I’m on upriver beach of the Kwagunt delta deep in the Grand Canyon. I have started taking voice notes using my phone. This is the first time that I’ve ever kept a hiking diary and I’m excited to try this. No promises it will turn out interesting, but given prior hikes along the Grand Canyon, it might. I’ve already been in the woods a few days. So let’s rewind for a bit to see how I got here.
Monday, May 18th
I woke up on the Kaibab Plateau near Jacob Lake, drove mi cacharro guapo 20 miles down a windy mountain pass past House Rock, then drove 26 miles down a dirt road to leave my backpack at the Trailhead. Once back at the highway, I left my bicycle in a ditch covered with tumbleweed. Then I drove another 25 miles to Lees Ferry where I parked mi furgoneta preciosa in the long-term parking lot. I felt very nervous leaving my home behind in a parking lot.
I began hitchhiking back westward toward my bike. Luckily my driver (who I’m sure I’ll talk about later) threw my bike in the back of his government-issue truck and drove me the first 18 miles down that dirt road, so I only had to bike 8 miles to my pack. That bike ride was difficult. The weather was on my side wind- and temperature-wise, but the road is gravel with deep sand patches and goes up and up and up toward the Saddle Mountain trailhead, so I got pretty gassed.
I arrived at 5:15pm, leaving my bike and bikepack behind in the bushes for the packrats to forage and beginning my permitted 7-day Grand Canyon crossing. I’ll tell you what: the Saddle Mtn Trail was a bit of a bitch of a climb with 6+ liters of water and 7 days’ food on my back.
The kicker was that once at the saddle, I joined the “most difficult named trail” in the Park: the Nankoweap Trail. This is my second time down, and I’ve also been up it once before. I’m still not sure which direction is more difficult on the Nankoweap Trail: up or down. For being so well-graded it still is an ass-kicker. It’s the heat.
But hot damn, it’s gorgeous out there, even what with the fire rolling through last year and the fireball overhead. It’s hard to be unhappy with it.
Once I had crossed over into the Park right there near Saddle, everything else dissolved away. The part of me that comes out in the Grand Canyon–beast mode–came out. I’m like a werewolf that way. Feral me comes out to play!
I didn’t make it very far down the Nankoweap Trail before it got too dark and chilly to continue. To get cozy, I filled my water bladder with boiled water and tucked my emergency blanket under my down quilt. It went dark. It was perfectly quiet. The stars reminded me: Hózhó. Everything is as it should be; you’re home. Perfection second after second.
I didn’t sleep well, but at least nothing ate my face off. I got a lot of star-gazing done, and shivered a bit.
May 19th
I finished coming down the Nankoweap Trail, doing light trail maintenance on my way down. I moved baby heads and ankle breakers (rocks) off to the side of the trail to make sure that route was obvious, and to just make it nicer for the next person, I suppose. I always do this, and I pick up all the trash, too. It almost never benefits me, so why the fuck do I do this?
Since I’m not an asshole on trail. Conserving it means more asshole power for my blog!
Activate asshole power!
How ironic is it that some people will stop and create rock cairns (also called “ducks” or “stupid rock piles”) rather than stop and ask themselves, “Could I move a couple of fallen rocks off this trail to help make the trail more… obvious?” Placing cairns on a trail needing maintenance is be like setting up buoys in the water around a lighthouse that just needs a new light bulb. Do you like my dumb analogy?
If you think that’s ironic, then how absurdly ironic is it how much time people will spend creating mostly decorative cairns, yet somehow have no time to pick up litter? To this day, I think that if trail organizations like the Pacific Crest Trail Association (PCTA) celebrated an annual “pick up day” (one day encouraging every hiker to pick up a piece of trash or move a small branch or rock out of the middle of the trail), the trails would be in better shape all year. Reward children for picking up trash, not for creating art where it doesn’t belong.
This trail could definitely use some more love. I probably should have bought new shoes for this trek. Why am I wearing ten year-old Leadvilles without any traction left – and holes in the soles? Why did New Balance stop making Leadvilles, dammit? This is probably the last time anyone will ever set down Leadville footprints in the Grand Canyon. These shoes are freakin’ vintage. They should have their own blog, they’re so cool. The ultralight-weight folks would totally cringe if they knew I actually wanted a pair of non-Gortex Merrell Moab Mids for this hike. But Merrell doesn’t make those for women anymore, only men. Women only get Gortex. Waterproof shoes SUCK in the desert! Why, Merrell, why?
