IF YOU THINK HIKING NINE MILES IN OR OUT OF THE GRAND CANYON IS AS EASY AS WALKING TO THE STORE, AND IF YOU SORTA-KINDA GET IN SHAPE IN BETWEEN GOING TO THE MOVIES AND MAKING DINNER, YOU’LL BE JUST FINE, THINK AGAIN. VETERAN O.A.R.S. GUIDE, JEFFE ARONSON OFFERS INSIGHT INTO WHAT IT TAKES TO HIKE THE LEGENDARY BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL.

Trust me. More than a few folks have limped their way to and from the boats, missing hikes to waterfalls and swimming holes because they’re too beat up, eating ibuprofen like candy.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. With a little bit of effort before your trip, you will not only enjoy the hike, you’ll have a pair of legs to take you to some mind-blowing places downstream.
Honest.

As for hiking out, the unprepared hallucinate through an eternity of suffering; the fit have a really cool desert trail experience. Your call.

So, having gotten that bit of tough love out of the way, what to do?

The Bright Angel Trail follows an old Native American route into the Grand Canyon from the South Rim. It follows a fault line through otherwise impenetrable cliffs for thousands of vertical feet, like pretty much every other route into “The Big Ditch.” Comfortably on the rim, you’re seeing the canyon, but not really getting it. Yet. If you’ve come down the river with us and are hiking out, you get it, for sure. You’ve also been training on all those short river hikes we’ve been taking you on.

You take 300 steps down below the rim, and the universe changes into a wilderness. All of a sudden you get this feeling of vastness. An immensity of rock and desert. And that zig-zaggy thing that goes way down there with the little bugs moving along it until it disappears in the far blue haze? That’s where you’re headed, amigo.

Before you go, take the recommendations in your O.A.R.S. pre-trip package seriously. Take daily walks, in the park, on the beach, or to the market instead of driving. You know the drill. That’s D.A.I.L.Y.

Start slow, a half-hour or so at a time. Build into an hour. Surely you can afford an hour a day for the trip of a lifetime? It can make all the difference. Pain sucks. Trust me.

Ideally you’ll be training on hills (or, on the Stairmaster if you live in the Midwest). That’s where the knees come in. And the aerobics. It’s critical to work your heart and knees and hips for the pounding they’re in for. Up and down, down and up. So start several months out, get some good music on your iPod, NPR on podcast, and enjoy the day. It’s a good excuse, anyway.

OK, you’re fit. Now what? In summer, when it’s about a thousand degrees and the sun is baking your brains out, you’ll want a large-brimmed hat, sunglasses with UV protection, a lightweight long-sleeved shirt and the same in pants, and a good pair of tennies (or light-weight hiking boots if your ankles are like mine), with some cushioning in the sole.

Of course, a water bottle is a must, though two liters is sufficient since on the “BA” there are plenty of watering holes where you can refill your bottle. I use a bandana as well, dunking it into the water fountains or creeks (upstream of the mule manure) at every chance. Getting wet and staying wet is the difference between heaven and hell. It takes getting used to being wet like that. But it’s like having a palm-frond fan and being fed grapes, watching all those poor heathens sweat—good desert trick to know.

During spring and fall, you just might encounter snow up on the rim. If you’re hiking you’ll probably stay warm, but not in a T-shirt. Synthetic or wool undies, a fleece for when you stop to snack or pee (and you will stop to snack and pee), and a wool cap. If you’re prepared, it’s stunning.

Did I say snacks? Your car doesn’t run without fuel, and neither do you. Fuel up, don’t get bloated, snack regularly: some carbs for instant energy, a little fat for later, and a bit of protein for the long-haul.

If you take my advice, you will absolutely love the most popular trail in the Grand Canyon. If you stuff this in the “I’ll-get-a-round-to-it” pile, you will be thinking of me somewhere along your personal trail of tears.

Did I say trust me?

This essay was originally created for the 2012 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

The water has indeed risen. 75,000 cfs. Scuttlebutt has it going higher. I make a mental note to scout an uphill escape route as we float. Who knows? The dam just might blow. (I cross my fingers, actually preferring this option, but keep my mouth shut.) Six hundred vertical-foot tsunami. Should take a few hours to make it a hundred miles downstream, plenty of time to scramble to the perfect viewpoint and crack a beer.

Suzanne joins me at Phantom’s boat beach and we observe as the nervous clients pack. She watched a thirty-seven foot motor rig flip end-over-end against the wall in Crystal last week. Crystal is ten miles downstream. That’s a bit over an hour at current speeds.

