George and I have done five or six trips together, and he's done several more without me. This most recent one, perhaps our last as we are now both 74 and it's a strenuous undertaking, was particularly significant. Several family members were among the 16 participants (the largest number permitted on a private permit), including two grandsons, Max, 17 and Theo, 14, their parents, our daughter Cammie and son-in-law Loren, and our daughter Jocelyn and her husband Jason.
The permitting process starts as long as two years before the desired date of the trip. The more participants one can gather who are committed to going, the better one's chances in the National Park Service lottery. The lottery for the annual permits took place in February 2014 for 2015. By that date we had more than 16 people enthusiastic about a July, 2015 trip, most of whom entered the lottery. We won a permit. (The permit holder is often the trip leader, but not necessarily. Our daughter won the permit, but she did not want the responsibility of being TL, so she deferred to George.) We would gather from New Mexico, Washington, Maryland and California on July 14 for the launch on the 16th. Planning began.
In the early days of private boating permits, the only option we knew of was to bring your own equipment, plan your meals, pack the food and gear and show up. George and I did this a couple of times, and the work load is huge. The other negative factor is that most private boats are 14 to 16 foot long rafts or catarafts, and the big water of the Colorado River though the Grand Canyon can and does flip over many such small tubed crafts. Not to mention that our early boats were not self-bailing, which meant that they would fill up with water in major rapids, and would be immoveable by the oars person until somewhat lightened, which was accomplished by five-gallon-bucket heaves by hardworking passengers. On one private trip led by our friend Tim, every one of the six or seven boats on the trip had been upside down at least once.
Eventually, river outfitters in Flagstaff began to offer help. I have come to love rented eighteen foot long rafts with tubes of 24" diameter and a carrying capacity of 3500 pounds. These boats are just what you need to plow through some mighty big waves at 20,000 cfs (cubic feet per second) of water, which is what we encountered this year. And a variety of menus are offered, the shopping and packing is done for us, and all we have to do is figure out the system and cook.
We asked for bids from several companies, but fell back on our favorite, PRO, or Professional River Outfitters. No trip is outfitted perfectly, but PRO has come closest for us. Our philosophy is to do some of the work ourselves, saving considerably on the costs. We do this by providing our own trucks and trailers to load and haul our gear from Flagstaff to the launch site, 231 miles away at Lee's Ferry just a few miles below Glen Canyon Dam. If this is not an option for you, outfitters will deliver and even assemble the boats and gear. A separate shuttle company then drives our vehicles to the take out point, 281 miles down river, and a lot father by road.
George worked with one person at PRO on the equipment and logistics, and I settled in with another to select a menu and order food. We carried on a group correspondence with the participants, getting input about food preferences, gear needs and more, over several months.
The day came, and we gathered at the Aspen Hotel in Flagstaff, a river-runners friendly place that will let you park cars in a back lot for weeks and offers a free happy hour libation as well as a substantial breakfast. Eight of us were related, and others were friends or friends of friends. Only four were on their first Colorado River trip. The age range was 14 to 74, with seven at 40 something and five over 60. The hotel is close to downtown, so we could walk to various brew pubs for expensive beer and hamburgers. Flagstaff is old west charming.
The next morning we showed up at PRO, just west of town on old US 66. The loading began. Heavy coolers, half full of solid ice and filled up with frozen meat, produce or dairy, rode on the truck beds. We began to pack the trailers with large rocket boxes (military surplus and waterproof) and other water resistant metal boxes with dry goods and cooking gear, our portable toilet and supplies,and more non-perishable food. Ten foot long oars (two sets per boat for five boats), bulky metal rowing frames, life jackets, waterproof river bags of personal gear, umbrellas and holders (July trips experience intense sun and 100 degree + temperatures), all got piled on and strapped in place. The boats, rolled up and bulky, went on at the ends of the trailers so they would be easy to pull off. Thousands of pounds of gear. How did the tires look? We checked.
Sixteen of us cosily fit into three trucks, and we were off. It's a beautiful drive through such empty high desert country that there is not one town along highway 89 north from Flag to Lees. In a way it's a nice transition to living on the river for 17 1/2 days where the developed world ceases to be, except for what you have managed to carry with you--and not including many electronics. No internet or cell service. No battery charging, unless you brought some solar equipment.
At Lee's Ferry, we got to work. First the boats came off and were inflated with an electric pump that belonged to PRO and was kept at the launch site. Next the rowing frames were lashed to the boats. The heavy coolers took their places next: each boat has one which serves as the oars person's seat. They have white insulating covers, to help keep them cool. Everyone pitched in to offload the rest of the gear, so that the trucks and trailers could be moved away. There would be another private group rigging that day, and several commercial trips. The launch site beach is a busy place.
