Somebody famous once said that no battle plan ever survives first contact with the enemy intact. Yet another bright fellow said something sage about "the best laid plans," and although they escape my memory at the moment, I'm confident I could fill a volume with truisms about the vagaries of plans and how they never turn out how they were (ahem) planned. We rejoin our intrepid canyon explorers just as they are preparing to implement their carefully laid plans...

Advanced readers who are familiar with the artistic device known as "foreshadowing," will be pleased to know that they correctly guessed things did not go *precisely* as planned... Score yourself two extra points if you caught that one, but don't worry if you missed it - we certainly did. To be fair, I'd have to say that the trip went exceptionally well, all things considered, and as with most experiences of this nature, I wouldn't have had it any other way. Adventures are defined and remembered as much for what didn't happen as for what did, and for the unexpected twists that fate invariably throws our way. If this particular adventure had happened exactly as we'd planned and envisioned it, it would not have impressed itself so indelibly on my mind, and I doubt I would have been moved to tell you about it now.

Any writer worth the awards on his mantle will tell you how a good ensemble cast can turn a humdrum non-event into a story to remember. Jerry Seinfeld and friends took the art of "something from nothing" to heretofore unimagined heights, and although I wouldn't presume to place our humble group of campers in such rarified company, I can say with certainty that the people that made up our group were an integral part of the experience. Clearly, the members of a travelling group will influence the direction events take, but there's more to it than that - the group dynamic acts as a lens through which we view those events - it colors how we perceive what we see, just as the contrasting viewpoints bring it into sharper focus. I've lost count of the number of times when one member or another of our group would say or do something - a word, a gesture, a chance utterance - which totally captured the spirit of the moment, or cast it in a totally unexpected light. As I sit and try to recall the events of this remarkable trip, I find that it's these snippets - the random thoughts and actions of the group - which stand out as signposts in my memory. It's these moments which transformed what was, after all, just a trip into a giant hole in the ground into an adventure I will remember and cherish for a very long time indeed.

The best travelling groups, I think, are not those made up of like-minded clones, but those which are comprised of a wide spectrum of personalities and dispositions. Certainly, there are those for whom annoying quirks and personality traits are an insurmountable obstacle, but I for one believe that the opportunity to experience the world through many sets of eyes usually outweighs such concerns. After all, it's these very oddities which make the best stories. In the case of this particular group of adventurers, our walking Sierra Club encyclopedia (whom we met in a previous volume) is very neatly balanced by a more cavalier element for whom any one of the dozens of synonyms listed by Roget's for "ornery" would be appropriate. Seasoned hikers are similarly balanced by veritable babes-in-arms, and the clashes between these elements were always enlightening and often entertaining. Of course, it also made for some interesting planning (I bet you were wondering when I was going to get around to talking about plans again).

Perhaps the most important consideration for any backpacker, aside from having enough water, is weight. We're not talking about "does this spandex make my ass look big" weight, of course, but the weight of what you carry in your pack. Thanks largely to the efforts of our friend Newton, we know that gravity is not always our friend - it, like many things in life (Tequila or Melrose Place, for instance), is best taken in moderation. Entire clutches of "Just one more" pounds sneak up and pounce on you when you least expect it, in much the same way as "just one more" minutes stretch to become dozens of actual minutes (apologies to Douglas Adams), and "Just one more nacho cheese dorito" turns into enough corn meal to feed a small African village for a week (not including Sally Struthers). The extreme weight restrictions challenge your definitions of what is "essential," and your perception of exactly how much of various obvious essentials (water, food, non-aspirin pain reliever, cognac) is enough. Water is both the most essential and heaviest commodity, and although the consequences of not having enough are grave, it's difficult to reconcile this with it's significant weight. One learns very quickly that every "just one more pound" is multiplied over each and every mile of the hike. Much as compound interest, given enough time, turns small sums of money into large, small weights turn into large blisters over the course of a long hike. A lifetime of habitual overpacking and contingency planning competes with the knowledge that you personally have to carry every ounce of what you pack for the entire trip. There are no bellhops, skycaps, and absolutely no luggage carts for rent in the Grand Canyon.

