Grand Canyon Rim to Rim Trek

Walking along the length of the Grand Canyon is no small feat. Clocking in at nearly 24 miles and a total of 10,000 feet of elevation change, this trek is hard on the mind and body. This challenging journey is reserved only for the fittest; less than 1% of Grand Canyon’s 6 million annual visitors attempt it. The trail is strenuous and the trek requires hikers to carry 20 to 30 pounds of gear on their backs. It’s hardly for the faint of heart.

Most people train for this trek months in advance, and the National Park Service recommends applying for a backcountry permit about 4 months prior to the desired start date. Due to the uncertainty of COVID-19 and our last minute plans, my close friend Kyla and I arrived at the South Rim of the Grand Canyon the week of our hike in hopes of snagging a last-minute permit. For days, we were told that it simply wasn’t going to happen. Frustrated and dejected, we prepared to return, defeated, to Tempe, after 3 days of waiting. But then we received a call that was our saving grace: We’d been granted a permit for two nights in the canyon, but we had to leave the very next day. 

With no proper training and less than 24 hours until our departure, we packed and repacked our backpacks before making the long drive to the North Rim, five hours away. We arrived at the trailhead in the dark, gave our goodbye hugs to a small group of friends there to see us off, and set out on the trail a little after 7 p.m. as the last stragglers dragged themselves uphill, passing us as we headed in the opposite direction. Ignoring their questioning glances, I tightened my heavy pack, switched my headlamp to its highest brightness, and began to walk. 

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A FOUR-YEAR JOURNEY

Kyla and I first met in our freshman year of college on an organized trip with our school’s outdoors club. While strolling through the picturesque McDowell Mountains on a sunset hike, we immediately hit it off due to our love for photography and the infectious travel bug that we both shared. It was one of those friendships that made you feel understood; everything she said, I felt, and vice versa. It was like I’d become friends with a smaller, blonde version of myself.

On day one of our friendship, Kyla told me her family was from the Grand Canyon. I revealed to her my longtime dream of completing a Rim to Rim hike of the Grand Canyon. With an inspired twinkle in her eye, Kyla explained her desire to tackle this iconic trek as well. At this point in my life, I was simply an ameuter hiker; backpacking was a whole different sport. Hiking a R2R seemed like a far-off dream. 

Our friendship withstood the ups and downs of college over the next few years — and so did our R2R plans. We honed our skills and came into our own as individual hikers, taking on long journeys and risky mountain summits. When it came time to decide on the theme for our senior thesis last year, chaos ensued as COVID-19 swept all of our carefully-planned ideas out the door. Rather than traveling to Asia to film a creative documentary or climbing Mt. Rainier and writing about it, John Krakeur-style, we were instead left with uncertainty. 

The summer before our senior year of college, as Arizona and the country found themselves in the throes of the pandemic, Kyla pitched the idea of a joint-thesis project. Naturally, and without question, hiking from rim to rim in the Grand Canyon seemed like the perfect choice. This hike would go from being the very foundation of our friendship to the foundation of our senior thesis as well. 

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PACKING FOR THE TRAIL

With the last-minute permit that we’d miraculously obtained, we were granted a luxurious, two-night stay in Grand Canyon’s five-star location: a cozy, two-person tent that we’d be carrying down in our backpacks. To cut down on weight, I’d opted to leave behind my blow-up sleeping pad. Although it only weighed a mere two pounds, my brain had convinced itself that this would lighten my pack tremendously. In backpacking, every pound counts. Making that choice meant that instead of my comfy camping pad, I’d set my sleeping bag on the ground with the scorpions and whatever else crawled around the tent at night. 

In our packs, we had a myriad of other gear, including all the necessities: first aid kit, water filtration systems, toilet paper and trowel, headlamp, stove and fuel, extra socks, water and an exorbitant amount of food. 

In the backpacking community, there’s a standard list called “The Ten Essentials,” which is a highly respected safety and packing system. This checklist is one that I follow religiously. When preparing for this trip, the items on this list — an emergency survival blanket, compass, and pocket knife — were some of the first to consider. 