It takes hours to rig the boats, and it was hot. But gradually order emerged. Cammie was the official location recorder. PRO provided us with a blank map of each boat. We named the boats with a yellow tape label (George, Bob, Tim, Jason, Tiki Boat, which was Loren's but it was festooned with a Tahitian style umbrella so that was Cammie's name for it), then described the contents of the coolers, drop bags (front and back), rocket boxes and dry boxes on each boat. This step is crucial in being able to find important things later, like the toilet resupply box, for example, and she did a perfect job of inventory location.
These inventory maps are kept in what we soon called the bible. It's a notebook containing each day's menu, the list of ingredients needed for cooking the meals, where they are, and a recipe on how to prepare each dish. After the chairs, it was often the first thing we wanted when we started unloading the boats. The cook crew needed to know if they had to start charcoal.
While rigging was in progress, a ranger arrived to inspect our equipment. The park service is extremely particular about their requirements for optimizing a safe and environmentally correct trip. Life jackets must be adequate, and if the specifications printed inside are no longer readable, the jacket is rejected. The ranger wants to know what type it is, and if it is designed with enough flotation for Grand Canyon rapids. He or she will not guess based on its appearance. He told me mine was on its last trip; he had trouble reading the text inside. I told him I was probably on my last trip as well. You must also have such things as tarps to spread under your kitchen tables. These tarps are then shaken into the river at the end of your stay. Why? Because if campers consistently leave food particles behind, there are soon enough ant colonies to render the camp uninhabitable. If you don't have what you are supposed to, the trip can be cancelled. The other private group rigging next to us did not get permission to launch because they had not provided the required hand washing system for their party. They had brought sanitary wipes only. Each group must have two hand washing stations each consisting of two buckets, a foot pump, soap, and a spigot. This ingenious system brings river water (we are to add one capful of bleach) from the clean and settled bucket (white) through the foot pump and spigot into the dirty bucket (grey). After toilet use and before preparing and eating food, using the hand washing station is required. The park service has had trips, prior to such policies, where everyone got sick, passing around a virus of one sort or another. The toilet also must meet requirements. All human waste and garbage are carried with each group. Nothing is left in the canyon but footprints, is the goal.
While such heavy-handed government regulations may seem onerous to some, the result is amazing. Camps are pristine. You cannot find a gum wrapper, most of the time. There is a park service patrol craft on the river now and again, just to keep on eye on things.
We camped south of the launch site in a primitive camping area provided for private boaters. The next morning was our official launch date. After a makeshift breakfast (we did not want to set up the kitchen) we had to be checked in by a ranger. Everyone must have a photo ID with information on it that matches the registered trip participant list. And if your trip leader is not there, the trip does not go. No hanky-panky. Our 14 year old was the only exception, but he did have a school photo ID. We didn't get off until almost 11 because our ranger couldn't resist telling us some tales of her river rangering experience--like the time boaters camped on a helipad landing zone, and she had to throw their tents down the hill as the 'copters approached.
On the George boat, Max (17) was on the oars. Grandpa George had taken several river trips with Max, and felt he had a natural understanding of river behavior and boating. He was eager to teach Max to row a Grand Canyon raft. (George had taught others on the trip to row on earlier journeys, so he was considered the old master.) Max had paddled kayaks on earlier trips, but never rowed. Oaring rafts is not much like propelling a row boat. The inventor of the oared raft technique was Nathaniel Galloway, and it is interesting to read about his innovation (http://adventure-journal.com/2015/06/historical-badass-whitewater-pioneer-nathaniel-galloway/), which involves facing the front of the boat, instead of the rear, and guiding the raft in the current, rather than actually moving it down stream by rowing.
At first, you could see the panic on Max's face, though at the same time I knew he had confidence that his grandpa would not ask more of him than he could deliver. George sat at his elbow, quietly instructing him on controlling the boat in the fast but not white water current. After an hour or so of practicing two-oar-turns and spins and reversals, he was more relaxed, and even ready for white water. There was a beach stop for lunch, then we came to the first significant rapid, Badger Creek, rated a 5. Max decided to let grandpa row that one, but by day two, he was ready for some bigger stuff.
