|
|
|
|
I've been to the Grand Canyon a number of times, but this was the first chance I'd gotten to float down the river. It was all my friend Courtney's idea; she'd been dreaming of doing a river trip ever since she first saw the Canyon. There are a number of advantages to a river trip as compared to hiking down into it from the rim: you get to enjoy all the exciting white water, of course; you can stay down in the depths of the canyon for weeks at a stretch; you don't have to hike back out!; and for me the most attractive of all -- you get to see all sorts of incredible side-canyons and hidden niches that are only accessible from the river.
Courtney did tons of research (you have no idea!) into guiding outfits and invited all her friends along. She chose the May "Hiker's Special" trip run by Canyon Explorations and Expeditions. It's a 16-day oar-powered trip with a particular emphasis on hiking every day. CanX (as they're known on the river) seems to be a respectable company, although I'm in no position to compare it with others -- you can decide for yourself after you read the rest of this.
Unfortunately we couldn't convince very many of our friends to come, since once you add travel to and from the canyon it ends up essentially being a three week trip, and most people have trouble taking that much time off. (But it's worth it!) In the end only Courtney, her husband, Robert, and their two close friends, Jeanne and Jim, could make it. Our other friends gave us lame excuses like having satellites scheduled to go up during that time -- sheesh, what's more important anyway: launching satellites or running rapids? At any rate, I hadn't had much time yet to get to know Robert, Jim, or Jeanne, so I was doubly looking forward to the trip.
A quick word about the rigging of the expedition: There were 21 guests and 6
guides stowed onto five rubber oar boats, one rubber paddle boat, and up to
three inflatable rubber kayaks. The guides rowed the oar boats and oversaw all
the packing, unpacking, setting up camp, cooking, etc. (Ah, the luxury!) The
gear was stowed in huge ice chests, dozens of ammo cans, and dry bags galore,
which in turn were obsessively secured to beefy metal frames and lashed into
the rafts by a bewildering tangle of webbing straps. The boats are quite
unsinkable, and in fact I'm told the metal frames themselves will also float in
a pinch even if completely severed from the raft (I don't think anyone had the
courage to ask how this surprising fact was ascertained).
The oar boats are 16 foot long lumbering monsters powered by two dainty little oars sticking out like the legs of a bloated tick. I admit to having my doubts from the beginning. Some of the guides were fairly massive, such as Pat who used to be special forces, but several were a bit more slight. (By policy half CanX's guides are female.) I'm not sure if they were trying to reassure me or terrify me, but they gave me a turn at the oars during various calm moments. I think I got stuck in an eddy within seconds -- who'd have thought those boats could move so fast? -- but once I figured out that there's a five second delay after every stroke, and once I learned that all that weight doesn't really mean slow -- it means that once it finally starts moving it'll just keep on moving -- then there's really nothing to it... Well, okay, I still wouldn't want to be in a boat with me rowing.
The paddle boat is a bit smaller and much lighter than the oar boats. It seats
seven people; the six passengers would row under the expert direction of Matt,
who'd hang precariously off the back, steering and shouting the occasional
command, such as "paddle like you mean it, damn it!" The inflatable kayaks
quickly learned not to look to the paddle boat for advice: Matt took special
delight in hitting the largest waves. Sometimes the exciting bits of a given
rapid wouldn't line up conveniently, so he'd have us charge left and right
across the river in search of the "perkiest" and most "assertive" bits of white
water. Matt also happened to be an immaculate story-teller with a flawless
deadpan delivery, hardly missing a beat when pesky rapids inopportunely
appeared in the middle of gripping tales of acrobatic kayaks, giant motor-rigs
flipping, freak holes opening up in front of paddle boats (you guessed it,
flipping them), and crazy river guides standing on rocks in the middle of
rapids screaming "Yer gonna DIE!!!!" at passing boats of Japanese tourists.
(The last became a bit of a battle cry for the rest of the trip.)
I suppose it would be a bit unbelievable if I claimed none of the boats flipped during the entire trip. Which is okay because one did. There'd be a couple of candidates if you had to guess which rapid did the deed: Horn Creek is pretty exciting at our relatively low water level. (That would be 8000 to 10000 cfs if that means something to you -- all the rapids look equally difficult to me. In fact the Stevens guide thoughtlessly recommends portaging Horn Creek below 10000 cfs; you can just imagine the guides' response as every single client inevitably brings it up at some point: "Uh, excuse me, Sam, but it says here that Horn Creek..." "Yeah yeah yeah, Stevens says not to run Horn Creek at low water, you're all gonna die.") Crystal is always tricky, but if you enter at just the right spot the river carries you safely past all the rocks with hardly a splash. That leaves Lava Falls. I guess Lava has the biggest reputation -- it's certainly hard to miss the giant waterfall river center. However, it's the V wave crashing in from left and right below that usually does you in.
