Chasing Horizons: Conquering the Grand Canyon in One Epic Trek
I’d like to be able to look back at my developing years and say I was born with some innate tendency to seek out challenge, risk, or discomfort. I’m fairly certain that I was driven more by curiosity for adventure, learning things, and thrills than I ever was for taking risks for risk’s sake. There came a time, however, when many of those things started to overlap and became inextricably linked to one another. Part of the thrill, is the challenge. Part of the adventure, is taking risks. Part of gaining new knowledge, comes from becoming intimately familiar with one’s own discomfort. Fast forward to 2021, and as if overcoming a global pandemic (and all of the disruption and chaos that comes with it) wasn’t enough, I started to wonder what other challenges lie ahead.
I knew that long distance road races, albeit extremely challenging in and of themselves, didn’t necessarily appeal to me. The highly regulated and organized nature of things like CrossFit competitions and other exercise competitions didn’t interest me at the time either. After turning over many stones and doing a ton of research, a seemingly random thought popped into my head- web search, “the hardest single day hikes in the United States.”
Included on every single list... The Grand Canyon Rim to Rim day hike- A thigh busting, calf shredding 12 miles of relentless descent from one rim into the depths of one of the greatest natural wonders of the world, followed by 12 miles of lung burning, heart pounding ascent to the top of the other rim. Traveling 24 miles, 5,000 feet down, and 5,000 feet back up over the course of a day soon became a bone that the dog in me couldn’t let go of. That being said, we are social creatures, so the thought of training for and completing this roller coaster was much more appealing if I managed to recruit some friends to do it with me. Two long time clients (turned good friends), Mark and Ain, in addition to my best lifelong pal, Jeremy, and we had a well rounded crew ready to take on the “Rim to Rim” on Friday, May 20th, 2022. We trained, we conquered, we had a hard time walking for two days, and our mission was accomplished.
The end.
Well, not quite.
Upon finishing that final turn at the top of Bright Angel Trail with a final burst of energy, I recalled a unique sensation. A sensation that took me a while to process and interpret. I had completed the most challenging single day feat of my life, with almost nothing left except for a deeply seated curiosity that mostly everyone who has driven a car and watched the “low fuel” sign turn on has felt (Kramer knows what I’m talking about). How much more could I have given to the Grand Canyon? How far beyond that final check on the fuel gauge could my dial have gone? I wanted more. I needed to get closer to true failure. I may not have determined exactly what this would take at that moment, but as the days and weeks passed, I sensed the lens gaining focus. I would come back to the Grand Canyon, only this time, for a full round trip, from the South Rim, to the North Rim, and back to my starting spot in one day’s time. 48 miles, 10,000 total feet of climb, and 10,000 total feet of descent. The planning commenced.
The gameplan
Fast forward again to the spring of 2023, a full year after the first trip to the Grand Canyon, and I was already deeply embedded in the research of what exactly it would take for me (and hopefully a friend or two) to complete this unfathomable roundtrip. The biggest question at that point wasn’t how I was going to do it, but rather who I could convince to do it with me. The list for something like that was already quite short, but throw into the mix a combination of schedule overlap, family conflicts, and an understandable hesitation for anyone wanting to spend that much time on the see-saw of Grand Canyon induced euphoria and agony, and only a few brave souls came to mind. It may have taken a few adult beverages, but Scott and Matt both agreed to come with me, and I’ll forever admire their willingness (and their families’ trust) to dive into the unknown with me.
With all of the logistics in place by the winter of 2023 (lodging, plane tickets, and a rental car), the fun part could start, training. It’s a cliche that everyone has heard before, but “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey” was about to take on a whole new meaning for all of us. I undertook the exciting and professionally stimulating process of curating a months long training log, with specific segments dedicated to obtaining particular training adaptations.
