River: Into the Grand Canyon, 3--Hiking

Jumping Right In! (to the mud) on our first hike

"Hey, so…all day long you just float down the river getting splashed in the rapids?"  A common question we are asked by many both before and after our river trip.  The answer is an emphatic, "No."  Our days on the river are varied and always interesting.  Every day there is at least one hike--up a gorge, into a slot canyon, down the shore to a waterfall.  We make 10 minute pit stops between our landings for snacks or lunch.  The hikes, no matter when they happen during our day, are amazing--because of the beauty we see, the creatures, the stories we hear, or the huge effort they take to get where we are going.  The pictures will tell the story better than words, so I will try to be somewhat brief, although that is always difficult for me.

Pam reminds me that our first hike started through mud.  Sucking mud.  Once in, the more you wiggle and struggle to get out, the deeper you sink.  Most of us need a helping hand to get back onto solid ground.  Where the hike went after the mud bogs, I don't remember.  The first hike I do remember follows a steep and switchbacked trail up toward the rim in the heat of the afternoon.  The promised reward is a scramble up a rock ledge to a pool of cool water fed by a small waterfall.  Exhilarating!  

On another day, we disembark at Deer Creek Falls, which is hung with bright green ferns and is within sight of the river and provides a brisk, welcome shower.  Some of the group stays at the falls while others hike up a steep trail, blazing hot in the afternoon sun.  We have to place our hands on the rocks to steady us as we scramble steeply upward.  The rocks are so hot that I fear my fingers will suffer first degree burns.  When we reach our destination--a plateau far above the river and our boat, the view of Powell Point is spectacular, with vistas opening up far into the distance.  Below our tiny boat looks like a turquoise toy sitting on green water.  When we reach the canyon floor again, a shower in the pour of the waterfall is so refreshing.

One day we leave camp in a steady drizzle.  The chop and cascade of water from rapids soon has most of us shivering.  "When we get to the Little Colorado," Shad calls from his captain's perch, "we'll stop and hike up the river if it looks clear.  If it is a pooey color, we'll go on."  The pooey color is a result of flash floods up side canyons carrying red silt and rock down into the main channel.  The Little Colorado is pooey but we stop anyway just to get out and walk.  The rock that lines the riverbank is much warmer than the air and soon, all of us find rocks to hug, niches in which to cozy up, crevices where warm radiates from wall to wall.  Another afternoon hike takes us up a canyon trail to rocks where petroglyphs hint at ancient ways and lives whose meanings we can only wonder about.

On still another blazing hot afternoon we stop to inspect the former settlement of some pre-Puebloan people.  Those who lived here were nomadic farmers.  Planting crops on the rich alluvial soil between riverbank and canyon walls, the people migrated from canyon bottom to canyon rim.  In this area there are thousands of potsherds…remnants of a people long gone.  We find them, inspect them, feel them in our hands, and then place them back into the red canyon dirt or leave them arranged on rocks for others to admire.

We are now into Havasupai country.  In the middle of a rapid, Shad skillfully pulls the raft into an outcropping of rock and Travis jumps off to tie our boat in.  We get up onto the rock and begin the hike in to Havasu Canyon.  Here the water is a milky turquoise as it pours and tumbles its way toward the Colorado.  This is the same river we hiked many miles upstream when our friend Gail took Lee, Mare, Pam and I backpacking down into the canyon so long ago.  We spend a few hours here hiking the banks, wading in the river, and wallowing in shallow pools.  On the way out, we discover a small pink canyon rattle snake curled into a depression on a log.   Very tolerant as we stop to admire him, he merely opens his eyes and shifts his coils a bit to let us know he is watching us too.  We hike out just ahead of a rain shower.

"Ahm goin' down!"

Up toward the rim…

A final scramble

Sweet reward!

