DOWN IN THE CANYON,

THE CANYON SO LOW by Don Rifle

FRISBIE

My boots kicked up pebbles every step I took on the uneven path. Hot sunshine cascaded off the giant cliffs, funneling down and smothering me. The straps of my pack had turned dark with sweat, trickling down by bare back to make a damp triangle in the seat of my levis-over the rest of me it evaporated into a tracery of salt. I had lost track of the miles behind me, but I knew there were many more to go if I hoped to reach Phantom Ranch by six o'clock. Right, left, right, left right left rightleftrightleftright-down an awesome side canyon of the mighty Grand Canyon itself. I brushed against outcroppings that had formed before there was an animal, or a plant, or even so much as an amoeba on the face of the earth. I wondered idly as my legs pumped along whether these same rocks would once again know an earth without a living thing on it. Long thoughts for a long trail. Most people who visit Phantom Ranch from the North Rim pack in by horse, but being a penniless student with only good lungs, stout legs and a yearning for adventure on the credit side of the ledger, I had no problem in deciding to hoof it. The desk clerk at Bright Angel Lodge had phoned down and secured a bunk and meal reservation for me. Now I didn't have anything to do but go claim it.

The bright Arizona sunrise shone dappled through aspens as I swung through the forest, beating my arms together to keep warm. The ranger had warned me that temperatures are much higher down below, (there was a familiar ring to that comment, come to think of it), so I was wearing only a light Marine Jacket. The sign at the spot where the trail begins its descent says simply: PHANTOM RANCH-EIGHTEEN MILES OVER 6.000 FEET DOWN. For the first several miles I switched back and forth, working past the vertical faces of Kaibab and Coconino limestone. I dropped below the petrified remains of ancient ocean beds,

9