It's quite the social occasion, as all the river trips land above the rapids to to get a good view of what they're up against. We watched three or four boats much like our own go through successfully -- they were all hammered terrifically, but it seems those rubber monsters simply don't like to flip. The four kayaks had a far more exciting ride, with a 50% success rate. It's a bit rude, actually, because if you're going to go over you do so fairly early on, then wave after wave nails you making it (apparently) very difficult to flip yourself back over again until you've nearly run clear of the whole thing. But in the end all four emerged on the other side with a paddle high-five and quickly disappeared around the next bend in the river. It was our turn next.
Lava Falls comes pretty far down the river -- mile 179 -- so by now I had a good deal of faith in the combined skill of the guides and unsinkability of the boats, so I stood blissfully in the back of Jen's boat and admired the view. And quite a view it is! As the boat tips forward into the trough below the big falls you're suddenly suspended some 20 feet or more above the river. I wasn't sure whether I should be alarmed when a waved ripped the left oar out of Jen's hand right at the top of the run; I decided to shout encouragement instead. The right side of the V wave broad-sided us and completely inundated the boat. But then as quick as that we're through, Jen had the oars back in hand, and it was all over. On her last run she told me she'd been thrown completely out of the boat at that same spot, but in a burst of adrenaline launched back into the boat so quickly that her passengers never even knew she left her post!
The paddle boat followed us immediately, and we waited in the eddy river
right just below the rapids. It's hard to see what's going on from below, but
it looked like a fine enough run as they ran dead-on into the V wave just like
every boat before them. But this time they emerged from the tumult as if by
magic upside-down, with people, oars, hats, water bottles, sandals, etc.
floating off in every direction. Jen and the other boats soon gathered all the
loose people and flotsam, and Matt righted his boat and piloted the second set
of rapids with the two remaining crew. Everyone was extremely excited when we
regrouped on a beach below -- carnage at last! We finally had a tale of terror
of our own to tell our friends back home.
Now the rubber kayaks are a completely different story. They're known somewhat affectionately as "duckies" for all the obvious reasons, among which are their color and composition, their habit of bobbing about and waggling their tails, and most importantly, their tendency to roll over at the slightest provocation. The guides flippantly encouraged anyone and everyone to try their hand at the duckies, setting only the three worst rapids off limits. There was a certain hesitation at the outset because of a nominal swim test required. The river water is coldest at the put-in at Lee's Ferry, just downstream from Glen Canyon Dam (46 degrees, in fact), but a few brave souls jumped right in, including Gunter, a game old German fellow who'd never set foot in a kayak before.
Alas for poor Gunter because, due to some small confusion about the guides'
directions, he ran straight for one of the largest pour-overs in the entire
Canyon at the top of Badger, the very first rapid we encountered. Understand
that above big rocks is a swell of glassy smooth water that's rather attractive
when viewed from river-level in a duckie -- certainly much more attractive than
the tumbling crashing white water filling the rest of the river. I got a great
view of the event from the safety of Jen's boat just downstream, complete with
a running commentary: "Hey, Jason, did you see the size of that hole on the
right? That would've flipped our boat for sure. Hmm. Looks like Gunter is
too far right. I really hope he starts pulling left soon. No. He's headed
right for the big hole, isn't he? Yep. Yep. Ooh, dead on. Ah, there goes
the duckie, now where's Gunter? Wow, the duckie is still stuck in the hole,
cool!"
Meanwhile I'm thinking, isn't this slightly alarming?? Bear in mind that I've never seen white water before, so I was kind of worked up about the whole thing before we even saw the river. After all, I'd heard that the Grand Canyon has some of the largest rapids in the world: isn't it a little odd that random schmoes like me can walk in off the street and float down the Colorado with no training whatsoever? Precisely why is it that the rapids were hardly even discussed at the orientation meeting the day before in Flagstaff? I mean, shouldn't we be instructed in how to avoid smashing our heads after being flung helter-skelter out of the boats, or maybe drilled in roll-call so we can determine which of us has been swept away down the river with maximum efficiency, or even be told which bits of gear are the most important to salvage from the wreckage -- like which boxes have the ice cream or steaks? I guess we should be thankful they at least required the people in the duckies to wear helmets.
The answer is that there is so much water coursing through the canyon, even at its very lowest, that while the waves and holes and such are huge, the chances of actually hitting a rock are extremely low. It's a matter of hydrodynamics, you see: the river flows very fast over any jagged rocks poking up into the current; the more it juts up the faster the water flows to get around it, creating a sort of cushion. Just when you think you are about to be smashed into a rock or the side of the canyon the current sweeps you safely away. The guides don't make it clear at first, but they fully expect most people to end up swimming at some time or another... especially if any are so foolish as to try the duckies.
