Havasu Falls
When I decided to include a visit to Havasu
Falls on the itinerary of a road trip two years
ago, I budgeted half a day for the excursion.
Looking at the map, I saw that Highway 95
conveniently paralleled Lake Havasu, so I figured I
could park and spend a couple of hours swimming at
the falls. Upon further research, however, I
realized that Havasu Falls was nowhere near Lake
Havasu, and in fact many miles lay between the
falls and the nearest road. Fortunately, the
itinerary was flexible, so I added a couple of days
to make the hike. It turned out to be the highlight
of the trip.
Reaching the scenic waterfall was no easy task.
Leaving Route 66 somewhere west of Seligman,
Arizona, my friend Rick and I followed lonely
Highway 18 for over sixty miles to a dead end at
Hualapai Hilltop, the trailhead at the top of
Havasu Canyon. From there, eight arduous hiking
miles separated us from the small Indian town of
Supai, home of the Havasupai tribe and gateway to
Havasu Falls. Since our visit fell in the middle of
the summertime heat, we decided to set up camp in
the glow of a dramatic sunset and start our descent
into the canyon at first light.
The next morning, anticipation ran high as we
took our first steps into Havasu Canyon, an
offshoot of the Grand Canyon. The first of the
eight miles down into the canyon consisted of a
dizzying series of switchbacks. Before we reached
the canyon floor, we had to make way for several
mule trains carrying U.S. mail from Supai, the only
town in the country where mail is still carried by
mule train. We also passed several caravans of
tourists descending and ascending on mules and
horses, and saw a helicopter ferrying more visitors
to and from Supai.
Once in the canyon proper, the terrain gradually
narrowed into red rock ravines, our echoing
footsteps the only sounds. As the morning
progressed, the temperature rose, making us
thankful for our early start and the shade provided
by the steep canyon walls. By the time the sun rose
high enough to beat down on us, a bubbling creek
had joined our path, giving us a convenient source
to cool down. Emerging from subterranean springs,
these same aquamarine waters poured over Havasu
Falls further down the canyon.
After such a grueling hike, we rejoiced at the
sight of Supai's outbuildings. But when we reached
the visitor's center in the town proper, our tired
bodies sagged at the news that we had two more
miles to hike before we reached the campground.
Supai offers a modest lodge for those who want to
sleep in a bed, but many visitors pitch a tent at
the campgrounds below the falls. Reservations are a
must, though the campground's capacity is around
300. The place often fills up far in advance in the
summer months, and camping is not allowed anywhere
else. After such a long hike, you don't want to be
turned away and forced to hike back out of the
canyon.
Though the terrain around Havasu Falls resembled
a tropical paradise, and the summer heat approached
100 degrees, the water still felt like the mountain
spring that it was. But a long soak in the cool
waters brought new meaning to the word "refreshing"
after the long exertion getting there. For the next
two days, we splashed about under the roar of
Havasu Falls and the canyon's other gorgeous
cataracts, Navajo Falls and Mooney Falls. The
latter offered thrills as well as refreshment, as
the pool at the base of the falls is only
accessible by negotiating a cliff face by way of
tunnels, ropes and ladders.
The hike back out of the canyon, especially the
2,000-vertical-foot ascent in 100-degree heat at
the end, proved to be the most physically demanding
experience of my entire life. When we reached our
vehicle on Hualapai Hilltop, I felt an exhausted
sense of accomplishment. But I couldn't help
wondering whether the $70 helicopter ride out of
the canyon would have been money well spent. I may
return in 2004, so perhaps I'll have a chance to
find out.
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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