Hiking Havasu Canyon, Ten Miles Into Paradise
by Ray Bangs
I clung to the rocky ledge as a train of horses and mules thundered past, not tethered together as one might expect, but running freely with brightly colored bags lashed to their packsaddles. With my close-up view of the well-conditioned steeds, I was thankful to remember the first safety guideline set forth at the trailhead. “While we are hiking, we will pass several groups of packhorses going both up and down the Canyon,” warned Seth Heald of Arizona Outback Adventures. “Stay to the inside. The mules might be walking or they might be running, but either way, block their path and they will go right through you.”
The dust settled slowly as I climbed down from my safety perch. I was still in the first hour of my journey, but June’s early morning heat was well on its way to the century mark. The hike in was downhill but covered 10 somewhat rugged miles, the pounding sun a tiresome companion for the duration. I questioned why I was taking this trip because the physical demands were potentially more than I was ready for. Though I had traveled the same route years ago, I knew my fitness had eroded with time and naively, instead of training, I could only hope the others in my group were not the type who ran a marathon before breakfast. I was somewhat comforted that physical conditioning was only half of the necessary formula for success. Although there may be times, even in the first mile, when doubts start surfacing, it is said that those who persevere discover a deeper meaning. The Canyon rewards the courageous.
Although I live in Arizona and hike as much as possible, Havasu Canyon is a different type of hiking. No cars are nearby to rush you to safety and no convenience mart is located along the trail if your water runs out. Although Havasu Canyon is part of the Grand Canyon, it lies on the Havasupai Reservation and is technically not in the National Park; no park rangers will be there to save the day. Making your list and checking it over many times is the only sensible approach to help prevent a dreaded emergency helicopter evacuation. Enlisting the support and experience of expert guides in this challenging adventure is highly recommended. The Canyon punishes the ill prepared.
Armed with comfortable boots, a more than adequate water supply, and a healthy boost of adrenaline, I hiked ahead of the others, seeking solitude among the creamy Coconino cliffs. I proceeded quietly and scoured the landscape in hopes of spotting wild horses or maybe a javelina feasting on prickly pear cactus. The multitude of rock layers played tricks on my depth perception as I struggled with their respective names. Kaibab, Toroweap, Supai, and the dozen or so other subgroups and levels were an alphabet soup mouthful too hearty to digest at once.
Our group’s second guide, Brian Jump, had given us an acronym to remember the dramatic geology, but I had forgotten what most of the letters represented. The scenery was no less impressive, yet I reminded myself to ask him again. Trudging on, the crimson Canyon dust had started to cling to my sunscreen-basted, sweat-soaked skin. The sun continued its barrage of radiation.
A second string of packhorses threatened to run me down, but here the trail was plenty wide to sidestep the potential stampede. After making eye contact with the lead horse, he slowed to a canter as if to apologize for my earlier fright. I nodded at the horsepacker, but he stoically kept riding, ignoring my presence. Somewhere during the second mile, my joints had warmed to match my pace and I clipped along quite comfortably. Many much-ignored muscles were happy to be of use, but they were already letting me know they wanted to be used more.
Several side trails provided opportunities for long and even deadly detours, but I kept to the main track. I feared for a moment that I had put considerable distance between the others and myself so I slowed my steps. The path narrowed slightly as it curved abruptly north. Shaded slickrock provided the perfect roost to wait for the rest of the group and possibly a good photo opportunity of the mules raging by. I scrambled up several rocks and stretched out on the cool sandstone, propped my head on my pack, and dipped my straw sou’wester low on my face. The sun’s lightshow sparkled dazzling colors off the opposite canyon wall while an uncommonly cool breeze sang a soothing catnap lullaby.
Quickly enough, before I had a chance to drift off into deep sleep, the first of my companions greeted me back into the real Canyon dreamland. We slowly scampered another mile while the rest of the group caught up. Shortly after being reunited, a shady red sandstone mound with sweeping views and conveniently chair height ledges became the designated trailside lunch stop. Everyone tore through their sack lunches, polishing off the apple and potato chips while Seth and Brian arranged a lettuce, tomato, onions, pickles, and condiment buffet for our sandwiches. In between handfuls of trail mix, several people commented on how glad they were to be hiking in rather than out. The switchbacks leading up to the 5400-foot Hualapai Hilltop trailhead were grueling at any temperature.
Everybody I passed on the way down had all said one thing in addition to hello: “How much farther to the top?”
Seth told us that details were starting to trickle in about a woman who had died on the trail recently; unfortunately the helicopter just could not save her in time. More tragic horror stories followed during lunch, including one about a hiker who had taken a wrong turn into a side canyon and had somehow survived 17 days until finally being found by a Havasupai tribal member collecting firewood. Brian suggested we stick together for the last few miles into the village to avoid any wrong turns within the labyrinth. Between turkey sandwich gulps and grape juice guzzles, everyone nodded in wholehearted agreement.
Our stomachs full and our spirits high, the guides led us along as Havasu Canyon narrowed and seemingly engulfed us into its depths. The walls and surprisingly bountiful vegetation provided shelter from the powerful sun while kind gusts stole the weight of the summer heat. Glancing upwards, the sapphire sky provided a surreal contrast to the claret cliffs but I needed to look several times to believe it was real.