“Wait’ll you see Crystal, Jeffy! It’s amayzin’.” Over and over in her beloved Alabama accent, till my guts wrench. The beach, like all the others, is underwater, sand shifting below dark, cold currents. Strategize. Boat order. Hand signals. Joel, Moley, Kevin—can’t imagine a better crew. A ranger approaches.

“Georgie just flipped a big rig in Crystal!” he exclaims, too loud. Our inscrutable sunglasses offer the only reply. Nearby, a client’s head rises, faces us. Our ranger is oblivious. “There were injuries!” The client gently places his half-filled river bag on the sand, strolls over.

"Is this a good idea?”

“Y’all will walk around Crystal Rapids. We’ll run the boats through empty and pick y’all up below,” says my lovely trip leader.

This simple logic seems somehow to satisfy him, and he walks back to inform his wife, who has the thousand-yard stare going but good. Perhaps this was supposed to improve my own mood as well. It doesn’t, much. We head downstream.

Horn Creek Rapids is the first big one past Phantom. Each season there is at least one rapid that gets to me, one I can’t seem to wire. Sometimes it changes spontaneously from one to another, every few trips. Without notice, the nemesis will let me go, allow me to grok it, sense its ways. Another that I’ve done flawlessly a dozen times will morph, become elusive. Granite had been my adversary most recently, before that Lava, Crystal, Hance—always one at a time. At present, it’s Horn. I find it hard to be chatty with the new folks as we come around the corner.

Like House Rock—gone. Buried. An inconsequential riffle. We look back, shake our heads, not sure where we are for a moment. Granite’s thunder and spray is at least familiar. We cheat it, hurtling along the left shore, avoiding the colossal curling breakers along the right wall. The scout rock at Hermit, normally a high and dry vantage point from which to reconnoiter the choice run, is submerged below a diagonal wave barreling into the infamous “fifth wave.” This usually perfect, straightforward feature has transformed into a monstrous curler paralleling the current, the perfect surfer’s tube. I plan to miss it, but end up being torn wildly into the tube, yelling “Hold on!” and battling to keep the snout straight. We slot the curl, no fault of mine, the wave erupting into the heavens from the boat’s starboard side, reaching over us, and crashing over our port side. We never even get wet. Each rapid has a finality about it—one step closer to Crystal. The clients do not notice the silence of the boatmen, our significant glances to one another. This is deliberate.

Crystal is a dance. Difficult to read the entry, so confidently worked out from shore, once in the tongue. Holes and rocks to either side of a narrow aisle, and you’re moving like a freight train. Black cliff of schist on the left, broken by great pink and white criss-crossing dikes echoing thunder, insidiously drawing the attention of the frail. Dip an oar here, adjust there, ready to move hard right to miss the dumping maw, a sure flip. Go there by mishap or misfortune and swim through unending waves, despairing of energy and air—or, for the really unlucky, over a calamity of boulders of every size and shape. Nail your run (so far), exultant but focused, and prepare to move hard left or right, sensing where the current is drawing, different every time. Fight that current with a predisposed bias, and Big Red, the largest and most conspicuous of the boulders, draws you towards her, an insistent lover. Laconic, veteran boatmen get awfully quiet in the eddy upstream. Consequences. First among equals. Okay, okay. I’m in the present already.

Stepping ashore, the ground sends tremors through our flip-flops again, running up our spines and into our numbed skulls. We are silent, and the passengers are now keenly aware. They can’t read rapids, but they can read us. I imagine hundred-ton boulders the size of houses, placed there by an incomprehensibly massive flood of mud and rock twenty years past, once again animate, now tumbling, colliding downstream. The air thumps, muffled bass drums throb the atmosphere. Oooh. My belly.

Camp—gone. Buried. We tie to the crag usually behind it, fasten our insignificant craft to its top. Tammies—tamarisk trees, foreign invaders from the Middle East but providers of shade and nesting nonetheless—wave like palms in a tempest far from shore, only their tips visible above the chocolate current. We sweat, but not from heat. We swing the rafts into the eddy behind the cliff, preparing to camp on the delta-top from which we usually enjoy a panoramic scout.  We climb back aboard our boats to start unloading (finding it is strangely comforting to leave the shuddering earth), but Suzanne has other ideas.

“Leave yoah boats alone.” We look up from the rigging, baffled.