Bruised Ribs
The ranger had reminded us that most injuries in the canyon happen NOT on the boats but on the shore. She urged us to take our time, not take risks, be aware in camp, and when hiking. Sure enough, we had an accident at camp the first night, and it was me. Perhaps it is careless, but one tends to use the front tube of the boat as a stepping "stone" when getting something off the boat and taking it to shore. I'd always done it, and did it again that evening. But maybe I am less graceful, agile, and strong at 74 than in past decades. And, the tube was wet and more slippery than I realized. In any case, my left foot hit the tube, slipped into the boat, and I slammed into the rowing frame to my back and left, giving my ribs a good whack. I lay in a heap for a minute, knowing I was not going to be very happy about this. My son-in-law Jason saw it happen and picked me up, urged me to breathe and comforted me as I cursed and cried. Of course my left side hurt the rest of the trip, I had to take pain pills to sleep, and felt unwilling to try some of the climbing hikes the group undertook. But it was not a major disaster.
We had lots of other little injuries in the days ahead, but mostly they were red ant bites, blisters from sandal straps, or nicks and scrapes from hikes. We have learned from earlier trips that skin infections are more common here than at home, so we took extra care to use antibiotic ointment, and keep wounds clean. I also urged hot water soaks on as many people as would tolerate the hovering. It's an old home remedy, but it works amazingly well on small wounds showing signs of infection.
House Rock Rapid
The first major rapid on the Colorado River below the put-in at Lees Ferry, House Rock, gets private boaters a little worked up, since it is likely to be the first big rapid they've faced in years, or ever. The river narrows, because of a cliff on the left, and debris chocking the channel from a canyon on the right. The water piles up against a rock as big as a house, forcing the water to go right, away from the cliff--and that rock--on the left. There's not a lot to this rapid. Just try to miss the big depression, or hole, in front of the rock--which is hard to do because the current wants to pull you in. The water is turbulent, rebounding from collisions with multiple surfaces. The perfect course is to run right, skimming the hole on your left, dancing on down without getting tossed about or flipped. One boater watching us go through said it was beautiful--a great feat by the old master. Others had more exciting rides, whooping in joy or terror as their boats thrashed and bucked through the hole, or missed it. We all got through okay, and I think there was a group sigh of relief. The first big hurdle had been cleared.
It's interesting to think about why we put ourselves into this position of undertaking something that can be so terrifying. I remember the first time I stood and looked at Hance Rapid, ranked an 8 (out of 10) that is a frothy torrent strewn with huge boulders. I was so frightened, I couldn't imagine why I had agreed to take this journey. But the ride through was surprisingly fun. The boat would climb up a huge wave, and we'd hang on tight and yell in amazement. Then its tail would rise as it slid down the other side. The person rowing would work to keep us from getting sideways against these curlers, and as long as he or she could do that, and avoid rocks, we were good. At the end, the sense of relief coupled with the thrill of the ride made us euphoric, and willing to do it again. There's a lot to be said for euphoria as a life experience.
Terror was what Theo, 14, was feeling on the days leading up to Hance Rapid. (Scouting Hance, photo above.) This cerebral young man had done too much internet research about the river, viewing no doubt terrifying boat flips on all the major rapids of the Colorado. Hance was the first one rated 8 in difficulty, and he was dreading it. He asked me if it might be possible to walk around this or other rapids that we scouted and that he decided he didn't want to experience. I told him it was possible, in some cases, but that it was also really difficult for boats to pick up walkers, since getting to shore can be a challenge in swift water. I also told him I thought it was unlikely that he would still want to walk, once he'd gotten more used to running big rapids. Sure enough, after Hance he was a changed lad. Big waves, big grins.
Camp Life
Early in the trip we had to get used to how to do certain things. The second evening, in the "chair circle" we always set up near the kitchen, our trip leader had to bring up a difficult subject. Someone had peed in the "porto," our human waste receptacle. This was a no-no for obvious reasons; we did not have the capacity to be carrying gallons of urine with us. A bright yellow urine bucket was provided at the toilet site, and we had all been informed that urine should be deposited directly in the river (wow, do guys have an advantage here), or in the bucket. There was an uncomfortable silence. I didn't really expect anyone to confess, but just to understand that this was not okay. Suddenly Natalie said, "Well, it was me. I told Sam about it. I was so upset. But I have never had to think about separating functions, and I couldn't do it!" There was great tension-relieving laughter, and some of us laughed harder than others. On my first river trip, I ran into the same problem. For women, especially, this seems to be an issue. My solution then was to have a tin can handy to catch inadvertent urine. Gradually I learned how to produce one and then the other. We all chimed in with advice, loving Natalie (yellow hat, below) for sharing her problem so gamely.