Gunter, in the meantime, has survived the huge pour-over unscathed, bobbing up
some distance downstream (no doubt feeling a bit chilled, but somehow that's
never on your mind in the heat of the moment). It was some tiny riffle at the
bottom of the rapid that did him in: despite everything I just said about
rocks, Gunter managed to smash his shin on one. The cut went all the way to
the bone. Fortunately one of the guests -- Alan -- was a doctor. He treated
the wound and watched it carefully over the next few days, but it soon became
infected. There really is no way to keep a wound clean on a trip like this:
sand gets in everything -- your eyes, clothes, food, toothbrush, everything.
You can wash and bathe in the river, but half the time you'd feel dirty again
by the time you made it back to camp. After two days, Gunter's infection had
spread past his knee. Our fearless leader Pat called in on a satellite phone
and arranged an airlift. Gunter was a great sport and was joking about his bad
luck right to the end. (Secretly, the rest of us were jealous of him for
getting the world's coolest helicopter ride through the otherwise restricted
airspace of Marble Canyon!)
My own experience with the duckies was pretty average, I guess. I spent three
days after the Roaring Twenties (immediately after Gunter was lifted out) in
the duckies. My first day was pleasant and gentle, and I used most of it to
zigzag back and forth exploring all the little caves and springs in the Redwall
cliffs. I dashed recklessly through countless less-than-threatening unnamed
riffles, carefully honing my skill in preparation for the "real" rapids that
would come up later on. Courtney was faithfully keeping track of camps and
hikes and other important events on her map. I posed a tricky problem for her
when I flipped over on a bumpy stretch of water somewhere near mile 59 that not
only wasn't a named rapid, but wasn't even marked as a riffle! (Where'd that
wave come from, anyway??)
The next day was my last chance for some excitement before the serious rapids in the inner gorge, like Hance, Sockdolager, Grapevine, etc., and I had no intention of running any of them. After the Little Colorado there were a few small rapids (Lava Chuar and Tanner) which warmed me up nicely for the two real ones in the afternoon: Unkar and Nevills. We took a short hike at Cardenas Creek to an overlook directly vertically above Unkar, so I got a good look at what I had to do. It was pretty easy in a ducky actually; I exited to the right almost immediately and hardly got a drop of water on me. The bigger oar boats had more interesting runs because they weren't maneuverable enough (or lacked the incentive) to escape all the gnashing waves and rocks on the left.
Nevills was a very different story, however. From above, to my untrained eye at least, it looked much like every other rapid on the river: you hear it first as a gradually rising and deepening thunder, then you start to see little flecks of white splashing up over the horizon line. That's about it. It could be a 100 foot waterfall or a tiny little riffle barely worth mentioning. I'd carefully quizzed most of the guides separately and predictably received a widely diverging set of directions. All agreed there were rocks to avoid at the top and then again down lower, but whether they were in the center or on the right, or whether I should enter center or left, and how hard I needed to pull left were all a matter of personal aesthetics. So I averaged them out and decided I really had little control of where I was going to go anyway, so I'd just try to stay upright. It sounded like a good plan at the time. Just in case, I would err on the safe side, and pull left whenever the opportunity arose -- such as when I had the choice of two huge waves about to pulverize me I'd choose the lefter of the two evils. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)
The actual route bore little resemblance to this, of course. I suppose there must've been rocks and holes and stuff up there somewhere, but I was blissfully ignorant: all I saw was "oh shit! look at the size of that!" One after another after another. I cheated death repeatedly, and the waves were just starting to calm down a bit when, well, I really don't know -- it happens so fast, doesn't it? -- I found myself off balance high-siding for all I was worth, but it just wasn't enough. Oh well, here we go. I managed to wedge my paddle in the kayak and my leg between the two. By time I got that disentangled and flipped the boat and launched myself back in, smack! over again. Okay, one more time, smack! Okay this is getting old. The third time I just lay face first too tired to care, paddling pathetically with my hands. Oh look, one more wave, smack! At least I'd been upright long enough to notice that was the end of it at last. By time I was sitting in the damned thing the forth time I was missing my paddle, both shoes, and any remaining vestiges of pride. Matt graciously delivered the first but the others are probably still languishing in Lake Mead.
I'm really hard pressed to decide which of the dozens of side trips we took
were my favorite. I have a soft spot for slot canyons and slick-rock, but that
doesn't narrow down the choices very much: the Grand Canyon has a huge variety
of impossibly narrow, twisty little side-canyons carved through sandstone,
limestone, and siltstone (and even granite and schist, such as Trinity Creek).
