April 25th, 2025
In 2018 I rode a bicycle from Mexico to Canada. My route started with the Arizona Trail. At the conclusion of that trail I had to disassemble my bike and carry it on my back through the Grand Canyon. That’s right. THE Grand Canyon. Six thousand feet down, seven thousand feet back up, with a pack that totaled 85lbs, 45lbs of which was my full steel Surly ECR mountain bike. I still count my Arizona Trail bikepacking trip and carrying the bike through the Grand Canyon as the worst adventure and most miserable time I’ve spent outside anywhere, ever. I am not exaggerating when I say I pushed my bike more than I rode it on the Arizona Trail. It took me some 33 days to bike it. I hiked the trail faster when I backpacked it in 2020.
On my way down the south rim I met a day-hiker about every couple hundred feet. It seemed like every man over the age of 50 couldn’t help themselves. They had to make a dad joke. “I’m too TIRED to carry a bike in this heat! Son, that's a mountain bike, not a mountain HIKE! You're supposed to ride into the sunset, not carry it there!”
Please, I implore you, if you’re ever in the Grand Canyon and you see a person carrying their bicycle on their back, leave them alone! They are already suffering enough and don’t need your terrible dad jokes.
It’s NPS regulation that you must disassemble your bike and remove the wheels before entering the Grand Canyon. The thought process is likely that you’ll be tempted to ride and then kill yourself or kill someone else as you barrel down the steep winding South Kaibab trail. After two and half grueling hours I passed a sign that read “two miles to the top.” At that moment I had to fight the strong urge to first hurl my bike, and then hurl myself off the side of the trail and over the cliff. Point eight miles per hour. And that was going down-hill.
I spent the night at the Bright Angel campground and remember laying on my sleeping pad, staring up into outer space. The Milky Way stretched across the night sky like a silvery, sparkling river, its countless stars silhouetted between the massive canyon walls. I lay on my sleeping pad, muscles aching from the long day, mesmerized. In that moment—as shooting stars tore across the darkness and the purple haze of galactic dust revealed itself—I understood why I put up with the suffering inherent in thru-hiking and bikepacking: I could only gain this level of appreciation and satisfaction because of the pain I’d endured to get here.
I didn’t just park on the south rim and hike down here in a day. I’d ridden almost 700 miles, from the border of Mexico to arrive at this exact, perfect moment. I’d ridden through scorching heat and drank water from stock-pounds filled with cow poop(this water tastes exactly like how cows smell). Near Tucson I’d fallen onto a cactus and spent an hour pulling needles out of my butt under the light of the full moon. I’d shed no small amount of blood, sweat, and tears to get here. And that’s what made this moment so perfect, and so satisfying.
The next day I was supposed to hike 15 miles and climb out of the canyon. I only made it eight miles before I set up camp again. I’d grossly overestimated how quickly I could move under the crushing weight of my bike and by the time I reached Cottonwood campground it was too late in the afternoon to attempt to climb out of the canyon. Not a big deal, another night in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. The only issue is I’d only planned to spend one and a half days in the canyon. Now this would make it nearly three days. I’d run out of food if I didn’t ration it.
I don’t know if you’re familiar with the hunger that strikes after you’ve spent 12+ hours a day in rigorous exercise for an entire month, but it’s an insatiable kind of hunger. I routinely eat 5 to 6,000 calories on these adventures and still lose 15 to 20 pounds by the end of the trip. That’s all to say I did a bad job of rationing my food.
By the next day when I started to climb the north Kaibab trail all I had left to eat were these super super spicy peanuts. The only reason I hadn’t eaten them all was because they were just way too spicy. Whoever made these nuts needs to be jailed. Those nuts were a crime against humanity!
I staggered upward on the North Kaibab trail, each step a battle between gravity and my shaky, exhausted legs, as the 85-pound pack dug deep into my shoulders and threatened to drag me to the ground. Sweat poured down my face. The intense Arizona sun was relentless. Fellow hikers passed with concerned glances. I was passed by a elderly woman and her daughter carrying school backpacks. I was passed by a father and his small child. I was passed by a group of high-schoolers whispering amongst themselves and throwing glances at my bike.
