Sorry for the delay, but you’ll remember if we had the chance we had to get in before Goose’s turn, otherwise….

Where was I?

We joined at Lees Ferry for three weeks to run the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. With expectations of tense drama and high adventure, I was not disappointed.

For me the trip fell into three categories: the whitewater, the grandeur of the setting and the community we developed. Again, I was not disappointed. Each of these parts of the trip for me was beyond my wildest expectations.

One of the memories I have is the unique tour I took of Indian Dick rapid. Dave choose, wisely, to not join me underneath the raft and perhaps could offer a prospective of the tour as taken beside the raft. True confession time: I wasn’t thinking about trying to capture the experience so I could share it with the group, nope for a while there it was all about me. Should I not have been so selfish and wanted to record what the topside of a raft looks like as the rapid is pulling on all that gear, I couldn’t any way. It seems that the only things I lost were a huge chunk of my bravado and the capability of my camera. You all were most kind and gracious on that day, thank you.

Because I have no pictures to share (hint,hint) I have to rely on good old fashioned mental images for my offering.

I had the luxury of a slow meditative and contemplative meander back East after our trip. Driving through the heartland on back roads, eating in Mom and Pop joints and shooting the breeze with guys in gas stations, I realized just how fortunate we are to have had this experience. As I drove, I compiled mental images that portrayed some of the elements we shared. I found that there were so many images of any given topic swimming in my head that it’s possible the old axiom, a picture is worth a thousand words, may be reversed due to the heightened nature of this journey.

I invite you to join me as we:

• Watch a father’s pride swell as his daughter passes rights of passage in her life
• A daughter as she learns who her father is and who she is becoming
• Stare at the warmth of dying embers as we sang in unison, both in verse and an aura of well being
• Follow a young man as he bridges the threshold between teenager and manhood
• Remember a companion who dispensed his skills with authoritative confidence allowing us to explore deeper due the bond of trust we had in him
• Recall our court jesters and traveling troubadours as they brought us their mirth
• Feel the warmth of a kind and gentle embrace by our young matriarch
• Watch as our young Alphas learned skills that will cement their leadership roles
• Contemplate an aging Silverback as he prepares for the inevitable journey into obscurity
• Witness a mother’s love
• Tremble at the gleam in the eyes of a man holding a can of lighter fluid seeking vengeance

These are but a few, so many more……

Don
Canyon trip
Spring, 2008

PS: The lyrics of a canyon inspired song are in need of music and I’ll gladly split the campfire royalties.

But first, a suggestion for the sponsor of our next trip.

WHITEWATER GIRLS

Paddle all day ‘till campfire’s light
Hold ‘em close, they’ll love you all night
Bathed in the glow of a desert moon
Whitewater girls will be my ruin

My wave train baby rides the peaks
Bigger, deeper is what she seeks
On her mark, class nine engineer
In the middle! Coos in my ear

Paddle all day’ till campfire’s light
Hold ‘em close, they’ll love you all night
Bathed in the glow of a desert moon
Whitewater girls will be my ruin

Jill’s the name, hydraulics the game
A washing machine with no shame
She’s a girl who scouts each hole
Thrash you round, no mercy doth dole

Chorus

She runs ‘em clean, loves the sneak route
She’ll eddy out to take your loot
Class eights and campsites, she’s discreet
Magic. As her calloused hands treat

Chorus

Whitewater women, read and run
Whitewater women, we’re their fun
Goin’ get me one, make it my goal
Whitewater woman. In my soul

Chorus

Don Potter
04/01/2008

THE CURRENT OF LIFE

“Swimmer!”

As whistles shrieked and people pointed, the kayaks sprang into action. All but one of our rafts had safely negotiated the long and winding class 7 run. The large floating platformswere now lumbering out of the eddies to help with the rescue. Raging through a narrow canyon lined by steep dark walls of ancient rock, the chocolate brown waters, that moments before had been our playground, now held one of our companions captive.

Sixteen people from Northern New York had convened at Lee’s Ferry on the Colorado River to raft and kayak one of America’s national treasures, the Grand Canyon. A long-held dream for many and a welcomereturn for others, this trip promised all that outdoors adventurers could hope for. Adventure, grandeur, beauty and so much more awaited us. Twenty-one days and over 200 miles down river, we would emerge calloused, tanned and filled with a sense of contentment that many only find after time spent in the wild.

