The Golden Run

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.

Unfortunately my yell was timed perfectly to demonstrate a dory riding principle that may seem to go without saying. Keep your mouth shut when being hit by a wave. My sputtering subsided in time to help bail out the boat that had filled to our knees. We had survived our first rapid. Much bigger rapids were to come but, like another first we need not specify, you never forget your first. Lunch of fruit, cheese, meat, whole grain bread and other delicacies went a long way in allaying any fears there may have been concerning the cuisine. We were wet again at Soap Creek and Sheer Wall Rapids. As the tricky twists of the dory made it clear that the righting a dory speech had not been for entertainment only. Camp was just above House Rock Rapid. My notes said we spread our camp in sandy spots among multicolored boulders. You can now assume this statement is always true when I indicate that we made camp. A fine silty sand was the only thing that was consistent in this wonderful dynamic world. It was in and on everything. The sand became as environmental as the air or water. We barely noticed it (until we brushed our teeth). The chairs in the circle were now cloth folding ones. The circle widened to include the rest of the crew. Rio, the wiry serious musical one; John, thoughtful and playful; and Steve, the bearded hippie poet joined Billie as our oarsmen. Our gear and supplies were on two big rafts rowed by; Wild Bill, the tough enthusiastic storyteller and Ned, the young handsome hula hooping cowboy. They all have plenty of experience and more talent and enthusiasm. This camp had an impressive shelf of red rock jutting out over the camp like a protecting hand. Art and I were sleeping out. This allowed us to throw our sleeping mats out and relax while others pitched tents and made camp. The sun abandoned our river bank oasis and measured out the evening as shade climbed the colorful canyon walls. We toasted our first camp with a flask of tequila labeled “Marble Canyon” and were soon asleep.

May second was cold enough in the night that I climbed into my medium weight bag at some time in the wee hours. I slept better here than I had anywhere since last sleeping in my own bed. My screen bivy-sack let the stars dance me to sleep without the worry of friendly crawlies in the night. Dan was the other early riser. It probably was not a coincidence that we are the same age. The canyon comes alive while others sleep, or possibly watch the metamorphosis from their beds. Details of the walls and canyon floor become more defined out of the predawn and then become brilliant with color as the sun drives the shadows down the opposite wall from last night. House Rock Rapids had growled at us all night and now we pitched ourselves into her jaws. The first monster wave broke over the boat filling the boat to the gunwales. I took a hit in the face with the helmet camera running. Art and I were in front with Ralph and Maddie in the back. John rowed us through with precision. Eighteen Mile Wash and Boulder Narrows filled the boat again.

We were thoroughly chilled by lunch and the hike at North Canyon warmed us. Big trout idled calmly in the clear green water. We scrambled up a few rocky areas in a mostly moderately difficult trail. Whip Tail Lizards scampered out of our way. A canyon wren perched for a moment on a rock a few feet from me before disappearing into a crack that appeared too small for him to fit. A Mexican Three Tailed Bat flew up the side canyon in broad daylight. We may have gotten too close to his bedroom. The crew reminded me, once again, of cowboys on these hikes. They were riding point, sweep and alertly, but unobtrusively, keeping track of strays. I admit to often being a stray since I usually prefer to hike alone. Billie typically gave us an indication of the difficulty of a hike and pointed out alternatives, from no hike to idyllic resting places that would be part way on the hike. A profusion of plants were blooming. The prickly pear were fringed by purple or yellow blooms protected by long sharp spikes. The Roaring Twenties was our afternoon run. This sequence of closely spaced rapids kept us wet and bailing. Any one of these rapids could, and had, flipped a dory and left the occupants to float through, and regain the boat downstream. Tiger Wash had a different water pattern and captured us in a strong boiling eddy that threatened to take us back into the base of the churning waves. John pulled strongly on the oars and got us back on track down the river.

Art took a turn at the oars, in a flat stretch and a small riffle successfully, meaning he didn’t hit a wall. At Shinumo Wash we had plenty of room to annex as much sand as we wanted for a camp. The shared excitement of the day was eroding barriers and conversations were animated. This was such a day as a tiny number of people in this vast world get the chance to enjoy. We exchanged thoughts on the canyon as if we had known each other for years. It was also amazing, based on conversation around the circle, how expert we had become on running rapids. Early May third, replacing “Guinness” pajamas with river clothes, I stuffed everything into dry bags and was ready for another canyon day. I reminded myself that “Yee Haw” was probably not appropriate while others were still sleeping. Even in the daytime Cindy and Diane had lifted off the ground when I let one loose unexpectedly. Hugging my coffee cup like a life ring, I made my way to the circle to await coffee and witness the rebirth of the canyon again. I did, one time, suggest that I start the coffee. The response was “go away.”

This morning the gorge was higher and narrower. Light reached the canyon tops so much sooner than the dark bottoms that the red Kaibab summit appeared to float there in the dark. The million cracks and weird sculptures beneath them peek out slowly in the fading darkness. The womb this protected canyon provided for humanity is absent in today’s harsh dry walls. An advanced, prosperous culture once thrived here away from the ice above. The rich sands, from annual floods, grew plentiful crops. The relaxed pace of the trip no longer made me even want to pitch in and speed things up. The crew is so smooth that I am seldom tempted to “fix it”. I may never speed up again. Diane commented that I should take up clowning. When I responded “I already am a clown” she smiled indulgently. She does some clowning in the Native American fashion with masks. We decided that standard white face would also not be a style suited to me. Art had borrowed a black skirt with white stick figures on it from Steve. He finds it warm and easy to manage exposure to the sun. He also thrives on the attention. A sex change is probably not in the cards at seventy but cross dressing for special occasions may be. Steve (client and Jeanie seemed reserved to the rest of us at this time. Jeanie, in particular, had more adjustments to make to sleeping in the sand and packing and unpacking every day than most of us. With Steve’s (client) help, she made constant progress and opened up more each day. They were experienced travelers and were the source of everything, from spare glasses straps to a video chip for my camera, needed by other group members.

