Rim to Rim to Rim
A Grand Canyon Adventure
The Grand Idea
My friend and hiking partner Art had this grand idea. “Why don’t we hike across the Grand Canyon?”. This was in 1974. I had never been to the Grand Canyon. Or even to Arizona for that matter. All I knew about the Grand Canyon was what I had read in Sunset Magazine and seen in Sierra Club calendars. It looked beautiful but I knew nothing about hiking in the desert of the American Southwest. Art and I had done a lot of hiking, backpacking and mountain climbing together in the Pacific Northwest including a 1972 ascent of Mount Rainier and a traverse of the Olympic Mountain Range. We were pretty confident in our abilities. I readily agreed to Art’s plan. “Sure, why not?” I responded. How hard could a walk across the Grand Canyon be? At the time, I don’t think that either of us quite grasped the significance of what we were about to do. As it turned out, it was hard. Very hard!
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Today, the hike from one rim of the Grand Canyon to the other is commonly known as “Rim to Rim” or simply “R2R.” The route covers roughly 24 miles one way, depending on the trails used, and involves nearly 10,000 feet of elevation loss and gain. Art and I planned to do “Rim to Rim to Rim” — hiking from the South Rim to the North Rim and then turning around and hiking all the way back. Naively, we had made no transportation arrangements to take us back from the North Rim.
It seemed reasonable at the time.
Backpacking technology in 1974 was a long way from the lightweight gear of today. Art and I carried heavy external-frame packs with a loaded weight close to fifty pounds. Our boots were sturdy leather climbing boots designed more for support than comfort. We carried bulky sleeping bags, metal cooking gear, heavy climbing headlamps powered by large batteries, and enough food to survive in the Canyon for several days. Being from Washington State, where it can rain any day of the year, we also carried a tent and rain gear.
First Impressions of Arizona
On May 4, 1974, Art and I boarded a Hughes Airwest flight to Las Vegas. After arriving at McCarran Field, we transferred to a Douglas DC-9 bound for the small Grand Canyon Airport. As the plane circled before landing, the runway looked impossibly short. Somehow, we survived the landing and then located the shuttle bus bound for the canyon. In those days there was a 50-cent entrance fee to get into the park. Our driver announced that international visitors were “guests of the United States” and didn’t have to pay the entrance fee. The bus took us to the South Rim campground where we spent the night before beginning our hike.
The next morning, I stepped out of the tent and found frost on the ground.
“Art,” I remember saying, “I thought Arizona was supposed to be hot.”
What I did not yet understand was that the South Rim sits at nearly 7,000 feet above sea level. Spring mornings there can feel more like the mountains of Colorado than the deserts of Arizona. The temperature would climb toward one hundred degrees deep inside the Canyon, but at sunrise on the South Rim the air was cold enough to numb our hands.
After breakfast, we picked up our backcountry permit and caught a taxi to the South Kaibab Trailhead near Yaki Point. A cool breeze swept across the rim as we shouldered our oversized packs and began walking downhill into the Canyon.
Into the Canyon
At first the descent seemed deceptively easy. Gravity was on our side and the trail dropped steadily toward the Colorado River far below. Douglas fir trees clung to the upper slopes, reminding us briefly of home in the Pacific Northwest. Art later wrote that it felt strange seeing lizards darting among trees that looked like they belonged in Washington State.
As we descended farther, the scale of the Canyon slowly revealed itself. Layer upon layer of red and orange cliffs stretched into the distance beneath an impossibly blue sky. Art was reminded of Dvorak’s New World Symphony, writing later that the music’s sweeping final movement seemed to match the immensity surrounding us.
The farther down we went, the hotter it became.
Our knees began to ache from the endless downhill pounding and our oversized packs suddenly felt much heavier. Somewhere along the trail we stepped aside to rest in the shade while staring down at the Colorado River, glowing green far below us.
That was when Art’s hat took flight.
A gust of wind lifted his red felt hat off his head and sent it tumbling down a scree slope. To my annoyance, Art immediately scrambled off in pursuit of it while I stood above watching him disappear among the rocks in the growing heat. I was slightly annoyed. At the time, I guess I didn’t realize how attached Art was to that hat.
Fortunately for Art, he eventually recovered his distinctive red felt hat. Any hat is essential protection from the Arizona sun.
By midafternoon we finally reached the bottom of the Canyon and crossed the Colorado River on the narrow suspension bridge now known as Black Bridge. After seven long downhill miles, we arrived at Bright Angel Campground exhausted, dusty, and overheated. We pulled off our boots and soaked our aching feet in Bright Angel Creek while the canyon walls radiated heat around us.