I was totally absorbed into the magic when I felt it happen. My right foot slipped off the side of a football-sized stone while descending a rocky section of the path, and despite the support of leather hiking boots, my leg buckled and I faltered for a step. Shooting pains screamed from my ankle.
“Are you okay?” asked Tina, a Canuck who had come all the way from Vancouver to hike Havasupai. I nodded and sort of grunted a yes because I could not easily say anything.
I took several cautious strides testing the severity of the sprain and hoping against a fracture. The ankle was weak and almost all flexibility had instantly disappeared. I quietly endured the next few steps trying to walk it out, but inside I was cursing everything and everyone within a hundred miles, including myself.
Safety Rule #2: Pay attention to the trail. If you want to look at the scenery, stop first.
A laborious throbbing accompanied me for the rest of the hike into the village and I missed much of the scenery because I did not dare break the second rule again. Even stopping for a minute to look around gave my ankle an extra 60 seconds worth of swelling while longer group breaks just added to the sore stiffness. I did what little I could to push the tempo of the journey in an attempt to land myself in the cool travertine pools as soon as possible. The midday temperatures wanted to skyrocket but were luckily held at bay by a persistent breeze—I was not sure how long it would hold out; I was not certain how long I could.
Suddenly, the trail environs became incredibly lush and sections of Havasu Creek started to present themselves, adding a fertile emerald green and frothy turquoise blue to the treasure chest of colors already overflowing with riches almost too vivid and luxurious by themselves. Cottonwood trees lined the path while the sound of rumbling water escorted us along the last stretch into Supai, the most remote village in the United States. Pastures penned once-wild horses the Havasupai captured for packing use, necessary not only for transporting tourists’ gear, but for basic survival as well. With roughly 160 miles to the closest grocery store, most supplies are brought in via horse and mule. Supai’s Post Office depends on the Canyon chargers too; mail is delivered and sent on their backs.
The village whisked us away instantly to another life. Not that everything was so antique or obsolete as to be decades behind the rest of the world, but rather the rest of the world made ends meet on a different plane of existence. Each step down the sandy path made me feel more the interloper who had somehow stumbled upon the enchanted kingdom. Hushed tones of the native language eluded my ears and escaped my comprehension. Seth started to explain that the Havasupai spoke a northeastern Yuman dialect that has only been a written language for several decades, but he was interrupted shortly after being spotted by the children. They ran to him and welcomed him back as if he were one of their own play pals. To us, Seth and Brian were leaders and area experts; to the Havasupai, they were still adolescents learning the legends of the ancients and proving their worth among the tribe.
The path through Supai was wide, sandy, and rock free, perfect for looking around without much worry. Still, although the views of the village from the trail were incredibly interesting, slogging through the sand was torture on my rigid ankle.
Brian straggled behind. Of the nearly 450 tribal members who live in the village, it seemed at least a third came out to say hello and welcome him home. He grew up in Maine until pioneering west to the University of Denver, stopping first for an intensive 95-day course at the National Outdoor Leadership School, one of the world’s finest and most respected al fresco competency programs. Brian has since spent more time in Havasu Canyon than any other Arizona guide and his rapport with the residents is readily apparent. After all the welcomes on his return, he jogged to catch up to his troops resting on the patio of the village café, some enjoying what one group member later called the best Coca Cola of his life.
Seth returned with the required Reservation permits and minutes later we were again on the trail. The last two miles were to provide ample greenery to block out much of the midday sun but the sandy path still proved difficult with my bothersome ankle sprain. I hummed songs and quietly played mind games to trick myself into ignoring the pain, but remembering the brochure photos became my strongest anesthetic. I imagined loosening my laces, stripping to only my shorts, and diving into the blue-green waters to soak away my suffering. Others were thinking something of the same, because just as a cool breeze lifted morale, Seth told us about the campground area the Havasupai had designated exclusively for AOA use. “I think the best part is our own private swimming area,” he said.
Although I had not yet seen it, my imagination nearly convinced me to holler out a hearty “Amen Brother!”
The trail widened and our verdant sunshade gave way to the deepest of cerulean skies. Sweat soaked my clothing while my backpack water well, which I once thought ample, now threatened to dry up. Luckily the trail downsteepened significantly, making the blistering sun slightly more bearable. The kids who still tagged along commandeered Seth’s and Brian’s handheld radios and lived out a cross-cultural childhood walkie-talkie fantasy, chattering between languages, mostly nonsensical, and enjoying every beep and squelch. The two youngest boys took firm grip on Seth’s backpack, but he smiled and never broke stride dragging the tugging rapscallions halfway to our campground. The day of an otherwise reticent young Havasupai woman was brightened by Seth’s interest in her high school plans. The village of Supai schooled children through the eighth grade; out-of-the-Canyon boarding school fostered their education from there. I had a feeling she was disappointed to be leaving at the end of summer.
