A Serial Killer’s Daughter

by Kerri Rawson

  “Not we. You and the kids.” My mom stood next to Aunt Donna. “We’re going to spend the week hiking in air-conditioned malls and sleeping in beds, not on rocks.” Donna glanced between my parents and laughed.

  “The girls,” as my dad called them, were spending the afternoon sightseeing with us before heading to Phoenix to visit family. Reasonable sorts, they definitely didn’t consider anything about what we had planned as vacation. But I was glad Dad had never considered me a girl. I much preferred going along with the guys instead of spending a week in malls, even though going along with Dad meant sleeping on rocks.

  I felt bad for my brother who, on our drive in, threw up on the side of the road. Pale and nauseous, Brian was now sitting with his head down, facing away from the view. We grabbed a Sprite for my brother and sandwiches for us, and ate lunch overlooking the rim.

  Day-trippers were walking up the popular, well-maintained Bright Angel Trail. Based on the flip-flops, I surmised they’d only gone down a short way. A few heavily laden backcountry hikers came up the trail, too, looking worn and unkempt, covered in red dirt.

  I wondered if watching Grandpa decline over the past two years had driven my dad to embrace his long-held dream of hiking the canyon before he wasn’t able to anymore. Dad let age dog him often—wound on an internal clock ticking down that the rest of us couldn’t see. He’d joke that when it was his time to go, we should “just take him out to pasture.”

  I didn’t get it—he still seemed capable of whatever he set out to do. I sometimes had a hard time keeping up with him; he could be so full of energy and excitement.

  Dad had thrown himself into planning this trip, researching guides, shopping for the right supplies. Without fail, he followed the Boy Scout code: be prepared. I felt ready, with solid gear, decent know-how, and my dad along. I would follow him anywhere he wanted to go. He said we could handle a hike of this magnitude and I believed him. I trusted him with my life.

  That afternoon, Dad gazed out over the canyon and Mom leaned in close to him, resting her chin against his back. She looked happy, content to be right where she was, but I knew she was going to miss us. I could tell she also was worried about what Dad had decided to undertake, especially with us kids along.

  Aunt Donna took pictures of us standing on the ledge that day, a bunch of naive, grinning folks and one green-faced one, with no idea of what was waiting down the way for us. If anyone should have known, it would have been Dad. But that’s impossible to say—then or now.

  DAY ONE

  SOUTH RIM

  Our plan was to get up at the crack of dawn, as Dad said the night before, but none of us slept well in our small motel room near the rim.

  For me, it wasn’t so much due to sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag as it was my brother stepping over me to puke in the toilet. My cousin joined in the stepping over me and puking at least once too—in the toilet, not on me. My stomach wasn’t feeling so great either, and I seriously contemplated it too—the puking, not the stepping over anyone.

  We checked out of our room and ate breakfast in a cafeteria, mulling over what to do about my brother, who was in no shape to hike with us after throwing up for twenty-four hours.

  He sat quietly next to us while I picked at my food, scooting watery eggs around on my plate. I wasn’t sure if my stomach was off because breakfast was lousy, if I had the same bug my brother had, or because I was suffering from a growing case of nerves.

  We didn’t want Brian to miss out on the trip, but we didn’t want to miss out either. Our backcountry permit was for specific nights and campsites—use it or lose it. Dad filed for those permits a year ago. It would be a long time, if ever, before we got back out here. I’m sure my brother was feeling bad about holding us up, but it wasn’t his fault he was sick.

  We settled on finding another room in the park for my brother; he would stay there till he was fit enough to join us. Dad outlined a plan so Brian could hike down and meet us later in the week; he showed Brian the route and checked to make sure my brother had enough gear and food. Dad told him to take a bus to the trailhead and join us at Granite Rapids on day two or three, or Monument Creek on day four. Dad emphasized he would need to reach us in one day, hiking up to ten miles, because we would be carrying the only water filter. Drinking unfiltered water can lead to a doublewhammy-out-both-ends kind of sickness.

