The heat, while an extreme factor, wasn’t going to be my issue if I had any at all in the Canyon, but I knew it would be for my rather temperature-sensitive husband. We made our way down to the water, removed our socks and shoes, and soaked our bodies in the frigid water for a good ten minutes.

We could have stayed there all day, and I think my husband would have loved that, but I knew we had to continue.

My brain started sending me alerts that the longer we were in the canyon, namely the heat, the quicker trouble would find us. So I advocated for getting our shoes and socks back on, packing up our things, and carrying on.

It was a couple of miles from that point, hiking through a part of the Canyon that truly resembled an arid desert, the sun baking us from above, and the occasional 40 miles per hour winds whipping sand at us so brutally we would have to stop and turn away until it let up, that my husband came into some trouble.

He started needing frequent breaks to sit down, and at one point, he looked back at me as he stashed his camera into his bag, and said “No more pictures. I’m going to solely focus on making it”. I started worrying about heatstroke and kept my eyes peeled for an accessible water source.

The situation became a bit dire and desperate. He sat down underneath a scraggly tree that I think he thought provided some shade (which it didn’t), looked up at me, and shook his head.

His eyes were wild and had a mixture of frustration and panic to them, and then he said “Maybe if we sit here and wait until later when the sun sets, we can finish this.” I looked around, and everything in my body screamed we could not stay, that the longer we sat there in that spot, the longer we were in the Canyon period, the worse off he would be. The worse off the both of us would be. I looked at him and said “I think you have heat stroke, and I think you’re panicking” to which he replied, “I AM panicking!” I asked him if he wanted me to activate search and rescue on our Garmin in reach mini device. He shook his head and said no, but with somewhere around 10 miles left to go if I felt the need to get out sooner than later that I should go on without him. Leaving him behind was something I could have never fathomed, in or out of the canyon, so I gently told him with a calm smile all we needed to do was find him some water to cool off, and that he’d be good as new.

He told me after the fact that at this moment, he had to internally scream at himself drill sergeant style to get up and get on with it. It was one of the hardest moments of his life he recalls, but with enough grit and willpower, he got up. I put him in front of me, so he could set the pace until a distance ahead we came upon a small creek that flowed right across the trail.

“Water!” he literally screamed out in jubilation. We ditched our shoes and eagerly submerged ourselves into the shallow, life-giving cold pool.

Just as I expected (or, more honestly, hoped and prayed), the cooling of his body temp was all my husband needed to ward off the oncoming heat stroke and feel better enough to mentally tackle the idea of walking out of that canyon. So we carried on.

A few miles ahead we hit Cottonwood campground, a small rustic area that offers an option for people to rustically camp overnight with flat sites, restroom facilities, and potable water. We refilled our water bladders for what would be the last time, took a short break and ate a snack, then suited up for the 7-mile climb out (of note, we had been climbing since the box).

About five miles from the top, we came upon one of the last stops called Manzanita, a small area that offered restroom facilities, potable water, and a picnic bench to sit. We caught up with a group of four hikers that we passed and were passed by on and off throughout the day, always checking in on each other. At Manzanita, they reported one of their hikers was “not doing very well”, and upon looking at him, he seemed a bit out of sorts, exhausted, and possibly overheated. I pulled out my stash of emergency salt stick tabs, dumped a bunch into his hand, and told him to chew 2 every 10-15 minutes, and it should help some. He took the tabs very graciously, took two immediately, and after a few more minutes of resting, off they went. I bounded up the stairs to the bathroom, saying a quick prayer that the hiker would make it out and finish safely. After using the facilities, and taking a few swigs of water, my husband and I packed up and got back on the trail. We were a mere five miles from the end, and both feeling really good.

Something happened after leaving Manzanita, and I’m still not sure how to explain it. Over the next 2 miles, I started feeling….. off. I started feeling overwhelmingly tired, and my belly started to sour. I found it increasingly hard to stomach my snacks, and the tangerine flavored electrolyte-rich water that once was like a refreshing gulp of lemonade was now going down more as I imagine hot urine would. I found myself having to stop and take more and more breaks, and I couldn’t shake the somewhat terrorizing feeling that something was going very awry inside of me.

