I scurried down the first quarter mile of the Bright Angel Trail when the thickest of the snows were coming through. It was the day after Christmas, 2012. As the light played on the opposite side of the canyon, and the air turned from clear to soup as waves of storms washed across the trail, I saw the mule train climbing the switchbacks in the distance.
I waited until they were close and grabbed a few frames before running up the remainder of the trail to make way.
Home from the murky depths of the greatest hole in Arizona, wind-chapped, cherry-nosed, and undoubtedly displeased at traded spring on the canyon floor for winter on the south rim.