I had the advantage (one that I could share with Scott and Matt) of knowing where my training and overall preparation fell short the last time, so everything from the types of calories (fat, protein, and carbohydrates) to the amounts of weekly mileage logged received a software update from my experiences (not to mention the exhaustive amounts of research performed). In the early months, building a base of additional muscle and strength was imparative, but as weeks progressed, there was a clear shift from prioritizing strength training towards running and walking longer and longer distances. Much like it’s next to impossible to truly multi-task (simultaneously completing multiple cognitively demanding things at the same effectiveness and efficiency as one thing at a time), it’s extremely difficult to optimize for both a strength training adaptation and a distance running adaptation. It is possible, however, to come close to maintaining one while pushing the other further and further. Sure, there are edge cases of elite athletes being able to work several training adaptations at once, but for these two specific measures (mileage and strength), combined with a full time job and adequate family/social time, many times it comes down to the maintenance of one and prioritizing the other.
At first, the longer distance runs were a bit tedious, but I started to truly enjoy and appreciate the hours required for increasing mileage. Saturday mornings were my longest runs every week, and Friday nights became a sort of “Christmas eve.” Every long run, I made sure to wear something close to the exact outfit that I was planning on for the epic hike, including the 1.5 liter water bladder within my running vest. Something that became a fun logistical challenge was figuring out how exactly to fit four to five thousand calories into a running vest.
The anticipation of the trip to Arizona was mounting with each passing week. I finally reached the "taper,” which essentially amounted to a 50 percent decrease in overall training volume (mileage, time on feet, strength training), to give my body plenty of time to rest and recover. At this point, seven days out from the most challenging physical feat I had ever attempted, prioritizing fresh legs was of utmost importance. No alcohol. Extra sleep. Progressively, more and more carbohydrates. A final check of the pack list was complete, and we were headed to the airport. Part of the game plan was to stay in the eastern time zone as we traveled west, which made waking up at two in the morning a bit easier since our internal clocks registered something closer to five. It was time. Carbohydrate loading was complete. The preparation was complete. The only thing left to do was to put the plan into action, one foot in front of the other, for 48 miles. The only question mark was just how far into the depths of discomfort we were willing and able to push our bodies, and perhaps more importantly, our minds.
it’s showtime
I shouldn’t have been surprised that my internal clock pulled me out of a deep sleep promptly at two in the morning (which would have been my typical wake time in EST at five). After some reading, a cup of coffee, a light breakfast, and multiple rechecks of my pack for the day, we set off for the Bright Angel Trailhead. Looking out into the vast darkness that I was about to descend straight into, I was hit with a jolt of adrenaline. At half past three in the morning, headlamps on, we tore down relentless switchbacks for what felt like hours. I distinctly remember sarcastically yelling out, “I could really use some uphill right about now!” It’s almost like I had been hit with amnesia, not being able to recall just how miserable that final climb was the last time I was in this position. The beauty was unimaginable. Indescribable. Every turn yielded the fruit of a new perspective on the Grand Canyon. At this point, almost four hours in, at the halfway point of Phantom Ranch, it was important to stay ahead on calorie consumption and electrolyte intake. The raspberry tailwind (powdered electrolyte and carbohydrate mix added to my water) combined with some cough syrup flavored gelatinous carbohydrate substance was destined to end up in my increasingly fatigued muscles. The endless combinations of flavors would prove to be something I would look forward to at the end of every hour, until the last hour, when nothing on planet Earth would sound appetizing.
Finally, we reached the bottom, which meant that the climb back out to the North Rim was only just beginning. My intensity shifted gears as I periodically mixed in half mile stretches of running while trying to keep my heart rate in a low enough zone to maximize the percentage of fuel being pulled from existing fat stores (this warrants an entirely separate blog post; stay tuned.) The pace had to stay consistent if I was to make it back to my starting point before total darkness set in once more. After hours of gradual incline, we came to our steepest stretch on the North Kaibab Trail, towards the apex of the North Rim. With every switchback came the question, “How many more of these until the top?” As fellow travelers passed us going the other way, albeit on mule back, the anticipation of reaching the halfway point grew stronger and stronger. Inevitably, thoughts like “if that guy’s down here in flip-flops, khakis, and no water supply, surely we’re getting close” started to creep in. We made sure to stop periodically and take in the sights, snap a few pictures, and catch our collective breath. One final stretch up into the endless spruce-fir forest, and the trail head was in sight. The three of us somehow managed to pick up the pace for one last spurt of energy as we crossed the finish line (or halfway point, that is). After a couple of hugs, calls to check in with our wives (shout out to Brooke and Hallie for cosigning on this maniacal torture fest), and a quick water refill, it was time to mount up for the dreaded second half.