Each day was different to some extent, but we did get into a routine. We'd be up at sunrise, many of us, which was about 5 am in Arizona. (Five sounds painfully early, but we were almost always in bed by 9:00.) Tim was always first, and he'd get the coffee going. The three members of the day's cook crew would start preparing breakfast, and everyone else would either start packing up their camp, or come for coffee, or both. We got faster at packing as days passed, and we often launched by 8:00, even on days with an elaborate breakfast like pancakes or burritos. As the boats filled, someone with a big voice would shout: "Last call for garbage," or for the toilet, or filling water bottles. There would be talk among us about where we hoped to camp that night, what "tour" stops might be coming up this day, if there were any rapids to scout and when and where we'd look for a lunch spot. As we floated, we'd often get widely separated, but we'd use whistles to notify each other to get back together if there was a need to communicate. With maps, we'd keep track of where we were, though sometimes we'd not be certain. But then a definite landmark would set us straight. Redwall Cavern, the Little Colorado River joining us, the Nankoweep Granary visible on the right. Occasionally a commercial, motor-powered tour boat would pass us, most careful not to get too close. We'd wave, thinking we were glad we didn't have to listen to that motor all day. They'd wave too, probably feeling sorry for us in these little boats, moving slowly at the river's pace. A couple of our rafts were armed with water shooters, and if it was a sunny, hot day and the water was calm for a ways, fierce battles would take place. Most days we'd stop by 4:00, leaving a bit of time for hiking, bathing or sitting under the umbrellas on a beach, reading, enjoying a river chilled drink, or chatting.
A popular event was the "layover day." We did three of these, choosing a spot where there would be nice hiking from our camp for those who were so inclined, though there were always others who loved just having a day to bathe, read, nap, write, take pictures. The first was not until day six, after we'd come 94 miles on the river. We felt lucky to secure Granite Camp--camping is first-come-first-served, though we were urged by the park service to communicate with other groups we'd see about where they might be hoping to camp, and work things out. Granite is particularly nice, with a sandy beach, lovely shade from giant old tamarisk trees, a big rapid nearby where we could watch other boaters make their way through a boulder field, and gorgeous Monument Canyon, up which you can walk for miles, even connecting to trails that reach the south rim. I think the monument for which the canyon is named is a great tower a short hike up. It is a spire capped with just enough harder rock to have kept it from being eroded away--though it leans precariously, and makes one think it may have only a few more centuries of existence. The hiking was hot, and we were glad to dip in the river and huddle in the shade of our umbrellas in the afternoon. Though it's a bit sad to say that the river water, coming out of the bottom of Glen Canyon dam, is so cold, a short dip is all one can bear. Yowls of shock accompany most plunges into the 50 or so degree water. Which is why the ecology of the canyon has changed.
An interesting detail of Granite Camp was a number of young, purposely planted, native trees. An ammo box containing a notebook told us that the Grand Canyon Association brought in and planted the young trees, exhorted us to water the trees, and record the deed. Many people had done so, and Cammie took on the job for us. Using a camp bucket, she hauled river water to two dozen or more willows, cottonwoods, and mesquite trees, most of which appeared to be thriving. Someday they will be big enough to make a very shady, inviting camp, replacing the dying old tammys, which are being attacked, on purpose, by a beetle which is gradually eliminating them from the Southwest. Great swaths of dead tamarisk, non-native and invasive, now bedeck river banks all over Utah, and parts of New Mexico and Colorado, and we wonder how long it will take the skeletal remains to disappear. Fires would do it, but would also be dangerous, and would kill emerging willows. You can read about the attempt to eradicate the non-native and invasive tamarisk on line.
River Highlights
One favorite stop is called Elves' Chasm, mile 117. The name is apt, for the spot seems mystical. After a hot scramble over rocks and cactus, one enters a small, shaded bower, where ferns cascade along a waterfall, and the inviting pool below looks like a scene from the tropics. It never takes long for someone to remember or discover you can climb above and behind the water fall, work into position, and jump into the pool below. We have the popular spot to ourselves just long enough for everyone to enjoy its beauty. Another party arrives, and we begin the hot walk down the steep canyon to our boats below.
One of my favorite stops is Matkatamiba, mile 148. The main canyon is hidden from the river and accessible only by a challenging route. If you are lucky, there's no one else there. You can park boats at the small mouth of the canyon and make your way up its twisting narrows, shimmying and chimney walking. It is great fun, and our group did a nice
Yet another scenic stop was one that I had wished to explore on previous trips, but there was not time, as Fern Glen Canyon (mile 168.5, Day 13) takes awhile to visit. This particular day we could tell was going to be really hot. And, we wanted to run Lava Falls early the following morning. So we had extra time this day, and we were looking for a shady place to wile away a few hours of the heat. And doesn't "Fern Glen Canyon" sound lovely? So we packed up the lunch--this might have been the day we had Chinese chicken salad in pita, but we tended to swap out one for another some times--and one of our rugged guys carried it. There were a couple of challenging places (of course) that required a push and a pull to get us all up, but we all made it to the surprisingly lovely amphitheater where we could go no further. A thin stream of water fell over a pouroff, with no way up or around. But that was okay. There were ferns, monkey flowers, shelves of rock, canyon wrens trilling, and welcome shade. People pulled out books, did yoga, took naps, pictures, got in 100 or more pushups (Max) or made rock sculptures. Bob initiated this canyon creativity, stacking balanced rock creations at many of our camps as his signature, which he does around his rural home in New Mexico as well.
