By: Elizabeth Skelly
Seat, cold water, cold beer. Seat, cold water, cold beer. Seat, cold water, cold beer. I look up at the maze of switchbacks ahead of me and Mark is nowhere in sight. How the hell does he manage to move so quickly?! Elizabeth, you’ve bitten off more than you can chew. Why the hell did you do this to yourself, just who the hell do you think you are?
Pulling myself from my thoughts, I look back down at my feet, wary of losing sight of the trail for too long. The path here feels as narrow as a tightrope compared to the gaping maw of the canyon beside me. I dare not look over that precipice again – the last time I did, glancing over for just a few seconds, the expanse below threw me quickly off balance. I stumbled, slightly to the right, but just enough to cause an immediate surge of a thousand butterflies flapping restlessly in my belly. They’re still there, just quiet for the moment, the weight of the task ahead of me holding them down.
Seat, cold water, cold beer. Seat, cold water, cold beer; the mantra continues. With the sun beating down on my head, and the pain throbbing in my groin and hip, I’m trying to distract myself just enough to keep my feet moving. If you call it moving. My progress is so slow at this point it barely deserves that term. From running, to hiking, to walking, to . . . . shuffling. That’s it! Zombielike, feet dragging, head lolling, limb hanging movement is all I can muster.
Have you ever been to the Grand Canyon? It is a beautiful, jaw dropping, ecological marvel. If you’ve never seen it, I highly recommend going. If you are sane, do not attempt running across it. That is just crazy. That’s what has brought me to my current automaton state. Most people, the not crazy ones, visit the Canyon from the perches of its rim on either the North or South side.
Looking across the vastness of the Canyon you would never believe any human would consider trekking across it. But, if you look closely enough, far down below, you can see a winding path that disappears between the multitude of buttes that pepper this mighty chasm.
I was not alone in this endeavour, but one in a group of seven that tackled this epic journey to raise money for ALS and Alzheimer’s research. Not only were we going to cross once from the South Rim to North Rim, but we were doing a second crossing the next day, going back from North to South. While we all had our own reasons for taking up the cause, mine was spurred by two things: my Grandma Veda and my own health.
For starters, last year when I committed to doing this, it was just 2 days before going in for a major surgery. Just a couple of months before, I had been diagnosed with endometriosis. After laparoscopic surgery following my initial diagnosis, I was devastated to hear that I had stage 4 endometriosis, the most severe form of the disease, and would have to undergo a further, more invasive surgery. After years of escalating health problems that lead to the discovery of the disease, the commitment to cross the Canyon was a way for me to ground myself and to refuse to allow the physical pain of the disease, and the pain of discovering the extent of damage, to overwhelm me. It was also an homage to the benefit of good health, something I will never again take for granted. In the coming months of recovery, both physical and emotional, it gave me something to works towards, something positive to focus my attention on. It inspired me to get better as fast as I could to begin training – with such a massive goal in sight, I had no time to spare.
In loving memory of Veda Shirley Armstrong, nee Spearing. On December 21, 2003, my Grandma Veda lost the battle against Alzheimer’s. While certainly devastated at her death, that blow was far less than witnessing the withering of her very being over the years following her diagnosis. If you are fortunate enough to never have witnessed this catastrophic decline, consider yourself lucky. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.
Alzheimer’s is an incredibly invasive disease. I saw this amazingly strong and resilient woman diminished to not even a shadow of her former self. She became someone else entirely. The beginning stages of the disease were marked by a shift in her personality that made her unrecognizable. She became angry, spiteful and aggressive at the start. Then later, as the disease continued to weave its way through her brain, she became overly cautious, scared and clingy, and lost the fiercely independent, take-no-bullshit spirit that I admired and loved her for. During the year of her death it was incredibly hard to go see her. Though I visited her often, I had moved to Canada after all to be closer to her and my Grandfather, I was no longer visiting my Grandma – there was nothing of her left. She lost the ability to communicate long before, speech was indecipherable. I would talk to her, brush her hair, and feed her – and cry on the walk back to my Grandparent’s home, mourning her loss long before she died. When death finally claimed her, only 7 years after her diagnosis, I was not shocked, I was utterly relieved.
The beauty of the place is startling and mesmerizing at the same time. Descending from the South Rim to the bottom of the Canyon on Day 1 I am struck by the immensity, the vastness, the sheer volume of space consumed by the Canyon. There’s a sign at the top that provides its dimensions – but these numbers mean nothing compared to what your eyes take in. I would learn over the next couple days crossing its depth just how little those numbers convey.
I am humbled with each step. The most mundane of details leap into my awareness. Early on in that initial descent, I am pulled from my frenzied thoughts of making good time and not losing face by a twinkling in the air mingled with a rush of wind that rises over the side of the path. It takes a moment for me to register what I’ve just heard, and I look around me. What in the world would that be? I stop and am so surprised to discover the prettiest wind chime tickling my ears is a sturdy little pine hanging onto the side of the trail. In all my 37 years, I cannot recall a time when a pine has serenaded me. I take it as a sign that I mustn’t become so distracted by the journey I am on that I fail to experience the moment that stretches out before me. So I don’t forget the little pine, I snap a picture for my future self.
Dust covers my shoes. We’re hours into our run when I realize the path below me has changed colour yet again. Have you ever wondered at the colours represented in nature? The canyon displays an array of colours, from white to rust-orange, red, a dusty rose, tan, brown and black just in the dust on the ground. As I look down at my feet, I begin to think about all the feet that have walked this very same path before me. Thousands of people, hundreds of thousands, millions? The number of people I have crossed today alone is surprising. As we pass and say our hello’s I can’t help but be surprised at these people.
Some are fit and seem wellsuited to the task, others I would never in a million years guess were capable of such a tremendous feat. The distance they may be travelling is irrelevant: any distance traversed in this canyon is impressive. The elevation and the heat are enough to wither any hardy soul. And yet here they are. Just like me, taking one step at a time, putting one foot in front of the other, in pursuit of their goal. I get to thinking – just what is it that makes a person capable of such an extraordinary achievement? What sets us apart? My conclusion may surprise you.
Nothing! We are all the same. No one can be totally prepared for this, even the most fit person will be challenged by this journey. We will all feel moments of overwhelm, frustration, fatigue. One of the awesome, and equally horrifying attributes of crossing the Canyon, is that once you start the descent, you have no choice but to finish. You must hike back up to the top. The only difference between me and someone who stays at the top, is the decision to go down. That is a decision that anyone can make. Even you! Whatever your canyon may be, the decision to start is the hardest part.
So, Elizabeth, just who the hell do you think you are? I know who I am. I am my grandmother’s granddaughter through and through. As I finish Day 1 of the Canyon, beyond tired, sore, thirsty, I think again on my Grandma Veda and all the things she had done in her life. Her fearlessness in the pursuit of her goals, her diligence, and the strength she showed in the face of her illness. Did she really lose the battle? I think not. She lived life to the fullest, she pushed herself to achieve beyond what some would even attempt, and she helped to instill in me a fiery, passionate heart. That fire helped carry me through an even more difficult Day 2 crossing and will bring me back to the Canyon in 2020.