Also nestled in with the essentials were a few extra goodies, such as mouth-watering chocolate-chunk cookies, my journal and our cameras. Due to this being a work trip, our precious camera cargo was considered very much a “necessity,” taking up much more space (and weight) than I would have liked. Nevertheless, I wrapped my old Nikon in a fleece jacket like a coddled baby and placed it carefully on top of everything, a cherry on top of the stuff that would keep me safe and alive during our entire hike. 

At their heaviest, our packs weighed 28 pounds, complying with the backpacking standard of only packing 20% of your own body weight. To help, Kyla and I decided to bring jackets and layers, but no extra change of clothes. Going two days in the backcountry without a shower would get grungy, but was easily doable; we’d each endured much worse. 

After squirming into the straps of my backpack and struggling under its weight, we were finally off. Despite shaky legs and tired eyes, I still felt stoked. The North Rim’s air was crisp and cool, my breath coming out in little puffs. In just a few hours, we’d be stopping at our first location to take a recharge nap until the sun came up. Until then, it was a vertical descent of 4,000 feet. To my right rose the thick canyon walls, jagged and coarse. To my left, black nothingness. My stomach did flip-flops as my headlamp’s light disappeared into the abyss, as did we. 

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COTTONWOOD CAMPGROUND

Our 7-mile hike to Cottonwood Campground was uneventful and felt a bit like a fever dream as we alternated between contemplating the meaning of life and bursting into song in order to stay awake and vigilant. We only passed a handful of hikers, assuming that most of the sane ones were already cozy in their tents — or better yet, their homes. 

We took turns leading, though the trail was pretty straightforward — or, rather, straight down. With each breath, I inadvertently sucked in a few of the nasty little bugs that swarmed around my glimmering headlamp, coughing and swatting at them as we disappeared further beneath the rim. The once-cool air we’d so enjoyed felt more stale and warm with each hundred feet that we dropped. According to park experts, the temperature difference between the rims and the canyon floor can vary by 20 degrees Fahrenheit.

Upon reaching our pit stop for the night, we set up camp in record time. We chowed down snacks by the handful and didn’t even bother to boil water for our dehydrated meals. It was only a matter of hours before we’d be back on our feet, and there was an unspoken agreement that sleep was of utmost importance. 

Ignoring my aching muscles, I found comfort on the hard dirt ground and, within seconds, was fast asleep. My weary body begged for dreams, but four hours passed by in a blip. The jarring sound of the alarm forced me out of my slumber, out of my sleeping bag and into dawn’s brisk air.

Kyla heated some water on a stove that could fit in the palm of your hand while I packed up the tent, shaking everything out in case of a rogue scorpion. We each poured the boiling water into packets of oatmeal, slurping it with our mouths like a GoGurt to avoid having to wash our dishes. It was dark, just as it was when we’d arrived. We quietly repacked our things and followed the light of the stars to our next destination. 

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RIBBON FALLS AND PHANTOM RANCH

Kyla and I reached Ribbon Falls just as the sun began to rise, and the timing could not have been more perfect. This dreamy waterfall lies deep in the canyon and is an offshoot of the main trail. It’s a famous and popular destination, as it is the only waterfall in the Grand Canyon accessible without backpacking or rafting. 

Because of our pre-dawn start, we found ourselves completely alone at this magical spot, where we watched the sky turn from dark to dusk to daylight. We snacked on granola bars and snapped photos, admiring this touristy destination in solitude. The added mileage required to get to this desert oasis felt entirely worth it. 

My first glimpses of the canyon floor in daylight were astonishing. As my eyes scoured the terracotta cliffs that towered above us, I felt smaller than the scorpions beneath my feet. The way the walls rose with such authority made me feel insignificant. For the first time, realization hit: I was standing on the floor of the Grand Canyon, and the only way back out was up. 

Our main day of hiking was spent dodging trail runners, whom Kyla and I came to deeply dislike. While we schlepped backpacks larger than our own bodies at a turtle’s pace, we found a creeping jealousy in watching lean trail runners dodge past us at lightning speed, often shouting peppy words of encouragement in their wake. Bouncing on their feet and disappearing up over the horizon that would take us nearly 30 minutes to reach, we quietly trudged on. 