Brian enthusiastically pointed out Navajo Falls on our left and promised we were to return later in the trip. The cascading water looked inviting, but the goal now was to reach the campground and cool off there. Seth slowed his pace so the group was close together, united as we tackled the last scenic downslope of the home stretch. He looked back at Brian as if to say here we are once again, isn’t this grand, and I think it gets better each time, don’t you?
The trail veered left but directly in front of us we could see the water pooled and waiting to plunge to the level below. We began our descent, the roar of Havasu Falls drawing my attention, but I tried not to look. I was forced to take quick glances as if just plunging my eyes would be a sensory overload from which I would never recover. My stolen glimpses felt as if I had been invited to my own private premiere of nature’s greatest movie. Still, I wanted a better view.
I saw the others give in and turn towards the expanse, but I held out for as long as I could, where I knew no trees or blinding sunshine would block my front row seat. Finally, when I could bear it no longer, I cautiously crept to the edge, averting my eyes despite my anticipation of the destination I had struggled to reach. As I lifted my head towards the watery paradise, I heard the oohs and ahhs of the others. The sun melted my curiosity and I slowly set my eyes upon Havasu Falls.
The scene was so staggering that although the sting of my sprain told me I was still awake, I struggled to believe I was actually there. The colors burned so intensely through my eyes, along my optic nerve, and into my brain that I quickly forgot about my ankle, the trying trail to reach this overlook, and even the thought of cooling off with a swim. I felt as if God, Buddha, Allah, and every other deity were showing off their full magnificence of inspiration, color, and faith. The falls called to me, inviting me to take the plunge, to accept this as paradise, and never again be untrue to the glory of life.
I wanted to only sit and watch the scene forever, but Brian and Seth, sensing my and everyone else’s awestruck stupor, prodded us on. I still did not want to leave, but they promised only another 200 paces to the campground. As I directed my head down the trail, I noticed my ankle immediately started throbbing, the heat was once again overpowering, and the desire to submerge both my body and soul into the shimmering, bluest-of-blue water returned. However, these discomforts were easier to bear as I started to fully comprehend what I had just experienced, the thundering of Havasu Falls staying with me as we marched.
I followed closely behind Seth as he ducked through an opening in a cluster of Arrowweed. Several picnic tables announced our arrival and completion of the five-hour hike. I took only an abbreviated survey of the surroundings, hardly breaking my left-right cadence, and headed directly down to the water. I dropped my daypack, ripped my boots off so fast my feet almost went with them, stripped from my shirt and socks, and plunged into Havasu Creek. As my body fell into the icy water, I realized I was alone. Within seconds, with the current washing away my aches, I was completely revitalized, and I just stood in the shoulder-deep pool allowing my mind to catch up to reality.
“How’s the water!” Seth yelled in mid-air, flying from a rocky ledge, fully clothed. He landed with a monstrous splash covering my head, which of course, I did not mind at all. His refreshed expression as he surfaced made me realize that either I had not noticed or he had not let on how demanding the hike in was for him as well. After all, he had been carrying a full-sized backpack.
“Where is everyone else?” I asked.
“They went right into the falls,” he answered, getting out of the water. Had he stayed in, I would have been sure he really was tired, but I realized he was just cooling off before the work of making camp began. As much as I wanted to help out, the cool water had frozen me in its splendor.
“Take it easy and enjoy the rest of the afternoon. When you are ready, your tent will be up by the lockboxes. The horses should be here with the bags in an hour or so.” He went back up to the main area, leaving me to recover.
The swimming hole was fascinating with our camp on one side and a sheer rock face shooting at least 300 feet straight up on the other. I soaked in the water until my fingers started to prune and my teeth were on the verge of chattering. It was colder than I realized when I first got in. I dripped dry and used my shirt to towel off my feet before I put my socks and boots back on. I walked up to find Seth and Brian setting up our area. A few of the others were just starting to arrive back from Havasu Falls.
“How are you doing now?” Brian asked.
“A lot better. My ankle is still a little swollen, but I think the cold water helped.”
His eyes lit up as he rummaged through his pack. “Here, put these under your tongue and take off your boot,” he said, handing me four tiny pills. Then from a small bottle, he squirted a glob of clear gel into my hand. “Rub this on the swelling.”
I did and instantly the ache stopped. “Wow! What was that stuff?”
“Arnica Montana, the extract of mountain daisy blossoms,” Brian explained.
Amazing.
The horses and mules arrived with our gear just as everyone had finished setting up their tents. Brian and Seth had arranged a fully functional camp, including an outdoor kitchen, a canopy-covered dining area, and even a backcountry hand-washing station complete with running water and biodegradable soap.
As the top outfitter in Havasu Canyon with around 50 trips a year, the Havasupai arranged for AOA to keep lockboxes for securing the gear they needed every time. The additional storage space provided for all the extras most anyone could ask for, while our guides, always at least one step ahead of us, possessed the expertise to ensure we were never left wanting. As the delightful aromas of our soon-to-be-served dinner pervaded the air, I mingled with the others. Clean and refreshed after the swim, many were now nursing their bruises and blisters, but Brian helped Tom who appeared to have suffered the worst.
