Email this article
A Grand Initiation
Entering the cult of the Grand Canyon river runner
Found in: | Outside | Paddling | River | Flatwater | River | Rafting |
"For a long time, there was one thing I always wanted to do - the Grand, he said. And by the time I got off the river the first time, there was one thing I really wanted to do - the Grand."
It was a cool, sunny day in late March when our armada of four rafts, three kayaks, and a wooden dory emerged from a string of eight fearsome rapids in the Grand Canyon's inner gorge some 4,000 vertical feet below the rim and 80 river miles from civilization. There we sat, my boyfriend Andrew, my friend Donna, and I, on the back of a 16-foot balloon-red raft like dumb, happy sardines, as our buddy Jay piloted us down the river with an indelible grin.
There's nothing quite like the contented ease of floating down the Colorado
River, knowing that the day's hardest rapids are behind and there's simply the task of finding a suitable beach to
sleep on. Little did I know, however, the Grand Canyon has a personality of her own, and, like a fickle Greek
goddess, she'll throw an unmapped boat-flipping hole in the middle of the river when rafters least expect it. How
fast can she turn her mortal subjects from haughty, laughing, beer swillers to humbled, half-drowned river
rats?
In approximately three seconds, as it turned out. Jay spotted the hole behind
him and tried to steer us straight into the wave, but it was too late: The hidden monster swept the 2,000-pound boat
skyward like a twig, and with one swipe washed all three passengers into the churning white drink.
In an instant, I had traveled from slurping Pabst Blue Ribbon Light on top of
the boat to staring at the boat's dark underbelly, pondering my next move. My brain instantly went into playback
mode, and in my mind's eye, I could see Jay, a former raft guide, standing on shore eight days before, giving
nail-biting novices such as myself a primer on river safety.
"So what are the first three rules of rafting?" he had said,
gesticulating importantly. "Stay in the boat, stay in the boat, and stay in the [expletive] boat." That seemed
simple. "If you do fall out of the boat, get back in. If you find yourself under the boat, just pick a direction and
go with it. Then get back in the boat."
Pick a direction and go with it, I thought, as my brain
whirred into action mode. I pawed at its rubbery bottom and popped up like a cork by its side. Jay yanked me into the
sunlight by my life jacket's lapels, and in what seemed like an instant all three of us were back in the boat, wet
but unscathed. We took one look at each other and erupted in laughter - laughter at the realization that Donna still
had a death grip on her beer can, at our carelessness, at knowing that we served not only as the butt of the Grand
Canyon's humbling joke - that divine trickster! - but we would also serve as the butt of our group's joke for what
was left of our 18-day, 226-mile journey along the Colorado River. It was as if the Grand Canyon had personally
welcomed us, in her devious way. You have been initiated, she seemed to say, but you're not done yet.
Before this trip, I was a river novice, and, being a late adopter and
skeptic of things other people think are cool, all the hype about the Grand Canyon seemed a little, well, overblown.
In my town of Durango, Colorado, river runners hold the Grand Canyon in a goddess-worthy reverence. They contend that
those who haven't negotiated her rapids and gazed upon her walls simply can't comprehend her magic. Perhaps it's her
stunning scenery or the sheer length of time - between 16 and 21 days - it takes to hand-propel a boat 200-some miles
down the Colorado River, or the inevitable camaraderie that arises amongst 16 people sequestered in the wilderness.
Or perhaps it's simply that snagging a coveted private permit to raft the river was so near impossible for decades,
getting a chance to go on the Grand was like entering the Puritans' elite.
That, at least, has changed. Two years ago, the National Park Service
revised the Grand Canyon private river-trip permitting system from a 25-year waitlist to a weighted lottery system,
making it more realistic to score a permit before 2028.