  Dad was getting more uptight as the clock kept ticking, but it took time to find a room and get my brother moved. It was also an unexpected expense. Money could stress out my dad, but my folks carried an emergency credit card for these reasons.

  I tried to keep Dad on an even keel, because without Mom along, that job fell all on me. I was also the one who had to assure my brother he was going to be okay. I was on edge myself, trying to help my brother, managing my dad, and knowing we needed to get hiking.

  Looking back, I’m not sure why we didn’t call Mom and Aunt Donna and ask them to come back from Phoenix to pick up Brian. We should have never told him to come down on his own. I can blame my dad here, but he isn’t solely at fault. My brother, an adult—albeit a young one—made decisions too. I was culpable also because I hadn’t fought against my dad’s ideas.

  10:30 A.M.

  HERMIT TRAILHEAD

  My stomach continued to roll as we drove west, a straightforward seven-mile drive to the trailhead, away from the more populated part of the park. Coming back east, we would be meandering for thirty miles over the next six days: down Hermit, across Tonto, up Bright Angel.

  I was feeling intimidated by the daunting task I was facing as I stared out our van window, catching glimpses of the canyon below. Fear—uncertainty—was continually trying to creep in. I wanted this “experience,” but now I was questioning it.

  Can we really do this? Is this insanity?

  At the trailhead, I stepped out of the van onto chalky gravel and crouched down, tightening my hiking boots. I tugged on my army-green laces, looping them around their top metal fasteners, securing them with a double knot. Tucked inside my boots were two layers of socks: a thin liner and a thick summer-weight blend.

  I was wearing cotton shorts and a cream-colored short-sleeved T-shirt. My hair was pulled back in a scrunchie and tucked under a cheap white ball cap. I pushed my sunglasses back up on my nose and secured my multicolored Croakies strap around the back of my neck. Dad handed me my fanny pack with my water bottle.

  I turned to get my pack Dad had propped up against the van, heaving it on my back with a loud oomph. I teetered, about to fall backward from its weight.

  “Whoa there,” Dad said, as he reached out to steady me. Helping to hold up my pack, he asked, “Too heavy?”

  “Nah, I’ve got it.” I stood up straight. “Okay, you can let go.”

  The padded shoulder straps sat down fully on my shoulders. I anchored thin black straps across my chest and thick ones around my waist with firm, resounding clicks. Shifting my weight forward, I tightened the straps and attempted to recenter myself to offset the mass on my back. The weight of what was on me and what was awaiting me down the trail settled into my bones.

  It was nearing eleven o’clock, a rather late start for an eight-mile hike. Dad kept checking his watch, and his mouth was set tight downward. I could tell he was anxious to get going. I was concerned, too, but I simply shrugged and uttered, “Hrmph,” as we passed by a large sign at the top of the trail, paraphrased as follows:

  Warning—Heat Kills!

  Don’t hike midday in the heat; the Colorado River at the bottom of the canyon is the only reliable water source. This is a remote, unmaintained trail. Know and respect your limitations. Rescue requests by ill and injured people are frequent. Deaths have occurred. Hike at your own risk. The park seeks your voluntary compliance. However, individuals creating a hazardous condition for themselves or others through unsafe hiking practices are subject to citation and/or arrest.1

  The first mile and a half of the Hermit Trail was familiar; we’d hiked this secti
on two years ago. We headed down steep switchbacks that cut through creamy pink sandstone and passed by fossils and animal tracks left in ancient mud. Near the top of the trail, worn, paved cobblestones remained. In the early 1900s, the stones were laid down to promote tourism via burros.2 Nowadays the burros stuck to Bright Angel and so did most of the tourists. Only the adventurous, capable, or possibly foolhardy were still willing to traverse Hermit’s remote reaches into the canyon.

  A. D. took the lead and behind him was Dad, whose hat for the canyon was a lightweight khaki boonie with a chin cord. It would keep the sun off his face and his growing bald spot. Dad’s large navy-blue backpack, weighed down with about anything we possibly could need and likely things we didn’t, was causing his broad shoulders to stoop over.

