In searching for a route to the Colorado River, I had badly miscalculated the difficulty of trekking down to the floor of South Canyon, a dry ravine connecting with the north side of Marble Canyon. Now I had to pay the price; for several days I wasn't able to walk a-lick. It is a trip that should be reserved for the under-30-something crowd, or for those in top condition. I fail both tests miserably.

The trouble started because some newly purchased gear needed to be field tested and I sensed my camera was beginning to pout over its perceived neglect; it hadn't been out of the house for weeks. Then while perusing my maps, I spotted the South Canyon trail meandering for more five miles from the top of the rim, near House Rock Buffalo Ranch, down to the Colorado. An anglers trail - it is a route to the river without the usual waiting list. The first half mile of the trek is a 1100 foot descent, which I mistakenly considered as about twice as difficult the Squaw Peak trail, my occasional training ground. Surely I could handle it. The siren's song was calling me to the river; her music was laying waste to sound judgment.

Arriving at the trailhead around 5:30 that evening, my plan had been to spend the first night on the rim. But with the sun still fairly high in the western sky, I knew I could make the canyon floor before sunset around 6:45. Scampering down the Squaw Peak takes 20 minutes, so I reckoned the trek to the floor of the canyon shouldn't take more than 40 minutes - tops; there was plenty of time to spare! Looking down at the canyon floor from the rim was a little intimidating but there was a rock out-cropping about halfway down which formed a level bench; at worst, I could always stop on the bench and bivouac for the night. Tossing caution to the wind, the car was locked, the camera pack was buckled on and the new back pack was hoisted up as I eagerly started down the trail.

A canyon rim is a sheer rock wall; a vertical fortress denying easy access to the floor below. Great blocks of weathering rock break loose from the cliff, leaving a vertical face behind and adding debris to the slope below. The fallen material forming the slope is called talus. Occasionally a block will break loose but does not topple over, creating a slot between the cliff face and block. The trail to South Canyon begins by climbing down through the remnants of an ancient slot that is partially filled with debris. Descending the slot required some easy scrambling and then led quickly out onto the sloping talus. Exiting the slot I immediately realized this descent was not going to be anything at all like walking off Squaw Peak, there were no hand rails, no man-made steps, the trail was hard to find, the footing was treacherous and I was carrying a pack. It was going to be a tiring descent around ledges and cliffs while traversing a loose, almost flowing, surface.

Searching down the slope ahead, I could see the trail leading away from the bench; it was a clear target even if the path to it was not. After losing the trail several times I just plain gave up and picked my own way down to the bench. Although the first signs of fatigue were becoming noticeable as the bench drew near, any idea of stopping at this halfway point was rejected. With the light just beginning to fade on the canyon floor, I pressed on.

About 3/4 of the way down the slope, the leg fatigue could not be ignored - they ached; balance was impaired. A discarded walking stick was spotted and snatched it up immediately. A few steps later a foot slipped on some loose rubble; I leaned into the stick; it shot out from under my weight as I fell hard. While sliding to a stop on the rough slope above a small ledge, the stick was dropped and left it behind; it was inhabited by bad karma. Righting myself, I found arms and legs that looked as though they had lost a fight with a gang of cats but fortunately none of the damage was worse than some rather ugly scratches. A sweeping glance at the surrounding terrain confirmed there was no place to camp on the slope and going back up to the bench was out of the question; I was committed to the canyon floor with it's vanishing sunlight. Wounded and tired I pressed on again.

The difficulty of the trail subsided as it flatten out to meet the canyon floor. Reaching the dry wash of the canyon I searched for landmarks to mark the path for the return trip and I was relieved to find a stick with a flag had been jammed into a crack on top of a large boulder; the path home was well marked. Now a level camp spot needed to be found, preferably a spot not in the bottom of the dry wash but up and away from flash-flood danger. In the enclosing darkness, there was little choice but to pitch camp in the dry-wash, as high up on the bank as possible and still have a near level spot. With reservation, I picked a sandy spot in the shelter of a large boulder.

