It was March 25th. We’d gone down into the canyon, and now we had to climb back out, 10.3 miles along the Bright Angel Trail . . . and about a mile up.

We had breakfast at 7 AM, at the main building of the Phantom Ranch, all the eggs and pancakes you could eat . . .

. . . and then, at 7:50, headed back down to where the Bright Angel Creek flowed into the Colorado River.

We crossed the Silver Bridge, then turned downstream . . .

. . . and walked along the river trail for about an hour. One stretch of the trail was pure sand, several inches deep. The sand sparkled and the rocks sparkled, and there was blue sky sunshine all above, and when we looked away from the river, we seemed pretty much in the midst of a magical diamond desert.

Lizards like the desert.

Lizards and rattlesnakes. Didn’t see a rattlesnake, but heard they were already out and about.

At 9:00, we came to the Pipe Creek (named so because someone long ago had stuck a pipe in a tree by the creek to show others coming later the way), and turned up it.

While the South Kaibab Trail keeps you out on a ridge most of the time—and in command of majestic panoramic views, the Bright Angel Trail keeps you inside the Pipe Creek canyon and more face to face with the canyon walls.

The shade you get is quite welcome, and the rocks you pass by get your “abstract art” brain in full gear.

Take a step, travel a million years.

You seem to be able to see deep, deep, deep into history—for me, it was kind of like I’d finally dove deep enough to get a glimpse of that white whale—and yes, he was swimming peacefully along with his family and chums, despite those harpoons we’d stuck in him.

Right about when I was thinking of that white whale, well, I’m not sure exactly, but something happened to me. I felt as if my head was heating up (yes, maybe it was the sun),  and believe it or not, no sooner did I feel a flame in my brain than I spotted this squirrel . . .

. . .  and he looked into my eyes and lit up like a lamp just like that. His tail went all aglow. God’s truth.         

Well, maybe it was the sun. I mean, it was strong . . .

. . . and even the mules didn’t seem to want to walk out in it too long without a break, but anyway, later I couldn’t quite remember what I’d walk by when (and thus the pictures that follow are probably all out of sequence)—I could only remember there were . . .

. . . amazing formations of red rock . . .

. . . so beautiful . . .

. . . and those cottonwoods wherever there was a dab of water . . .

. . . and that dang-blasted blue-sky, diamond sunshine everywhere turning the rock and the dry dirt into a glittering field of sparkle.

And then I was hearing voices . . . and I thought I heard someone say . . .

“Rosebud.”

And that was just too damned weird.

So I shook that voice right out of my ears.

But no sooner had I than another came flying in—even louder.

And it said, “This land is yours.”

So of course I said, “Come again?”

And it said, “And mine, too.”

And then a different, a kind of nasal voice came in, swooping down over the red ridge in a little burst of wind, and said, “It’s ours? We are free to possess it? And just who is this we?”

And then another voice was laughing and chuckling, “You little fool, this we is all that ever breathed.”

!!!   Footnote at end of post.   !!!

We, the Hearty Hikers, got to the Indian Garden campground at 11:15. There were a lot more people around there than there had been lower on the trail, and we could fill up our water bottles. We had lunch.

And then up, up, up we went. I didn’t hear the voices swirling around my ears anymore, but I think maybe they’d gotten into the Indian Garden water. I could feel them swimming in my belly, even though they kept fairly quiet.

The view below got bigger . . .

. . . and bigger.

And it was nice to look down on the cottonwoods, to see what we’d come through, and to see so clearly the trail that led off to Plateau Point. We hadn’t had the time, and probably not the energy, for that stretch.

Something left for another day.

And yeah, it was still a long way up.

But up we went. Three miles to go. Then a mile-and-a-half.

And then we were sure we would get to the rim.

Go ahead, Hearty Hikers. Take a moment. Look out. Try to remember what it looks like from the inside.

Take a loooooong look.

And then it was 2:50 in the afternoon, a mere seven hours of walking uphill, and we were out.

At the Grand Canyon, I assure you, it’s a good idea to read the signs.

Okay, you earned it. Take one more look. Look for traces of those voices.

Then it’s off to the Bucky Lodge to freshen up, to soak in a hot tub.

Forgive us if we’re feeling a tad bit tired, and looking a tad bit deranged.

FOOTNOTE: Woody Guthrie wrote over 3000 songs. He was an extraordinarily gifted musician and thinker, and I am in complete awe of him. I hope I haven’t insulted him. I have only tried to imagine his vision in 2016.

I highly, highly recommend, if you aren’t already, listening to his songs. In particular, I’d recommend the “Asch Recordings,” which comes in a nice four-volume boxed set. <- Click.