“Y’all have to go see the size of this hole befo’ it gets too dahk. You just won’t b’leeeeve it!”

That’s it. Poor Suzy’s mind has finally snapped.

I am silently elected. She is, after all—though clearly deranged—my best friend. “Suzy. It’s okay. We’ll just de-rig and start camp going, and then we’ll go see the hole.”

She stamps her flop, hands on hips. I know this look.

“I ayem yoah trip leadah.” She’s seductive, smiling like a best friend, but with the stance of a killer. “Now you get down offa yoah boats right this very minute.”

Obedient, beaten curs, we crawl off our boats and follow her to the overlook.

In boater’s parlance, a “hole” is just that—negative space, a void in the water where water should rightfully be. Bounded on the upstream side by smoothly flowing, deceptively graceful water, deflected elegantly upwards by some hidden obstacle below the surface, then sliding downwards too fast to adequately refill the space. On its downstream end, however, it slams into a chaos of froth, catching up to and punching its way into this liquid brick wall trying to recover its original height. Some of these “foam piles” we hit on purpose, spraying our clients with water on a hot day and giving them a bit of a ride. Some we purposefully play in, surfing them in our kayaks like acrobats on an ocean wave and whooping in delight. Then, there are those that we avoid at all costs, that threaten—like a black hole—never to release anyone or anything that enters, tossing boat and boater like rag dolls, or, worse yet, capsizing, submerging, then torpedoing everything towards eardrum-popping depths and rocks below. These are the “muncher” holes, too often further complicated by difficult entries and jungles of boulders.

The roar slams us in the face as we top the rise. The beast is at hand. Jaws drop—jaws that have seen some really big water all over the world over years of extreme, pioneering rafting and kayaking. I urinate on a spindly desert trumpet at my feet, a gesture of coolness—fooling no one. Each of us is silent, looking deep into our souls, seeking courage for the morrow. Suzy smiles, in ownership of the moment, exultant. You have to admire her.

We turn our backs on our fate, eager to dull our senses, make camp. I mutter under my breath that we have to think of a way to describe the scale of things for later, when memories fade and stories get smirked at by guides who weren’t there but know better. We agree, after fruitless attempts at hyperbolic adjectives, that you could chopper a locomotive over the hole, perpendicular to the current, lower it until its top was below and within the crest of the breaking wave, and no part of it—not the ends, not the bottom, not the sides—would touch water. No Shit, as we boaters like to say.

After dinner, pooped clients safely tucked in after their long hike, we stray over to the fire log and, one by one, absentmindedly pick up our instruments. I pluck my mandolin from its rock perch, pulling the strap over my shoulder in the flickering glow, mind drifting, tuning up. Joel meanders over, opens up his banjo case, joins in. Moley wanders in with tequila, an offering, leans over his fiddle. I’m not much of a drinker, easily getting smashed on just three beers. This night, however, we indulge as loggers and whores might. Not a word is spoken—no words needed. We play, at first softly, introspectively, then, as the hours roll on, imperceptibly faster, louder, unconsciously building to a crescendo of pent-up thrill and tension, youth and destiny compelling us, song following song, into harmonic frenzy. Rhythms are flawless, backups and solos tight, crisp. There is a drummer here, not human, hammering the beat. Long after the ringtails have retired, we face each other in a compact circle, combined repertoires driving us onwards, into the moon, the cliffs, the water. In one, single, spontaneous moment, our desert jam having feverishly built—note for note, decibel by decibel—a bridge between our souls, and from there to something unnamable, we all stop, unbidden and un-cued, on precisely the same chord. Brown-Eyed Girl, redux. The spectacle will echo amongst these cliffs, mingling with Crystal’s thunder, long after civilization has ceased to exist.

Eyes glazed, instruments laid to rest, utterly exhausted, alone and separate once more, we retire to our respective floating roosts.

This story is an excerpt from Jeffe's book, River God and is featured in the 2011 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling essays from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

The first time I ever laid eyes on a whitewater dory was during a road trip across northern Arizona, when I dropped by the offices of a river outfitter in Flagstaff that runs boating expeditions through the Grand Canyon.

It was early March of 2003 and a blizzard had roared out of the north the previous night, so it took a moment to kick the snow off my boots before stepping inside the boathouse.  There I found myself staring up at a dozen diminutive rowboats that were unlike any kind of watercraft I had encountered.  