Most are bone-dry inhospitable places (like Carbon Creek), but some have muddy
pools hidden away in the shadows full of canyon tree frogs (like North
Canyon), and still other lucky ones have sparkling rivulets and even rushing
creeks and rivers (like Clear Creek and Stone Creek). Sometimes you'd never
know it, but you could start up a completely parched desert wash and wind up
into a narrow slot to find a trickling stream and crystal clear chest-deep
pools (like National Canyon). Some of the nicest canyons (like Havasu and Deer
Creek) were broad valleys surrounded by lofty Redwall cliffs with a lush green
ribbon of cottonwood, mesquite, seep willow, and cattails following the creek,
and we would stop at shady pools just to rest and enjoy the pleasant
afternoon. And not every hike even went up side-canyons: sometimes we would
follow maintained trails up through various fault lines that created breaks in
the otherwise uninterrupted cliff lines on either side of the river (for
example, at Fence Fault we climbed up to the top of the Redwall and contoured
over to an old dam surveying camp with fantastic views of Marble Canyon,
Vasey's Paradise, and Redwall Cavern). These were neat hikes, despite
sometimes being brutally hot, because otherwise there is rarely a chance down
at river level to get a good view of the full scale of the Grand Canyon --
indeed there are only a handful of select spots on the river where you can even
see the North Rim at all.
For the most part we would just trickle out in small groups after lunch or before dinner, following one of the guides. Sam was usually the first out and set a blistering pace, but soon enough other groups would leave, so no matter what your pace or style you could generally find a group that suited you. Matt, for example, was good to walk with because he would have all sorts of interesting stories about the plants, lizards, rocks, geology, and history. One time he stopped with a few of us and poured a little water (my water I might add) on a clump of seemingly dead brown moss. Within 5-10 seconds it turned vivid green right before our eyes -- talk about adapting to wake up during a brief rain storm to take advantage of every drop of water! We had a little more trouble sharing his enthusiasm for examining the rotting remains of a Mexican Spotted Owl in Carbon Creek.
The quintessential slot is the Deer Creek Narrows. Sam and Pat set two short
ropes in the tricky spots, and about a dozen of us scrambled, waded, and swam
down nearly to the brink of the famous 140 foot falls at the bottom. Only the
second rope was strictly necessary: letting us go hand over hand down an
overhang right beside a 10 foot waterfall. In the twilight of the depths of
the slot it is really spooky; the smooth red sandstone winds sinuously up to
the unseen sky above, the colored light filters softly down, and the roar of
the creek echoes magically. Our time was limited because the water was
freezing and we left the last patches of midday sun behind just past the first
waterfall. The return trip was a real challenge for me; while I'm comfortable
that I won't drown in water, I am an extremely week swimmer, so I had to fight
with all my might against the current to make it back to the base of a couple
small falls. Courtney and I helped each other out; she gave me a hand in the
water, and I gave her a hand at the top of the slick mossy boulder problems.
While only the most adventurous descended into the Deer Creek Narrows, almost
everyone gave Matkatamiba (pronounced "mat cat amoeba") a shot. This one is a
V-shaped, completely smooth, striped Muav limestone gully. A small stream
snakes gracefully down the bottom of the groove. You start by wading along
pleasantly, but soon find yourself stemming and chimneying up cool slides and
past small chock-stones. Towards the top are some rather tricky moves, but
every single hiker made it in the end, with occasional judicious help from Pat,
Sam, or Matt. While most of the group relaxed by the creek in a beautiful
shady wooded alcove, Kelly took a couple of us on up the canyon. There was no
trail to speak of, but the gravel wash was easy to follow, with only a few rock
falls to scramble over. We passed lots of fresh bighorn tracks but were forced
to turn around because of time constraints before we caught up with them. (But
that's okay, because we got to see dozens along the river, including a group of
old rams with enormous horns in the Granite Gorge.)
Elves Chasm also warrants special attention. The canyon drops rather steeply
through the Redwall to the Colorado, creating several travertine falls and
slides along the way. The closest is hardly a stone's throw from the river.
It's one of those spots of paradise you hear about all the time in books about
canyon country: it's a secluded alcove with delicate veils of waterfalls amid
hanging gardens of maidenhair fern and golden columbine. While most of the
group lingered to swim and dive in the pools there, Pat led a handful of us up
a relatively easy but extremely exposed third class route to four or five other
sets of falls and pools ending at the "Crying Wall" -- an impressive broad
sheer cliff with water seeping out all over it.
Havasu Canyon, of course, is most people's favorite. From the river it's a
strenuous scrambling hike three miles up to Beaver Falls. The more impressive
Mooney and Havasu Falls are several miles farther, and while some parties will
pull off the entire distance to and back from Havasu Falls in one day, it
hardly seems worth it since you won't have time to enjoy any of it along the
way. We hung out at Beaver for several hours. Sam led the more adventurous
folks on the "jungle run", involving much swimming, scrambling, diving,
exploring hidden caves behind the falls, getting cut up on travertine, and
other excitement. I immediately fell in love with the travertine pools and the
way the sun and shadows of the Arizona ash played across the glassy-smooth
terraced falls. I wandered about mesmerized, enjoying a moment of pure bliss,
watching the ever-changing forms of the water, colorful butterflies flitting
about, and the brilliant summer and western tanagers darting here and there
through the swaying trees.
