Grand Junction CO, Colorado,

On the bucket list of life’s goals, a river trip in a wooden boat through the Grand Canyon has to be a must.

BIG waves, small boats.

Dories are the smallest, most difficult and most fragile boats running the Canyon today. It is as close as you can get to Major John Wesley Powell’s first successful journey through the canyon in 1869.

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On our last day on the river our guide, Ruth, asked us for the one memory we would take with us, to go back to in our minds when we needed to return to the peace and beauty of the Canyon. Those of us who had hiked to Nankoweap all chose it as our memory. The view from Nankoweap is beautiful. Photos don’t begin to capture its loveliness. The river looks like a thin emerald ribbon. Shadows bathe the nearby Canyon walls while those farther downstream strain upward to catch the last of the day’s sunshine. Sitting next to the granaries, looking down on the plateau, it was easy to imagine the Indian spirits still there, setting about the daily ritual of preparing the evening meal. There is a sense of timelessness from the top. I felt like a small speck in a larger continuum of time and place. There is a silence and peace not found in many other places. My mind drifts back to Nankoweap when the work day becomes too hectic and I again borrow a little peace from the Canyon.

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Lars Haarr was tour leader on our Mystical Peru adventure which included history, culture, river running and a 5-day trek to Machu Picchu. He could not have been more attentive to the eleven of us. We found out it will be Lars’ birthday in a few days, and I was inspired to write the following poem:

LARS

We met him first in Lima.

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Preponderance of
Ponderosa pines imbues
yearning for green peace.

Rapid waters slow
onrush of advancing years.
Logjams free the soul.

Eddies inscribe circles
of new beginnings and ends,
reverse time, change flow.

Bow to the power
of capillary creeks breaking
aortal rhythms.

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Starring: Art Daar as himself (who else could play that part?), Elmer as Earl, Earl as Elmer (also plays the fairy and “Aargh”), Diane as Raven, Ralph as The Kahoona, Maddie as Kahoona’s woman, Cindy as confused wife of Earl and/or Elmer, Steve (client) and Jeanie as photographer and supply sergeants, Jerry and Nancy as newlyweds (Jerry also as water acrobat and Nancy as lost oar retriever), Dan and Kim as nomadic comedy team. Produced by: Billie as leader and on oars, John, Rio and Steve on dory oars, and Wild Bill and Ned on supply boat oars. All of these also; cooked, cleaned, herded, humored, taught, doctored and, we hope, became friends with the strange cast of this drama. On April 30, 2008 Art and I were pleased when the others in the hotel lobby mistook us for river guides. We played it a little before admitting we were also clients. Being mistaken for painters refurbishing the building brought us back to earth. Art and I have been sledding in the Yukon together for two years and had decided on this trip over a year ago. The tour started with a meeting sitting in a circle of chairs that was to become so familiar in camp. Writing about it now, it is hard to believe that the strangers in this first circle were the same friends who reluctantly parted here sixteen days later. Billie introduced herself as our trip leader. Having a beautiful young woman as our trip leader caused Art and I to exchange an approving nod. Her good looks became only an exclamation point to her other fine qualities as we got to know her better. The other guests on the Grand Canyon dory adventure were: Diane from Alaska; Steve and Jeanie from California; Dan and Kim from Florida and Virginia; Ralph and Maddie from Washington; and Jerry and Nancy from Florida.

After a short briefing, we collected our waterproof bags and dispersed to pack for an early morning start to the river. On May first our two vans, each towing a dory, were ready to depart at seven a.m. as planned. The dory is a fine craft, even sitting on a trailer. Her gracefully upturned bow and stern with a solid broad beam say plainly that she is ready for anything. The comfortable seating for two fore and aft promises a wild ride. The rowing well is centered and functional looking. My pulse quickened looking at them. Regan and his five month old setter Ruby drove us to the river. As we neared the canyon we ran a gauntlet of red cliffs. Some looked like grumpy old men but mostly they looked somnolent in the warm morning sun. At Lees Ferry we got our first safety lecture. This included detailed instruction on righting an overturned dory. I was slightly comforted when I noticed that I wasn’t the only one who was slightly apprehensive. The spell of the canyon was descending on us already. A group on a big rubber raft left ahead of us. The dories captured the attention and photos of the riders on the rafts, even as they started their own adventure. The first riffle made me chuckle, remembering how my wife, Chris, had cleared her whole side of a raft into the water the last time we were doing white water. Violet Green swallows escorted us through Paria Riffle. If you can see the white water as you approach, the run is a riffle. Art and I in front and Ralph and Maddie in the back relaxed as Rio, our oarsman today, started to introduce us to the canyon. He was just explaining about the successful reintroduction of California Condors to the canyon when they appeared, right on cue.

