ONE CAN EASILY HAVE A DANGEROUS OR FATAL FALL. THE TRAIL IS STEEP; ONE CAN EASILY BECOME EXHAUSTED AND COLLAPSE. THERE IS NO WATER TO BE HAD ABOVE THE RIVER; ONE CAN EASILY BECOME DEHYDRATED AND DIE, ESPECIALLY IN SUMMER, WHEN AIR TEMPERATURES IN THE CANYON COMMONLY EXCEED 100° (38° C).
* * *
DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HIKE THE BARNEY TRAIL, OR ANY OTHER UNMAINTAINED, UNPATROLLED TRAIL, IF YOU SUFFER FROM A HEART CONDITION, OR ANY OTHER CONDITION THAT RENDERS YOU SUSCEPTIBLE TO COLLAPSE. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO HIKE THIS TRAIL IF YOU ARE NOT IN VERY GOOD PHYSICAL CONDITION.
* * *
THE NATIONAL PARK SERVICE IS NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THOSE WHO CHOOSE TO USE THIS TRAIL. YOU USE IT AT YOUR OWN RISK. DO NOT USE IT WITHOUT FIRST REGISTERING AT THE NATIONAL PARK VISITORS' CENTER IN GRAND CANYON VILLAGE.
* * *
IT IS ILLEGAL TO CARRY FIREARMS IN THE PARK. IT IS ILLEGAL TO DAMAGE PLANTS OR WILDLIFE.
THE RULE CONCERNING TRASH IS: IF YOU CARRY IT IN, YOU MUST CARRY IT OUT. DO NOT LEAVE TRASH IN THE CANYON. DO NOT BURY TRASH; WILD ANIMALS WILL SMELL IT AND DIG IT UP. BRING YOUR TRASH OUT WITH YOU.
artti finished reading with an irritation he knew was unreasonable. A reaction, he realized, to a public agency telling him what was good for him.
He looked at Tuuli. 'What do you think?'
'I think,' she answered, 'that after we've eaten, we should drive back out here and sleep in the van, instead of the hotel. We'll get to sleep earlier, and get an earlier start in the morning. And save ourselves money.'
* * *
It was barely breaking dawn when their travel alarm woke them. Though the morning was near freezing, inside it was snug, thanks to the small electric heater powered by the GPC. After taking turns at the chem-pot, they washed in the tiny sink, being frugal with the water. Then they breakfasted on trail rations—rye wafers spread thick with liverwurst; rice-balls; freeze-dried pineapple slices; and a handful of raisins, washed down with decaf.
Finally they donned sweaters and shouldered their daypacks. It occurred to Martti to take his Walther, but he recalled the regulation against firearms in the park. Leaving it in the door pocket, he locked the van and they left. Dawn had lightened enough that even in the woods they followed the path without trouble, then started down the Barney Trail. It angled downward into a steeply descending side canyon, Barney Canyon, and was difficult at first. Wherever possible they clutched shrubs. To lose one's footing there would be to slide, maybe bounce, down a steep rocky slope, certainly to injury, and possibly death.
Yet mostly the going was not as tricky or treacherous as Martti had expected. For a time, Barney Canyon was roughly V-shaped, its slopes steep but not precipitous, with patchy shrubs. In places the trail was plain to see, still showing the signs of Old Man Barney's pick-and-shovel work. Martti thought what a tough and patient man the prospector had been, a glutton for danger and the hardest kind of labor. And wondered if, in fact, Old Man Barney had been old at the time, or if he'd been young, and the appellation added later.
Ahead of them the slope steepened, while the ridge crest above descended faster than they, in a series of great rugged steps. Before long, the crest met the trail, to form a long, nearly level 'backbone' 10 to 20 feet wide on top, leading out to a crumbling sandstone 'chimney.' From the backbone they looked out across the miles-wide Grand Canyon. The terrain below them was wildly broken—a confused jumble of time-eroded ridges, chimneys, and arroyos. The sun was newly risen, and the pinnacles and upper walls of the opposite rim were washed with pale rose.
To the east they heard a distant commotion of raven voices. A great clamoring flock, diffuse and disorganized, was flying westward down the canyon toward them, and Tuuli and Martti, hands joined, stopped to watch. The flock flew pretty much at the same level as the crest they stood on, and as it approached, its noise differentiated into separate voices, deep and harsh: 'COR-R-R-RP! COR-R-R-RP!' with now and then a single liquid note, as if a stone had been dropped into a deep well.
The point of the flock crossed ahead, then the flock proper was passing close around them. One great black bird climbed past them not four meters distant, gaining altitude, its wings, spreading some 40 inches, sounding a sharp
Then the flock was past. The earthbound humans watched it draw away, Tuuli radiant, Martti humbled. After another minute they turned and hiked on.
* * *
Another van drove eastward from the village, a larger and more expensive machine, also with California plates. When it came in sight of the travel van, it slowed, to pull off the blacktop across the road from it. Four black men and a woman got out and walked to Martti's vehicle. 'It's theirs, all right,' the leader said. 'Got to be.' He turned to one whose eyes showed oriental ancestry. 'Harley, open it up.'
Harley Suk O'Connell took a flat kit from a jacket pocket, removed a tool, and worked with it on a lock. After a few seconds the door opened for him. The leader climbed inside, checked the glove compartment, then the driver's door pocket. He found the Walther, and after removing the cartridges from magazine and chamber, replaced the magazine. 'Just in case,' he said grinning, and got back out.
One of the men was dressed differently than the others, in denims and work boots. He was tall, lean, and very dark, with exceptionally long hands. The leader turned to him. 'What's next, Cowboy?'
Cowboy beckoned with his head, then turned away without speaking and strode into the woods, the others trotting to keep up. In a minute they came to the trailhead sign that Martti had studied the evening before. Cowboy stopped and began to read silently. One of the others scowled. 'Read it out loud, Cowboy,' he said.
Cowboy looked at him. It was clear he didn't like the man. 'Read it yourself.'
The man tightened. 'I don't read shit like that.'
