Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
They say the Grand Canyon is one of the few things in life that when you finally see it in person, it doesn’t disappoint.
And they’re right. It feels surreal staring out over an expanse that’s almost too much for the mind to comprehend.
It’s the kind of view that makes my heart ache without understanding why.
Imperial purples and taupes paint the canyon, hiding cobalt blues that only make themselves known upon a closer look. The grooves and cracks of the canyon’s walls extend as far as the eyes can see, giving it a silent, majestic quality and making it almost frightening to behold.
My chest tightens with the desire to hold onto this feeling, never to forget the wonder and scale of what’s before me.
I don’t even bother to record the moment with my phone, because the true vibrancy of these colors could never be captured by a camera, especially since they shift by the minute.
A part of me worries I might lose this feeling if I stare at it too long, never wanting to be the person desensitized to this kind of beauty.
In the back of my mind, I’m acutely aware that I’m also standing before something magnificent, yet deadly.
And I’m about to walk into it, unsure what sacrifices it requires to pass through its wide mouth.
Morbid—yes. But the sheer might of the expanse that mesmerizes its victims shouldn’t be taken lightly.
I’m not ignorant or flippant about the risks. On average, a dozen people die every year in the Grand Canyon. The odds of falling to my death are 1 in 1.8 million.
I wish I didn’t remember these stats.
They won’t stop me, though. Too much hangs on completing this hike.
I garnered more odd looks when I blocked the view with my hand again as I waited at the bus stop at four-thirty this morning.
My neighbors aimed their concerned stares my way during the bus ride to the start of the trail, a few of them even keeping their distance once we arrived.
But I’m kind of used to people thinking I’m a little odd.
Nothing was going to ruin this for me, so I held my hand up anyway, blocking the view like a celebrity hiding from the paparazzi.
Now, here I stand, staring at the canyon and hoping she’s as impressed with her blind date reveal as I am.
I turn my back, since I can’t resist taking at least one selfie, then I send Hayley a text and a kissy face for Giorgio before turning my phone off and sliding it into my bag.
I’ve decided that for the rest of this hike, I’m not going to take any selfies or worry about my appearance or any of the usual materialistic concerns that take up so much of my brain space throughout my day.
Satisfied with the photo I took, I pivot, giving the canyon my best morning smile, brushing my hands over my coral shorts and teal athletic T-shirt.
I adjust my soft, yellow bucket hat, pleased at how it compliments my outfit so perfectly.
This must be what it feels like to fall in love. There’s not one flaw to be found in the view in front of me. Overwhelming as it may be, there’s so much to gain by answering the canyon’s beckoning. I’m hoping to find some sense of achievement waiting for me on the other side.
I want to beg the sun to slow down so I can drink in the colors just a little longer.
Peaches play with soft indigo purples as the mountain wakes up.
Harsh corn yellows from the sun barely peeking over the horizon try to steal the show, but as the light creeps higher, it only intensifies the tapestry of the canyon.
I may be stalling. Marigold, my new-to-me backpack, is strapped on tightly, and a hydration pack hangs from my right shoulder, ready for a sip. I’ve done my last pee, triple checked the map in my pocket, and scowled at my shoes at least five times—still offensively hideous.
There’s nothing left to do but begin.
I blow out a noisy, lip-flapping breath and force myself to walk to the trail’s entrance, its signs both welcoming and warning those who enter.
At 5:15 in the morning, the trail already seems surprisingly busy, and I want to announce that the canyon is taking a personal day so they can all buzz off and leave us to our date.
But the mass of browns and khakis would probably just ignore me.
The trail begins anticlimactically with a four-foot-wide path of warm marmalade-orange stone. I’d think we were headed for a pleasant little picnic if I couldn’t see the series of switchbacks ahead, zig-zagging menacingly down the mountain.
Just one push from a careless hiker would send someone to their death.
The only thing preventing such a dramatic ending is a seven-inch rock ledge that follows the path, and I take no comfort in it.
My fingers lightly run along the inside wall every few seconds, allowing the rough texture of the rock to ground me.
There’s a herd-like flow as I follow the line of hikers all walking the same path down the cliffside, and I wonder what would happen if I shouted snake! It would at least give me some room to breathe.
