Epic
Journey – Rafting the Grand Canyon
travel
memoir
by
Gregory E. larson
Foreword: It’s been about a month
since I returned from the rafting trip through the Grand Canyon. I’ve started
some paintings and have been thinking on how to write about such an epic
experience. Rather than do a full journal of the trip, I’ve decided to share a
handful of experiences that crystalize the memories of being in a remote but
magical place. Looking back on the trip, it was just the antidote for plodding
through months of the pandemic blahs.
As our two massive rafts pulled out onto the Colorado
River at Lee’s Ferry, a big surprise enveloped me. One-hundred-degree-days were
forecast for the week so I was ready for a hot ride. The raft started the turn
to go downstream and a cool breeze wafted over the vessel. I realized that the fifty-degree
water temperature from the outflow of Glen Canyon Dam upstream created a thin,
cool layer of air on the river. Granted, when the wind began to blow or the sun
hit us hard in the afternoon, the air layer didn’t help all that much, but many
times during the week that cool layer of air was a welcome relief.
The other first impression was realizing the size of
the big rafts. When fully loaded with people and supplies for a week, each raft
held 14 guests, 2 crew members, and a few tons of supplies, food, and personal
gear. The rear third of the raft was where the crew sat next to an open well
where the small outboard motor was controlled by the captain. Our captain was Rachel,
and though she was small in stature, she was a giant on the river as far as I
was concerned. She knew how to eek out every move of the raft as she navigated
the rapids and made our ride a safe one, but exciting and fun.
During the pandemic, the group was smaller, just ten
people to each raft, so we had plenty of room to sit while we cruised down the
river. As we began riding the rapids it seemed like we were on top of a
humpback whale that bobbed and weaved in the rough water. Each raft had a set
of large pontoons on each side. The design allowed the raft to flex in the
rapids while taking the big standing waves. Chunks of water and wave flew over
the raft and thoroughly doused us, while mini-geysers at the flex joints shot
upward to spray anyone in proximity to the openings. Mesh bags of water, soda,
and beer were tethered to the raft, and were easily pulled out whenever we
wanted to quench our thirst.
For a couple of old scouts, my brother and I were in
our element sleeping under the stars, becoming one with the river and the sand
(literally) with a mixture of sunscreen, water, and sand stuck to our skin and
our gear for most of the week. The dirtier I got the more I would repeat, “I
love it!” I was beginning to feel like a river rat. Several times a day we had
the opportunity to take a refreshing dip in the river or stand underneath a
creek’s waterfall.
Redwall Cavern was one of our stops that stands out in
my memory. Early on the second day we floated around a bend where the cliffs were
close to the river and the morning shadows lingered in the canyon. I noticed a
big hole at the bottom of the cliff with a sand bar jutting out into the river.
At first, it didn’t seem like such a special place until we pulled closer. By
the time we beached on the sandbar, the size of the cavern, which was carved
out in the bend of the river, was almost too big to grasp. I estimated about
three football fields could have easily fit beneath the sandstone roof of the
pocket cave. Some of the group began playing with frisbees and bocci balls. I
just wandered around, allowing my brain to absorb such a unique place. As I
looked upriver, I noticed the river shone with morning reflections of the sun
which radiated from the western walls of the canyon. Redwall cliffs and the
Redwall Cavern made me realize that everything in the Grand Canyon is
super-sized. I tried to imagine a raging river that was high enough to fill the
cavern in times long ago.
Our camp that evening was on a sandbar near the
Nankoweap Granary, which was a small grain storage space constructed with
rocks and mud by ancient Pueblan natives. They created several rectangular
openings into the storage space under a cliff, located several hundred feet
above the river. When the guides offered to lead a hike to the granary, I was
ready to go. They said it would be a strenuous forty-five-minute hike, with the
last twenty minutes being on a path of irregular stone stairs which would lead
us to the base of the cliff. We climbed about ten minutes on the stairs when I
began to slow down and decided to stop to catch my breath. Most of the hikers
were thirty years old or younger, and I realized my age was finally creating
limits on my endurance. I had to stop a
couple of more times before I made it to the granary, but I didn’t mind
stopping because the view was spectacular. This one view down the
Colorado River seemed to sum up the entirety of how I felt about the canyon. The
steps and the granary were in the deep shade of the afternoon, but the view
which spread before me included the massive Colorado River which changed in
color as it snaked along and around the sandbars while the red cliffs created
giant walls on either side of the immediate river canyon. The distant cliffs
were veiled with pink and blue shadows in the hot, dry air. The walls with
changing textures and colors were a feast for the eyes. I felt like I was in a
giant heavenly room. Included with the timeless view was the dead silence that
flowed through time like an invisible blanket woven over millions of years.