Canyon Waterfall

Tiny raft below the plateau

  

View back up the river

We made it

  

Perfect end to a hot hike

  

Metate

Potsherds

  Havasu River

  

Tiny, iridescent Havasu frog

Grand Canyon Pink Rattlesnake

River: Into the Grand Canyon, 2 -- The River

Rapids on a J-Rig--"Gusto Seating" on the tubes.  Western River Photos

For most people, the rapids on this river--if not the main attraction--are certainly the excitement and challenge that thrill passengers.  I travel this river shivering in the bang-splash of early morning rapids, then warm my bones in the afternoon wind pushing up the river, or in the reflected heat coming off canyon walls.  I travel this river with the love of my life (Canyon keep her safe), our life-long friend, people near to our hearts, and people we have just met.  We chatter and laugh as we go along, telling stories of our lives outside of the canyon, or just quietly rising and falling with the moods of the river as it navigates and flows its way southward. Mostly, I travel quietly...watching, thinking, feeling, trying to fathom the experience.  It's not that the rapids don't interest me.  Of course they do!  They demand and command riveted attention.  But for me, they are not the main part of the trip.  There is no way, onboard a raft that I can see to capture the thrill, the excitement, the danger of going through rapids.  I have resorted to taking pictures off the internet to attempt to show what this was like.

I love the softness of the river and the contemplative, reflective time spent aboard.  The river color changes from green, to blue, to "pooey brown" as Shad says.  The color depends on what is happening in the sky, sun bouncing off canyon walls, and conditions in the side canyons.  Muddy colors reflect flash floods from near or distant rain storms that send sediment and rock crashing into small rivers that empty into the main channel. 

As for the difference between calm and turbulent water, Pam explains the dichotomy best, I think: "It's being between these canyon walls, on this river where time in the surrounding rock is measured in millions of years, where a human lifetime is less than an eye blink.  And then suddenly you are in the rapids, feeling the river rock kick your raft this way and that, having hundreds of gallons of water crash over you, push you, knock you…you are feeling time in mini-seconds…all attention to what you need to do next.  What is coming at you."  And then you are through the rapid and back into calm or just choppy waters.  I suppose one could reason that this is like life compressed into a day.

Travelers know when large rapids are coming.  Travis walks forward and stands by the "Adventure Seating" or bench as we call it, or on the outside tube.  He tells us the name of the rapid, who it is named for, how many people died here (if they did) and reminds us to hold on.  Then he either sits on the end of the bench or retreats to the Chicken Coop.  The rest of us get ready.  Lee and I ride on the tubes most of the time…sometimes as the number one, at others number two or three.  Jeanne comes out often, and Pam does occasionally, mostly in the late afternoon when it is warmer.  Kristi and Lyn are regulars on the bench, although toward the end of the trip, Kristi took her turn on the tubes as well.  Anchored behind me, Jeanne says, "Watch where we enter this rapid.  Shad is aiming for the calm V between the rough water.  That's where you enter.  Then, watch out!"  Jeanne is an experienced white-water kayaker.  When the guides yell, "SUCK RUBBER!" you know that this is BIG WATER.  Those of us on the tubes flex forward, attempting to put our faces as near the tube as possible.  In this way, you are less likely to have the crashing waves slam you off your perch.  My record through rapids:  kicked by a bench sitter the first day, the bruise on my arm just fading two weeks later; knocked flat off my tube inboard and tangled with my neighbor, who was also knocked off his spot; banged in the back by a rider who fell from the bench; unseated because I held on with an overhand rather than an underhand grip with my forward hand (it makes a big difference);  knocked flat backwards going through Lava Falls.  

Rapids, we learn are caused by constriction and unevenness due to debris fans deposited in the river from side canyons.  At river mile 179 Prospect Canyon enters the south side of the river.  At the foot of its debris fan sits Lava Falls…A debris flow is different than a mud flow because it is a mixture of rubble, sediment, and water that has the ability to carry and deposit boulders the size of automobiles…somewhat like the debris flows around Estes Park after last year's flood.  Lava Falls was, in part, created by the eruption of three volcanoes seven hundred thousand years ago.  Lava from the eruptions choked the river for some time before the water, once again found its way and created a passage through the black rock.  Lava Falls is the great rapid that looms at the end of the last day of our trip.  Everyone talks about it.  "Wait 'til you get to Lava."  "Lava is just the scariest."  "Lava will give you the thrill of your life."  "Can we get out and walk around it?" 