They cruised near Navajo Bridges as we approached them. The bridges were much more impressive from below than when we had driven over them. Dropping further into Marble Canyon we saw phalaropes feeding on a sandbar and noted the first appearance of Coconino Sandstone in the cliffs around us. Badger Canyon Rapid started announcing its presence well before we arrived. A rumbling base sound from down canyon had us reviewing our safety lecture. This was a rapid. Only sporadic flips of spray peeked over the shiny, reflective, laminar flow leading to the drop line stretching across the river. The dories ahead were swallowed in a blink. Before we dropped over the edge we got a short look at the next dory with its pretty bow pointed at the sky and the one beyond it going sideways with the occupants bailing water out energetically. We crouched and gripped the rail with both hands, trying to anticipate which side would be “high” and planning to move that direction at Rio’s command. He had already shifted us minutely right or left to balance (trim) the boat. We went over the first wave and quartered the second one. The wave broke over us in a cold embrace. It was like that first punch you take in a fight. The nerves were gone and I yelled the “Yee Haw” that was to become my trademark for the trip.

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Although the reason we chose the O.A.R.S. Main Salmon for our family rafting trip last summer was to enjoy its 93 miles of wild and scenic landscape, the unexpected surprise was how much fun our eight year old son had. Every day our five young guides–Bram, Chris, Jamie, Chris, and Duncan organized a variety of games for the five children in our group, including teaching them how to safely jump off rocks, float down rapids, and my son’s personal favorite called "Ducky Wars." Not only were our guides outstanding oarsmen, with extensive knowledge of the area’s flora and fauna, they were genuinely nice people who dedicated themselves to making sure each guest had a relaxing, safe, and memorable trip. It doesn’t get any better than this!

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What has painted toenails, sarong skirts, silver bracelets and wears thong sandals for rock scrambling? Our river guides. River fashions exhibited by “Kinney”, 41: a pink button-down shirt and a wrap-around Hawaiian skirt. “Morgs” (Morgan) wore a cowboy shirt, buttoned up to the throat and a thrift store rainbow-hued long skirt. Adam Grogin, (“Grogs”), 29, did not do skirts. None of the three were particularly tanned. Agile as dancers or acrobats, each leapt from raft to raft, nimbly gripping the huge rubber tubes with their toes as they jumped over the dozens of float bags piled high. Morgan was the “TL” (trip leader) of this float. Personifying cool and hip, he had a lean, feline grace—charming the females. He sported two French-braided pigtails and a cowboy hat with a flattened brim. His confident, jubilant manner and speech affectations reminded me of Johnny Depp’s “Captain Jack Sparrow” in “Pirates of the Caribbean”. He had blue-painted toenails instead of Captain Jack’s eyeliner. At 31, he could claim ten years of oaring experience.

The two teen-age girls on our trip were so enchanted with “Captain Morgan” they planted themselves on his raft and refused to budge when it came time to switch boats. Subdued into nearly silent hero-worship, they begged to be allowed to help in any task from dishes to hauling buckets of river water for washing. When lunchtime came, “Grogs” opened one of the gigantic coolers on the raft and pitched tomatoes, onions, peppers, oranges, pears and lettuce to Morgan standing behind the aluminum table set up on the beach. Adopting a baseball catcher’s stance, Morgs caught each one easily and set them on the table to slice ‘n’ dice. This subtle interplay reminded me of the movie “Cocktail” where Tom Cruise juggled bottles in the air.

