Hiking to Elves Chasm by Ancient Indian Route

Following an Ancient Route to Elves Chasm

Grand Canyon backpackers trace 45 rough miles into remote terrain

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY LARRY LINDAHL

The April morning began at 18 degrees, our water bottles frozen solid. Not a good omen for starting a five-day, 45-mile backpack into Grand Canyon's seldom-traveled Royal Arch Creek canyon. We made final adjustments to our packs and wondered about our sanity.

We planned to drop into Aztec Amphitheater and find an ancient Indian route from Rim to river, including a 20-foot descent down a pole ladder, crossing deep pools and rappelling off a cliff. The route would lead us to Royal Arch and then to waterfalls at river level inside the enchanted grotto of Elves Chasm.

Twenty-five years ago, Paul Van Slyck and I became friends as ski instructors in the Cascade Mountains. On this trip, we hoped to convince each other that we weren't getting any older. Alvin Derouen and Brian Sullivan, both from Sedona, rounded out our group of four.

From Pasture Wash, 27 dirt-road miles west of Grand Canyon Village and a few miles shy of the South Bass Trailhead, we plotted a northwest compass bearing and started cross-country over tree-studded Coconino Plateau. After 2 miles, Derouen's handheld Global Positioning System (GPS) receiver guided us in as we approached the sharp cliffs of the Rim.

We saw fossilized seashells, uplifted 6,280 feet above sea level, speckling the Kaibab limestone as we climbed through a break in the cliff. Working our way down, we found that the cairns meant to guide us seemed invisible in the vastness. We aimed toward what we thought was the way, crossing a steep talus slope, then traversed onto bare rock. Towers of yellowish limestone jutted into the canyon.

The quest to reach Elves Chasm had begun months ago when I visited Scott Thybony, author of several hiking guides about the Grand Canyon. We talked about the Royal Arch route and hiking legend Harvey Butchart. The two of them had rediscovered the ancient route in the 1980s. Butchart said it was his crowning achievement after decades of route-finding in the Canyon.

In the distance, we spotted the craggy outcrop Thybony had told me to look for. A section below it looked out of place. Dropping down a cascade of ledges, shallow bowls and loose soil delivered us to the ancient ruin tucked into the cliff base.

A wall of dry-stacked sandstone clung to the edge of a small cave. Below sat a trio of room blocks and scattered gray shards of pottery. Inside the cave, an ancient artist had painted a human figure forever falling upside-down.

Between A.D. 900 and 1150, when the climate favored agriculture, Cohonino Indians flourished in the western Grand Canyon. Long before Havasupai and Hualapai Indians came to inhabit the region, the Cohoninos exchanged items with pueblo villages to the east. Trade goods included deer hides, dried venison and hematite, the mineral used for the cave painting.

Haunted by the blood-red pictograph, we continued downward until a terrace of pale Coconino sandstone, pitched dangerously into the canyon, stopped us. We surveyed our situation. My notes said a vertical tunnel-hiding a 20-foot pole ladder-should be near the edge of the abyss. We searched along the cliff as an unexpected wind started gusting.

With increasing frustration, we scouted the dangerous ledge in vain. The temperature seemed to drop. Our frayed nerves felt raw. Crucial hiking time was slipping away. From an outcrop of tilted sandstone, an oblique viewpoint finally revealed the elusive gap. Next to the very edge of the void, a 3-footwide hole corkscrewed down into darkness. There we found the old log ladder with nothing more than nubs from missing branches to use as footholds.

Wind gusts shoved us with increasing force as we set up, near the edge of the abyss, to relay our packs down the passageway. Derouen fastened a carabiner to the end of the climbing rope, then clipped it onto a pack. He played out the line as I shuttled packs to Van Slyck, who guided them down the slanted passageway. Sullivan, waiting in the darkness below the ladder, unclipped the packs at the end of each relay.

With all our gear below, we took turns scuttling through

here the magnificent Grand Canyon opened out through the keyhole of Royal Arch. A spire reached for the sky perfectly framed in the 60-foot-tall opening.

the gigantic blocks of faulted sandstone. Stepping down from the log ladder, we completed what Butchart had called "the most interesting way through the Coconino that I know."

We sidled out into bright sunlight through a gap, then dropped down to another terrace. After rounding a corner, the gap opened to a gallery of overlapping petroglyphs covering a 30-foot expanse. The sun angled lower in the sky, revealing dozens of images, including animals, spiders, bizarre abstractions and a mythical thunderbird. We had entered a dreamscape carved in stone. The ancients, once again, had spoken silently across time.

