It's Hard to Get to the Truth

Like the Colorado River has eroded through the layers of earth forming the Grand Canyon, years of life ever so slowly strip away the layers that have built up over time on Nancy, until finally I imagine, I will stand naked in my truth. Sometimes I think I'm making progress, then I find out I'm not close at all, that there is so much more. I discover that I have more baggage than I would need for a 12-month-around-the-world cruise, more built-in-reactions than the Vermont Yankee Nuclear Power Plant, more shit than would fill the NYC sewer system, more unhealthy patterns than bedeck a paisley print dress in the 50s. Maybe I am exaggerating...but that is how it feels. Each new level reveals more ways I fool myself, more ways I don't love myself, more ways I hide who I am, more ways I protect myself from feeling, more ways I am not fully me. We probably never really get there, wherever there is, but each step in life brings me closer to the truth of who I am. I have a LONG way to go.

The Grand Canyon is a perfect metaphor...the river eroding the canyon, revealing layers of history that represent billions of earth years. Where the water meets the rock is the deepest place in the Canyon, where she is still discovering who she is. She is amazing from the rim, but her true magnificence reveals itself inside the Canyon where far fewer people tread.

Peering into the Canyon from the rim is like living life on the surface. You get an incredible view from the rim of the vast expanse of the Canyon, but you never really know what lies below the surface. Same thing is true for human beings. Who we really are isn't apparent on the surface; it lies deep within, at our core. The deeper into myself I go, the more I learn about myself. That's where I want to be. In the deepest place, as close to the truth as I can get.

But I have found that it is not easy to get to the deepest, most vulnerable place within me; I have so many protective layers and walls. And it is not easy to get to the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. The trails are long, strenuous, and steep, with little water, almost no shade and blazing hot temperatures. On this trip I learn it is the river I seek.

Havasu Canyon
Total mileage over 4 days: 34 miles

The first four days of our vacation we spend with 16 other people exploring the turquoise waters and sandy trails of Havasu Canyon. The first day we hike into Havasu Canyon, a 10-mile hike down through Supai Village, arriving at our disappointing campsite.

Havasu Canyon, devastated by flooding the year before, has lost its Garden of Eden feel, leaving scarred bare earth, stripped of trees and ground cover. Temporary port-a-potties take the place of latrines that were washed away in the flood. There are 6 port-a-potties for 150 plus people. The port-a-potties are relatively new when we arrive, but by the time we leave we need a stick to push down the contents so we could sit on the seat without touching someone else's toilet paper.

On our second day, we hike to Beaver Falls. I secretly hope we can continue on to the Colorado River. That has been my prayer since we signed up for the trip. I can feel the draw of the river, like coming home after months away.

The hike to Beaver Falls is beautiful. The water is a clear and warm, the myriad falls and pools and cascades are gorgeous, and the vegetation gets more lush and fuller as we venture further down the Canyon where less flood damage occurred. Havasu is one of the most beautiful side canyons of the Grand, but it is the huge expanse of the Grand Canyon that I long for.

The hike gets very rough around Beaver Falls requiring a 25-foot jump into water to continue on down the Canyon. And it is clear that there are too many of us to try and make it all the way to the Colorado River. It isn't going to happen. I am disappointed. But I let it go, knowing I will have other opportunities to get to the river on this trip.

Two women on our trip, Susan and Emily, especially touch our hearts. Perhaps it is the trepidation in Susan's eyes when she is grappling with her fear of heights going down the perpendicular cliffs and tunnels next to Mooney Falls. She is so beautiful in her humanness. And when she tells us about her job as the manager of Wicked in New Your City, she talks with humbleness about how much she loves it. Emily has bright eyes and a big smile and a big laugh and a hug that just folds you into her care. You can't help but love these two. Perhaps what touches me the most is how much they love each other.

We hike the 10 miles out of Havasu Canyon, arriving on the rim first and then cheer the rest of our group to the South Rim. It is most touching cheering Emily and Susan to the rim, for my heart has made a connection.

In the van talking with our group, I describe the Grand Canyon and encourage others to see it. I know they can see my love for the Canyon. Susan and Emily change their plans and stay a night on the North Rim. I hope it touches them as it touches me.

Hermit Trail
Mileage: 10 miles

We say goodbye to our group, pick up a rental car and drive to the South Rim.

Our first hike brings us down Hermit Trail, which we have never explored before. It is beautiful. It was completed in 1912, is considered one of the best-engineered trails in the Canyon, and is most remembered for the cobblestone switchbacks known as the White Zig-Zags. We meet a child on the trail who joyfully tells us she just saw dinosaur prints. Her dad asks if we want to see them. We say, "Of course!" He takes us down the trail a bit and shows us the ancient clawed footprints preserved in slabs of Coconino Sandstone. Way cool. It is a grace wave moment.

I am full of power today - a combination of strength and the will to go as far as we can - and few words.