  Dad held a metal walking stick in his right hand with a black loop that went around his wrist. Next to each set of footprints Dad was leaving in the dust was an animal paw print made from the rubber foot of his stick.

  Small, colorful lizards darted across the trail with amazing speed right in front of my boots. Occasionally, one would stop in the middle of the path, attempting to stand its ground. Only a few inches long, it would puff its body out, bob its head up and down, laying claim to its tiny corner of desert. Another step by a boot would send it scurrying under rocks or cacti and bring forth a chuckle from one of us.

  I’d never hiked with a pack this heavy, and the extra weight dug down into my boots—into my toes. I could feel my toenails press into the end of my toe box on the descents, even though I trimmed them back the night before. By my best guess, my pack weighed around forty pounds. I was feeling every bit of that weight on my 120-pound frame.

  I was already analyzing the contents of my pack. I should have done another shakedown, a smart one—a really smart one, not the half-baked job I’d done. Now it was either carry all this crap on my back or chuck it.

  NOON

  HERMIT TRAIL

  I was trying to find a balance between watching my foot placement on the narrow, rocky trail and remembering to look out at the overwhelmingly stunning, stark surroundings.

  Looking down over the drop-offs made my stomach queasy; glancing up, to where we’d come from, was easier. I tried to settle my stomach, to ground myself back on the trail in front of me. I was trying to get my mind off the weight on my back, the sun bearing down, and the fruit punch Gatorade sloshing around in my stomach.

  I called up ahead to Dad and A. D., “Hey, guys, I’ve got to stop for a few. I’m not feeling so well.”

  “It’s too early to stop. We’ve only come a short way,” Dad said as he pointed down the trail with his walking stick. “Let’s keep going. We can stop in another mile, down in the basin where we can find shade to have lunch.”

  I unfastened my pack and dropped it on the trail, plopping down on the rocks next to it. “No, I need to eat something now. Stomach is empty.” Digging around in the top of my pack, looking for food, I didn’t care I was sitting under the blazing sun in stifling thick heat with no breeze.

  “All right, we’ll stop for a bit.” Dad and A. D. set their packs down and joined me for an impromptu meal in the middle of a switchback. They seemed just as glad as I to have a break.

  I laid out my gallon-size Ziploc bags full of portable lunches and snacks, settling on a package of warm tuna and bland wheat crackers that I washed down with more Gatorade.

  I didn’t want to eat much. I had no idea how much food I would need over the next several days, and my stomach wasn’t cooperating anyhow. I wadded up my wrappers and tucked them in another gallon bag. Whatever you carry in, you carry out.

  We ate quickly and helped each other get our packs back on.

  Why the heck were we carrying so much dang crap?

  I was afraid to look at my watch to calculate our rate of speed and the distance we still needed to cover. We made it down another switchback—then my lunch decided to make a return trip up. Things were not starting well.

  CHAPTER 11

  Miscalculations of the Ego Can Be Deadly

  1:00 P.M.

  WALDRON BASIN

  I felt better after emptying my stomach’s contents onto the trail. I swigged some water, sloshed it around in my mouth, and spat it out, saying, “Okay, let’s go.”

  I got a raised eyebrow from my cousin and a look of concern from my dad.

  “I’m fine, really, just nerves. I don’t think it’s what Brian has. Come on, this heat is something else—let’s find some shade.”

  We kept hiking lower, passing by a century plant with a green stalk towering ten feet over us. It would soon bloom, erupting with white flowers all along its stalk.1 They are known to flower once, sitting dormant as a small green plant for a decade or two before dazzling with their height and color.

  We came upon the basin where we had eaten lunch two years ago; it was a rare shady spot, with rough scrub. Dad and A. D. stopped at an overlook to take pictures, but I found a gnarled pine to hide under. I sat squarely down, pack and all. It was a total pain to take the pack off and put it back on, and I was beginning to wear down. This was not going as planned.

  “Come on, kid, we need to keep moving.” Dad was coming down the trail toward me, motioning. He stopped and unfolded a topographical map. “Not far around that bend is Santa Maria Spring, where we can top off our bottles.”