Down we climbed over more ledges. Down until our route led out onto a slice of sandstone. The precarious walk-way leaned around a sheer drop, (Text continued on page 26)

(Continued from page 23) ending at a yet another cliff. A steep passage pointed down. And there-faint as a whisper-were ancient handand footholds carved centuries ago.

We tied a safety line and began lowering packs, sandstone tearing at the fabric. Suddenly Derouen's GPS receiver tumbled out. Hitting a lower ledge, then bouncing up and out and down to the next ledge, it bounced one last time, launching itself forever into the dizzying void. Below the cliff, we strapped on our packs, minus the receiver.

Beneath the sandstone cliffs, we dropped onto a huge slope of reddish Hermit shale. Losing our daylight, we decided on a small clearing for camp. Twilight erased our route down as we cooked dinner. Strong winds snapped the tents all night long as a storm front moved in. We tried fitfully to sleep.

At dawn, snowflakes swirled around us. We ate and packed quickly. Wind, then hail, then rain, then sunshine cycled through before we finally reached the floor of Royal Arch Creek canyon. We took off layers of clothing and then put them back on as the season seemed to change countless times. While sunshine tried warming the rose-colored bedrock, dark clouds continued marching in from the west. Bare stone soon that the pools we had come prepared to swim were bone dry.

The sun disappeared as we moved on. Rain started sprinkling and then, as we rounded a bend, our route collided with a gigantic rockfall. Pancake slabs of collapsed Bright Angel shale spanned the width of the canyon. Climbing over, we noticed primordial fernlike patterns embedded in the dark greenish stone.

Just when the canyon felt like a dangerous and dark alley, the song of spring-fed water danced delightfully to my ears. Twisting walls enchanted the narrower and narrower passageway until the canyon revealed the burbling source. Sliding into cascades lined with crimson monkeyflowers, the stream slipped down into a clear emerald pool. We waded into the cold, knee-deep water filling the passageway wall to wall.

Exiting the long pool, we stepped out onto smooth bedrock, and there the magnificent Grand Canyon opened out through the keyhole of Royal Arch. A spire reached for the sky perfectly framed in the 60-foot-tall opening. We unloaded our burdens and set up camp. At nightfall, clear running water gently sangus to sleep.

The following morning, we packed up anticipating the rappel situation, we began carefully rationing what precious little water we had left.

hardening ourselves to our

jumped with hail and then glistened with rain.The canyon walls squeezed in as we descended more layers of colorful Supai Group sandstone. Our route fell ever deeper until the canyon floor dropped right out of sight. At the edge of the pourover, we stood and looked straight down more than 100 feet. A bypass trail crawled up the left slope over to an infamous ledge. We had heard that this route hovered nearly 90 feet high and was less than a foot wide.

Thankfully, canyoneer Sally Underwood had informed us of an alternative. We spotted the cairns up to her route on the right side. We climbed the steep talus slope, then hugged the upper cliff base. It continued across a thin walkway until scrub oak blocked the way. She said we could crawl through a gap in the brush, pull our packs through, continue across and get down to the canyon floor again. Her instructions worked beautifully.

The canyon fell deeper into the resistant Redwall limestone. Boulders choked our route as we clambered up and over, around and under, or squeezed between the huge monsters. We handed packs down time after time. The sun splashed brightly as we entered a chamber cut through twisting Muav limestone. Redbud trees bloomed in the canyon bottom. Honeybees busily pollinated the purple blossoms. Butterflies flitted about, but the Grim Reaper also had been stalking nearby. We soon discovered we faced on our way to the river and Elves Chasm. Just beyond the arch, the streambed dropped 200 feet straight down, so we backtracked through the pools, and then over the boulders to large markers a half-mile away, pointing a way up the steep east bank.

High above the arch, the route slowly angled northeast until the full glory of the inner Grand Canyon spread out below us. The Colorado River carved deep under big, open sky. Bright scattered clouds meant the storm had passed a huge relief.

After a couple of easy miles, a harrowing descent and cliff edge traverse took us out to the rappel site. We anxiously extracted climbing gear and prepared. Having learned how to rappel only weeks before, cold adrenaline rushed through me as I fed rope through my shiny new equipment. I turned my back toward the abyss. Tightly gripping the rope, I stepped off the ledge. Fear became amazement-when I realized I wasn't going to die-and quickly transformed into pure excitement. Soon enough, I touched down safely.