Like a drunken sailor in search of his land legs, I could scarcely stand on the slight slope of this campsite. Comically I wobbled around on the uneven ground on fatigued legs while trying to pitch a new tent in near darkness. In the low light, the new tent's rain cover was mistakenly pulled out of the pack and a futile attempt was made at pitching it. After correcting that mistake, the real tent was pitched, supper was brewed and the cleanup chores completed. Rummaging around in my gear, I was surprise to find my watch laying on the floor of the tent. Lost anywhere else, the watch would have never been found; an omen of luck turning in my favor. The time was 8:15, it was dark, there wasn't anyone else to talk to and nothing to read. I went to bed.

Still radiating body heat from the afternoon's exertion, I hit the sack in nothing but my Hanes - lying there with the covers thrown off; wide-awake and not the least bit sleepy. After tossing and turning awhile, a check with my watch revealed that what had seemed like a small eternity actually had passed in a scant twenty minutes; a tedious countdown to dawn began as the chill crept in through the tent's netting. Once I awoke from a short nap shivering; teeth chattering - putting on a shirt solved that problem. Later, again awakened by the chill, long pants were retrieved and pulled on. As morning approached cold feet woke me yet again; a pair of socks were jerked on. In the morning, getting dressed would simply mean putting on shoes and zipping my pants.

At the top of the rim, the canyon wall was brightly bathed in moonlight. Beyond the rim, the clear dark sky was filled with stars I had ignored since my youth. The canyon was an island of darkness and save for the occasional cricket, hardly a sound could be heard. In the middle of the night, I awoke from another short nap to find the canyon brightly splashed in light by the full moon shining down like a giant spotlight - it was nearly daylight bright - brighter than I had seen since I had reached the canyon floor. Eventually the moon drew back once again behind the canyon rim as darkness reclaimed the camp as it waited to be chased away by the coming sunrise. Several times I caught glimpses of some flying objects speeding past silhouetted against the moon-lit canyon wall; bats perhaps? Occasionally the rustle of critters scurrying near-by could be heard. On knees and elbows, with my face pressed against the tent's mesh, I swept the beam of the flashlight over the ground in the vicinity of the tent in a failing attempt to spot any of the citizens of the wee morning hours.

As a jaunty trekker I had been seduced into a trip that I was not prepared for and now it was time to silence that siren's song; it was time to turn back before I got deeper into trouble. Awakened by the sunrise, I put on my shoes and tried my unsteady legs. The first painful steps were alarming. I fixed breakfast (more Top Ramen - ugh), cleaned up the cooking gear and broke camp. While completing these chores I was encouraged to find that my legs were growing steadier. Oddly, moving up hill was OK but I couldn't negotiate even the slightest downward slope without painful complaints from my underpinnings.

I buckled on the camera pack, hoisted up the day-pack and started across the dry wash towards the foot-path. I hadn't bothered to take a picture of the canyon or of my camp-site. The foot-path led directly back to the stick stuck in the rock, marking the beginning of the climb; it only took a little over an hour with a few rest stops to reach the bench. Once on top of the bench I stopped and removed the day-pack, and took out the camera to take a picture down the length of the haze filled canyon. The lighting was wrong, it would not be a pretty picture. After resting a few minutes I loaded up again, anxious to continue. My enthusiasm was rising, I would soon be out of the canyon. Most of the trip up to the bench had been done below the level of direct sunlight, but the sun was rising and now I was exposed to the full power of it's energy sapping heat. The climb from the bench required frequent stops, resting in the shade of large boulders when the opportunity presented itself. Finally I reached bottom of the slot, the last leg of the trail to the top through the slot required two more rest stops.

During the trip down into the canyon, the ravens had not seemed to take any particular notice but now they circled and soared, their calls seemingly mocked my every step as I retreated from their homeland. Finally breaking out of the slot at the top, I roared, "Yes!" and hurled a profanity defiantly into the unconcerned, inanimate canyon. The trip out had taken 2 hours and 30 minutes, but the thrill of victory was short lived; a canyon may concede a tie, but it never loses. Failing to have prepared properly for the trip left my "victory" nothing more than a survival over foolhardiness and as I walked slowly back towards the car, the Ravens watching my victory march saw instead the slow gait of a tired, but wiser, old man.

Trekker