  I took a deep breath, resigning myself with a sigh. “All right, let’s keep going.” I was trying to talk myself into it.

  It would get better down the trail. It had just been a rough beginning. A bad morning.

  As I began to get up from the rocks I was sitting on, my stomach took to sloshing around again. Closing my eyes for a second, I was able to settle my guts back down.

  Steady. Steady now.

  A. D. reached out to help pull me up, and Dad said with a small grin, “That’s my girl.”

  I resettled my pack on my back and cinched the straps tighter.

  “Okay, let’s go.” The words coming from my mouth sounded more confident than I felt.

  3:00 P.M.

  SANTA MARIA SPRING

  It was the middle of the afternoon, and I’d about had it.

  I’d never seen the canyon like this. I wasn’t just looking down from the top or from the upper reaches of well-managed trails. I was smack-dab in it—on a remote, unmaintained, rockslide-prone, deserted, hairy-as-crud trail.

  We hadn’t seen anyone else in the last few hours, not since we’d passed through the basin where most day hikers turn around. I expected to see more people and found it eerie being by ourselves.

  We kept passing by cairns—piles of stacked rocks that marked the way. I found growing comfort in them: we would question the path, it would fade into its surroundings, and then we would spot a deliberate pile of rocks. Here’s a cairn—here’s the trail!

  We’d stopped at a natural spring a while ago, where the water came up through rock and out a pipe into a trough with brownish-green algae growing in it. We siphoned the water through our small hand pump with a microfilter and into our bottles. We were glad to have the water and the shade provided by the small stone hut next to the spring.

  This wasn’t like the hiking trip from two years ago; the warm daytime temperatures in the canyon had been welcoming compared to the cold on the rim. But now, two months later in the season, it felt like I’d stepped into a burning oven. The afternoon sun was unrelenting, continuing to bear down on top of us.

  My gear in my pack was drenched from my own sweat, barely stopped by a bandana I’d twisted around my neck. My hair kept falling out of the scrunchie and I’d given up on my ball cap, which was making things worse, hotter. I’d risk the sunburn. At least my shades were keeping my eyes cool.

  My T-shirt was soaked through—I wondered if anyone could see the sports bra underneath it. That was soaked, too, and so was my underwear underneath my shorts. My feet were drowning in their two sets of socks; I was sure my toes were on fire. My bare legs were covered in red dust,
kicked up from my boots hitting the trail. The dust covered up long, thin red scratches where cacti had been catching my calves.

  What had I got myself into? Why be sane and hike and camp on the maintained trails, with gobs of people, park rangers, bathrooms, and water flowing out of taps?

  Against sanity—that could sometimes be Dad, and now it appeared I’d joined him. Doing things the stubborn, thick-headed way and taking my cousin right along with us.

  In Dad’s defense, the campsites for the sane trails were full by the time he filed for backcountry permits to stay overnight below the rim. He did try to request the more popular routes down to the river, the ones we hiked two years ago. Hermit was choice three, and choice three is what we were given.

  We had found the top section of Hermit reasonable a few years ago, so we didn’t have any reason to think it wouldn’t continue to be that way. Dad had read up on these trails—I would have thought he knew what we were getting into.

  The previous night, when we’d checked in at a ranger’s station to let the park service know where we were headed, the ranger had gone over the roughness of this trail after the basin, the importance of hiking early and carrying plenty of water.

  We seriously underestimated what we had been told and the warning sign we’d passed at the top hours ago. We’d only made it four miles, but I couldn’t fathom turning back around and hiking up in defeat—the only direction I was willing to head was down.

  5:00 P.M.

  PIMA POINT

  We were cutting back and forth, down sharp, short descents and taking long traverses that hugged massive orange-and-red walls rising high over steep drop-offs below. The path under our feet was rough, rocky in places, and narrow; it was only wide enough for one person at a time, and we proceeded cautiously, single file. Dad had me take the lead, letting the slowest one set the pace for the group.

  Cairns littered the trail here and there, but they could have been marking an altogether different trail for all the good they were doing.