Grand Canyon Rim to Rim

 

Going down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon had long been a goal of mine. A mixture of curiosity, the exceptional scenery and a lack of common sense enticed me to trod the rugged depths.  It’s one of those trips that sounds great in theory, but the reality involves some serious craziness.  The hike is a strenuous long way down and up in a day in an unforgiving climate. It would be badass to do at my age, though and it’s fun to test myself physically, otherwise known as suffering. 

This goal had always been thwarted by circumstances. My ex went down with his brothers, but I had to watch our young child. The car really stunk when they got out after sweating and camping for days. Another trip, the person backed out. A prospective group never had room. A tour was expensive and camping was involved, which is a nonstarter. The logistics of going by myself was difficult and hiking alone wasn’t appealing. Then came cancer and the pandemic. My strength to hike to the river, let alone rim to rim, was doubtful due to health issues. The goal seemed out of reach. After all this disappointment, the time was finally right.

Looking down into the abyss on the south rim the evening before, the coming venture was daunting. The ancient rock faces and formations in the fading light were striking, but harsh. The vast terrain looked merciless. I had been on both rims before, and it was pretty to look at and not threatening. It’s one thing to enjoy the scenery on the surface; another to subject myself to the climate, ruggedness and perils of the interior. Be unprepared for heat, dehydration or exhaustion and the consequences were dire. I was scared, but still compelled to hike it.

Walking down should have been the easier part, but the thousands of steps put a strain on my knees.  Poles alleviated the effort, but my legs got really tired anyway. My lower right leg developed a persistent stabbing pain. Traversing by myself was isolating in the empty vastness of the landscape. By mile five, even finishing seemed doubtful. Step wrong and my shaky legs collapsed. I fell once and skinned my knee, which dripped blood. This prompted passers-by to ask if I was okay. Past experience told me to block out how far it was and to just keep going, even when it seemed impossible. Mental focus trumps physical pain. But despair lurked on the edges of my thoughts. Finally the trail smoothed out on the plateau.

A line of horses passed me twice, pissing and pooping on the trail, so I stepped carefully. These riders don’t know what they are missing. I went through the tunnel, got to Indian Gardens and reloaded on water and wet myself down at the water stop. People say to soak yourself in the stream but lack of time and a norovirus had been going around made it seem risky.  Being very tired by this point, I walked in a zombie state to Phantom Ranch and got the overpriced lemonade and sat down with a sigh of relief to write a postcard to send to my daughter. The $5 lemonade perked up me up again. I bought ice and put it in my water containers. Ice was my savior, since warm water is not thirst quenching.

The "Box"

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The riparian areas in the “box” of rock walls by Bright Angel Creek were lovely and soul soothing. Birds sang in the bushes and flowers dotted the banks. Brooks are my happy place; a zen place of peace.  An interesting snake slithered by and two deer appeared in the brush. The shade provided relief against the heat of the day. Sometimes a breeze kicked up and dried my sweat. 

Many people must have passed through here in various states of physical exhaustion. The rocks are 500 million years old, so they had seen a lot of souls. The rims are forests, the bottom is desert and two climate zones down and the reverse going back up. Basically 4000 feet down and 5000 up from South Kaibab to North Kaibab, so it was a wide temperature and altitude range to adapt to. 

I stopped to try to find food in my pack and a passerby rudely commented that I had thirteen miles to get to the north rim before sunset. Thanks a lot buddy, but I was acutely aware of the time limitations. The park rangers don’t encourage people to attempt rim to rim in one day because they don’t  want to have to rescue them. I was finding out why it was so tough for us mere mortals. The effort was taking everything that I had to keep going.

Some other members of my group caught up to me and I walked with them for a while. This area rose upward from the creek and was hot, desolate and dry. Getting cooked and very thirsty, I stopped at Cottonwood for more water. The group went on. It was difficult to suck water out of my camelback container, so I dumped its water into my water bottles and guzzled it. 