Most were handsomely painted in bright colors, and several featured squared-off transoms adorned with hand-drawn scenes from the desert rivers of the southwest: a bighorn sheep, a cluster of columbines, a peeping frog. What struck me most forcefully, though, was that the profile of each boat boasted the simplest and loveliest lines that I had ever seen. Their gunwales swept boldly from bow to stern in a curve that mirrored the rocker of their bottoms, while the profile of their flared hulls set up a pleasing contrast with the rigid ranks of eleven-foot oars that hung from the far wall in neat vertical columns.

At the time, I had no idea that these boats, originally designed for cod-fishing on the gale-wracked combers off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland, had become legends on the Colorado, where they are renowned for their speed and elegance amid the river’s seething hydraulics. What I did know was that I was entranced. My jaw just hit the floor. And in an impulse that defied logic and common sense, I decided—right there—that even though I was 38 years old, I was going to have to quit my job and somehow find a way to follow those boats into the water-haunted world at the bottom of the grandest canyon on earth.  

There are, of course, lots of middle-aged men who flirt with equally harebrained schemes before coming to their senses. So I’m not sure that I can adequately explain why I failed to abandon my own deluded inclinations, except to acknowledge two things that are obvious to anyone who has ever been smitten by the witchery of small wooden boats: the fact that dories are drop-dead gorgeous and that a man who permits himself to fall under the spell of that much beauty is apt to toss prudence and sanity straight out the window.

Which, in a nutshell, is how I became a baggage boatman for O.A.R.S.

In a typical expedition run by Grand Canyon Dories, the division of O.A.R.S. for which I work, each guide rows an elegant 17-foot dory christened in memory of a natural wonder that was heedlessly destroyed by the hand of man—doleful, elegiac names like the Ticaboo, the Emerald Mile, the Music Temple, and The Vale of Rhonda. But each trip is also supported by two inflatable rubber rafts that haul almost all of the gear and supplies, and that boast absolutely none of the dories’ seductiveness or charm. Unlike dories, the rafts get names considerably less lyrical than those of vanished ecological treasures—specifically, barnyard animals. There are the Ox, the Mule, the Clydesdale, and the boat to which I have developed the deepest and most abiding affection, the Jackass.  

During the course of my apprenticeship, which is currently entering its seventh year, I have never been permitted to row a dory. At this point, my best guess is that I probably never will—only the most gifted, un-jackasslike boatmen are ever given that opportunity.  However, through my position at the tail end of the flotilla (mine is almost always the last boat in our running order), I’ve had the chance to do something almost as marvelous as actually piloting a dory. I’ve been able to observe them, study them, and moon over their magic like no one else.

I have watched those boats at all hours of the day and night, along every stretch of river, in every kind of weather. If you spend enough time staring at dories in this manner, sooner or later you realize that they are able to achieve a unique trick of visual alchemy. I’ve never quite figured out how they do it, but through some inscrutable wizardry involving the geometry of their rocker, the rhythm of their oars, and the force field of their own radiance, there are moments when they appear to be suspended not on the surface of the river but on the air itself.

That’s a wondrous thing, to be sure. But what I value even more, I suppose, has been the chance to watch what those dories do to the men and women who row them for a living.  

Although some folks would argue otherwise, dory guides are neither better nor worse than any other kind of river guide in the canyon.  Regardless of which company they work for, every veteran river guide has memorized every bend in the rock walls, every kink of the river, at every water level one would care to imagine. After spending years in this place, almost all guides have also come to regard the river and the canyon as home: the terrain that speaks to them on the deepest level, the landscape to which they most truly belong.  

What makes dory guides special, however, is that they have come to understand that the delicate and impractical watercraft to which they have devoted the better part of their lives may stand as perhaps the finest, most eloquent metaphor for the canyon itself: its seductiveness, its fragility, its aura of timelessness and classicism, and its savagely incongruous mysteries. Because when it comes down to it, nothing expresses and contains those elements with greater fluency or concision than a little wooden boat.  

The guides who row those little boats know one other thing too. They know that the canyon, the river, and the dories present an elusive and intoxicating paradox. It is a paradox rooted in the fact that so many of us are willing to go such extraordinary lengths to seize in our fists an object or a landscape that seems to embody wildness and grace, presumably in the hope that doing so may enable us to establish a kind of spiritual stewardship over these things. And yet we invariably wind up discovering that the truth, like an eddy, runs in the opposite direction.

In the end, it is the distillation of wildness and grace that comes to possess us, and we who belong to it.

This essay was originally created for the 2011 O.A.R.S. catalog. For more compelling stories from other renowned writers, click here to request your copy today!