Camp Scrambling
On Day Nine we had a small adventure toward the end of the day. It was getting late, and we were worried about getting the camp we wanted, called "Below Bedrock." We knew there was a private group ahead of us, but we hadn't talked with them about camps. Would they take "our" spot? It was getting close to 5 pm; we were tired, and our dinner called for charcoal. We still had Bedrock rapid to run. This rapid is just about always scouted. A huge rock sits in the middle of the river. Most of the current goes right, but part of the channel to the right is really shallow as the shore is close to the rock as the water bends around the rock, and most of the deep water current sweeps you right into the rock. Though a strong current also goes left, there is not an alternate run to the left, for the route is narrow, twisting, rocky, and has a spot that can trap boats in a small, fierce eddy. Our TL had a plan. The river was running high--maybe 20,000 cfs. This would suggest that the shallow rocks on the right would be covered, and the right run could be somewhat easier than usual. If, George said, the private group was there, scouting, we would just skip the scout, run the rapid, and grab the camp we wanted just below. It was brilliant. We loved it. As we rounded a bend, there was Bedrock, and the private group was parked on the beach! We sort of thumbs-upped everyone, and George was the first one through. The private group dashed over to watch us. Actually, we were helping them plan their own runs. With high water, the power of the current toward the "bedrock" was massive, but George could start pulling right much sooner than usual, and he did. Without a pause, he rowed as hard as he could away from the rock, crossing the current, and we missed it. The current continued to threaten to carry us into further rocks on the left, but he maintained the effort, and we cleared all hazards and at the bottom, turned around to watch the others. Everyone pulled with supreme effort, and all came through beautifully. We whooped with glee. We pulled into an already cliff-shady, welcoming camp, so grateful to be there. We talked about feeling a bit guilty. But the other group, with smaller boats, did have to be cautious and scout, and we made note of the fact that they had started much later in the day than we had--we passed them getting ready to go--so they wouldn't be as ready to stop as we. Well, that's what we told ourselves. And, there were more camps on down the river.
Second Layover
Our second layover day came at Tuckup Canyon, mile 165, day 11. The text of our guide map told of two camps here, and we stopped at the first, not sure what each was like, and not wanting to miss the first one if it were the better. The camp inspectors ran to take a look, and declared the second camp better (good camps have a spacious open area for a kitchen and the chair circle, with adequate cleared, flat spots for tents), with a better landing beach as well, so we had to move the boats. This is one of those times when people can get testy, but this group handled such little glitches with great calm. One by one, the boats floated on downstream a ways, with a person in front ready to throw the bowline and be hauled in by a waiting person on the beach. The oarsman was at the ready, just in case. No one wanted a boat to miss the pull in, for then we would all have to go on down the river and look for another camp. Once the current gets you, there's no backing up.
Except we did once. Day five, we had to stop early to position ourselves to pass Phantom Ranch (mile 88) the next day. There are camping restrictions close to this area, where the two main trails from the south rim to the river converge. Many commercial trips drop off and pick up passengers here, so camps can get congested with boats poised to exchange people. We had a camp picked out near Neville's Rapid, mile 76, but there was confusion about where to pull in. Two boats hit it just right, getting into an eddy left of the rapid. Three others of us were in the rapid when we saw that we were supposed to be pulling to shore. We all pulled like mad to get to river left, and George's boat would have been swept on down without help from people already on shore grabbing and holding our bowline. It was a rocky perch, with current. No good for a landing. So, after some deliberation, we decided to attempt to drag the three downstream boats up into the eddy. Everyone left their life jackets on, in case of accidentally getting pulled into the water. It was all a bit risky, but we felt uncertain if there was another big enough camp before hitting the granite gorge, where there were NO camps at all until you hit the restricted zone. So one boat at a time, we struggled to swing the boats out around rocky points or brushy willows without losing them, always a person on the oars just in case, slowly hauling them upstream. It took awhile, though each boat got a little easier as we figured out what worked. It was the first serious test of our ability to work together to solve a problem, and we did it with determination and good cheer. It's the kind of group cohesion you need on these trips in case a really serious challenge arises. And it turned out to be a spacious camp, with an interesting canyon to hike.
