REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK: Hiking the Grand Canyon

Tucked away in the Southwestern region of the Grand Canyon lies the remote Havasupai Indian Reservation.

The land, which was at one time one of the most isolated spots in all of Arizona, now sees 25,000 visitors a year, according to American Southwest.

People descend 10 miles into the canyon on mule-back, via helicopter, or on foot to enjoy some of the most spectacular views Mother Nature has to offer.

I’d seen pictures of the waterfalls, the main attraction of Havasu, and immediately added the vacation destination to the top of my list. I was ecstatic when the opportunity finally presented itself; I quickly put down the Ben & Jerry’s, picked up some outdoorsy friends and new gear, and embarked on the hike of my life.

The adventure began from the moment Ryan Macaluso, Nataly Samgorodsky, T.J. Macaluso and I turned off old Route 66 onto Indian Route 18, a bumpy “road” that twists and turns through 60 miles of grassy flatland to Hualapai Hilltop, our starting point.

I could have rested atop the summit of the 500-foot canyon for hours, taking in the intricate beauty of the lush, colorful landscape that lay beneath.

Since our goal was to reach our campsite by dusk, and we were already off to a late start, I soaked up as much as I could in the 15 minutes it took my friends to finish loading their packs, and we set off down the rugged trail.

A mile and a half of steep, dusty switchbacks led us down into Hualapai Canyon and onto a narrow, rocky path between towering walls of red sandstone that would steer us another eight miles to Supai Village, home to 450 members of the Havasupai Indian Tribe, or “people of the blue-green water.”

We didn’t encounter many other hikers, likely because we were racing the sun, but we did have to watch out for mule trains, which are Supai’s main method of import and export, and came barreling through at a rather swift pace.

Something tells me one of these animals would run you over if you didn’t jump out of the way, so it’s best to stay alert. I wouldn’t recommend using an iPod on this trail. No one wants to add the weight of your hoof-trampled body to this already strenuous hike.

The town of Supai was unlike any I’d previously visited; there were about 120 small homes spread over 518 acres of land, shared by a plethora of horses, mules and stray dogs “” all very friendly if you’re willing to share your trail mix.

There was a café, school, grocery, church, post office and a clinic “” all within close proximity to each other. There were a few ATVs cruising the dirt roads, but most people got around on foot.

Supai is the only place in the Grand Canyon still inhabited by native people, and is also one of the only places in the country that still delivers mail by mule. Tourism is the main source of income, so inhabitants are all very happy to greet visiting hikers.

Having arrived at the village just 10 minutes too late to grab a cheeseburger from the café, we continued another two miles to the campsite.

At this point we had only one thing on our minds: changing into dry clothes and inhaling whatever meal we could cook up the fastest.

And then we heard the sound of gushing water.

Suddenly we were cozy, and our hunger subsided. We had arrived at Navajo Falls, the first of the four famous waterfalls.

My friends and I stood on the edge of the cliff, our mouths agape, staring at the powerful and glistening travertine limestone water that poured down 75 feet over the rocks.

The contrast of the turquoise stream, reddish-brown rock, and almost neon-green foliage created an awe-inspiring and somewhat surreal image.

The second waterfall we came to was Havasu Falls, the most renowned on the reservation. At 100 feet, it’s not the tallest “” Mooney Falls towers at 200 feet “” but there are large, aquamarine pools at the bottom that are just breathtaking.

It was a bit cold for swimming this time of year, but we took several dips anyway.

Ryan and T.J. even enjoyed a little cliff-jumping and rope-swinging, which made for some pretty gnarly photos.

We set up camp along the trickling creek, which created a peaceful setting and was most conducive to sleep.

We spent our days exploring new territory, and our nights sitting around a communal bowl of stew, further de-hydrating with vodka Kool-Aid, and playing games like Catch Phrase and Blackjack.

We didn’t have coinage (too much extra weight for our packs) so we improvised with pebbles.

One complaint we did have about the site is that campfires were not permitted, and gathering around a lit propane tank just didn’t bear the same effect. Camping just isn’t camping without roasted marshmallows, ya know?

Two miles in the other direction from the campsite, you can find Mooney Falls.

Anyone can observe this from above the fall, but only the skilled hiker, or athletically inclined, can handle the physical challenge required to climb down the canyon for a closer peek.

I’m not fearful of heights, but I admit I was slightly apprehensive at first to descend the vertical trail. Fortunately, there were hollows cut into the cliff that hikers could shimmy through for easier movement down the wall, as well as chain railings hammered to the rock to assist with the steeper parts. I imagine this feat is easier for taller folks. At 5 feet, 2 inches, it was tricky finding steady spots to place my feet. Had it not been for all the sharp edges jutting from the surface, I may have grasped the chain for dear life and slipped down like Tarzan, or Jane.

Nevertheless, the view from the base was spectacularly rewarding. We spent hours down there, wading in the gentler river rapids and exploring smaller waterfalls.

Another three or so miles from Mooney takes you to Beaver Falls, the last of the four falls on the reservation. And another four or five miles from there will take you to the Colorado River “” pretty hard-core. Regrettably, we didn’t make it to either of these on this trip, which only gives me further incentive to go back.

On the last day, we encountered something really cool: As we approached the third mile or so of our ascent back up the canyon, we heard chanting accompanied by maracas and hoop drums. We followed our curiosity off the beaten path, and discovered a Native American ceremony on what we would later learn was sacred land. A group of American Indians from all over the world were walking from San Francisco to Washington D.C., visiting sacred land in between.

An elder Indian man kindly invited us to partake in the celebration, and even offered a sage bath and steam-hut cleansing. We declined since we had six hours of profuse sweating ahead, but we did observe as some members of the group backed into the hut on hands and knees. Supposedly, the hut symbolizes the mother’s womb and if you enter face-forward, your children will be born breech, and deaf. It was fascinating and emotionally moving to witness these rituals, and to learn some of the superstitions of the native people. This isn’t something that occurs every day, so we felt very privileged.

The path back to Hualapai Hilltop was the same as the way down, only a great deal more taxing since it was uphill. Our goal was to complete the journey before the sun descended behind the canyon, but about one-quarter of the way up the switchbacks, we were donning our head-lamps and climbing in pitch-black. This was perhaps a good thing since we were exhausted, dehydrated and out of water and we couldn’t gage just how far we were from the end. “Any moment now ... “

Ryan cracked a joke, reminding us of a man we met on the way down; he told us to send our backpacks up on a mule, and to hike back free of gear. We thanked him for the advice, but told him we were doing this adventure “the right way.” Just when this man’s idea seemed like it was the right way, we reached our landing. We all felt joy that it was over and accomplishment for what we’d just managed to do without dying.

Despite those tougher moments in the last stretch, I’m glad we “roughed” it, and I can’t wait for my next big hiking adventure in the Grand Canyon.

ASHLEY BREEDING is a reporter for the Coastline Pilot. She can be reached at ashley.breeding@latimes.com