With our battle wounds tended to and the sun starting to duck behind the western Canyon wall, dinner was served. Rarely is a vegetable the highlight of a meal, and although the hearty platters of steak, salmon, chicken, and sausages comprised the main course, the grilled asparagus was beyond compare. Olive oil and garlic were the two flavors I readily recognized but Brian used several not as easily identifiable seasonings in his masterful manipulation of our palettes.
All 11 guests gorged themselves, knowing full well each calorie would certainly be accounted for in the following day’s activities. After finishing dinner and then arranging my gear into the next three nights of my home sweet tent, I went for another swim. Once again, the icy water helped ease the aches from the day’s hike.
Most people turned in early. Just a few feet from our tents, Havasu Creek roared by, the white noise effect of nature replacing the cars and sirens I was more accustomed to in everyday life. I fell deeply asleep within minutes and I slept well but it was not without interruption. Every hour almost exactly on the half-hour for the entire night, I was startled awake by the most outrageous and vividly spectacular dreams. Each time, upon opening my eyes, I would marvel for a moment at how crazy the latest dream had been, quickly check my watch, and then finally roll over as if to cast away the spirits invading my slumber.
I learned that the Havasupai use much more elaborate rituals to fend off their dream demons. Ordinary dreams are not dangerous, but without proper sacrament, the more serious ones are said to stay forever with the soul. The consequences of this can be deadly because the Havasupai soul is centered in the heart, thought to be the source of life.
Nightmares about falling could come true if, upon waking, the dreamer did not pass the details on to someone else. The particulars of sexual dreams similarly must be told or the dreamer risks an agonizing tumor-like growth rooted in the backbone. If one has dreams of a dead person, the deceased in the dream most certainly is a ghost, and if a meal is eaten with this ghost, the dreamer’s soul may then be on the way to death. To cast away this wraith from one’s unconscious imagination, the dreamer is to, upon waking, vigorously and loudly exhale, brush the hands away from the face, and repeat four times what roughly translates to: “I do not want to walk with the dead so go away from me forever.”
Knowing a serious dream occurred but not remembering the details is the most dangerous; the dream then remains in the heart, forever cursing the soul with no means of counteracting it. Though I remembered little of my own dreams, I was fairly confident none were of the serious nature. To be safe though, the next morning I first cleansed my body and mind in the icy, seemingly glacial river waters and then before breakfast, revealed to some of the others that I had been turmoiled through a rollercoaster of night visions. Interestingly enough, several in the group had experienced the same thing but they too could not remember the details. We talked about it once, which hopefully took care of any future backaches or potential off-the-cliff plunges, but it was never mentioned again.
After an eggs and bacon breakfast, Seth and Brian decided to postpone our trip to Beaver Falls until the next day, giving everybody more of a chance to recover from the long trek in. Today instead, we were to hike along the Esplanade, one geologic level higher, atop the cliffs encasing our campground. We packed sufficient water because the Esplanade offered virtually no shade. Donning sunglasses, wide-rimmed hats, and painting on a heavy coat of sunscreen were the last details before departing.
Our campground was a less than demanding distance from where the cliff ducked down and allowed an easier climb up. We passed Havasu Falls on the way, each of us taking several rest stops on the short ascent to once again recharge our chakras for the day ahead. Just before reaching Navajo Falls, Seth departed the group from the main trail, bushwhacking to a completely hidden rift in the rocks. Here, the climb up was manageable with plenty of adequately sized steps and solid handholds, but the height was still somewhat intimidating.
It was now easy to see that our group was comprised of neither the type that ran marathons before breakfast nor those possessing the apelike ease of scurrying up and down sheer rock faces. However, even Charles, who found the idea of plunging hundreds of feet to an impactful death less than appealing, summoned his courage and slowly scaled the slippery sandstone.
After the climb and a short but steep uphill hike, the scenery opened into vast vistas leading almost all the way along Havasu Canyon, even allowing partially obstructed views of the peaks lining the distant Colorado River. The wide-sweeping and barren Esplanade encompassed the Canyon and it would have been easy to spot other people had any others been present, but our group was alone in our exploration. I realized that this was entirely because we were with experienced guides who knew Havasu’s hidden secrets and were trusted by the tribe to preserve them. Just finding the way to climb up to this level was not something that could usually be happened upon by chance.
We continued to hike and just as I had started to accept the splendor of scene one from the opening act panorama, the trail flattened out and 300 yards later, the bird’s eye view of Havasu Falls knocked the breath right back out of me. I sat down for a minute, my legs weak but not from exertion.
While several in the group opted to turn back and spend their day snoozing in the riverside hammocks or splashing around in the blue-green pools at the base of Havasu Falls, the rest of us continued our adventure above the Canyon. Seth warned the distance would be significant and the surroundings more of the same, but those who chose to remain on the elevated Esplanade level would be afforded a lofty preview of the journey to Beaver Falls. We made excellent time over the even terrain as Seth stopped on occasion, including once to point out a lizard petroglyph and explain how the presence of desert varnish indicated its significant age.
Tracing the inward turn of a side canyon named Ash Springs, we came upon the remains of a wild Canyon horse whose rear hoof had apparently become trapped in a rock fissure and in trying to escape, broken its leg and died. Seth told of how wild dogs, vultures, and other scavengers had picked the carcass clean, leaving only the bones to bleach in the sun. I immediately made a mental note to never get my foot stuck.