Tuckup, our second layover, had early shade, but the heat radiating off the rock walls kept it toasty well past sunset. It was cool enough in the morning for hiking, and a group set off to explore. It was a challenging hike, with some narrow, steep spots to negotiate, but they were rewarded with a look at a seldom-visited natural bridge. In camp, we had a relaxing day under the umbrellas.
Food
One of the benefits of outfitter-supplied food is that you can select some amazingly delectable meals, considering that you are camping. At Tuckup we were surprised to find that our orange roughy fish fillets were still icy cold from the cooler, and wonderful when cooked on a griddle and topped with our homemade spicy cilantro sauce. Well, the fresh cilantro had gone off so we couldn't use it, but the coconut-curry-based sauce was still delicious. At the end of the trip, people asked for copies of some of the recipes. Especially popular were Chicken, Shrimp and Chorizo Paella, and the Dutch oven prepared green chile enchiladas and spinach lasagna. We also grilled steaks, pork chops and salmon. Dutch oven desserts made occasional appearances: we had German chocolate cake, and another night, pineapple upside down cake. A wide range of options are offered by PRO, from meals with little chopping and preparing, to some fairly gourmet undertakings. The cost for our rather elaborate menu came out to about $29 per day per person, including the cost of the food and the shopping, packing, and detailed instructions by PRO.
River Mishaps
I suspect on every private boating trip there are memorable mishaps. On Loren and Cammie's first trip with us, for example, on oarsman lost three pairs of prescription glasses during unexpected plunges into the river. After the last pair was gone, he could no longer see to row. Loren was a novice, but had to take over the oars. He'd been studying with the old master, and did well.
On this trip, our first mishap occurred on our third day on a small rapid called Basalt. It was rated a 2, so it hardly warranted any attention, or so most of us thought. The George boat went through first, Max on the oars (photo above). "Whoa, what was that,?" Max exclaimed as we skirted a nasty hole right at the top. Max was in the habit of asking me to read the description of a rapid as we approached, from our fifth edition of the popular "Guide to the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon." He was glad I had, for it said, "Basalt Rapid has a sharp drop on the left side at low flows. At high flows, the hydraulics here are sharp. Either way, sit up and pay attention to this sleeper." Max paid attention, and carefully entered the rapid to the right, on the tongue; he missed the hole. At high water, this rapid developed a challenging hazard that was not real obvious--especially if you are lulled into thinking a 2 does not deserve much scrutiny. Maybe a shelf of basalt protrudes into the river here, making the hole below it. But this day, so much water poured over the shelf, it was almost impossible to see the hole. When Tim's boat came along, novice Todd on the oars, no one noticed the shelf, and Todd went right into the hole. The boat stalled and shimmied about, stabilized, then emerged, but without its oarsman. Todd remembers being shocked to find himself in the water, but he also recalled getting a big breath as it happened. After tumbling about in the hole for awhile, he popped up, swam to the boat and was able to grab the frame and hoist himself back in just as Tim was taking the oars and Karl was looking for him. Meanwhile, four other boats had gone on down, only to be signaled by a large commercial boat, that a group pulled off on the left bank in a sort of bay needed help. Two of our boats couldn't make it out of the current, but two did. A private party with a lot of teenagers had flipped a boat in Basalt, and were having trouble righting it. With Jason and Andy's extra help, they got it over, and began the re-rigging. So there was much to talk about in camp that night. One of the things we wondered was, why didn't the commercial trip motor over there and help them?