Early in the day we passed Vasey’s Paradise. A river of pure water shoots straight out of the cliff face one hundred fifty feet up. The constant moisture has created a few acres of Fiji in the middle of our brilliant rugged canyon. We rowed into an eddy at the base of a riffle for a closer look. At another bend a small red cavern came into view. The cavern grew as we floated toward it. The true immense nature of Red Wall Cavern was only clear when the first dory became a toy at the sandy shore. Rio played his mandolin and the sound filled the area. Ralph joined him on Rio’s guitar. They graciously let me play and sing a few of my favorite songs and listen to the sound fill the cavern, booming out as if I were Caruso. Wake up Elmer (The music did have a strong resonant sound ). Thirty Six Mile Rapid filled the boats again and soaked us thoroughly. The thrill never wore off. Art and I both took turns rowing. I had a little trouble with the reversed direction from paddling. Art enjoyed the rowing and never missed an opportunity to take the oars. His skills improved day by day.

A walk at the proposed Marble Canyon dam site showed how close we had come to not having a river to run at all. Exploratory drilling and tunnels still exist. After running President Harding Rapid we backed the dories into a sandbar for the night. My raincoat was missing and I assumed the bag with video chips and my journal was in the pocket. Steve tore his notes out of his own journal so I would have one and Steve (client) loaned me a video chip. Recovering my journal information was still irritating me as I went to bed. At dawn on May fourth, still fuming about my absentmindedness in leaving gear behind, I was stuffing my dry bags. When I flipped up my drop cloth, there was the orange bag with journal and chips. Relieved, but embarrassed, I watched “Good Morning Grand Canyon” again as it was played out on the walls. The smell of coffee ended my cliff gazing. The recovery of my journal and chips made me one with this magic kingdom again. Cooling rapids kept the blood pumping. Each day was getting warmer. Bright Angel Shale added another dimension to the, ever changing, world calendar we were dropping into. Signs of the ancient inhabitants remain high on the vertical walls that they must have walked the way we do city streets.

At lunch we took a strenuous hike to some well preserved storage caves the ancients had carved high in the wall of the canyon. From this vantage you could look far up and down stream, wondering anew at the vastness and beauty of the canyon. While we were eating lunch a Black Throated Hummingbird nearly landed on Ralph’s ear and darted away to sweeter flowers. Diane, Art and I were riding with Billie today. Billie’s rowing style is effortless. She takes maximum advantage of the current and sets up for a rapid in a way that results in the minimum number of strokes going through the rapid. She has completed nearly seventy river runs. She has spent almost three years on the water in this canyon. Even though this is her first run as a group leader, the other dorymen seek and heed her direction on the big rapids. She seems almost bashful and still maintains solid control of the expedition. Malgosa Canyon was a new camping area for the crew. The release of flood level water from the dam in early spring had created this sand bar. Other campsites were enhanced and some were washed away. Overall, the change was positive for river trips and, hopefully, will provide positive changes for the long term ecological health of the Canyon. It was Diane’s birthday and I wrote the following poem as her birthday gift:

"Raven Bright eyes twinkle from the fox mask

The mask changes at a thought

The eyes remain the ones beneath

She sees into me

We share jokes untold and revel

In the miracles of nature together, silently

Her presence in my soul

Makes me feel the void

Makes me hear the silence

Makes me see the invisible

She is Raven."

She accused me of exaggerating and I replied that a poet is free to use hyperbole at will. She enjoyed the poem and I still see the applicability. She constantly probed for answers and I think she found some. The Raven is the totem of her family in Alaska. Diane asked for words of wisdom from the group as a gift for her birthday. Many were inspiring. My favorite was “In the morning, smile, then open your eyes”. This was the first evening that we lingered in the darkness and talked quietly. We seemed reluctant to break the spell and go to our own beds. Your neighbors in the circle became comfortable companions. Our topics ranged from the intimate to the absurd. Jeannie proved to be a skilled interviewer and intent listener. Kim had a knack for telling any story in an entertaining way enhanced by expressive body language.

On May fifth, a short hike up Malgosa canyon, alone in the gathering light, had me in fine spirits. This was a long side canyon. The deep gravel in the dry stream bed and rips in the earth along the banks bore witness to the savage waters that flash flood down through our campsite during a rain. Controlled flow, from the dam, results in green water in the main river. The raging brown waters of old are limited to these side canyons and when we choose to make a flood. Alone, far up the canyon, I was so relaxed that I nearly dozed off. Half imagining, half dreaming, I could see the carving of this massive layer cake over millions of years. When I did get back to camp it was a different place than the first morning. The fanatically early no longer clustered around the boats waiting. The “Camp Organization Challenged” were no longer frantic to get ready. They were packing more efficiently and knew they could be ready before the crew could get all the breakfast cleanup done and pack the kitchen and our gear. More people were involved each time with loading and unloading boats. It had become a quick operation. There was no pressure from the crew, but they accepted our help gladly.