Despite our heavy packs, however, we made good time. Stopping often to take photos, dance across bridges, or plunge our feet in the running river that followed the trail, we reached Phantom Ranch by 9am, just as the day’s heat began to blaze. 

Phantom Ranch is a historic lodge at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, which provides shelter for hikers and mule riders. It’s a quintessential example of creating civilization in an otherwise remote location. In this man-made oasis, there’s everything from cabins to restroom facilities to a popular dining area called the Canteen. 

Despite the temptations of comfort, Kyla and I set up our makeshift home for the evening at Bright Angel Campground, just next to Phantom Ranch, succumbing just once to purchase a refreshing iced lemonade from the canteen as reward for our exhausted efforts. As my taste buds exploded with joy over the excessively-sugary drink, I only felt a tad guilty in my lack of willpower. 

As noon approached, we watched in horror as the thermometer at our campsite slowly inched past 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Just hours prior, we’d been hiking in warm fleece jackets and shivering in the early morning air. Now, I pathetically cowered in any shade I could find, periodically dipping into the creek to cool off. 

At this point, the intense heat, combined with our lack of sleep, began to hit — hard. I felt dizzy, delirious, and had no control over what I thought was funny anymore. Kyla and I would dissolve into a fit of laughter, only stopping to catch our breath before one of us would again snicker at nothing, sending us into a new spiral of giggles.

We both lay, sprawled out, on each side of the picnic bench at our campsite. I shoved a jacket under my head as a makeshift pillow, my body precariously balanced on the narrow plastic. Fighting sleep with the only energy left in me, I finally succumbed to the exhaustion.

One hour later, I jolted awake. Still groggy from our impromptu nap, I suddenly felt all the aches and pains on full blast. My neck felt stiff from sleeping on the picnic bench and my face was flushed and burnt from laying out in the sun, like a fever had ravaged my entire body. Simply put, I felt terrible.

Kyla suggested taking a dip in the Colorado River — both a tradition of hers, and a natural way to wake us from our eternal nap in the sun. I gladly complied, tugging on my damp Tevas as we sleep-walked to a small beach area five minutes from our campsite. 

After tentatively testing the freezing waters, we both ran to the edge and dove in. Instantly, my body was shocked into overdrive. I pushed to the surface, gasping and sputtering as I shot straight out of the water. As I turned to look at Kyla, we both burst into laughter, the grin on my face irrepressible as water dripped from my dreadlock-braids. Our Colorado River baptism spurred an afternoon of swimming, the tiredness, aches, and dirt washing off my entire body as life began to seep back into me. 

To end a long day, we returned to our campsite and cooked a comfort meal of mac and cheese over our camp stove while the canyon walls glowed orange. My mouth watered as the gooey substance mixed with spicy bits of beef jerky — a backcountry delicacy. Perhaps it was because we’d been surviving off of tasteless oatmeal and granola, or maybe it was due to the day’s exhausting activities, but that meal tasted better than a Thanksgiving feast. 

As we crawled into our sleeping bags at 8 p.m. sharp with full tummies for our first night of real sleep in the canyon, I felt a twinge of sadness knowing that tomorrow, our trek would be coming to an end. 

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TREK TO THE TOP

You know the saying, “save the best for last?” Apparently, this phrase doesn’t apply to the Grand Canyon. On our final day, we were faced with our hardest day of hiking: 10 miles and over 4,000 feet of incline. To put in perspective, we’d be climbing one vertical mile to the sky. 

We awoke at 3am, our bodies now programmed to follow routine: wake up, break down camp, slurp down oatmeal, and get on our way. 

Within just a few minutes of leaving the campground, I could hear the rushing sound of the Colorado River. As we approached the Silver Bridge, my eardrums were overpowered with noise and my heart beat rapidly on instinct; I went into fight or flight mode. 

Like a pro, Kyla led the way across the 440-foot suspension bridge in the dark. With each step, metal creaked concerningly below. I could feel the bridge precariously shifting and moving with my weight. We walked and walked and walked for what felt like forever. We must be approaching the end, I thought to myself. Concentrating hard at my feet, I looked up as Kyla stopped, only to discover with utter shock that we were only halfway across the bridge.