The infinite patience and reliable good cheer of the boatmen made a lasting impression on me, as did the wide variety of skills required for this laborious occupation. Others in the service industry may only have to deal with any given customer for an hour or two, but these guides have to coddle, cook and answer questions for six DAYS! There was next to no private time for them to be away from US. By the time they collapsed in total exhaustion on their respective boats to sleep, it’s doubtful they had the energy to do more than exchange a couple of words with each other. From setting up the “Groover” (the metal strongbox toilet) to cooking gourmet meals (lots of hand-washing in between), teaching geology, telling stories and reading poems, these guys have a well-rounded job description, far exceeding the actual boating skills required. And, the trip was not just about boating; each day the ten of us were led on a scenic hike up a side canyon to view Indian “granaries” (pronounced “gran” like fawn, not like “grain”, our leader loftily informed us), or play around in the inviting deep pools pocketed in hidden gorges revealed when Lake Powell retreated some 149 vertical feet. One hike was an arduous 1,200’ climb to the “Doll’s House”: a spectacular plateau of rocky spires and infinite views across the canyon into the Needles District.

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From the bank the river looked like a snake. A glistening green anaconda sliding through the rocks. I couldn’t see its fangs, but I knew they were there, waiting for me just around the next bend, sharp, white and dangerous—The Rapids. I was scared. Hell hath no terror like that of those-who-have-almost-drowned, which I had in a river long ago, young, foolish, and in the company of similarly moronic friends, one of whom somehow managed to rescue me by the hair at the exact moment I had surrendered to the dark death-god of the river. The ordeal left me deeply marked by the power of whitewater, and I had avoided it ever since. But now, I knew, my number was up. I had, after all, lived an adventurous life. Being a nature writer by profession, I had been obliged to kayak in deadly storms, hike rattlesnake-ridden ridges, track moose through blizzards, crouch just inches from stampeding buffalo, fish alongside Alaska brown bear, swim with whales, snorkel with salmon…why, I had even camped on the steppes of Outer Mongolia with the local pit vipers, one of whom decided to make an unscheduled appearance in my neighbor’s bedroll. Clearly it was time to make peace with the grim river reaper. So there I was, standing in the morning light of an Idaho September.

The Salmon River, much to my mortification, also is called "The River of No Return," which meant, of course, that I would never get out alive. I’d never return home, never see my dog again, my French china, the little black dress Tweeds finally got around to mailing me after being sold out of it for three months. “Need sun block?” asked an insufferably cheerful river guide. “No,” I replied. “I need a lobotomy.” We were putting in, as they say in the river running business, at Corn Creek, a two-hour drive from the already remote town of Salmon, Idaho. At the moment the place looked like an ant farm. Fat yellow rafts and elegant high-sided dory boats waited in the shallows while troops of extremely tan people crawled all over them. They were our fleet of guides and their mission was to stash the mountains of supplies that littered the beach into secret compartments deep in the bowels of the vessels that would carry us downstream for the next six days. Coolers, tents, duffel bags, sleeping bags, tables, lanterns, cooking things, rubber boots, and backpacks …the scene looked to me like preparations for war. “You can stow your ammo can here,” offered a quiet guide named Lonnie Hutson, We had, indeed, been given genuine government issue metal ammo cans in which to keep the stuff we wanted near us at all times – sun glasses, cameras…arsenic. I studied the other guests for similar signs of angst. Nothing. Just smiles and spirited stomping around. “Hi, I’m Jeanne,” announced a pretty woman with an East Coast accent. “That’s my husband, Herb.” Herb waved and smiled which made him look exactly like Lorne Greene. They were, it turned out, a bonanza—a psychologist and doctor team from Maryland who had already done O.A.R.S.’ 17-day Grand Canyon dory trip and lived to tell the tale…many times and with great enthusiasm. I asked Jeanne if I could ride in her lap. That, of course, is all you have to say to a psychologist to get her undivided attention. “This is your first river trip?” she asked. I told her about the near-drowning. “Then, this is the best thing you can do for yourself,” she said. “I was just as scared when we did the Grand Canyon, but by the end of the trip the whitewater was like an exciting friend. Besides, these are the best guides in the world and this is one of the safest companies—we researched it thoroughly before we chose it. You’ll be fine.” “I’ll be damned,” I thought.

