It was the fall of 1995, nearly ten years after I had found out that I had chronic kidney disease at the age of sixteen. At the initial diagnosis the nephrologist said that I had fifty percent kidney function–now referred to as CKD stage 3. Back then, at this stage there was no talk about dialysis or a kidney transplant, since the combined use of my remaining kidneys equaled one good one, and one is fine for living a long and active life. The trick is to not let the disease progress. And for that it was suggested that I lower the amount of protein that I ate, and to check back annually.

At twenty-five, I found myself driving daily up to 200 miles to first work in metro Detroit, then to school in East Lansing, and finally returning home to Port Huron. I often felt life was passing me by as I worked, studied, guzzled Big Gulps, and shoved subs down my throat. 

All for some unknown future payoff. 

Meanwhile, my high school sweetheart, Andria, who I later married, would come home from another long day of mediation at her job at the family court. She would tell me how she spent her evening, often making mac and cheese and a salad, and then walk our chocolate Labrador, Amos, around the neighborhood. As she passed the yards with elaborate wooden play sets, she’d wonder why the hell her life was stalled, and why we had ongoing infertility issues.

On this day, our friend Stephan was back home from San Francisco for a visit. Over bar-b-cue on our patio, we started talking about going on a backpacking trip together. Steph mentioned that he wanted to hike the backcountry of the Grand Canyon. He talked about how beautiful it was to hike in the desert, and how he had already mapped out a trip. As Stephan described the trip, my eyes grew wide with fascination. I knew this would be just the challenge that Drea and I needed to break out of our worry and monotony.

Six months later, it was the night before we were to set out down the Kaibab Trail.  As we readied our packs in our room at the Thunderbird Lodge, we were giddy with anticipation. It felt like I was watching someone else’s life.

The next morning, about halfway down our descent, the sheer beauty of the canyon was lost on Drea who was starting to feel weak and nauseous. When we finally crossed the Black Bridge, and soon after arrived at Phantom Ranch, Steph recognized the symptoms of heat exhaustion and suggested that she drink more water. But, by then it was already too late. 

Despite rinsing off in the cold waters of Clear Creek which runs past the ranch, and drinking more water, she was still on shaky ground. But we had to make it to our camping area, so we started our hike up the North Rim. Soon after leaving the Clear Creek Trail, as we headed into the backcountry, I decided that she needed to take off her backpack. I could tell the weight was unbearable in her condition, though she wasn’t complaining. That may have been because she was starting to resemble the walking dead, saying nothing and slowly shuffling one foot in front of the other.

We decided to hide the pack behind some boulders and come back for it after we set up camp. We hiked on the side of the temple wall looking for a suitable place. Eventually, we found a small break and followed it up. We came upon a level area with a sandy floor and pitched our tent. As the sun started to set, Steph ascended a nearby rock cropping for a better view. 

“You guys have to see this!” he yelled.

After a long rest and more water, Drea had regained some strength and started to climb the slope.  Halfway up, just before she took another step, among the red rocks she noticed a pink rock that seemed to be moving. She focused her eyes and froze. 

“Erich, there is a snake,” she whispered. 

I sprinted to her side. 

“Quietly step back.”

Drea stepped away, and the Hopi rattler slithered on. Drea shivered but, undaunted, made her way to the top of the rocks. We were both amazed at the sight.  

As the sun set, the golden rays bounced off the red, pink, brown and gray rock that formed the South Rim, creating a kaleidoscope of orange hues. It was otherworldly, completely alien. Then she noticed that I was only wearing gray boxer briefs, a blue flannel hoodie, and my Primus ball cap.

“Hun,” she said, “where are your pants?”

“You know, it just feels so free out here,” I replied. “Plus, I don’t think anyone will see me.” I had been in the middle of changing when she called to me about the snake.

Over the next couple of days she recovered some. We retrieved her pack. It was right where we had left it. We spent time swimming in the cool waters of upper Clear Creek. We explored the back country and then enjoyed Pacific smoked salmon that Steph had brought along with a bottle of Roja he had previously poured into a plastic container.

Finally it came time for us to hike out, first down on the Clear Creek Trail, then back up to the South Rim. I could tell Drea was concerned about the ascent. She was still weak, and was afraid that she wasn’t going to make it up the steep Bright Angel Trail. I put as many of her belongings as would fit in my pack. 

When we arrived at Phantom Ranch, we refilled the water bottles, then slowly made our way to the Silver Bridge that crosses the Colorado River. I stopped in the middle of the bridge and watched as Drea briefly disappeared into the shadow after stepping off on the other side. I looked down at the rolling, silt-laden Colorado and tried to comprehend the immensity of its power and history. I made a promise to myself to come back someday and raft through the canyon. I looked up the slope and beheld the Bright Angel Trail and its too-many switchbacks. Then I silently recited an Our Father.  

To finish our first backcountry backpacking trip, Drea and I now needed to climb the trail’s seven miles up 4,461 feet to the top. The task was intimidating. I willed myself to turn south and step toward the exit that would deliver me to the trailhead.

On the other side of the river I found a dried piece of cactus to use as a walking stick. The extra pounds were taking a toll on my legs. They were heavy and stiff. The walking stick helped to redistribute the weight of my overstuffed pack. Steph, the veteran hiker, took lead–often going far ahead to scout. At times we could see him skipping along on a switchback high above as we struggled to catch our breath. 

Now it was my turn to be hunched over and shuffling on the trail–Yoda style. I wondered which one of us would collapse first and be trampled by the next mule train, or one of the many dishearteningly enthusiastic day joggers who carried one small water bottle and, light as jackrabbits, bounded down the trail past us.  

After what felt like a millennium of unending dirt, sweat, pain and delirium, Drea and I finally caught up to Steph at the top of the South Rim. I was grateful for being back out of the canyon. Upon reaching the top, Drea started sobbing. Relief, fear, pain, elation, sorrow, accomplishment, I wasn’t sure which she was feeling. Most likely all of them at once. I put my arm around her waist as she stared out at the canyon, rivulets of tears streaming from her distant blue eyes. 

“We did it, Sweetie,” I said. “We made it.”

Then she puked.

About the author:

Erich Ditschman is a national speaker, author, advocate, and blogger. His topics include kidney disease, dialysis, kidney transplant, intimacy with dialysis, coming to terms with chronic illness, getting outside, and discovering one’s best life in the face of adversity.