The second (and last) serious accident occurred on the hike back from Beaver Falls. Conrad had already amply proven himself one of the fleetest, most adventurous 70-year-olds I've ever met. He was frequently found cracking jokes with Matt in the front of the paddle boat in the worst rapids. Unfortunately it only takes one slip to send the best of us sprawling on our arse. Conrad did one better and landed face-first from the look of it. The resulting scratches, bruises, and black eye made it look like the mob had just gotten through with him. But true to character, he soon managed to hobble back to the boats under his own power and proceeded to call himself squinty for the rest of the trip.
We would usually do our hikes in the morning or middle of the day, leaving us
plenty of time in camp in the afternoons and evenings to lounge about,
socialize, throw horseshoes, read, write in our journals, bathe, or whatever
else. In such cases Pat generally tried to stop at a camp that had some hiking
or scrambling potential for those fools among us for which the rest of the day
wasn't tiring enough. This was particularly important for me as it was our
only real chance to get away from the rest of the trip. Sometimes the best I
could do was wander up and down the beach looking at the ringtail, beaver,
deer, coyote, and bighorn tracks. Other times there would be a neat little
amphitheater we could scramble up to or a short side-canyon we could wander up
a little way. One of my favorite camps was our first. It was just a small
stretch of sand beneath a long talus slope. At the time I didn't realize it
was against park regulations, so I immediately set off scrambling up the talus
to the foot of the Coconino cliff where I found a bunch of fossilized lizard
tracks. (Particularly exciting for me because I never find cool shit like
that!)
It was probably when Robert, Jeanne, and Jim started up after me that Pat began to realize what kind of trouble he was in for on this trip. I'm sure it was clear from the start that I was going to be a problem (after all, I started the first day by asking Pat to help me treat a big gash on my heel I'd gotten wandering around barefoot in the hills outside Flagstaff the day before), but now I was being a bad influence on others, too! He called us down and explained the ground rules. I feel bad for pushing the boundaries a bit, because Pat was extremely lenient and understanding. He let us bend the official rules several times; he just asked that we let him know what we were up to first. I'm not so good at that. In fact I'm downright terrible at following directions and respecting authority. So it was pretty inevitable that Pat and I would have a disagreement at some point.
The first incident was pretty minor -- I ran off early one the morning and re-traced a short hike up Carbon Creek we'd done the previous evening. It wasn't really even disobedience; it literally didn't occur to me to tell anyone where I was going -- it was just an early morning jog, right? I just got a little carried away.
But what brought matters to a head was a miscommunication that afternoon when I paddled off in search of my shoes after the Nevills debacle. I guess Pat was a little keyed up for a couple reasons. (Beyond my obviously ignoring him when he called me back: Matt had said it was okay, and time was critical as the current was quickly sweeping my shoes down river, so I didn't have time to argue the point.) I imagine my long swim looked a bit scary (especially coming just a few days after Gunter had to be evacuated for less). We were making camp right below the rapids and the current could theoretically sweep me well downstream, making it a real pain in the butt for Pat to arrange some way to fetch me back to camp. And there was one other reason Pat was stressed out: a few of the guides honestly thought the people flipping the duckies were willfully ignoring their advice. Talking with Pat, I realized he blamed Gunter for what happened to him at Badger, and he implied that I also deliberately "went big" in Nevills despite his warnings. While it may be true that some yahoos will recklessly endanger themselves, trust me, Gunter and I had no intention whatsoever in making our runs more exciting than absolutely necessary! Pat and I stewed over this for a few hours while he led a hike up 75 Mile Canyon and I thawed out on a baking-hot slab of rock outside camp. I decided that it wasn't Pat's fault at all (it was Matt's if anyone's for telling Pat he hadn't given me permission); I recognized how understanding Pat was being in general, and I was sorry he had to deal with any of this sort of thing -- he had enough to worry about without wondering "what the hell is Jason doing now?" We patched it up easily, and there were no more problems the rest of the trip. (Pat even admitted to me when I'd wandered off in Havasu, that he'd secretly hoped that I'd made the dash up to Mooney Falls despite his having forbid it: he even seemed a little disappointed -- I think he might have done it if our places were reversed!)
