Two Feet and a Heartbeat
My sister tells the story all the time. The one about me being a whiny little sister. The one where I preferred not to walk. Or run.
But instead, when faced with covering some ground by non-motorized means, my go-to response would be: Can somebody carry me?? (pleading in the whiniest of voices to be sure – at least that’s the way my sister tells it).
My sister usually tells this story when I am planning a trip — a multi-day hike, an international trek, something requiring two feet (my own) and a heartbeat. And we laugh. It’s funny. I’m sure I was adorable.
I don’t remember exactly when I decided to put one foot (my own) in front of the other, but ever since, I have been constantly amazed at the incredible places that I have experienced by simply doing just that. From the Rocky Mountains to the Himalayas, from the South American Andes to the Arizona desert.
This day, I find myself at the Hualapai Hilltop trailhead at the end of Indian Road 18 in the Arizona desert checking in with a man with a clipboard who appears to be tasked with simultaneously herding mules and people and backpacks at the top of Havasu Canyon. We confirm our permits, snap the o-blog-atory pre-hike photo, and head off down, down, down the switchbacks cut into the cliff.
I let the thought of the inevitable return trip back up, up, up slip into my consciousness for but a minute before focusing on the expanse that lay ahead. The red canyon walls narrow around us, enveloping us. It feels grand. Like the Grand Canyon’s charming and slightly more approachable neighbour. I feverishly take photos, thinking it can’t possibly get any more beautiful. And then it does. Around each and every corner.
I foolishly try to catalog the trail before conceding that I am not going to be able to do it justice (I mean, the auto setting on my SLR— the only mode I know my preferred mode — is good, but sometimes mental pictures are the best). Not to mention that preoccupation with digital devices leads to narrowly escaping the path of oncoming mule trains — the sherpa of choice for many hikers and the official mail carriers of the Havasupai tribe (the smallest Indian nation in America) living in the village of Supai, eight miles from the nearest road, at the base of Havasu Canyon, and the only place in America where mail is still delivered by mule.
Many photos and a few sweaty hours later, an old man stooged on a boulder smiling a toothless grin under a hat brim that looks like it has withstood its fair share of flash rain storms, high noon sun exposure, and many an afternoon nap, points us in the direction of the village and assures us we are five minutes away. I am at once thinking “We’re almost there!” and “Aren’t we there yet?!”, as the sweat inside my sports bra breaches the elastic barrier. A solid 25 minutes later, we reach the coveted campground at Havasu Falls, the final miles slogging through deep sand. The calf-burn is real.
At the first sight of Havasu Falls, to my admitted surprise, it is indeed everything Instagram promised it would be! True story.
Despite its lure, we resist the urge to strip off our packs and soaked clothes and run straight into that beautiful blue water in our underthings! Instead, we opt to stake out territory in the campground, set up our tent in record time, change into our swimming things (hiking underthings, after all, are especially unattractive at best) and return to the base of the falls to experience our reward up close and personal.
And while the base of Havasu Falls is an easy approach, Mooney Falls, just beyond the other end of the campground, is accessible via a rock tunnel, a series of slippery near-vertical ladders, soaking-wet handholds, carved-in-stone steps, and a good dose of hoping for the best. But so worth it! With the place to ourselves, I attempt to take that money shot in front of the waterfall (you know, the one on instagram). Yoga pose and all.
Except I don’t actually do yoga. My first go at it on a slippery log in the middle of a waterfall was perhaps a bit misguided. (Technically my second go if you count that hot yoga class I attended once.). So, instead of that picture-perfect, whimsical pose I had in my head, I have a giggling picture of me poorly impersonating someone who actually does yoga. (Truth be told, I also walked away with a few particularly unflattering rear shots; a photo sequence that includes flailing arms and ridiculous slo-mo faces as I fall off the seemingly staged slippery stump; an entire picture progression with my body in various states of imbalance brought on by one especially humiliating attempt at an arabesque; and, obviously, the most patient behind-the-camera guy on the planet.)
Turns out my favourite snap from the trip was taken upon arrival, taking in the first breathtaking views of Havasu falls, relishing the accomplishment.
Creating a picture-perfect snap is something that this girl clearly cannot do. And I’m not even mad about it. The story my sister tells reminds me that it is instead about celebrating what I can do! I can (and often do) make my way to strike-a-pose-worthy locations with just two feet (my own) and a heartbeat. The ability to strike an actual pose not required.