As we came around to the far side of the side canyon, and reached our destination, we were presented with a perfect view of Mooney Falls at least a mile away and a thousand feet below. Seth sat balanced on an enormous boulder frightfully close to the Esplanade’s edge while we all snacked on trail mix and soaked in the view. Before the late morning sun started to blaze, we headed back towards the campground, retracing our route around Ash Springs and finally back down the cliff. The campground and especially our swimming hole seemed to welcome us back. Brian heralded us to the tables as lunch was ready to be served whenever we were ready. We all heard him, but the other Esplanade hikers and I unspeakingly agreed that a swift dunk in the drink was necessary prior to even thinking about food.
After cooling off, then feasting on the best ever, delightfully-seasoned-with-the-zest-of-orange chicken salad sandwich—actually I had two—I fetched a book from my tent and headed down to the beach. I decided a lazy afternoon of hammocking was calling my name. Apparently Glenn and Stacy both had had the same idea, as they had beaten me to them. I found the cloth recliner lawn chair to be just as suitable for snoozing. I started to read my book, but concentration was made impossible by the scenery just of our own little swimming area. It was not as if I felt small and humble, but rather the appreciation of the immensity led me to believe I was part of something grander.
I dozed off and on while the afternoon was swept away with the sun once again stooping below the angle of my sight. Soon, dinner was served, quesadillas and tortilla soup appetizers with chicken fajitas as the main course outdoing even the previous night’s asparagus.
After playing cards by lantern light, tomorrow’s promise of the most strenuous hike so far demanded proper rest. As I curled up so comfortably in my sleeping bag, the excitement for the next day’s adventures kept me awake. Joel and I chatted for a few minutes, but my eyes grew heavy as our words faded and I drifted off into a deep, dreamless slumber.
During my morning swim, the delectable tang of coffee, blueberry pancakes, and Canadian bacon wafted throughout camp, playing olfactory games with everyone’s appetites. I dried off quickly, changed, and minutes later, was seated at the table. While we ate and after plenty of Canadian bacon jokes, started by Glenn and aimed mostly at the four Canadians among us, Brian and Seth described the day’s itinerary.
“All right guys, listen up,” Seth started. “Today is the hike to Beaver Falls. This is the highlight of almost everyone’s trip.”
“Yeah, it’s the best part…it’s tough,” Brian said. “Right away there’s the climb by Mooney Falls. This is the scariest part for many people, especially since it’s right at the beginning, but it’s really not that bad. We want to tell you so you’re prepared, but at the same time we don’t want you to think it’s impossible. You’re probably not gonna die.” Brian knew he had everyone’s attention and paused a moment for dramatic effect. “Well, unless you fall.”
The buzz of our excitement quieted as we hung on to their every word. Seth tried to hide his smile, enjoying the flavor of Brian’s warning. “Don’t worry about it though. We just go slow and take our time. If we’re careful, we’ll make it just fine.”
“Yeah, it’s not that bad. For some reason, going back up gives people the most problems,” Brian explained, starting up again. “It doesn’t make that much sense since you’ve already conquered the descent and there are chains and steps the entire way. It’s just visually terrifying to some people.”
“But, it’s understandable,” Seth continued, “because the hike is a long one and sometimes you just get tired. One time, a woman completely froze while climbing back up. She was freaking out, not moving at all, talking about dying, and just acting crazy, so finally I said to her, ‘I’m not being fresh…’ Then I put my hand on her butt and gave her a boost up. She made it.”
“I remember that one,” Brian said. “Yeah, that was a little scary.”
“Oh, and one time,” Seth started with a laugh, “Brian’s dad was on a trip with us and after hearing all these stories, when we got to Mooney Falls he just turned around and said he had gone far enough.”
Everyone laughed, the tension eased, but as we finished eating, I looked around at the others, wondering who would make it and who would turn back. After surviving the torture of the first day and the long, demanding hike of the second, I felt I would have no problems. I had even planned to pack along my fly rod for a chance at the hefty rainbow trout lurking in the deep pools below Beaver Falls.
Still, doubts lingered somewhere far hidden in my mind because as confident as I was, realistically I would not know my reactions to the challenges until I actually faced them. Like Charles, I had no desire to tumble off the edge of a cliff. What if my unremembered dreams truly were premonitions of death. What if I was so exhausted from the hike that I couldn’t climb back up. Was I going to be the one they talked about during the next trip. What if Seth couldn’t boost me up to safety.
I had worked my fears into such a frenzy that I needed to look around at everyone else for reassurance. But when I saw them so casually scarfing down their breakfasts, I stopped worrying and realized I would face my fears when they came. No reason to waste my courage now.
The air was dripping with excitement as we hiked towards our biggest challenge yet, the climb through the tunnels leading down to the foot of Mooney Falls. The four Canadian women were almost bubbling in anticipation; Audrey, this trip her first time even sleeping in a tent, was entirely too eager to face her fear of heights. Tom and his wife Kathy quietly persevered, their feet mangled with blisters, while Glenn urged on Stacy, who silently struggled with her own ankle sprain.