The first part of the trail is steep switchbacks, and then it levels out and seems to go on for miles without dropping into the Canyon. I know it is too far for us to get to the river - although I secretly hold onto the idea that maybe, by some miracle, we will find ourselves at the water's edge before we know it. We turn around just before the Cathedral Stairs, knowing we have to save our legs for our rim-to-river-to-rim hike tomorrow. Heading back up, I realize how far we have come and that it is going to be quite a climb back up.

The river continues to elude us. But I know we will get to the river tomorrow. That fact sustains me.

Rim-to-River-to-Rim on the South Kaibab Trail
Mileage: 13.5

Pat asks me, "So how far should we go on this rim-to-river-to-rim?" I answer quickly, giving a logical answer, not a heart answer. "Halfway across the bridge," I say. She thinks to herself, "How about actually to the river," but she does not say it aloud.

We are strong, and really quite quiet today. Both of us. We are focused on the hike. We know it will be a test of our fitness and we are determined girls.

We hike the South Kaibab Trail, probably my favorite trail in the Canyon, down to the river, stopping at Panorama Point to sit above the river and watch the boats. I love this place. I love this view. It makes my heart soften and I always feel a lump in my throat. We seem so close to the river, but it is still a long steep down before arriving at the Black Suspension Bridge. We walk halfway across and two hikers take our picture at our turn-around point. We stop for me to put more tape on my blistered toes and then we head back up.

WHAT AM I THINKING? Why didn't I say that I wanted to dip my toes into the river - sit on the beach and watch the boats, relax next to the water and soak it in? That is what I needed to do. Why didn't I say it?

We stop again at Panorama Point, eat some lunch and then turn our sights to the rim. It is a demanding climb out of the Canyon, but one Pat and I easily handle. We are tired, my toes are screaming to be set free from my boots, but we are both very proud of ourselves. We have plenty of water and food, plenty of extra socks, plenty of gumption.

Some college girls at the trailhead ask us how far we hiked and we tell them we went to the river and back. They hiked to Skeleton Point, about half way. They are very impressed, which makes Pat and I feel great.

We complete the 13.5-mile hike in 8 hours, really less given that includes lunch and rests and taping time for blisters.

So we saw the river, but I didn't FEEL the river. I didn't get to stick my sore toes into the cold water. My choice. Interesting. The place I want to be most and I don't go there. It's like I wasn't ready for the whole truth. I didn't REALLY want to go THERE. So I stopped short.

Lava Falls
Mileage: 6 miles

Pat finds a trail on the North Rim that is the shortest distance from rim to river - a mere 1.5 miles. Of course, it is not easy to get to. Two hours on a highway from the North Rim Lodge and then 3 hours on a dirt road. We make it almost all the way to the trailhead before a sand pit of brown talcum powder stops our rental Altima dead. We ditch the car on the side of the road and walk about three miles before two young boys pick us up and drive us the last two miles to the trailhead.

We hike straight down. The rocks are lava rocks, sharp and painful to grasp, chewing up our hands. The route is marked by cairns that are too far apart and there are lots of places where we have to lower ourselves over a ledge, struggling to find reachable handholds and footholds that won't tear our skin off. There are cactus and sharp things everywhere that get in our hands, legs and butts! And the ravine is not pretty; it is a dark, grim, steep slide of lava rocks with cactus dotting the rocks, boulders and ledges.

At one point we look to our right and see two people crawling up the ridgeline on the side of the ravine. I yell over and ask them if there is a trail there. The guy replies that they are following markers and are on the trail. Well, Pat and I are also following cairns, but their way looks way safer. The only problem is how to get over there. Crossing the ravine and getting to the ridgeline requires us to walk across lots of scree -- loose rocks and gravel. And the pitch of the slope is very steep and goes down for a very long ways. You can't afford to fall. Pat is leading and she puts her foot on a large rock that looks secure and it breaks lose and down she goes. Scraping up her legs, she finds herself with no place to put her feet to gain purchase and very little to hold onto that will support her weight and a long way to fall. I get over to her as quickly as I can. It looks like if I could get below her I might be able to arrest her fall. That is my plan. By the time I start to move, Pat, through brute strength, gets herself back on her feet. We decide to look for another place to cross the ravine.

We hike down a bit more, identify a route and start across. By this time, the adrenalin coursing through Pat as a result of her fall has left her shaky and unnerved. She is ahead of me, sharing how unsafe she feels. Inside I feel calm, outside I am scared too. Her words kick me into my calm. "One step at a time," I say to her. "You can do this. We can do this." And one step at a time becomes my mantra. We make it across and have to climb a wall of rocks and dirt to get to the ridgeline. Pat is up before I know it and as I start to climb, I am a nervous wreck, looking at the rocks in this dirt that could give way at any minute. I am calm inside. Sure of myself. I make it up and we sit on a rock and access where we are. I SO want to make it to the river and I never considered that we would not make it! We have been hiking for three hours and are probably just a bit over half way there. Pat is shaken and we are both physically and mentally exhausted. And we know we have a five-mile walk back to the car. We reluctantly turn around.