With this major obstacle behind us, the route to the river seemed like a breeze. Physically and emotionally spent, we collapsed on the sandy beach opposite Marcos Terrace on the river. We relaxed under the warm late-afternoon sun, then slept comfortably under the stars.

At first light, we began our pilgrimage to Elves Chasm. After a long hour scrambling a mile downriver, the chasm opened before us. Sun-tipped cliffs painted the river gold as we ascendedthe jumbled streambed into what felt like a cathedral with fall-ing water.

Ribbons of white water splashed down, and then down again over mossy ledges, plunging into a clear pool below. Splashing water echoed as maidenhair ferns quivered and glistened. The magical setting magnified our sense of accomplishment as we stood at the altar of Elves Chasm.

Returning to camp, we packed and headed east through razor-sharp limestone, and then due north. Below castles of Tapeats sandstone, we passed evaporated seeps encrusted with salt crystals. After 4 miles, the route followed polished Precambrian granite into a stark pink and gray world. At the spring in Garnet Canyon-just a trickle in the baking sun-we filtered warm, salty water and began to eat. The water tasted awful. "Lunch on Mars," Van Slyck wryly commented.

Leaving Garnet Canyon, we shinnied up shoulder-high ledges until we met the extreme western terminus of Tonto Trail. Late in the 14-mile day, we staggered into the depths of Copper Canyon, expecting a spring. But long after darkness overtook our weary situation, we still had not found water.

Hardening ourselves to our situation, we began carefully rationing what precious little water we had left. Compounding the problem was the disgusting taste of the water we had carried from Garnet Canyon. The next day we decided to hike dry until we could reach the South Bass Trail junction and take it down to the river. Cliffs separated us from the river until then.

We desperately hoped we could get there by midday.

We rose early the following morning. Groggy with the first symptoms of dehydration, we solemnly broke camp. Climbing slowly out of Copper Canyon, we braced ourselves For the punishment ahead. Far below in the lower reaches of the side canyon, Derouen thought he saw a tiny glint. In disbelief, we tracked it down and found a small shallow puddle. Van Slyck raised an eyebrow. Dead insects saturated the brown water. A quarter-mile farther down the side canyon was another puddle hidden in a cauldron of stripped stone. Van Slyck and I began filtering water from this puddle and then quickly drank. Van Slyck's new pump started to tighten, then quit. Within minutes, the water in the puddles clogged all of our pumps. We looked at each other. What now? Several moments passed. Then we started laughing like old-time prospectors when we remembered we could use our bandannas to screen out the flotsam, and just add some iodine. The water tasted fine, so we resupplied ourselves with enough for the last two days.

Shouldering our heavy packs, we continued, following the Tonto Trail along the cliff edges overlooking the river far below. At the junction with Bass Canyon, we turned up the South Bass Trail for the final stretch of our adventure.

Our campsite that last night far below the Rim had a view looking out between red cliffs that framed the distant North Rim. After dinner, Van Slyck and I reluctantly admitted that, yes, we might be getting a little older, but we vowed that our sense of adventure would always remain ageless.

One chilly December morning, my husband, Bill, and I spotted a tiny hummingbird warming his tummy feathers in front of a spotlight attached to our cattle ranch's desert-based windmill. "Poor little thing," I murmured. "It looks like he forgot to fly south." "Forgot?" Bill frowned. "Birds don't forget." "Then he's hurt?" I said. Surely he will die. Hummingbirds always left our Arizona cattle ranch in mid-September to migrate hundreds of miles into the warmer climates of Latin America. There they would be safe from the freezing winds that swept up from the Gulf of Mexico into the desert lands of Cochise County in the great Southwest. But why this year did one something far greater-the most powerful link to life in the master plan-love. As days grew warmer, we watched the busy, living gem sip nectar from flowers, catch gnats in midair with his tongue and skewer moths and wasps with his needlenosed bill. Soon we realized that most of his daylight hours were spent defending his territory against the return of the enemy. Like a miniature gunship, he bent his tail in rudderlike fashion and flew backward and forward and upside down. Chattering angrily, he attacked woodpeckers and doves, and chased away birds ten times his size. He fought relentlessly, even against his own kind for what he seemed to feel was his. "Wow! He's a humdinger," Bill tiniest creatures, perched side by side on the tail of the windmill rudder. Then, September came. And Cinderella flew away! Why didn't he go with her? I wondered anew. Unable to accept that I was witnessing one of nature's great mysteries, I continued to think something was wrong with him, or that Cinderella had simply tired of him. Could he survive another winter alone? I needn't have worried. Humdinger did survive, and year after year when spring returned, Cinderella brought love to his life again. Wars were forgotten in lieu of sky dancing, taking showers, making love and raising babies. And every autumn, when the September nights dipped and winter snarled down from the mountains, she left him. For 12 years, Humdinger never left the