We had a relatively quiet float this morning to the Little Colorado River. As we approached, the translucent teal waters carved an ever changing line when it met the rich dark green of the main channel. We walked upstream to a place where we could float through rapids in life jackets. Turning the jacket upside down and wearing it like a diaper protected our tail ends. This does make it a bit more difficult to keep your head above water. I took video as I floated through then took shots of the others coming through. Some of them (Maddie, Kim and Cindy for example) went through several times. A young woman commented on the helmet camera. I responded that the camera automatically took cleavage shots. She looked down startled, as if completely unaware of her ample bosom. Someone suggested later that she may not have been sure her bikini top was still in place. Jerry got scraped up going through the rapid and was the only one to do a complete three hundred sixty degree horizontal turn in the first wave of the rapid. Neither he nor Nancy could swim. They had taken other raft trips so had an idea what they were getting into. It takes a lot of guts to do something, even if you love it, with such a handicap. They were a quiet couple but our shared experiences, and evenings in the circle, were drawing them out.

Downstream, we stopped for lunch near the site of a 1956 midair collision that killed one hundred twenty eight people. The crash resulted in the start of the FAA to control air traffic. The tragedy affected us as we viewed the remains of wreckage high in a crack in the cliff. A comment was made that going out in a flash and being scattered over these walls would not be the worst way to leave this world. Sacred salt cliffs bled white salt along our route. I tried to trace possible routes the young Hopi boys may have used to retrieve life giving salt. The trip was a rite of manhood. Possibly our young men would be less confused if our rites of manhood were this simple. The first sign of civilization in many days became a dot on the canyon rim ahead. The watch tower designed by Mary Jane Colter in 1932 looked down on our progress for many miles. Could that little dot on the rim be the impressive tower we had visited years ago? We camped across the canyon from the Unkar Delta.

A hike to the top of the hill brought us to a Hopi lookout position on a ridge. The views were far up and down the Colorado and of the spectacular peaks and mesas in all directions. We continued to a point where we could look directly down into the churning waters of Unkar Rapid several hundred feed straight down. We would run this one in the morning. On May sixth, Art and I rode with Steve. It is not surprising that Steve and I bonded. He writes prose and poetry, has an interest in long distance hiking wears a beard and ear ring and even tends bar in the off season. What a guy! He spotted me as a kindred spirit the first day when I strapped on my multicolored bicycle helmet with action camera. All the guides love the canyon. I think Steve may get the most enjoyment from the whole experience. One evening he read a poem written about him by a woman he lost, as he put it “because of the canyon”. Such choices cannot be easy, however, a run down the canyon makes it easier to understand forsaking everything to keep coming back.

There is fierce competition for the jobs on dory trips. Many aspiring dorymen spend years in supporting roles and only the best get a chance to row dories. Even on our trip, Bill and Ned work for their passage and tips only. The rapids were beating us up today. Unkar, Nevilles and Hance all filled the dories. We bailed hard to give Steve back control of the boat. The pretty, bouncy dory becomes an eighteen wheeler with seventeen flat tires when she is full of water. Sokdologger, an old term for a boxer with a one, two punch, lived up to its name by rolling us hard to the right then hitting us suddenly from the left with a six foot tall wave. At the same time, a vertical wall of jagged gray rocks seemed to be wading into the river to smash you to bits, getting closer and closer. All this fine contemplation was interrupted by Steve yelling, “Elmer, quit fooling around and bail!” The water was up to the gunwales and Steve had finally gotten the water out of his goggles and shaken the fluorescent, multicolored wig off, that had slid down over his eyes. He had to drop an oar to do this and grabbed to recover the wildly gyrating grip. I stopped fumbling with the clip on the bailing bucket and started shoveling madly with it still attached. Art was bailing and howling with laughter beside me. The wind up the canyon was exactly right for ninety percent of the water I was flinging into the air to blow back into Steve’s face while he was still trying to recover. We slipped past the last grey hand of rock, reaching out for us, and spun drunkenly into the eddy below. I got the dipper loose and yelled, “Yee Haw” as I helped get enough water out that Steve could get set up for the next rapid.

We were so immersed in playing that it was a shock when the bridge for Bright Angel Trail to Phantom Ranch slid into view around the corner. The parallel lines of the bridge were offensive after the natural flowing sculptures that had been our constant companions. The crowded store held me only long enough to mail cards postmarked from here. Most of the hikers looked tired and dull. The bridges and buildings stabbed at my eyes like when you accidently flip the TV to the surgery channel. Fleeing back to the river we gave a loud “Yee Haw” to the tired hikers and mule riders as we slid cleanly through the next rapid. A few hikers waved from the Kaibab Trail and then we had escaped, back to the canyon that belonged to us for this wonderful little slice of time. Pipe Springs and The Horn Rapids cleansed me thoroughly in cold water and I was back in the canyon.

At camp, in Trinity Canyon, I took a long walk alone. I managed a short rock climb over what would be waterfalls during flash floods. The sandy creek bed then made less strenuous walking far into the box canyon. Resting on a rock, I was entertained by a troop of comedians. A least five canyon wrens were having a meeting of some sort. They bobbed heads and twitched tails from horizontal to vertical. They would sometimes be on separate rocks and sometimes bill to bill. All the time one or more of them would be singing their pretty undulating song that trails off as if they had forgotten what to say. The young ones start the song boldly then voices crack and stutter like a pubescent boy around girls. On the way back one of the wonderfully impossible canyon images stopped me in my tracks. A fifteen foot tall pink granite slab was engraved with the black silhouette of the most fantastic Dr Seuss character you would ever hope to see. I see many things in the rocks. Some others can see and some they can’t. This one would be plain to anyone.