And those are some of the things I thought about while slowly slipping and sliding my way down the Nankoweap Trail for my third time in ten years. I’ve made such a mistake thinking I could eke another 40 miles out of these shoe-boogers.
I’m feeling very slow on trail. There are distinct physiological reasons for this, one of them being I’m now 10 years older than last time I hiked here. I’m being beat up a little bit. I amused myself by making the same exact wrong turn I made ten years ago. So predictable.
I’m tired at the bottom, so I decided to spend all day near the Nankoweap springs. The spring just 30 paces north of the trail intersection (at the enormous [biggest] “dancing” cottonwood with sexily crossed “legs”) gushes tasty water. I usually filter everything, but after staring at the source for a while, I decided not to filter it.
I laid on the beach all day, resting and being amused by warring yellow-backed spiny lizards. That is, until one bit deeply into another lizards belly. What the hell, dude?
I intervened. I know I’m not supposed to butt in, but the bite victim (fairly large himself but not as big as the bully) just sort of had gone limp and was hanging from the other (himself hanging from the sexy tree) lizard’s mouth, looking at me looking at him, seeming to say, “help?”
The next morning I woke up with two young deer standing alarmingly close to my pillow, staring down at me while ruminating. Once I lifted my head, they ambled off, still looking quite puzzled. I didn’t butt in by talking to them or anything obnoxious like that. It can get obnoxious when people talk to wild animals. I just sat up, made my coffee and ignored them. At the time I assumed they were just truly wild enough to not know what I was; now I realize they might have been begging food. It’s easy to forget when you’re feeling “alone in the middle of nowhere,” that you’re actually at a major tourist destination.
May 20th
Overall, the hike between Nankoweep and Kwagunt (let’s call the saddle “NanKwagunt”) was much, much easier than George Steck described it.
Steck and I have an ongoing contentious relationship. Yes, I heard you, and I know George is dead. I think if I wake up in hell tomorrow, it’ll be on a Grand Canyon loop-on-repeat hike with Steck as trip leader, and he will know all the things I’ve written about him, and we will do things his way. I’d deserve that.
The view southeast along the fault toward NanKwagunt tells us most of what we need to know about this hike. The route essentially stays on this mohawk-like upheaval the entire way, I think. The way up is straightforward. Judging by tracks at the foot of the cirque below the pass, most people approach the pass from the left.
Do NOT waste your time looking for tall-tale weaving Steck’s alleged petroglyph panel like I did. I’m usually very good at finding ancient art and looked for a good long while for this. It’s either not there or he gave misleading beta. Also, note he is using the old USGS map edition in his descriptions. I’m lucky enough to have those, but for folks who don’t his route descriptions can become confusing.
Over Nankoweap/Kwagunt Pass (NanKwagunt)
The top of NanKwagunt is soft and squidgy ash/silt layer with the fault breaking through. I don’t know anything about Geology and don’t really care, so feel free to believe the stuff I make up. It is a colorful, expansive pass with delectable views in all directions, and mammal tracks leading in all directions as well.
I took a break under a huge juniper at the bridge of the nose of the ridge heading down. I assessed the drainages on either side while mixing Sour Patch Kids with other food groups and trying to choose a favorite. They both seem to go (the drainages), but I couldn’t choose.
So naturally I stayed on the ridge between them for the first bit. But my feet didn’t stay on the ground. I landed on my face detouring around what was becoming thicker and thicker vegetation, ending that “fence-walking” escapade. I was made a fool by an easy-seeming rock hop. My chin and knee helped stop my fall. It could have been a lot worse, especially if my tongue had been out. 😜 I scolded myself, “This ain’t no sidewalk, Caroline, and it ain’t no race.”
I shame-shimmy-shuffled straight down the wall’s steep talus bed into the western wash bed. Luckily the descent gamble rewarded me with a gloriously easy tramp to the bottom (just watch for the bypass to the right to avoid the tall pour-over at the bottom, 36.2507, -111.86546).
It turns out that thanks to the Butte Fault (seismics!) running along the route, it’s sort of like a sidewalk in places… but one tilted at a 45º angle (or steeper). It’s like that “fun house” at the state fair: also a bit more disorienting in the heat. I agree with Steck: even on a relatively-mild late May day, this area is a furnace. Best to tackle it in the morning, when this wall will provide some shade.