His Love Kept Him Warm

For 13 cold winters, a tiny hummingbird taught a lesson about faith and affection

text by PENNY PORTER

illustration by JOSEPH DANIEL FIEDLER Tiny, jewel-like bird stay behind? How could he possibly survive?

This was a Costa hummingbird, among the smallest of the species. Although he would weigh less than two-tenths of an ounce on a scale, he had to eat insects and nectar repeatedly to replace the calories he burned. But this was winter, and now he was alone in a corner of the world where temperatures could fluctuate 65 to 75 degrees in less than 24 hours. Nothing was left to keep him alive, and nothing to keep him warm-except a lightbulb. On this particular morning, the mesquite, manzanita and prairie grasses crackled and snapped in the frigid air. We did the only thing we could. We hung a feeder of sugar-water close to the warm spotlight to keep the liquid from freezing. As we wired the glass container to the windmill, the little bird buzzed beelike around our heads. "He seems to know we're trying to help," I said. But would sugar-water alone be enough to sustain him?

said one day. "That'd be a good name for a little creature who's always at war with the world." I agreed. But there had to be a reason for battle, a purpose to his territorial behavior. Only when evenings came did the whirring wings give way to quieter moments, and we'd see the little bird perched on the rotating windmill rudder. Facing south-he waited. Love arrived in April-a drab little hummingbird in shades of dusty gray. From his lofty roost, Humdinger watched this tiny shadow of his own radiance build her walnut-sized nest on a forgotten lasso looped over a nearby fence. He forgot about war. Instead, he took up sky dancing, tracing intricate patterns against fiery sunsets. Soon, the tiny female joined him, and a mating ritual followed. Scolding and squeaking in morning's splendor, they showered in misty rainbows cast by pasture sprinklers. They preened and puffed amid dawn-lit spider webs, and played hide-and-seek among snowy yucca bells. At last, exhibiting his feathers in their most vibrant, jewel colors-ruby, emerald and amethyst-Humdinger wooed and won his tiny Cinderella in a graceful nuptial dive.

Perhaps it was, because when spring came our hummingbird was not only still alive, his colors seemed brighter as he darted among banks of budding wild roses and zoomed across fields of lavender alfalfa. We liked to think his second chance at life was due to our helping hands. But over the next 12 years, we learned his survival was part of Two white, pea-size eggs soon appeared in the nest. Two tiny babies hatched and were fed and nurtured by two parents who loved them. Not until they were mature enough to tackle life on their own did they finally fly away. After that, it wasn't unusual to see the evening silhouettes of Humdinger and Cinderella, two of Earth's ranch. We replaced the lightbulb each November. In March the wars began. And since wildlife patterns and habits are changeless, twilight found our little hummingbird sitting alone on the windmill rudder, facing south-waiting for Cinderella to return. His 13th winter came. Will he still be there? I wondered as I filled the feeder with sugarwater and took it with me. There was a cold snap in the air that night. Bill turned up his sheep-lined collar. "Maybe I'll go with you," he said.Heading toward the pasture, the walk seemed farther than it used to. I thought about other years, when the tiny bird would see us coming, his brilliant jewel-flashes glinting in the night with colors that only appear in dreams. But this night seemed too quiet. I braced myself for disappointment, moved closer and hung the feeder at the bottom of the windmill. A calf bawled in the darkness, and an owl hooted its warning. No Humdinger.

We turned to head home, and that's when I heard a whirring of wings. There, warming his tummy feathers against the spotlight, hovered a shabby little hummingbird. Gone were the flashing colors of youth, but he wassurviving, waiting for love, just like we all do. Then, when April comes, I mused, with luck he'll still be around to remind us... it takes more than a lightbulb.... It's love that keeps us warm. Al