Charles had been secretly nicknamed Wild Man Chaz by several in the group after his successfully negotiating the Esplanade climb, but now, the nervous look on his face became more obvious as the falls grew louder. Luckily, I had not given my mind another thought of fear. It was time to just lean back, hit the cruise control, and enjoy the ride.
The trail was narrow and overgrown, thorn covered bushes scratched my legs and branches pushed aside by the hiker in front of me occasionally whipped back into my face. Luckily my sunglasses protected me from one especially vicious limb that drew a drop of blood from my cheek; it did not take long to learn the importance of spacing. I replayed in my mind Brian and Seth’s story about the terrain, told while our group had stopped to fill our Camelbaks and canteens at the well house.
In 1882, barely more than a century ago, D.W. Mooney and six other prospectors exploring Havasu Canyon had reached the giant 196-foot waterfall but, at the time, even the Havasupai had not yet found a way down. I was amazed that the undeveloped area past the campground shows so little trace of human use even today, and it was as if we were exploring the area for the first time. Although others had blazed the trail, I still felt a sense of discovery, but maybe it was more of discovering myself.
It was almost easy to imagine how incredible the first-ever glimpses at Mooney Falls must have been, but the many perils the adventurers faced were still out of my mental grasp, the danger and adventure by-products of the trade. During one expedition to find a suitable route, a rope broke and Mooney fell to his death. Over the next few months, while the mineral-rich waters of Havasu Creek slowly encrusted his body with lime deposits, the others struggled to reach the base of the falls to bury him.
In their frustration, the group was surprised to one day notice a Havasupai man wearing Mooney’s boots. The man showed the curious miners a very difficult route down, but they instead opted to blast and drill the small travertine caves on the southern face, cut steps into the rocks, and set iron spikes for handholds. Finally, eleven months later, they were able to bury Mooney on the small island near the base of what they ironically named Mooney Falls.
Suddenly, with two quick turns and the trail opening instantly, we were there, the dark, narrow, and steep passageway to our right, the path we were to take. A sign warned hikers to “Proceed with Extreme Caution.” It turned out my mind needed no time at all to conjure up the fear I had tried to avoid.
With our group assembled and ready, the time had come to confront all the doubts and uncertainties any of us had. I am not sure why but Seth said I could just go. It might have been this simple act of faith that gave me the push to stop thinking about how difficult it would be or how far I would fall. Maybe it was because our previous adventures had pushed me a little further each time in preparation for this moment. I liked how the air of confidence that I knew I would survive was coming back; I liked feeling alive.
I started into the tunnel. The steps were well defined and I always had something to hold on to. Going through was actually easy. I knew I had a fear of heights years ago, but now I think it was more just the part about falling. With the iron bars for handholds drilled securely into the rock, the chains connecting those, and the chiseled-out staircase, I really had nothing to fear. My fly rod, although taken apart into sections, snagged my progress several times, but was only frustrating, not dangerous.
Coming out of the second tunnel, I realized that I had already conquered over half of the descent and the rest looked easy. I kept careful, making sure that each spot I put my foot was sturdy and every time I grabbed onto something, I had a strong grip, but before I knew it, I had climbed down the two wooden ladders at the bottom and was back on level ground.
I looked up to see Audrey inching her way along but I think it was her slow progress that gave everyone behind her a chance to realize it was not that difficult. Chaz had turned back; apparently he found it just a little too wild. By the triumphant looks on everyone else’s faces, I wished for a moment that he had pushed himself a little further. I wished he had the opportunity to experience the same feelings we were.
Since we had such a long distance to travel, Seth promised we could swim and frolic on our return, but now we had to cover some ground. As we started our trek downriver, the trail quickly became wild and unkempt, and it was apparent that this area was seldom visited. After a mile of walking along the difficult-to-follow path through thick brush and crossing waist-deep through Havasu Creek twice, we stopped at a section where pools of water beckoned us to splash around. The brief stop to cool off turned into hours, slogging through the waist-high water, jumping off 30-foot cliffs into the frothy foam, and trying our best to play Tarzan on the rope swing.
Although it was with embarrassing difficulty that everyone displayed their jungle skills, Seth and Brian’s trapeze artist ease on the rope only inspired us to keep trying until our hands were numb and tired.
While preparing for my fifth attempt at the swing, I noticed the sun had started to rise more directly overhead and had illuminated the paradise where we played. The salmon-colored cliffs were especially rowdy, while the water glowed naturally more radiant than any backyard pool. The air temperature had warmed to the perfect degree where the water was no longer chilling and instead refreshing. Halfway though our fun, another group canyoneered past, looking adventurous and hardy, and I suspected they would probably eventually make it all the way to the Colorado River.
Seth and Brian announced we were only going to go a little farther to a final small waterfall and eat lunch there, as the day was catching up with us quickly. Not minding at all that the distance of our adventure would be a little shorter, deciding then that I would return maybe next season, I tried the swing one last time, but very clumsily belly-flopped into the water with a laugh.