This evening was Jerry and Nancy’s first wedding anniversary. They met on a cruise a year ago. We, of course, celebrated with song and cake. You would not believe how moist and light the cake is that our guides can conjure up in a Dutch oven on a gas grill. The wind and clouds convinced Art and I to put up a tent for the first time. We had to get help from Ralph. The tent was only used for storage, since the rain never developed. The cliff above our camp had plants with bright white flowers blooming as proudly as in any Victorian garden. On May seventh Art enlivened our start to the day by finding a large hairy scorpion rolled up in his clothing when he was packing. Everyone standing around says he “screamed like a little girl”. He, of course, remembers being perfectly stoic. He did, however, slip to the head of the line for the bathroom while everyone else was admiring his find.

At Granite Rapid we sent two dories through while the others took pictures from the rocks on shore. At Hermit Falls the other two boats went first to be photographed. Art and I were in front and Dan and Kim in back with Steve at the oars. Our high siding and bailing was improving. We stopped above Crystal Rapid to scout the condition of the water. It took only a glance to see that this was a new kind of rapid. The laminar flow was fast and the tongue, extending into the white water, pointed randomly, first at one monster wave and then the next. No one complained when Billie decided that it would be better for the clients to walk around this one. The crew would bring the lighter craft through and pick us up below the worst of the rapid. We watched from downriver for a long time before the first dory came through and fought its way to the eddy to pick us up. We floated in the next eddy, safely in our dory, as John started his run. He disappeared in a white cloud of water suddenly jutting up from the river. The next thing we saw was the part of an oar his hand should have been holding raised like an empty flagpole from the top of the wave. The yard sale of equipment, boat and flailing oarsman we expected to see next never materialized. John had a lot of things to do all at once. One oar had escaped the oar lock and he had to release the remaining oar to retrieve the loose one. By the time he got them back, he was far down the wrong side of the river. He could run right or left, but there was a wide band of rocks in the middle. If he ran left he would miss his passengers and they would have to be collected by someone else somehow. Getting right appeared impossible. At the first stroke we could tell he had decided to try to get across and we started cheering him on. His strokes were long and fast. From where we watched it appeared that he was shooting straight across the current. Far out of earshot, we screamed ourselves hoarse, and breathed in relief when he just caught the bottom of the eddy and moved upstream to pick up passengers. He had to catch his breath before loading up and meeting us downstream to a load chorus of cheers.

As we were recovering our composure in the next flat section, we heard a thump a few feet from the side of a boat. I was barely quick enough to see the Peregrine Falcon wheel and pick the thoroughly dead swallow off the surface of the water. Eat you hearts out air to air missiles. We ran Tuna, Willie’s Necktie, Sapphire, Turquoise, One Hundred Four Mile, Ruby, Serpentine, and half a dozen others. Some rapids are named and some numbered. Diane was so impressed with Billie’s accomplishments that she suggested one should be named after her. She was aghast. Generally, you get a feature named after you only if you screw up in that location. We found a panoramic campsite just above Bass Rapid. Time rushes past and stands still. A day is gone in a blink and it will be a week until dinner. I’m hungry. Art and I had a particularly fine piece of sand for a bed. On three sides the spot was bordered with smooth purple stone. There were two accommodating, if slightly stiff, purple chairs. Our master suite rolled smoothly up in terraces to the base of a sixty foot dry waterfall of the same polished purple stone. Ralph and Maddie were next door.

As I sat on my throne, I gazed first at Ralph and Maddie’s tent then the top of the cliff. A house sized rock seemed to be sitting on nothing, directly above their tent. I asked Maddie if she were trying to get rid of Ralph. The rock was still safely perched in the morning, however, it will always be affectionately known as Maddie’s rock. I noticed a lot more careful shaking of gear and clothing after we met Art’s little friend. We found others. Kim had a small, angry one under her drop cloth.

On May eighth we ran Bass, Shinumo, One Hundred Ten Mile, Wittenberg and other exciting rapids. We rode with John. Art and Ralph were in the front and Maddie and I in the back. We bypassed Elves Chasm because other dories were already there. Our stop at Black Tail Canyon soon erased any feelings we may have had of missing something. The cool crack of this canyon cut one half mile into the rock wall. We followed the streambed to a piece of modern/ancient sculpture carved by the water in the back of the canyon. It was wonderful to soak in the waterfall and then dry in the breeze that was drawn into the chasm by the water. I lay on my back for a long time watching the little gauze clouds stitching the wild shapes along the top of the narrow canyon rim together, then releasing them to the robin’s egg blue of the sky. I had intended to volunteer to ride in the back of Steve’s boat after lunch. He had no one to bail out the rear seating area between rapids. I mentioned this to John and we made a successful, if not particularly graceful, mid-river transfer.

A couple of rapids further on our path was blocked by Spectre Rapid. It has the nickname, among boatmen, of Respecter. It is a tricky run next to a jagged rock wall. We shot the first two high rollers without taking on a drop of water. While we were setting up for the next punch from the right, the whole river hit us hard from the left. We were going over. My body was following Steve to the high side of the boat. In this case it meant climbing straight up onto the top rail. My mind was trying to judge distance to the wall. “Would I hit if I let the momentum carry me outside the boat? Would it be better to slide underneath when we flipped and exit on the river side? How had Steve gotten so far over the top side so quickly? I can’t see Jerry and Nancy. I hope they are still in the dory. They will need help.” All these thoughts and a hundred others zipped through my mind as we rose on our right rail and hung there, waiting for the river to decide our fate. Ten minutes, or a second, later we came down hard –right side up.