Safe in Kwagunt Bottom
After a siesta near Kwagunt creek where I played with some clay, I tracked down what George Steck described as a spring in his gloriously side-tracked tale of descending what could be the easiest drop along the route. I would describe his spring more as a seep, but to his credit, it’s been fifty years and 2026 is a very dry year. I certainly wouldn’t wait for water there, and I definitely wouldn’t camp there like they did mid-June 1989. Again, Steck showing us how NOT to do it, I suppose. Always camp 200 feet from water (not my rules; it’s LNT), and for flash flood risk, don’t camp in a wash bed. Steck did both no-nos that night, when high ground was literally 200 feet to the south–in the ruins of an old Native American camp between two drainages.
FWIW I’ve never heard of Kwagunt NOT running wet at the bottom between saddles, same as Nankoweap. It’s easy to scoop up and filter a couple gallons in under ten minutes. Steck even acknowledged it’s wet, so it just goes to show just how delirious these three men must have been to sleep in a wash below a huge pour-over, next to a seep.
There is quite a bit of evidence of a good-sized village once placed here; however, it’s pretty obvious it’s been repeatedly pillaged. I was looking for specific, spectacular pottery sherds I’d seen pictured on the Web. They did not seem to be there any longer. But as of late May 2026, I know there are still plenty left to be seen, especially of the corrugated type. I found one really cool Tusayan Black-on-white pottery sherd, and hid it a little better in the rocks so maybe 30 years from now someone still has a chance of enjoying a find.
Please folks: leave what you find so that others can experience the thrill of finding some long-dead lady’s broken cook pot. It’s against the law to remove artifacts from USA public (shared) lands.
Lately I’ve been obsessed with pottery, so finally getting to explore this area after hearing about it for years was a highlight of my trip.
What I find really deep is how when the pottery breaks, it looks almost exactly like broken fragments of rock that you find around here near the geologic clay layers. The potters’ contemporaries must’ve thought potters were magicians to have made rock in the shape of urns and ollas that could carry water, as well as toys and figurines and adornos. And then to also be making real live, breathing human niños as well? I can’t imagine these weren’t matrilineal societies.
Anyway, alchemical “magic” turns clay to rock in fire, and to me just as magical that when they broke, they blended back into the landscape. It’s a perfect integration with the local natural world. Someday people will be finding our Tupperware. I don’t feel proud of that.
Hat Tip to Sirena
As it would happen, I got almost all my Horsethief beta from Sirena’s wonderful hiking blog. I also read her blog before around the time of the Esplanade hike (2019), the hike that set off my war with Steck.
Unfortunately, I screen-shotted all of Steck’s “useful” entries about the Horsethief, when I SHOULD have screen-shotted Sirena’s blog. Whoops. I do think her beta would have been much more useful to carry, since I have the memory of a gerbil.
Just like her, I hiked in a Jacob Lake Inn lemon raspberry cookie and devoured it on trail. Nom nom. Grrl, you rocked the Horsethief boss-style!
Unlike Sirena, I did not have a shuttle or a cache to lighten my load or a pre-hike helicopter ride. Fuckin’ boss! But like Sirena, and 10 years later, Rich Rudow also took part in my hike, only he doesn’t come on scene until the very end. So keep reading.
Sirena wrote how Rich gave her great advice just before her hike: If you find yourself climbing anything hands and feet on the Horsethief Route, you’re doing it wrong. Turn around, take a break in the shade, and re-assess. This applies to pretty much all GCNP hiking routes: they should be class 3 (Yosemite Decimal System). If you reach class 4 and are using both hands and feet to maneuver a vertical plane, wish you had rope, and a fall could be disastrous, YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG.
Being generous I’d say George Steck essentially gave the same advice in his verbose description of his team descent off NanKwagunt where his deliriously over-heated friend, separated from the group, threw himself over a 20+ foot pour-off at the base of the hike down. I suppose highlighting how NOT to do something is as effective in a guidebook as highlighting how to do something?
Agree? Disagree?
