Because it’s not there.
I lay there, panting up at the stars, with my feet burning as if I had just walked across hot coals. I couldn’t remove my backpack, it would just be too much work to put it back on again, so I laid with my body bent over the pack like a yoga ball. As the sweat began to chill against my skin, my mind asked the same question you are asking right now:
“How did Joe get himself into this mess?”
Bravado
Machismo
Manliness
Testosterone
It all leads back to one thing… Testicles.
Yes, these are the burden that men are forced to live with. Testicles motivate us to do things like ride bulls, surf killer waves, eat more than the FDA recommended amount of red meat, and other dangerous activities.
This particular situation I was in was the product of the Pig Fest 2006 (see archives). David Seidner and I began to talk about the prospect of me visiting him out in Arizona for some fly fishing. I had never gone fly fishing prior to the pig fest, and was interested to learn. In the summer that followed, David and I emailed ideas back and forth. With each email, the ambitions rose. We started with simple fly fishing and ended with a plan to fly fish the inner basin of the Grand Canyon’s North rim following one of the most advanced trips in the Grand Canyon trail guidebook.
Damn.
So, I flew out to Arizona in the middle of October with no idea of what was to come. Once in Arizona, I spent two nights at David and Patty’s house in Phoenix where we enjoyed some good wines:
1989 Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin Brut (Gold Label) 375ml: A champagne from the days when Veuve was still making real wine. This was a rich champagne, fully realized with nutty aromas and creamy palate. Very nice, not great, but it served the purpose of a mature champagne.
1995 Pesquera Janus Gran Reserva: This, like most Pesquera, was a leaker. David said that the importer claims the high percentage of leaking and low-filled Pesquera is because Alejandro Fernández refused to use lubricant during cork insertion (Cosmo claims proper lubrication is crucial, and I’m inclined to agree with them). Fill aside, this was a very interesting and attractive wine. While stylistically modern, there was more to this wine than ripe fruit and obvious oak. Indeed, I found myself enjoying the long finish and pondering over some of the peripheral nuances of the wine. There was a sweetness to this wine, like a bit of Sassafras snuck into the bottle, which I found more enjoyable than irksome.
1988 Clape Cornas: This bottle of Clape was very shy for the first twenty minutes in the decanter. Given time, however, this wine evolved into a sublime beauty. While the 1991 is a bit broader of shoulder, this is a graceful and elegant wine with fully integrated and complimentary aspects. Lovely floral nuances blossomed across the palate. It took a few years to convince me of Clape, but I’ve become a believer.
(The Hikers)
Joe: Guess what the only clean part of my body was the whole trip?
David: Devo!
As David and I drove from Phoenix to the Grand Canyon, I was given a chance to get a look at the different parts of Arizona.
North of Phoenix, Sedona is a town that (if you ignore the touristy stuff) is a beautiful spot surrounded by impressive sandstone rock formations. David and I stopped to fly fish in Oak Creek, but the wise Brown Trout were not falling for our pitiful attempts to coax them to bite. I spent over an hour on one stretch of the river where the brown trout leapt into the air to feed on everything but my fly. When I cast upstream, the Browns moved downstream, when I moved downstream, they’d move back upstream. I even kneeled behind a rock to cast (I could hear the trout laughing) but the Browns refused to rise. Despite the fishing frustrations, Oak Creek is a lovely spot (though too busy for my tastes).
Oak Creek
After leaving, David and I drove through Flagstaff and the elevated forests of Coconino and southern Kaibab. When we left the mountainous elevations for the barren scrublands below, the weather began to turn foul. A very cool thing in Arizona is that you can camp anywhere along the road outside of Native American reservations. This isn’t cool, however, when a winter storm rolls in and the winds make it impossible to camp along the road. David and I must have drove up and down the highway four times between the Reservation and edge of the Kaibab before it was decided that we would need to make camp up in the cold elevations of the Kaibab to get shelter under the conifers. It was dark by the time we made camp, but we did have a few moments prior to the sleet to enjoy:
2000 Gould Campbell Vintage Port (375ml): I can’t understand the people who fear young vintage port. To me, the wines are tannic and primary, but no less enjoyable. This particular VP was nice in that the sweetness was fruity rather than simply sugary.