I was so surprised that I nearly pitched over the rail, before struggling back to the centerline. The party wasn’t over yet. Steve had let both oars go to get on the top rail. The dory made a lazy one eighty turn pointing upstream. She snuggled into a small eddy against the rocks, as if she were hiding from the river. Nancy tried to retrieve the left oar but had to let it go because it was trapped between the rocks and the boat. Both Jerry and Nancy were still aboard. As we bounced perilously close to the rocks, Steve asked me to fend off. The only time this would be safe was when we were stopped, as we were now, and bobbing up and down. I could easily reach the vertical rocks from the boat. The bottom of each bounce was making ominous thumping sounds on something underneath. The left oar finally popped up next to us so Steve could retrieve it. He expertly coaxed the frightened dory back into the river. In the next quiet spot Rio dove off of his boat and examined the bottom of our dory while we held our breath. He declared that there was no major damage when he surfaced. Everyone who saw the action, and everyone did, was amazed that we had escaped without injury or damage. Not scratching these little ladies is the goal of every river guide. No. The helmet camera was not running. Bedrock Rapid was low and dangerous so the dory men brought the dories through again and the clients got back in below the rapid.

From camp, above Dubendorf Rapid, we could hear him calling to us in guttural tones that bounced off a huge, man shaped, red mountain across the river. We had decided to spend two nights here. This would give us a chance to rest, although we had not been aware of fatigue until a rest day was mentioned. The day off the river gave the hikers in the group a chance to take a longer hike up Stone Creek. The creek winds up a canyon that is more open than the slots we had hiked before. Our trail wound up the hillsides to get past the waterfalls in the creek. Each of these was an oasis where any who were not up for continuing could stay cool and rest. It was warm and we all enjoyed each waterfall before going on. Earl, Cindy, Ralph, Maddie, Art and I made it to the last waterfall to block our way. All six of the crew also arrived in time. We loved the two hundred foot corkscrew path the water had cut through the stone. I leaned on the wall in the bottom of the waterfall and let it batter the heat of the climb out of me. We rested through the heat of the day in this cool oasis carved deep into the mountainside. We wandered back picking up the people who had found refuge further down the mountain.

The red giant across the river was just casting a shadow on our camp as we returned. Steve (client) loaned me a solar shower that was almost too hot. It felt like a Roman spa after bathing in the river for a week. John showed us how to make fired clay beads from clay he had gathered along the Little Colorado. May tenth saw us eager for new challenges and Dubendorf welcomed us with a cold shoulder of angry waves. The layover had been a great recharge. Our lunch hike up Deer Creek presented a completely different kind of canyon. The high lower falls, at the Colorado, was a perfect hangout for non-hikers. This is where the name problem started. Earl and Elmer had been exchanged a few times previously. When Earl decided to stay behind, Cindy and I decided it would be Elmer left behind. Confused? So was everyone else. We started doing this deliberately adding to the confusion. By the end of the trip even Art was calling me Earl. We decided the confusion would be complete when Earl (Elmer) showed up at my house. The pool Cindy, Art, Ralph, Maddie and I hiked to was crowded with people from other trips. The guides are a large extended family and at these few popular spots they get a few minutes to catch up. Ned got to demonstrate his proficiency with his custom hula hoop and make some new friends. Not surprisingly they are mostly female, young and scantily clad (What? Me? Jealous?). The hoop is four pieces of PVC decorated with colored tape, held together with PVC connectors and a bungee cord. When he pulls it apart and slings it across his shoulder it looks like some arcane oriental weapon.

The clear water was inviting, but swift and dropping into a twisting smooth crevice sixty feet below that, in turn, feeds the two hundred foot falls near the Colorado. The top was so narrow you could jump across, if you had the guts. The subtle shades of tan to dark brown, in thin horizontal stripes, fed wonderfully over the curves and turns of the channel like a mad Navajo genius had turned it on an impossible potter’s wheel. Our return, via a steep canyon side trail, to the falls at the Colorado signaled that it was time to continue downstream. It was hot on the river. The war started with a casual exchange of paddle splashes between Rio and Wild Bill on the rafts. Then we ambushed the boat in front of us with bailing buckets. Unfortunately this was John’s boat and he was armed with a water cannon. We worked our way forward, soaking the occupants of each dory as we went, and getting soaked in return. As often happens with pirates, we eventually turned on our own shipmates, using the skills we had learned bailing to half drown each other. The most comical part of the action was when the Cookie Monster (Art) tried to hide behind one hundred thirty pound Rio. Not everyone has ready access to the key to their inner child. There were enough children loose however to assure that everyone was thoroughly soaked. The hostilities ceased before the next rapid with threats of midnight retaliation. We were cooled off.

A strange new decease has afflicted the crew and passengers. For want of a true diagnosis the terrible debilitating affliction has been dubbed pirate’s decease. The medical profession will undoubtedly name it piratinitis. It started with a single “Aargh” from someone unable to articulate some abstract thought. The contagion was nearly instantaneous. Soon all communication was in “Aargh” or, at least, emphasized with an “Aargh”. Any extended silence is sure to trigger an outbreak. We have, apparently, been quarantined. Upon hearing our “Aarghs”, on the river, other craft give us wide berth. It is a blessing that the females have not yet been greatly affected. An alto or soprano “Aargh” would be hard to bear. We do not anticipate a cure and expect to spend the rest of our days floating on the river developing a complex means of communication consisting entirely of “Aargh”. We camped just above Doris Rapid. The site was our smallest and we scrambled for prime real estate. Art and I have more choices since we only need room for two sleeping bags. Diane started following our example. Several nights she found snug little dens that would not have been suitable when using a tent. The crew normally slept on their boats or in the sand. May eleventh I was up in the dark waiting for dawn. I had slipped off to bed early and slept soundly in the cool breeze with Doris whispering in my ear. As usual, I was first to “The Unit”. This is a fifty caliber ammo can converted to a toilet. All our solid waste is carried out with us. For this reason it was necessary to do one OR the other. Try it some time.