Though I had been on a mere handful of river trips, my boyfriend Andrew
is a kayaker and rafting devotee. Finally, in January, after entering countless lotteries, he won a launch date that
another party had cancelled at the last minute: March 21. Andrew went about gathering 19 friends, three of whom would
hike out at Phantom Ranch, our only brush with civilization, and three or whom would hike in. He found five friends
willing to row the boats, including Curtis, who brought his hand-crafted dory, and Jay, who brought his 16-foot raft.
Andrew then rented three 18-foot rafts and all of our kitchen equipment, coolers, and food from a river outfitter
called Moenkopi Riverworks. We simply showed up armed with warm clothes, sunscreen, toothbrushes, and an ample supply
of canned beer.
I was mostly excited when we shoved our boats off the beach at Lee's
Ferry, the river runner's put-in just 17 miles south of the Glen Canyon Dam, but I harbored a tinge of nervousness,
too. Between Lee's Ferry and Diamond Creek, our planned destination, lie 226 miles of wilderness whitewater. This is
not an ideal place to hurt oneself. As we passed over shallow, Caribbean-clear waters flanked by white-sand beaches,
picnicking families waved at us, sending us on our journey as if we were aboard some glamorous bygone ocean-liner.
Visions of the Titanic came to mind.
"So what is it about the allure of the Grand Canyon?" I asked Jay, who
had rafted the river twice before this journey and thanked and toasted Andrew for inviting him
everyday.
"Well, for a long time, there was one thing I always wanted to do - the Grand,"
he said. "And by the time I got off the river the first time, there was one thing I really wanted to do - the Grand.
It's the biggest ditch we have." I wasn't sure that really explained it, but I let it suffice as I gazed up at Navajo
Bridge, our last sign of riverside civilization. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the walls of Marble Canyon, the
Grand's opening act, grew steeper, taller and more intricate as Jay rowed us toward unknown adventures in the warm
glow of the March sunshine.
While traveling with 16 people by boat every day, some routines necessarily
emerge. After breakfast each morning, we dismantled our tents and hauled our dry bags and kitchen equipment to the
boats, then we'd strap them on in a flurry of tossing, heaving, yelling, and yanking. At the end of the day, we tore
it all apart in even less organized mayhem. Each day on the water, however, was a spanking-new adventure with
who-knew-what scenery, side hikes, and rapids in store.
On days we expected to encounter big rapids, a palpable air of
nervousness washed over the boatmen. In the Grand Canyon, one can hear the rapids approaching long before one can see
them. It starts as an almost imperceptible grumble breaking the delicate silence, then it grows louder into a growl,
and finally, if it's a large rapid, it becomes a deafening, stomach-turning, 747-like roar.
House Rapid, rated a 7 on the Grand Canyon's scale of 1-10, was our first major
rapid and is often thought of as a harbinger of carnage to come. That cool, breezy morning, we coasted into an eddy
just above the rapid as the sun pulled over the canyon walls to warm our boats. Jay, whom Andrew had asked to be the
lead boatman because of his guide experience, pointed out his proposed line to the other boatman: Eke by the shallow
debris littering the right side of the river, then pull hard to the right to avoid the boat-munching holes on the
left side. He agreed to run all of the big rapids first as the boatmen watched, so Donna and I hopped aboard,
tightening the straps on our life jackets and squelching the urge to use the groover - river-speak for a
latrine.
Donna and I exchanged glances, at once happy and nervous, as the boat plunged
from the calm into the rowdy crowd of waves. We yelled encouragements to Jay like crazed cheerleaders and screamed
gleefully as the river tossed and doused us with water like a fire hose. In a matter of 20 seconds it was over. We
whooped and high-fived at the bottom with the a sense of relieved elation as the rest of our boats came barreling
through the rapid behind us.
Though the Grand Canyon's rapids may be the key to its fearsome reputation,
there is also plenty of calm water during which there's little to do but stare at the soaring crimson cliffs, hawks,
and herons and find other ways to entertain ourselves, like trying to figure out what day it is or devising useless
trivia questions.
"So, what were the names of the members of the muppets' band?" Jay asked
as we left Redwall Cavern, an enormous amphitheater of rock on the river's edge.
