The Section of the Hayduke Trail Everyone’s Talking About

South Rim to Thunder River, Grand Canyon

“The desert will take care of you.
At first everything is big and beautiful, but you are afraid of it.
Then you start to see its dangers and you hate it.
Then you learn how to overcome its dangers.
And the desert is my home.”

John Wetherill

I feel like this quote perfectly describes the journey my mind has taken through the Grand Canyon.

As we prepare to enter the second half of the route, I find myself somewhere in the middle of the Wetherill progression, looking at the dangers of the canyon and looking for a way out. I remind myself that many hikers before me have made it through this dreaded section. Then I remember that we’re adding an even more difficult situation due to the closure of Bravo Fire, and I quickly begin to question my own sanity.

Doubts accumulate. Other hikers have taken alternatives to avoid the most difficult sections. Maybe I should do it too.

I try to put those thoughts aside and focus on what I’ve always done, taking one step at a time. The trail blogs I obsessed over before this section were someone else’s experiences, not mine. They are not enough reasons to abandon a goal I have worked so hard for. At that point, I decide to keep moving toward the next goal and reassess when I get there.

The road does not make it easy. A mix of rain, sleet, and snow follows us all morning as we descend into the Grand Canyon on the Hermit Trail from the South Rim. Our friend Sara, who joined us earlier in Buckskin Gulch, is coming with us and plans to spend a night in Hermit Rapids before returning.

Shortly into the hike, I slip on a sandy rock. My knee twists awkwardly and snaps against another rock. It’s a hard fall, but I shake it off and keep moving. Sara and I spend the day sharing stories of our adventures and the conversation helps distract me from the fear that has been building up in my head.

Over time, we start talking directly about those fears and I remember that it’s okay to have these moments. In the world of long distance hiking there is a saying: Don’t abandon the path on a bad day.

For some reason, those words always seem to give me the strength to keep going.

That night we prepared dinner on the banks of the Colorado River and went to bed for the night.

The next morning we said our final goodbyes to Sara, but not before making time for a quick swim under a nearby waterfall. At the trail junction, Lane and I turn west on the Tonto Trail while Sara begins the long climb back to the rim on the Hermit Trail. There is no turning back now.

As we walk away, I can feel the anxiety returning. The doubts come back around. But this time something is different.

That’s enough.

In that moment, I realize that I want the experience and growth this path offers more than the comfort of avoiding my fears. A feeling of peace washes over me. The chains I had wrapped around my own way of thinking suddenly feel broken. The idea of ​​living a risk-free life, without at least trying the hard things, seems much scarier than the road ahead of us.

From that moment on I start to enjoy it again.

I stop letting trail reports and secondhand stories dictate my experience. The terrain becomes more remote and more extreme, but it is familiar. He had already spent a week deep in the canyon before reaching the South Rim. I knew this landscape. That familiarity gave me confidence.

I can do this.

Two nights later, after miles of beautiful hiking along the Tonto, it’s time to descend the South Bass Trail to the Colorado River.

Darkness overtakes us before we reach camp, but we have to go down to the river if we want to be in position to cross the next morning. We continue forward.

Finding a route with headlights is difficult. The trail is steep and loose, and the final descent requires hand climbing. At one point I fall directly into a cactus, which somehow seems appropriate given the day.

We finally reached the river around 9:30 pm, exhausted but relieved.

The next morning we barely have time to wait until a motorboat tour operator offers us a crossing. When the passengers hear how far we’ve come, the entire ship erupts in applause. They hand us snacks and treats before dropping us off on the opposite shore.

Next comes the North Bass Trail. The trail itself is pleasant enough, but by now my tolerance for discomfort has become very skewed. The real challenge begins after sunset. The kilometers seem endless. We traverse an overgrown path cut into a strip of cliff, unable to see how far the drop falls into the darkness below. We finally reached Mauv Saddle, where we set up camp on the ridge that same night.

The next morning is April 30, Lane’s birthday.

It also turns out to be the most difficult day of the entire trip to find a route.

In the days before, I made the mistake of reading a comment that referenced the death of a family member of the founder of Merrell’s Shoes in this section. This is also the stretch where many experienced hikers turn around during high tide years or avoid it altogether. I push that thought away and focus on the present moment and everything we have accomplished so far.

Lane and I worked together through each obstacle, negotiating dry drops, finding routes, and solving problems one by one. It reminded me why we are such a strong team on the field.

We covered only seven miles all day. It was the hardest day of hiking I have ever had. But we did it.

That night, lying in my sleeping bag after eating all the food I could from our nine-day ration, I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. The fear that had consumed me for days had finally lost its grip.

For the first time in a long time, I felt completely at home.

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