The other reason for being up early was that some of us were grabbing an early breakfast and going ahead in two boats to hike Havasu canyon. We felt even more like pirates as we slipped away in the early morning. The Native Americans here have lived in Havasu Canyon for hundreds of years. It is a special place of plentiful, startlingly blue water in this dry land. By the time we reached the pool, fed by Little Beaver Falls, that was our destination, we were more than ready to strip down and dive in. Besides the guides, only Earl, Cindy, Art and I hiked all the way to the pool. It had been a colorful, hot walk. The rapids and pools along the way provided cooling plunges, on the way in and on the way back. The pool was bordered by ascending ledges of rock all the way to the top of the fifty foot high falls gushing far out into the deep cold pool. Earl plunged recklessly from fifteen feet. The ledge three feet off the water was just right for me. Ned made a jump from forty feet. Cindy and I were standing in the shallows at the lower end of the pool when Rio climbed all the way to the fifty foot plateau. Cindy asked fearfully “He isn’t going to jump from there is he?” A moment later, when he made a test run at the edge, Cindy screamed “Rio don’t!” A few seconds later he did jump and then climbed back and did it again. Both times his entry made almost no splash, like a professional in competition. When questioned, he said he had lived near a creek with cliffs, dismissing this talent casually.

Along the trail, lizards were scampering everywhere. John had a theory. He thought that we left crumbs, ants ate the crumbs, lizards eat the ants and snakes waited in the weeds to eat the lizards. This may be true because the lizards were reluctant to leave the trail. We saw another indication just off the trail. A four and a half foot Pink Canyon Rattlesnake was laying quietly enjoying the sun and he certainly did not look underfed. On my way back down from the falls I saw the next level of this food chain. A four foot King Snake with pretty yellow bands was also unconcerned about my passing. His favorite meal is rattlesnake. We had been seeing big horn sheep for several days. One group was at the water’s edge. They were tough sinewy animals, brown with white rumps. Several had lambs with them. The big rams were absent. The dories were tied to ropes set in the walls of the narrow slot that feeds Havasu Creek into the Colorado. The exit was tricky into the swift water above another falls. Rio expertly took another loop through the eddy to get the line he wanted on the rapid. With a few strong pulls he was where he wanted to be on the far side of the rapid. Rio is one hundred twenty pounds of pure muscle, all heart, and a little gullible. He mostly thinks people are serious until they make it plain they are joking. He takes the ribbing that results with grace. He is respected by his peers and liked by everyone. He is learning guitar and mandolin and has a natural feel for both.

The farther we travel down this time tunnel the easier it is to see how these guides forsake relationships, quit jobs and work for free for many years for the chance to run this river. Camp emphasized how we had reentered the narrow gorge. The crack of brilliant stars above only held the bright white half moon for a few hours then the light climbed the walls, like the sun going down. The growing slice of moon reminds us that we are not actually living in geologic time. Our time is measured in days, not millions of years.

On May twelfth we made a long run to set up for the monster, Lava Falls, while the water was high in the early morning. Rapids like Fern Glenn and Gateway kept us from looking ahead too far. It was a tough day for oarsmen with a steady upstream wind and not many rapids to shoot us forward. We scouted Lava Falls soon after making camp within hearing of her rumbled threats. In two parts the rapid drops thirty eight feet. From high in the rocks above, Lava impressed us both with size and strategically placed boulders and the monster holes behind them. Then we would have the chance to “sleep on it”. The wind was already gusty and grabbed my securely strapped down hat from behind. The hat was deposited on a ledge half way down to the river. Just out of curiosity, I started looking for a trail that might reach it. Wild Bill immediately scrambled down and retrieved it, in spite of my protestation that it wasn’t that important. It was my favorite hat. When you are very tired is when nature is sure to throw you a curve ball, or a large tent.

The evening meal was quite a challenge. A storm was blowing in. One of the stronger gusts picked Earl and Cindy’s tent full of gear up and sent it tumbling toward the river. John had just stepped off a boat carrying three heads of lettuce. Looking up, with his hands full, he saw the eight foot wide juggernaut bent on escaping to the river. He made an open beach tackle and we still had salad with our fillet mignon for dinner. I have not dwelt on the food. It has been excellent and healthy. The fillet mignon, seasoned potatoes, vegetable and salad this evening were even more spectacular in a gusty forty mile per hour wind. We all took turns holding the cooking tables in place while preparation proceeded. After dinner, Art and I finally gave in and put up the tent again. Ned had to help us this time. Engineers have a terrible time with “Some Assembly Required”. It did rain in the night and the wind threatened to roll the tent, even with Art and me in it. I awoke, late in the night, with my head sticking out the door of the tent and the stars shining above. The storm was over.

