Image 1: Hiking along the trail cut out of the cliffs of Roaring Springs Canyon
"[They] were so preoccupied with whether or not they could that they didn't stop to think if they should." -- Dr. Ian Malcolm, in Jurassic Park, just before blood and guts and mayhem.
When my older brother first told me he had been invited to hike rim to rim in the Grand Canyon, and told me that it was over twenty miles with a roughly 4400 foot ascent during the last seven miles, I immediately thought, "I'm glad I'm not going!"
I did not feel up to it. I'm older than I've ever been (which is not unusual). I'm more out of shape than I've ever been (which is unfortunate). Not to mention that when I visited the Grand Canyon last year with my wife and kids, I read warning after warning on the park's web site such as this:
"Over 250 people are rescued from the canyon each year. The difference between a great adventure in Grand Canyon and a trip to the hospital (or worse) is up to YOU. DO NOT attempt to hike from the rim to the river and back in one day, especially during the months of May to September."
and
"Under no circumstances should you attempt to hike from the rim to the river and back in one day! Do not hike during the hottest part of the day."
These and many other warnings, in ALL CAPS, bold, and red fonts, litter the hiking information on the site. See for yourself.
I had also read an article on a hiking magazine site listing this as one of the top ten deadliest hikes in the U.S. It's easy to get in way over your head because going downhill in the cool of the morning is easy, while going back up in the heat of the afternoon is hard.
Image 2: when I came across this little beauty on the trail, I had to document it.
It's not every day you see a sign featuring a full-color depiction of a national
park patron barfing in gory detail, just before his imminent death.
So, I had more or less settled in my mind that I would never do this trail, since a day hike seemed out of the question and back-packing seemed like an awful lot of trouble. Then, of course, my brother asked me to join him. He said there was an extra seat in the shuttle and I was welcome to come. I dismissed it, but he was gently persistent in asking again and I eventually opened my mind to the possibility of trying it.
Worries about my age and fitness rattled around in the back of my mind for several months, along with a piqued curiosity that wouldn't let me dismiss the idea completely. I started thinking about it more seriously after successfully summiting Mount Timpanogos for the first time in many years with my son's scout troop in August, and feeling okay by the end of that strenuous hike. The Timpooneke trail is seven miles each way, and gains a similar amount of elevation. After successfully completing that hike, I thought to myself, "the Grand Canyon will be similar to this. Just a lot longer, with all of the elevation gain at the end, when I'm already worn out." Hmmmmm.
Well, despite all my better judgment, the more I thought about it, the more I got excited about the prospects of going on this Grand Adventure. I sort of became obsessed with the idea--cue the Ian Malcolm quote above.
I was finally able to put my worries to rest when the time came for me to either decide to go, or give up my seat to someone else. I prayed and asked God for permission to do this, and felt reassurance that I would in fact not die on the trail. Had I not felt at peace about it, I would not have gone.
The night of November 2nd we arrived in Kanab, Utah, where I first met the rest of the large group we would be hiking with, including the couple who had orchestrated the trip and arranged for the shuttles. They were all very nice, but I couldn't help but notice that many of them were quite different from me: they were what I call "marathon people." You know, the super-fit looking people who wear spandex and talk about all the races they run and the hours they spend training. I am a middle-aged, overweight person who has never walked more than 20 miles in a day, much less run that far. I try to run three miles a few times a week, and occasionally succeed. I probably weighed twice as much as some of the women there. So yes, I felt different, and not in a good way.
As we were paying our checks at the Mexican restaurant where we ate that night, our server, a matronly Hispanic woman, asked us what we were doing in Kanab in November. When we told her we were going to go rim-to-rim in the Grand Canyon the next day, she looked me over with a furrowed-brow sort of motherly look that you might expect her to give her son if she thought she had just served him his last meal. "Have you been there before?" she enquired. "No, but they have," I replied, gesturing to our friends. "Hmmmf," she replied, and disappeared to the kitchen. I never saw her again.
I had previously felt like I should ask my brother for a priesthood blessing (he being an ordained elder in our church), and figured I'd do that the night before the hike. I did ask him for the blessing in the motel room we shared. As he laid his hands on my head and blessed me (a practice we liken to what is described by James in the New Testament), he reassured me that I would be given the strength needed to finish the hike, that I would be safe, and enjoy the experience.
