A Hiker Collapsed at the Bottom of the Grand Canyon, the Helicopter Was Grounded by Wind, and the Only Way Out Was Seven Miles Straight Up on the Back of a Mule Nobody Else Could Ride

Delilah has thrown eleven wranglers.

I have the list. It’s taped inside the tack room door at the South Rim mule barn, with dates, names and which body part each man landed on.

She’s a twelve-year-old molly mule, sixteen hands, the color of strong coffee, and she hates everybody.

Except me.

Nobody knows why. I don’t know why. The first day I walked into her stall, five years ago, she put her nose against my chest and sighed like an old woman settling into a bath.

The other wranglers call it witchcraft.

I’m Jory Kesler. I’m 49, single, and I pack mules in and out of the Grand Canyon for a living. Supplies down to Phantom Ranch, trash and mail back up. Seven miles of switchbacks each way. Five thousand feet of elevation. Every day.

It’s the best job in the world.

It was a Tuesday in late October. I’d taken a string of ten mules down the South Kaibab trail, unloaded at Phantom Ranch and was getting ready to sleep in the bunkhouse before the morning climb.

At 8 p.m., the ranger ran in.

“Jory. Campground. A hiker collapsed. Sixty-something. Chest pain, can’t breathe right. I called for the helicopter.”

“And?”

“The wind’s gusting fifty on the rim. They won’t fly until morning.”

I knew what that meant. I’d seen it before.

Morning might be too late.

The ranger looked at me. He’d been here two years. He’d already figured it out.

“There’s only one animal down here strong enough to carry a man up the Bright Angel at night,” he said.

From the corral, I heard a long, annoyed bray.

Delilah had heard her name.