Actually, not all weight is so permanent - food and water have the exceedingly desirable property of getting lighter as the hike goes on - not through some new-math physics, but simply by virtue of being consumed. Happily, food and water are a lot lighter in your stomach than on your back, but it's not quite so simple as just gorging yourself to make your load lighter. Once again, our friend Newton asserts himself as we learn that consuming food and water is not without consequences, but has the expected "equal and opposite" reaction - which is weighty in it's own regard. I will spare our gentle readers the gory details, but one only has to consider the gastrointestinal effects of a high-energy diet to the unaccustomed system in order to fathom the (ahem) gravity of the situation.

Gravity, you see, is a subject which will continue to assert itself as we recount this adventure. Considering how much of it there is to go around as you climb into a mile-deep hole into the ground, this is understandable. We will learn shortly that even when going downhill, there *is* such a thing as too much gravity. But I'm getting ahead of myself. We're still trying to decide what and how much to carry. Due to a last-minute snafu that only a scrupulously planned outing can guarantee, we found out within days of our trip that we would not, after all, be able to enjoy a steak dinner at Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the canyon. The water line to the ranch from the rim had apparently broken, and they were not taking reservations. As fate would have it, the line was repaired a scant few hours after my call, but we didn't find this out until later, and by then they were already booked. This meant that we were going to have to pack in an additional dinner. We did eventually manage to get a reservation for breakfast, but since camp breakfast usually consists of reconstituted instant oatmeal, it was harldy a fair weight tradeoff.

There is a time-honored tradition in our group, at least among the elements of the group that take their hiking slightly less seriously, of seeing who can carry the most obscenely useless (but nonetheless appreciated) luxury into camp. This annoys the more serious-minded of the group no end, which is of course most of the fun. Perhaps the most cavalier of our number (and the largest, coincidentally), had pretty much decided to pack in steaks for our steak dinner, but these plans were cancelled (prematurely, we found out later) when we decided to eat at Phantom Ranch. Not to be deflected from his course, Todd determined that he would instead pack in a CD player and battery-powered speakers (none of those wimpy AA-cell speakers either, we're talking C-cells here). Some may wonder why music would be necessary when one is being serenaded by the sounds of nature, but there's something about belting out "Southern Cross" along with Crosby, Stills, Nash, and sometimes Young which warms the soul better than any campfire. As it was, though, the serious hikers got the last laugh - we had been using the portable CD player in the car on the way to the canyon, and subsequently forgot to pack it. We didn't realize this until we had already boarded the shuttle for the rim, so the speakers and C-cells made the round-trip canyon hike alone - the very definition of "dead weight," if there ever was one. No doubt we could have delayed our trip an hour or so to go back to the car, but I don't think that any of us would have seriously entertained that notion - not when we were this close. Of course, Todd could have just thrown the batteries away before we descended, but where's the fun in that?

I have said in earlier volumes that the Grand Canyon defies all attempts at rational description. Even as I sit here remembering the events of the trip, I am totally at a loss for words to describe the spectacle which met our eyes when we reached the rim. Words like "majesty," "grandeur," and "stunning," although all appropriate, somehow fail to capture the feeling one gets standing on the edge of a mile-deep canyon carved by a river so far down that you can't even see it from the trailhead. No doubt many of the feelings we had could be attributed to the knowledge that we were not just talking anymore - we were really going to walk to the bottom of the canyon and climb back out. An air of giddy excitement combined with a dash nervous anticipation prevailed as we went about the business of tightening boots, taking the obligatory "before" snapshots, navigating the gaggle of tourists and whining children (one of whom was repeatedly striking an understandably frustrated sibling with a stick) and adjusting our 40-plus pound packs. Despite the steadily climbing mercury back in Phoenix, the weather was quite pleasant - almost brisk. Small outcroppings of snow could be seen still clinging bravely to the rock near the rim - the final redoubts of the armies of winter waiting to be routed by the inevitable advance of spring. It was difficult to tear our eyes from the stunning vista ahead of us - the sheer faces of the Canyon were blanketed in unexpected green, and the mid-morning sun shone in a sky streaked with wisps of cotton-candy clouds. Large birds cruised in graceful arcs and parked themselves on craggy outcroppings as if to watch the spectacle. Eventually, we applied ourselves to the task at hand. Heady feelings of anticipation gave way to purpose and determination as we donned secured packs and nervous smiles, uttered the obligatory "banzai," and took our first steps. Down.

stay tuned for part IV - Who said down was easy?


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