As we approached the 18-mile mark of our hike, a mere 3 miles from the top, this was the true beginning of the end for me. I remember dropping to my knees, dumping my pack off of my back, and sitting on my bottom, willing myself to breathe through what felt like my body becoming separate from myself, if that makes any sense. I tried gulping for air and I just couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen into my lungs. I felt nauseous, all of a sudden, and it crept from my toes to the top of my head, though I certainly didn’t have enough in my stomach to vomit even if I wanted to. I grabbed my head in my hands and told my husband I wasn’t ok and proceeded to lie down on my back.

Looking up, I realized the night was descending, and one of my worst fears also descended upon me at that moment- having to negotiate the end of our hike with nearly 20 miles in our wobbly legs on a four-foot-wide rustic path hugging the edge of a cliff, for three more miles uphill, in the dark. I had told myself for six months leading to the hike that as long as we were able to get out by the time it was dark, we would be ok.

So here I was, living in what was to me the worst-case scenario, for real.

The feeling in my body got worse as I laid there, not better, and suddenly I got the shakes. I got the shakes so bad that they came and went in waves, and hit me so hard that the onlooker would likely peg me for having a seizure. I was not having a seizure, and while very foggy, I was acutely aware of everything that was happening. I just couldn’t control it.

My husband opened his bag and dug into the emergency stash, the one we were never supposed to have to touch. He grabbed a winter hat and put it on my head, then opened up the 4x4 inch tightly packaged emergency Bivvy (a super-thin, lightweight sleeping bag that holds in your heat in a very effective manner), and placed it on top of me. It helped a little, but the shaking didn’t stop. He begged me to let him feed me an energy gu, and the mere thought of swallowing anything, liquid, solid, or gel, was unimaginable. That’s when he pulled out the Garmin InReach emergency device and hit the SOS button, activating search and rescue.

Around this time, two hikers came upon us and stopped upon realizing the gravity of our situation. The female hiker knelt down and placed her hand on my chest, and the pressure helped a bit with the shaking. She pulled out a canister of oxygen from her pack and helped me use it several times, breathing in short, powerful bursts of pure O2. I’m really not sure if it helped, but I believe it did.

As my husband texted back and forth with search and rescue, the sobering realization began setting into my cloudy brain that the adventure was over. That I had failed. That someone was on their way to come get me out because I was a weak quitter that was unable to help myself and walk out on my own two feet. I stared up at the beautiful night sky as tears ran down my face.

“Three miles,” I whispered up to the girl giving me oxygen. “I can’t believe I’m going to lose this to three miles.”

At some point, the hikers stated they were going to continue on and alert someone at the top of the canyon once they were out that we needed help, and they disappeared into the night.

That’s about the time my husband mumbled something.

“This is bullshit.”

I looked over at him, and I saw a look in his eyes I had never seen before.

“They’re not coming,” he informed me. “There’s nowhere to land a helicopter given we are on a four-foot-wide path on the edge of a cliff thousands of feet in the air. They can send a medic to hike down, but said it could take hours.” It was so silent I could hear him shake his head. “So, we have three options. Hike to Manzanita, 2 hours back down, for a safer place to camp out overnight. Or, camp out right here, until the morning. Or we continue on.”

It’s very strange when search and rescue’s reply to your desperate call for help is “sorry. but we can’t.” (And in hindsight, I'm glad they didn't try, for a myriad of reasons).

It’s so very strange when you’ve thrown in the towel, and the Canyon picks it up, throws it right back at your face, and says “Nope. Not an option. Get up. And finish it.”

The prospect of making it 3 more miles in my state of being, in that setting, at night, uphill, seemed beyond impossible. I wasn’t sure how I would manage. I wasn’t sure if I simply needed a safe, good, long rest out of the elements, or if I needed true medical attention. But I was sure of one thing- neither of those options existed where I was laying.