The people I had been walking with were resting at Manzanita. I was exhausted at this point, with the worst yet to come. The next stop had no water, so filled my bottles. Eating gels, jerky, bars, and salt tablets didn’t seem to provide much energy. Part of the problem was that my pack was disorganized and my nuts and trail mix were buried in its depths. My electrolyte mix had spilled. Digging through the pack was too much effort and I wasn’t that hungry. I nibbled on jerky, something that I wouldn’t touch otherwise. The misery of the ironman run came to mind. This seemed about as hard, but with no aid stations or cheering crowds.

Stairs were again a real obstacle now and North Kaibab had plenty of them. The ascending trail went down again and I thought really? The bridge that I had hiked down to from the North Rim with my ex in another life came into view. I even have a old picture of it in the time before digital cameras. Ascending North Kaibab long ago was a lot easier without the present previous twenty miles and a few decades of living. My legs were rubbery and threatened to collapse at any moment. The poles helped me to keep climbing, but didn’t always help my teetering balance. The stairs were dodged any chance I could. 

Another random rim to rim group caught up to me and decided to follow me. Maybe they were just being nice, but they weren’t in a hurry. Finally, a group going at my pace. One of the guys was really kind, offering to let me rest anytime. He gave me a caffeinated gel which helped some. The support of random strangers was nice. I would have probably married him at this point if he didn’t already have a spouse.  

My shaky, tired legs wanted to quit NOW. Supposedly, the total distance was about twenty miles, but it was longer and never seemed to end. A mile took about 40 minutes now. The altitude was 8,000 feet, which didn’t help. The trees on the north rim obscured the path, so gauging the distance left was difficult. Someone thought that it was twenty-two miles, which was a discouraging thought. After stopping and resting several times, I finally decided to forge ahead the last couple of miles after someone commented how hard it was to stop and go. My last vestiges of strength were being sucked away. Finally we heard cheering through the trees and knew the ordeal had come to an end. I had done it.

Total moving time was 11:25. Elapsed time was 13:17 for the 24 miles, probably due to water stops, Phantom Ranch stop, taking pictures and watching wildlife. It was a remarkable and excruciating experience.

It took a few days for the experience to sink in and the memory of the physical pain to fade enough to realize the impact of the experience. The exhausting ordeal didn’t seem worth it at first, but then joy seeped in. The ancient walls had dared me to defy age, physical limitations, dehydration, health problems, mental demons and common sense. The general suckdom of life was forgotten and replaced with lovely riparian scenery replaying in my mind. 

After struggling with fatigue, mental stress, joint aches, and residual weakness from cancer treatment for two years, I had serious doubts about my physical abilities. It took a long time to even get an opportunity to try and finishing a very difficult goal was gratifying. But the best thing was descending into the Canyon depths and coming out feeling invincible. And badass.

 It’s been two years since active cancer treatment ended for me, and life is different. People always assume that once  treatment is over that everything is normal again. The medical nonsense doesn’t end with the twice yearly oncologist visits, blood tests, yearly mammograms, in addition to the assorted other related and unrelated health problems. 

A sense of invincibility vanishes with a cancer diagnosis. If one bad medical thing can happen, maybe another one could? Every subsequent scan brings on the small twinge of “what if results are abnormal?” that wasn’t there before. The underlying anxiety never completely goes away even with “no evidence of disease.” Every little stupid medical problem takes on more significance beyond what it really is.

Physical reminders of what happened are surgery scars, less energy, more depression and strangely, still slightly curly hair from the chemo.  Blue dot tattoos are still on my chest from the radiation. My toes are still a little numb from chemo neuropathy. 

Invisible fallout from treatment can also manifest in weird ways. Laundry product scents are still repulsive. This reaction hasn’t diminished much since 2020. My theory is that while walking nauseated around the neighborhood after chemo, the strong smell of fabric softener poisoned my brain permanently. I lost the deep inadequate feeling of sickness and abnormality from having this weird sensation when I finally realized that the vile scents are being vomited into the air by countless suburban dryers, and that the ever present mystery smell was not a figment of my imagination. Now, being subjected to these odors is just irritating. I am the normal one and the users of stinky softeners are the insane ones.

For God's Sake Stop Buying This Shit!