There are tons of random things to stop for along the river; not every stop was
a side-canyon or other hike. This is where a guided trip such as ours gives
you so much more than a private trip. The guides know where all the neat
little tidbits were hiding in the canyon walls -- like fossils, petroglyphs,
Indian foot bridges, test bore-holes for dams, abandoned boats and mining
machinery, and even some fun boulder problems. And of course, we're all
indebted to Matt for pointing out such famous canyon formations as Chicken
Pulling Wagon Train, a ridge that, in silhouette, looks uncannily like its
namesake. He even told us a little of the history of its first ascent by a
fellow river guide. (For god's sake, is nothing sacred, is nothing left
untouched by man??) Apparently it looks nothing at all like a chicken or a
wagon train from the rim; thus it required significant effort to triangulate
its position from several locations on the river. Other points of interest
included the Doll House (an outcropping of schist near Bedrock rapid, that the
river has carved into totally bizarre fluted tunnels, caves, and windows), some
nautilus fossils hidden under an unlikely roof of Redwall limestone in Marble
Canyon, and an odd travertine formation also in Marble Canyon that on closer
inspection turns out to be a rushing waterfall almost completely enclosed in a
curtain of travertine. (The only entrance now is a tiny window. On a previous
trip, Matt supposedly managed to stick his head through and get stuck, while in
the meantime the paddle boat he was commanding was starting to slide away on
the edge of the current!)
For those who like gruesome details, here's a complete list of hikes and side trips.
We were lucky to be part of a great crew, both guests and guides. I was more than a little worried when I walked into the pre-trip meeting to find the average age looked to be about 60. But everyone was open to try anything; half of us ended up swimming at least one rapid, and almost everyone could be caught trying some tricky climbing moves in the various slot canyons along the way. I never heard a single person complain about any of the deprivations of roughing it. Everyone had a fine sense of humor. It was a reasonably diverse cast, including an elderly doctor and his wife from British Columbia, Alan and Marite; three friends from Germany, Gunter, Goetz, and Kristin; a lady from Britain, Hilary, near the end of a solo trip around the world; and a physicist and his wife, Mike and Christine (who graciously lent me her diving booties after I lost mine). A few, such as Craig, Sharon, Geoff, and Cindy had significant river experience already. A few had even been on CanX trips before. But all were related by a desire to get away from civilization for a while and enjoy the canyon for what it was -- I think for that reason most trips like our own will find a group of fundamentally compatible people. You don't go on a 16-day oar-powered hiker's special if you just want an adrenaline rush or if you're going to try to drag all the amenities (and burdens) of society down the canyon with you.
Most of the guides have been mentioned already, but it's worth introducing them
properly. They were a pretty wacky troop. I've already talked a great deal
about the trip leader, Pat Phillips. His misleading surfer dude style fooled
you into thinking he was just one of the guys. But behind the scenes he was
running an incredibly smooth operation. He briefed us about our plans in
detail every morning and evening, frequently taking the opportunity to read
from John Wesley
Powell's journal, and inviting other guides to read poetry or give geology
and bird lectures and such.
Sam Jansen is a lively character, as you
might have guessed. He saw the canyon first as a geologist on a USGS survey
team and decided to stay on as a river guide instead of going back to an
office. He quickly distinguished himself both by bringing his guitar to neat
echoing grottoes up various side-canyons, and (rather dubiously) by reading to
us from an eccentric library including the likes of "Porcine Canticles" -- a collection of absolutely
absurd stories about rednecks and pigs, delivered in a perfect southern drawl.
We all soon learned that Sam's boat was not the ideal place to stay dry: if
there weren't rapids or waterfalls to do the trick, there was always a water
cannon and as a last resort buckets.
Kristin Downing is a reserved lady coming as close to projecting an air of
propriety and respectability as you'll find on the river. She's one of those
people who manages always to look good, no matter how long you're out. She'd
fallen in love with the canyon on first sight years ago, and from what I heard
left everything behind to become a river guide. These days she divides her
time between the river and a shelter
for birds of prey in Oregon. She kept up a running tutorial on all the
birds we saw in the canyon. (We never saw any California condors which are
apparently frequently sighted in the Canyon, but we did see a black frigate
bird -- a rare sight so far inland -- and we got to watch two peregrine falcons
unsuccessfully attacking a violet-green swallow for the better part of fifteen
minutes.)
Jen Seabury quickly earned the nickname "Nice Jen" because everything was
"nice!" no matter what, when, or where. She was constantly consulting history
books, maps, geology and flowers guides, and practicing Spanish and French on
the other guides. Jen had a knack for rolling with the punches on the river
and emerging unscathed no matter what happened. Among her other strong points
was that she brought along her husband, Paul Santana, as a guest. Nice Paul, a
forest ranger from the Salmon River, helped out tremendously everywhere,
including giving those of us who were new to whitewater invaluable pointers on
kayaking technique.
Matt Winfrey is another colorful character, as you've already seen. He has a
fantastic working knowledge of the local history, geology, flora and fauna,
etc. He kept his boat entertained with a continuously running commentary about
all things great and small, filling in slow spots with an endless supply of
bizarre stories delivered in ruthlessly exaggerated accents. Matt has a
certain nerdy streak that immediately appealed to me. So I wasn't too
surprised to learn later on that he runs his diesel VW van on vegetable oil.
