Keeps the mules clip-clopping on
On a chilly morning near the Grand Canyon’s busy Bright Angel trailhead, a man with muddy boots, cowboy hat, bulging cheek and drooping mustache fixed his gaze on a handful of nervously smiling tourists.
“Your legs are going to be numb after the next two hours,” said John Berry, 47, livery manager for park concessionaire Xanterra.
The tourists nodded, eyeing the mules behind him. They had signed up for the ride to Phantom Ranch. Every day as many as 10 riders join guides on a journey down 10 miles of narrow trail to the canyon floor, about 4,400 feet below. Usually, the group sleeps at the ranch and ascends the next day on South Kaibab Trail.
The ride down is one of the Grand Canyon’s greatest rituals, dating to 1887, and these trips book up to 13 months in advance. (The cost is about $400 to $515 per rider, depending on the size of the group.) “This is the biggest mule operation in the United States,” Berry said. “Heck, we could be the biggest in the world.” But it has been bigger. In 1914 National Geographic estimated the South Rim’s tourist mule traffic at 7,000 riders per year. These days it’s half that or less. After decades of dispute between traditionalists and hikers who say the mules accelerate trail damage, the park has capped Xanterra’s mule traffic at 10 recreational riders per day below the South Rim.
What prepares a man for this gig? Basically, said Berry, “I’ve been with mules all my life.” He was 13 when his family took over a string of pack stations in the Sierra Nevada near Bishop, Calif., in 1980, and before long he was taking mules into the high country.
Since then he has gone back and forth between the family business and the Grand Canyon. He has been in charge of the Grand Canyon mule rides since 2012.
The operation includes about 60 “dude mules” — animals with the surest hoofs, best manners and mildest tempers — along with 80 others that carry packs or work with trail crews. As boss, Berry manages the guides, matches riders with mules, keeps in touch with guides by walkie-talkie, makes contingency plans when the weather changes and rides the canyon about once a month.
He tries out every new mule himself. And most workdays, he handles the pre-ride briefing, which contains life-or-death instructions peppered here and there with Wild West patter.
“We don’t sugarcoat it,” he said. “It’s a tough, hard ride. If you’re not used to riding, you’re going to be sore in places you didn’t even know you had.”
Still, for most customers, these animals and this trail are the stuff of happy memories, not regrets.
“We show people one of the best things they can ever do,” Berry said. And he’ll keep doing it, he added, “until I retire or they fire me.”