The saying “live to fight another day” took on new meaning at our turnaround at the North Rim. Scott admitted he was struggling with some blurred vision for the last mile or so, and Matt felt as though his knees were going to explode if he took another step downhill. I assured both of them that it was definitively foolish to attempt the return trip if they weren’t feeling one hundred percent up for it. Luckily, there was a shuttle bus leaving at two that both of them were able to hop on to hopefully meet me back at the top of our starting point on the South Rim. It was a truly epic feat, and I admired them both so much for not only being willing to go on this journey with me but also for training for the last five months while being amazingly dedicated fathers and husbands.
That decision, however, thrust a new reality into my view. I was flying solo on the back half, another 24 miles, 5,000 feet of descent, and 5,000 feet back up the other side. It had taken us just under nine hours to make the first crossing, but I knew the odds were stacked against me if I wanted to make it back in time for dinner (or, more importantly, before sunset). I felt surprisingly good before I charged back down the North Kaibab Trail. So good, in fact, that I foolishly refused Matt’s offer of hiking poles and Scott’s offer of additional calories. Big mistake. Huge. Luckily, I didn’t refuse to wear Scott’s emergency GPS locator, so I could send hourly updates to my wife (love you, babe), and in the off chance that I mistepped and broke an ankle, I could signal for a ridiculously expensive (and embarrassing) assist from either a Grand Canyon park ranger or a Medevac helicopter ride ($10,000 minimum).
flying solo
I knew that a solo return trip was always a possibility, but now that it was really happening, a weird excitement with a dash of trepidation overcame me as the first few miles of my descent flew by. It was me versus the Grand Canyon, and I felt like a massive underdog. Yes, I trained relentlessly for the last five months, but it’s just damn difficult to simulate that level of repetitive decline in my beautifully flat home state of Indiana. Much like the grim reaper tapping on your shoulder and you stubbornly not wanting to turn around to face the music, I started to feel a slight pang in my right calf but tried my best to ignore it as I refilled my water pack five miles into my return trip. “It’ll calm down if I slow my pace," I told myself. I still had 19 miles left, and my worst nightmare was transforming into reality. There was a stretch of trail, where I didn’t see another human for close to two hours. The only thing at that point in time more prominent than the still strikingly beautiful rock formations of “the box” (a stretch of trail surrounded by towering canyon walls) was the visual of my calf muscles acting as the strings of an overtightened violin; one more turn, and that puppy was going to pop.
Each step turned into a slightly more pronounced limp. I carefully balanced the will to keep my pace up against the non-zero chance that one false move could trigger a more traumatic strain to the muscles in my calf (which would put me in an even bigger and potentially more expensive dilemma). As the miles passed and the sun started to set, my mind undeniably went to some dark places. It’s a unique feeling when the only thing keeping you moving is a combination of fear from potentially spending the night alone in the depths of the Grand Canyon and anxiety from not being able to communicate to your amazingly supportive wife that you’re doing okay. The temperature at this point was hovering around 98 degrees (with no sign of Nick Lachey), and Phantom Ranch was coming into sight. Too bad the canteen closed a half hour ago.
As I stumbled towards the water refill station, I noticed that the day was a special one. It was the first day of “summer hours” for the canteen. Running low on calories and high on pace-limiting pain emanating from my lower legs, the news of an open Phantom Ranch general store sent chills down my spine. After ordering a bagel with peanut butter, three bags of trail mix, an ice cold lemonade, and a vial of Tylenol, my energy and optimism sky-rocketed to an euphoric state. While enjoying my Tylenol and lemonade chaser, I noticed three gentlemen gearing up to continue hiking. I had seen them a few different times throughout the day, so I knew there might be a chance they were also on the same trail as I was.
“You guys headed up Bright Angel right now?” I stammered while pointing up towards the 500 floors of vertical climb left.
"Yeah, man, you care to join us?” One of the Texans replied.
“If you guys don’t mind, I could use some company right about now; it’s been a rough few hours.”