Feeling thus reassured and more peaceful, I was able to quiet my keyed-up thoughts enough to sleep until 4:00 AM, when I awoke. From then on I was never able to turn off my brain again, knowing we would be leaving at 5:00 anyway to get to the North Rim trailhead by 6:30-ish. I got up and prayed again for strength and to not just survive the experience but to enjoy it.
Little did I know how founded in reality my anxiety about the hike was--and how much I would come to appreciate that blessing.
Image 3: Along Roaring Springs Canyon Trail I
(in the pre-dawn mist)
It was still dark and below freezing when we began our hike at about 7:00 AM. It didn't take long for the group to sort itself out into the leaders and the laggers, and my brother was kind enough to hike with me. I knew I would be taking time out to snap pictures, but I didn't anticipate the fast hiking speed of the group. Aside from the woman who twisted her ankle in the first ten minutes of the trail (and finished the day heroically and well ahead of me), I might have been at the end of the caravan anyway, even without the pictures.
Image 4: Dawn's First Light on the top layer of cliffs in Roaring Springs Canyon
It turned out that the fast hiking speed was a necessity, with our group having a goal to cover all the distance and elevation in about 10.5 hours, so we could watch the sunset from the South Rim. That's about 5800 feet of elevation loss, followed by about 4400 feel of elevation gain on the other end.
Image 5: Along Roaring Springs Canyon Trail II
By the time I hit the Redwall Bridge I had shed most of my layers of clothing. The trail between the bridge and the bottom of Roaring Springs Canyon was a spectacular couple of miles with dramatic vertical drops, where the trail was often blasted straight out of the cliffs. I couldn't help but stop to take pictures as the morning light played off the various rock faces.
Image 6: Along Roaring Springs Canyon Trail III
Image 7: Along Roaring Springs Canyon Trail IV
Image 8: Along Roaring Springs Canyon Trail V
Image 9: Along Roaring Springs Canyon Trail VI
Image 10: Along Roaring Springs Canyon Trail VII
Image 11: At the Junction With Bright Angel Canyon
Image 12: Roaring Springs
We took a group photo in front of the majestic, mountain-shaped cliff at the junction of Roaring Springs Canyon and Bright Angel Canyon, with the roar of the springs providing ambiance. My brother and I did not have a map (a mistake for sure), but knew that our next stop was at the bottom of Roaring Springs, because that had been explained to us before we started. Thus, after I took enough photos for the group to disappear behind the next switchback, we found ourselves alone when we shortly came upon a fork in the trail. We debated between going left to Roaring Springs, or right to Cottonwood. We'd never heard of Cottonwood, and figured both trails probably met up at the bottom of the canyon, so after rounding the first bend in the Cottonwood trail and seeing no one from our group, we backtracked and picked the other fork. After descending a few hundred feet and crossing our first water of the day, we realized that we had followed a spur trail to its end. Nevertheless it was lovely, and I got the picture below where Autumn was in full bloom at this particular elevation. The detour cost us an extra 2/3 mile and probably 15 minutes.
Image 13: Fall Leaves at Roaring Springs
Image 14: Panoramic View Up Roaring Springs Canyon
at the Junction with Bright Angel Canyon
We found ourselves with another mile or so to hike before we met up with the rest of the group at Manzanita Rest Area, the first stop with water along our route that day. We were five miles into our hike at that point. They were all rested and ready to go. I needed to change out of some cold-weather clothes in the restroom and the group had gone by the time I was done. My brother stayed with me.
Image 15: Fall Colors Along Bright Angel Creek, near Manzanita
We caught up again with the group while they were resting at the Cottonwood campground. We stayed with them for much of the nine miles of hiking along Bright Angel Canyon, between the Roaring Springs junction and Phantom Ranch. The hiking was a steady, slight downhill throughout this section. There were Zion-esque views of dramatic cliffs and eroded mountains of varying elevations and the constant, pleasant roar of Bright Angel Creek, which gained power and size with each side canyon we passed.
Image 16: Small Waterfall along Bright Angel Creek
Image 17: Morning View Along Bright Angel Canyon
Image 18: Looking Back Up Bright Angel Canyon
Our next diversion was the spur trail to Ribbon Falls, a must-see. This spectacle of water and erosion, including its huge moss-covered, limestone mound, was truly unique--like a giant cave formation in the middle of the canyon. We spent a good 20 minutes here, and I had a lot of fun photographing the falls from various angles and points of view.
Image 19: Ribbon Falls I
Image 20: Behind Ribbon Falls
Image 21: Ribbon Falls II
After the falls, we didn't see the rest of the group much until we met up again at Phantom Ranch. Following miles of beautiful, open scenery are several miles of narrows that reminded us of the Virgin River narrows in Zion. These were a little less colorful, but still beautiful--though they eventually seemed to drag on just a little too long.