I was damned, in fact. Lonnie had just given me a front row seat in the upcoming theater of disaster, pointing to the bow of his boat. When we pushed off the bank at Corn Creek, I had a death grip with my left hand, my right fingers tourniqueted around the hand grip and my toes jammed under the seat. Even from the depths of paranoid dementia I could see the Salmon River is a beautiful place. It is, in fact, one of the longest undammed American rivers left. This triumph occurred largely due to the heroic efforts of a man named Frank Church and of former Idaho Governor, Cecil D. Andrus, both of whom saw to it that the millions of acres of unspoiled wild lands were kept that way. Idaho’s glorious unfettered heart is now called the Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness. Bear, elk, eagle and big horn sheep call it home. It is, indeed, a masterwork of rock and pine, river and sky, and whitewater. “What’s that?” I asked Lonnie. It sounded like rolling thunder. “That’s our first whitewater,” he said. “This is a drop and pool river,” he added, as if abstract analysis could somehow derail the tsunami of panic that was flooding my mind. I can now proudly say that I personally know how General Lee felt when he heard all those damn Yankees coming up over the draw. How pitcher Ralph Branca felt when he heard the crack of Bobby Thompson’s bat at the 1951 World Series. How the aviator and writer Beryl Markham felt when she heard her plane’s engine sputter over Nova Scotia. How the itsy bitsy spider felt when it heard the first raindrops rattle down the water spout. Because I am now on a first name basis with that sense of dread breaded with destiny that deep-fries your brain in two seconds flat. You know what’s coming and you know there’s not a darn thing you can do about it. History has been written in the grease stains of such events. Lonnie surveyed the roiling water calmly—you could almost see the physics and logarithms computing in his eyes. Then he rowed to one side, then let the river do the rest. It did. Suddenly we were flying. Dipping and flying with water spraying out in all directions. Suddenly my drowning memory was eclipsed by an earlier one, a thing of absolute delight. What was it? Boat. Speed. Water spray. Laughter! Happy squeals and laughter. My sisters. The Matterhorn. DISNEYLAND!!!! There is a time before fear. A time of joy as pure as a bunch of kids running around chasing each other just to do it. A time when you feel in every cell of your body the miracle of your own existence. We are born into it, every one of us, and even though life with adults—and certainly as adults—tends to tarnish it, often badly, what I learned on the river that morning is that you can have it back. “Lonnie,” I said with tears in my eyes. “That was fun.” “That was Killum,” he replied, smiling. “Killum Rapid.” “Kill `em?” I repeated, and I started to laugh. “Kill `em Rapid!” I shrieked.

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Eleven long time friends, five guides, and two new families, on the Rogue for four days…..how was it? The BEST trip ever! I’ve traveled with O.A.R.S. on over ten trips and they just keep getting better and better! The attention to detail is unsurpassed, want great customer service? Nothing beats an O.A.R.S. trips. There are five star hotels who teach customer service, but O.A.R.S. has them beat! If ‘five star’ awards were given for adventure travel O.A.R.S. would be awarded the highest honor year and year. This particular Rogue River trip combined some long time friends, with new folks and five guides. A great opportunity to meet new people, share an incredible river experience and create perfect memories. I continually refer to O.A.R.S. as ‘camping with no effort’. Waking up in the morning to fresh coffee brewing, fruit, juice and cereal all ready for you is such a treat. But it doesn’t stop there, next thing you know the eggs benedict are cooking and you’re in heaven! It’s truly amazing the gourmet meals the guides whip up after unloading our stuff, setting up camp, entertaining the kids and rowing the river all day. The guides deserve the credit for a great trip! We’re ready to it again in a heartbeat! Thank you for O.A.R.S. for giving us an opportunity to experience the outdoors like no other!

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The Grand Canyon – She is Forever Timeless…the walls of the Grand Canyon call out to me as we slowly row down the Colorado River Faces of men and creatures stare out from her walls as if begging not to be forgotten Faces of Mayan kings, Indian warriors, and chiefs stand guard like sentinels protecting the secrets of the earth the millions of years of history forever embedded in her rock Ancient walls of Shale, Limestone, and Granite, with colors of deep red, purple, and brown Schists of molten pink and black rock collide with the ever changing emerald green waters of the Colorado rapids And if by chance You are fortunate enough to see her waterfalls after a rain you will be where the past, present, and future meet in The Grand Canyon for she is forever timeless…

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