On Endurance - Rim 2 Rim 2 Rim (R2R2R) Grand Canyon Adventure - Trip report
Down and up, down and up. Retracing steps in the Grand Canyon.
Adventure report from R2R2R Oct 2017 (finally posting!)
Photo by Jeff Andrew
When you land in Phoenix, you can expect every local to have two favorite topics of conversation:
How great it is to live in Arizona
How many people die in the Grand Canyon every year
Ever since a summer, family vacation in 2002, where my parents led me and my five siblings into the canyon with no water—determined to pass at least two "you probably don’t have enough water" signs—the Rim 2 Rim 2 Rim challenge (R2R2R) has been on the tip of Dad’s tongue.
This post is a mix of "how to" and "how not to" tips to survive a Rim 2 Rim 2 Rim (R2R2R) Grand Canyon run. Since that family hike in the early 2000s, my dad has fantasized about "doing the whole thing." For most, "the whole thing" would mean a day hike to camp at Phantom Ranch at the bottom of the canyon, where you can sign up a year in advance for a steak and wine dinner. For the bold, a Rim 2 Rim trek—21 to 24 miles from the South Rim to the North Rim—offers plenty of thrills, though you’re stuck with a 4-hour shuttle ride back. It’s the truly insane who crave the pain cave of the out-and-back R2R2R: down and up, down and up.
We flew into Phoenix on Friday, October 6th, 2017. My brothers Josh, Jeff, and my dad, Warren, were on the trip. It was supposed to be a "boys’ trip," but our fourth brother, Nate, had a scheduling snafu with a critical weekend certification for his U.S. Soccer Coach program. Coach, we missed you.
The four of us met at the airport hotel Friday evening to assess how underprepared we were. This brief meeting led to a unanimous decision: triple our supplies at the local REI. We each carried two pairs of Drymax socks, hats, hydration packs, chapstick, sunscreen, a blister kit, 2,000+ calories of assorted bars, and sodium-packed hydration tablets. Last-minute advice from Steve Garrity’s blog led us to up our calorie intake to around 2,500 each, which likely saved us. We packed two peanut butter and honey sandwiches, a bag of pretzels, four energy bars, a pack of Clif Shot Bloks, two packs of beef jerky, bite-sized oatmeal cookies, Nuun sodium tablets, waffles, and a caffeinated drink mix called Tailwind. We brought just the right amount of food—a bit terrifying in hindsight, as those last three or four miles could have easily found us desperately in need of life-saving snacks.
Our trials began the night before when we learned that the "hiker’s express shuttle" to the South Kaibab Trail had stopped running in early October. We were on our own to get to the trailhead by 4:45 AM, which added a mile-plus of road walking before even hitting the trail—far from ideal with 46 miles ahead of us.
Photo by Jeff Andrew
Before stepping onto the cliffs of South Kaibab in the pitch black, I tested the water station at the top. As I turned it on, I found myself face-to-face with an enormous elk, also looking for a drink. That got my heart rate up.
Coming from the "live free or die" state, we’ve always adopted a bit of a "run free or die" attitude—no watches and, sometimes, semi-unprepared. We got a time check from Josh and Jeff as we set out at 4:45 AM, with the next time check coming at 10:40 AM, 23 miles in at the top of the North Rim. We estimated about 20 minutes of water breaks and a sock change at Cottonwood Canyon.
The first two miles of South Kaibab’s descent are on silky sand, with steps carved through switchbacks, worn down by mule trains. It was 32 degrees at the top of the canyon, so we started in shorts, t-shirts, and light windbreakers. Less than a mile in, we stopped to strip off our jackets; the air warmed quickly. The first two hours of the run were pure magic—descending into the canyon with headlamps and a warm moon leading the way. At dawn, we crossed the bridge over the Colorado River, emerging from the steep terrain. I could finally stop yelling ahead to my dad, who descends trails faster than anyone I’ve ever run with. Every five minutes, I’d remind him to stay closer to the inside of the trail and away from the scenic cliff edges that claim lives each year.
