Notes from Cataract Canyon

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.

The wide beach campground of “Spanish Bottom” lies at the foot of this trail. Following the Doll House hike, the three rafts plunged into the first of 26 rapids (Lake Powell has covered up another 20-some rapids that used to exist) beginning just below the “Confluence” where the Green and Colorado Rivers join. I was apprehensive about the rapids, being my first experience with big waves on a river. Approaching them, however, my fear was replaced by exhilaration as the stable, heavy boats dove into the troughs and rose exuberantly on the crests, frequently drenching us in the process. We burst into adrenaline-induced laughter. The look on each others’ faces as we were soaked by the waves was priceless. I felt no sensation of danger as our raft was expertly navigated between rocks, whirlpools and deep holes, “threading the needle” (the safe route) these guides know so well. “Brown Betty”, “Big Drop” (I, II, and III), “Mile-Long Rapids”, “Ten Cent”, “Powell’s Pocket Watch”—each rapid went skimming by in rapid succession. All except four were ridden in a single day.

The wind is an interesting component to river running, and we all suffered more than our fair share on this trip. Two DAYS of unrelenting fierce winds, gusting up to 60 mph, plagued us. All night long we huddled in sand-covered sleeping bags tucked into the tamarisk while grit and howling wind buffeted us. Standing up was almost out of the question, as was setting up a tent. The wind continued this way into the next morning when I heard, to my disbelief, the guides setting up the coffee in a gale, pounding by swirling sand. All three admitted they had NEVER seen such prolonged wind of such severity. By mid-morning it had calmed down enough to set off on the river, but the wind kicked up again by noon as we climbed a trail called “The Loop”, a half-mile neck of land around which the rafts had to be rowed 4 miles. The guides were spent in utter exhaustion rowing against such wind but there was no option but to row on to camp. So they did, keeping their good natures all the while.

Despite it all, the guides were still entertaining, joking and cooking and being helpful. On every hike they stationed themselves at difficult traverses to lend a strong hand to help the less-agile. Some of us could not have made that jump or steep climb without their physical assistance. Hiking to an incredible waterfall, all three had to pull or push us in succession to reach the waterfall. It was well worth it, but we could not have done it without their strength and guidance. The immense twice-daily task of loading and unloading the tons of gear from the rafts seemed repetitive and daunting, but the three appeared to be executing a well-orchestrated dance, never wasting a move, deftly tossing gear on and off the boats. Six days of river running on our trip down Cataract Canyon amounted to Days One and Two of flat water with warm to hot temperatures. Relaxing, sunning, hiking, and floating. Day Three and half of Four was a wind-storm, still on flat water. Day Four and half of Five: excitement itself–running the 26 rapids in cooler weather. Day Six saw us floating calmly again as the rafts entered Lake Powell.

For our final hours on the river, the three rafts were lashed together, umbrellas opened and we lay back to hear Morgan read from his eclectic selection of stories. By two in the afternoon we had reached the take-out and a shuttle van ferried us to the airstrip. Two six-seater single-engine planes took us on the most scenic flight imaginable. What a perfect way to end this trip—soaring over Canyonlands and the Maze! Seeing from above where we had just been on the river. This flight has to be the most spectacular way to view the jaw-dropping convoluted terrain of fins, spires and gorges. Thirty-five minutes in the air brought us to the Moab airport, where we were a little emotional parting from our temporary family. The guides gave us fierce hugs and we returned them with a generous tip slipped in. They made the trip what it was, with the support of their company, “O.A.R.S.”