On May thirteen we all studiously made no reference to the date. People close to nature are often superstitious and river guides are no exception. We were up early to catch the biggest baddest rapid on the river before she started showing her teeth. I had dreamed I was late and could not get my stuff ready. Awake, I had my stuff ready first as usual. We would shoot through Lava Falls first, then pull over for breakfast. With the overnight buildup, we were all nervous. The dorymen obviously took the risk of running this rapid very seriously. I took the back bench in Rio’s boat. He pulled into an eddy and I shot video of the others going by toward the roar ahead. The helmet camera caught Billie going in first and disappearing. It felt as if she were out of sight forever. She popped up suddenly, left of where she went in, intact and rowing in a confident controlled manner, into a string of colossal waves. Our attention went to John as he dropped out of sight and mimicked Billie’s perfect run. By the time Steve dropped in we were too busy getting ready to watch closely, but the camera was running. The first trough was a high dive, and Dan and Kim in the front were momentarily back dropped by the white flecked green bottom of the wave. The next second they were framed by the startlingly blue sky and canyon rim as the dory’s bow pointed straight up. Rio slipped by angry rollers, coming in from the side, to cleanly climb the back of the next mountain of water. By now the boat was full of water. We were still holding on with both hands. Little high siding was required due to the expert line Rio got on each wave. One last towering giant and we were into the relatively small waves between sections of rapids. All boats were right side up with occupants yelling and bailing. The lower part of the rapid might have seemed exciting if we hadn’t just come through the upper. People have lost their lives in this rapid. Here is what happened on a recent run.

The first dory through flipped. As John so delicately put it, “The occupants were the ones you least wanted to have dumped in the river”. Murphy, I suppose. The doryman tried to right the boat but the strap used for that purpose broke. A second doryman went into the water to rescue a client from the upset dory. By now the whole yard sale was starting through the lower rapids with the dory still upside down. Two more dorymen went into the water on rescue missions or to try to right the dory. The situation when they got a mile downstream was that all dorymen were in the water. A client was at the oars of three boats. On the bottom of the flipped boat sat one of the clients the crew was worried about. As they proceeded with regaining their boats and corralling the inverted on, the man on the bottom of the dory was pumping his arms and yelling exultantly. He had either just had the thrill of his life or was extremely pleased to still be alive. All was righted in the end with no injuries. When we gathered below the rapid for breakfast you would have thought we had survived a plane crash. There were some latent signs of shock and a lot of hysteria. Every drop of water and each bump of the ride in each dory were repeated, often with pantomime. Dories were a whim when we planned the trip. Art had done rafts so I suggested something new when I saw the dories on a WEB site. An exciting ride in a handsome craft was the draw. The reality is so much more than that. Motor rafts and paddle rafts stop to watch us go by. Everyone takes our picture. Our crew is the cream of all the river guides, and excel in all aspects of making a trip the best. The ride is comfortable and relaxing and then wild and terrifying a few seconds apart.

As we had become more confident of our skills in staying one with the boat, we had started bow riding. I went first (surprise). This activity involves climbing onto the pointed bow of the dory as you approach a rapid. You clamp your legs out over the point and hang on for dear life. It is like bull riding, except less predictable. You go all the way to the penthouse and back to the basement on every wave. Art, Cindy and Maddie were seen playing figurehead in the next few rapids. Nearly everyone gave it a try. Jeannie surprised us with multiple rides. Sitting next to Cindy above one rapid I asked. “Do you want to film me going through?” With almost no hesitation she replied “I want it!” and scampered over the slick forward hatch. She was twelve again in some playground. I can prove it with the video.

Our route was again in a tight canyon where lava from a volcano many miles away had invaded the canyon. The sites of temporary dams left amazing shiny black sculptures in the river where they had been worn away over the course of millions of years. In some places the lava had only made it over the rim and part way down the wall, like a permanent shadow on the rich red and brown walls. Art continued his preparation to become an oarsman. I nicknamed him “Fast Eddie” for a tendency to get caught at the bottom of the rapid. The whirlpools tend to swing you back in under the rapid. Both front strokes on one side and back on the other are usually needed to help you follow the string of bubbles that are your “bread crumbs” for continuing downstream. The dorymen do it effortlessly, the rest of us work hard with varying results. Traffic was increasing and we passed, or were passed by other groups in rafts. There was also another fleet of dories. There is an informal civility about campsites. As we pass any group the crews exchange information on camping plans and one or the other volunteers to change when there are conflicts.

The evening was spent celebrating surviving Lava Falls with the Lava Follies. The non-talent contest drew a range of talent that clearly violated the non-talent requirement. Earl’s Bunny Fru Fru could run for years in Vegas. Cindy’s exercise was so insightful that I am saving it for the end of the story. Ned provided the grand finale with a side splitting rendition of the theme song of “Blazing Saddles”. He had verified earlier that I was not planning to do the same thing. My rendition of “Doryman’s Blues” that I had written the day before and never practiced, probably did meet the non-talent requirement. It was fun and we went to bed tired and happy. On May fourteenth the rapids were challenging enough to snatch Steve’s oar once (on camera). The canyon was still narrow and we started to see large day trip motor rafts run by the Native Americans. One side of the river is National Park and the other is on the Native American land. The bow riding continued and the championship decided. Ralph clamped on up front through a rapid that turned him every which way but loose. We passed a large congregation of disappointed vultures below the rapid. At dinner he received a sacred rock and was crowned Kahoona of bow riders. This particular canyon mouth had examples of all the mineral types that make up the canyon jumbled together on the beach. If it were not illegal we might have been tempted to take some home with us.

