Arizona: Still a Land That's Wild and Free

ARIZONA Wild

Three generations ago, Stewart Udall got his first real taste of the wilderness from his uncle while pursuing the elusive Apache trout in the small streams of the White Mountains of northeastern Arizona. Udall was 10 at the time. So impressed was the boy that he later devoted much of his life to protecting and managing the environment, even serving in the 1960s as secretary of the Interior.

Sixty years later, he had another wilderness experience, this time in the Grand Canyon with his nine-year-old grandson. Here is Udall's account of that adventure. It is excerpted from Arizona Highways' latest book, Arizona: Wild and Free, which also features photographs of the state's diverse scenery and its amazing variety of wildlife.

Hiding from the searing sun under a piñon tree 2,000 feet above the Colorado River, I rebuke myself for being so stupid. I should have known better than to try to hike out of the Grand Canyon on an abandoned mining trail in midsummer. And yet here I am with my grandson Kyle Townsend in tow wondering if my legs will get me to the South Rim by dark.

But I'm getting ahead of my story. Some months earlier, Grand Canyon Trust, an environmental organization, had asked me to host a week-long trip down the Colorado River for its members. Since I sit on the group's board, I happily accepted the invitation, but on the condition that I could bring Kyle. A last-minute change in plans, however, made it impossible for me to spend an entire week on the river. In hindsight it would have been wiser to cancel. But, not wanting to disappoint Kyle, or the people from the trust, I told them we would come for part of the trip.

And so, three days before, our small party of adventurers had hiked down the Bright Angel Trail to Phantom Ranch where we met the rest of the group and embarked on the river. Kyle was the youngestparticipant, and I was the oldest. The head boatman put us in the bow of his oar-powered raft where he could keep a watchful eye on us as we bucked through Horn Creek, Granite, and Hermit rapids. It had been 24 years since I had been on the Colorado, and this was Kyle's introduction to river running, but both of us reveled in the whitewater. The next day we ran the big one Crystal before making camp on a beach below Bass Rapids. From here our plan was to hike up to the South Rim via the Bass Trail.

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participant, and I was the oldest. The head boatman put us in the bow of his oar-powered raft where he could keep a watchful eye on us as we bucked through Horn Creek, Granite, and Hermit rapids. It had been 24 years since I had been on the Colorado, and this was Kyle's introduction to river running, but both of us reveled in the whitewater. The next day we ran the big one Crystal before making camp on a beach below Bass Rapids. From here our plan was to hike up to the South Rim via the Bass Trail. Having had a taste of the Canyon's fiery heat, I was apprehensive about what the morrow might bring, and that night, after Kyle went to bed, I had a chat with our boatman. He, too, was worried.

Walking into the Grand Canyon is one thing; walking out on one of the hottest days of summer is another. This would be a challenging In its extraordinary kaleidoscope of land and wildlife is found the spirit of Arizona, sovereign and unfettered by human society. Here in this vast domain, Nature bestows endless opportunities to roam among the seas of grass, verdant forests, stark desert, and life-giving wetlands and to encounter a Noah's ark of creatures.

Forest Lands

Grass Lands

Desert Lands

Wet Lands

Wild & Free

climb for someone in their prime. Though wiry for his age, Kyle was just nine — and I was 71. Were we up to it? Once we left the river, there could be no turning back. The only thing that made our plan feasible was that the trust had sent one of its interns down the trail to cache water at two spots. He and an outdoorswoman who had run the upper part of the river would accompany us back out. Having two sturdy guides and water in place would make a big difference, I reassured myself.

The next morning, we rose before dawn. After a hurried breakfast in the dark, our boatman rowed the hiking party across to the trailhead. By sunup we were moving. The first mile, in the coolness before the sun breasted the Rim, was easy. When we reached the top of the Inner Gorge, we could see the jade-green river and our campsite far below. Kyle shouted and waved to the small sticklike figures on the sandbar. Then, after saying goodbye to the boatman who had accompanied us this far, the four of us turned our attention upward. The real work lay ahead.

A long-abandoned mining trail that leaves the Rim 20 miles west of Grand Canyon Village, the Bass Trail is rarely hiked. Winding through a wild reach of the Canyon, the unsigned path ascends 4,400 vertical feet in eight miles. My companions put Kyle out front and let him set the pace. They also gave him the responsibility of picking out the cairns that mark the trail where it has been obliterated by rains and rockfall.

We made good time for the first hour or two, but then, as the heat began to build, my pace slowed. Every few minutes, I found myself needing a breather. Between us we were carrying two gallons of water. By 11:00 A.M., most of it was gone. When we reached the first water cache, we thankfully refilled our canteens and ate something in the shade of an overhang.

By now the temperature was approaching 110° F. No birds sang. Even the lizards and small creatures of the desert had vanished, seeking refuge in their burrows. After lunch, fatigued by the morning's exertions, I lay down on a rock and fell asleep. My nap ended when Kyle poked me in the ribs and said, "We've got to get going, Poppy."

Thirty minutes later, switchbacking our way up the Redwall, we suddenly found ourselves boulder hopping — we had lost the trail!

Immediately I called a halt. We couldn't afford to waste energy or to risk someone spraining an ankle. Sending our two companions back to relocate the trail, Kyle and I sought shade under a piñon tree, where I silently second-guessed my role in this risky venture.

"Are we going to make it out?" Kyle's voice interrupted my thoughts.

"We've got to," I said. "Have another drink. You've been setting a nice steady pace."

We sat there for a few minutes grandfather and grandson gazing out at the buttes and castles that rose shimmering out of the chasm. Our friends' shouts broke the silence. They had found the trail a few hundred feet above. We scrambled up to rejoin them.

The afternoon was a sun-baked grind, an agonizing test of a young boy's spirit and an old man's pride. Above the Redwall was a flat stretch across the Darwin Plateau, and the last water cache. Then came the final thousand-foot climb. Kyle, showing no sign of his fatigue, stayed in front. My energies, though, were flagging, and I had to call for frequent panting stops. Slowly we inched skyward along the dusty trail.

And then, 10 hours after leaving the river, it was over. We were on the Rim.

"We made it, Poppy!" Kyle said, a note of triumph in his weary voice. I was proud of his spirit and stamina, and the praise that his newfound friends gave him seemed to make the whole ordeal worthwhile. "This is a hike you'll remember all your life," I said.

As I slumped, exhausted, into our vehicle, I wondered whether on this day I had passed the outdoor torch that my uncle had put in my hands in the White Mountains 60 years before.

(OPPOSITE PAGE) A red-tailed hawk, whose harsh keeeeer sends rodents scurrying, occupies a night perch at the end of a blistering day.

(LEFT) The quintessence of Nature at its most wild and free, the timeless Grand Canyon greets each new dawn as if it were the first.

Editor's Note: Arizona: Wild & Free, a full-color 144-page hardcover book, examines Arizona's beautiful untamed country and the wonderful variety of wild creatures that inhabit it. The 10by 13-inch book sells for $39.95, plus shipping and handling, and will be available after September 15, 1993. To order, call Arizona Highways toll-free at 1 (800) 543-5432. In the Phoenix area, call 258-1000.