Although he's a minimalist and appreciates solitude, he's not one to  be constantly dirty and will bathe in the river regardless of the weather. Stevens also enjoys gardening, horseback riding and building things whether it be his deck or an extension of his house. Although many situations on the river inspire Scotty, he explains that "when the crew is really a team, and the folks see it, the energy is so good it's contagious."

Click here to view the video version of this interview. 

1. How long have you worked for OARS and how did you get your start?

I've been working for O.A.R.S. river company for 33 seasons, and most of the time in the Grand Canyon. It's been a wild day today, I gotta tell ya; we've seen hail, rain, sunshine, it's been hot, it's been cold – that's the Grand Canyon. How I got started was meeting other river guides. I met Steve & Marsha Dardon at an EMT class in the winter of 1977-1978, and they were good enough to come up and see where I lived. At the time, I lived on 80 acres with no gas or electricity. I had an outhouse that didn't stink and a small garden and they said, 'Man, you like to live like this?' and I said, 'Yeah, it's the coolest place I've ever lived.' They said, 'You're gonna be a river guide.' And they were right.

2. How many times have you been down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon?

Well I've been down the Grand Canyon over 200 times, I couldn't tell you for sure, but it's definitely I'm guessing closer to 220. I could go back and count them but I know I'm over 200 Grand Canyon trips and out of that, I bet I've got about less than 20 to a dozen motor trips, the rest of them are all rowing down the canyon. There's guys with a lot more: Brian Dierker has probably been down here around 600 times but probably 500 of those are motorized trips. As far as rowed trips, there's probably a few people that beat me but I'm right up there in the top 10.

3. What do you enjoy most about rafting the Colorado River?

For me, I've done it so many times it's really the passengers, 100%. I love what I do, I love turning people on to coming out here. When it's freezing cold and you've got to be out there, people just don't experience that, they really don't. They come down here, they've got no choice. Goddamn, when it rains, when it hails, you're right in the middle of it. You see more of nature in a two week Grand Canyon trip than most people see in their whole lives.

4. What are some of the wildest experiences you’ve had on the river?

I'll tell ya, I've had some pretty wild things, in my youth I was one of the wilder guides down here, but as I've matured I've tried to behave myself somewhat. It used to be if I had guys who wanted to go big, I went big. I was on a trip to where it just started pounding rain. It was an all-men trip, and I'm really not all that into an all-men trip, but these guys got the most outrageous sight you'll ever see, it rained so hard you couldn't even see for a while. Then waterfalls started pouring in from either side and these guys were bumming out and I said, 'If it just keeps pouring rain like this for 40 minutes, you're going to see something outrageous.'  We saw water flash flooding from either sides, it was so big it was blowing the boat from one side to the other. We had to stay in the middle of the river just so that we weren't hit from debris coming off of the rim.

5. What do you do when you're not on the river?

I'm usually gone for five or six weeks, and I have so many honey-do's when I get home it's unbelievable. I have gardening to do, I get little construction projects all over. Right now I'm building the last part of my wrap-around porch that's taken me ten years to do. I'm making fruit leather from all the fruit that came off the trees while I was gone. I'm dehydrating pears because all the pairs are coming off the trees.

6. What’s your favorite story to tell guests?

It's full of inaccuracies, but it's about how George Wendt started O.A.R.S. river company. He was a schoolteacher down in southern California at Paul Revere Charter Middle School in the nicer part of LA, and he talked his wife Pam into moving up to Angels Camp which is unbelievable because it was such a redneck little community. Pam's told me some cool things about how George promised her just the year before that it would strictly going to be a weekend business. I like to elaborate on that story, I'm sure it's full of inaccuracies, but I love to tell that one, it's my favorite.

7. What was the best car you’ve ever owned?

So for years I tried to talk George into selling me his '71 240Z, the first year they were made, and he wanted $2,500 dollars for it and I only wanted to pay $2,000 for it. Year after year I'd hit him up and say, 'George, sell me your car,'  we can negotiate the final price. I came in one day, I was going to have to drive to the Grand Canyon and I said, 'George man, please, sell me your car!' And at the time I was driving a motorcycle and he said, 'Scott. You better just get back on your motorcycle.' And finally the last year that I managed operations for O.A.R.S. on the Tuolumne River, I traded an entire season of managing for that Datsun 240Z and I totally restored it. I added two coats of blue, four coats of clear, it was the coolest car ever.