A medium sized rapid got the George boat into big trouble many days downstream. Theo was on the oars. He was the second boy apprentice, and had been rowing his dad's boat through some small rapids for several days. This day he wanted to row with his grandpa, and try some bigger things. So we approached a rapid ranked a six. I expressed my concern that this one might be too difficult for Theo, but George's philosophy is, let the boys learn by doing. He sat at Theo's shoulder, coaching him. There were some big waves, and Theo did well, keeping us straight. But in his delight--"I rowed a six!" he was cheering--he and his coach failed to notice in time that the current was very powerfully taking us directly at a large rock at the bottom of the rapid, and a lot of water went to the right of the rock, into a wall, where it swirled tempestuously in a surging eddy. Yep. Theo's best efforts to move left, much too late, were not enough to keep us off the wall and out of the eddy. The rest of our party passed, no doubt assuming we'd soon be out of the eddy and on our way. But no. Theo, following instructions, rowed back up stream in the eddy, crossed the eddy line back into the current, and promptly, despite hard work, got sucked into it again. George's turn. Twice he rowed back upstream, twice entering the main current, and both times, though pulling as hard as he could to the left. was caught and flung back into the now seemingly impossible-to-exit-eddy. Near the end of the first of George's efforts, we got a glimpse of Jason, well downstream, attempting to make his way on the river bank back to us. Wow, I thought, what a great guy he is to try to help, but surely we'll get out on our own. At the end of George's second attempt, I saw Jason again, closer, but could he get to us? There was a rocky chute in the eddy, down which he could scramble, if he could find it. We stayed stable near the chute for awhile, George studying the surging current coming into the eddy, trying to analyze an escape, and me hoping to see Jason at the top of the chute. Suddenly, there he was. George moved the boat to the base of the chute, and we tossed the bowline to Jason so he could snug the boat to the rocks long enough to climb in. George told him the current seemed to come in surges, and that if we could time it just right, he might be able to row out right in front of the rock. We watched awhile, then "GO." With a mighty effort, the big guy managed to move the boat out of "Impossible Eddy." What a relief. To get to us, Jason had had to swim in his life jacket around a cliff that stopped his upstream progress, then scramble up over the rock outcrop that was imprisoning us. He did not know if he would find a way down to the water again, but there was that chute. Good luck for us all. Another night with lots to talk about in camp.
Mishap at Lava Falls
The river's most anticipated or feared rapid is Lava Falls, rated a 9. The day we ran it, the water was high, which made a left run an option--usually it isn't even considered--and the favored right run a nasty looking smash up of big water. But the left run, as we scouted, looked too obstructed with visible rocks to be viable, though it was tempting, given the alternative. With our bigger boats, though, we hoped we'd be able to stay stable through the torrents on the right. Two boats--Tim and Jason--got through with exciting, but beautifully finessed runs, skirting holes, and hitting waves just right. Max wanted to row our boat, but deferred to his grandfather. George, however, has a history (twice before) of swimming Lava, and he managed to stay true to form. We hit one enormous wave face on, but at the same time got clobbered by a wave from the right. Max and I hung on and stayed in the boat, which tilted onto its left side at an alarming angle. The oarsman has nothing much to cling to, and George washed overboard. I had a feeling, as we leveled off and I looked around to check on him, that he would be gone. Sure enough. I alerted Max, who scrambled for the oars, while I looked for George. Happily, one of the earlier boats to run the rapid, Jason's, had stopped on river left. Tim had tried to stop, to be in position to help anyone, like George, who might need assistance. But Karl, their bowline person, who hopped out to secure the boat, could not hold it in the current, had to let the boat go without him. Jason's boat stopped to pick him up, and all four passengers got out to watch the rest of the boats come through. They had a good view of our boat losing its oarsman. Andy had gotten out the rescue rope and heaved it exactly in the right spot upstream of George, who managed to grab it, and he and Jason pulled him in. By then, Max and I were through the upper part of the rapid, but were headed for a wall on the left, and Lower Lava. One oar had been knocked from the boat, and he was struggling to get it back in the boat when he realized the oarlock had been bent over on its side, making it just about useless. Meanwhile I'm telling him about two rocks in front of us that I did not think we were going to fit through. This was a nasty prospect. But Max, with one oar, managed to spin us around the first rock, and we slipped by the second. Whew. Then the chore was to get across the rapid to shore on the opposite side of the river, where there was an eddy to help us land, and another boat from our party. I used one oar in an effort to move toward the eddy, while Max retrieved the oar in the water, tethered to the boat, so we still had it, and managed to get it into the slumped oarlock, but we were running out the time to catch the eddy. He used both oars in a most difficult manner to pull us across the rapid toward the shore. All I could do was yell encouragement, and get the bowline undone, hoping someone would be there to catch us. We came in well below the other boat, but we had made the eddy, just barely, and the current was slow enough that I could jump out and wrap the line around a convenient rock. We were safe. But full of adrenalin.
Several people gathered to help replace the damaged oarlock on the George boat, while George, still a bit shaken, warmed up in the sun. All the boats got back together again about a half mile downriver on a small beach, where we set up lunch. There was lots of excited chatter about who had done what when, and how the whole scenario had played out. Jason allowed as how it was a pretty fortuitous situation, that Karl had been left on the shore, and he had to stop for him, giving him and Andy the chance to pull George out of the water before he had to survive running Lower Lava in his life jacket. We were all grateful for that, especially, I suspect, George.
