Wake up, coffee, eat, last call for everything. Get on board. A minute later, everyone get off – we’re here. Here, is on the beach across from camp for a look at a boulder lying just beyond the grasses, not far from where we landed. In a quick second, we will have an up-close inspection of one of the many minute details found in the Canyon, while for the majority of visitors to this National Park today, the view will be from the rim well above us. Up there, we make a snap judgment about what lies down below, thinking we have seen and now know the Grand Canyon. It is convenient then to believe we understand, to some extent, what this giant canyon is that stretches out in all directions.
Down here, things are not so obvious or simple. My head doesn’t wrap so neatly around a compact and tidy explanation or observation. Even with the accumulating details of geology and history as I understand them, there is too much to be experienced here for an individual to find easy answers. The enormity of the Canyon’s story spills through my mind, allowing me to approach but a fraction of what is here. While the scope of it is understood as being in the realm of the possible, I am struck with stunning incredulity that yesterday, I was looking at fossils nearly 100 feet above my head. And now, this morning, after slicing ever deeper through the layers of sandstone, we are looking at another nautiloid fossil embedded right here before us in this rock.
In the coming days, as we descend further into the strata, we will continue to stumble upon the historic record of life that preceded us. We will stand in fascination and awe that locked in stone is the imprint of a life form, peering at us through millions of years, awaiting our arrival to verify that “it” once existed and, for a while, thrived. If you cannot see your own temporal life in these terms, will you be able to cherish this fraction of a second that you have been afforded to explore the surface of Earth during your own time? Our greatest contributions to life are found in the creativity of the written, musical, and visual – the arts of being human. Machines, technologies, and automation may offer us convenience and even longer lives, but what mark will I leave that stand the test of time? An extinct plant or creature can have a presence millions of years beyond the time it was alive. We, like all life, struggle to be alive, to be known, and then to be eternal. How will the record of our own brief layer in the sandstone of geological time be read? Will a distant life shed a tear of joy for the beauty and understand the nature of a long-gone human? Or will it weep that only the fossilized remains of cars, plastics, and radioactive waste etched a record of rapid extinction into the stone?
From the fossilized record of what was, we come to a modern relic known as boatman, oarsman, river guide, and, in my eyes, shepherd. Who are these people of a burly nature piloting the dories we travel on? How did they come to be married to a path that would enlighten, inspire, and lend knowledge from a character so large? And then, instead of holding their treasure of experience to themselves, they sacrifice their bodies and personal relationships to share all, in the remote chance they will bump into that rare individual whose soul needs this medicine of spirit and place.
One day, the man at the helm is a stranger; the next day, he is a book to be learned from; on the third, he’s becoming a giant. Certainly, before this trek is over, he will attain mythical proportions, blending into and becoming one with the river and Canyon. Then, you will begin to understand that you, too, are on your way to being a figurative boatman, a guide, a shepherd in your own right. When this journey is over, you will be back at home in your community, nudging your own flock to find the beauty in all that is around them and within.
Today, that person with responsibility for my well-being sits at the oars wearing a skirt. He is Stephen Winston Kenney, a man as large as the dory in his charge, as woolly of character as the beard adorning his kind face, and as friendly as his southern accent suggests he should be. If ever there was a man who could wrestle these rapids and do so while wearing a dress, yet leave no doubt that this is a man’s man, he is right here in the form of this boatman. With another Steve amongst the passengers, boatman Steve, who we would see wearing various colorful skirts and hats of all types, will, for the duration of the next week’s answer to Kenney; the story of his dresscapades will be told shortly.
While everyone on the river will certainly have their own unique circumstances that brought them to the world of rowing, it was Kenney’s we first learned of, floating here in Marble Canyon. As a graduate of the much-respected institution of higher learning known as Sewanee, The University of the South, Kenney had been offered a relatively easy path into the world of corporate America. This wasn’t to last long, as his father had an encounter with destiny in the form of a stroke and subsequent cancer early in his retirement, denying him his sunset years. Kenney’s house of corporate cards came tumbling down on this particular square peg, which all of a sudden no longer fit the shape he’d been groomed to occupy. Through a series of events, and that proverbial one thing leading to another, Kenney found himself in Terlingua, Texas, and Big Bend National Park. Hello, world of rafting.
