We left the Colorado River and headed uphill. I cannot describe in words, how happy my knees were to be heading uphill instead of down. This excitement however, was short lived.
From the river, you start the hike up in earnest. I was elated to be moving uphill. I can go uphill forever, like some sort of hiking machine. Slow and steady for ever and ever. Downhill is another beast, one that kills my knees. I was glad to have it behind me. So glad in fact, that I didn't even mind that the slog uphill was through deep sand.
Up and up and up I went, watching the river move farther and farther away from me. The deep sand gave way to actual sand dunes, but I was still too elated to be going up instead of down to care.
You would be forgiven for thinking, as I did, that it was all uphill from here. That is a sneaky, sneaky lie. One that my knees both had not anticipated, and failed to appreciate. They hiked me up, up, and away from the river in the heat, in the sand, and then the terrible thing happened. The trail turned a corner, and lead all the way back down to the river. While it was mildly disheartening mentally, my knees had a full scale mutiny.
From the first downward step I knew I was going to have issues. Not only did the outside of BOTH knees feel like they were packed full of glass, but I could feel them starting to stiffen and lock in an attempt to keep the tendon from rubbing against the outer knuckle of my knee. I had anticipated this battle of wits, between myself and my knees, but was still shocked at the amount of pain each step managed to produce. Before long I was pausing for a second or two between every other step, trying to will my knees to bend.
When I had a flare up on Squaw Peak, it was only in my left knee, and I had managed to complete the descent by keeping my bad knee locked. With both knees in pain, this was not an option. I didn't complain, and for the most part I continued smiling like a fool and saying cheery things, positive things that kept us moving. The joy of the adventure overwhelmed most of my other senses, but in the back of my mind, the doubts were growing.
By the time we reached the River Resthouse I was in agony. We'd only come 1.5 miles from the river and because of the gain and then loss nature of the path were still only at 2,480 ft.
I plopped myself down immediately and ace bandaged my other leg. I was somewhere around an 8 on my pain scale, and the pictures get much more sparse from here on out.
I was still in really high spirits, Dear Friend. I was happy and not at all panic-y, but I was also totally and completely unsure how exactly I was going to manage to get myself out of the canyon.
All those hours of bikram yoga prepared me for this moment. I have never been so grateful for a yoga class in all my life. Those classes taught me the importance of a positive head space. I know that sounds like hippy mumbo jumbo, but I swear on all things holy, the moment you start thinking you can't do something, you're screwed. That doesn't mean you should push on through insufferable pain or headaches, or dehydration, or anything else, but it does mean that when stuff starts to go wrong you have to sit back and address it without getting to the 'I can't do this space'. I firmly believe that I can do all things, the logistics however, are occasionally illusive.
I knew I was going to make it out of the canyon. More than that, I knew I was going to make it out of the canyon without any major issues. I was SO CERTAIN that I would do it, but at this point, I just hadn't figured out HOW. The logistics of a 8+ mile hike with two bad knees was a mystery to me. We sat here for a while, ate some food, and gave my knees time to recover.
When we started out again, things hadn't really improved. The sand however, was at least behind us.
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