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That afternoon, the weather on the Lava Falls Route was calm and clear, the temperature in the high 80s. Nevertheless, my progress on the descent was agonizingly slow.

The trail was steeper and far more difficult than I expected. Numerous times, I was unable to proceed while wearing my pack. I had to lower it ahead of me on a rope.

Within half an hour, I began to feel flushed. I was concerned, but pressed on.

Soon after, I realized I was becoming light-headed. My vision and concentration were affected. I stopped to consider this ominous turn of events.

There I was, weak, dizzy, nauseated, drenched with sweat, and becoming more so by the minute.

With ears buzzing and colored spots swimming around my field of vision, I concluded that the food poisoning had lowered my reserve strength, and the exertion of the hike finally used up the last of it.

Only two or three times in my long career on the trail have I abandoned a hike and headed home. This was one of those times. It would be folly to keep going.

So, less than a third of the way to the river, I turned around and began the long climb out.

My pace was snail-like, and it got slower as I grew dizzier and more feverish. I would take a few steps, pause to rest, and take a few more. I wore my pack when I could, dragged it behind me on a rope when necessary.

Eventually, I became quite delirious and lost track of time. My memory of the next several hours is spotty.

I remember concluding that in my condition, the pack was too heavy. So I unloaded much of the contents — stove, fuel, food, rain gear, camera — and abandoned it beside the trail.

I remember stopping in the shade of a large boulder to rest and nearly falling asleep. I shook myself awake and, with great effort, kept going.

After an eternity, I reached another large rock and another patch of shade. I paused again to rest.

I remember thinking that I had a simple choice. I could either find the strength to keep going, or I could sit down beside the trail and never get up again.

Essentially on auto-pilot, I continued to drag myself slowly upward, sometimes standing, sometimes crawling.

I was beyond drained when, just before dark, I reached the rim of the canyon at last.

To this day, I am amazed that I succeeded.

Spent and light-headed, I set up my tent and prepared a quick supper of freeze-dried eggs.

As daylight faded, I realized I was still wearing my sunglasses. I reached for the plastic eyeglass case clipped to my pack, which held my prescription glasses.

The case wasn’t there. It had been scraped off as I roped my pack up behind me.

The freeze-dried eggs did not stay down. I threw up with enthusiasm, sailed the rest of the eggs into the undergrowth, fell into my tent, and slept the sleep of the dead.

I awoke at first light, donned my sunglasses, drank some water, and prepared a bit  of breakfast, which I deposited promptly on the ground.

Despite that, I was rested and stronger than the day before. And I already knew what I had to do.

First, I needed to retrieve my abandoned possessions on the trail below. Had I really been so desperate and delirious that I jettisoned my gear, including a thousand-dollar Nikon camera? Yes, I had.

Second, I had food and water, but the prospect of waiting 18 hours for Terry to return had zero appeal. The only solution was to walk the eight miles to the Ranger Station and call Terry.

My foray back down the Lava Falls Route took less than an hour. I was greatly relieved to find my eyeglasses case within 30 feet of the abandoned gear. The case was intact, but the sharp lava rock had left deep scratches in the plastic, as if it had been clawed by a grizzly.

I was shocked when I saw the two large boulders that, in my delirium the day before, seemed so far apart. The distance between them was about 10 feet.

By 8:00 AM, I was back at the rim, exhausted anew and more than a little queasy again. I rested in the tent for 20 minutes until the nausea subsided, then set out for the Ranger Station. I needed to make progress before the sun got higher.

The walk was as grueling as you might imagine. Luckily, two miles from the ranger station, a pickup truck came along and gave me a lift. Weak and exhausted, I banged on the door of the Ranger’s residence.

The Ranger’s wife opened the door. Her husband was away, but she sat me down, got me a glass of ice water, and listened to my story.

She told me that the only telephone service at Toroweap was the Park’s emergency phone. But the line was strictly for dire emergencies, and my situation really didn’t qualify. She said the dispatcher would not be pleased if I called.

I was in no mood for technicalities. I lifted the received and was automatically connected. “Dispatch. What is your emergency?”

I told her my sad story and gave her Terry’s phone number.

“Sir, that is not an emergency. You are tying up this line and possibly blocking a legitimate emergency call.”

I wanted to reach through the line and slap her.

“I know that,” I said, “But I’m stranded out here and deathly ill. If you don’t call my ride, you WILL have an emergency. Please, just call the number.”

The dispatcher put me on hold briefly, then agreed to make the call. We hung up. The truly desperate were free to make their calls.

At about 1:00 PM, Terry arrived in a cloud of dust. He said the dispatcher gave no details, only that I had placed an emergency call, so he came quickly. By 3:00 PM, he had returned me to the motel in Fredonia.

By 4:30 PM, I was sitting in Nedra’s Café, the best Mexican restaurant on the Arizona Strip, with hopes of holding down a meal for the first time in days.

I succeeded. Nedra’s combination plate bolstered me immensely. Maybe by the next day, I thought, normalcy will return.

Normal was a nice thought, but it didn’t happen. I was rested and much better the next day, but still weak.

This was getting out of hand. I had been sick for days and wasn’t pulling out of it. How tainted was that slice of pizza, anyway?

With the Schmutz Spring work project still looming, I decided to go to the hospital in St. George, Utah, 90 minutes away.

The emergency room doctor did blood work, an EKG, and other tests. All my vitals and levels were right on.

I came to see him, he said, one day too soon. He told me to take a vacation for two days. No hiking, nothing strenuous. After that, I would be fine.

The next morning, I called Grand Canyon Field Institute and dropped out of the work project. Soon after, I was on the road north into Utah.

For the next week, I traveled to new territory — Calf Creek Falls, the petrified forest in Escalante, Capitol Reef National Park. As the ER doc predicted, I was soon back to normal and able to resume hiking without restriction or consequence.

I went to Moab, Arches National Park, Canyonlands, Newspaper Rock, and the ruins at Hovenweep. When it was time to head home, I drove south to Four Corners, past Shiprock, through Gallup, and on to Zuni Pueblo.

By the time I reached Albuquerque, the bloom was off my vacation rose. I was mentally back in the real world and resigned to going home.

That ill-fated trip handed me one final indignity before I got home: every single mile of Interstate 40 in Arkansas was under construction. The project was so vast, they were handing out brochures about it at the welcome centers. It was the most unpleasant 300 miles I ever experienced in a car.

When I got back to Georgia, I shared the story of my adventures and misadventures with the family.

My son Dustin said, “Dad, You need to promise you won’t go back to Lava Falls without one of us along.”

I promised.

Who knew a slice of pizza could have such consequences?

Last photo taken on the hike down.

Lava Falls, the elusive goal. Photo from a 2007 raft trip.

Note to self: eschew heat-lamp pizza.