8. What is your favorite hobby other than rafting?

So my favorite hobby is gardening, I have a massive garden. I have flower gardens, and over fifteen fruit and nut trees.

9. You’ve lived in Angels Camp for a long time. What was it like living on the O.A.R.S. property before the New Melones dam was built on the Stanislaus River?

In the old days this place was so cool it was off the chart. On Highway 49 you may see 3-4 cars a day, maybe a dozen cars. Highway 49 was the take-out on a 2-day river trip so the location was perfect. You could take Red Hill Road, back roads, dirt roads, you could go into town to a bar with a pool table in the back and get a pitcher of beer for $2.75, go in the back room and play pool. Angels Camp was the perfect places…the guides were all broke, we bought our clothes from a second hand store in town, we didn't have hi-tech equipment. Guides were guides just because they wanted to be on the river. It was all about river rafting; we were so non-material it was off the chart.

But as far as the normal person, the normal person, you want to do something outrageous? Come run the Grand Canyon. Do the section where you run through Lava Falls and you will be scared in a safe way. It's like a roller coaster but it's not Disneyland, it's the real deal.

Click the play button below to watch the video interview.

Smooth, solid, surreal…As stylish as it is burly, a dory is to the river what an Italian sports car is to mean, urban streets and rowdy rural routes. No other boat is as capable, safe or elegant on the wild waters that O.A.R.S. explores. Beyond their stout, thoughtful design dories hold a soulful connection to the river and a heritage of western exploration. Combined, the qualities of the vessel make for an unmatched and unforgettable journey.

Dories are made for rock and roll. They’re also finely tuned to provide classic amenities. Hardwood-hulled but ultra-buoyant, they slice walls of wave, buck through rapids and land large drops with ease (and more than enough splash).

In rippling waters and inconsistent currents—conditions that would make other vessels more unruly—a dory is unbelievably sleek and lounge-like. Sincerely smooth sailing. Decked over, there is room for hundreds of pounds of gear, dry and out of sight. Above board, there’s ample space for four passengers and a central cockpit for a guide manning two powerful oars.

Aside from the incredible places these boats will take you; aside from the wonderful experiences you will have there; aside from the dories’ heritage and elegance; these boats, more than any other on the river are just plain fun.
                                                                                                 -Excerpt from the O.A.R.S. Dory Catalog, 2004

O.A.R.S. dory boats are descendants of the original Portuguese fishing dory—a flat-bottomed, splay-sided rowboat with high upturned ends. In the early years of commercial river running in the Grand Canyon, two veteran rowers of the old Cataract boats, Martin Litton, and P.T. Reilly, saw the need for a more practical craft, but wanted to preserve the dignity and grace of the wooden boat.

According to a wonderfully detailed account of the dory’s history, written by Grand Canyon boatman Brad Dimock, Martin and P.T. worked with boat builders Keith Steele, and later, Jerry Briggs, to develop larger, decked-over versions of the McKenzie dory. They found the boat to be perfectly adapted to the rigors of the Colorado River, and it could carry four passengers and plenty of gear below the decks. In 1964, inspired by the canyon’s grandeur and driven by a will to save it from proposed dams and inevitable destruction, Martin Litton received authorization from the National Park Service to row dories commercially in the Grand Canyon and Grand Canyon Dories was born.

Rigid, keeled cutwater boats first made their appearance on the rivers of the western U.S. in 1869 during the Major John Wesley Powell expedition through the Colorado River canyon. Powell and the expeditions that followed were able to navigate the Colorado in these heavy, unwieldy boats. Then in the 1890′s a Utah trapper named Nathaniel Galloway revolutionized whitewater boating by utilizing a light, flat-bottomed boat. In the late 1930′s Norman Nevills took the next step by creating a far broader craft called a Cataract boat, using it on the first commercial Grand Canyon river trip in 1938. Though the Cataract boats were run in the Canyon for more than 30 years, their poor carrying capacity forced them to succumb to the new competition: inflatables.

The river dory evolved on Oregon’s McKenzie River. In the 1920′s Torkel Kaarhus, a Norwegian boat builder, began to modify the awkward flat plank boats then in use. He bent the ends up, giving the boats "rocker" and making them easier to spin. He raised the low square stern to help ward off the waves.