I haven't thought much about Lava,  I suppose because rapids were not the big draw for me on this trip.  I think about it now as we approach.  Now, I am nervous.  How will I do?  Will Pam be OK?  Lee is in front of me with Dan, the young Aussie, at the front of our tube.  "SUCK RUBBER!!!"  Dan is smashed mid-rapid and is knocked backward onto Lee.  Lee, ends up on her back in my lap.  I am flattened backward wondering how to recover…no hand hold with my forward hand.  Both Lee and Dan have their right feet caught for a few seconds between two tubes.  I feel gentle hands pushing me upright from behind.  It's Biff from his perch on the bench.  His wife Annie is laughing, so I know things are O.K.  Lee and Dan become unentangled, feet free and we help one another to an upright, secure position again.  Soon after, we are in the chop at the bottom of the rapids laughing, whooping…making all the sounds and words one says when one is relieved and grateful to come through a scary experience in one piece.

 I cannot say enough about our guides as steersmen.  Never were we in danger.  Never was anyone seriously hurt (bruises and small cuts?  Not too serious).  Never did anyone go overboard.  We were given some wild rides, but through it all, the most amazing thing was their skill and knowledge of the river.

Coming next:  River:  Into the Grand Canyon, 3 -- Canyon Hiking

The following three images courtesy Western River Photos…not us, but just what we did!  

Loaded and ready for adventure

Morning shadows…note the varying colors of the water

Lee bundled against 45 degree water in the early morning

Reflecting on the river

 
 

Annie as Holy icon courtesy of canyon winds

Pooey Little Colorado…Lee sitting on rock for warmth…Ummmm!

Lee, Jeanne, and Sande--Tube Girls all!

Travis and Chad…dressed and ready for Lava Falls!

Riding the post rapids chop

Brown and gold reflections on our last morning

Jeanne with the end of the wine, "Thank you river gods for a safe and beautiful trip."

River: Into the Grand Canyon, 1

Moving beneath Navaho Bridge as we begin our journey

We have been off the river for nine days.  After helicoptering out of the Canyon, Jeanne flew to Las Vegas for her return to Chicago, and Kristi, Lyn, Lee, Pam and I  flew back to Lee's Ferry to spend the next day walking on the South Rim.  The following day, Lee, Pam, and I returned to our homes in Little Valley.  

With pictures and experiences crowding my heart and my head, I was again baffled by how to unpack and tell the story of the time we spent on the river.  Part of me was tangled up enough to think this might be a trip I would not be able to tell about in any coherent way.  The magnitude of what we saw and experienced seems too great for words or images.  What I have are feelings.  How to start?  Where to start?  Do something mechanical…so I began by unloading my cameras into my computer.   Then, I put together a musical sound track so that as I began to work the pictures I could listen to the music.  The combination brought feelings and experiences surging up out of my heart into my senses.  

I reread part of the book, Writing Down the River which had opened me to the experience prior to our departure.  I  began with a chapter written by Denise Chavez.  Gently, her words, the music, and my own images opened me once again, and I began to write.  At first, there was no particular order to my reflections.  But happy I was just to have them coming out into my journal--sometimes at the speed of water falling over rapids, sometimes slowly, softly like gliding over calm water in the morning or late afternoon   What I offer here will be a series of reflections and recollections of this incredible, seven day journey down the Colorado River into the Grand Canyon.

Now, I have experiences to understand what John Wesley Powell meant when he wrote:
The wonders of the Grand Canyon cannot be adequately represented in symbols of speech, nor by speech itself.  The resources of the graphic art are taxed beyond their powers in attempting to portray its features.  Language and illustration combined must fail.  

However, having traveled 187 miles of this river, I want to recall, relive, and represent our experiences in the only ways available to me.  I invite you to come along for as much or as little of the journey as pleases you.

At 7:30 a.m. we wait, along with 15 or 20 other people at a small landing strip.  When the plane from Las Vegas appears as a dot on the horizon, we all laugh and point as several among us called out, "Da Plane!  Da Plane!"  Aboard was the last member of our small group of six:  Kristi and Lyn, Lee, and Pam, and me from Little Valley.  Jeanne, picking up her back pack from the tarmac, is a teaching friend from Illinois.  We will be joined on our seven day journey by twelve of the group anxiously clustered under a small sun shelter at the end of the air strip.  Now, both the group going out for six days, and our seven day group board vans and head for Lee's Ferry where the rafts await.

