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River a Mile Deep

The sun is going down and the shadows are settling in the canyon. The vermilion gleams and roseate hues, blending with the green and gray tints, are slowly changing to somber brown above, and black shadows are creeping over them below; and now it is a dark portal to a region of gloom - the gateway through which we are to enter on our voyage of exploration to-morrow. What shall we find? - J.W. Powell

Powell’s description shows not just apprehension about the colossal rapids he expected downriver, but his appreciation of the natural beauty of the Southwest. Unlike the dour explorers of his time, Powell appreciated the glory of the landscape.

Consider what his contemporary, Lt. Joseph Christmas Ives, who attempted to navigate the Colorado in 1857, said about the Grand Canyon and the river that runs through it: “The region ... is altogether valueless. It can be approached only from the south, and after entering it there is nothing to do but leave. Ours has been the first, and will doubtless the be last, party of whites to visit this profitless locality. It seems intended by nature that the Colorado River ... shall forever be unvisited and undisturbed.”

Now, several million people visit the Canyon each year and about a million of those hike into it, according to the National Park Service. About 20,000 people raft the Colorado River annually, mostly on guided commercial trips. The figure would be far higher if the park didn’t restrict the number of boaters with a lottery system.

If boaters can’t use a permit, they can cancel, which happens with some frequency for cold-season trips—that’s how we got our winning lottery ticket.

On day two we catch an eddy and pull over to scout House Rock Rapid, our first real test, 17 miles down from the put-in at Lee’s Ferry. We hike above the river and peer down, scouting the best route through the pounding waves and unyielding rocks.

Unlike Powell, we have a detailed map that suggests routes through the rapids. But the river is ever-changing. Boulders tumble into it and can make formerly safe routes hazardous; the current can move rocks, and a rapid can be easy at low water but frightening at higher flows—or vice versa. Looking down, we see how House Rock Rapid got its name: The current plunges against a rock the size of a house, creating frightful hydraulics that can suck a boat under and flip it in an instant.

We paddle into the current and drop into the rapids in no time. A funnel of waves coerces our boat to the left, toward the south wall. Lateral waves push the boat sideways. Owen pulls hard on the oars—we get just right of two mammoth waves and a hole that could flip a boat. I peer into the churning maw of the recirculating hole just as we clear it. It’s ugly: dark waves sucking up and crashing in upon themselves. We hoot and howl and cheer one another as each boat clears the rapid.

We celebrate that evening on the beach at House Rock camp, just below the rapid, with gin-and-tonics.  I can only imagine what the spartan Captain Powell would think of our feast: fish tacos and fresh salad greens with goddess dressing. That evening I read of Powell’s reliance on “flour that has been wet and dried so many times that it is all musty and full of hard lumps.” Hanging off the side of each of our boats is a mesh bag filled with beer, chilling in the 45-degree river.

The next morning we scramble eggs with spinach and cheddar. Kevin, the youngest member of our group at 22, says, “I don’t need the hot cock this morning.” Startled, I see Victoria, a nurturing soul who’s become our camp mom, reach across the table and say, “I’ll take the hot cock anytime of day.” They’re talking, of course, about the Sriracha chili sauce, with its proud rooster on the label.

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Photos Courtesy:  REUTERS  |  iStockPhoto  |  flickr  

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