Well, that’s not too big a stretch, experiencing the evolution of moments that change one’s life from one of stability and a regular paycheck to earning barely a livable wage, moving human cargo through danger in the face of life-threatening forces of nature. But just how does the dress enter the picture? For that, we travel to Salida, Colorado, and an innocent wager that could have been easily walked away from. Kenney, though, was too busy rowing into change and adventure to let this one pass. It was a silly drinking bet versus a “really dumb wager” that a dare was entered into. Talking with “The Brown Girl,” a woman Kenney knew from Terlingua, these two arrived at a point in the conversation where, who knows how we get to these points, she challenged our guy to throw on a dress before sauntering into the local den of wickedness – a biker bar. If he were to win the bet, Kenney would enjoy a night of drinking at this woman’s expense. He warned her that he would likely drink her entire paycheck away. Her response, “Maybe you could, but I’ll first have the enjoyment of watching you in a dress walk into a bar full of shit-kicking bikers already half-drunk on a Saturday night.”
As the week goes by, Kenney visits the local second-hand store, trying to find something that contrasted nicely with his massive beard, would demand attention and would fit a guy standing 6’2”. Sorry, but the details regarding color, print, or cut are not revealed as we sit on the edge of our seats, waiting for what was to come next. Saturday night is here, the dress is on, the front door only needs a push, and the bet will be won. Like entering a rapid, once the momentum of the rushing water has taken hold, you are not going to go against the current; you may as well gird yourself and hold on. And into the crowd, the man in a dress strode. Next goal was the bar where, as nonchalantly as possible under these circumstances, Kenney would order a beer just as any number of these men, clad in black jeans, black t-shirts, black leather vests and jackets, and head-stomping black leather boots, had been doing prior to the bearded princess strolling in to defile their cave of man-ness.
Well, that was easy enough, “Could I have won a night of drinking with so little effort?” If he had, he probably wouldn’t have had a growing sense of unease. What happened next began in the back of the bar and was related to him by the Brown Girl losing this daring wager. An alpha biker of considerable heft departed his game of pool to move towards the bar with the swagger of John Wayne. In slow-motion tension, reminiscent of a duel at high noon, the crowd begins to part, allowing Kenney’s death wish fantasy to play out like a poorly scripted B movie.
Halfway across the bar, our boatman now senses the sounds behind him are changing and that it is quite likely someone is approaching to discuss a dress code violation. Not knowing who or how many are coming his way, he clenches hard on the beer bottle in his right hand as a potential weapon. The man’s voice reaches Kenney before the sight of him does. Thundering out of this human boulder is a string of curses using a foulness of words that, if it were not for the fact that an altercation was about to ensue, Kenney would have stood in awe. The mastery of the talk-down that is enveloping his manhood, his ancestral past, present, and future, draws in images of depravity that should make hearty men blush. Kenney takes inventory of the situation, recognizing this linguist of the profane is also adequately equipped to clean his clock and toss his second-hand dress to the floor where it will be collected and used as bandages.
Then, in a breath, the biker asks our catwalk beauty why he shouldn’t inflict the damage Kenney should know is about to begin. Weighing the beer bottle in his tight-fisted grip, Kenney has less than a second to decide if he should try to get one good blow in or resign himself to a new reality of pain. Instead, he leans back and, with his soft-spoken southern drawl, calmly and almost in a whisper, offers this: “Brother, I have no doubt you can kick my ass, and if you do, your friends back there will congratulate you on kicking the crap out of a man in a dress. But if by chance, and yes, it is a big if, if I were to somehow get a couple of good shots in and I kick your ass, you will forever be known as the guy who got the shit kicked out of him by a man in a dress.” Fair enough, says the biker and returns to his pool table.
Kenney’s dory, the Lost Creek, continues to float through Marble Canyon. It would be here on this calm water where I figure out that there is nothing quite like a man in a dress to distract and disarm folks into finding some levity when faced with a situation that might appear tense and dangerous. I hope Kenney has packed some pink chiffon for the scarier whitewater that lies ahead.
