The proudest big sister
My sisters didn’t have anything to prove by hiking across the Grand Canyon a second time. They did it for love.
My two sisters and I all came into this world with our share of differences. I, the oldest, believed myself to be a free-spirited wild child while shouldering most of the baggage of “eldest daughter syndrome:” a strong sense of responsibility, carrying the weight of my parents’ expectations, anxiety, and yes … feeling resentment towards family members.
I rarely directed this resentment at Lisa, three years younger than me and the classic middle child. Lisa is agreeable, loyal, and a natural mediator and caretaker. She knew from a young age that she would grow up to be a nurse. We were fairly close as younger children, mostly because she would let me direct our play. But as I approached adolescence, I wanted the “free-spirited wild child” to prevail and started pushing my family away.
The youngest, Sara, rapidly became my adversary. This was a single-sided rivalry — she was eight years younger than me and not even a toddler when I started to complain that she was a spoiled brat who got away with everything. She’d steal my camera and take a bunch of random shots, ruining expensive film and photo prints. She never had to go to bed early. She didn’t have to clean her plate to earn dessert. She snuck into my room when I was away. She stole the candy I’d so strategically hidden. (Including this incident that still rankles 33 years later.)
As she grew older, I decided Sara was effectively my opposite — outgoing, into beauty and fashion, pampered, and not keen on the outdoors at all. Such a princess. It was hard to believe we formed from the same DNA.
Fast-forward a few decades, many life events, and a global pandemic. The whole world was spending time apart, so the sisters and I made an effort to connect with each other. Because I was an aloof teenager and self-absorbed through my 20s (and, okay, my 30s), it took these conversations to realize that I didn’t actually know my sisters that well. I can’t talk on the phone to save my life, and the sisters don’t do much with e-mail or social media. But we found common ground in an app called Marco Polo, where we could leave each other long video messages at our leisure. Through much of 2020, we communicated frequently through this app. I felt like I was finally getting to know my sisters and the women they’d become, what was happening in their lives, what they were thinking and feeling. And then, in June 2021, our father died.
At the time, both of my sisters had just begun training so they could join Dad and me on our annual trip across the Grand Canyon in October 2021. It was quite the leap — in my view — that they were on board for this. Both Sara and Lisa are busy mothers with three and four children, respectively, and Lisa is still working as a nurse. They don’t have much time to prepare for a monster hike like this (24+ miles with 6,500+ feet of climbing.) Neither had much of an endurance background. Sara loves yoga and Lisa is a weight-lifter. Sara ran half-marathons, but it had been a few years. Lisa has knee issues from a childhood injury and is a self-professed hater of cardio. It seemed a tall order, but Dad promised he could get them ready.
And then he was gone. With all the many things we’d lost, I grasped for something — anything — I could save. I brought it up on the first night we were all together. We should still go to the Grand Canyon in October, I proposed. My sisters, understandably, were not ready. But they surprised me in 2022 when both brought it up. They still wanted to go. They whipped themselves into shape with only minimal coaching on my part. Mom agreed to accompany us to the park and drive the long shuttle around the canyon, even as difficult as it would be for her — she performed this duty for my Dad for 15 years. The memories were still sharp and painful. Our September 2022 trip was a meaningful experience and a resounding success. The perfect tribute to our father. I assumed at the time that this was it — one and done.
So I was just a little bit shocked when my sisters proposed returning to the Grand Canyon in 2023. I knew both of them had fallen in love with hiking and were embarking on outings in Utah and California without any prodding from me. But hiking Rim-to-Rim is hard. The stats are daunting but they don’t do it justice. You have to contend with a large fluctuation in temperatures — chilly winds on the rim and brutal heat in the oven-like belly of the canyon. The trail is all sand and rocks and enormous step-ups/step-downs. There are no easy bailouts. Even fit, athletic people who run marathons often declare a rim-to-rim hike the hardest thing they’ve ever accomplished. And my little sisters wanted to go back!
For our 2023 hike, we planned to take the “long” route — descending the Bright Angel Trail from the South Rim and climbing the North Kaibab Trail to the North Rim. We reasoned it would be fun for them to see a new part of the canyon. Plus, Bright Angel is slightly less steep, so we hoped the descent would be easier on Lisa’s knees. The hike was nearly derailed just minutes before it started. I had asked the sisters to set a 4:45 a.m. alarm in hopes of hitting the trail by 5:30. When I walked into their room, Sara was distraught. She hadn’t slept at all that night — not even a minute. The travel from California and the drive down from Salt Lake had been stressful. She was so nervous that she couldn’t shut her mind off.
“Can I do this on no sleep?” she wondered. “Is it possible?”
I looked her in the eye. “This can be done and you can do this,” I said. I related the all-nighters I’d pulled in ultramarathons, sleepless nights of slogging eternally through the dark. I reminded her about Beat, who can pull all-nighters for days on end.
“Your body can do this,” I continued. “It’s your mind that’s going to resist. Your toddler mind is going to have more power and it’s going to whine a lot. You have to remind yourself that you are the adult in charge, and you decide what happens. If you’re having a tough time, tell us about it. Don’t hesitate to express your anger, frustrations, whatever. We’ll help you get through it. But your body can do this.”
With that we were off — Lisa with her well-tested knee braces, compression sleeves, anti-chafing salve and “snazzy pants,” and Sara with her full Lululemon ensemble and fierce determination. Quietly, I worried about Sara. It’s difficult not to see her as the baby princess I fought with as a preteen, the one I couldn’t imagine bearing any discomfort — even though I knew better.
We all dragged at the start. It was early, already becoming hot, and it’s so difficult not to think about how far you still have to go when you’re already so tired. But then we rounded a corner to this view (above) and we all collectively gasped. Lisa even shed a few tears. The photo doesn’t capture the depth of its beauty. Photos never do. This is why you need to go to the Grand Canyon to experience it. There’s no other way.