The callouses would soften and much of our “tan” would wash away during the first proper hot shower in three weeks, but the memories would be etched deep in our beings. Rarely is one able to experience afull range of emotions laced with such incredible intensity hour after hour, day after day. Yes, the memories would become part of us.

Swimming whitewater could be considered a misnomer. Proper technique mandates that feet face down river, which is easy to monitor because you also should be on your back where your toes remain in clear view. Most of the time. Arms are extended and help to propel you in a desired direction. Constantly aware, you must take your breaths when possible, resist the temptation to hold onto passing rocks and never, never try to climb into a rescuing kayak. Academically, it’s quite simple; however, reality can be as brusque to your analytical mind as the 40-degree water is to your face.

Like any crisis, denial is the first phase of an epic whitewater swim. As is often heard on river trips: “denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.” Often dropped in the water so quickly, one has no comprehension of how it came to be; thus denial comes easily. Thoughts of all the places to avoid that you and fellow boaters had recently discussed with much solemnity during the scout race through your mind. You realize that your current vantage point doesn’t allow you to see the neat and orderly chain of events through the rapid that just a few minutes ago, were so clear, when scouting from the side of the river. Denial is natural but not healthy in times like these.

Whitewater is nearly always synonymous with breath-stealing cold water, and the Colorado is no exception. A slap in the face by the hand of a wave, which until very recently was lying contentedly above the Canyon rim in the form of snow, shortens the denial stage. An inherent self-survival instinct floods in, pushing denial to the back of your mind where it patiently waits to visit again, often while replaying the events on a sleepless night. The training, practice and experience from other swims comes into play, and you begin to take breaths when you can, hold your breath for the times you can’t, and search long and hard for the stern loop of a kayak or the rescue rope thrown from a guy who cooked the eggs you had for breakfast.

At the nightly campfire, there are many versions of the incident. Told from the perspective of one’s role, be it in a kayak, manning a rescue throw bag of rope in the bow of a raft, or helplessly standing on the bank shooting photos. The swimmer is accorded as much time as needed to replay the event for all. A fine, non-clinical catharsis often lubricated with libation.

Not all who run the Canyon swim. Many wait until camp is struck and .the need for personal hygiene overcomes the discomfort of icy water. Safe and scheduled river baths aside, the potential and possibility for a white water swim is omnipresent on the Colorado River. The water is strong; the rocks everywhere; and huge hydraulics abound. Some of the runs are complicated, and many are consequential.

“We have about 29,000 people a year who go down the river,” one of the many things the National Parks Service ranger told us during a mandatory safety briefing at the put in. “Deaths and serious injuries are rare, but do happen out there” she continued. Looking around, I wondered how many of our new family had experienced a death in whitewater or in a wilderness setting. The average age on our trip was 33, which meant that more than a few weren’t that old because three of us had seen the better side of 50, and another wasn’t far behind. The level of medical training was impressive, but experience had long ago shown the difference between staged practical exercises painted with fake blood and the stark reality of the loss of a life amongst your midst.

We were fortunate to have a kayaking doctor in our ranks. The years he spent as an emergency room physician were invaluable to the group and now must be helping him to remain poker faced as he surely was feeling some of the same emotions I was. The Ranger’s words had stirred emotions from long ago. Silent expressions prevailed, in our group and I couldn’t judge if it was out of respect for the subject or a feeling of invulnerability. High adventure and tense drama where what had drawn each of us here, and we were hearing first-hand a confirmation of our expectations.

The first day on the river is a short one. The morning is spent in the final throes of organized chaos as rafts are packed, unpacked and repacked. As the raft captains were lashing the final items to their boats, our trip leader called us together for a meeting. Pointing to a rather large pile of gear on the ramp, which we had all tried in earnest to ignore, the TL gently but firmly helped us in accepting that there was room for it all. We learned to trust and solicit his kindly ways of guidance through out the trip.

Pandemonium prevailed as we set up the kitchen on our first night. The veterans lead the way and somehow by the end of the night we sang together for the first time around a campfire with clean dishes in the strainer and bellies quite content.

