I could not think of a better, more life-affirming way to memorialize this accomplishment.
While talking to a coach who had done the route several times, the single piece of advice that stuck with me was: “There’s only one rule to running the canyon: you have to get yourself out.” As doubt weighed on my mind, the thought of celebrating seven years sober won. There would be no aid stations, no EMTs, nobody to rescue me other than by helicopter. I had experience going for the long haul, but I had never done anything as extreme as running through the Grand Canyon, and never self-supported. After getting sober in 2015, I immediately jumped from a road marathon to a trail 50-miler, and haven’t stopped running since. To be clear, this wasn’t my first attempt at a very long run. Then, I’d turn around and go back, doing it all over again. The trail transforms into rolling hills as you start climbing, ending with a strenuous 8-mile hike up to the North Rim, for a total of 23.5 miles out. The trail descends 9.5 miles to the canyon floor, crosses the Colorado River, then traverses through “The Box,” the infamous section of towering canyon walls, notorious for feeling like an oven. The 47-mile run would start at Bright Angel trailhead on the South Rim, at 7,000 feet. I booked five nights at Bright Angel Lodge and constructed a year-long plan to train and prepare. “It’s meant to be!” I exclaimed to my dog beside me. I read that water access on the trail was turned on on May 15, which coincidentally was three days before my anniversary: seven years of sobriety. I started planning from the comfort of my bed, researching the best times to attempt the double crossing. What better place than the otherworldly Grand Canyon? Why not run the whole damn thing, twice, as only an ultrarunner should? Doing something challenging forced me to train and stay focused.
As a seasoned ultrarunner, I’d often take running trips as annual vacations. One year ago, during the height of the pandemic, when we were all stuck in our homes and desperate to be anywhere else, I started to dream about running the Grand Canyon’s Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim in one day.
I don’t think I’m going to make it,” I said out loud to no one. “There’s no way I’m going to get that far. I looked up to see how far I was from the top, speckles of tiny human bodies appearing on the edge and then quickly disappearing, like ants on a mission.
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But no matter how much I tried to focus on the positive things, my body screamed with paralyzing leg cramps, my vision went fuzzy, and my skin felt like it was being cooked. In an effort to stay present, I’d make myself stop and soak in the view of the stunning, tree-lined vertical rock that made me feel insignificant.
You knew this was going to be hard, don’t get down yet, it’s too soon, you just have to keep moving, I thought as I felt the change in my mental state. I still had five miles to climb, straight up to 8,000 feet, and I could not take another step. The sun warmed my back, a warning of the extreme heat that was about to consume the canyon. Hiking up to the Grand Canyon’s North Rim, I bent over my trekking poles and stared at my filthy shoes, trying to slow my overworked heart, and that’s when my mind went dark. Get access to everything we publish when you
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