That we are here in Marble Canyon at all could be considered a great gift. Thirty-nine point seven miles from Lees Ferry and enough experience in these short 48 hours that if this were the extent of a Colorado River trip, one could not feel cheated. There has already been so much beauty to behold, so much to appreciate, and so much river that could today be under 300 feet of water. It was here, near mile 39 in Marble Canyon, that a proposed dam came close to being built back in the 1950s. Thanks to the efforts of Grand Canyon dory pioneer Martin Litton and the Sierra Club, the development of yet another dam on the Colorado was halted.
Had Marble Canyon Dam not been fought off, Lees Ferry may have been the put-in point for a 40-mile long lake trip, but never again would a boat find a launch onto the greater Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. Today, we stand in the shadow of Martin Litton, who hoisted himself atop the shoulders of John Wesley Powell, ecologist Aldo Leopold, and founder of Friends of the Earth David Brower, before tearing a page from John Muir’s book of positive action to work on behalf of humanity to save this important corner of Earth. Our boatmen understand this legacy and are proud to share a small part of the life of an extraordinary man who helped gift them this career of guiding dories, rafts, and passengers down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon.
Our stop at the proposed dam site allows us to take inventory of our good fortune. Boreholes drilled through the rock formation scar the view. Large, rusting bolts are still embedded in rock. Attached to them are pieces of the cables that once stretched from river to rim for moving men and supplies to work. Two rotting, wood-hulled boats that were part of the operation lay in ruin; the boatmen point out that they have shifted since the previous month’s torrential rains. One day, these reminders of man’s invasive actions will crumble into the river, dragging away a small part of what had been an attempt to desecrate a place many insist is the greatest canyon on Earth and home to one of the planet’s most incredible rivers. A place where the curious can enjoy what is quite possibly the most unique river trip a person will ever take.
How strange the idea that some can find beauty in a place while others can be dismissive of any other value aside from the money to be made by its exploitation and, ultimately, its destruction. I suppose the two sides could be seen as equals while simultaneously being polar opposites. We are both, in a sense, greedy, one for the aesthetics found in the random display of natural beauty to be shared with all humanity, the other greedy to feed their pocket. But while one’s pocket may find temporary fulfillment, it will soon be emptied, while my mind and imagination, once fed, will forever carry my wealth of experience. I, for one, must join in thanks to Martin Litton for this day because, without his tireless efforts against the crushing bulwark of bureaucracy, none of us would be running the Colorado, not on dories, rafts, powerboats, kayaks, or naked on inner-tubes.
From river stories and history to technical skills and experience, passing on this body of knowledge and tradition happens on many different levels. Back on the river, another hand-off of the baton is about to take place. The women who row our supply rafts are volunteers trying to accumulate enough experience to graduate to Grand Canyon Dory guides. They are already great boatmen and guides on other rivers, but down here, they are journeymen, honing their skills until one of the coveted positions is vacated by a boatman moving on. Kenney offers Andrea the Lost Creek for a stretch. The next miles will be rowed by this woman in command of a strong nature and tremendous ability, who, from the seat she occupies, will gently dip the oars into the river and pull us along. Andrea guides us slowly and surely to our next shore.
Far above us, shadows of the Ancient Ones alight upon our senses. A footbridge, long unused and now in disrepair, stands as a fragile signpost that this trail was once taken by people who are long gone. Ever-present whispers of the Ancestral Puebloans still echo between these walls of stone. Their graffiti will frequently litter our way forward, a kind of fossilized language of symbols – the neon signs of their time are now burnt out and mostly unreadable. During their lives, they found a home here in the Canyon, built shelters, and grew crops, saving food and seed in the scattered granaries for when these items would be needed in the future. Abandoned mano metates used for grinding corn and grain, commonly known as mortar and pestle, could be dispersed anywhere in the Canyon, confused with any one of the billions of rocks strewn about. The fingerprints of the early inhabitants of the Grand Canyon are found lingering far beyond their physical presence, just like the crumbling bridge seen here showing us their path. If you should look down and find a discarded pottery shard, make a close inspection, as you may see the impression of a palm or thumbprint, looking as though it were pressed into wet clay just yesterday. Maybe the Ancient Ones never really left or are never very far away at all.
