t was early afternoon in the bowels of the Grand Canyon, and after 6½ hours hiking in 100-degree Arizona heat, death seemed like a good idea.

Or at least a nap. Mile after blistering mile down the Bright Angel Trail, we had trudged along, taking frequent breaks for salty snacks and water, dousing our shirts in brackish pools and sneaking breathers while pretending to admire the striated walls and gaping maws at our feet. Small boulders littered the path, and run-ins with mules carting tourists had left a distinctive whiff in the torrid air. What had started as a chatty quartet in the pre-dawn hours on the South Rim was now a silent, exhausted foursome looking for the end of the trail.