Trek to Thunder Spring

BY: Tom Kuhn

IT BEGAN AS A PLEASANT HIKE INTO THE GRAND CANYON, BUT THAT'S NOT HOW IT TURNED OUT

the lure of THUNDER RIVER

TEXT BY TOM KUHN PHOTOGRAPHS BY GARY LADD

Your heels skid in loose rock as we pitch over the limestone lip of the Grand Canyon's North Rim. Vast space yawns before us. Ahead, the trail is a white chalk line on the edge of a cliff.Down steeply. The way to Thunder Spring and its river is not easy. There are three of us. One is new to high places, and she is rigid with fear. Only nine more miles to go.

We have come to see a river gush from the side of a cliff and to cast for wild trout where few others fish. The hike down the Bob Hall Trail stretches into seven hours. More than once I think of the man who was coming out as we ventured in.He looked tortured and exhausted. Sweat salt caked his shirt. "Are you sure I can't talk you out of this?" he pleaded. Without another word, he turned and walked away.

It is late June, hot, and a month past the best time for this hike. But it is the only time we have. We have driven six hours from Phoenix to Jacob Lake, then on logging roads through the Kaibab National Forest to the trailhead at Monument Point.

From crest to river bottom, the descent is 4,800 feet. We begin in alpine forest at 7,000 feet, finish at 2,200 feet in the inner desert. Along the way, we see stunted pines yield to junipers, then, finally, to cacti and hardy heat-proof bushes. Salt stiffens our eyebrows and glazes our sunglasses. We drink twice the usual amount of water needed on a hike of this distance. Our backpacks are purposely light but seem heavy. They shift off-balance as we struggle down ledges. The land becomes reddish brown and primordial-looking. Lizard country.

But the fishing reports are good. Four men coming out tell of fast cold water, deep holes, and trout that strike eagerly at spinners just the lures we carry. We enter a wind-sculptured badland. Stone trail markers guide us the two miles across, then over a 1,200-foot rampart into Surprise Valley, a cooker of a place. Here the trail forks.

The trail leading right goes to Deer Creek and its spectacular falls, popular with Colorado river runners and backpackers. Crowds gather there. We turn left across a dry flat and over rimrock. There are no crowds at Upper Tapeats Campground, where we're headed. Only 200 permits are requested for the spot each year, the National Park Service says.

Thunder Spring appears first, a torrent that tumbles from a cave at the base of a 1,000-foot cliff, instantly forming Thunder River. The stream cascades down into a wooded canyon, on the way creating two waterfalls. The National Park Service could not provide the flow rate, but 3,000 gallons a minute is a reasonable estimate. The spring spins watery lace over a hanging garden of cottonwoods, wildflowers, and dense underbrush. We cool our feet and fill canteens. Two dipper birds shuttle acquatic insects to a nest at the spring. Heavenly, but, to find trout, we must descend even farther.

Thunder River flows less than a mile before being swallowed by Tapeats Creek. We find the campground and a pittoilet just below the confluence and throw down our bedrolls beside rapids that cool the air after sunset. When the stars appear, we sink into dreamless sleep.

Next morning, we watch the sun paint the walls of the Grand Canyon, starting with mauve, then reds, until light is spread in broad firey strokes across the cliffs. Morning purples linger when we roll out.

Vicky Hay, a writer, is walking wounded with a toe blister. She elects to remain in camp. Tom Hetherington, a teacher, and I walk downstream.

Tapeats Creek, doubled by Thunder River, drops 400 feet over two miles, roiling past boulders and forming pools with gravel bottoms sought by spawning trout. Before closing on the Colorado River, the creek drops into a slot canyon.

There is only one way to follow: up

Cliff-edge trails. I soon find myself on a trace, surrounded by rotten rock, 150 feet over the rushing creek. The acrophobia genie I've bottled over a lifetime suddenly breaks free.

My knees tremble. “I shouldn't be up here,” I yell to Tom. “I've got to go back.” Now I am the one who is rigid with fear. I grope for handholds, lean into the cliff, and shuffle. At the bottom, I feel delivered.

My fear infects Tom. He turns back but finds a new trail and takes it. Thirty minutes later, he is hooked to a rainbow trout where Tapeats Creek mingles with the Colorado.

I cannot follow. But I've come to fish, so I snap on a No. 2 spinner, cast into a riffle, and hook a small rainbow.

We have decided to take just one fish each, at least 13-inches long. I toss the trout back.

Each hole produces strikes. The action is fast. A 15-inch brown trout hammers the spinner. I kill it for food, but in the next hour I release four good fish. Then the heat becomes too much, and I return to camp.

On the Colorado, Tom lands 10 rainbows. He keeps one, a 13-incher for camp, but his best is a 16-incher.

When it's time to leave, we pack extra water. We also have a water cache higher up, to help get us out. A black scorpion crosses the trail, poisonous whip-tail waving goodbye.

Thunder Spring falls behind and is silenced by distance. The sun begins to repaint the canyon and to relight the ovens for the day. “Someone wrote that the Grand Canyon is a 'terrible abyss,” says Vicky. “I can see why he might get that impression.” Up steeply. We meet a couple dry-camped in Surprise Valley, two miles from water. Their plan: day hike to Thunder Spring, rest, then go to Deer Creek. Their tent looks lost in space. I want to say, “Are you sure I can't talk you out of this?”

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