Already, this isn’t the peaceful hike I imagined. About seventy people all amble their way down the stony terrain, taking steps toward securing the bragging rights awaiting at the other end. Someone slows down behind me, their heavy footsteps just close enough to put me on edge.
“Hey, Newbie.”
I peer over my shoulder, groaning. “Chad,” I acknowledge him in lieu of offering an actual greeting.
“Nice bag.” He smiles, tapping Marigold with his trekking pole. Should I have gotten some of those?
“Looks like your rash is gone,” he continues, despite my silence. “Mind if I stick near you?”
I do mind. Very much. And this bag is killing me. My shoulders already hurt.
Besides, Chad is like every guy I’ve dated in the past. He’s walking white noise, while my head and my heart have things that need working out. I need thinking space.
A hiking pal would probably hinder that process. Plus, Chad is creepy. Time for some inner sense of gusto to work itself up.
“You know,” I begin, clicking my tongue. “I wish I could, but I have to do this alone. It’s one of the stipulations for this course I’m taking, that I complete the hike solo and as quietly as possible.”
“I’ve been told I make a good silent partner. It’s actually on my business card.” He grins, still unfazed.
“He looks like a fun time,” the lady from the restaurant last night adds as she passes me.
“You’re welcome to be my stand-in,” I grumble, wishing Chad had fallen for the rash bit.
While I have no problem telling a white lie to get myself out of a sticky situation, being straightforward isn’t one of my strengths. For some reason I can’t bring myself to speak plainly and tell the guy directly that I need some space. And also never talk to me again.
He raises his hands with an easy smile on his face. “Hey, I get it. I’ve done the solo-hike thing. It’s good for the soul. My buddy and I just like making new friends along the way.” He gestures to the lean-muscled man behind him.
“Hey, Rash Lady.” Chad’s accomplice lifts his chin in greeting before he drapes an arm over my shoulder. “I’m Brandon.”
I give him a tight smile, shrugging my way out of the unwelcomed embrace. Calling someone “Rash Lady” isn’t a great way to make friends, but neither is Brandon’s overpowering aftershave.
Marigold and I hug the cliffside, slowing so the two men can pass.
But they don’t. They pause, too, letting others overtake us.
My eyes roll as I hustle forward, trying to put some space between us while also trying to ignore the sensory overload threatening to overtake me.
Brandon’s arm has left a sweaty streak on my shoulder, acting as a dial, turning up not only the heat but my awareness of every other sensation.
It’s made me acutely aware of the dampness against my back, the blister already forming on my heel, and the weight of Marigold’s straps crushing my shoulders.
With my shirt nearly drenched, my ears cannot take another attempt at peacocking from Chad or Brandon.
I breathe a sigh of relief when we reach Cedar Ridge, the first plateau with a toilet stop and a line of overhydrated hikers already queuing outside.
This might give me a chance to separate myself from my unwanted companions, whose mothers never taught them to take a hint.
And my mother never taught me about open and honest communication, so here we are.
I groan when both men join the restroom line ahead.
I wanted to pee. But I can wait.
My legs tremble, the muscles protesting after the mile-and-a-half descent. The temperature has also been climbing as the elevation drops, like the slow simmer building in a pot of stew.
“Line too long for you, too, huh?”
Someone chuckles from beside me, and I turn to a lady fanning her face with a beige hat. “I always bring my pee cloth so I can go out in the wild, ya know.” She pivots, showing me a triangle cloth clipped to her backpack.
What is a pee cloth, and why did no one tell me about this? Not that I want to pee on a bush and risk emotionally scarring a squirrel, but this seems like a good thing to have just in case.
“Yeah…I didn’t expect…that.” I gesture to the line.
“I’m Sue, by the way. My husband and I do a hike together every year for our anniversary.
” She motions to the man in the line wearing the same matching brown Hawaiian print shirt as her.
“He thinks he’s Indiana Jones.” She rolls her eyes when he tips his hat at her, then hooks his thumbs over the belt beneath his protruding belly.
“I’m Willow.” I lift a hand and wave, even though I’m standing two feet away from her. Sue scans every item I’m wearing and carrying like she’s measuring me up, telling herself at least she’s not this unprepared and haggard looking.