Image 22: Distant View of the South Rim, near the Ribbon Falls trail.
Includes one of the many old, defunct power poles that followed
the route through the canyon.
Image 23: Lower Bright Angel Canyon View I
Image 24: Lower Bright Angel Canyon View II
Image 25: Lower Bright Angel Canyon View III
Image 26: Along the miles of narrows in Bright Angel Canyon
There is another fork in the trail a short distance before Phantom Ranch, but the park service didn't feel the need to mention "Phantom Ranch" on the sign at all, despite it being the most famous landmark in the bottom of the Grand Canyon--they only mentioned Bright Angel Campground. This left my brother and me guessing once again (not having a map). Luckily, we guessed right this time and discovered that the campground and Phantom Ranch are essentially one and the same. We met up with the group again.
Image 27: Taking a Stroll at Phantom Ranch
It was not yet fully autumn at Phantom Ranch. The air was warm, the trees were mostly green, and there were a lot of people milling about. It felt very much like summer--but not a hot, desert summer; rather, a pleasant, breeze-kissed kind of summer. We refilled water and stopped as a group to put our feet in the water of Bright Angel Creek while we ate a leisurely lunch. Boy, did that cold water feel great! My feet had been aching for miles and I kind of think I gave them some therapy by rubbing them against a smooth river rock in the cold water. It was similar to rolling my feet across an ice bottle, a technique a physical therapist friend had recommended to help me heal when I had a bout of plantar fasciitis a few years ago.
A couple of old men were staying the night at the ranch, and asked us about our plans. When we told them we were going rim-to-rim that day, they looked incredulous (never mind the dozen or so trail runners that had blazed by us earlier that day). "You'll never make it out today," they told us. Thanks for the encouragement. It was getting late by the time we packed up from lunch. It was about 2:00 PM and I began to doubt I'd see the sunset from the top of the South Rim at 5:30.
At this point we had already come about 15 miles (ala the two detours we took), and I thought we had about 7 miles to go, including all the uphill. I knew it would be hard, the hardest part of the hike so far. Before lunch I was already tired, as if I had done a good day's work. But I had "miles to go before I sleep," as Frost says. I'd made it to the point in the trail where all that was left to accomplish was to "climb Mount Timpanogos"--the equivalent distance and elevation gain. At least that's what I thought at the time. Again, I stupidly did not have a map of my own to verify these assumptions.
It was beginning then that I really started to consciously feel the effects of the priesthood blessing my brother had given me the night before. I felt a renewed energy after the lunch break. I took my second doses of ibuprofen and acetaminophen for the day; and contrary to the first doses, I can honestly say that after this point in the hike, I never felt any pain in my feet again. Mild pain had been my constant companion for the entire day up to that point, including aching tiredness the previous several miles. But after that point I felt that the Lord had, in His mercy, simply taken the pain away from me. There is no other rational explanation for feeling so great, since my body was more tired and used than before, and the medicine dosage was identical to what I had taken eight hours earlier. But more than simply not being able to rationally explain my lack of pain, I had fundamental faith in the helping, healing power of the Lord, and knew I had been blessed by His power.
Image 28: Silver Bridge across the Colorado River
As we left Phantom Ranch a hovering helicopter picked up a bundle of stuff (trash removal perhaps?) with a hook dangling from a rope, and flew off again. It's actually quite impressive what has been built down there, from the improved campground to the cabins to the small diner. Leaving "civilization" behind, we crossed the mighty Colorado River, the chief architect of the majestic scenery surrounding us, on the Silver Bridge. I regret now not walking to the shore and dipping my fingers in the cold water, to touch the actual bottom of the canyon, but the group was moving again at a fast speed and I didn't want to fall that far behind.
Image 29: November Shadows across the Canyon Bottom, looking east.
It is noteworthy that at the late season we were there, and heading from north to south on the trail, we had ideal shade conditions. The way the trail fell on the east side of the canyon most of the time before Phantom Ranch, and then ascending up the South Rim afterward with a southern winter sun, I estimate that we hiked in the shade probably 80 percent of the time throughout the entire day. That turned out to be significant, as it greatly reduced the amount of sweating I did and the water weight I needed to carry. One of the things I did not get quite right on the hike was that I carried far too much water for most of the distance, unnecessarily weighing myself down. The water filling stations were frequent enough that I over-packed. Previous experience of having too little water while hiking had made me cautious to not underestimate my water needs. It can be a tricky balance to get right and I suppose when it comes to water it's better to be over prepared.