(I quizzed him about this at length; you should look into it if you have any
interest -- it doesn't sound very difficult. Try here or here for example.) And we
were all patient (we had no choice) with his fascination with diving into
skeezy dark eddies up to his neck in search of such valuable entrapped flotsam
as beer, chapstick, and tevas.
The last guide was Kelly VanDenBerg. She was still working her way up the ladder to being a full river guide. She looks like a delicate girl, so I was very impressed to find out half way through the trip it became clear that not only was she more than capable, she might have actually been the best pilot. Watching her taught me that it's all about your precise position and direction at the entrance to the rapid: if you hit it just right the current will take you through the rest of it with hardly a touch of the oars. Unfortunately Kelly melted into the background a little bit in the shadow of the other more flamboyant personalities. She has some fantastic photographs posted on her web site.
Generally I prefer to let the details surprise me, but it's worth a quick description of what camp was like -- after all most of our time was spent there. I don't know about other people, but I almost always pulled in to camp exhausted. Even if you're just lounging around in the back of Jen's boat, that's a lot of time sitting in the baking sun. And if you spent the better part of the day in the paddle boat battling sluggish currents and stiff head winds, then you were probably about ready to drop dead. Strictly speaking you don't really need to do anything once you hit the beach since the guides will take care of just about everything short of pitching your tent for you. But I don't do nothing very well, and in fact our whole group was a fairly lively bunch. There was all manner of baggage to unload, so lines would spontaneously form to pass everything off to the appropriate places. There was an enormous quantity of water to filter. (They provided a giant ceramic water filter and followed up with a few drops of chlorine bleach to be safe, and it was tacitly agreed that this was our job, not theirs.) They always welcomed help chopping vegetables and preparing hors d'oeuvres, as well. (I had to make sure the coleslaw was prepared correctly, so I helped out at the cutting board a fair amount.) Finally, after dinner there were dishes to be washed, but that was about it. This is the wilderness, after all -- you don't really need that much! Likewise, the whole operation took place in reverse in the mornings. I'm pretty sure I hindered more than helped the first few mornings, but we soon learned that everything had its place and caught on to the system.
The whole operation probably went very efficiently as far as that sort of thing
goes, but as I lean pretty far toward the minimalist camp I couldn't help
stepping back and shaking my head sometimes. The shear quantity of crap that
got moved around every day was breath-taking. Hilary taught us ignorant
Americans that the term "faff" (rhymes with "calf" and "laugh") described the
whole operation perfectly. Indeed the potential for faffing within one's own
personal gear was tremendous, and was a cause of much amusement to the more
cynical among us. We each were given a number of bags and places to put stuff.
We had two dry bags, one for our sleeping gear, one for extra clothes, jackets,
shoes, books, etc. These got stowed away every morning, not to be seen again
until camp sometimes late that afternoon. We also got a mesh bag for stuff
that we might need during the day. These, however, also got stored away
inconveniently in dry bags that essentially were only available at lunch and
again at camp that night. And then there were three sets of separate public
bags for tents, boots, and day packs; there were private stashes of beer or
sodas in burlap sacks towed behind the boats (to keep them cool in the river);
hiking poles went somewhere else; cameras and binoculars went in a special ammo
can that was reasonably accessible on the river. Anything else was stored in
all manner of creative ways on your own (or significant other's) person: in
pockets, tied here and there, stuffed in pants, and things like hats and
sunglasses had to be clipped down (lest they be lost in event of boats
flipping... which they were anyway, even if you did clip them down). Oh, and
water bottles were clipped to the side of the boat. Phew, got all that? No?
Yeah, well, neither had anyone else, even after a full week had gone by. The
first few days it was especially bewildering trying to figure out where
everything needed to go. In the end the only reason I got it sorted out is
from sheer lack of junk to faff with! I stuffed everything either in my
sleeping kit (I didn't even bring the second personal dry bag) or in my mesh
bag. It just wasn't worth fighting with cameras or anything else. The results
were mixed, however, as I ended up going on most hikes with such essentials as
soap, toothbrush, clean clothes, and heavy books. So I got to watch the daily
parade of people pulling things out of one bag and putting them into others,
then back again, followed by significant others asking why it wasn't in a
different bag altogether, all the while repeatedly asking guides whether there
would be sun, water, rocks, bugs, etc. on hikes, at lunch, on the river, etc.
No matter how carefully and thoroughly one prepared for every eventuality,
something always ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I will leave the final mundane details of bathrooms, bathing, and such to more dedicated reporters.