"Ok, I got one. What male actor has a third nipple?" said Anna. "I'll give you
choices?"
On a trip this long, the outside world ceases to exist. My mind, usually abuzz
with thoughts of my work, my house, my family, or whatever my Blackberry has to dictate that day, was instead
preoccupied only with immediate questions of where to find the ideal tent site or which cooler in which to find the
tomatoes for dinner.
I came to appreciate our little human ecosystem, in which each person seemed to
fit perfectly in place: Donna offered the official soundtrack, bursting into song at any opportune moment. Guitar
aficionados Curtis and John played nightly shows, while Anna spun her dazzling fire stick. Labowskie acted as Radio
Shack with his many useful gadgets. We became accustomed to each other's quirks: Doug can't eat before a big rapid,
Jay prefers to rig his boat with a beer in hand, Jackie can fall asleep anywhere, and Carol's cackle is unfailingly
infectious.
Each day, we passengers would play musical boats, so we could entertain the
various boatmen and row a bit ourselves. After Phantom Ranch, the river turns into an endless string of fun, huge,
bouncing rapids. This, I decided, would be a good time to ride in the dory. While it's more delicate and elegant than
the rafts, it's also quicker and more responsive. And the passengers, sitting on either end, get the wildest, wettest
ride of all the boats, catapulted up and down, left and right.
So I wasn't surprised when we entered Class 7 Deubendorff Rapid, and a
giant wave crashed into the bow, instantly drenching me and spraying Curtis, Andrew, and Eric. Hooray,
I'm still in the boat! I thought, until an instant later, when I inexplicably found myself tumbling in a washing
machine of white and green water. What happened? I'm swimming, I thought, unhelpfully. The world
turned black as the river dumped me upside down and my head and knees bounced off submerged boulders. I kicked toward
the light and popped to the surface, taking a gulp of air and catching a glimpse of the overturned dory downstream
before the river thrust my head underwater again. The river tossed and tumbled but eventually churned me to the
surface and spit me out into the flatwater. Gasping, I glimpsed Eric on top of the overturned dory and Curtis and
Andrew swimming amongst bags, equipment, and broken oars. Curtis and I swam to the boat, our bodies slow from the
cold of the 50-degree water, while Andrew swam to shore.
Since the rest of the group had been scouting the rapid on shore when we
entered it, it took Jay a mile of take-no-prisoners rowing to catch up and push the dory to shore. We were all wet
but fine, except for the dory, whose gunnel had been smashed to bits.
The perk of surviving a hairy swim with body, spirit, and sense of humor
unscathed is that people are weirdly nice, as if you did something more heroic than simply save yourself. Anna
offered me warm clothing from her dry bag, John handed me his flask of whiskey with a sympathetic wink, and Labowskie
proffered some honey candies.
"These'll help get you warm," he said.
I had to admit that in a way, swimming a rocky rapid was, well, sort of
fun. But I was also a little rattled, and running over the swim in my mind that night as I gazed up at the stars from
my sleeping bag made me feel improbably lucky - and more apprehensive of the rapids ahead, in particular, one rapid:
Lava Falls.
Lava, Class 9, is arguably the most fearsome rapid on the river, and it
would be our last big one before a take-out at Diamond Creek. It is the Mike Tyson of rapids-big, strong,
unpredictable. In a word, scary. It features an enormous, notorious drop-off called the Ledge Hole that stretches
across half the river, then several small-house-sized holes and waves that can easily flip 18-foot rafts. In short,
Lava Day is the river runners' day of reckoning.
The day before we planned to run through Lava turned rainy and windy, so
we camped earlier than anticipated. Most of us were in sour moods, praying we wouldn't need to travel through Lava in
bad weather. Even Jay, the eternal clown, was subdued.
The next morning, I had barely one eye open when Andrew poked his head
out of our tent to check out the weather.