There’s some irony in the fact I’ve now completed my third beta-free, low-prep Grand Canyon loop hike in three years. I do not recommend you follow my footsteps for obvious reasons, even though I’ve sort of grown to enjoy it. It makes me feel a bit more like an early explorer and MacGyver when I get to make decisions and figure out problems. Doubly since I hike alone.
I feel like as long as I pack in Sour Patch Kids, everything else will work out.
Steck’s description of his descent off NanKwagunt is more of a woeful trip report, not a hiking guide. He might have just said, “take the west drainage southeast off the top of the pass, watch for a right-hand bypass for a large pour-off near the bottom.” Furthermore, Steck didn’t describe any of the Horsethief route after this, just anecdotes about his gear and company (and a good one about begging beer from rafters). He used the privilege of having a publisher willing to print his ramblings to actually write something like: go “down and up,” “down and up,” “down and up,” which is what he summarized from a journal he’d written in 1977. And this was mass-printed on non-recycled paper.
STECCKKKKKK!
Back to the Present Time: May 21st, 7:09AM
The Colorado River is running so low (last night was a high just over 9000 CFS for the month of May). I’ve never seen the water so clear.
But it seems to be making a strange sound. A machine-like hum, much louder and deeper than my tinnitus. Maybe a huge boulder in the River is sucking air and cavitating, or maybe doing the reverse, like a big raspberry? Instead of funny, it’s disarming, practically haunting. If I was sharing a beer with river rats right now, for sure I’d be asking them if they heard it, too. Was I imagining things? Why were nature sounds sounding so… unnatural? I’m a bit spooked.
No river runners came ashore last night, which means I had the entire beach to myself. That’s swell, but also I was open to a cold drink and a dinner that wasn’t ramen. When I was last hiking past Kwagunt in 2017, I got to share a beer, gourmet dinner and a sandy beach camp with record-setting kayaker Ben Orkin and members of his private trip.
I’ve watched a lot of people along the shores of the Colorado River, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen anyone look more “at home” riverside than Ben did that evening. Also, his fellow trip members set the bar pretty high in terms of hospitality and fascinating conversation/company. They were interested how I was doing the Hayduke again, but this time in the fall and heading Eastbound. Meanwhile, Ben burned himself into my memory just doing his own thing along the shore. His relationship with the Canyon looked so easy.
Last night at dusk I saw a 1.5-foot long, pinky-finger-thick black-and-white snake. A young King Snake. Never seen one of those in the Grand Canyon before. Being immune to rattler venom, they can and will strangle and eat rattlesnakes. Now that’s cool. With the sound, and the snake, I was feeling uneasy.
But I already regret not bringing my tent. I am not sleeping very well. I’m terrified of scorpions and snakes bedding down with me. They’ll do that, you know. To stay warm, they say. As long as you don’t accidentally roll on top of them, they probably won’t bite. If you’ve ever cowboy camped (sleeping on the ground without a tent) like I have for hundreds of nights, maybe you too wonder how many nights you had cold-blooded bedfellows, and which. Not which nights, which animals. Ew.
My bedtime setup is a piece of see-through window weather-proofing plastic set on the ground in a way its corners fold up and most insects accidentally crawl under it, not on to it. My homemade down quilt allegedly protects me from biting things, but also keeps me drenched in sweat. It’s too hot at night for covers but yet I must hold them close to me or else! This setup passes beyond creepy-crawly-neurosis into the realm of insanity.
Nobody should toy with the sanctity of their own sleep this way. Waking up all night to re-arrange my quilt and groundsheet to protect me from them makes zero sense, as you’ll discover if you keep reading.
But as I rushed to pack my backpack, I figured: it’s been ten years since I was stung by a bark scorpion while asleep in the Grand Canyon. Everyone else is cowboy camping in the Canyon. Chances of it happening to the same person twice are slim, right? Grow up and get over it, right?
But damn, it is so wretched since I didn’t take the time to carefully think through my tent and shoe choices. MacGyver, my ass. Had I a tent and a reasonable pair of shoes, this would be so much easier. “Next time I’ll prepare better,” I said, last time.
Today’s Plan
Today I’m gonna walk back up Kwagunt Canyon to where I’m supposed to gather a bunch of water (maybe about 2+ gallons), turn left, and try for Sixtymile Canyon. Sixtymile is a canyon essentially parallel with Kwagunt, but a few drainages over. It got that creative name because it’s 60 miles from Lees Ferry as the River goes. To get to Sixtymile would be a handful of miles over a couple passes, but involves big elevation changes with a heavy load. And heat. We’ll see.
