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River a Mile Deep

Some rapids create turbulent water across the entire width of the Colorado River. We scout from the shore to plan a route through the maelstrom. (Photo: Michael Shapiro)

There is a descent of perhaps 75 or 80 feet in a third of a mile, and the rushing waters break into great waves on the rocks and lash themselves into a mad, white foam. We step into our boats, push off, and away we go, first on smooth but swift water, then we strike a glassy wave and ride to its top, down again into the trough, up again on a high wave, and down and up on waves higher and still higher until we strike one just as it curls back, and a breaker rolls over our little boat. Still on we speed ... until the little boat is caught in a whirlpool and spun around several times. - J.W. Powell

The Colorado welcomes us back with some of the biggest, fiercest and most challenging rapids on the river. Most rivers have a rating scale of Class I (flat water) to Class VI (virtually unrunnable), but the Colorado is graded from 1 to 10. We have several Class 10 rapids ahead of us today, the first being Horn, a mess of towering waves, rocks, chutes and holes. While Owen scouts, I put on my dry top with rubber neck and wrist gaskets to keep the water out. In the rapid we get knocked sideways, then slide backwards for a minute before Owen pulls the boat away from a gaping hole and into the calm water below.

Three miles downriver is Granite Rapid. We pull our boats to shore, hike up to a viewpoint above the rapid and spend more than half an hour scouting, searching for a route through it. As arduous as carrying the boats around the rapids would be, gazing at Granite almost makes me consider portaging. But that’s not an option. Steve, only 24 years old, has volunteered to be lead boat. A true outdoorsman, he has been nonchalant leading us through the rapids during the past few days.

But Granite is different than what we’ve seen so far: It has more hazards than we can count. The only possible run is a thread-the-needle along the right wall: If you get too far left a menacing set of waves will probably flip you, too far right and you’ll be slammed into the north wall. Steve’s eyes blaze with determination as he enters the river. He eludes the biggest waves, pulls back hard on the oars to stay off the wall and clears the rapid. We follow. Up close, Granite is faster and harder to read than from the riverbank, and we get bounced around near the bottom, but with some strong, well-timed tugs on the oars, Owen pulls us to safety.

The next major rapid, Hermit, has a 20-foot curling haystack wave in the center, even bigger than Granite. But it’s a straight shot down the middle. Just hit it hard with the bow and enjoy the ride. We have a clean roller-coaster run, then float to camp amid the celebratory sounds of cheers and beers being popped. My birthday celebration has begun.

Enjoying the nightlife at a Grand Canyon campsite. (Photo: Michael Shapiro)

On a sandy beach that evening I’m offered the camp throne, a reclining nylon chaise lounge. My other chair, battered by the river, is missing an arm—we name it the John Wesley Powell because he’d lost his arm before his Canyon journey. I dig out the bottle of Herradura tequila I’ve brought for this night, passing it around the campfire.

The bottom of the bottle protrudes in the shape of a horseshoe, which we press into the sand dozens of times to make it appear as though a stallion has galloped through camp. The group presents me with a blueberry muffin cake baked in a Dutch oven.

When I first considered a 24-day Canyon trip, it seemed like a long time. At the halfway point, I feel time slipping away. There’s so much to see every day in the side canyons: the fern-shrouded waterfall at Elves Chasm where Kristin and others leap naked into the pool below; Blacktail Canyon with its magical concert-hall acoustics; and Deer Creek Falls, a thundering 100-foot-high cascade next to the river. I’m in no hurry to return home, but I am ready for some rest.

Elves’ Chasm is one of the many gorgeous features reachable by short hikes into the Grand’s side canyons. (Photo: Michael Shapiro)

We spend a layover day at Galloway Camp, where we enjoy a warm solar shower. Eight bighorn sheep stroll through camp, scampering up an impossibly steep canyon wall as we approach. We wash our clothes in buckets of river water and drape them over the spindly desert trees.

I put away my watch and tell time by the progression of the Pleiades, the Big Dipper and Orion across the night sky.  We’ve become a resourceful group—we fix broken chairs with extra straps, we patch boats when they spring a leak, and erect shelters with tarps and oars when it rains. I appreciate the group’s confidence that we can handle almost anything that comes our way.

As we travel deeper into the crucible, past rock walls more than a billion years old, the Canyon gets deeper, steeper and narrower. Our sense of isolation intensifies. “It seems a long way up to the world of sunshine and open sky,” Powell wrote. And it is: In the heart of the Canyon the walls are 6,000 feet high—more than a mile. The sun shines through the distant, narrow slot for an hour or less each day this time of year; we warm up when the river bends to the south and catches the late autumn sun in the southern sky.

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Photos Courtesy:  REUTERS  |  iStockPhoto  |  flickr  

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