"Blue sky," he said, with a sigh of relief. "Blue sky." That morning,
morale was high as we ate breakfast and performed good luck rituals, like painting all of the men's toenails
outrageous hues of pink, purple, and chrome and writing good-luck messages on Labowskie's purple
helmet.
By mid-afternoon we had made it to the top of Lava, and a strange focused
silence suffused our group. We climbed off the rafts and up a rocky embankment to take a peek at what lay in store.
The Ledge Hole looked big, the holes looked big, and the last wave that served as the grand finale looked like it
could tear apart a bulldozer. The plan: eke right of the Ledge Hole, then hold on and pray. Doug, Carol, and I
watched from the cliff as three kayakers, three rafts, and finally the dory hurtled through the rapid, some losing
grip of the oars temporarily, some barely scraping by Cheese Grater Rock at the end of the rapid, but all making it
out upright.
As Doug and Carol scuttled down the hill, I took another moment to listen
to the rapid's roar. They say bad things come in threes, so I mentally prepared for the long, wild swim that I
considered inevitable. I made my way down the rocky shore, tightened my life jacket, and donned my helmet as if
preparing for battle. Crouching in the bow with Carol, it seemed an eternity that we floated in the duck pond above
the rapid, listening to its deafening roar and bargaining our souls with the river for safe passage.
Soon we were dropping just right of the Ledge Hole, and Doug pushed the
oars to keep us straight through the ensuing maelstrom of holes and waves. Carol and I screamed and hollered with
glee and fear, until I realized that we were passing Cheese Grater Rock and facing Lava's last big wave. We dipped
down, nose to the churning waters, cruised straight up and over its threatening crown, then slid down the other side
into the harmless riffles beyond.
"Yeah, Doug!" we yelled. "That was awesome!"
"Who wants a beer?!" he exclaimed. We made it, by the grace of Doug's
oarmanship and the favorable whim of the all-powerful river.
That night, most everyone broke out a costume from the recesses of their
dry bags to celebrate. Carol donned a tiger dress, Eric wore a cardboard miniskirt with red duct tape suspenders, and
Jay sported a French maid outfit. Amid the mayhem, I took a moment to sit on the sandy riverbank. Ryan, dressed in a
pirate outfit, came up and sat on the sand next to me. We stared at the river's riffles and the canyon walls
highlighted by the peach-pit moon.
The utter enormity of the canyon's beauty never ceased to impress, from the
soaring crimson walls of Marble Canyon, standing like sentinels, to the centuries-old evidence of Puebloan cultures
and the glowing turquoise waters of Havasu Creek. But I realized that it's often the smaller, quieter moments in
which the magic of the Grand Canyon reveals itself. It's those moments of stillness and beauty and even camaraderie
that seem impossible anywhere else but a river corridor that remains wild and secluded, despite thousands of
visitors.
I found that magic in the eddy just outside Matkatamiba Canyon, where 16
diverse, joyful, active people collectively, nonverbally decided to simply do nothing but sit and soak in the
sunshine for hours. It was in touching the core of an ancient mountain range and listening to Donna sing in a narrow
slot canyon, a grand, natural symphony hall, that echoed and lifted her beautiful, textured voice. It was sitting in
the boat, watching reflections off the water paint ever-changing patterns of light on terracotta-hued cliffs. It was
even in discovering two mints under my pillow one night as I climbed into my sleeping bag-anonymous wilderness
turn-down service from one of my companions.
"Whoever you are, this place humbles you," said Ryan, finally. Yes, I
thought, perhaps that is the indescribable magnetism of the Grand Canyon. She had allowed us to witness her
improbable beauty; her windy, rainy fury; and her enormous, silent power that sculpted million-year-old rocks. I was
humbled by the canyon's benevolent bestowal of a safe passage and seduced by her charisma. I had been initiated to
the devoted cult of the Grand Canyon river runner, and I would be back.
Post a comment
insideoutsidemag.com doesn't necessarily condone the comments here, nor does it review every post.
Read our full policy.
