All right, we are back on track to tell some more Grand Canyon tales. Read several blogs below to start from the beginning.
We were huddled up in camp making a lengthy process out of breakfast since we had pulled into camp last night in the rain and wind. The wind in particular had dealt us misery more than a time or two on this trip. One day it was so windy that I swear we saw the condensation trail of a jet ten minutes before we even saw the plane. We regularly, would be getting blown back upstream in the canyon, despite putting a second rower on the oars sitting face to face with the first rower. Even when the oars were out of the water, we often could barely pull these through the air. Our best hope at times was to try and lodge the raft in a crack of the canyon wall to arrest our negative progress while waiting out the wind gusts.
Sand now infiltrated all of our clothes, gear, and every crack and crevice in our bodies. In addition to this, all the silt in the river constantly abused our hands. We had every ointment known to man and animal on board. Hoof and heal, Vaseline, lotions, udder creams, diaper rash ointments and more were constantly applied to the cracks and sores on our hands.
We should have already been on the river, because the recent winds had put us a bit behind our proposed itinerary, but tending our wounds and sore muscles while partaking in a third cup of hot coffee seemed a bit more appropriate today. The twenty something female backpacker whom we had met at the far end of our beach the night before, approached our camp from a side trail. “I hear you guys might be willing to share your groover.” For the record, I did not say a damn word. I am certain that it was one of the other guys who had now been deprived of his wife or girlfriend for weeks, that nodded his head in agreement. To all of us, this seemed like the Cardinal sin of the canyon. Not only would we be packing out our poop, but some stranger’s as well. With toilet paper in hand, she proceeded towards our outdoor restroom. She returned ten minutes later with a larger than life smile on her face. To add insult to injury, her three male friends made this same processional past us with their bathroom accoutrements in hand, thanking us profusely. As soon as they were out of earshot, each of us began interrogating the group, trying to find out who gave them the green light to fill up our rocket box. This would continue for the next several days, until Bruce finally cracked. He hemmed and hawed in a feeble attempt to try and explain that he had not directly granted them access to our metal throne, having merely suggested that the National Park folks ask raft groups to help backpackers out in such a way. We would have ostracized him accordingly if not for the fact that he is such a darn nice guy. (Plus, this same guy was instrumental in the recent passage of one of the largest Wilderness bills ever. Go Bruce!)
After we finally broke camp, we returned to the rafts. Steve was going to do some kayaking today. He and Angela had been bombing down the canyon in their new Liquid Logic Remix 69 kayaks. These high volume boats are just what the Grand calls for, and are outfitted with padding and features beyond belief. Fear had regaled me to riding in the raft. I was not quite brave enough to get into the kayaks.
The view from the raft was quite splendid. Multicolored hues of the many geological layers of canyon wall were as varied as the kaleidoscope. These changed with not only the river miles, but also the differing light cast over the course of the day. Light in the canyon also varied depending on the direction the canyon was facing. The high canyon walls caused the sun disappear behind the rim quite early in the day. Some spots in the canyon only receive direct sunlight a few months out of the year.
One of my favorite parts of the canyon was the giant amphitheatres. These concave depressions in the cliff walls were often large enough to house a giant shopping mall. Every time I saw one, I would start to daydream about the Native American families who may have sought refuge under these giant overhangs. Occasionally the imagination was treated with a dose of reality, as the occasional bighorn sheep appeared alongside the river.
Periods of relaxation on the river were always overshadowed by the spiral bound waterproof book which was strapped into the raft in reach of the rower. It goes without saying that our lives pretty much depended on this. In this book were words of wisdom from the folks that had a lot more intimate knowledge of the river than us. These river guides would not only rate the rapids and waterfalls, but offer some suggestions and guidance as to some of the more amicable ways to negotiate your way through. One route may be applicable at certain water level and another at others. Landmarks were described with the most colorful vernacular to try and help acquaint the captain of the raft and aid in picking a line. Horns, fangs, tongues, schist, holes, and more were aimed for, split, or avoided all together. Sinister names for the rapids usually were the byproduct of another’s misfortune. I had my fingers crossed that the next printing of the river guide made no mention whatsoever of a guy named Dave Lindo.
The veterans of the group added many a story of their own from the past to the vivid descriptions of the book. Usually the recounting ended with them telling about how they flipped a raft, lost some gear or damaged something beyond repair. One such flip was owned by Angela. She had flipped her raft in Upset Rapids the last time she was here. Upset was right around the corner, and I am not speaking of just my stomach.