After instructions about how and what to load into our dry bags, how and what to load into our day bags, how to clip our water bottles to the boat, how to adjust and wear (at all times when you are on the boat) our life jackets, our group finally loads onto our boat--a J-Rig so named by Jack somebody who designed the boats to carry 24 passengers, crew, and gear and run the fierce waters of this canyon.  As we glide slowly down the river toward Navaho Bridge, I, like Denise Chavez who made this trip so many years before me, catch myself holding my breath.  “When I am able to finally gather myself, I slowly breathe in and out.  I remember Thich Nhat Hanh's words:   ‘Breathing in I calm myself, breathing out I smile’.”   I begin to relax.  Chavez recalls sage advice from her sister, “Abandon yourself to the water.  It's all about letting go.”  And so I do--let go.  

For the next seven days I think of nothing except this river, this canyon, these people, the here and now.  I am here, fully present, opening to whatever awaits us.  Once again, the words of Powell foreshadow what lies ahead:   “The glories and the beauties of  form, color, and sound unite in the Grand Canyon - forms unrivaled even by the mountains, colors that vie with sunsets, and sounds that span the diapason from tempest to tinkling raindrop, from cataract to bubbling fountain...The elements that unite to make the Grand Canyon the most sublime spectacle in nature are multifarious and exceedingly diverse.”


As we glide quietly into this adventure, our guides give us a bit of information about the river's many ancestors:  John D. Lee, ferry operator executed by hanging for the Mountain Meadow Massacre.  Frank M. Brown, drowned surveying for a railroad that was never built.   Pete Hansbrough, drowned five days after Brown, survey crew member who inscribed notice of Brown's death in stone on the canyon wall at mile 12.  One hundred twenty eight passengers killed in a two airplane collision over the canyon, June 30, 1956...parts of the plane's fuselage still visible where it came to rest, jammed in a crack high on the canyon wall.  Other parts and pieces of its cargo, crew, and passengers forever entombed in the rubble of canyon walls and detritus.  
Mother be gentle with them all...murmurs Chavez in my head.

The river is unpredictable and strong, beautiful and beckoning, "Come, around this next corner, this next bend, over this next rapid, riffle, smooth water and see what I can show you."   Water be gentle with us.  "The…days [will] pass full of wonder, indescribable joy, broken now and again with sudden [drops and rapids]...I am overwhelmed by the smallness and fragility of our raft in this very vast space." (Chavez) 

Powell himself was in awe of the canyon and waters he set out to explore.  
We are three quarters of a mile in the depths of the earth, and the great river shrinks into insignificance, as it dashes its angry waves agains the walls and cliffs, that rise to the world above; they are but puny ripples, and we are but pygmies, running up and down the sands, or lost among the boulders. We have an unknown distance yet to run; an unknown river yet to explore. What falls there are, we know not; what rocks beset the channel, we know not; what walls rise over the river, we know not.  

And even though the river and canyon is unknown to the travelers on this boat, I am in constant awe of our guides who do know.  They bring us safely through each obstacle and rapid. They steer us into calm waters that reflect canyon walls and morning shadows.  They steer us down the twists and turns of the canyon, pointing out bright angel shale, pink granite, black schist, and limestone.  Every evening they  find us a safe home.  In between all of this magic they tell us stories and history, give geology lessons, fix breakfast, snacks, lunch, and fabulous dinners.  They make us comfortable peeing in the river, queuing up to use the toilet (which they also set up and take at least once a day, sometimes twice), and bathing in the open in the frigid waters of the river--each evening a cleansing blessing that leaves us breathless but glowing with a sense of scoured well being.  

The J-rig…The area designated "C" in this illustration is called the Chicken Coop

All six of us:  Lee, Jeanne, Pam, BB, Lyn, and Kristi…READY!

Shad, our trip leader:  "This is your day bag.  It fastens like this…"

Here we go!

Underway and Travis is giving us our first history lesson

Canyon wall:  Hansbrough's notation of Frank Brown's death

Off loading the raft 

Lunch is ready!

Grand Canyon: Eight Days and Counting

Not exactly, but you get the idea!

