We awoke early to a brisk twenty degrees and immediately began breaking camp and getting our packs ready to go. The twenty-five pounds of my pack seems light now. What a difference a few hours a can make. We load Jason’s truck and drive a few short miles to the trailhead, which of course, does not provide any parking. We stop at Moran Point a mile further down the road. We put on our packs and make our way back to the starting point.
After a short distance through the woods, we see the sign marking the start of this unmaintained and treacherous path into the canyon. Down we go!
Almost immediately we found ourselves scrambling over boulders and questioning our path-finding skills, as we lose elevation extremely rapidly. Lowering myself down a 4-5 foot drop, made all the more difficult by my pack, I note a huge, thin limestone rock ready to slice anyone unlucky enough to lose their balance in half. I dub it the “Guillotine Blade”, for it appears to be such an instrument. A short distance further and we push our way across an amazing ledge with a 50-75 ft fall awaiting any clumsy travelers. Barely started and already this trail is earning its reputation.
For the next mile or two we lose and then partially regain elevation. My knees and feet are starting to feel it. At about this time, I see the first of many century plants we will encounter. This bizarre and dangerous-looking plant has a head of a few dozen 15” razor-sharp and dagger-like leaves projecting from it. The entire plant is about the size of a large Thanksgiving Turkey. Even stranger, many of the plants have a large, flowering stalk growing from their center to a height of 12-15 feet, almost like a giant phallus. It seems these plants live 15-25 years and grow this stalk shortly before dying – amazing plants.
We continue on, but looking back over where we came from can find no possible way to understand how we descended down such a steep and rugged cliff side; Amazing that John Hance ever found this trail.
Four hours in and all of us are in pain. Water breaks become more frequent, though they are less for water and more for muscle relaxation. Soon we reach the creek bed. Heaved from a seemingly solid sheet of red stone, the creek is not much more than a dribble at present.
Another mile or so and we hear the rush of the mighty Colorado River, forger of this majestic canyon. Upon reaching the chilling and fast-flowing river, we collapse on its banks and praise stillness. After six and a half hours, we have reached our destination.
After a short rest and water-splashing, we start to set up camp on a nearby sandy beach over-looking the Colorado. We fix some dinner over the portable camp stoves, tell tales of great adventures, and lost loves, and finally retire to our tents for some well-earned sleep. And this is somewhat beyond sleep. Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the constant ambient sounds of the rapids. Or maybe it’s the crispness of the warm air in this place, practically untouched by man. Whatever it is, this night of sleep is one of the best of my life.
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