At some point since the Dragon Bravo fire the Canyon must’ve flooded and so the markings on the side walls are darker with carbon dust, and there are “charcoal briskets” everywhere. The fire results are being washed down Canyon. I wonder what all that carbon is going to do to the below-the-rim ecosystem. I heard that it is also quite bad in North and South Canyons. I was told there are potholes full of ash. I wince at the thought.
Being Predictable: Good or bad?
While heading up Kwagunt Canyon, I am kind of amazed how I am “accidentally“ following my footprints I left coming down. Without trying, I’m putting my feet right on top of the tracks I left yesterday afternoon. It’s obvious I have an ingrained hiking style. If anyone had been hiking with me all these years, I think they’d call it “predictable.“
A person becomes predictable when they have a set of rules that govern their life.
I’m predictable, I guess. In nature, anyway. There are a set of rules I follow when walking outdoors. When I’m walking, I try not to step on things that are alive. Duh. I try to step on flat, sturdy services. If there’s a choice to step on a flat rock vs. dirt, I’ll step on the rock. If I don’t need to walk in the water, I don’t. And if I don’t need to leave footprints, I’ll see how far I can go without leaving footprints. Another treat for whoever hikes behind me!
Along the way down and up Kwagunt there’s quite a few pools of tadpoles and quite a few burrowing worm tunnels. I see other people have trampled these, and feel a little sad for these critters that already have such an uphill battle living in evaporating pools. My poor wee friends (the tadpoles, not the people).
Anyway, when someone doesn’t have rules or doesn’t know or follow rules, they can be predictably chaotic. I think, even though it seems like a predictable person might be “boring,” I would take a predictable person in my life any day over an unpredictable person. Someone who prizes themselves on being unpredictable, or enjoys watching other people squirm? Red flag!
I’m pretty predictable, but I’m also very spontaneous. How else would I end up on insane adventures like this? I mean, I got my GCNP backcountry permit two days before the start of the trip and didn’t even know I’d be hiking the Horsethief Route until Bridgehouse emailed me my permit with the note, “Enjoy the Horsethief Route!” Prior to this, I was just going to hitch-hike down the river, beg cold drinks, and sunbathe in the sand! It got me thinking, maybe I should hike the Horsethief?!
I’m as spontaneous as it gets, really, while still being prepared-enough. This is adventure.
It reminds me of this goofball I dated just after hiking the Pacific Crest Trail. He wanted adventure and wanted people to think he was King Adventure, but his planning was teeeeeeeedious. He was a curator of things, all the things. He was exacting. I spent a lot of time waiting for him. It was all staged. It was not spontaneous, and therefore I realized, not adventure. I think safe-ish adventure involves a thoughtful mix of spontaneity and predictability. I think at this point, most the people who know me could predict I might be adventuring in the Grand Canyon if it’s Spring or Fall. There’s a strange grey area between spontaneity and predictability, and I’m definitely in that grey area right now on this hike. This time I’ve dialed up the predictability by bringing enough food.
I’m think I could be considered opinionated. But I think opinionated just comes along with what happens when your rules are working well for you. And my set of rules has been working pretty well for me. They’ve been some recent tweaks to the rules the past five years or so. I’ve had to learn how to be a better judge of people. I had to replace some rules that weren’t working for me.
That has changed my behavior quite a bit. My new behavior: mostly spending a lot more time alone in the woods with predictably spontaneous company!
9:24am
It’s already getting hot. I took my pants off and am hiking in boy shorts. Why haven’t boy shorts become a thing for women until recently? I know it’s “appropriating” a bit (men -> lesbians -> me), but damn boy shorts are so comfortable. Later today I might be “Colin Fletchering” it. That is to say, hiking nude in the Grand Canyon. The only other tracks I see are about a week old, and the helicopters above certainly can’t see this. Right? They do seem to be flying directly overhead almost every time. And often. Do they see me?
I’m a little way up the tricky (Kwagunt + Malgosa = “KwaGosa”) drainage. I’m carrying 8.5L of water up. This is steep. I’ve seen a whiptail lizard, a tarantula hawk, y dos palomas. There’s some really nice mature mountain mahogany growing in this drainage and of course, Juniper.
