PRI TREK

How | Survived a Cross-country SRI TREK

I JUST GOT MY PERSPECTIVE OVERhauled. It's been so finely reworked that running an extra mile each day is effortless, and losing three extra pounds is merely a decision away. My senses also got retuned. My bed actually feels good; a glass of dark red wine really thrills my palate. And a juicy filet mignon? Mmmmmm, there's no describing the effect it now has on me. Sound interesting? You, too, can achieve this rejuvenation. All you have to do is load your back with 50 or so pounds of gear and take a 45-mile cross-country snow-camping trek from Jacob Lake in northern Arizona to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Then, you take off your skis, pack them on your back, put on your hiking boots, and tramp 14 miles down the Canyon's North Kaibab Trail. And then you hike 7 1/2 miles up the Canyon on the grueling South Kaibab Trail. All this in only five days. When it's over, what seemed difficult in your daily life will be easier. What seemed ordinarya warm shower, clean sheets you'll think were heaven-sent.

And Learned to Love the Pain The Jacob Lake to South Kaibab trek is a "stretch" trip, especially trying to manage the 70-mile distance in five days. I went with a party of eight, three of them close friends with whom I planned the trip in terms of community camping gear such as an MSR stove, a six-man tent, and dehydrated food. My immediate group included Buz Fleming, an electronics engineer and avid skier; Don Frankel, a downhill skiing instructor; and Bob Newman, a Motorola marketing executive and expert skier. Also in the party were Jack Dykinga, a noted Nature photographer; Bill Bendt, an expert cross-country skier and high-school teacher; Dave Dorn, a federal water-management engineer who lives at the bottom of the Grand Canyon; and Wendy Weidaw, a civil engineering student at Northern Arizona University. We equipped ourselves with layered clothing so

Sweet is pleasure after pain. - John Dryden

The thirst for adventure is the vent which destiny offers.

we wouldn't be too warmly dressed while crosscountry skiing during the day and could don extra layers when temperatures dipped below 10° F. at night. We made sure we had proper skis and poles, repair tools and materials, a first-aid kit, and hiking boots and crampons for the Canyon trek. The trick was to take enough to be prepared for extreme winter Weather but not more than we could manage in weight. At final weighing, the four in my group packed more than 220 pounds.

We examined topographical maps and determined we would begin the trip at 7,300 feet. The altitude would peak at 9,200 feet in the Kaibab National Forest, short of Grand Canyon National Park, and level to 8,200 at the North Rim entrance. In total, we'd climb and descend more than 10,000 feet, taking into account the cross-country trek and the descent down the Grand Canyon.

We decided on February 20 as our departure date, believing that the fiercest snowstorms would be behind us. Even so, we knew the temperatures could drop as low as 0° F. during the night, and climb to as much as 60° F. during the day.

On Tuesday, February 19, the eight of us met at Jacob Lake Inn in northern Arizona. There were two approaches we could take for the snow-camping portion of the trek: State Route 67, which is closed to vehicles in the winter but open to skiers, and Forest Service road 462. After consultation that night with people at the inn about snow conditions, we chose 462. It is longer than 67, but we heard it was groomed by Forest Service snow cats, making skiing easier.

On Wednesday morning, we drove in about six miles, unloaded our skis and packs, and took off. It was 11:00 A.M., clear and warm. We were happy, encouraged, and sure we could make it.

Two hours later, we were drenched in sweat and removing as many clothes as decently possible. The temperature reached a glaring 60° F.; the snow was slushy and difficult to manage; our packs were so heavy that leaning the slightest bit forward or backward would send us crashing to the ground. The entire distance was uphill. Already we were bruised and tired.

I can't remember how many times I fell backward to the ground. I weigh 116 pounds and, carrying 45 pounds on my back, I had to take off my pack to get up again. Then I had to devise a way of getting the pack back on: I propped it against a snowbank, knelt back against it, slipped my arms through, and hoisted the thing up.

Late in the afternoon that first day, Dykinga, Bendt, Dorn, and Weidaw all of them heartier than our group went ahead to locate a campsite. By 4:30 P.M. we reached it. We set up the tent and began the never-ending task of melting snow over the tiny MSR stove to get water for hot drinks, dehydrated meals, and the next day's travel.

Just as our spirits were rising with the sheer pleasure of hot chocolate and hydrated teriyaki beef, Dorn, the only one among us who'd been on FS 462 before, said the next day would be worse. It's uphill all the way, he said, and the inclines are steeper.

And Dykinga reminded us we had skied little more than eight miles that day. Tomorrow, he said, we'd have to double the distance if we expected to make the North Rim by Friday.

The temperature was dropping as fast as our cheer. Soon it would be below 15° F. The nerves in my fingers and toes are damaged from near frostbite on a climb up Mount McKinley in 1982 so I suffer needle-stab pain in cold weather. It flared up.

REK

Fleming loaned me his après-ski "moon boots," and I stood in them, in tears, until the stabbing subsided.

The four of us unpacked our sleeping bags and rolled them out on the floor of the tent. We crawled in, and I asked my friends how they felt.

"Well, the best thing I can say so far is that it's every bit as difficult as I thought," Frankel said.

"I must be crazy," Fleming said. "Everything hurts, my ego most of all."

Newman groaned.

The second day was worse. It was one cruel climb after another. We'd think a downhill respite was just over a ridge, and there'd be another climb. Again, the day was unseasonably warm, and we were drenched in sweat most of the time. At one point, I felt so overheated, I put both ski poles in one hand and skated along using my free hand to scoop snow onto my face.

I traveled alone most of the second day. Dorn, who climbs up and down the Grand Canyon every five days, was hours ahead of the pack. Dykinga, Weidaw, and Bendt were just behind him. I was in the middle, an hour or so behind them. Fleming, Frankel, and Newman were at least an hour behind me.