Once we were hiking in the Canyon, David brought a solo tent and I brought a bivvy, but for outside the Canyon, David brought a more spacious Coleman 2-person dome tent. As the storm rolled in, the wind battered the old dome tent. Each time the wind buffeted the tent, the tent flattened, and as I slept on the windward side, the tent poles struck across my body all night long… it was like being the drum at a metal concert.
The next morning David and I drove through the Painted Desert and native American Reservations. As we drove, the Vermilion Cliffs and rock formations surrounding us were beautiful. The only signs of inhabitants within the reservation themselves was the dilapidated remains of a few houses grouped together here and there. Along the road were empty stands that David explained would be full of goods for sale to tourists on the way to the Canyon during better weather.
“Shai-Hulud”
Neat!
David and I stopped again for some fishing in Lees Ferry on the Colorado River, but again, faced bad luck. The winter storm washed mud into the river darkening it to brick brown. Oh well. We did get a chance to speak with a local fly fishing guide who had no idea what we should expect from fishing in the canyon as “it was not done” (that should have raised some warning flags).
God, I hope they were insured.
Lees Ferry
We made it to Monument point on the North rim just before sunset. My first view of the Canyon was dizzying… it was too huge, too massive. David explained that the human eye/brain cannot comprehend the size of the canyon. When European explorers first came across the Grand Canyon they described the Colorado river as a brook no more than six feet across. Even practiced in exploration, they could not grasp the magnitude of the canyon.
Walking down for my first view of the Canyon
That night on the North rim the temperature dropped, and dropped, and dropped (water has never taken so long to boil). With our meal of egg noodles, David and I enjoyed:
1998 Chave Hermitage Rouge: With temps in the teens, I had to keep this bottle of Chave tucked against the skin of my armpit when we weren’t pouring it. Frost would develop on the bottle if left out. Sipped from a folding plastic cup, I was surprised at the ease of drinking and plump fruit present on the palate. It obviously wasn’t a fruit bomb, but certainly the fruitiest Chave I’ve tasted (and the most recent vintage). In fact, there was really no manure, jerky or meat juice that I might usually expect. Time might unveil some of the more savory tertiary flavors. Despite being so friendly, this was still a great bottle of wine. The tannin were chewy, but the acidity was good and I assume this has a long life of development ahead.
“I‘m missing the OC!”
1964 Gonzalez Byass Oloroso Anada: When David gave me his cellar inventory book and told me to pick anything I wanted to drink, it took all of my efforts not to fall to my knees and beg when I saw this bottle. David was only too happy (and continued to show his generosity) in obliging me. If you don’t know, almost all sherry is produced as a solera wine. Sherry are kept in oak butts and the older butts are blended with younger butts each time wine is drawn off. Even sherries which declare a vintage on the label are almost always referring to the age of the oldest butt being drawn upon. In 1994 Gonzalez Byass released two vintages (1962 and 1966) of single-vintage sherry from individual casks that were set aside. These were sold at auction in London as part of a celebration on the 150th anniversary of the first Tio Pepe shipment to England. There were only 1,865 bottles offered. In 1995 Byass continued the Vintage Collection by releasing 2,920 bottles of 1964 Oloroso to a few retailers around the globe. This practice has been mimicked by the sherry house Williams & Humbert when they released a few single-vintage sherry to Christies in New York and London a few years back. It’s fitting then, that the only wine I could compare to this ‘64 Byass was the 1957 Williams & Humbert Amontillado. In truth, this Byass is not an Oloroso but a Palo Cortado. The Humbert was a bit more intense, but this Palo Cortado was smoother and more feminine. I found the alcohol carried perfectly by the harmonies of the wine. Gonzalez Byass actually has this to say about the alcohol of these wines: “Their alcoholic strength is usually 22%, although this may vary slightly depending on the age of the wine. It is known that Olorosos generally develop at 18%, increasing in strength with the passing of time.” I had always thought that wine decreased in alcohol (something that some people have disagreed with me on); I’ve never heard that wines might gain in strength(!). The finish of this sherry was oh-so special, starting all over again in my mouth just when I thought it was finishing. Wow! I was fortunate enough to source a bottle of this from Mark Hubbard, who was only too happy to trade a bottle to a fellow sherry lover. I don’t know when I will drink it, but I know that I could wait decades and still be amazed by it.