Having fully explored the area, we marched on. After crossing Havasu Creek for the third time and then a short scramble over several fallen trees, the Canyon opened up into one of the most amazing scenes I have ever set my eyes upon. I could not at all believe I was in Arizona, let alone in the Grand Canyon. I stopped and let the rest of the group go by. I watched them walk for a minute. Then, they disappeared.
I felt completely lost. Blanketed by head-high wild grape vines, the canyon walls stretched wider than a football field and framed a totally unbelievable landscape. I walked with my arms stretched out from my sides, flying like an airplane, and running my hands through the grape leaves. The group stopped on a high point to look across what almost seemed like a valley. We were all dreaming, but we were all having the same dream.
All of a sudden I felt this scorching urge to just quit. It was not quitting as in a bad way, but I became overpowered by this urgent need to cast away all the destructive things in my life, the things that I had just let creep up and somehow sap the lifeforce from me. My mind raced with thoughts over which I had no control. I wanted me to be this so badly that I could barely walk and I only kept up to the group through some perverse disgust, contempting myself to go on. I felt for a moment that my life had not taken me along the path that I truly sought and I was angry. I thought I might beg Seth and Brian for a job, just live down there, and then I too could become part of Havasu Canyon. From a distance, as I walked, I looked hard at each of them for a long moment. They had found a way to live in paradise.
Finally, my mind calmed and I actually smiled. Had I been alone, I might have cried in joy. It was all a very bizarre dream. We ducked off what was left of the trail and climbed down to several boulders along the water to eat lunch. As far as we went, Brian said we had only made it halfway to Beaver Falls. I set my fly rod and Camelbak on the ground and climbed up onto a streamside boulder. A whitewater eddy had formed in the middle, looking entirely too inviting. I paused for a minute wondering how this had all happened, but then I jumped.
As I was in the air, everything seemed to slow down just a beat or two. I saw my feet hit the water but I could not at first feel it. I could see the foam rising up my legs, tickling bubbles cushioning me, until I was completely underwater. My left foot touched bottom for a split second before I tumbled head first through the whitewater pulling me downstream and away from the waterfall.
I rode the current to the edge of the opposite boulder, quickly climbed up and around, skipped over to the boulder I had jumped from, and jumped off again. And again, the fizzling foam cushioned my fall. It was the weirdest feeling. I was jumping from maybe six or eight feet up, but it felt softer than landing in down feathers or powdery, waist-deep snow. I jumped off that rock at least 15 times. I don’t really know why and I never thought about what the others thought of me doing so, but life here was as simple as jumping off a rock into the water, the experience a brief enlightenment and delight combined in one fleeting splashy landing.
I never felt more alive. The afternoon sun was heating up when I finally got out. I put my straw hat back on and smoothed a layer of sunscreen onto my arms. With a couple handfuls of trail mix, I was re-energized and ready for the hike back. From then on, for the rest of the trip, I never really thought about anything else out of Havasu Canyon again. My ankle stopped hurting even though I turned it twice more on the hike back. The grape vines were even more incredible seeing them the second time, while the rest of the hike itself was easy. Just as Seth had promised, we got our chance to play and frolic under Mooney Falls. Brian showed us a secret spot to jump off and then land right where the water dumped down, on top of you, gently crushing you into even softer bubbles and then spitting you safely out in the middle. I jumped seven times, stopping only from exhaustion.
I felt the strain of a long day of hiking while climbing back up through the tunnels, but we all made it and Seth never needed to get fresh with anyone. The fly rod was quite bothersome on the way up, much more so than on the way down, but it survived in good condition. With only a mile left to the campground, I took my last look at Mooney Falls and tried to burn it into my memory. The group dissected into pairs and trios for the final mile as everyone reflected on the day’s adventure. I still felt like I was in a dream and from that point on, I never really knew if it was. I liked not knowing.
After dinner, when the night sky turned pitch black, the pinheads of starlight shining the way, Brian and Seth led us to a mining cave just a five-minute walk from our campsite. The Wild Man clambered right up. At the top, we had to traverse a narrow path, only two-foot wide with a sheer rock face on one side, 40 feet to a rock-strewn death below. Without even a thought and never a doubt, I stepped twice to cross the bridge. After I made it, I shined my light below and saw the potential fall. I somehow felt like I could actually jump down there and walk away from it. I was still in a dream.
We went deep into the cave until it finally ended in a small chamber. Seth told everyone to turn off the flashlights and be as quiet as possible. There was nothing, the darkness even overpowering the sound of breath. Finally, I could sense the uneasiness. A flashlight flickered and a couple people nervously laughed. Being in the silent dark cave was where I had been before. I didn’t need reassurance of the light and I was now comfortable in knowing that there was something out there more alive and powerful. It always welcomes you back if you at least, once in a while, return. Seth said to listen as we walked out and hear the train we did—the locomotive roar of the water was deafening. For a moment I couldn’t hear anything else.
We watched the stars and I pointed out the few constellations I knew. No city light pollution stole our show and even the moon had stayed hidden. I saw a shooting star and then another. I was not sure if that meant to make a wish, but I did, and instantly I was up there, speeding along at a thousand miles an hour, but seemingly crawling to the pace and memory of my mind’s eye.
