Hike into the Grand Canyon and back in a day raises money for ovarian cancer awareness

It says it right there in the Grand Canyon National Park official visitor's guide: "Never try to hike from the rim to the Colorado River and back in one day."

And so, of course, that's what Jamie Dickey and a band of mostly Austin hikers are going to do.

Not that you should try this. There are reasons for the warning. Every year, more than 250 people are rescued from the Grand Canyon. It's hot, it's dry, it's steep and it's a long way, even if you are physically fit.

But for some, the challenge of hiking the Grand Canyon rim to rim in one day is part of the allure.

Dickey, 55, loves the Grand Canyon.

A recreational athlete who works in property management in Austin, she first saw the gorge in 1975, when she obeyed those warning signs.

Since then, the vastness, the colors and the rugged terrain of the place have convinced her of the existence of a higher being who created it. She calls the canyon her "church" and owns a second home in Flagstaff, Ariz., an hour and a half from the South Rim.

Every year or two, she invites friends to join her on a 22-mile crossing of the most famous canyon in America.

But today's trip is special.

Two years ago, Dickey was diagnosed with ovarian cancer shortly after making her seventh rim-to-rim sojourn. Last year, she had to skip the hike because she was undergoing chemotherapy. As she planned the 2010 trip, though, she knew the cancer was behind her.

That gave DJ Olsson, 52, personal training coordinator at the Jewish Community Center, extra incentive to tackle the canyon, too.

Olsson decided to turn the trip into a fundraiser for the National Ovarian Cancer Coalition, with the goal of raising $1,000 for the nonprofit dedicated to raising awareness about the disease. She could honor Dickey and another ovarian cancer survivor, close friend Susan Joiner, whom she'd trained through her treatment and recovery eight years ago.

At 7:15 a.m. on this cool Saturday in mid-October, 22 hikers have gathered at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, their hydration packs filled with sports drinks, skin slathered with sunscreen and pockets stuffed with snacks.

Among the group? An ultra runner, several triathletes, an aerobics instructor and me.

Olsson passes out blue pins to commemorate what she has dubbed the "Hike for Hope."

We'll descend 5,780 feet over 14 miles down the North Kaibab Trail, break briefly at Phantom Ranch, then climb nearly 5,000 feet in the next 8 miles across the canyon floor and up the South Kaibab Trail.

I'm afraid of heights and wish I hadn't flipped through a copy of "Over the Edge: Death in the Grand Canyon" in the gift shop the night before.

"It's the fear of the unknown," says Kelly Topfer, 41, another Austin hiker. "We know we have good endurance, but who goes downhill 14 miles — and then uphill?"

It's chilly early on, as the group spills down a steep set of switchbacks, gawking at the huge pinnacles of red and gold and rust-colored rock. We won't actually see the main canyon until after lunch. For now, we're weaving our way down Bright Angel Canyon, which feeds into the belly of the vast Grand Canyon. A few surge ahead, running instead of walking.

It gets hotter as time passes. After an hour, the sun is blazing and we peel off layers.

We pass waterfalls, rock squirrels and dung beetles. We top off our water at a ranger station. I toss back beef jerky and salted nuts.

After 10 miles, the trail flattens. We trace the path of a creek, crossing five footbridges. At one point, we find the leg of a deer, neatly chopped off just above the knee, in the middle of the trail. Mountain lion kill?

When we finally reach Phantom Ranch a few minutes after noon, we pull on fresh socks (No. 1 secret of happy hikers!), sip lemonade from the tiny store, and gulp dried mangos, energy bars and trail mix. In 20 minutes it's time to roll again.

We're a little nervous. This hike doesn't really begin until it's two-thirds finished. The final several miles are a nonstop uphill grind.

Olsson had knee replacement two years ago and recently reinjured a hamstring she had torn three years ago.

"Taxi, is there a taxi?" Topfer jokes as we approach the suspension bridge over the Colorado River and begin the long haul out of the canyon.

I chug along, channeling Scarlett O'Hara gliding along a spiral staircase. Only instead of a green velvet gown, I'm wearing dusty trail runners and sweaty hiking togs.