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River a Mile Deep

Hiking above the river leads to panoramic views of the Canyon. (Photo: Michael Shapiro)

By late August of 1869, Powell’s crew had traveled for three months since beginning their journey at Green River City. By the time they reached the deepest part of the Grand Canyon, Powell wrote, their canvas tent was “useless,” their rubber ponchos lost, “more than half the party are without hats, not one of us has an entire suit of clothes, and we have not a blanket apiece.” When the rain pours down, “we sit up all night on the rocks shivering, and are more exhausted by the night’s discomfort than the day’s toil.”

At Ledges Camp we sleep comfortably atop Thermarest pads on shelves of shiny black gneiss. I fall asleep under a column of stars visible through the Canyon’s slot, the occasional meteor shining brilliantly for a flash. I dream of a tiger in a cage, so lonely it’s going crazy. It needs to roam. Then I dream of traveling across the U.S. entirely by water with my brother. Perhaps the inescapable Canyon is taking an emotional toll after all.

“Are we running Lava tomorrow?” Nathan, a wiry and strong former collegiate soccer player, shouts to our campfire circle. “Because if we are,” he announces as he puts down his beer, “I need to stop drinking right now!” A few miles downstream, Lava is the most intimidating rapid on the river, with a thundering 15-foot drop that tumbles into a recirculating ledge hole and ferocious lateral waves that seem to upend boats for kicks.

Ledges camp, where we sleep atop black gneiss. (Photo: Michael Shapiro)

The mood the next morning is serious, quiet. We tighten lines on the boats so if we flip we won’t lose our gear. Without a word we start stretching, we want to be limber, ready, in case we swim in the frothy madness. As we row downriver, the steep red walls widen slightly. Layers of basalt give way to black volcanic rock, the river’s descent gets steeper. The water picks up speed. We hear the rapids’ roar before we see Lava and we pull over at the scout point. We watch as two boats from the trip ahead of us prepare to run the gauntlet.

At this water level the forgiving left chute is too shallow to run. The center hole must be avoided at all costs. So the run is to the right. We watch from a cliff above the river’s right bank. The first of the other trip’s two rafts, a solo boater on a catamaran, drops in. The boat is buried by a crashing wave; when it emerges, its pilot is gone, swept out by the rushing waters. The next boat gets slapped sideways by the first couple of grinding curlers. By the third wave, its downstream side starts to rise and we watch as the boat flips, dumping everyone on board into the hammering current. We see everyone flush out safely below and breathe a sigh of relief.

At each of the rapids we’ve run, Owen has rallied us by sounding his kazoo-like horn, a sort of cavalry rallying cry. Each boat captain taps the top of his or her head, river sign language for “OK” and “Ready.” Owen blows on the kazoo but there’s no sound—it’s waterlogged—an ominous sign. He blows the water out and tries again—nothing. Then he shakes it out; the third attempt yields a warbled call, enough sound to give us superstitious guides inspiration for the run ahead.

Lava Falls, shot on another trip. The image gives a sense of how tempestuous the rapid can be—note the boat (center) getting consumed by the choppy waves. (Photo: Ben Vaughan courtesy of Tom W. McKinnon and Greg J. Coln)

Our map says running Lava takes 20 seconds. But we all know how long 20 seconds can be if things don’t go well.  And if they don’t, it will take much more than 20 seconds to pick up the pieces and put everything back together again.

Steve, in our lead boat, drops in—we can’t see his run from above—but Boy Band stands atop his boat and shouts: “One boat through!”  Nathan follows and gets slapped around—he looks a bit sideways and one side of his boat starts to rise, but then it comes down and he’s through.  Kristin and Neil roll into it; we drop in just after them. It’s hard to see exactly where we planned to enter—the riotous green and white maelstrom makes it almost impossible to chart a course. 

We hit the first wave hard and straight, just like you’re supposed to. We break through the first hurdle, power through the V of the second wave right where we want to and punch through. Several 15-foot curlers break over our boat and then we hit a wall of whitewater. The run evokes a Batman fight sequence: “Kapow!, Zok!!, Sploosh, Whamm!!, Ooooff!”

Celebrating a successful run through Lava Falls at Tequila Beach. (Photo: Michael Shapiro)

The Black Pearl seems to stop, suspended for a moment above the Colorado. And for a moment it seems eerily silent. Then the river grabs us and drags us through the final drops. From here it’s a rollercoaster of navigable waves to the bottom of the rapids. We pull over at Tequila Beach, named for post-Lava celebrations, break out the Sauza and Hornitos, and pass the bottles around. The group that flipped is there too, toweling off and re-rigging their boats. We compare notes, borrow their Hula Hoops and whirl as ecstatically as dervishes.

We’ve made it through the big rapids; all we need to do now is find a beach to spend the night. Kristin pulls us over about a mile below Lava, but the beach is tiny and covered with prickly shrubs. The group revokes her status as trip leader for the rest of the day. Owen, the only sober one among us, is given command. He locates a fine camp, and we play bocce on a spit of beach so close to the river that we sink up to our ankles in the watery sand.

Powell’s journal suggests his party portaged the boats around Lava Falls and had a clear sense that they were near the end of the journey. They too celebrated after Lava, stumbling upon an “Indian garden” with ripe green squashes. Powell excuses his “robbery” by “pleading our great want.” After so many meager meals, the captain is exultant: “What a kettle of squash sauce we make! True, we have no salt with which to season it, but it makes a fine addition to our unleavened bread and coffee.” Powell estimates his team covered 35 river miles that day. “A few days like this,” he writes, “and we are out of our prison.”

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Photos Courtesy:  REUTERS  |  iStockPhoto  |  flickr  

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