A few years later Woodie Hindman, who got his start with Kaarhus, began to modify the design. After running a trip on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River with its bigger rapids, he returned to Oregon determined to design a better whitewater dory. First, he converted the high square stern into a higher, pointed stern to better cut through the waves. Next, he squared off the low pointed bow to accommodate a motor. In a sense he turned the boat around backwards. Lastly, he lengthened the boat for better handling. This became the McKenzie style dory, or "drift boat," which is now common on rivers throughout the Northwest.

In a recent conversation with John Blaustein, one of Martin Litton’s original dory guides, I asked him why someone might appreciate a dory. He stated from his home in Berkeley: “They are simply the most beautiful and graceful boats on any river. You feel details of the rapids, and you certainly get a feel of the water more intimately because of the way a rigid boat responds to the current. However, whether a person chooses to travel downriver in a dory or in a raft, they will almost certainly have an amazing whitewater experience. Adventurers will still explore side canyons and share a campfire with newfound friends. They will fall asleep under the stars and awaken to the sound of water flowing downstream. However, dories are elegant, classic and graceful—a word that Martin often uses. In fact, you should call him.”

It took very little encouragement from John to get me to pick up the phone and call Martin. As predicted, he immediately described the dory as “graceful.”

“Dories are spirited,” he added. “They have individual personalities. Each one is named after magnificent wild places. All your gear is stored below deck in watertight compartments which makes it a very sleek and elegant-looking boat.”

He continued, “A dory reacts to the water, and as you grow accustomed to your boat and learn its unique quirks, you always know how it will respond. It has a direction to it. Dories are made to go over the waves. They were made based on a history of going through ocean breakers. The dory’s design—the rake, the slant of the sides, the width, the gunnels—all these characteristics influence how the boat handles and how it keeps the water out. This doesn’t mean that you won’t get wet, certainly you will in big rapids.”

Martin spoke with animation about his years spent in the canyon, sharing with me a history of one of his legendary boatmen, Kenton Grua (a.k.a. “The Factor”). He suggested I read Colin Fletcher’s book, “The Man Who Walked through Time: The Story of the First Trip Afoot through the Grand Canyon.” Of course we discussed John Blaustein’s book, “The Hidden Canyon.” Somehow the discussion led to alpinist Lito Tejada-Flores, but neither of us could recall how we found ourselves on that topic. We touched briefly on politics before Martin shared tales of two of his young guides in the early 1970’s — Curt Chang and Regan Dale. These two aspiring guides learned the ropes from Martin, who had introduced commercial dory trips not only in the canyon, but also on rivers in Idaho and Oregon.

After independent adventures of their own, Curt took over the reins in Idaho, and Regan managed Grand Canyon operations. Today these gentlemen continue to carry on the Grand Canyon Dories and O.A.R.S. Dories legacies and are part of one integrated family born of the Grand Canyon.

Nearly two hours had passed since Martin and I discussed the dory, so I asked him again why he thought someone might consider joining a river trip by dory and he said with a laugh, “Well, they’ll just have to experience it to find out!”
 

Here is the complete interview…

Well Guided: Conversations with Top AC Guides
Mar 30, 2009

A great guide can transform a journey. This month we talk with Jeffe Aronson, who navigates travelers through the Grand Canyon for O.A.R.S. A river guide for 34 years, Jeffe describes the role of guides as being “musicians, storytellers, jesters, professors, great cooks, best companions, and, of course, excellent boatmen.” In our conversation, Jeffe shares some of his most hair-raising rafting adventures, and reflects poignantly on the rewards of river journeys.

DG: How long have you been a guide?

JA: This year, 2009, will be my 34th season.

How long have you been a guide for OARS?

This will be my 4th season in a row, plus one back in ‘92, when I met my wife in the Grand Canyon.

As a guide, what do you do?

Hah! Everything from cleaning up “La Pooparia” to cooking soul-satisfying meals, from putting band-aids on owies to splinting up for the chopper, from sharing a scotch while watching the stars wheel in over the rim to offering a hand to get hikers over the next boulder, from rowing flat-water against the wind while trying to keep up a conversation to high-siding my dory rails while catapulting through the V-Wave in Lava.

What area/trip is your specialty?

I’ve worked all over the world, but have settled back into the Grand Canyon rowing dories (as long as I can keep them bamboozled into thinking I can actually do this).

What is it about the Grand Canyon that most appeals to you and that you love most to share with your travelers?

