The Grand Canyon on Mule Back
Several years ago, my bride and I decided to ride down the Grand Canyon on the backs of mules. We weren’t prepared to leave immediately, which was good because this could never be considered an impulse purchase. Ginger had to call for reservations a year ahead of time. And when she did, the young lady made it clear that the mule’s welfare was their number one priority, and to protect the animals, participants could not weigh more than 200 pounds. And they weighed everyone.
At the time, I didn’t see a problem. Sure I needed to lose ten pounds but they gave me a year. How could that be hard? Ten months later, two months before our trip, I had managed to go from 210 to 215. I obviously didn’t have a handle on this weight loss thing. I started a new, innovative weight-loss plan. Eating less and exercising more. About a month before the fated day, I climbed out of the shower (had to wash off all of that heavy dirt), dried off (couldn’t afford the weight of water moisture) and weighed 199. A whole pound under weight. Of course, I was naked. I had to find out if that was going to be a problem. I hit the internet. Looking through all the pictures of folks riding down the Grand Canyon, no one was naked. Actually, most of them seemed over dressed. Evidence said they probably weren’t going to let me ride sans clothing. Apparently, I wasn’t the first to have that idea because they added a note to the web site that said participants had to be clothed. I tightened up on my diet, which meant I ate a lot of salads. A lot of salads and not even very good salads. No croutons, no cheese, just oil and vinegar dressing over lettuce.
We flew into Vegas planning to spend a couple of days in sin city before driving to the big hole. I didn’t actually see the problem with this plan until the plane landed, but I’m sure you saw it immediately. I’d managed to plan a trip to Vegas for two days and two nights on a diet. The mecca of cheap buffets, and I was on a diet. The middle of beef country. Steaks on every corner. Meat anyway you could want it, and I had to eat salads.
I did get to gamble and found that as long as I had young, blonde, female blackjack dealers I won. All I can figure is they must have taken pity on me because I reminded them of their slow great-grandfathers. All in all, I left Vegas with two accomplishments. I only lost 20 bucks, and I may be the only person that has ever left sin city hungry.
Going to the Grand Canyon we drove for hours through the desert, flat and desolate. There were hills but no mountains. If we hadn’t known where we were going, we’d never had suspected there was a gigantic hole in the ground in our future. It’s like you’re driving along and suddenly this gash in the earth. A hole, and I mean a hole. Pictures can’t do this thing credit. Breathtaking doesn’t do this thing credit. When I first saw it, all I could do is lean on the rail and take it in. Whenever we walked away from the lookout I kept wandering back. As long as we were in the area I had to go back to that view. I couldn’t stop. It really deserves more than a Chevy-Chase-Vacation style visit.
Back to the mules. We showed up that morning ready for the weigh in. I expected a small set of human scales with sliding weights like you find in a doctor’s office. Instead, they had a metal pad that you’d expect to use to weigh motorcycles, valves, or motors. Something you’d see in a warehouse. Regardless, I made weight, and we celebrated by going to breakfast and starting to add the pounds back on.
Full of eggs, bacon, pancakes, hash browns, and coffee with cream and sugar we stopped by the car and crammed our essentials for the trip into the provided plastic bags then headed for the corral. They gathered us mule riders together and the head trainer gave us a speech that went something like this. “I know a lot of you are riding the mules because you think it’s easier than walking. It isn’t. You’ll be on the back of one of these big animals for hours. You can expect to be sore in places you didn’t know you have. But if you’re worried at all, you can back out right now. If you make the decision before you get on the mule, we will refund your money. But as soon as that mule steps on the trail, we keep your cash even if you only make it twenty feet. Think about what you’re about to do. If you’re afraid of large animals, if you’re afraid of heights, or if you’re afraid of a terrible, mangled falling death, you should probably bale.”
It went on like that for another ten minutes. There is no way this guy would make the 3:00 am infomercial circuit. One of the worse sales pitches I’ve ever heard, and still nobody baled.There were ten in our group not counting the guide. I rode drag. Back of the pack. From there I could fall behind, take pictures, catch up, or help anyone else who was in trouble. It was a beautiful trip. Anyone who rides at all should do it. Again, breathtaking doesn’t describe the experience. From the rim, every time I looked, it humbled me. But riding down its side on the back of a long-eared mule I didn’t know where to look first.
The trails were actually better than a lot of the trails we rode back home. That is if you ignore the sheer drop off on one side and the rock face on the other. And the fact that the mules like to walk on the edge. And that the whole group has to stop if you feel the need for relief.