The clouds over the mountains have morphed from billowing white--shape-shifting, growing, traveling morning clouds--to layers of gray.  Rain is already falling over Rocky.  I can see the sheets of white-mist covering distant peaks as if films of plastic have been dropped out there, not quite obscuring my view, but blurring it.  It is raining on the hikers trekking upward.  It is raining on boulderers carrying elk saddles.  It is raining on climbers dangling from ropes anchored into granite.  It is raining on the Rangers and volunteers working in the Park.  It is raining on the funny looking bull elk with their shreds of velvet hanging from antlers that are red raw in spots.  It is raining on cows and their this year’s calves just growing out of their spotted coats.  The rain is coming closer now and I must remember to bring my iPad in.  It is strapped to the deck railing, where it is faithfully shooting pictures every five seconds.  A time lapse of the changing light and morphing clouds.

I’m writing on my computer.  This morning, from Canada where she is attending the Shakespeare Festival in Ontario, Canada with her dear friend, Pam called me.  They are having a fine time and have had lots to do and talk about.  Later on, she texted me...instant messages complete with photographs of Pat dancing, trying on a feathered mask, and then a beautiful water color of a raven.  I say this only because in one week, we will be without any of those electronics.  We are going to raft the Colorado River, down the Grand Canyon for seven days.  No computer.  No iPad.  No iPhone...and cameras only as long as batteries last.

It has been a summer with much to think about, talk over, argue some, and work through.  I haven’t thought much about this river trip.  That’s nothing unusual for me.  Pam plans, refines, reroutes, gets tickets.  I pack for both of us, and then the trip opens before me like some magic carpet ride.  A book has been lying on one of our tables for some time.  Writing Down the River, photographed and produced by Kathleen Jo Ryan.  I gave it to Pam for her birthday in 1998...part of a “someday we’ll go...” and then I forgot it.  Pam didn’t.  I have neglected looking at much of the information sent to us by Western River, our rafting company.  I haven’t opened the gift book at all.  Why?  I don’t know.  Other things to think about, work through, do.

Our rafting companions, four others, send occasional emails about what gear we should have, what shoes, what clothes.  Last week I started to think about all of that.  I’m the packer, after all.  There has been obsessive festering over how one bathes on the trip, how one pees in the night, what to do if you really “gotta go” when the raft is on the river.  People we know who have done this trip or others like it, have given volumes of advice.  “Sarongs are essential for bathing.”  “Only wear long pants and long sleeved shirts.”  “Bring hiking shoes.”  “I only wore sandals.”  “Take a fleece for cold nights.”  “Get one of those female pee devices.”   The only time I have spent thinking about this trip is time I’ve spent listening to worries about peeing, pooping, and bathing.  Fortunately, two of the people we work with on Fridays, one a Ranger, one a volunteer said, “Relax.  Don’t bring much of anything.  The rafting people have all that other stuff worked out and so will you once you’re on the river.”  I remembered hiking the Inka Trail and for four days, without a bath, I wore the same clothes.  Yep. Never changed (except underwear).  I hiked, ate dinner, slept in the same outfit I started in.  I was pretty comfortable.  I was very happy.

This morning because it is quiet, and the coffee tastes especially good, I pick up Writing Down the River.  I don’t know why I hadn’t really looked at it all summer. Whatever my reasoning, this morning is the time and the place.  

     ...I can’t help wondering how many ways water shapes the body, 

how body shapes desire, 

     how desire moves water, how water stirs color…

how a stream that carves through rock is shaped by rock…

the river is celadon with red silt mushrooming up 

like boiled, unspooling brains.

    The shadows sink.  They lie on green water.  

Then the whole canyon goes black…*

     Gretel Ehrlich, Foreward.  

     
   When life rolls boulders in your road, be the river…roll on, seek new ways to go forward...BBeach

           The Grand Canyon has been--and continues to be--formed by cataclysmic events as well as millions of momentary changes.  Still the whole is ever-present:  changing yet undiminished. 
I ask myself:  Why are we afraid of dramatic or devastating change in our own lives?  In ourselves?  Is it possible to recast what we perceive to be negative as something beautiful, something sculpting our lives, our psyches, our souls?  Aren’t we, like the Canyon, made new again and again, yet always infinitely whole?  Kathleen Jo Ryan, Introduction.