One more small bit of whitewater to contend with today. We cruise through President Harding Rapid, named by the 1923 United States Geological Survey expedition. Upon hearing of the death of the President, these ten men, on a mission to create a more accurate map of the Canyon interior, saw it befitting Harding’s memory to designate this rapid in his honor. By the time of their summer run in 1923, only 27 others had made this journey down the Colorado. After the rapid, there is but a short run around the corner to mile 44 and lunch.
Our midday meal stop will also mean an early end to our time on the river here on day three. This will be our home for the night; we have landed on the beach at Eminence Camp. Rafts are unloaded with haste, as is the routine when reaching our stopover. While we set up tents, the crew chooses their kitchen location, the Unit site is scouted, and it so happens on occasion that campers must be told that they are setting up where the toilet will stand. With the sun at full shine, the solar shower is rigged up riverside; using an oar, a length of rope, and a sand stake, one of the black shower bags that have been basking in the warm sun rays is hoisted – a modern-day pirate flag. Water is gravity-fed to a small shower head, letting those who want a hot shower fare better than those who will opt for the cold river and a quick APC bath – Arm Pits & Crotch.
Rondo shouts over the noise of the river that hikers need to gear up, fill water bottles, and be ready to go in ten minutes. Those not hiking are invited to hang out and chill, enjoy a book, a shower, or a nap. Shortly thereafter, the group is assembled, and with Rondo leading the way, we walk upriver a short distance, turn right, and look up the steep, nearly invisible trail tracking up Eminence Break. If ever there was the idea that this was going to be a relaxing vacation, those thoughts are about to be banished. By the time we reach our observation and resting point, after climbing up nearly 1000 feet over Muav Limestone into the Redwall Limestone, touching upon the Supai group, blisters have taken hold of my flatlander’s feet, and the pause to catch our breath is greatly appreciated, not to imply I hadn’t rested multiple times already while bringing up the rear.
Point Hansbrough towers across from us; the Colorado flows around it, forming a horseshoe bend. From this perspective, I can witness the panorama of the Canyon, the scale of this turn in the river reinforcing my sense of largeness. On the river, horizons shrink and narrow; I become small and grow distant from the civilization I left behind. Sitting on dories inches above the river, I look over our domain, and while on calm water, we are the humans in control – rapids change that equation, but hopefully only for seconds. The canyon walls stand high, blocking the view of how far we are from the civilization of familiarity we have left behind. From a thousand feet above our campsite, the boats are tiny; people are difficult to see unless some movement lets one differentiate between tree, rock, and person.
Up here, everything around me is bright and sunny. There are no shadows besides the ones we cast as the sun attempts to fill all nooks and crannies; that isn’t the story down on the river. And yet, our place up here is not the total “up high.” That is still far above us, up even steeper cliff-sides, climbing to a rim where I can only imagine cars and busy people might be. But I don’t want to think of that world, the noise or the urgency afflicting the minds and actions of people who feel everything must be done now and consumed now. Maybe I could just sit here like a cactus, waiting for the next nourishing rainfall, growing atop rocks and a thin layer of soil, content to not move at all. Me and my thorny nature at one with and belonging to the Canyon, not an inch out-of-place, just another small element in this perfect scenery.
But a cactus I am not; time to be the rolling stone and get moving down the mountain. The jagged, narrow trail tests my ability to place a well-anchored foot if I want to remain free of injury. The climb downhill is hardly any quicker than the scramble up. With the speed of confident bighorn sheep adept at gliding over precarious ledges, the hikers out front are gone in a flash. If I, too, race from here to there, will I have ever had the chance to collect the finer details of what this trail looked like, how the elevation change shifts the overall view, or what plants, insects, or small animals hide just the other side of what I ran past?