On the hike back up, in between gasping for breath, wiping the sweat out of my eyes and trying desperately to find the next cairn, I think about the dichotomy of being calm on the inside and nervous on the outside. What is that? Why would I be nervous when I am not? It seems that I choose to be nervous, when I could just as easily choose to be calm. I choose to think I can't do it, when, deep inside, I know I can. I choose to listen to my head and not my heart.

The walk back to the car is long and HOT. We run out of water and are dragging when a car drives by. Two women stop and ask if we are OK. We ask for a ride and almost before they agree, we squeeze ourselves into their equipment-loaded car for the last two miles to our car.

Losing My Camera on the Last Day
Last Day mileage: 5 miles

The last day we are driving to viewpoints and short hikes along the north rim. About lunchtime I get out of the car to begin a 4-mile hike and can't find my camera. Oh no...I must have left it at the last viewpoint. We hustle back in the car and drive to where we were. Pat runs along the road in case I left the camera on the roof of the car. I run along the trail, looking to see if I put my camera down anywhere. I speak to everyone I see asking if they have seen a camera. I am panicked on the outside...it is the last day of our vacation and I lose my camera with all my pictures on it. NO! As I run I am aware that on the inside I am as calm as can be. I am not worried about my camera at all. I ask myself, aloud, as I am running "Hey, why aren't you worried about this? This is your camera you have lost!" No answer, just calm. Inside of me, I feel like the camera is safe in the car. But we had searched the car everywhere and it was not to be found. I resume my panic.

I eventually run back to the car, hoping Pat had better luck than I did. I see her running towards me, my camera in her hand. "Where did you find it? I ask. "In the car" she says.

Again, why don't I listen deep inside, where I am calm, where I know the truth, where I know my camera is safe in the car? I react on the surface, ignoring my deeper wisdom. I choose to be scared instead of calm, just like I chose to not go all the way to the river, like I chose hikes that have river potential, but will not quite get us there, even though that is where I want to be. What is that?

Another Chance For Success
Total mileage for trip: 67.8

I am quiet on this trip. Sometimes I talk more and eventually find myself sharing deeply where I am. This trip I do not talk a lot and seem to be more inside me, less willing to be vulnerable and share. I put my energy into my body and feel strong and ready to tackle the Canyon, but not willing to tackle my own walls of protection. By not sharing, I think I am protecting myself, but from what? I have no reason to protect myself from Pat. But our relationship has been under construction lately as we map out new ways to be with each other as business partners as well as friends. This new territory has brought up challenges for us that have required honesty and a willingness to listen. It has been hard. But both Pat and I are committed to our friendship.

However, I don't think that is why I am quiet. That would be an easy excuse. I think I am quiet because I have hit a new layer of me; I am in a new place. Like hiking into the Canyon, each layer, ever deeper, reveals new surprises, more beauty, more opportunities to understand how the Canyon was formed and how long the earth has lived. And at this level, life feels harder and it frightens me. My inclination is to go back where it is more comfortable. But I can't go back. Once a layer is revealed, it is there. I won't not know what I know. Maybe it is like the Colorado River. Once it has eroded through one layer of rock, another layer presents itself. And this one is made up of a different type of rock, with different characteristics, colors and density. It may take longer to erode, it may not, but it is new territory.

When I am quiet and I do not share, it leaves me feeling very alone, unfulfilled and sad. I am not willing to go really deep, instead choosing to stay protected where I am. Yet, I say I want to live in the deepest part of me. This is a way I fool myself, one way I don't love myself enough to share who I am. I say I want one thing, I choose another.

So it fits that the one place I want to be more than any other is at the River in the Grand Canyon, in the deepest place in her, and we don't get there. I choose not to go there. I am not ready.

Getting to the river is hard.

But I am DETERMINED TO GET THERE. I have already mapped out our next trip to the Canyon, giving us FOUR chances to wade in the Colorado River.

1. Lava Falls - We plan to rent a jeep so we will be assured of getting all the way to the trailhead and we plan on camping at the nearby campground the night before and hiking Lava Falls FIRST on fresh legs.



2. Thunder River -- Another opportunity to reach the river on a beautiful trail full of challenges. We didn't do this trail this time because we would have to camp - but it is worth camping if it means we can get to the river.



3. South Kaibab Trail - Yes - we know we can easily do a rim-to-river-to-rim on the South Kaibab - but this time we will go the extra quarter mile to the river.



4. Hermit trail - We will bring camping gear and hike down to the river, stay overnight and then hike back up.

Yes, getting to the river is hard, but with this plan, we will do it. Getting to the truth in me is even harder. How do I do that?

I stop keeping myself to myself. I talk. I share. About me. Which I HATE. And I keep talking, putting words to the dark, releasing my death grip on the feelings smoldering inside, sharing my truth again and again until it comes easily and it doesn't make me cry. Until my story is just a story and I don't want it to go away. I need to keep talking until I don't dread talking anymore.

I want to sit in the deepest part of the Canyon, with my toes immersed in the Colorado River, sharing from the deepest part of me.

Back to the 2009 Grand Canyon