By Nate Lanza
The relentless midday sun of this harsh desert seems to bake the parched earth and all the animals upon it—with its greatest cruelty reserved, it seems, for me—as I pound down the biggest descent on the Beamer Trail, one of the most remote paths in the Grand Canyon. I’m racing the pain in my joints and the building heat in my head, as well as the steadily rising heat of the day, toward my salvation: a sandy beach on the shore of a refreshingly frigid and uncharacteristically clear Colorado River.
Reaching it, I escape my pack and shoes as though they’re on fire and flop into the crystalline waters of a shallow eddy, where the river and I rest together for a few blissful seconds, until I rise in a spell of cold-induced euphoria to dash gleefully around my new sanctuary. Unfortunately, my reverie proves short-lived: Eight miles remain to our next camp, and it’s already noon.