Art noted the temperature that afternoon: 96 degrees.
It was our first day in the Grand Canyon, and already we understood that this place played by its own rules.
The Box
Art had ambitious plans for the next morning. He wanted to be on the trail by 6:00 A.M. to avoid the worst of the Canyon heat.
We finally staggered out of camp around 8:00.
That delay turned out to be a mistake.
The hike from Bright Angel Campground to Cottonwood Camp is only about seven miles, but in the Grand Canyon mileage can be deceptive. The trail follows Bright Angel Creek northward through a narrowing gorge known as “The Box,” where dark canyon walls trap the rising heat like an enormous stone furnace.
By midmorning the temperature was climbing rapidly.
Coming from the cool, damp climate of western Washington, Art and I were completely unprepared for hiking in desert conditions. Water disappeared from our bodies almost as quickly as we could drink it. Our heavy packs rubbed against sweat-soaked shirts while heat radiated upward from the trail beneath our boots.
Yet despite the discomfort, the Canyon had moments of astonishing beauty.
Years later, one passage from Art’s journal still captures that morning better than anything I could write myself:
“There is an odd sensation at such times, of being lost within a world that has never known time, of feeling each moment as it meanders through space.”
As we moved farther up Bright Angel Creek, the landscape slowly changed. The harsh rock walls opened into a broader desert valley dotted with cottonwoods and patches of green vegetation nourished by water flowing down from the North Rim. The contrast between life along the creek and the dry canyon slopes beyond was remarkable.
By the time we finally reached Cottonwood Camp at 2:30 that afternoon, we were overheated, exhausted, and thoroughly humbled by the Canyon.
We cooled ourselves in the creek and rested in the shade while Art entertained himself with a recorder he had carried all the way from Washington. Backpackers today carefully count every ounce of gear, but in 1974 we apparently considered musical instruments essential wilderness equipment.
That afternoon dark clouds drifted over the Canyon and rain began falling in the distance.
“Art,” I remember saying, “I thought it never rained in Arizona.”
But this was not the cold soaking rain I knew from Washington State. Out in the desert heat, I watched streaks of rain evaporate before they ever reached the ground. It seemed impossible at the time, almost like a mirage.
Ironically, we carried a tent for the entire trip but never once bothered to set it up. The Canyon nights remained warm and dry enough that we simply rolled out our sleeping bags under the open sky. Our unused tent became little more than extra weight in our already overloaded packs.
Roaring Springs
The next morning, having learned at least a few lessons about desert travel, Art and I finally managed to leave camp at 6:00 A.M. as originally planned. Our destination was Roaring Springs, located near the base of the North Rim.
The trail became steeper as it climbed through layers of limestone and red sandstone toward the upper Canyon walls. Unlike the endless downhill pounding of the South Kaibab Trail, this was sustained uphill hiking under increasingly warm conditions while carrying heavy packs.
We reached Roaring Springs later that morning and collapsed gratefully into the shade near the trail.
Roaring Springs is one of the hidden wonders of the Grand Canyon. Water emerging from the Kaibab Plateau bursts directly from a cliff face with such force that it creates a constant roaring sound audible from the trail below. The spring provides much of the water supply for Grand Canyon National Park and remains the lifeblood of the inner canyon.
To two exhausted hikers from Washington State, however, it simply looked miraculous.
Art later described the view near Roaring Springs as “beautiful beyond comprehension,” though he admitted the experience was somewhat diminished by the thousands of flies swarming the area.
The flies were relentless. There seemed to be no escaping them.
Final Assault on the North Rim
At Roaring Springs, Art and I finally did something smart for a change.
Before beginning the final climb to the North Rim, we cached most of our heavy gear near the springs and carried only the essentials for the ascent. Even so, the remaining climb was no small undertaking. Nearly five miles of trail still separated us from the North Rim with more than 3,000 feet of elevation gain ahead.
By then, however, we were beginning to understand the Canyon a little better.
We learned to start early before the heat settled into the rock walls. We learned to drink water whenever it was available, whether we felt thirsty or not. Most importantly, we learned that distances in the Grand Canyon could be dangerously deceptive. Looking across the Canyon, the North Rim never appeared especially far away. Hiking to it was another matter entirely.