The Tribe
I started out to tell the story of one private boaters river trip in an attempt to capture some of what its like. As I've written, I've realized that what makes such trips particularly memorable and satisfying are things that just can't or rarely happen on commercial trips. There, professional paid staff, as great as these people usually are, do all the work, make the decisions, and do their best to avoid mistakes, glitches and mishaps. We amateurs have the advantage of working together, and sharing excitement, triumph and occasional trauma together. On the best of trips, these experiences turn us into a cohesive group, pulling together, appreciating each other. Cammie captured the feeling when, home again, she wrote a poem about it and us, noting that we had become a tribe. Here's her effort, and you'll recognize some of the characters:
On a blistering breezeless day, under a merciless sky,
Together toiled sixteen travelers this mid-July.
The blue of the sky, and the green of the river,
called them together to float yon and hither.
Some chaotically clumsy, some agile as bats,
They turn rubber and steel into tight habitats.
The fruits of their labor are lemony rafts,
With flouncy umbrellas serving as masts.
Jaunty in spirit, but with some trepidation,
The flotilla sets off down the canyon's foundation.
Next morn comes the ranger, hands on hips by her Taser,
Telling tales about how throwing tents doesn't faze her.
Staring mutely, impatient, the travelers listen,
As the leaves of the cottonwoods flutter and glisten.
Once released, they set off, a bouncy flotilla,
Folks pulling on oars, needing strength of gorillas.
Busting through eddies and landing on beaches,
Shouts of "pull, pull, pull," as experience teaches.
The travelers grow closer, becoming a tribe.
Their quirks and their humor adding joy to the ride.
One lovely loquacious gentleman had a powerful sneeze,
Prompting jokes he could move the boats should he please.
A young couple ran upwards whenever they could,
Their energy boundless, their attitude good.
One lone oarsman toiled so, with no help on his raft,
He gazed longingly at those with more helpful staff.
His passenger preferred to ride, not to oar,
Her gaze on her river map, location sometimes unsure.
Their sons were with them, but not oft on their raft,
As Zen Master Grandpa taught them his craft.
The elder devoted to learning just how rapids twist,
The younger to climbing steep walls made of granite and schist.
Grandma kept her eye on the tribe's cooking,
Helping the kitchen crew keep everything moving.
Meanwhile, the uncle, strong as the stuff in a flask,
Performed many rescues, always up to the task.
His friend pitched in rowing, ever lending a hand,
The only bone of contention being which rapids to land.
Their passengers laughed, the aunt and her friend,
Toasting each rapid, with good cheer to the end.
The master of hiking explored many canyons,
Taking more steps than any of his companions.
Days and nights the photographer set up his tripod,
Chasing light and moon shadow, and shapes that were odd.
The geology teacher spent much time composing
Descriptions of the rocks through which they were floating.
Everyone in the tribe had a magical sojourn,
Because terrifying fun is no oxymoron.
Nights of no moon, full of comets and stars,
Followed by full moon, with shining sand bars.
Basalt Rapid, named mild, wildly washed one from his raft,
Followed by other rides, nameless, spinning rafts fore to aft.
Umbrellas and drag bags were sucked in by the river,
While t-shirts and rubber ducks rose and came hither.
Water guns sloshed, the youngest wielding Big Red,
Dousing his aunt, always game, who never fled.
Lazy ankles in river, seeking shade under umbrellas in sand,
Reading books, drinking beer, the tribe relaxed as a band.
A young hawk crying out, his wings madly flapping,
Screeching loud joyous terror, while canyon spanning.
The north star stayed steady, in the Canyon's grand halls,
Constellations like river, swirling between its walls.
Weary travelers awoke and waited for coffee,
Perking slowly, tainting glass bubble like toffee.
This was the day which caused tightness in smiles,
As the legendary rapid churned in just a few river miles.
Scouting river left, one rafter sought a good omen,
Finding heart of lava with a hint of green crystal totem.
Thor's coyote, this rapid named Lava, wrapped the master up tight,
Leaving his apprentice, with Grandma, only one oar for the fight.
Tequila passed 'round, once all landed safely,
Including swigs for the young lad acting bravely.
The trip not yet over, many miles yet to go,
Schist flutes in the rain, helicopters, river slow.
Rubber duck rafts deflating, racks of steel stacked,
Gear off, food divided, the tribe's belongings packed.
This journey has ended, as memories of canyon and water call,
The tribe may come together, there are more journeys for all.
A caveat about private trips. It's so important to gather a group that has the potential to become a tribe. It would be good to have a check list in mind before you settle on a roster. People need to be willing to forgo their individuality, at least somewhat, for the group. If someone is likely to say, "Up at 5 am? I don't think so!" instead of grasping that on the river you don't waste daylight, or if you suspect another would grumble about sand in their food, or their bed, or another might rebel at taking a turn packing up a stinky toilet, take care. Disharmony and complaining don't contribute to tribal cohesion.