The most memorable of the passersby was a man in his mid 50s and his adult son. They passed me in good spirits, said hi, and I saw them sitting and taking a break around the next switchback. The older man asked me what I was doing. I explained the Arizona trail and the need to carry the bike through. He told me a dumb dad joke and we both pretended to laugh. He then pulled out a small Christian book and tried to give it to me. “Oh no, no thank you, I really am not religious and I absolutely don’t want to add anymore weight to my pack.” He wouldn’t take no for an answer and said I’d probably get something out of this book, then moved on with his son, leaving me stranded there with his dumb religious propaganda.
Great. More weight to my pack. He must have been pretty concerned about my well-being if he felt the need to convert me to Christianity on the spot. Maybe he thought I wasn’t long for this world and he really needed to save my soul. I was pretty concerned about my well-being too. I’d been climbing for four hours and had only made it 2 miles. There were still 2 more grueling and steep miles to go before I’d be out of the Grand Canyon and free from this Purgatory.
Climbing out of the Grand Canyon certainly does feel like Purgatory. I’d later go on to run the rim-to-rim-to-rim twice. That’s where you run from the south rim, to the north rim, and then back in a day. It’s 44 miles and involves some 13,000ft of gain and descent. Both times took me about twelve and a half hours. That last 6,000ft climb out of the south rim feels like purgatory, every single time. I can think of no better punishment for trump and Musk and Vance than to make them climb out of the Grand Canyon for eternity.
Remember those spicy peanuts? It was at this point, after the man handed me his religious book, that my stomach started cramping up. Oh no. Oh no no no no. I had to GO. Right now. And I’d passed the last outhouse already miles back and there wouldn’t be another until the top of the Canyon. This is normally not a big deal in the backcountry. You can just walk a couple hundred feet off trail, dig a hole, do your business and then get back to hiking.
You can’t do that in the Grand Canyon. There is nowhere to walk to. Nowhere with any semblance of privacy. To one side of you is a thousand foot wall. To the other side is a thousand foot drop-off. There is nowhere to go. And I had no choice, I had to go. Those spicy peanuts were coming out.
So I got as far off trail as I could in the corner of a switchback and tried to position my pack and bike to at least give me a tiny bit of cover. Then I evacuated myself. It wasn’t pretty.
It would be poetic justice if I’d also been out of toilet paper and had to use the religious book to wipe. But, that wasn’t the case. I had plenty of toilet paper. The book stayed useless. An extra, unwanted burden. I can’t remember if anyone walked by. I think this moment was so traumatic and so embarrassing that my brain has suppressed the memory. I just remember being in a lot of pain and feeling absolute panic at the fact that there was nowhere I could relieve myself with any kind of privacy.
After nine grueling hours I finally climbed out of the Canyon. Today whenever I experience any kind of suffering or discomfort I remind myself, “at least you’re having to carry a damn bike through the Grand Canyon while you have diarrhea.” It helps. Try this the next time you experience something difficult. Times are difficult and a fascist is taking power, but at least you’re not carrying a bike through the Grand Canyon while you shit your pants.
The Key to the Universe
Later on that trip I rode through Humboldt County and stopped in Eureka. A stranger had reached out to me via Instagram and offered to let me crash at his place. From his profile I was expecting a middle-aged man and his wife living in the suburbs. Instead I arrived at a hippy commune. He lived in a large ramshackle house with twenty others, mostly hippies that were attending Humboldt University.
I’ve long since forgotten his name. But he’d been riding his motorcycle up the Pacific Coast Highway when he’d met his hippy girlfriend, who was attending Humboldt University and lived in this commune. Love had curtailed his adventure and had been hanging out in Eureka for a month. Let’s call him Motorcycle Dude(MD) and we can call her Hippy Chick(HC).
I arrived in the afternoon and they graciously offered me their shower and a spot to sleep in their room. They told me later that night there would be a big bonfire and everyone would be doing acid. “Are you in?”