Image 30: Looking West down the Grand Canyon. Most of what can be seen is just the bottom layer, a few hundred feet of narrower gorge below the stacked strata layers that eventually lead to the rim.
After hiking a full two miles along the river, with what turned out to be several false starts up the southern edge of the canyon--gaining elevation only to lose it again--we stopped at the River Resthouse, a pit toilet at the bottom of a southern side canyon. This was the last time my brother and I saw the rest of the group that day.
Image 31: View Halfway Up Pipe Creek Canyon, where the "next layer" of cliffs became visible
From here, the trail went relentlessly uphill: sometimes mildly and sometimes steeply, but it never really leveled off much again. For the entire two miles along the river at the canyon bottom, most of the view was limited to the narrow, brown cliffs that made up the "basement" of the Grand Canyon, with only occasional views of towering bluffs and pinnacles like mountains in the distance. Now climbing steadily uphill, more distant vistas gradually unfolded. The views were truly grand and helped me not dwell on how tired I was becoming. I kept up a decent speed for several miles, though I could tell the uphill was taking something out of me--as I expected it would. This was the part of the hike I had been nervous about all along.
Image 32: Typical Section of Trail below the South Rim
We got a brief, pleasant respite from the switchbacks as we entered a beautiful riparian section of the trail for a couple of miles before Indian Garden. Here it was autumn again, and late-afternoon sunlight filtered through golden leaves, bathing the canyon bottom in a kind of warm glow.
Image 33: Along Garden Creek I
Image 34: Along Garden Creek II
Indian Garden was our last water stop of the day, being a year-round water source in another amazingly well-developed campground. Here we found lots of other hikers and campers. We were in the full shade of evening by the time we got there, and though we hoped to find our group, they had already moved on.
Here I had a rather unpleasant revelation, as I looked at the trail map sign by the water station. I knew we had been hiking a couple of hours at a decent speed. I figured we had already gone four, maybe five miles, so that the remainder of the hike was probably two miles or so. Almost done! The uphill had been substantial but didn't feel too bad. I was feeling pretty good overall.
The sign there said "Bright Angel Campground: 4.8 miles." Yup, about what I had estimated since we left Phantom Ranch. Then it said "South Rim: 4.5 miles." I read it again: "4.5 miles." No, surely it should say 2.5 miles or so. But there it was, "4.5 miles." So it was not seven miles from Phantom Ranch to the top, it was over nine miles! At this point in my journey, believe me, every mile counted and that unintentional detour in the morning started to feel costly. I felt my progress, energy, and hope evaporating into the arid desert air. I had over twice as far still to go as I had expected. I should have brought a map!
I swallowed hard because there was nothing else to do, and we started hiking again. I realized that with the evening shadows descending around us already, we would arrive at the top in the dark. 4.5 miles would take us a good two hours, if we hiked at a really good speed, on a steep uphill grade. I didn't know if I could hike at a good speed at all. I was starting to feel the drag of the day weighing me down.
My brother must have been having some of the same thoughts about my hiking speed and the distance yet to go. After a mile or so, while I was resting on a rock and laboring through some heavy breathing, he asked me if he could carry my pack. Of course I turned him down. I am a grown man and can certainly carry my own pack, tired or not.
We did have some points of interest along the route, though the main theme was switchbacks and more switchbacks. We passed right by a group of four "zoo-stupid" deer munching on their evening meal who had apparently lost all natural fear of people. My brother also noticed a cool tarantula crossing the trail. He always notices these kinds of things, while I almost stepped on it.
Image 35: Tarantula
I groaned a little on the outside, cried a little on the inside, and resisted the urge to give up then and there. My brother again offered to carry my pack, and again I turned him down. But then trying to be honest with myself and my weakened physical and emotional state, I offered, "Maybe you could carry one of my canteens." I gave him a full 2-liter canteen and at his urging, my big camera bag as well. I was mostly beyond the point of taking many pictures anyway.
I did feel a little better after offloading that much, but it didn't last long. After another slow mile or so I put my hoodie back on and put my headlamp back in my pocket. It was getting cold and starting to get dark. My brother again asked me to give him my backpack, and after sighing heavily and leaving a big chunk of my pride there on the trail, I handed it over. "It took me a whole hour to be ready to give that up," I told him. "I know," he replied. His voice was kind and patient. He wore one pack on his back and the other on his front. I felt defeated and humiliated to give my burden so completely over to him, but with the gathering darkness I concluded that it was for the best.