The camp locations were almost unanimously excellent -- it's hard to go far wrong in the Grand Canyon I suppose. Thankfully, there are a good number of large beaches remaining in protected locations, despite the Glen Canyon Dam. By large I mean anywhere from 100 to 1000 feet long, and sometimes extending up to the cliffs a fair way as well. I was never forced to camp in "the thicket" of tents grouped socially together near the boats yet safely above high water line. (Yes, the Colorado River has tides of a sort, caused by the diurnal variation in power demand at the dam.) A good number of camps had fine views, even the ones stuffed deep in narrow Redwall canyons. Some had cool alcoves and niches that I could scramble up to with my sleeping bag. One of the special experiences of a river trip is watching the narrow strip of brilliant stars wheel slowly by overhead. We were lucky to have virtually no moon up until the new crescent appeared late in the trip, so star gazing was particularly satisfying. The sand of the beaches is a very fine white luxurious product, that is very pleasant to lounge around on, while at the same time insufferably blowing all over the camp, food, gear, boats, and everything else.
I dare not leave out food completely. I know I called it a wilderness, but you sure wouldn't know it looking at the table spread morning, noon, and night. After all, the river is carrying everything for you, so why not splurge? Those huge ice chests were stuffed full of fresh fruits and vegetables and meats. Breakfasts typically included coffee (duh!), melons, cereals, and something hot, like hash browns, eggs benedict, corned beef hash, breakfast burritos, pancakes, and so on. Lunches were usually cold cut sandwiches with oranges, apples, and cookies on the side, but sometimes included pasta salad, taco salad, or tuna/chicken salad (I could never decide which it was!) They let out all stops for dinner. Appetizers would be anything from chips and dip to fancy guacamole and cream cheese rolls or stuffed mushrooms. Favorite mains were grilled salmon, steaks, jambalaya, chili, pozole, thai curry, and pasta, with anything from fresh-baked corn bread to mashed potatoes to toasted garlic bread and almost always a fresh salad or coleslaw on the side. Deserts weren't forgotten: cheese cake, chocolate cake, carrot cake, peach cobbler, pineapple upside-down cake, fresh chocolate chip cookies, brownies, and so on. I soon earned the reputation for having a bottomless stomach and frequently ended up with all the leftovers dumped on my plate. I kept waiting for the ice cream to come out, but I guess there's a limit to everything.
One of the things that most impressed me about the trip was the cleanliness of
the canyon. I've never been in a wilderness (no matter how remote) that I
haven't found balloons, shotgun shells, and other debris. The bottom of the
Grand Canyon is spotless. (I won't say pristine, only because Glen Canyon Dam
has changed the ecology so dramatically that it will never become truly
pristine again in our lifetimes.) I believe that the river guides deserve the
credit -- and not just CanX, it has to be all of them for it to work. They
love their canyon, and I think they instill a certain respect for the place in
their clients. The only places that look worn out or abused were places hikers
could reach from the rim, like Bass Camp, Deer Creek, and Havasu. Most beaches
we camped on or stopped at for lunch had been swept clean by the wind even of
footprints before we arrived. It was really easy to forget that 20,000 people
a year followed in our wake. Perhaps only people with respect for nature come
on these trips, but I doubt that's all it is. I personally take hope from this
example. Mankind is not a plague on everything it touches.
It shouldn't come as a surprise that a trip down the Colorado River is all
about the water. But not just the rapids; it's about all its forms and
effects: Floating down calm stretches in the late afternoon. The way the sun
sparkles off the swirling currents and eddies in the water. The way the river
shapes the fluted granite of the inner gorge. The sinuous curves and stripes
of the slot canyons. The sounds of a guitar in the echoing amphitheater in
Trinity Creek. The towering limestone cliffs and dry waterfalls begging you to
imagine the brief torrents that must pour off of them in flash floods. The
trickling seeps and hanging gardens of maidenhair fern, rockmat, and crimson
monkey flower. The improbable roaring springs where fully-formed rivers spout
straight out of solid cliff walls. The unexpected lush valleys of greenest
cottonwood, ash, horsetail, and evening primrose. Darkling pools lying hidden
in deeply cleft washes. The arid slopes and airy cliffs hanging above the
river, where live the lonely agave and barrel cactus: so close yet so far from
that same miraculous water.
By tradition CanX trips always spend the hours of the last morning floating down the river in silence. It'd be corny on the first day, but by the end of 16 days I'd developed a deep respect for the river and the canyon. The gurgle of the river, the slap of the oars, the song of the canyon wren, the chirp of the crickets, the rustle of the reeds and coyote willow -- these sounds and these canyon walls were all we had for the last two weeks. It didn't feel like I was about to return from vacation; I was about to leave my new home to go back to a life I could scarcely remember.
|
My pictures. Phil's pictures Craig and Sharon's pictures Goetz and Kristin's pictures Mike and Christine's pictures. Courtney's pictures and trip report. This guy is another guide at CanX. |