It was a little windy when we closed our eyes on our own little patch of slickrock sandstone, but sometime during the night - after air temperatures equalized a bit - it calmed down and there was barely a breeze when our alarm went off about 20 minutes before sunrise.
Our new-to-us Big Agnes Copper Spur UL 3 tent worked so much better than the semi-self-standing tent we had previously.
Unlike most mornings where we might hit the snooze button once or twice, we were up and about almost immediately. Knowing that the forecast was for even hotter temperatures than the day before, we wanted to take full advantage of the cooler morning temps, and - to the extent possible - shade from the towering walls of the Grand Canyon.
Surely, we weren't the first to rest here overnight.
These two seemed to be in a much better mood than they were 12 hours earlier.
We couldn't see the sun as it crested the horizon - thankfully we were still the shade as we covered ground as expeditiously as possible - but it was a joy to watch as it spilled over the Grand Canyon, bathing the world in brilliant yellow glow. All of it seemed to be centered around a huge mesa that towered high above the Esplanade on the one hand while simultaneously dropping precipitously toward the Colorado on the other. We had no idea what it was called at the time, but it was glorious.
The Dome.
Knowing we had a long trek in front of us - 12 miles and some 2,500 feet of elevation gain - we didn't dally, but we also tried to enjoy a few spring surprises that we'd missed the previous evening.
This Claret Cup was just getting started.
An Evening Primrose that looked just as good in the morning light.
@mrs.turbodb loves these yucca (and agave) stalks, and we usually only find them once they are dried up and done, so she when we found a giant green floppy asparagus-looking one, she was thrilled.
We savored the 40 minutes we had in the shade, ticking off nearly two miles in that time. A slight breeze and still-cool water even made the experience - dare I say - pleasant. But as the sun raced higher in the sky, the temperature of the air around us rose quickly, and we began our hourly routine of applying sunscreen on the few bits of our skin that were exposed to the elements.
There may be - or may not, depending on the source - be a trail around this magnificent mesa. Not that we were going to prove that one way or the other.
In addition to making better time as a result of the shade, we also benefitted from paying careful attention to the trail. While we'd lost it several times on the way out - opting to push forward despite the slower, more difficult pace of cross-country travel - we kept a keen eye out for cairns and footprints when the worn path became a little less so, even retracing our steps when we realized we were headed in the wrong direction. It was a good decision, and one that kept us moving at a much more reasonable pace.
Pro tip: don't lick the lollipop cactus.
We didn't know what these were fossils of, but knew they must be fossils of some sort. In fact, they are Crinoid segments.
Also known as sea lilies, Crinoids are related to starfish, sea urchins, and sea cucumbers. They are still alive today, though they are not as common or as large as they were during the Paleozoic. Many crinoids, including the oldest forms, attach themselves to the seafloor with a long stalk made up of stacks of calcareous rings called ossicles; others, called “feather stars”, are free-floating. Both kinds catch plankton with a set of feathery arms at the top of the stalk. The ossicles fossilize very well, while the delicate arms are rarely preserved. The stalks often fall apart after the crinoid dies leaving a pile of ossicles that can be so abundant that they serve as the primary supporting structure in sedimentary rocksCrinoid Fossils, GCNP NPS
Much faster than we anticipated, we reached the spot where we'd stashed one of @mrs.turbodb's water bottles the previous afternoon. Even though we hadn't expected to find any water on our hike, I'd brought along our amazing water filter in case we ran out of water and had to go searching out of necessity. I was no longer worried that we risked running out of water - we'd been surprised to find a couple of not-so-nice looking potholes of liquid life along our route - but it still nice to have a crystal-clear cache waiting along the trail. It meant that, with eight miles left, we each had two liters - plenty to get us back to the Tacoma, even if it would get unrefreshingly warm along the way.
Esplanade expanse.
Though we always try to remember to turn around when we're hiking - there's no rule that says all the good views are forward - a combination of fresh eyes and different light made the return trip almost like an entirely new experience. Working our way over one sandstone mound to the next, we pushed forward, into the heat of the day.