I’ve been thinking a little bit about Solitaire and realized this morning that I haven’t played Solitaire on my phone for a few days. I’ve been playing Solitaire almost ritualistically lately, fully aware that I’m wasting time. My reading apps won’t open so Solitaire is what I’m left with. The walls are coming in tighter around me, and I’m playing Solitaire! But I feel like it’s time better wasted than spent looking at the news or social media. Talk about doom scrolling. Ew.
It reminds me of Donna Saufley sitting at her desk playing Mahjong for hours. Not many people knew just how much time Donna Saufley spent playing Mahjong. A lot. Ten years ago, I thought it was so weird how much time Donna spent playing Mahjong but now I’m kind of doing the same thing with Solitaire. Donna Saufley comes back to life in my mind yet again! [Refer to the chapter on Donna Saufley.]
The Donna Saufley Chapter
I’m remembering about how in Fall 2022 I was on the phone with the Saufleys and they invited me to caretake at their new house in Idaho. It had a hot tub. So I did go up to Idaho, for a bit.
When I drove out, Donna also drove out from Los Angeles to meet me there. Something was off. She looked somehow different and was acting strangely. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Her sparkly, darling laughter was gone. Not joking, not playful. The hair was standing up on my spine. It was something spooky. I felt like I was constantly doing something wrong, but I was hardly doing or saying anything. Donna Saufley, the self-professed Leona Helmsley of Pacific Crest Trail (PCT) trail angels1, had become completely unpredictable. Except she was still chronically Mahjong-ing.
After showing me how to use the thermostat, lock the doors, and load the dishwasher correctly, she left. I was alone in Idaho in a big unfurnished house, battling a crippling illness. The hot tub I was so excited about did not work and needed parts. I’m a vegetarian since the damn 1980s, practicing Buddhism, and the next door neighbors were rounding up dozens of cattle for slaughter, 30 yards from Donna’s new kitchen window. The town folk seemed to all hang huge posters endorsing another IYKYK Bundy, running for election. Idaho was going to be… interesting for me.
Remember our chat about having rules and becoming predictable? Back then and my whole life leading up until then, I didn’t really have any rules. I was flexible as Gumby, collecting acceptance anywhere I could find it, making friends quickly (and carelessly) because I was always on the move. I had never been specifically taught rules to live by, and I certainly did not know what predictable felt like. My life had been predictably unpredictable. That’s the nice way of saying it.
From the moment I met her in 2013, Donna accepted me. We became great friends. We had easy conversation and laughed so hard together over the silliest things. I thought, “she’d be a cool sister,” and she agreed to be my cool big sister. I helped her for years with her “hostel project,” and with several other personal projects. She let me stay with her on occasion. Once I took care of Hiker Heaven, and all the dozens of dirty dirt bag hiker trash that come with Hiker Heaven, practically alone for weeks, so that she could complete her PCT section thru-hike. Her acceptance of me seemed predictable, but was that because I always did what I was told? You see, behind that Helmsly joke there was a kernel of truth.
While in Idaho something came up with her new house. A pest infestation of sorts. To maybe help fix it, she asked me to do some crop-dusting of sorts–potentially detrimental to my tenuous (at the time) health. For the first time ever, I told Donna Saufley no. If she wanted that done to her house, I would have to leave, I told her. She called my boundary “attitude,” and laid into me calling me names like “know-it-all.” It was shocking. That was entirely unacceptable, so I intentionally and quietly disappeared from her world.
For the record, it won’t hurt if you call me a know-it-all. I know a lot, and I now also know that the two people who have ever called me know-it-alls were themselves “know-it-alls.” Funny how that works, right? I might not be a know-it-all, but I’m definitely a smart ass. I’m also forgetful, and sometimes I’m wrong. And that’s all alright.
Turns out, anyone who knows a lot and chooses to share will always risk being called a know-it-all. A woman who knows a lot is up against a lot of sexist bullshit dictating how she should share her knowledge. It must be buttressed with softeners, qualifiers and sprinkled with apology. If she is the slightest bit confident, she’s definitely a know-it-all. Sometimes I find it safer to play dumb, but then I endure frequent mansplaining. Let’s not weaponize wisdom, just about the only thing women can hold, against them. I’ve since learned that one great way to be wise and at the same time not a know-it-all, is to not offer unsolicited advice or over-extend unsolicited help or advice. This wisdom also solves mansplaining.
