A Mule Ride into the Grand Canyon

The day before our scheduled mule ride down Bright Angel Trail in Grand Canyon National
Park, we weighed in. We both registered under the 200-pound limit, though Mark just barely.

The clerk gave us leather pouches for carrying water on our ride, ensured that we had hats and long-sleeved shirts to wear and informed us to meet in the corral the next morning.

We arose early to snag some breakfast, and at 6:45 a.m. we met Jack, a wrangler, in the park corral. After a 25-minute safety talk, Jack sized the nine of us up and partnered us each with a mule whose personality he felt meshed with what little of our own that Jack could decipher in our as-yet short time together.

I sidled up to my match, Buttermilk, a tall, blond mule with a nearly white mane. Mark, who had never been on horseback or muleback before, was partnered with Pistol, a thick-in-the-middle, cantankerous mule. Jack made the match reasoning that Mark looked big and strong, like he could handle a mule of his own mind. He gave Mark what he called a “motivator”: a thick rope with a knot in one end. Mark was to swing that hard into either side of Pistol to keep him moving.

Out of curiosity, I asked if the mules ever got a day off. Dryly, Jack responded that the mules had no union so were seven-day-a-week trekkers. More seriously, he explained that, with experience, he and the other wranglers can tell by sight which mules might need a day off, simply by watching them in the corral each morning.

Around about 8 a.m. we set off down Bright Angel Trail. Jack and his mule headed our caravan and another cowboy concluded it, just behind Mark and Pistol. I rode in the middle of the pack.

About a quarter mile into the steep, switchback, dusty trail, Jack stopped and asked if anybody had any concerns so far. I commented, “Already, Buttermilk has stumbled a couple times and even fallen to her front knees one time. Already,” I emphasized. “Are you sure she’s up for this trail today?” I was a little worried because most of the trail was straight, dead drop off to one side or the other.

Jack assured me that Buttermilk was ready for the task, and I respected Jack’s expert opinion.

Continuing down the trail, hikers stepped aside to let us pass as mule trains have right-of-way, and we stopped four miles in at Indian Gardens. There we could dismount and rest in the shade, fill up our water bottles and go to the bathroom.

Mark and I sat on the dusty ground in the shade, and he told me that he swung the motivator
hard on Pistol a couple times. “Now,” he said, “all I have to do is lift it up, then Pistol sees it,” and hurries right along.

Shortly after our stop at the Indian Garden oasis, we reached the ultimate, what made putting up with our stubborn, clumsy mules worth it; we were peering down at the sediment-filled, churning, Colorado River that ran a hundred feet below. I wanted to venture out onto a firm yet unsupported precipice jutting from the cliff to have Mark take my picture, yet he begged me not to do it. He reminded me that my balance is about as good as Buttermilk’s; one false move, and I’d be a goner. So we meandered back to our mounts, settled into the saddles and rode back to Indian Gardens for a box lunch in the shade.

Afterwards, with our mules aimed up the trail, the ride was steadier, and we could more fully enjoy the grandeur of the canyon.

By the time our mules trotted into the corral, the sundial read 3:30 p.m. We were happy the ride was over; our rumps being sore.

With plenty of water remaining in our flasks, we drank as we ambled to our car. I smiled
to myself watching Mark, a little bow-legged after spending so many hours on fat Pistol.

Thank goodness our motel, just outside the park, had a hot tub. We soaked good and long that
night.