A good trail makes all the difference.
Back past tippy toadstool hoodoo.
The place we'd eaten lunch the day before was almost exactly the mid-point of our hike, but where we'd arrived just after 1:00pm the previous afternoon, we shed our packs and found refuge in the shade closer to 11:15am on our return trip. As had been the case on our first visit, we prepped a couple sandwiches and shared a Cosmic Crisp apple before slathering ourselves in more sunscreen and stepping back out into the sun.
Our next opportunity for shade wouldn't be for several more miles, but we knew it was a good one, so we pushed onward through the mid-day heat. Slowly, distant canyon walls grew nearer. Much more quickly it seemed, temperatures sped through the 80s °F and we were soon baking in 95°F heat.
We reached the Shaman's Gallery (also known as the Spirit Shelter), thankful for the respite and full of a new appreciation for what those who once lived here must have valued.
Left side.
Right side.
Shaman Spirt triptych.
Finding green isn't all that common, and a green sun was super cool.
There was quite a bit of green.
The last time I was here, I hadn't noticed these Kokopelli Men playing their flutes!
Sheep and shield.
Eyelashes.
Tucked into the back corner, sharpening grooves seemed strangely out of place here, where the medium was one of pigment rather than etching.
After spending a good while cooling off in the Spirit Shelter, it was time for our final push back to the Tacoma. We still had several miles - and the entire climb from the Esplanade to the Grand Canyon Rim - but it was clear that we were going to make it back at a reasonable time. In fact, out timing would be so reasonable that we'd even begun discussed a change of plans for the night!
Rather than collapsing directly into the tent at the trailhead, we floated the idea of driving a couple hours into town. There, surely, a hotel and warm shower would be a wonderful way to nurse our sore limbs and wash away the sweat of the previous two days. But it was still too soon to make any decisions.
It was then, as we were starting the first of four major climbs out of the canyon, that the blister - which had been slowly getting worse on the bottom of one of my toes - popped. The pain - while not quite excruciating - was definitely intense. Hoping that it was something less permanent, I removed my shoe, hoping to find that the thorn of a cactus had poked all the way through my shoe and into my toe. No dice. Instead, most of the skin on the bottom of my toe was peeled back, an irritated red layer visible underneath. There was nothing to do but push through.
Not long into the climb, we decided that we'd each tackle the final ascent at our own pace. I wasn't super jazzed about this at first, and as the gap widened between us, I yelled down to @mrs.turbodb to make sure she was OK and had enough water to get to the top. With assurances that she did, we each resumed our optimal pace, our minds focused on the goal rather than the oppressive heat and steep trail underfoot.
Looking back before the final climb.
Reaching the Tacoma about half an hour before my hiking companion, my second order of business - after downing a full 20oz bottle of water - was to check on the two Cokes that @mrs.turbodb had left in the fridge. Inexplicably warm, I quickly noticed that the fridge wasn't running at all, and that meant that the food we'd left for dinner was stewing away at 95°F, for two days straight. A nudge - if you believe in that sort of thing - that a hotel might be the right move.
A bit bummed - but not wanting to puzzle out the problem with the fridge in the afternoon sun - I broke down all of my gear, re-stowing it in my duffel and then getting @mrs.turbodb's prepped for her arrival. I also turned on the engine, set the A/C to "arctic blast," and turned on some music to welcome her back into camp.
A nice view while I waited.
Ten minutes after her return, she'd changed out of her sweat-soaked attire, availed herself of a similarly nice swig of water to my own, and was enjoying the cool air as we headed across the broad desert tundra toward town.
"Two hours 'till showers.™"
I don't know if it was the most difficult hike that we've done, but it was definitely in the top three. In retrospect, it wasn't the hike itself - rather, it was the conditions - that made the whole thing so hard. A lesson was learned - backpacking in near-triple digits is a no-go for us; the earlier forecast of 47°/27°F would have been much more our speed.
For now, though, we were done. And tomorrow, after a hotel breakfast, our adventures would be almost entirely of the armchair variety.
The Whole Story