We had become a well-oiled machine by the time we faced Hance rapid. In the preceding days, we had fallen into polished routines. Our river charts and guide books allowed us to prepare for what lay ahead at each bend. “Read and run” meant there was no need for the time-consuming task of scouting. Pulling the rafts into an eddy, tying them off, clamoring over rocks, lengthy deliberations and the return to the boats often consumed an hour or more.

The rapids on the Colorado River through the Canyon are classified using a ten-point system. Factors of difficulty are combined with potential consequences to arrive at the assigned rate. We scouted everything from seven up and at least a few sixes. It took only one oversight and a harried run through an unscouted class seven for us to gladly sacrifice the time required to take a look at our next challenge.

We joined another private party in the scouting eddy above Hance. They were setting up camp in preparation for a lay-over day. Late in the morning, there was no urgency for them to set up their kitchen and personal sites, so many were out along the left shore looking at the river. Joining them, we enjoyed the easy flow found in these settings. People of like nature and interests engaged wholly in the moment.

The run was on the far side of the river. The distance diminished the perspective of some of the features we would have to avoid to make it to the bottom of this rapid right side up. Practiced eyes carefully picked out our path, confirmed by members of the other group. With mutual wishes of a good trip, we bid them farewell.

Adrenaline surges affect us universally. Most kidneys beg for relief before a big run as the powerful drug surges through our systems preparing us for what is to come. Throats become dry and constricted as the route is rehearsed repeatedly. The last thing discussed during the scouting process is the steps that will be followed should a rescue be necessary. The nimble and highly maneuverable kayaks lead the way offering a preview of what the river has planned for us. They also serve as the first tool for rescue and are assigned positions along the course to maintain a vigilance where the rafts will follow. Generally, it’s the rafts that produce swimmers in need of rescue as kayakers can usually roll back up and keep going. Various eddies are identified and chosen to be used as ports of safety and bases to effect rescues. The last thing that all are advised is guidance on where and how to swim should things not go as planned. It’s amazing how much adrenaline a body can produce in a day.

Apprehension was replaced by exhilaration; quiet moments of anxiety were quelled by joyous shouts as we emerged fully intact, wet but right side up in the tail waters of Hance.

An early and happy camp that night heard many retellings of runs by all. A festive mood prevailed as we were filled with all that one could hope for on a whitewater river trip. The anticipation of a visit the following day to the only civilization found in 21 days of near feral existence added to the light air around camp that night.

“Phantom Ranch has been welcoming guests since 1922. It is accessible by foot, mule or raft” the post card erroneously boasts. We were soon to learn that a helicopter has been omitted as another option for access, perhaps for good reason.

Stopping for a visit at Phantom Ranch is surely planned by all rafting trip leaders. An old and tired tourist camp, it still serves as a destination for hardy hikers and folks willing to trust their destiny aboard bored mules as they are jarred down and then back up the narrow trails along the face of towering canyon walls. Whitewater folk can use a real toilet, wash their hands in warm water, drink lemonade and mail postcards home that are transported out of the Canyon on the back of a mule.

We planned on using our two plus hours scheduled at Phantom to visit, have lunch and gather ourselves as we would reenter the Canyon world soon after leaving. The first rapid after the Ranch is Horn, another run rated high for its degree of technicality and potential consequence if things go afoul.

Before we could beach our rafts, the Rangers had descended the trail and assumed authoritative stances on the sandy beach where we planned to tie off. After ascertaining the name of our party, the head Ranger directed us farther down the beach to leave room for another party due in. Once we had our boats secured, she gathered us to advise that there had been a fatality the previous day at Hance rapid. She could provide few details as the satellite phone used by the group hadn’t made good connections from deep in the Canyon, and information was sparse. She knew that the body was being floated downstream on a raft and a Park Service helicopter was enroute for the removal.

We realized that the fatality was a member of the group we had interacted with during the scout on the previous day.

We hiked up the trail to Phantom Ranch and mailed post cards, drank some lemonade and lingered in the sun. Some had to find a private place to reflect on the events unfolding around us, and others felt the need to stay together. All were muted as we approached the beach upon our return to the boats.