It’s late in the afternoon when Caroline and I limp back into camp. The cooks are in the kitchen, and it’s still warm out here in the red glow of sunset, the perfect time for a dip to clean up. Not that there really is a perfect time to become acquainted with this cold Colorado water, but the dirt of the trail, the sweat, and that it is Sunday have coincided with an alignment of planets, suggesting that now may be my best chance to doff the clothes and find myself in my birthday suit glory for what could be my one and only river bath.
Caroline goes first, taking her place a good distance from Paul, who is using the solar shower while Jeffe and Bruce are cleaning up in the shallows upstream. With her best imitation of nonchalance, she strips off her modesty and, standing as discreetly as a woman can who is naked to the world, proceeds to be initiated in the ritual of a Colorado River bath. Heed the cautious tales of those who have found themselves sinking slow and imperceptibly into the suck-mud. Once it has a sturdy grip on your foot and ankle, panic may not be far away as you and your bareness grapple with trying to yank one limb from the mud while sinking deeper with the other, and your mind raises the question of just when do you yell for help? Luckily, Caroline, buoyed by her laughter at the situation, is able to free herself without attracting the attention of anyone else in camp.
Now it’s my turn. Having been knee-deep in a dory full of cold river with waves crashing overhead, water sneaking past waterproof clothes pulled snug, I have confidence that my parts know what I’m about to step into. Sure enough, the feet and ankles enter the river with nary a flinch; it’s everything above the shins that is shocked and sensitized by the frigid immersion of a body fighting the impulse to flee. I grab Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap and start lathering the essentials before uncontrolled shivering might flop me into the river like a fish out of it. I scrub fast and furiously, a little dab here and a hint of soap there, and then 7 seconds later, it’s time to rinse. What in God’s green earth was Dr. Bronner thinking when he put peppermint into his soap concoction anyway? The last thing I need right now, in addition to the bite of cold river water, is a tingling in the nethers. On the other hand, this leaves no doubt as to what precisely was washed. There, I did it! I have had my official baptism in the heart of the Canyon. Should I decide to live in full raunch for the next two weeks, I will forever know the feeling of naked skin to icy cold water on the day I, of my own volition, bathed in the oldest all-natural tub I may ever step into. Back on dry land, I quickly jump into my clothes and make a beeline for camp and a hot meal.
Do tarantulas like fajitas? Probably not, but one large, hairy specimen of the arachnid family is sauntering up our beach, doing its best to bring horror movie thrills to dinner. Our eight-legged visitor is allowed passage, slowly making its way home, or maybe it, too is looking for dinner or a warm spot near the fire. Around our glowing and warm camp circle, a noticeable comfort sits with us. It could be our full bellies, but my guess is that we are relaxing away from our fear of the rapids, we are becoming familiar with one another, and we are finding the rhythm of life on the Colorado.
This wonderful day of terrific moments, gorgeous weather, fantastic sights, and a great crew combined with delightful passengers conspired to deliver nothing to complain about. Drama was kept at bay; silly antics were not to be part of the itinerary.
From my notebook of that night:
Twenty-two people sitting in the dark, canyon wall sentinels surrounding us, stars high in the sky. Civilization is disappearing. We are some 40 miles from the memory of what our other lives were. These 22 people are slipping into the historic, the tribal; we are transitioning to a point where we are alone but one with the Canyon. We cannot leave one another. We are being brought together by these tribal leaders, four men and three women, who guide, feed, entertain, and teach us how to live as a small community. We help each other to not be alone in a world bigger than our limited experience, with a view that has been narrowed by the needs of a society that doesn’t cherish the individual or honor the nature that is our shared home. I have to wonder if we as a nation have lost the nomad and replaced the campfire with a television. When did we lose the curiosity to explore, to sit around and talk, to know that we were part of a community?
The circle of these 22 souls has drawn closer. The fire whips in the wind while the voices of our boatmen fill the air with song and story. Some of us share this with a loved one, some shed a tear, and some must celebrate within themselves. But tonight, we have all begun to share with one another.
–From my book titled: Stay In The Magic – A Voyage Into The Beauty Of The Grand Canyon about our journey down the Colorado back in late 2010.