After passing out my last tablets of Tylenol to the adopted crew, we all set off into the sunset, up the final ascent. Some pleasant conversations, combined with the temporary decrease in pain, placed my mind at ease for a few miles. It’s almost as if I went into autopilot, being able to now focus on the strides of the guy in front of me instead of how agonizing the previous several hours had been. After crossing the mighty Colorado River for the second time that day, we reached Havasupai Gardens for our final water refill before climbing the last stretch. At this point, the sun was setting, and one of the three Texans yelled out, “The Mavs won!” On it’s face, I didn’t think much of this seemingly random declaration of the outcome of a basketball game.
“How’d you know that?” I asked.
“I just had service for a moment on my phone, got the alert.” He replied.
I wasn’t excited about the Dallas Mavericks, but I was excited about what regaining service on a cell phone meant for alleviating the biggest part of my anxiety at that point. I could hopefully send out an “I’m okay, almost to the top” text to my wife, Niki, back in Indiana (where it was close to midnight due to the time difference). I fired up the cell phone and sent a quick text message to both her, and my two pals that might be waiting for me at the top. “I’m okay, only a mile from the top!” The Tylenol was starting to wear off at that point, but my body’s own endogenous pain relief kicked in for the final few switchbacks. My pace picked up. The strange mixture of watermelon electrolyte powder and cola flavored carbohydrate powder sloshing around in my water pack will forever be burned into my taste buds. Disgusting, yes, but at that point I was laser focused on getting to the top. Each step kicked up a flurry of bone dry dirt that my headlamp illuminated in front of my face. One more turn, and that was it. I stumbled like a hybrid of Frankenstein and a gorilla freshly escaped from the confines of a cage.
finish line, mission accomplished
In a way, I had in fact escaped a sort of psychological cage. With a burst of energy, excitement, and an increased pace during the final three miles of my day long journey, I realized that the biggest obstacle to that point had in fact been the cage created by my brain to protect me from myself. I heard the familiar voices of Scott and Matt greet me at the top, and for some reason I was surprised to see them. As I collapsed into their arms for a massive hug, I rambled plenty of random, incoherent nonsense. But the one thing we all remembered vividly was my candid proclamation, “I’m so glad you guys didn’t come back with me!” It wasn’t because I couldn’t have used their company or that I didn’t think they could do it, but because I didn’t want anyone I cared about that much to suffer (both physically and mentally) the way that I had over the last nine hours.
48 Miles. 10,000 total vertical feet down. 10,000 total vertical feet of ascent. It took us just under nine hours on the way there, and it took me just over nine hours on the way back. If you would have asked me to guess how long my return journey was, I was confident it was closer to 11 or 12 hours, but that’s what physical misery combined with constant rumination will do to your perception of time. After burning somewhere in the neighborhood of 12,000 calories over the course of 18 hours, I was oddly not that hungry. That being said, Scott and Matt had carried a full pizza to the Bright Angel Trailhead to greet me, to which I quickly consumed one piece, grabbed another, and said, “Let’s go back to the hotel.” After taking down 5,000 calories (roughly 4,000 of them carbohydrates, that’s 100 cans of Coke), nothing really sounded all that appetizing. At this point, the stabbing pain in both of my lower leg muscles returned, making the short walk to back to our lodging somehow more miserable than the previous mile.
Upon returning to the hotel, we told stories and recapped the entirety of the day. All three of us gave it our best shot and were left with memories and experiences that I don’t think any of us would trade for the world. It’s hard to put into words just how transformative a physical feat like this can be for someone, but I can confidently say that all other challenges in life (whether physically or mentally) have been reframed for me. When your end points of “easy” and “hard” shift that dramatically, I believe it leaves you with the sense that you can do anything, if you prepare for it properly, for the rest of your life. Since regaining full function of my calf muscles (with luckily no permanent damage incurred), I have started training again for upcoming physical challenges for the rest of the year, but none of them will compare to the life changing and mind altering experience of completing the Grand Canyon “rim to rim to rim” round trip on May 18th, 2024.
I encourage everyone reading to find their own “Grand Canyon” and to challenge themselves to push further and harder than they ever have. Once you break free from the psychological cage that your brain has thankfully provided for an evolutionary safety net, you’ll be surprised at just how much you have left in the tank. This very concept left me asking myself (much to my wife’s chagrin), did I have anything left? Could I have done more? Could I have gone faster?
We’ll have to wait and see, but never say never when it comes to another challenge.
Yours in health,
Sam