As the day’s kitchen crew prepared lunch, two boats quietly slipped into the eddy and pulled into our original place on the waterfront. The deceased was wrapped in a blue tarp, the same kind most of us used for ground cloths beneath our tents. Sleeping pads had been used as an outer cover but failed to hide his feet protruding from the shroud and now drew awkward uncomfortable stares.

I wondered if anyone else felt the surreal scenario of routinely eating our lunch while a fellow adventurer with whom at least some of us must have had contact was awaiting transport from the Canyon in a body bag. The grieving trip leader was free for a minute from the Rangers questions and took the opportunity to approach us and apologize for how this must be affecting our trip. The events had taken their toll and were written plainly on his face. Words soon faltered, and he retreated back to his charge and sat near his companion, head in hands.

A helicopter is felt as much as it is heard. The National Park Service uses choppers that are designed to make less noise than usual in an attempt to minimize the impact on people and wildlife in the Canyon. We heard the unmistakable sound before it crested the rim and came into view. The black bird circled once, presumably to ensure a clear landing site, then dived like a hawk toward the landing zone. Once below the Canyon rim, the rotor’s percussive throbs echoed off the rock walls filling our ears and chests.

As we packed our food back in the coolers, the two Rangers who had just flown in approached the raft with the corpse aboard. With little fanfare they efficiently transferred him to a waiting litter and on the next leg of his last journey. We were cleared to continue our trip and just prior to pushing off, our Doctor asked us to gather for a moment of silence “to honor a fallen adventurer.” His strong and guiding words helped us all.

The scout for Horn rapid is short and necessary. Everyone felt a renewed sense of importance gained by scouting and facing one of the most technical rapids of the trip, we counseled thoroughly. The impact of the day’s events was unmistakable on our little band of river runners.

And so it went; day after day we arose at dawn, took turns cooking for each other, loaded our rafts, ran the river, and reveled in the magic of a desert sky at night.

As with all journeys, ours came to an end. We suffered our share of bruises, cuts and scrapes. Our doctor happily placed sutures to close a wound while seated on a cooler aboard a raft extolling in his good fortune to have this opportunity for the first time in a remote wilderness setting. His only complaint lay with the disappointment of packing his reading glasses away and muttering “I could use them for this”. He was only half as disappointed as the patient enduring the procedure sans anesthetics. He splinted an ankle with a suspicion that it may be broken. We treated hypothermia, sunburn, homesickness and lost a battle with fire ants, but everyone returned home safely with treasured memories.

We found that being out of touch for three weeks had little effect in the life we left behind. A chain of events went on without us. For three weeks we lived wholly in the moment, a rare opportunity for most. People come and go from our lives. Our station in life often changes as time steadily marches on.

The Colorado River tirelessly winds thru the Grand Canyon on a pre-determined course carved thru ancient rock. We plied the waters using the current to our advantage and helped to choose our destiny in the Canyon.

They say that one shouldn’t make any life changing decision with in 30 days of a Canyon trip, so powerful is the experience.

Leaving the river and climbing out of the Canyon, I wondered how many in our group would now ply the current of life to help choose their destiny.

For a fallen adventurer, may he continue his travels peacefully.

Don Potter
April, 2008

• Something to remember: Julie spoke with a NRS rep before the trip who told her not to make any life changing decisions until at least a month after the trip ends. Knots to remember: bowline (make hoop away from you, put loose end up the hoop, around back side of tree, and back through hoop) and girth hitch (under, over, under, under).
• River Jokes 2008: Laughing along with the Canyon Wren; Goose’s Arm Exercises; “No Splashy”; Cat POOP; Super Shart; Maximum Force; Anything to do with Flight of the Concord’s songs Beautiful, the Distant Future, Business Time; Tom’s 5 Minutes; “That’s Neat”; Scott’s “M” Words; Mending my Fences.
• Songs from the Trip: Grand Canyon Home by Goose; Hallelujah by Rufas Wainright; Down By the River by Niel Young; Wagon Wheel by Old Crow; Spanish Boots by Bob Dylan; Flying Shoes by Towns Van Zandt; Mrs. Ohio by Gillian Welch; Hard to Concentrate by Red Hot Chili Peppers; Fire & Rain by James Taylor; Dead or Alive by John Bon Jovi; She Talks to Angels by Black Crows.
• Things to bring next time: q-tips; personal ammo can; hiking backpack; water jug (OJ bottle); more locking biners; less clothing (3 pairs long johns – 2 for river and 1 for camp), nail clippers.