I sit weeping quietly, tears running down my cheeks.  This is why we, Pam and I, wanted to go to the river.  This is what we both need:  to be split-open, doused, reawakened, soul-shocked.  I am packing--lightly.

*Apologies…this was not written as a poem, but as prose.  However, this seems to be the only way to get the text to read correctly here.

Easter Peeps at My House, by Lucy

Happy Easter Everyone…and yes, it is a messy job but those are the kind I love the best.  My moms are busy and since a lot of this story is mine, they said, "Have at it!"  I would interpret their tone as enthusiastic, but I'm not sure.

Around Easter at our house, we usually have a Peeps Party.  You know when people buy those yummy peep marshmallows and then make a scene with them?  So we always do that with Mark and Olivia and the Dude, and whatever other friends are around.  This year,  just Mark, O, and the Dude.  The Peeps (in all colors…both rabbits and chicks) are in the center of the table.  There is other stuff there too, but I'm mostly interested in the Peeps.  They're edible, you know?  I think that's why me and the Dude really love Peeps time.  Anyway, so everyone starts working.  I look for stuff to fall on the floor, sit by Dude, lick his fingers, hope he drops a Peep or two (don't tell, but he sneaks a few extras and eats them while he works).  The big Gmas always say, "Hey!  No eating until we're done," but you know how that goes.  So here are some pictures of building the Peeps things:

You can see how intent and intense everyone is while they are making their Dye O' Rams, or whatever they are called.  I'm waiting, sniffing, watching, pushing on the Dude with my nose, ignoring my mom when she says, "Lucy!  Get out of there."  When they finish everyone ooooh's and ahhh's and stuff like people do.  Me?  I'm just sitting and watching.  Then Gma Pam takes pictures of the scenes and everyone is happy, and about that time they start talking about what they're going to have for dinner.  I just watch.  I just wait.  Here are pictures of Peeps things they made…Gma Pam never seems to make one, she just watches and helps O.  I wish she'd do a Peep thing because there would be more Peeps floating around.  Anyway…here are the finished creations:

 

                                                                  O with Sherlock Holmes

 Mark's, Gone Fishin' Thing

The closed doors to the Dude's America's Got Talent…there are 4 judges and

some performers behind the doors…

Bonnie's Dog Songs…Notice the pick-up truck 

and the two bunnies singing "Me 'n You 'n a dog named Boo…"

Like I was saying, pretty soon they were all doing other things with the Peeps on display in the living room.  I'm just watching…waiting…and then I see my chance and I snag two of the judges in the Dude's America's Got Talent.  I'm thinking, "Hey!  Lucy's got a lot of talent here too."  Then, some one spots the damage:

Too late to holler much, I think…and anyway, what's a bit of yelling 

compared to a couple of Peeps, all to myself?

It was raining outside and then dinner was on the table.  I sat around where the Dude was, but there wasn't much happening.  So, casually, I walk off nice and quiet like while they are finishing up, and well…like the saying goes it was like taking candy from a baby.  I nail the two singers by the pick-up truck in Dog Songs.  Whoooeeee.  This was the best I've ever done.  The Peeps are delicious and it wasn't until the next morning that my moms noticed the singers were gone.

But then…when I woke up the next morning, my tummy felt kinda grumbly.  The truth is, it had been making funny noises for a while.  My moms got up, and then ULP!  I started to make that horrible throw-up noise…and up came the last Peep.  I gotta admit it was gross looking.  Sort of Peep shaped, but bubbly and squishy and runny and the thing just kind of flowed over the side of my bed onto the floor.  It's a good thing my Moms were mostly concerned about me…they weren't too angry about the Peep thiefing.  Just more concerned about whether I was going to be sick again.  I wasn't.

Oh Boy!  Whadda mess.

Well then, my mom thought we should go for a nice walk to make me feel better.  I didn't think that was such a great idea, so I went on strike…the way I do when I don't want to go somewhere.  And that's pretty much the end of Easter Peeps.  Hope all of you had a good and peaceful day, and remember…when you think it would be fun to eat all of the Peeps in your Easter basket…think again.

The end!  On Strike!