Art later wrote that as dawn broke over the upper canyon, “The walls gleamed with colors more intense than I had ever seen before.” That morning the rising sunlight transformed the cliffs into layers of orange, gold, and deep crimson. In places the trail seemed suspended above empty space while the Canyon unfolded endlessly beneath us.
Even the mule trains descending from the North Rim failed to disturb the quiet rhythm of the morning.
For long stretches, neither of us spoke very much. We simply climbed.
For two climbers raised in the mountains of Washington, uphill hiking itself was nothing new. But the dry desert air added an entirely different dimension to physical exhaustion. Sweat evaporated almost instantly. Our lips cracked. Dust settled into our boots and clothing. Every switchback revealed another wall rising above us.
Still, there was something strangely compelling about the climb.
The farther upward we traveled, the more the Canyon revealed its changing ecosystems. Deep below us lay the blistering inner gorge where temperatures approached one hundred degrees. Above us, the North Rim slowly transformed into something almost alpine. Trees reappeared. The air cooled slightly. Patches of shade returned to the trail.
Snow at the Top
Then, to our complete surprise, we encountered snow.
A lot of snow.
“Hey Art,” I remember saying, “What’s with all the snow. I thought we were in Arizona.”
At nearly 8,000 feet elevation, the North Rim experiences real winters, something I had never remotely associated with Arizona before this trip. Just a day earlier we had been baking beside the Colorado River in near triple-digit heat. Now we were walking past lingering snowbanks beneath tall ponderosa pines.
The contrast felt almost surreal.
Eventually we reached the North Kaibab Trailhead and found a park employee preparing facilities for the upcoming tourist season. The North Rim was about to reopen after the winter closure, and we were grateful for the luxury of cold drinking water from the fountain near the visitor facility.
After days of heat, dust, and endless climbing, simply sitting in the shade with cold water felt like an enormous victory.
I remember feeling a genuine sense of accomplishment standing on the North Rim. Art and I had successfully traversed across one of the seven natural wonders of the world, carrying heavy packs and very little understanding of what we were getting ourselves into.
Then reality quietly reasserted itself. We still had to hike all the way back.
Descent to Roaring Springs
After resting and eating lunch near the rim, we began descending once again toward Roaring Springs where we planned to spend the night. As the afternoon heat intensified, the Canyon seemed determined to remind us who was really in charge.
When we finally reached Roaring Springs, the flies were once again waiting.
Not just a few flies. Thousands of flies.
Art later wrote that the swarms “drove us buggy,” which may have been the understatement of the entire trip. The insects covered our packs, our clothing, and any exposed skin the moment we stopped moving. At one point we discovered that the only effective escape was to stand directly in the blazing afternoon sun where the flies seemed unwilling to follow. It was an absurd solution, but surprisingly effective.
The Canyon was becoming an increasingly strange place — a landscape where even the insects had adapted better than we had.
Cottonwood Camp Again
Eventually the flies convinced us to abandon Roaring Springs altogether and continue hiking downhill toward Cottonwood Camp. Exhausted once again, we reached camp late in the day and rolled out our sleeping bags beneath the stars.
Sometime during the night, strong winds swept through camp and rattled everything around us. Despite our exhaustion, neither of us slept well.
The Canyon, it seemed, was determined to test us yet again.
The next morning, we woke to strong winds again. However, we were delighted to see a small herd of mule deer moving quietly along the hillside above us. I had never seen mule deer before and was immediately struck by their big mule-like ears, perfectly suited to their name.
Today, living in Flagstaff, I see mule deer all the time. Occasionally they wander through my backyard and help themselves to whatever flowers I had hoped might survive the summer. Back then, however, everything about the Canyon still felt new and unfamiliar.
The morning went slowly. Our bodies were beginning to feel the cumulative effects of several hard days on the trail and once again we failed to achieve our ambitious alpine-style departure time. By the time we finally packed up and left camp, it was already around 9:00 A.M. At least we would be going downhill. For a while anyway.
Ribbon Falls
Before continuing south, we decided to take a short side trip to Ribbon Falls on the recommendation of a park ranger.
That detour proved to be one of the highlights of the trip.
Ribbon Falls lies hidden within a shaded alcove just off the North Kaibab Trail. A narrow stream of water spills more than one hundred feet over a massive moss-covered travertine dome built slowly over thousands of years by mineral-rich spring water. Surrounded by ferns, cottonwoods, and cool shade, the falls felt completely out of place within the harsh desert landscape surrounding it.
After days of dust, heat, and rock, Ribbon Falls seemed almost magical.
Art described the falls simply in his journal:
“The falls streamed down over a canopy of moss-covered rock.”