We reached Phantom Ranch, refilled our water bottles, and started winding our way along the trail past the falls and through Cottonwood Canyon. By this point, the sun had risen, and the heat set in. From the first hour, I mandated the consumption of calories, threatening, "I won’t go any further until you eat this bar." We are talking about a 60-year-old man who, two weeks prior, did a 28-mile run with only a 12-ounce bottle of water and no breakfast, leaving him "a little loopy" by the end. My biggest fear for the day was regulating his food and water intake to ensure he was still moving by the end.
As we climbed the North Rim, the temperature rose into the mid-80s. In the shade, it was pleasant, but in the sun, it got toasty.
It’s funny the tricks the mind plays as you cross the five-hour mark. The longest I’ve ever run is a marathon, and the real mental battles start after that point. I found myself justifying a turnaround at the North Rim Scenic Overlook, less than half a mile from the actual top. "Isn’t this far enough?" "Close enough to say we did it, right?" I never vocalized the thoughts, but the internal argument was compelling. Most people on the trail said we were crazy and reminded us that a North to South shuttle was still an option for $90—ultra-demoralizing (pun intended) when your blisters are setting in, and you realize halfway feels very different in a 5k.
We hit the top of the North Rim at 10:40 AM and found a crew of R2R2R runners who had set out a bit earlier than us. Among them were Jeremy and Lars, who we’d reconnect with later. My dad’s knee was hurting at this point, and we seriously considered the shuttle before watching the other crews take off down the trail. That decision made it clear: there was no turning back.
At 11:20 AM, we started the return journey, blisters emerging, quads burning from the 10k+ feet of elevation change we’d already endured. The bliss of running in the dark shields you from the sheer scale of the descent below. With the noon sun fully overhead, every misstep suddenly seemed catastrophic.
The heat and hip pain hit me as my dad found his second wind along the flats near the Colorado River. I likely held him back for a good 30 minutes as I alternated between walking and jogging, trying to keep my balance. Around this time, another Clif Bar sounded like a terrible idea, but I forced down the calories for the remainder of the run.
The race isn’t always to the swift but to those who keep on running.
We arrived at Phantom Ranch around 3:30 PM, where we found Jeremy asleep in the grass and Lars downing lemonade. Both were dealing with nausea from the altitude changes. After chatting and confirming they were safe, we set off to finish what we started. The last seven miles were brutal.
Dazed with 7 miles to go
We took a few happy photos after the final flat stretch, then began the switchback ascent to the South Rim parking lot. That’s when the running stopped for good. Even so, we passed plenty of hikers who were clearly in over their heads.
Three miles into the ascent, Jeremy and Lars caught up and suggested we finish together—a welcome idea, as I was in rough shape. The death march began here. Lars was struggling with nausea and, in a frightening moment, rushed to the canyon’s edge to throw up repeatedly. We pulled him back, reminding him it was okay to vomit on the trail—no need to project off the cliff! Dangerous impulses after 10+ hours of fatigue.
Around 6 PM, we got a sense of the canyon’s raw power. The darkness came quickly, and wind gusts of 20 to 30 mph blew us across the trail. My dad, a machine for the first 43.5 miles, began to drift dangerously from side to side on the trail before finally asking if anyone had water left—we did.
We reached the parking lot at 6:40 PM, collapsing onto the ground to put our jackets on. The final shuttle rolled in at 6:46 PM, and I sat in the back and cried. I’d heard about ultramarathoners breaking down in tears as the miles pushed them to a raw, emotional place—and now I understood.
I’m thankful to have finished this journey, crossing off the top item on my dad’s bucket list without jointly kicking the bucket. The sanity in the insane is real. We talked a lot about life and death on that journey. The West is wild and beautiful. Be safe on the trails—there are miles to go.