I decided to ski an hour and rest 10 minutes. If I could manage that all day, I'd make the 15 miles we had to travel.

When the rest periods came, I'd drop my pack, sit on a tree stump, and have sympathetic conversations with myself on my tape recorder. Then I'd divert my attention with the scenery. It was beautiful. There seemed to be only three colors in the world: white, green, and blue. The aspens were bare and trembling, and there was an intermittent screech from a hawk.

I'd take a few swigs of water, steel myself, and go through the routine of hoisting my pack onto my back.

That day, I met a man on a snowmobile. He was John Berger, a Flagstaff mechanic who helps service vehicles at Kaibab Lodge, about six miles ahead of us. He stopped, and we talked about the trip. He warned me that at least half the people who started on it failed and turned back.

"A few days ago, these mountain climbers tried it," Berger said. "After the first day and a half, they threw in the towel."

If I made it to Kaibab Lodge that night, he said, he'd buy me a beer. As it turned out, he did a lot more for us than that.

At 2:00 P.M., I arrived at the junction of FS 462 and 67, where Dykinga, Bendt, Weidaw, and Dorn were waiting. We decided to rest until Fleming, Newman, and Frankel arrived. Then we'd ask them to go on another five miles to the "gate" of Grand Canyon National Park.

By 3:30 P.M., there was no sign of them. Suddenly, Berger and his coworker, Shorty Collier, came zooming up on their snowmobiles. I told them I was worried, so they agreed to go back for the group and bring them to the junction. Dykinga, Bendt, Dorn,and Weidaw went on, deciding my group would catch up at the park gate the next morning or at the North Rim entrance in two days. In 15 minutes, the snowmobiles returned carrying the rest of my group. Newman, bruised, aching, and exhausted, said he was giving up. Frankel was near the same decision. It was too much, he said. Even if he made it to the North Rim, his pack was too heavy for the hike down. We decided we'd sleep on the decision in relative comfort. Berger and Collier gave us rides to Kaibab Lodge, where we bunked in a warm yurt. Before we went to bed, we unloaded as much as possible from our packs, including the heavy six-man tent and poles, saving only the fly, and packed the equipment for Berger to take back to Flagstaff. We went to sleep not knowing who would continue. The next morning, Newman and Frankel ached all

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TREK

Moreover, Fleming was in a foul mood, and I was irritated by the delays. We decided to go on.

Mercifully, the third day was full of what great cross-country skiing is all about.

We met up with the rest of the party at 9:00 A.M. It was overcast so the snow wasn't slushy, and we skied along the trail with ease and speed. Our bodies didn't ache as much because our packs were lighter, and there were few inclines. I was skating. Finally, it was fun.

By 1:30 P.M., we made camp at Widforss Trail, 3/4ths of a mile short of the North Kaibab Trail. The sky was churning with clouds, and we knew it would be better to withstand a storm below the entrance where winds wouldn't be as fierce.

Using our ski poles to bolster the fly, we made a makeshift tent, boiled water, and whipped up some delicious mocha coffee. Then Fleming and Newman prepared a beef-and-rice dish that warmed our souls and filled us up.

Predictably, the needle stabs began on my toes and fingers. Because we had sent our tent back, we didn't have any ground cover except 3/4-length Thermarests. I gritted my teeth, dressed as warmly as possible, and crawled into my sleeping bag.

By 9:00 the next morning, we were at the entrance of the North Kaibab Trail. Quickly we removed our skis and boots, packed them on our backs, and began the 14-mile, all-day descent.

Anticipating dangerous ice slicks along the North Kaibab switchbacks, we packed crampons we could attach to our hiking boots. Fortunately, there was little ice, but the first four miles of the trail were covered in snow often up to two feet. The white stuff, downed trees, and rockslides made the going rough.

The deeper we went into the Canyon, however, the warmer and easier the long hike became, and the scenery along the trout-filled Bright Angel Creek was breathtaking.

By 5:00 that evening, Frankel, Fleming, Newman, and I were seated at a table in the Phantom Ranch dining room, digging into thick New York steaks, baked potatoes with sour cream, green beans, corn on the cob, cornbread, and chocolate cake.

That night we showered and slept in the ranch's bunks. It was sheer pleasure.

The next day, after we unloaded even more gear from our packs and sent it ahead on mules, the four of us took off at 9:00 A.M., up the South Kaibab Trail. This was the shortest jaunt of the trip, 7.3 miles, but it's the most grueling trail in the Canyon, nearly all of it vertical, and it was the toughest part of the trip for me. My legs were so sore from skiing and hiking, there were times I didn't think I could climb one more inch, let alone miles.

Frankel and I were together on this final portion of the trip. If it hadn't been for his encouragement, the ascent would have taken me eight hours rather than four. How he mustered his optimism is a wonder. Both of his heels, bottoms and sides, were blistered and raw.

SKI TREK

To the people hiking down into the Canyon from the South Rim we were quite a sight with our huge packs and skis sticking up above them, making brightly colored spires over our heads. Invariably, we were asked about where we'd been, and, honestly, it was great, the admiration people expressed when we explained what we'd accomplished.

It was definitely a stretch. An important fact is that the people in our party who had the least trouble completing the trip were those who include aerobic exercise in their physical-fitness routines. Cross-country skiing is much like jogging at high altitudes: you have to be able to regulate your breathing as you go along or you spend your energy too quickly.

I've read accounts by others who've completed this trip in three days and less. I can't imagine it. For me, an average hiker in good physical shape, it was no easy matter.

Would I do it again? You bet. There's nothing like a good mental overhaul to get your life going.

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