At the time, neither of us knew that Ribbon Falls also held deep spiritual significance for the Zuni people, who consider it a sacred place connected to their ancestral emergence into the upper world. We only knew that neither of us wanted to leave.
Reluctantly, we shouldered our packs once again and headed back toward the main trail.
Returning to the trail proved slightly more complicated than expected. Bright Angel Creek offered no obvious crossing, and we spent some time wandering up and down the banks searching for a route before finally rock-hopping our way across with only moderately wet boots.
Not long afterward, I noticed something odd about Art’s right boot.
The sole was beginning to separate.
In modern backpacking culture, gear failures are usually minor inconveniences solved with lightweight repair kits and high-tech materials. In 1974, you improvised with whatever happened to be in your pack.
We stopped in the shade while Art wrapped some tent-line around the boot in an effort to hold the sole together long enough to finish the trip. Fortunately, the repair worked — at least temporarily — and we continued south toward Phantom Ranch.
By the time we arrived, we were hot, dusty, exhausted, and more than a little battered by the Canyon.
Phantom Ranch
Phantom Ranch felt almost surreal after days in the wilderness. Nestled beside Bright Angel Creek near the bottom of the Canyon, it was the closest thing to civilization we had seen since leaving the South Rim. The small canteen offered one luxury we had been dreaming about for miles: Cold Beer!
That evening, sitting at Phantom Ranch with sandwiches and beer in hand, Art and I discussed our strategy for the final climb out of the Canyon. The hike back to the South Rim via the Bright Angel Trail would cover nearly ten miles and gain roughly 4,400 feet in elevation.
More importantly, most of that climb would occur in brutal daytime heat if we started too late.
We decided to leave in the middle of the night.
It sounded like a smart plan while we sat there drinking cold beer in the shade.
Actually, getting out of a sleeping bag at midnight — or what eventually became 3:00 A.M. — would prove considerably more challenging.
The heat and strong winds made sleep difficult that night. Somewhere around 11:00 P.M., Art finally drifted off.
A few hours later, I began shouting at him in the darkness.
It was time to climb out of the Grand Canyon.
Up the Bright Angel Trail
Sometime around 3:00 A.M., after considerable effort to get him going, Art finally emerged from his sleeping bag and began packing in the darkness. Neither of us exactly sprang to life with youthful enthusiasm. We moved slowly and quietly beneath the stars, still half asleep as we shouldered our packs and switched on our climbing headlamps.
A few minutes later we crossed the Colorado River on the suspension bridge and began climbing the Bright Angel Trail toward the South Rim.
At that hour the Canyon felt entirely different.
The oppressive daytime heat had faded, and the inner gorge was wrapped in darkness and silence. Far below us, the Colorado River moved almost invisibly through the Canyon, its presence sensed more than seen. Art later wrote that the river appeared “still, its movement barely perceptible in sight or sound.”
For long stretches neither of us spoke. The only sounds were our boots scraping against the trail and the occasional clink of gear against our packs.
Then suddenly the silence exploded.
“Snake!”
Art stopped instantly while I stared at a coiled shape lying directly on the trail between us. In the beam of my headlamp, it looked enormous, though in reality it was probably no more than a couple of feet long. My immediate thought was rattlesnake.
Having never encountered a rattlesnake before, I reacted with all the calm rationality of a sleep-deprived backpacker at three o’clock in the morning.
Art later recalled me throwing rocks and stomping around in an effort to encourage the snake to vacate the trail. Fortunately, the reptile eventually decided we were not worth the trouble and disappeared into the darkness.
It would be our only snake encounter of the trip.
The rest of the climb unfolded beneath moonlight and gradually brightening skies as we worked our way upward through towering cliffs and shadowed side canyons. Around 4:30 A.M., we stopped along a ridge and watched dawn slowly reveal the Canyon around us.
Art described it beautifully in his journal:
“The contrast between sky and rock was fuzzy at first, lending a gentleness to the Canyon I had not yet observed.”
As the first sunlight touched the upper cliffs, the Canyon seemed transformed. The harsh sunlight of midday had not yet made its appearance, instead there were soft reds, oranges, and long blue shadows stretching across the rock walls.
For a brief moment, the Canyon felt almost peaceful.
Indian Gardens
Sometime after sunrise we reached Indian Gardens, now known as Havasupai Gardens, where we collapsed onto picnic tables for some much-needed rest. I ate breakfast while Art drifted in and out of sleep beside me.