A Very Cruel Twist of Fate
Only three months after I moved out of Donna’s Idaho house, her husband texted to let me know Donna had brain cancer. Suddenly her behavior made sense. I should have known. That wasn’t Donna. That was an angry tumor.
She fought, but was dead within ten months. I never saw or talked to her again. That is difficult to stomach. An utterly unpredictable tumor robbed me of one of my best friends–well before she was dead.
I take solace knowing I was kind and generous with her even when she treated me poorly. Both times she was cruel during the time I knew her, I just walked away for a while. She later would apologize (except the second time, when she died instead). That first time, she initially sided with a slimy, predatory hiker because he might be “on the spectrum” (when in fact he really was just an annoying predator, and more annoying is now still a “big name” on the PCT scene) but then came back to me a year later to apologize and tell me I was right. She heard from other trail angels how he misbehaved. It truly was just her knee-jerk reaction to take in all the hikers (thousands of them) and side with them no matter what.
Over the years, I said she was like Jesus that way, always siding with the hikers no matter how mis-behaved. But there were a couple instances where I was surprised over which hikers she sided with. She was famous for–and proud of–these choices. It’s part of why her trail name was “L Rod” (lightning rod). I rolled with it and kept my opinions to myself. She was my friend.
And I kept her secrets secret. Fuck, I even cleaned her ten porta-potties nearly every day for over a month! If you remember a heavily hashtagged, tiki-themed Hiker Heaven porta-potty from 2017, that was all me. I went to the party store alone and bought those decorations with my own money. We were having a great time; Donna agreed over and over that 2017 was her favorite hosting year ever.
I was a volunteer at Hiker Heaven sometimes when there were no other volunteers, and sometimes when they weren’t even open. She even allowed me to enter her home, and I was made to feel like part of her amazing family2! I was honored to be the very first guest in her gorgeous, meticulously accoutred Airbnb, converted from the vintage singlewide hiker trash trailer after she retired Hiker Heaven. I built and maintained her websites.
During her cancer battle, I worked behind the scenes to help her family by coordinating some of her care from thru-hiking community members. It was such a relief seeing a few of them flock immediately to her side. I took heart knowing she was surrounded by amazing people.
I won’t take it personally, Mrs. Donna L-Rod Saufley. I hope your Heavenly hotel is running in a way that even Helmsley would approve of. And may you never see the same Mahjong tiling twice, or the same sushi on the conveyor belt. Send us some laughter, hey?
Losing Donna was one of three life-rattling tragedies that flattened me during the Covid era, other than losses from Covid itself. I hate to say it, but it was one of the easier tragedies, since ultimately it made a little sense biologically. It has been a long, hard, trail-less climb out of that ugly space in time.
Life really is strange and can seem unfair. Sometimes life can even seem like it’s scripted in a way to fuck with our heads. The Horsethief Route is a cakewalk in comparison to the hard years behind me. And maybe having lived this contrast is what makes me qualified to perform this type of “death march” (hiking a difficult route through a burned area).
Horsethief Hike Requisites & Other Unsolicited Advice
Speaking of qualifications, this hike should NOT EVER be ANYONE’S first backpacking trip. Or their third or even their fifth. This is an advanced, highly difficult backpacking trip. Period.
Requisites for this particular hike are a degree of stupidity or recklessness, some bravery, 7+/10 fitness, backcountry-bred common sense, a tent, a Chrome Dome (for more reasons than you might expect), good shoes or boots, Tyvek ground sheet, and ankle gaitors. The cheat grass out here is tenacious – vicious! I spend every break plucking it out of my socks and shoe collars for a good long while.
Do not hike this route if you are in a bad place in your life; it will not cheer you up.
If you are hiking the Hayduke and it’s gotten a little too easy for you, or you want to keep solitude, maybe hike behind Nankoweap Mesa instead of along the River. I know Wired hiked this alt during her 2015 Hayduke thru, and so it has always been registered in the back of my mind. I’m glad I finally hiked it! You end up missing the cool granary at Nankoweap beach crawling with dozens of tourists, but you can visit Kwaguntown ghost town instead.