>I wonder how Oloroso pairs with Soylent Green?<
Chave’in’my’armpit!
It didn’t take much to make us tipsy at 7,166 feet and so we headed off to sleep. We had bulky bags for the rim, but not for anything near the temps we were seeing, so we put on every article of clothing we had and stuffed our sleeping bags full with anything we could find to make it through the bitterly cold night.
The next morning David and I rose and packed our things. We packed food, we packed water, we packed warm clothes, we packed cold clothes, we packed sleeping gear, we packed cooking gear and food, we packed fly fishing gear -- and packed and packed! Both David and I were sensible outdoorsman, but I think the thrill of the moment overtook us. I actually filled a second backpack and strapped it to the top of my pack. I’d estimate my total load over 60 pounds and David’s over 70. Damn those gonads. Spirits were high as we began our hike. I sang Black Sabbath’s “Crazy Train” as we hiked to the trailhead.
Lloyd
I probably should state that I felt confident in my hiking abilities going into this trip. I climb like a mountain goat going uphill… Of course, I should have taken into consideration that downhill I’m more like a wounded sea turtle. This downhill handicap would cause me some trouble dealing with the Grand Canyon.
Harry
When climbing up a mountain, trails are cut based on (among other things) grades of difficulty. Hiking in the Bill Hall trail, it was apparent that the trail was cut simply because there was no place else to have a trail. On the first pitch of the hike from Monument point to the Esplanade, the trail challenged me, but we finished it in little over four hours. David’s surefooted downhill skill exceeded my own and he got a good lead on me into the Esplanade. The Esplanade itself is an exciting place with the smooth rocks that ebb and flow as if made of liquid. After the sharp incline from Monument Point, it is the first basin of the canyon.
The Esplanade
There are Perv’s everywhere
We ate a quick lunch in the Esplanade and again set off on our hike to reach the next basin, Surprise Valley. It was in this part of the hike that I began to lose momentum and struggle more. Physically, I was in good cardiovascular shape, but the endurance of my feet became a problem after 6 hours of downhill. I made poor choices in both my footwear and backpack. I chose my light hiking shoes because I never got blisters from them, and a sentimental choice of an old backpack with worn away strap padding (I already mentioned the mistake David and I made with over-packing beyond all reason). I could deal with the backpack, but my feet did not have enough room in my light hiking shoes, and I began to develop jamming pain in my toes.
Looking down on Surprise Valley
Inside Surprise Valley
When we finally made Surprise Valley, I was actually thankful for the undulating hills to give me respite from the sharp interminable switchbacks. I gained time and beat David to the top of the Thunder Falls “trail.” I think the name Surprise Valley was shortened from “Surprise(!) you still have a hell of a long way to go, valley!,” as the trail into Thunder Falls was the steepest we encountered the whole trip. This part of the hike broke me, and David beat me down by a considerable margin (see picture!). At the bottom, I removed my boots to find that my feet were covered in hot spots and my big toenails were both rippled like a Ruffles potato chip. I used two packages of moleskin and told David to finish out the hike to our camp spot at Upper Tapeats Creek without waiting. Feet aside, Thunder Spring is a glorious spot. Water exploded from a hole in the rock face as this underwater river was suddenly freed from its earthen containment to waterfall down and roar into the rocks below.
There’s a trail here… somewhere.
Find David!
Hobbled by my feet, I moved slowly as day gave way to night. It was here that I laid down in the middle of the trail, pack still attached to my back, looked up at the stars and wondered what the hell I was thinking. I began the hike singing “Crazy Train” but suddenly, inexplicably, found my self humbled and spontaneously sang “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables. It’s a comical image as I now remember it, but at the time I was entirely serious. When I finally stumbled into camp after nine and a half hours of hiking (but for a few short rests), I was exhausted in ways that I had never felt before. David, too, was in a bad place. Despite finishing 45 minutes before me, he had yet to take anything off and just laid on the ground shivering.
After a period of us just laying there, we began to make primitive camp. I did everything on my hands and knees, unable to stand on my feet. David hung our food suspended on a tree over my bivvy. We were warned of mice, so David used the suggested fishing line to hang the bag (because anything thicker the mice could climb down). Neither of us managed more than a handful of nuts before falling into a kind of sleep that can only be achieved after hiking into the Grand Canyon.