A cheerful pumpkin sun peeks over the Coconino Plateau at dawn. It’s Thanksgiving weekend, and the air is frosty as dad and I join a gaggle of backpackers, clad in billowy down jackets evincing a cornucopia of startling colors, lining up outside Grand Canyon Village’s backcountry information center. It turns out the park’s Phantom Ranch and Indian Garden campgrounds are as jam-packed as pilgrims on the Mayflower which renders my hoped-for rim to rim route unfeasible. A bearded ranger suggests we trek the relatively remote East Tonto trail where site-specific camping permits are not required during the off-season months. “Perfect,” I say, elated to spend the night anywhere in the canyon. Dad agrees.

A few years ago, I initiated a habit of taking my dad on ambitious backpacking trips. He’s as close to a spring chicken as one can be at 56 and frequently outpaces my otherwise speedy trailtop tempo. We have thus far completed ten days on the John Muir Trail and 70 miles along Wyoming’s rugged Wind River Mountains. Daydreaming over the phone in September 2013, I propose we tackle 30 off-season miles across the Grand Canyon’s spine-tingling landscape. “Let me talk to mom,” he says. He sounds excited.

A Grand Canyon Backpacking Trip Begins

We join a flow of tourists debarking the South Rim shuttle bus near South Kaibab’s trailhead at 7,200 feet, swiftly clogged by day hikers stretching in all manner of poses, speaking quietly in groups, taking pictures with their smartphones. Although it’s a dry year, a thin mat of crunchy snow carpets the ground. To break away from the throng, we dash harum-scarum down the footpath’s initial cobblestone switchbacks; stretching my legs feels fabulous after yesterday’s 10-hour road trip from SoCal.

The scene before us is breathtaking. A bulging sheet of stratus clouds fills the canyon’s vast rift 500 feet below the rocky ledge like a white lawn of Korean velvet grass. Apparently, this phenomenon only occurs once every couple of years – something about weather inversion, calm winds, and rapid ground level heat loss. Forested hills rise above the canyon’s northern rim 17 miles away and float on the diamond sea of mist.

Even though I am bursting with enthusiasm, we are silent as we hone a rhythm of placing one foot in front of the next. Periodic wood posts bisect the wide trail’s blood colored earth, struggling to impede erosion and creating a never-ending staircase of shrill steps. Within ten minutes, we penetrate the fog and find ourselves 15 degrees cooler underneath an overcast gray sky. The path winds across the canyon’s fortress-like walls before boomeranging towards an auburn sandstone cupola, lonely and massive, rising prominently on a peninsula of Esplanade sediment like one of the Titanic’s gold smokestack funnels

I force myself to cease staring so I can keep at least one wary eye on the trailside’s sheer cliff. Grand Canyon National Park sprawls over 1,904 square miles of the world’s premier canyon system, 277 miles long, 18 miles wide in places, and nearly one mile deep. One friend lulls that “it’s just a big hole in the ground.” It certainly is, but there’s nothing humdrum about it. Endless rockwall rills, gnashing thousands of feet deep, flay every which way.

Sedimentary isthmuses connect red mesas to ziggurat plateaus, hints of tufted shrubs clinging to perpendicular ramparts which swell assertively from yawning arroyos. Bands of brown and crimson strata turn coral and Crayola orange under the racing clouds. Unlike the popular Bright Angel Trail’s narrow line of sight, South Kaibab’s six-mile descent offers sweeping panoramas along a snaking backbone passage. In about an hour, we leave most of the crowds behind us.

The park’s idiosyncrasies are much the same year-round: bone dry away from the Colorado River, deceptively easy downhill routes obliging exhausting uphill return trips, shadeless trails completely exposed to the elements. In winter, the crowds are smaller, the days shorter, temperatures cooler. Snow and ice may coat trails’ higher elevations. This weekend, despite the spectacular cloud formations, the weather is perfect: balmy high 50’s during the afternoon and a hair above freezing at night.

Reaching the fork with East Tonto trail at 4,260 feet, we’ve come across no water, and I discover Dad has committed an uncharacteristic rookie mistake of only bringing two small water bottles, both now empty. Compelling him to take some of mine, we cannot pinpoint a reliable creek or cienega eastward on the map. Despite the extra exertion, we decide to barrel over “The Tipoff” and fill up at the Colorado River’s chocolate tide 1,800 feet beneath us.

I love hiking with my dad. After my muddled teenage years, our relationship became distant if not a little estranged. As a young adult, I found myself defaulting into juvenile attitudes and habits whose initial impetuses, perhaps never very legitimate, had disappeared from memory long ago. One day, sipping a steely decaf at Starbucks, I had an epiphany. Why not stop treating my dad like the baggage-laden figure of my childhood? Why not just approach him as someone I know well and who has uncannily similar interests?

Letting go of the past freed me to enjoy both of my parents as an adult, building new friendships for a new stage of life. I must admit that like them a bunch – two rather muddled people much like myself. Annual backpacking adventures with my dad, although not the only manifestation of this new outlook, are certainly my favorite. We talk a lot, are silent a lot, and generally enjoy every minute on the trail together. Bravo Starbucks for a good cup of Joe.

Retracing our steps back from the inner gorge, water bottles brimming, we encounter our first uphill climb: a zigzag goathill ascent rising nearly 2,000 feet in two miles. Such punishing grades are normal for Grand Canyon trails. Panting back at the junction, we turn onto East Tonto’s noticeably less travelled footpath which traverses the Tonto plateau, an undulating shelf of tumbleweed grassland between the canyon’s rim 3,000 feet above and the Colorado River 1,800 feet below. Flash flood drainages bisect the trail’s course which rises and descends an exhausting series of knolls and gulleys. The trail is full of loose, seesaw rocks which make every stride tedious.