What did the natives think as they worked at surviving in the harsh
environment? Did they take the time to feel the beauty of their surroundings?
What did the canyon look like in the environment above the river area?
After snapping a few photos while above the river, I
thought the view was special. Once the trip was over and I was home in my
painting studio, I decided to make a watercolor painting of Nankoweap
Overlook – Grand Canyon. Now the view is permanently etched in my
brain.
When I made it to the granary, I told our guide that
I was turning around to take the downward hike at my own pace, knowing that
going down would put more pressure on the quadriceps than a usual walk. My
energy and leg muscles were spent by the time I made it back to camp, but I
knew it was worth it. I had the photos to prove it.
That night I heard something that will also remain
etched in my memory. I happened to be awake for a few minutes in the middle of
the night. From a distance of what was probably several miles I heard a deep ka-whump,
followed by a rumble, rumble. To me, it sounded like a Howitzer
cannon doing target practice at Fort Riley in Kansas, but I quickly realized
I’d heard the timeless falling of some huge pieces of rock or canyon wall.
There were no storms that night nor did I hear any jets. It had to be some
massive rocks somewhere among the other billions of rocks, succumbing to
gravity’s pull.
My brother, Dan, was able to identify and point out
numerous birds in the canyon. One of my favorites was the Canyon Wren which had
its own mockingbird-like call. The wren was loud, and each morning it seemed as
though it was demanding that we get up and get moving. We also saw a California
Condor, a Peregrine Falcon, as well as numerous swifts and swallows that lived
along the canyon walls. At evening and during twilight the bats weaved and
dodged above the river. As we floated during the day, we saw numerous Rocky
Mountain Sheep at water’s edge or high on the cliffs.
I didn’t photograph or video going through the big rapids
because my camera isn’t waterproof. We felt safe on the giant rafts, but there
were times when Rachel would shout out, “Make sure your life jacket is buckled
and grab a rope in each hand. Put your feet against the pontoon.” If she was
especially nervous about a an upcoming rapid she would say, “This next rapid
has a different personality every time I run it, so if we spin around or hit a
wall or rock, just keep hanging on and smile and say ‘we’re having fun!’” There
were two or three big rapids that I’ll always remember. The front of the raft
would hit a big standing wave and huge quantities of water would splash over
the entire raft. I remember one of the rapids was bucking us like a big bronco,
and there was a cliff that seemed an arm’s reach away while we flew through the
crashing waves. I looked at my brother and shouted, “THIS is what I signed up
for!” We’d all yell and hoot while our world splashed and crashed around us.
Lava Falls was the last big rapid of the trip. I took
a photo just as we exited the rapids and then Rachel said, “If you thought that
was enough, here comes Son of Lava!” We shot through more rapids along the
cliffs.
Every camp had its own personality. Some had noisy
rapids nearby and others were silent, as deep water in the river crept by the
campsite. At some locations the air was still and hot, and others had
windstorms with blowing sand during the night. At one of the campsites nicknamed
Furnace Flats by the guides, I decided to sleep on top of the sheet and
sleeping bag. During the night it kept getting cooler and cooler. Finally, I
unzipped the sleeping bag and slid inside. By morning I was shivering. The
temperature seemed below fifty degrees when the crew yelled, “Good Morning,
coffee is ready.”
After 190 miles and seven days, our guides gave us
instructions on what we were to do when we got off the raft to board the
helicopter which shuttled us to a dude ranch. It was like a scene from M*A*S*H.
The helicopter landed before we got out of the rafts. The rotors kept
turning while each group of five people scurried with their luggage, moving
single-file up to the door of the chopper. Once the crew stowed our luggage, it
seemed like an instant and we lifted up above the remaining group, with the
rafts and the river looking smaller by the second as our pilot turned the
helicopter up and over the canyon walls. Immediately we saw upper parts of the
canyon that weren’t visible to us during the week at river’s level. In seven
minutes, we were dropped off at the dude ranch for a shower and lunch. We were
now official River Rats, but it was time to wash off as much sand as possible,
knowing that it will probably take months and years to get all of the sand out
of the clothing, gear, and bags. But we can’t wash out the memories of spending
a week with the river and the rocks. Those will always be with us.