We stopped at Pumpkin Springs which was not my favorite natural features along the river, but it was very unique. We then crawled through the Hopi Birth Canal, a rock along the river that is about a human tall and wide enough to fit two side by side.

We pulled into camp pretty early. Our camp looks at the river and directly at Diamond Peak. We decided that we aren’t really staying at a designated camp. Not many flat spots but it’s still nice. We cooked a few extras tonight. Mike helped make potato skins. Then salad, soup, and spaghetti. Lots of food left over. Goose’s “Spread Eagle Punch” made the rounds for dessert. Kate and Don put on an Oscar’s night. Great job highlighting Shannon’s “Mike, you suck!”, Scotty’s merkin, all the musical talent, Tom being accepted into the SAAC (seriously arrogant asshole club), best cook crew award to us, and Jaime’s brain implant. Then tackling Ben and grease bombs.

By the time we came back down to the lower camp sun was starting to hit it. We read more and played sudoko while Don and Andy built a sweat lodge on the beach. Chased the shade line up the hill as far as we could before the rock walls got in our way.

We then hiked up the short drainage on river left to a waterfall, where the Jackson 4 took our album cover photos. We met up with Goose and Kate on the way back down and introduced them to the game Guerro (see note), which we played at the mouth of the drainage. Then back to camp for a little horseshoe, beer, and conversation. Early to bed. LAVA tomorrow.

• Guerro: a game that Scott, Gretchen, BJ and I created in Gooseberry about a year ago. You build little rock statues and then name them all. Then you gather a small pile of rocks for yourself and set up a little camp about 20 feet away. You have to yell out the name of the statue you are aiming for and if you hit it – then good on ya. If you don’t then the next person throws a rock. Very complex but makes for lots of laughs.

Goose rode in our boat today which was a wonderful change of pace. He is getting good at the “no splashy” (see note below) requests and we tried to keep him and ourselves dry during the remaining leisurely hours on the river. Camping at National Lower tonight with a layover day tomorrow. Tonight is the first night camping in the tent after a while.

• No Splashy . . . on one of the first days on the river Scott and Drew were battling their pirate “arrgh”s and many pirate jokes. Toward the end of the day as the sun was getting lower in the sky we entered a “riffle” (a small rapid that is rarely named or marked on the map) and Scotty yells out “arrrgh matey” to Drew and then realizes he is about to get wet so quickly changes his tone and squeaks out a “no splashy.” It stuck for the rest of the trip. “No Splashy.”

Upset Rapid day, rated “6″, BJ hits the hole at the bottom. I sat this one out so that I could take photos of everyone coming through. Quite entertaining.

Camping at Upset Hotel, a very cool rock ledge overhang. Also a neat rock walled groover area that previous rafters have built. We all slept in a row. The afternoon sun at camp was much needed and welcomed with beers and music and a few costumes.

We then hiked up to a plateau called Surprise Valley which we crossed and then started our descent down Deer Creek, where we encountered another waterfall coming out of a hole in a rock wall. This time you could actually sit behind the river and look through it. Beautiful.

Below this second waterfall we found a collection of rock thrones that people have built over the years. We sat in various thrones with staffs to rule our little kingdoms. After spending about an hour here we continued down to a small creek. We followed this through a wide wash until the canyon narrowed and the water began dropping into a deep slot canyon.

It was amazing. BJ and I bathed at the mouth of the slot canyon near a small waterfall and then continued hiking down along the rim of the slot canyon. It wasn’t long before you could hear but not see the water below.

Once the canyon opened up to the Colorado we still had to descend a couple hundred feet to the river. Then ANOTHER huge waterfall. All the water that flowed into the slot canyon empties out into a pool, dropping about 100 feet. Camping at Pancho’s Kitchen tonight, just across the river from the end of our hike.