I was allowed in the span of a two second meteorite ride just a brief moment to recall each of the adventures I had experienced. From the initial descent into Havasu Canyon to the jaunt along the Esplanade to slithering down the cliffs alongside Mooney Falls and canyoneering towards the Colorado, every journey possessed dozens of secret treasures permitting us only a relatively fleeting moment to experience the land of the blue-green waters. The sparkle in the children’s eyes and the kindness in the adult’s smiles spoke volumes of the Havasupai’s trust in our guides. Seth and Brian honored us by letting us cling to their every word and by helping us learn as much as we could about ourselves. And in the end, for the rest of our lives, when the sun settles securely below the horizon, we will pay tribute to Havasu Canyon, for some an adventure vacation, but for all, a glimpse of paradise.
Expanded Side Bar Information
Havasu Canyon How-To
Havasu Canyon is located almost 300 miles northwest of Phoenix. Drive north on Interstate 17 towards Flagstaff and exit west of I-17 at Cordes Junction onto State Route 69. Follow SR 69 to Prescott, then State Route 89 north to Ash Fork. Follow Interstate 40 west to Seligman and then take State Route 66 northwest to just past the Grand Canyon Caverns, where signs point the way to the parking lot at Hualapai Hilltop, located at the end of Indian Route 18.
Exploring Havasu Canyon requires the 3 P’s (Proper Prior Planning) to help ensure a successful trip. First, you must figure out the dates. The summer months from May to July are generally considered the optimal time to go, because with the temperatures (100+ F days are not uncommon), playing in the water is a big part of the fun. To avoid the crowds, though the area never gets too crowded because of limited camping permits, try March or April, when the weather is starting to warm up. August and September are also good months to go for great weather, however monsoon rains can cause dangerous or even deadly flash floods. If you choose to go in these months, exercise extreme caution and avoid exploring any side canyons or other remote areas where the possibility of flash floods may be greater.
Your second big decision is whether to hire guides or go it alone. If you are looking for a guided trip, look no further than Scottsdale-based Arizona Outback Adventures (480-945-2881, www.azoutbackadventures.com). With over 50 trips a year, AOA is the top Havasu Canyon outfitter; they take care of everything for you including roundtrip transportation from Phoenix, one night at the Grand Canyon Caverns Inn, all permits and fees, tents and sleeping bags, plus all snacks and meals. They also arrange for packhorses to carry your gear for you in and out of the canyon plus a helicopter ride to avoid the grueling hike out. They can accommodate large groups and numerous options are available.
On the other hand, self-guided adventures are not too difficult to set up. Contact Havasupai Tourist Enterprises (928-448-2141) for the required camping permits ($20 plus $10 per night), mule transportation, and more information. Tents, sleeping bags, and all other gear will be your responsibility, and since campfires are not permitted in the campground, a cooking stove is needed if you want hot meals. Supai has a café and store with limited stock, however visitors should plan on packing in adequate food and supplies. Limited lodging is available in the village for those who prefer not to camp (928-448-2111). Guided or not, exploring Havasu Canyon requires a few equipment essentials; don’t forget a hydration pack (such as Camelbak), waterproof sunscreen, wide-rimmed hat, swimming suit, hiking sandals (such as Teva), and a waterproof camera with plenty of film.
Hidden Havasu
Havasupai means “people of the blue-green waters” and rest assured, there is plenty of blue-green water to explore. The action is directly related to the four major waterfalls. Navajo and Havasu Falls are both easy to access and both have large pools for swimming and wading. The most exciting part of most trips is negotiating the path descending through the caves and slithering down the cliffs to the base of Mooney Falls, one mile downcanyon from the campground. Wooden ladders, handholds, chains, and steps carved into the rock makes the steep route a little easier, but the sheer height is intimidating to anyone. Well-conditioned adventurers with an early start can head towards the Colorado River and try to reach Beaver Falls. This long and rugged hike crosses Havasu Creek several times and the path is sometimes hard to follow. Wild grape vines covering one section of the journey make for an outrageously scenic, almost unbelievable setting.
To get the bird’s eye view of the hidden jungle tracing Havasu Creek, try finding an easy way up to the Esplanade level, one geologic level higher. (Leaving the campground, hike above Havasu Falls, then look for a shorter spot to climb up on the right side of the trail.) The Esplanade’s parched, rocky landscapes mean you must bring plenty of water and sun protection is very important. From this elevated perspective, the Havasu Canyon dreamland takes on an entirely new perspective.
Quite possibly the greatest pleasure of Havasu Canyon is meeting some of the people who live there. Almost 700 tribal members live in the isolated village of Supai year round and many grow their own food, including vegetables squash, corn, melons, and pumpkins. Although few tourists come for the cultural enrichment, Supai is one of the most interesting aspects of the trip. Be sure to look for the two massive stone columns standing tall over the scattering of cottages and grazing horses; as the legend goes, the columns represent Wiigleeva, the guardian spirit of the people. If they were to tumble over, then the Havasupai world would end. In addition, next to the helicopter landing area, a small museum offers numerous displays that showcase and teach about the Havasupai way of life. After your time in Havasu Canyon, you’ll likely find yourself at least a bit jealous of how slow and easy and fun life is.
