FEBRUARY 201 5 SUNRAYS | 53
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was assigned a mule - Darrel’s mule was
named Dusty, a big white guy, and I got a
mule named named Ike. I soon discovered
that Ike wore a muzzle on account of his
tendency to steal grasses from along the
side of the trail.
We departed, Kevin in the lead and Alison
following up at the tail of our train. Clip-
clopping our way down Bright Angel Trail,
the sun shone brilliantly. The canter of
our mule’s hooves as they struck the rocky
trail provided an ever-present rhythm
to our ride. I went over the wranglers’
instructions inmy head: Trust your mule.
Stay together. Trust your mule. Don’t lean
right or left in the saddle if you want to
stay on the cliff. Trust your mule. Use
your mule motivator (riding crop). Stay
together. So it went, clip-clop, all the way
to the bottom of the canyon.
Three hours later, we had clipped and
clopped our way into Indian Creek
Gardens, an oasis halfway down the
Canyon. Already weary riders, the break
was a welcome relief. Hikers sat in clumps
of humanity, too tired to lift their heads
as we arrived. “Wet your heads and
shirts at the mule tank,” said Alison,
and something told me I’d better do as
told - they knew what was coming more
than I. The break passed quickly and,
just twenty minutes after arriving, we
re-mounted our mules and set off into the
valley below, alreadymissing the shade of
the yellow-green cottonwood trees.
Not even the ache of six hours on the back
of a mule could dampen our spirits as
we took in the exquisite beauty before
us, riding past two hundred foot high
vertical cliffs pointing toward a blue
sky. Kevin told us about the history of
the canyon, pointing out petroglyphs left
by ancient peoples and fault lines from
tectonic plates. Turning a corner, we
found ourselves ascending a mountain
of vertical steps, daring ourselves to
glance back at the chasm 2,000 feet
below. Red-streaked rocks transformed
to darker tones of gray and black, until
the canyon walls resembled waves of
chocolate melting in the sun, dripping
over stone sheets of gray-green and rust
red. In every shift of the light the colors
changed, and showed us yet another
personality of the canyon.
Up and up, past jagged, scrambled-
egg like pillars and over stony trails,
we climbed, each step taken by Ike
and his companions ringing out in the
canyon. This was not a trail ride - it
was an endurance test, a marathon, a
fight against nature. Clambering up the
narrow trail of Devil’s Corkscrew, we held
our breath as a 2,000 vertical drop to our
left matched the 600 hundred foot cliffs
on our right. At the aptly named “Jesus
Corner”, we saw before us nothing but air,
and I recalled the advice of our wranglers
from that morning: Trust your mule. I
decided that Ike knewwhere hewas going,
and it was not down. The mule train
Fast Fact:
Four million
people visit the Grand
Canyon each year, but only
3,000 of them ride to the
bottom.
Left: Jeanne looks perky before
beginning the mule ride.
Below: A beautiful view looking down
at the trails leading to the bottom of
the canyon.
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