So, I pushed myself upright to a sitting position, and with my husband’s assistance, got to my feet. He secured a headlamp to my forehead, as the night surrounding us was the pitchest black I had ever experienced.

He put his own bag on his back, mine on his front, positioned me ahead of himself, and we began moving. Slowly. Up the Canyon.

Step by step, I became acutely aware of the treachery of the “well maintained” path we were on. It was made of sand, littered with small boulders and uneven stepping stones. Between my delirium and the nature of the darkness, I stumbled with every single step I took. Jason kept a firm hand on my back and directed me away from the edge as needed. Making small steps of progress without the weight of my bag breathed life back into me the way Jesus resurrected Lazarus from the dead. I still felt absolutely awful, but for the first time in a long time, I had the smallest glimmer of hope that I could actually make it out. After a few more switchbacks, I was able to swish some water around my bone dry mouth and then spit it out.

I took my bag back from my husband.

I found myself able to walk about 200 feet at a time, crash to my knees (after my husband checked for scorpions, brushed off scary-looking spiders that crawled on me, and shooed away a pesky little mouse that seemed fairly certain I was going to be his next meal), sling my bag off of my back, swish a little more water, before painfully pushing myself back to my feet, slinging the bag onto my back, and traveling another 200 feet before repeating the process.

We did this for the next 2.5 miles up.

I focused on the fact that I had gone from not being able to put anything into my mouth, to being able to swish water, and now being able to tolerate small swigs.

I focused on the fact that the one-time tears had fallen from my eyes when I felt sorry for myself that I had quit translated to the fact I was still hydrated enough to cry.

I focused on the fact that we had booked a shuttle at 7 am to take us back to the south rim, and given it was about 2 am, we could still feasibly make it, as silly as that sounds.

I focused on the title of a book written by David Goggins that I had listened to while training in the months prior- “Can’t hurt me.”

I focused on the words a hiker spoke to me that came down the trail and asked how we were doing to which I gave him an honest report. “You’re almost there,” he answered. “Embrace the suck.”

I focused on the fact that we had already come 18 long, magical, life-changing miles, and I had been given a second chance to finish it.

Finally, through sheer grit, determination and desperation, I saw the end of the trail, approximately 10 steep steps ahead. I dropped to my knees, crawled the rest of the way, and finally made it onto the pavement of the parking lot that marks the trailhead.

We were done. We had made it.

It was 3 am. I looked on to the hikers that were being dropped off by loved ones, just starting their North to South journey, opposite of ours. Our hotel was 1.7 miles away, a mere couple of extra miles to walk which seemed like no big deal when planned on paper six months prior, but unfeasible at that moment. We both agreed we would either find someone in that parking lot willing to drive us, or we would gladly sleep on the pavement below our feet.

Luckily a kind woman loaded us and our bags into her small car after we begged and pleaded, and we found ourselves stumbling our way into the North Rim Lodge wayyy past check in time.

The lady at the front desk was doing a mediocre but honorable job at trying to hide the horrified look on her face while staring back at two hikers before her who likely resembled the walking dead. We apologized for the late arrival and asked if there were any vending machines or food options of any kind. The answer was no, not at that hour, but she generously offered a sandwich she had in her bag, stating she wasn’t going to eat it because it was a gift on top of a lunch she had already packed for herself. We refused, out of obligation, but the moment she shrugged and admitted it was likely to go to waste, I couldn't resist accepting her offer, and she handed over the most delicious-looking ham and cheese on rye I’d ever seen. She went on to tell us that she was unfamiliar with the new system that was being used to activate key cards, that we were going to have to wait for security to come to do it for her, and that it would be about 10 minutes.

So we proceeded to fall asleep in the lobby- me in a wicker chair, my husband on the floor.