My mule was called Hoo Doo. He was a fine, lazy mule who didn’t like to trot. The first two times we fell behind and I insisted he catch up, he dropped his head and did a little buck. When he dropped his head the third time... Let's say we came to an understanding.
About halfway down, we reached a flat spot with trees, benches, and best of all, indoor bathrooms. This is where we stopped for our box lunch. It felt good to stand on my own two feet. I’ll admit that hours on my own horse allowed me to walk away more normally than most. Several people limped away from the mules and when it came time to return, they shuffled like they were going to their executions.
The Colorado River still looked like a creek below us when the guide explained we were about to experience the “Oh Jesus Switchback.” For those of you who don’t know, many times when a trail or a road goes down a hill, instead of going straight down, it’ll descend at an angle. Then it’ll cut back and go the other way zigzagging down the hill. The place where it turns is called a switchback. On the trail to the bottom of the Grand Canyon we experienced many switchbacks. This is the first one they identified by name.
Shortly after our guide’s announcement, we came through a little pass over a ridge and a magnificent valley opened up in front and below us. The trail turned left and was cut directly into a sheer-drop-off cliff. Our view down wasn’t obstructed at all by pesky earth or rocks or anything else that would slow a fall to the valley below. After a couple of minutes, the trail “switched back” to the right. When Hoo Doo got to it, he pivoted on his rear feet while turning with his front. As he turned, his chest and head swung out over the cliff . Oh Jesus indeed.
We made it to the bottom and rode above the Colorado for a while before our guide stopped us again. “We’re going to go through a short tunnel then across a bridge. Make sure you keep your mule’s nose in the tail of the animal in front of you. We don’t want them to have enough room to panic and do something foolish.” I agreed with not wanting Hoo Doo to do anything foolish. After the bright, sunny day, the tunnel struck me blind for a moment, but my focus was on keeping Hoo Doo tight on the mule in front of us. We stepped out of the tunnel straight onto the bridge. I’ve been on horses who lost their minds because they notice a white rock. Now I was 65 feet above the Colorado on a 5 foot wide, 500 foot long suspension bridge riding a mule I had been aggravating all morning. My breath stopped. I didn’t know I could live that long without oxygen, but I made it to the other side without passing out.
After several more minutes we made it to the Phantom Ranch, the hotel at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. The only way to get to it is by boat down the Colorado, by hiking down the trails, or by mule. Every day a mule train takes supplies down and garbage back. The hotel's rustic and after five hours on a mule, beautiful.
Those people who were walking funny at lunch were much, much worse at the bottom. When I asked one young lady how she was doing, she replied, “Does the term ‘open sores’ mean anything to you?”
The hotel fed us steaks at the cafeteria and with riding, fresh air and not much to do, we hit the bunk beds early. The next morning they fed us well and piled us back on the mules for the return trip. We stopped several times going up. Once to let the mule train with supplies pass, a couple of times for a commentary by our guide, and several more to let the mules rest. Whenever we stopped, the guide had us pull the mules sideways across the trail, side by side, with their heads hanging over the drop off. The theory was that, even spooked, the mule wouldn’t jump forward to their deaths, and of course, the death of their rider. I truly hoped they were right.
We were standing still, letting the mules rest with their heads hanging over the canyon when Hoo Doo dropped out from under me. Just fell to his front knees. He quickly scrambled up. He wasn’t down long, but he fell. Standing still. I know what happened. He had one foot on a soft-ball sized rock. Half asleep, his foot slid off the rock and his knees buckled. I understand how it happened, but he’s a sure-footed, Grand-Canyon-trained mule, and he fell down, just standing.
With the top in sight, a couple of our folks fell behind and our guide, who had been setting a quick pace all day, commanded them to catch up. “Kick that mule.” The open-sores lady led a mutiny with a simple, “No.” She absolutely refused to trot or even walk quickly. Our guide knew his limitations and the lady’s mule set the pace for the end of our trip.
We had a great time. I cannot imagine seeing the canyon any other way. Sitting on a mule. Letting him worry about getting me down, and even more important, back up again. Anyone who rides will tell you trails look different from horse or mule back than from the ground. I know that if I were hiking, I’d be too busy trying to breath to enjoy the views. Then, half way up they’d have to send a helicopter for me. Ginger would have to hike the rest of the trail alone. Then she’d have to get a ride to the hospital to visit me. All in all, hiking sounds like a lot of trouble.
I’ve had vacations on ships, trains, and busses. My favorite vacation stands as the time I spent looking between the big ears of a mule. The Grand Canyon on mule back. I’d do it again.