I kept my pride alive with the thought that I could have carried it myself, but imagined the marathon people at the top of the canyon, impatiently waiting and wishing they had never invited me along. They were very nice people and never would have thought that, but the thought humiliated me enough that I knew it was better to let my brother carry my pack for me. I did take the camera back, and took the final picture of the day (below) as I rested for a moment on one of the seemingly hundred switchbacks along the trail.
It didn't take long for me to be glad that I gave up my backpack. Shortly after the next resthouse (which turned out to the be the "1.5-Mile Resthouse"), I was stepping up and over an obstacle on the trail my thigh cramped sharply, causing me to stumble. I don't remember my thighs ever cramping before. I wasn't drinking enough. Or I was drinking too much. Or not enough electrolytes. Or I'm just old, fat, and wimpy. I'm not sure. All I knew is that it hurt in a new way.
I began working my way up the terraced trail by always lifting my other leg over the steps each time, to avoid triggering the cramp. This put me into an unnatural stride, since the terraces were every stride and a half or so, the trail having been carefully constructed to handle a lot of foot traffic while withstanding erosion. It felt like it was getting steeper and from what I could see, it headed directly to the back of a tall box canyon.
The gathering darkness felt oppressive in the growing chill and I looked in vain to tell where the trail finally punched out of the gloom, but I could not see it. I honestly felt kind of hopeless at this point. I was discouraged, defeated, and felt utterly "out of gas." I tried to pep-talk myself into going faster but my efforts always faltered after a few steps and I found it difficult to put one foot in front of the other. I would have loved to have just stopped right there on the trail and gone to sleep, but I knew that wasn't an option. This was the hardest I had ever been pushed physically in my life. I was exhausted and humiliated and it took all my effort just to keep myself together and moving forward at even a slow pace.
"I can push you from behind," my brother offered. For a moment my mind rejected the idea, but I was at such a low state that instead I asked, "Will it really help?" He assured me that it would, this being a tried-and-true technique he had used to help some of his family members on hikes in the past. Leaving the very last bit of my pride there at that spot, I allowed my brother, wearing both our backpacks, to put his hand on my back and gently push as I keep plodding onward and upward. It did help.
In this time of extremity, my mind was drawn to a story I had heard of the early Latter-day Saint Pioneers, among whom were many of my ancestors. An account of the ill-fated Martin and Willey handcart companies, unprepared and caught in early snows that killed many of them, included this remarkable statement by one of the survivors of that harrowing ordeal:
"I have pulled my handcart when I was so weak and weary from illness and lack of food that I could hardly put one foot ahead of the other. I have looked ahead and seen a patch of sand or a hill slope and I have said, I can go only that far and there I must give up, for I cannot pull the load through it. I have gone on to that sand and when I reached it, the cart began pushing me. I have looked back many times to see who was pushing my cart, but my eyes saw no one. I knew then that the angels of God were there." (See a longer account here.)
I would be presumptuous and foolish to compare my voluntary, one-day break from modern-day luxury with the extreme suffering and sacrifice of these faithful saints; but there on that dark, steep section of trail, that quote came to my mind along with the thought, "You too have an angel pushing you." I knew then that the priesthood blessing my brother gave me the night before was being fulfilled to the very letter--I was being given strength and ability beyond my own to finish the hike. Some of it came as grace from heaven, and some of that strength came from an angel on earth: my older brother, a lifelong friend and hero, and literally part of my saving grace that day.
Image 36: Last Light of Day, Looking Back Towards the North Rim.
I didn't make it out of the canyon in the daylight, but still enjoyed
this beautiful view.
With my brother carrying my load and pushing me up the hill, we finished the last mile and arrived at the top in the full dark, my headlamp having illuminated our last mile. I will forever remember one of the final views I had before reaching the top: looking back down, there was a long, slowly-moving stream of small white lights zig-zagging up the trail behind us. There were many, many more hikers who would finish this difficult journey in the dark, as we did.
We finished the hike at about seven o'clock, a full twelve hours after starting, in dark and cold very similar to how we began the day. It seemed like we had come full circle, providing a symbolic wrap-up of the day's epic events. We had traversed nearly 25 miles and descended and ascended the height of a mountain. A feeling of elation and accomplishment started at the edge of the South Rim of the Grand Canyon that continues to now. I don't care anymore that I had to give up my pack and receive the help of my brother. I needed the help and that is okay; I am just grateful for the experience.