She woke us up about ten minutes later, informing us she had decided to just change us to a log cabin style room she had available, handing over two physical keys that opened the front door. She then handed us a map and verbalized what sounded like complicated instructions on how to negotiate the lodge property and locate our cabin. We nodded, though neither of us really understood the directions. After confirming the room had two twin beds and a shower, we painfully slung our bags onto our backs and stumbled out the front door. We aimlessly looked around for longer than we should have, but finally located our cabin, which ended up being a mere 200 feet from the lobby.

We got ourselves inside the tiny rustic log cabin, dropped our heavy bags to the ground for the last time, and started peeling off our sweat-soaked, red dust-stained hiking clothes. I started getting the shakes again, so I quickly made my way into the bathroom, and turned on the shower, telling myself calmly a hot shower was all I needed.

I propped myself up against the bathroom wall and hung my hand in the stream of the shower. I pulled the shower handle as hot as it would go and waited on it to warm. I dozed off and woke a few minutes later, realizing the water was still ice cold. And it wasn’t going to get any hotter.

I shut it off, walked to the sink, and opened the hot water faucet, saying a prayer there was just something wrong with the shower, and it wasn’t that the whole cabin had no hot water hooked up. To my delight, it eventually got hot. I used a washcloth with soap and hot water to wipe down my whole body, removing as much of the red canyon dust that caked me from head to toe as I could, brushed my teeth, and emailed the shuttle company asking if we could please change our reservation from the 7 am shuttle (3 hours from then) to the 2 pm afternoon option and fell into bed.

21 miles. 105 degrees. 8,000 feet of elevation. 22 hours.

The next morning at 9 am we ate a delicious buffet-style breakfast in the North Rim Lodge. Tears filled my eyes as we sat at a window-side table with a breathtaking view of the canyon, likely the same window-side table I had made reservations for dinner at 8 pm the night before we never made.

I don’t know what happened to me at mile 18. And I don’t think I ever will. Had a medic magically appeared at that moment and taken my vital signs along with a blood sample, I imagine my blood pressure was low, my blood sugar critically low, or my electrolytes had become depleted. Maybe it was none of those or all of them. Maybe it was altitude sickness. Or maybe it was pure exhaustion. Maybe it was not enough training or the wrong kind of training. I focused on mileage (walking) and strength training. If someone MADE me do this exact hike again and told me I had six months to train, I would focus solely on stair training with weight on my back. I would get a Stair-master in my house, or join a gym that had a stair stepper, and I wouldn’t miss a day. I know getting a pretty bad case of COVID exactly 4 weeks prior to our hike didn’t help my case.

I don’t know what happened to me at mile 18.

But I do know a few things for sure.

I know what I’m capable of. I know where my limits lie, and that even when I think I’ve hit them, maybe, just MAYBE, I may have a little more in the tank.

I know second chances exist. And though some are meant to be passed up, some are the greatest blessing you can ever be given. Consider taking it.

I know that when a situation presents itself that seems overwhelming and insurmountable, if you simply focus on putting one foot in front of the other and take baby steps, that’s a perfectly acceptable way to get to the other side of it, no matter what your pride says. No matter how strong you are. And no matter how long it takes.

I know I will continue to look out for those who need help, and offer anything I can to make their journey easier. I also know I will be way more willing to accept help than ever before from this moment forward when a stranger or friend offers it and I truly need it. If I find myself needing oxygen, and someone has some to share, my God, I’m going to take it with humility and grace.

I know my husband and I truly DO trust each other with our lives. Having to prove that in the concrete way that we did was transformative to both of us, as a couple and individuals.

I know where I want to go from here. I know what the highest of highs and the lowest of lows in the same day feels like, and I want to harness this experience to strengthen myself further, physically and mentally.

It was very easy at first to have one perspective on this experience (and myself) and one perspective only- failure.

But that’s not what this was.

It was the opposite. It was the very definition of determination, toughness, fortitude, grit, and above and beyond anything, strength, resilience, and courage.

I am unstoppable. I am a force. I am unbreakable.

And I am forever grateful to the Canyon for making me prove it.