Pumpkin Springs is a small sulfur spring near the river edge. The water, with extremely high mineral content, that bubbles up is a deadly looking green. The minerals have precipitated out, forming a smooth dam between the pool and the river. Working my way down through the jagged Bright Angel Shale above the pool, I missed a hand placement. I could see the points of shale pointing at my face as I lunged forward. Then I was trying to get up and Steve was urging me, actually forcing me, to stay down. I was doing the familiar sensory check for warm wet areas. Steve was checking my eyes. I cautiously moved my feet and legs. There was a burning from my right shoulder, but it moved. I had scrapes on left leg, back of right shoulder and a tiny nick on my forehead, just to let me know how close I had come. Everyone looked at the place I had launched from and the lack of anyplace large enough to land. Steve thinks I used up one of my nine lives. I wonder how many have been used and, for that matter, whether nine is the right total? I suppose I will be satisfied with nine until I get to eight. Tequila and Ibuprofen helped control the stiffness and I made it through the night without rolling onto that side more than three or four times. Steve (client) had done an admirable job of letting the EMT trained staff do the doctoring. He did quietly let me know he could help if I needed it.

At dinner Billie made an unusual point of telling us to wear our shoes and watch our step when going to The Unit. The next day she admitted that the crew had found another Pink Canyon Rattler hanging out there. That would definitely be some solid waste that would be scattered too far to carry out with us. On May fifteenth, our last day on the dories, we had more big rapids. My shoulder was sore but it only seemed to be in the muscles. I checked this out by riding the bow again, mostly hanging on with my left hand in true bull rider fashion. Art kept me from going rock climbing at another proposed dam site at lunch. Art was practicing rowing with Steve sitting in front. Steve calmly announced “Stay left Steve is coming on your right”. We were confused until Steve (client) rowed smoothly past us. We had not seen him row before and he had not participated in our general evaluation of how to row. His blades broke the water cleanly and were feathered expertly throughout the long smooth stroke. He turned expertly at our landing site and backed the dory in, exactly where Billie wanted it. Steve (client) had been a sailing instructor and obviously spent many hours at the oars. I am glad he did not hustle any of us beginners into a race. In spite of my most sincere “Yee Haws” and Billie’s admonition to “stay in the canyon” thoughts and discussion strayed to “after”.

Our early camp at “Separation Canyon” was appropriate for our eminent separation from the canyon and each other. Separation Canyon actually refers to the three men who left the Powell Expedition here never to be heard from again. The guides say there is evidence that they were killed by Mormons, thinking they were government spies. A few of us set off on a hike in the direction the men would have taken to get out of the canyon. This large side canyon would have given the illusion that you could walk out with little difficulty. The heat and solemn thoughts stopped me in the shade of a rock by a little stream to rest. When Art said he thought he would go on, of course, I had to go also. This resulted in Art and I being the only clients on the expedition who made all of every hike, and he is seventy. We joined the others on a side ridge that allowed a clear view far up and down the canyon. It was certainly worth the walk. On the way back Billie was warned by the buzz of another rattlesnake. This time he was coiled and not pleased with our presence. We gave him all the room he wanted, climbing over some rocks to do it. I think he was a bit of a ham because he was looking directly at Steve (client) who was taking pictures.

Billie told a great story about another snake. A friend of hers is an animal lover and was pleased about rescuing a mouse on a raft trip. He fixed the little fellow up a nest and smeared a bit of butter on the mouse’s face. He explained to Billie that the butter would be rich food that would help the mouse recover. A little later Billie asked how the mouse was doing and they both went to see. The mouse had left the nest and was sitting in the trail. Just as her friend was reaching for the mouse a brown rock became a brown rattlesnake. Billie, her friend and the mouse were all within striking distance. Fortunately for Billie and her friend the snake preferred hot buttered mouse. Hey. I didn’t make this up. Baked Salmon for dinner was followed by Billie giving a summary of all we had been through. Others put in their favorite bits. We went off to bed knowing that our time was over.

On May sixteenth we awoke to an empty beach. Only Billie, of our six guides and friends, was left to make sure we got loaded on the jet boat that would rocket us across Lake Mead to the takeout point. Noise, boat traffic and air traffic are my main memories of that ride. The new Sky Bridge was particularly offensive. I could believe such a scar initiated by Hollywood, but how could the guardians of this canyon so deface it for a few tourist dollars. When we broke from the canyon into the waste land that is the Lake Mead reservoir, I was not the only one to look back longingly to the walls receding behind us. The receding water and parched white banks stare blindly back at us like the sunken eyes of a dying man. Is this a rough way to reenter the world? It is a preference similar to whether to enter a mountain pool in a dive or an inch at a time. Billie had transferred to the slower dories on the river, but still caught up to us for a last beer at the hotel. She let us know what we had known all along. This was a golden run. All the other trips on the river had illness, injury and/or upset. Only ours, with the youngest crew ever, a first time leader and a wild bunch of misfit clients, had come through unscathed. A lot of hard work, a little luck and maybe even some ancient magic have made this THE trip.

I worked on a summary that would capture this golden run in a few words. I could not do better than Cindy’s exercise for the Lava Follies. She had us write down six dates to put on our calendar for the next year with a smiley face and GCD. She directed us when those dates came to remember: • Ice cold feet with wiggly toes at Lees Ferry • Gazing up at colorful cliffs and canyons and two stars • White knuckle rapids and the soothing of dipping oars • Gourmet food and congenial eating companions • Candle light campfires with friendly conversations • Bighorn sheep, or were they mountain goats? • New found immodesty among new found friends • Billie, our bright guiding light • Steve, the best dressed man on the river • Rio, the musical daredevil • John, the bead maker and tent juggler • Ned, the hula hooper extraordinaire • Bill, alert to every need, even to scaling a cliff for a windblown hat. Or maybe you’ll remember the “Yee Haw” or the pirates “Aargh”, and of course, the river the ever-present magnificent river. Then, lost in memory, you smile a smile felt inside and out, as you remember why you came and, most importantly, how you’ve changed in the Grand Canyon.