Innocuous things like the freeway exit to the chemo infusion building used to make me inwardly shudder a little every time I passed it, but now it’s more of a shrug. Even a mere four rounds, three weeks apart, was traumatic. The exit was to a place of physical weakness and sick feeling, fatigue, hair loss shame, anxiety and fear of the unknown. Disassociating the experience from the freeway was a relief since I use or pass it often. I don’t have to go there anymore in my mind and it’s just a stupid exit.

Chemo rooms still invoke fear and anxiety in me. At a bone drug infusion late last year in a chemo room, a surprising strong urge to leave almost overtook me. I convinced myself to stay, and tamped down the fears by talking to the nurses. The bone drug was to counter the bone density loss caused by the Exemestane, a aromatase inhibitor drug that I take that blocks estrogen and therefore cancer growth. 

Part of the anxiety was due to being the first time I had it. The list of its side effects is disturbing, since I always endlessly google them ahead of time. Dealing with the worry about one scary drug is tiresome, without having to deal with others. It made me sick, but not in the same way as chemo. The next two days felt like the flu, with body aches, then I had an eye inflammation and fatigue for a month. If I ever have this drug again, the infusion won’t be in a chemo room. The side effects are bad enough without adding to the unpleasantness. I felt bad for the people who were stuck there through their treatments, when I could walk away.

I am tired most of the time. The cumulative effects of active treatment and Exemestane have dragged my energy level down. It took over a year to recover to a partial level of prior fitness. Twelve supplements, an antidepressant, an NSAID, an acid blocker, pain treatments and thyroid medication ease the side effects. Exercise and therapy have helped. It’s still a medical merry-go-round. My thyroid medication had to be adjusted. It was very difficult to sleep for a while because of low TSH levels. I spent a lot of time at the opthamologist for the eye problems.  My neck developed a constant ache and stiffness that was only slightly relieved by PT, drugs and steroid injections.

How can such a small pill be so evil?

                                              

Doctors push aromatase inhibitors claiming that taking them results in a 50% deterrence of cancer recurrence, but it is not guaranteed. They are all difficult to tolerate. I tried the three types and Exemestane was the only one I could stand.  Anastrozole was very harsh, messed up my thyroid and caused intense chest pain. Letrozole made me extremely fatigued. Besides the normal side effects were the unexplained weird ones. Random stabbing pains, scalp pain, tooth aches, muscle cramps, high cholesterol and the loss of any ambition to do anything, whether necessary or fun. 

Lack of energy brought on a case of I just don’t feel like it-itis. Everything seems like too much effort. The house can go clean itself. The cat can mop up her own pee. Getting one thing that needs to done in a day is a win. Forgetting what it was that I was going to do because of brain fog doesn’t help. The urge to just go take a nap is strong.

I miss estrogen. I used to take HRT and felt a lot better with more energy and less depression. The hot flashes came back and never left. Adjusting to a second menopause involved endless doctor visits, medical tests, support groups, therapy and anxiety. Cancer may feed on estrogen, but the body likes it too. Without it, the bones weaken, the joints ache, the brain forgets words, the lady parts dry up, and moods go south. An added bonus is belly fat. It’s a pharmaceutical crapfest.  

Because of the depression cancer treatment caused, I had to get therapy and take an antidepressant. Questioning all the mean things that I say to myself was an eye opener. Telling myself that I was ugly because my hair fell out wasn’t helpful. Thinking that I was stupid to run into a cranky Uber driver while changing lanes didn’t make the situation any better. My neck pain made it hard to turn my head and I didn’t see him. Saying to myself that people didn’t like me was an assumption not based on reality. It took practice, but I now try to be kinder to myself. My messy house does not mean I am inadequate.

 The thought of taking aromatase inhibitors for three more years seems an eternal punishment. The only thing I could do is make it as bearable as possible. Avoiding cancer recurrence versus the misery of the drug is a tenuous balance that requires a lot of effort to maintain. Neither cancer nor the stupid medicine will rule my life. If I learned anything, a difficult experience can be gotten through with enough help, determination and faith in oneself. And a lot of sticky notes to remember what the hell was it that I forgot to do.

Bird images from Eff'ing Birds by Aaron Reynolds