Undaunted, we stagger forward with gusto. The sun lurches westward and enflames the entire magnificent backdrop. A gigantic escarpment dominates the view, clenching the tableland like a giant fist from heaven, glowing in the sunset like a split geode, radiating every conceivable hue of orange: amber, bourbon, agoseris, LA smog, extra sharp cheddar cheese. Towering thousands of feet high, bare bluff precipices drop like stairway steps, gilded alluvium drooping from the crags like the folds of a gold lamé dress. Even though I am exhausted from the day’s hike, I stare in wonder. In moments, the light changes, and the colors fade.

We pitch dad’s Marmot Limelight two-man within Cremation Creek’s dry sandy gulch containing the only flattish and cactus-free patch of ground we’ve come across in two and a half miles. For dinner, we treat ourselves to Mountain House three cheese chicken pasta. The night is moonless, and I lie on a low boulder gazing at the wild beauty of blinking stars framed by colossal two-dimensional land features. When the cold becomes unbearable, I scuttle into the tent.

We sleep in way too late. By the time we are packed and back on the trail, the sun is high overhead behind another thin blanket of wispy clouds. We weave slowly around immense chasms and immense massifs. The path parallels high canyon walls where serrated geologic veins read like a primeval catalogue of long-forgotten cataclysms. Bright Angel shale heaves under Mauv and Redwall limestone. Paleozoic layers with names like Wescogame, Watahomigi, and Manakacha alternate salmon, brown, and gray stripes like a wedding cake fearsome in height, crumbly to touch.

The route feels isolated and forgotten, and we pass only two couples and a small group of buddies. The trail is also treacherous in places. Lacing the brink of fingering side canyons, the path tilts sharply over cliffs, loose gravel threatening to unbalance us at every step. Dad stumbles at one point, falling on a knee to steady himself. Heart racing, I take a tumble of my own minutes later.

Finally making our cutoff toward Grandview, several groups of day hikers congregate near Cottonwood Creek. Exhausted after 14 miles of rolling desert scrubland, I calculate that three miles and nearly three thousand feet of elevation gain separate us from our destination. We have no reserves of energy left. We’ve eaten all our snacks.

With dusk fast approaching, I pull out my headlamp and prepare for a long slog. The steep trail is poorly maintained and eroded in many areas. We mindlessly plod around circuitous switchbacks and along a dusty ridgeline wooded with gnarled Utah and single seed junipers. Hazard signs near an old uranium mine warn “RADIOACTIVE – STAY ON TRAIL.” The temperature drops malevolently as we gain elevation, and blotches of snow speckle the dark ground. Mindful of my falling body heat, I go into protective mode.

“How are you?” I huff at dad anxiously, repeating myself every 10 or so minutes. I take the lead and set an inchworm pace. “I’m tired,” dad finally admits with a tired voice. I’ve never heard him acknowledge such a thing before, and I realize he must feel as utterly drained as I do. The cold starts to set in. I calculate that stopping for a warm tumbler of hot chocolate will lift our sprits and stop the chill. We huddle side by side, fumble with our Jetboils, pour piping fluids into our cores. “Thanks Dan,” dad says. “This was a good idea.” The final ascent is perilous. Although we cannot see the cliffs we are hiking along we know they are there. Slush on the trail rapidly freezes to ice.

The Decision

“Should we spend the night on the trail?” I propose. “I think we can make it,” dad says thoughtfully. Trying to think of the wisest option, a night without food in the freezing cold sounds unappealing, but so does continuing. We finally promise each other to pivot carefully up the incline, taking no chances. Dad goes first. Keeping a hawk’s eye on our step-by-step progress, I gingerly follow up the mass of sleet. Suddenly, blazing headlights alert us to the empty Grandview parking lot one hundred yards ahead. Made it!

We stumble like boogeymen out of the blackness, terrifying a wide-eyed couple in a cluttered Ford Focus. They hurriedly drive away once dad, a bit groggy, concludes an uninvited monologue summary of the day’s toils. “That’s so inspiring,” says the woman flatly. No shuttles stop at this time of night, and the main road is an indeterminate distance south. I instruct dad to pull out his sleeping bag and hunker down until I return with the truck, a feat accomplished an hour later after a kind Havasupai couple spots me a ride to the village 13 miles west.

Thawing under the heater’s blow-drier gusts, we take a moment to celebrate our accomplishment. “Whew!” I exclaim. “I wasn’t that cold,” dad says. “I don’t know...you looked pretty tired,” I suggest. We both smile ear-to-ear, our next adventure already in my mind.

Need to Know

Information

Trails are strenuous and rocky in places with many stretches along cliff edges; our hike lasted 2 days over 34 miles with 5,500 feet cumulative gain. More information can be found at the National Park Service’s website. Backcountry permits are tightly regulated, so be sure to read the park’s permit guidelines.

Getting There

I took I-15 out of San Diego, meeting in Barstow where I left my car at a free SANBAG “Park & Ride” lot, then went east on I-40. At Williams, take AZ-64 north which turns into AZ-180. Canyon will be straight ahead.

Best Time to Go

Every season has its charms, although expect sweltering weather in July and August and freezing temperatures in January and February.

Maps

We used Sky Terrain Trail Maps’ topographic map of Grand Canyon National Park. Other options include the Trails Illustrated Map Bundle of 261, 262, and 263.

Books

For guidebooks see Hiking Grand Canyon National Park, by Ron Adkinson as well as Best Easy Day Hikes: Grand Canyon National Park.

Editor's Note: This article originally appeared in Issue 30 of TrailGroove Magazine. You can read the original article here for additional photos and content.