Just four days before the New Year, my toenail breaks off the nail bed on my big toe. It turned black three months earlier while trekking 24 miles on a Grand Canyon rim-to-rim hike—my fitness challenge of 2019. I’d been inspired by Steve-O, who marked 2018 as his fittest year by completing a triathlon.
That’s how I found myself in Arizona at the end of August–a period of time that no sane person willingly enters the state when temperatures soar above 114 degrees. Naturally, that’s when REI Adventures had openings on their Grand Canyon backpacking trip.
There was a heat wave when I arrived in Phoenix. My mother, who’s lived in the area for more than 30 years said only two words when I told her my plan, “You’re crazy.”
After driving from Scottsdale and camping overnight near the North Kaibab trail, we set out after 3 a.m. to limit our sun exposure during the 14-mile trip to Phantom Ranch, a lodge at the bottom of the Canyon. I grew up hiking nearly every weekend in Phoenix. I’d climbed the highest peak in the state several years earlier. I faithfully went to the gym four days a week and ran a 10K just days before my trip. All that is to say I thought I was prepared.
“I’ve got this,” I thought to myself.
And I did—for the first half. I kept pace with Lisa, an enthusiastic hiker who treated our journey as nothing more than a little nature walk. She regularly completes 15-hour hikes back home in California with her friend, Donna, who is also in our tour group.
But my swagger—and quick pace—didn’t last long. Turns out, I did not have this.
I’d love to proclaim that breathing in the desert air gave me a fresh perspective on life. I’d like to boast about the pure joy that swelled in my heart after looking up at the towering mountains surrounding me.
Melissa Matthews
In reality, the sprawling canyon, which I admired at dawn, became a vacuous prison by 10 a.m. The phrase, “Are we there yet?” played on repeat as I willed myself not to complain.
Walking downhill may seem easy, but it’s not—all that pressure strains your feet and ankles.
My pace slowed. My ego deflated. I wondered whether crawling went against hiking etiquette.
Twenty-five thousand steps later, we made it to Phantom Ranch. That wasn’t enough of a workout for Lisa.
“I don’t consider it a real hike unless I walk at least 30,000 steps,” she said.
Dallan, our guide, suggested we stroll to the Colorado River, which would boost our step count and only take 10 minutes.
“We’re gonna do what?,” I thought, but hobbled behind the group. Once there, I laid on the blazing hot shore, which felt indulgent compared to hiking. Donna scored her steps on the walk back to the lodge.
The next morning, my ankles throbbed. In the bathroom, I fell on the toilet while trying to stand. Panic set in.
“I could live at Phantom Ranch and work away my housing debt, since I’ll be stuck here forever,” I mused. “Or maybe I’ll be one of those hikers who are helicoptered out of the mountain.”
The embarrassment of either scenario forced me to lace up my hiking boots and finish with the tour group.
I was semi-invigorated by the uphill battle. Climbing up mountains has always been my favorite part of hiking. I thrive on heart-pounding, gasping-for-breath cardio. The fire in my legs from conquering a stone staircase is more satisfying than any Stairmaster-induced burn. I stumbled along the 10-mile trail in a love-hate haze.
To distract myself from the pain—and sweat seeping into every bodily crevice—I thought up new ways to treat myself once I escaped the desert. I pondered the first thing I’d drink: Diet Coke. I dreamed of gas station gummies. I imagined eating a giant slice of frosted cake with my Coke. It sounded like heaven.
After hours of climbing, I saw a peculiar sight: denim-clad hikers holding Starbucks cups.
“What’s happening?” I ask Dallan. “Why are people strolling through like this is the scenic route to the Starbucks parking lot?”
He explained that most visitors walk into the Grand Canyon for a few minutes, snap some pics, and leave. This meant we were getting close to the park entrance.
Elation spurred me forward every time I passed people sipping iced coffee. And then I heard something downright magical.
“Can you hear me now?” someone said into their phone at the start of the trail.
I made it.
It took two days of recovering at The Phoenician before I could walk again. I flung off my hiking boots the moment I entered my room. In the shower, I scrubbed away all traces of the desert. My first night back in civilization was celebrated with a hot bath, room service, which included cake and Diet Coke, and laying down. I’d never been so thankful for crisp, white sheets and a soft hotel bed.
The next day, I went to the resort’s spa for a massage and facial. When the massage therapist asked if I had any troublesome spots, I mentioned my ankles.
“Well…there really aren’t any muscles there,” he responded.
To his credit, the therapist paid particular attention to my tired legs and feet, and maybe it’s the power of the placebo effect, but I felt better. The rest of my time was dedicated to recovering at the pool, eating at one of my favorite hometown restaurants, FnB, and ensuring every meal included dessert.
Back in New York, I often think of this trip when motivation wanes. In my first post-Arizona workout class, the group fitness instructor told me her friend cried while hiking the Grand Canyon. That same hiker conquered Kilimanjaro without shedding a tear.
“I’m a survivor,” I mused. The thought carried me through a very tough 45-minute workout.
Last month in CrossFit, I dreamed of laying on the ground during a WOD consisting of burpees and box jumps.
I felt the force on my toe as I hauled myself off the ground and thought, “If you hiked the Grand Canyon in the middle of summer, then you can jump on a box in an air conditioned gym.”
Although I rely on this memory whenever my physical abilities are tested, it’s time to find another form of motivation. 2020 brings a new challenge to tackle and a shiny new nail to bruise.
Source: Read Full Article