We discovered, after meeting up with the rest of the group at one of the diners on the South Rim, that the last person from the group before us had only arrived 30 minutes earlier, and the bulk of the group only 30 minutes before that. "We've waited hours for people in the past," the hike organizers told me. They were gracious and kind and congratulatory. I ate a big, juicy burger and fries and thought over the day's adventures. I was on cloud nine.
I'm not sure I should ever attempt that hike again. I am quite sure I should never attempt it in weather hotter than what we had that day. I am certain that the cold temperatures and the shade saved me, especially on that last, seven-mile uphill slog. I am glad I never turned into the guy puking in the picture on the sign. That easily could have been me on the wrong day. I was pushed right to my limit--it is as if I stood on the brink of an abyss, with a full view of the terrifying blackness that could have swallowed me, but never toppled over into it.
But still, I did it!
At the risk of relating a very imperfect comparison to something important and sacred, I offer one more analogy:
Each of us, in a sense, has descended deep into the canyon. Every person on earth is a literal child of God, having spiritually begun our existence living with Him in Celestial heights. As his children, we wanted to grow to become more like him. This required leaving home and descending down to this earth, this mortal experience we share on this little globe that is so lost and forlorn in the infinity of space.
As Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, a modern-day apostle of Jesus Christ, so eloquently said of this endeavor to grow up to be like our Father in Heaven:
"I don’t know about you, but to me that sounds like a long journey—and an exhilarating one! Such a divine goal, lofty though it is, is at the heart of what makes the restored gospel so attractive and inspiring. Deep in our souls is an echo—a memory—that tells us this is why we came to earth. We accepted our Father in Heaven’s plan first and foremost because we wanted to become like Him. We knew that it was a staggering goal that would never be easy to achieve. But we simply couldn’t be satisfied with anything less. Our souls were created to grow, and we were stirred then and now to make the journey."
Now we are each somewhere along that trail. We meet and greet each other as we pass. We share cool, refreshing drinks and dip our feet in the waters of rest. But ultimately, we each come to realize that we cannot stay forever at the bottom of the canyon. We feel an urgency to hike back up to where we came from--we must return home, safe again but richer because of the experience. So we pluck up our courage and hike. And we hike and hike and hike. And it becomes harder and harder, and steeper and steeper. And--very importantly--unlike the Grand Canyon hike, none of us can do this one alone. Each one of us finds ourselves stuck on the trail, exhausted, deflated, and defeated.
And then comes our Older Brother, the Firstborn of the Father, our Savior Jesus Christ. He offers, but does not force us, to let him take our backpacks--those burdens we carry that are so heavy, that weigh us down with grief, regret, and pain. They are our own sins and the sins of those who hurt us along the way, as well as our disappointments, fears, sicknesses, injustices, and everything else that weighs us down. If we will let him, he simply lifts those burdens from our shoulders and carries them himself.
But he is not done with us; if we will let him, he offers to place his almighty hand on us and literally pushes us upward. We could never make it without this heavenly help, for the heights to which he can lift us far exceed our ability to comprehend. All he asks is that we let him help, that we allow his grace to change us, and then that we keep putting one foot in front of the other. Without his help, every one of us would literally die on the trail. And with his help, every one of us can make it to the top, where he dwells. Once there, we will ultimately understand that he was there with us not just at the end, but the whole time, from the first step to the last. In a way we don't fully understand and often cannot see, he is there personally with us and with each member of that long procession of little lights, winding upward through the darkness. And unlike my experience in the Grand Canyon, as we reach the top we leave the cold and darkness, and pain and exhaustion, behind. Up there it is warm and light and we are treated to a never-ending, spectacular view.
I suppose this analogy means so much to me right now because that is the true meaning of the Christmas season--to celebrate Jesus coming to earth. He didn't come down to the bottom here because he needed to prove himself. He came here for us.
"...Behold, he shall be born of Mary, ...she being a virgin, a precious and chosen vessel, who shall be overshadowed and conceive by the power of the Holy Ghost, and bring forth a son, yea, even the Son of God.
"And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.
"And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death which bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities.
"Now the Spirit knoweth all things; nevertheless the Son of God suffereth according to the flesh that he might take upon him the sins of his people, that he might blot out their transgressions according to the power of his deliverance; and now behold, this is the testimony which is in me."
(Alma 7:10-13)
It is my witness that Jesus Christ lives, and with his grace--his help--we surely can make it!
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