As we descended, the canyon was full of distracting entertainment. We watched a family of bighorn sheep prance along the rocks. We sat down for regularly scheduled snacks. We got caught behind 20 minutes of mule drama. The overworked handler was guiding a half-dozen cargo mules up the canyon by herself when one decided to rebel and started kicking. The ruckus knocked over the poor mule behind it, and it looked like it fell down an entire switchback. The handler was rightfully distressed and ran to see whether the fallen mule was injured. In the process, a couple more of the mules got loose. It was pandemonium. And all the while, the mule that the handler disdainfully called “Star, you asshole” was still kicking up a storm.
I get that mules serve an important purpose in this canyon, but you couldn’t pay me to ride one of those unpredictable animals on these precipitous trails.
By the time we reached Phantom Ranch, temperatures were already nearly 90 degrees and it was only 11 a.m. Luckily, there was no line at the canteen this year. We ordered three $6 lemonades, a couple of $3 apples, and a $6 ten-pound bag of ice — for this last item, we agreed, we’d pay $50 if it cost that much. Supply and demand and all. Six dollars is an incredible bargain to fill all of our water bladders with ice and still have enough left over to make ice scarves out of our buffs.
We enjoyed an early afternoon stroll through “The Box” — a box canyon towering over the winding blue water and greenery surrounding Bright Angel Creek. This section is much-feared by hikers for its tendency to hold heat, but we all agree that the frequent shade and proximity to the water make The Box much more pleasant than the next section. For nearly four miles, the canyon opens up. There is no shade, and afternoon temperatures on this day climbed to 98 degrees.
The sisters became more quiet through this section. I figured they’d be getting tired. But then Lisa announced that her heart rate had spiked to 160 and she wasn’t even working that hard. I think my nurse sister knew as well as me that a high heart rate is one of the symptoms of dehydration. And it doesn’t take long for a small issue to unravel into a big problem in this remote environment. We grabbed the first sliver of shade and sat down for a longer break, a “candy snack,” extra electrolytes, and a few sips of what was becoming the last of our ice water.
About a mile past that sliver of shade, we came to the creek crossing where a social trail heads toward Ribbon Falls. Despite the heat and fatigue, nobody wavered on a side trip to the waterfall. Ribbon Falls was our father’s favorite spot in the Grand Canyon. It’s where we spread some of his ashes last year.
As we approached the falls, I spontaneously announced — “You know what? I’m going in.” In 14 trips across the Grand Canyon, I’d never before even thought about wading into the pool below the falls. The water is cold, and I don’t like getting wet. But this year, at 98 degrees and with one sister on the verge of heat exhaustion, I didn’t see how we could not jump into the water, fully clothed with shoes on.
And you know what – it was a magical experience. We stood under the cascade and let the shower engulf us. Lisa plunged most of her body into the clear pool. We giggled and splashed like children.
It was special. Something new. A tradition that is specifically ours.
We visited the upper section of the falls where we spread Dad’s ashes last year. Sara, of course, had to complete her favorite yoga pose.
After Ribbon Falls, there’s nothing left to do but climb out of the canyon. It’s a long climb. You already have 19 miles on your legs and you’re so very tired. The afternoon is fading, the canyon rim is 4,500 feet over your head, and you still have so far to go. It is incredibly daunting. Lisa perked up some after the swim, especially when we collected fresh water from the creek (we had been told that all of the tap water along the North Kaibab Trail was turned off. This turned out to not be the case, but the sisters decided they preferred the taste of filtered creek water. I couldn’t believe it. My picky baby sister who only drinks bottled water at home was drinking creek water!)
Even with fresh, cold water, Sara was beginning to flag. She asked Lisa questions. Lisa’s answers turned into long stories. Lisa apologized, but Sara urged her to keep talking. “It helps,” she said. So we chattered our way up that enormous climb that comes at the end of an already very long day. Whenever the sisters stopped to rest, I urged them to take in another electrolyte tablet and a snack. Their appetites had disappeared, as is to be expected at the end of a long, hot day. But I reminded them that their body still needed those calories, even if their stomachs were reluctant. In preparation, I had urged them to pack their favorite candy, which is often something a sour stomach can tolerate. During one stop, I turned to Sara and said sternly, “Did you have a sugar snack?” Then I laughed at myself — my baby sister, the sugar fiend who always made me so angry when she stole from my stash, had to be reminded to eat her candy.
We grew up with our differences, and we grew apart because of them. But in the wake of a terrible thing that happened to our family, we grew these beautiful moments in one of the most beautiful places on Earth. Here, we walk with the memory of our father. We walk with our shared history. We walk with our love for each other and our love for our mother, patiently waiting for us on the rim for hours. She was there, standing in the breezy darkness when we clawed our way out of the canyon at 8:30 p.m. The sisters, covered in sweat-streaked red dust, cried well-deserved tears for their accomplishment. They hiked 28 miles with nearly 7,000 feet of climbing.
“I never thought I could hike that far,” Lisa exclaimed.
I felt so proud of my sisters. I knew they were strong women — forging independence, raising families, succeeding in careers. But here, they met me on my turf. A place I knew well. A place where I truly understood how deep a person must dig to find their inner strength. And they both succeeded beyond my wildest expectations.
Sniff. My little sisters. They’re all grow’d up.
Jill, you should not surprise me at your writing capabilities. But this article was surprisingly cheerful, fun, revealing of you and your family, touching, and sad. It rates amongst your best writing.
Ah, Jill, this was so good. I'm glad you and your sisters now have something to share with each other and hope there are more GC trips in the future.