As we dulled our headlamps, my heart felt like it was pounding out of my chest, the blood rushing through my ears louder than the river below us. As we were plunged into complete darkness, I panicked for a moment, feeling lightheaded. I realized I’d been holding my breath since we’d left solid ground. As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out the canyon walls, the velvety blanket of stars above us, and the fast-moving wall of water below our very feet. 

At that moment, I felt tiny once again. Insignificant. Standing on the bridge in the dark, I felt like I was floating in the air, just above the jaws of a powerful river that could swallow me up whole. It felt terrifying and fantastic. 

The light of our headlamps reigniting jolted me out of this moment just as quickly as it had dawned on me. I felt my feet sturdy on the bridge. My hands reached for the cold metal handrails, bringing me back to reality. As we continued our walk, the river’s deafening noise dissipated with each step further from its dangerous waters. I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as I stepped from metal to dirt.

Sometimes, we hiked in a comfortable silence. Mostly, we talked. What I love about hiking is the conversations that come with being on-trail. Whether it be self-revelations or incessant rantings, there is something about being outdoors that gets a raw narrative flowing. Perhaps it’s the vulnerability of not having showered for many days or the inadvertent bonding that comes with enduring strenuous activities. The wilderness is a judgement-free zone.

We approached our final ascent just after sunrise. This was it: the beginning of the end. 

At the three-mile resthouse, we began to mingle with day hikers. Unlike us, they were freshly showered, oohed and aahed at everything, and carried small, lightweight backpacks. Kyla and I powered upwards, heads down and teeth gritted. 

Every couple hundred feet, we’d be stopped by curious tourists wondering what we were doing. “We came from the North Rim,” we’d announce proudly, reveling in their awe-struck reactions. Some asked questions, others simply cheered us on. It was these compliments that fueled my ego (and energy) enough to continue to the next group of supporters. 

With one mile to the top, I’d grown accustomed to my ragged breathing and lungs gasping for air. Pushing through the lack of feeling in my feet, I could hardly tell what was propeling me forward anymore. Every fiber of my being wanted to stop, to lay down, to rest, but my legs continued to move forwardly swiftly and with purpose. I kept my eyes trained on the rim, which only seemed to get further away the higher we climbed. 

Each time we rounded the corner on another switchback, my mind cried out: how are we not there yet? Kyla and I had stopped talking many miles ago to save our breath. Tourists glanced at us as we dragged ourselves upwards, them stepping off to the side of the trail to let us pass like Moses parting the Red Sea. 

And then, finally: the home stretch. In front of us was a paved pathway leading to the top. Tears sprung to my eyes as an insane-looking grin overwhelmed my chapped lips; I couldn’t tell if I was crying because I wanted it to be over, or if I was crying because I didn’t want this journey to end. 

We half-ran, half-limped our way up the final stretch of trail, giggling and sniffling back tears. At the top, Kyla and I high-fived with our trekking poles, touching the Bright Angel Trailhead sign to officially mark the end of our trek. 

Strangers congratulated us on our achievement as we both dropped our packs, hugging each other and announcing to anybody we saw that we’d finished. The end felt anticlimactic and my brain was off in another universe as Kyla and I made plans to eat real food for the first time in days. Just like that, it was over. A longtime dream that took years of planning had been completed in less than 48 hours. 

A NEW DREAM 

The return from total immersion in the wilderness is always jolting, to say the least. The first shower and first hot meal feel like the best you’ve ever had, and it takes a few days for all the aches, pains, and bruises to disappear. 

Two days after returning from our trip, I texted Kyla with a new proposition. The blisters on my feet had not yet recovered, and adventure was still fresh in our minds. As we both reminisced over our favorite photos and laughed at the inside jokes we’d created while in the throes of sleep delirium, I casually suggested another Rim to Rim. 

This time, I wanted to complete the challenging 24-mile terrain in under 24 hours. Kyla responded: “Sure, why not?”

And just like that, a new dream was born.