A short time later a park ranger arrived with two exhausted hikers he had rescued from the Tonto Trail after they had spent more than a day without water. One of the hikers repeatedly talked about how certain he had been that he was going to die.
The encounter left an impression on both of us.
Until then, much of our own experience in the Canyon had felt adventurous, difficult, and at times even humorous. But the ranger’s story was a sobering reminder that the Grand Canyon could become deadly with very little warning.
Art reflected on that moment in his journal years before “extreme hiking” became fashionable:
“It was this very feeling of peace which trapped many an unwary person into a false sense of security.”
That observation feels just as true today.
Final Assault on the South Rim
After resting at Indian Gardens, we shouldered our packs once again and resumed the long climb toward the South Rim. By then the sun was rising higher and the temperature was climbing rapidly. The final miles seemed endless.
As we continued upward, we began encountering day hikers descending into the Canyon wearing light clothing and carrying small water bottles. Some glanced curiously at our heavy external-frame packs while others stepped aside to let us pass. A few asked where we had come from.
Trying to explain a week-long Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim backpacking trip while gasping for breath on a steep trail was not easy.
Mostly, I remember putting one foot in front of the other.
Step after step.
Switchback after switchback.
At times the South Rim seemed no closer than it had hours earlier.
But eventually, somewhere around 4:00 P.M., Art and I climbed out of the Canyon and reached the South Rim.
Out of the Canyon at Last
We had spent five days covering nearly fifty miles through one of the harshest and most beautiful landscapes either of us had ever experienced. We were sunburned, exhausted, dehydrated, filthy, and immensely proud of ourselves.
I turned to Art and said something along the lines of:
“How about we skip camping tonight? Tomorrow we’re getting on an airplane, and I’d rather not smell like I just finished a fifty-mile hike.”
A hotel room, hot shower, and a cooked meal suddenly sounded far more appealing than another night on the ground.
But even after all the exhaustion and hardship, neither of us was quite ready to leave the Canyon behind.
That evening we walked back out to the rim to watch one final sunset.
The cliffs glowed deep red and orange beneath the fading light while shadows slowly filled the inner canyon below us. After days spent struggling through the heat and distance of the Canyon, we now stood quietly above the same immense landscape we had crossed on foot.
The Grand Canyon no longer felt like some distant scenic wonder I had once seen in photographs. It became part of the landscape of my own life — a place forever connected to friendship, youth, endurance, and discovery.
Fifty years later, Art and I still remain friends despite living far apart. Time and distance have changed many things since that spring of 1974, but the memories of those days in the Canyon have never really faded. Looking back now, I think Art may have understood something important during our climb out of the Canyon when he wrote:
“When all people are friends, then all places will be home.”
At the time, I’m not sure either of us fully understood what the Grand Canyon would come to mean in our lives. What began as an ambitious backpacking trip across an unfamiliar desert landscape eventually became something much larger for me — the beginning of a lifelong connection to Arizona and the Canyon itself.
Two young women from Boston who had walked the final stretch with us offered to take our photograph near the South Rim. Afterward they disappeared back into their own lives, and we never saw them again. Somewhere over the years, Art’s infamous red felt hat disappeared too.
But thankfully, our friendship endured.
Special thanks to my longtime friend and hiking partner Art Kiehn, whose detailed journal from our 1974 Grand Canyon adventure helped bring many of these memories back to life. I’m grateful for his permission to quote from the journal and share parts of our journey together.
See Jeff’s previous articles at the Substack Archive.
See more of Jeff’s work at Jeff Goulden Photography.
Jeff Goulden is a nature, landscape, wildlife photographer and writer based in Flagstaff, Arizona. His work has appeared in Audubon, National Geographic, Nature Conservancy, Wilderness Society and other publications.
See more of Jeff's photography at www.JeffGouldenPhotography.com. Downloads are available at Getty Images. Selected fine art prints and other unique photo products are available at Fine Art America.
I don’t have words to describe the beuty of the photos and the depth of sense and feelings that the writer shared. This is one of the best stories I’ve read from this author, addressing the senses of sound, touch, sight, and words uttered in awe. I felt every step the hikers took.
I wish more people would take 30 minutes to read the tremendous experiences of this journey.
Jeff, this so beautifully captures the agony and ecstasy of backpacking in Grand Canyon. I have said that hiking in the Canyon is a metaphor for life when it gets tough : put your head down, put one foot in front of the other, and keep going. It has shown me time and again that I am stronger than I think I am.
Thanks for writing this. I look forward to more.