I have been, as I said, all over the world. I’ve boated some of the hardest, wildest, most remote rivers during my career. The Grand Canyon is, well, more than a river trip. Of the thousands of people I’ve taken down the mighty Colorado, many of whom are experienced world adventure travelers, most all end up leaning on the coffee table some glorious morning near the end of the trip, waxing lyrical, to tell me that this was the most amazing experience they’ve ever had in their lives. That they can never, will never, forget it.  As for sharing, I love to scan the faces of folks while I play my beat-up guitar and sing around the campfire, or as they come around the last corner before seeing The Patio at Deer Creek, or Elves Chasm, or as we float awe-struck (every one of us) through Marble Canyon downstream of Redwall Cavern, or watch them watch the guides as we scout Crystal or Lava or…

Can you give an example of any special experience or connection you have that you have been able to pass on to your travellers?

I have met a boat-load of incredible characters in my own incredible life. I am told I am an okay storyteller. Sometimes, when I am inspired, which isn’t hard to do along some riverbank, I launch into a tale of my friend Joe Biner, a boatman with cerebral palsy who has rowed the Canyon a dozen times, or of huge, funny Dave Edwards diving in to save a client from drowning in the Havasu flash flood, or legendary Suzanne, or the ‘83 flood, or… I love my job, and this place, so much. I have also lost a few things over the years to be down there. They can tell. That’s all they need.

Can you give me an example where you think you made an important difference for the travellers on one of your trips?

I instituted Grand Canyon river trips for people with disabilities, against great political odds. These trips are now done by the outfitters themselves, and are no longer considered too risky or too much of a hassle. I will always remember some of these first pioneers, bogged in deep sand in their wheelchairs fishing, or gazing at a waterfall after believing they would never be able to do that again, or being held by their helpers in a rapid, terrified and joyous. The effort was painful and I took a hiding, but I am very proud of it, nonetheless. I think of the ones that have followed.

What are a rafting guide’s most important skills?

Keeping the folks calm and safe as they are taken way beyond their comfort levels. Getting them through while making sure they don’t miss the magic.

What does a good guide add to a journey?

The best guides stay out of the way. They share of themselves and their knowledge, and remember that it’s all about the river, not them. They’re patient with the same question they’ve heard a million times, helpful to the biggest klutz on the trip, and keep an eye out, not only for trouble, but for that singular, fleeting moment. They may be musicians, storytellers, jesters, professors, great cooks, best companions, or, of course, excellent boatmen. Either way, they must have a keen sense for each of their pards and their clients, and watch for the hole that needs filling, or the rainbow that needs an “Ah!” to keep it going.

What are the main challenges of travel in the Canyon, and how do you overcome them?

The heat and the constant moving camp. As to the heat, you gotta teach the folks. As I write in my short story, “Sinyala Fault”: “You have to push through and beyond the sweat, the heat dragging at your heels, feeling like you’re baking in a convection oven. Somehow, you have to twist your mind and spirit into sucking in the heat, inhaling the burning rock, shrinking your presence into your sombrero and sunglasses and worn running shoes. Going beyond insane into primal, focused intensity.” As for moving every day, you just have to keep them psyched for what’s around the next bend, and help them figure out how to pack.

What do you enjoy most about your work?

The simplicity. The natural, sunburnt, gently flowing camaraderie. Watching people get it. Listening to the creak and dip of my oars.

What has been your one most memorable experience as a guide?

I cannot, do not, have just one. Comes with the territory after so many years. I’ve written a book, and am now shopping around for agents. There are a dozen stories in it, many of them river guiding adventures — and I’ve taken a number of others out! Perhaps it was when Glen Canyon Dam nearly burst in 1983, and we rowed the Canyon at 100,000 cfs. Perhaps it was when I lost my motor in high water Cataract Canyon and had to row the two-ton boat and five clients thru the Big Drops. Perhaps it was when a client going through chemo on one of our disabled trips asked the group’s permission to die right there and then, at Grapevine Beach, because she was so happy. Perhaps it was watching the eighteen-foot crocs leaping into the river, our river, right next to the boat on the Zambezi in Zimbabwe. Or diving into Havasu Creek in front of a twelve-foot flood wave to save two clients. Or rowing non-stop read-and-run Class 4 for hours on the Bio-Bio in Chile, now buried under a reservoir. Or the insane portages and must-catch micro-eddies on the Franklin in Tasmania, or having a grizzly charge me to within ten feet in Alaska, or…

How can travellers get the most out of a whitewater rafting adventure?

Be ready for the magic. Appreciate how rare the experience. Soak up the camaraderie. Test your boundaries. Oversome your fears. Leave the preconceptions behind, in the brochure. Accept. Take some of it home with you.