10:54am
I’ve already found two dead rodents in the middle of nowhere in the on the laying on the ground with no apparent reason for being dead. Ew. Does a burned area increase prevalence of Hanta? One of the last things I barely gleaned from the “outside world” before this hike (being a Solitaire player rather than watching the news) was something about a Hanta outbreak. This is concerning. However, if I die of Hanta in the Grand Canyon, I think I will set off some “first ever” record and end up alone in the second edition of “Over the Edge: Death In Grand Canyon,” which might be sorta neat? I’d go in the “Critters and Cacti” section!
The distance between me and infamy could be proportionate to the distance I keep with these mice. I hope none visit me in my sleep. Sometimes the crawl over my face when I cowboy camp.
1:51pm
I gathered some Juniper berries from grandfather Juniper tree at the top of the Malgosa/Awatubi pass and scattered them down the south side of the pass, where some of the junipers are burned. I suppose this violates some National Park rule, but if a tree grows where I put a scarred berry, would anyone fault me? The fire damage is is not as bad on the south side.
Along the way, I’ve seen quite a few cacti growing out from burned cacti. Same with yucca. Quite a bit of Mormon tea is growing back. Those two survived the fire in places, must be quite resistant I guess or the fire didn’t burn hot there. Peach Mallow has bloomed, and some other bright desert blossoms.
It’s bleak, but not entirely sad.
2:55pm
It’s getting hot. I’d guess it’s at least 90ºF. I always underestimate though. I’m taking a break under my umbrella and a helicopter just flew overhead. The umbrella is still pretty reflective so I assume they noticed, and I assume they assume the worst. Other than these hills kicking my ass, I’m doing great. This is the best vacation I’ve ever had, no lie.
4:00pm
Well, that’s that. I just accidentally deleted my map GPS track. I was editing the track while resting in the shade and deleted the wrong thing. WHOOPS. I guess I’m gonna die now. I’m not too worried about not having a line to follow since it was drawn pretty arbitrarily in the days before the hike anyway and the gist of this hike is obvious. Spontaneity, right?
Several times already I’ve gone well off track to see something that catches me eye. It’s very slow-going in this terrain, plus everything needs looking at because it’s so damn pretty and/or bizarre. This isn’t just walking to get to a destination. It feels like each moment I’m arriving at the destination. And that’s part of what makes it the best vacation ever.
Heading south off Awatubi in the afternoon after 3 PM is 10/10 recommended. There’s quite a bit of shade at that point down the center of the canyon.
I would say that the lower, southwest portion of the Awatubi / Sixtymile crossing is the most technical aspect of the Horsethief Route. You’ll come up on some very large pour overs in smoothed white stone. They all have bypasses to the right. The very last one, close to the bottom, should not be down-climbed without equipment — it bypasses clear over the ridge to the west.
5:35pm
I made it to Sixtymile Canyon and took a walk down canyon without my pack as the sun began to set. It’s really neat down there. I couldn’t go far because it turns into a narrow and then drops precipitously after about 2000 (horizontal) feet. I didn’t find any water. In my reading I heard this canyon had ruins or something human worth preserving, but given it probably takes ropes to get down, and the river is not walk-able from Kwagunt, etc., I somehow doubt that. However, even the upper reaches are full of interesting nooks and crannies, making this a potentially cool hideaway for locals. In other words, it’s worth exploring.
I also didn’t find any cinders or hardly any in this canyon, yet the fire was in bulk directly to the west, so that attests to the shape and placement of the sixtymile drainage (it only drains a far-reaching North Rim outcrop). Either that or the drainage just hasn’t had enough big rain yet to move it down. This territory is complex!
I feel like I’m getting to know the Grand Canyon a little better hiking this backstage route. It’s like you see the Canyon from the river and or from the park and it’s all perfection. The stage backdrops are as we imagine minds-eye. But then you start to climb the catwalk. Its back channels. Its “sewer,” so to speak. And you realize, “oh this more about is how it all works.” This is a nitty-gritty and you start to see it in whole and appreciate how real it is. It’s it’s not a fantasy. It’s real. It works. It works hard. It floods and it recovers. It burns and it recovers.
It doesn’t care what you call it and it doesn’t mind any business. It doesn’t remember and it doesn’t have anything to forget.
Goals.
It’s time for bed.
Stay tuned for part 2 where I face my worst nightmare again, I reach the beach a few more times, enjoy a few fizzy canned (non-alcoholic as it turns out) beverages, and… walk.