We stopped at the top of the rapid once again for a scouting mission. It was interested to hear every raft captain speak of how he was going to make his approach. Most rafters point directly towards the hazard so that they can have a more powerful backstroke pulling them further away (it is easy to pull the oars than it is to push them). Sometimes they would speak of bouncing off this and glancing off that, catching the edge of a hole or haystack. The overall objective was typically the same, to nimbly and cautiously weave your way around the hazards while avoiding the flip.
Tom always seemed to have a different idea. “Hey guys, I think I will pull out the paddles and have you help me power through this one.” “Sure thing Tom,” we verbally replied. What we really were thinking inside our heads was, “Are you effing crazy, you want me to take my hands off the rope?” To do so was like trying to ride a bucking bull bareback with your hands up in the air. To make matters worse, I was trying to document some of this with my waterproof camera, which again necessitated that I take my hands off the O’Crap rope.
We lined up for the rapid. Some of the group remained onshore with river rescue throw bags in hand. They would act as our safety if something horrendous should happen. Tom was a powerful rower, and as many of us, had put in some extra physical conditioning prior to the trip. His order to us were strict, “Don’t start paddling until I say so.” With tension in his voice, he commanded us, “Okay guys, paddle, PADDLE, PADDDLLLLE!” The raft dropped directly into the first hole, the hole that all the other raft captains spoke of avoiding. The nose of the raft was plunging deeper and deeper below the surface, our hands still had no purchase on the raft. “PADDLE!!!!!” The recurling wave hit our chest like a sumo wrestler, knocking us down into the floor of the raft while simultaneously temporarily removing the sunlight. Luckily the extra speed the paddles had helped us acquire now had us riding up the backside of the gigantic standing wave. “HIGH SIDE, HIGHSIDE!!!!” Tom frantically uttered. This was a command which we all knew good and well how to translate. “OH SHIT, WE ARE ABOUT TO FLIP!” We hit the lurching, now vertical, raft with the tackle of a linebacker, and the prayers of a monk. Today was not our day….. not our day to die. The raft was up and over the crest of the wave, and we were still upright. “WAHOOOO! OH YEAHHHHH!” Everyone was giddy with excitement for not flipping the raft. We negotiated the remainder of the rapid, finding an eddy at the bottom where we would hang out until the rest of our group made it safely through.
Meanwhile Steve was doing a crazy good job in the kayak. Everything is magnified so much greater in the kayaks, the waves bigger, the holes meaner, and the eddylines trickier. Most of all, the consequences for making mistakes is a lot larger. Steve would disappear behind waves only to appear again seconds later. He was cranking out the paddlestrokes in a fierce effort to position his kayak where he needed to be on the river. Twice he would go upside down, only to return upright in a perfect combat roll (this is the real deal, rolling in an actual non practice situation). His smile at the bottom of the rapid told the whole story. He was loving every minute of this. And, I meanwhile was beginning to get a little jealous and anxious to get off the raft and into a kayak.
Dave Meeks was the next boat to enter the rapid. Again, he had gone so far as to hire a personal trainer prior to the trip. Embarrassingly, this fifty something year old man would constantly ask the ladies in the group if they wanted to feel his biceps. Like the rest of us, his boat lurched and then landed left to right, right to left. The last haystack of the rapid proved to be too much for his crew. Call it “Karma” but the only guy who got launched overboard and the only person to take an unexpected swim the entire trip was the man who earlier in the day had gotten weak in the knees giving in to the cute smile of the twenty year old girl, granting her group permissions for our Groover.
Being in the water of the Colorado is quite serious business. In addition to all the realized hazards of hydraulics, boulders, foot entrapment, pinnings, undercut rocks, etc, etc., there is also the undeniable danger of the extremely cold waters. Bottom line here folks, if you are in more than a few minutes you die! Luckily Bruce had been paying above fair wages to his daughter’s allowance fund, so Lauren quickly grabbed him by his lifejacket straps. Now the challenge was going to be how in the world she would get him over the high sides of the slippery raft. Apparently she still had some childhood animosities towards her father, because once in this position of power, controlling whether or not the man lived or died, she proceeded to push him down further into the water. At the point which his entire face was under the surface (and I believe Bruce probably reluctantly uttered MERCY, MERCY!), she threw her weight back into the raft and the buoyancy of his lifejacket helped rocketed him skyward, landing him safely aboard. It would now be Lauren’s turn to ask the group if they wanted to feel her biceps. Bruce on the other hand, would not need the Groover tonight, because he had already crapped his pants.
