John Wise

We wake late to a 6:30 call telling us, “Coffee’s ready!” After breakfast is done, the gear and bags are packed and loaded, we are ready to go. We’ve been promised a relaxed day, bah humbug. I want intensity, fervor, and another 100 miles tacked on. I’m willing to sacrifice the return home and a hot shower. Instead, we will row downriver toward the exit. Goodbye, mile 209 and Granite Park. Good morning, river.

Here we are once again on the Sam McGee with Jeffe. Caroline and I are upfront, First Light Frank and Sarge in back. There are a few small rapids we’ll maneuver, but nothing of any consequence. The helmets are stowed and won’t be out again. Mile 210 is overtaken as we continue in the quiet of the early day. There’s nothing much to be said between us that hasn’t already been said, or is it the weight of what we are rowing towards that is bearing down on the conversation?

What would all of this have been without the boatmen? The short answer would have been a group of people prone to stumble into the occasional mistake that easily could have spelled disaster on a whitewater rafting trip.

What was our trip with professional boatmen on a commercial trip like? A group of strangers came together, becoming a family of close-knit explorers on a journey into fascination. We, lucky travelers, basked in luxury, thanks to the boatmen who made extraordinary efforts to guarantee our safety, showed us a path into the amazing, and fostered a healthy sense of wonderment.

When pushing off at mile zero, one embarks on what will end up for many to be the most memorable trip of their lifetime, regardless of how far they may have traveled the globe. Bring your friends, your family, and people who need to open their eyes to possibilities not yet imagined, but remember that this trip is about more than just spending time with your loved ones. We are also here to grow our memories, learn new stories, and if we are lucky; we will explore the depths of who we are. To some extent, we already know our friends and family; we know many of their stories, but do they truly know the Canyon? The boatman does. They are the table of contents, the forward, and the epilogue to the story. They are the icing, the sprinkles, and the candle that decorate this layer cake of history we slice through.

The boatmen are uniquely different from our own personalities. We are not best friends with them on day one. These people at the oars possess their own set of abilities through their various strengths, curiosities, and quirks of personality. When brought together to guide a river trip, their love of the Canyon and tremendous experience in this environment are what allows them to bring a diverse mix of travelers together to work in concert as a cohesive group.

On the days after our boatmen first greeted us, we would gradually get to know Bruce, Jeffe, Rondo, and Kenney – even growing fond of them the more we learned from and of them. On the day we will say goodbye, much water will have passed under our boats, and our sense of family will have been extended. During these weeks, we shared in their enthusiasm, learned from their experiences, delighted in their song, and reveled in their stories.

It is, in part, their story that greatly enriches one’s time here at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. On this river alone, our four boatmen have collectively made 357 descents on the Colorado, totaling more than 80,000 miles. The arms and backs of these people at the oars have rowed the equivalent of more than three circumnavigations around our planet. What stories and experiences would any of us have in our possession with this accumulation of time invested in getting to know a 225-mile-long corridor cut through the surface of the Colorado Plateau?

If the river is what ties boatmen together and collected river miles are the lessons that foster expertise, it is their individuality, combined with the wisdom of those who mentored them, that has given shape to the modern boatman. These are the people of stout nature who have succeeded in the oar strokes of the proto-boatmen found in J.W. Powell’s crew, Martin Litton, and other pioneers of adventure. They are keeping alive the spirit of their fellow river legends, too numerous to mention, who have been traveling these waters for nearly 150 years. What we can learn from this long history of river guides is that they have inherited a legacy that does not rely upon artifice, illusion, or deception. When on the wilds of the Colorado River, these boatmen operate with the intuitive skills given them by those who came before them. They happily shine a light upon the library of knowledge they dip into for sculpting our experience of the Canyon.

Here in the southwest, a rich heritage of Native American history can still be found; we are living on their ancestral lands and find evidence of their long presence throughout these states. It is through this filter I see these men of the oars. Out of the four sacred directions, our boatmen are brought in, each with their own path, each on their own flow of the wind.

Boatman Stephen Winston Kenney

On the east wind, representing birth and newness, is Stephen Kenney, a compassionate man who is the junior boatman on this trip; he shows respect to his elders, knowing he has much to learn from their old hands. From the south wind comes adolescence in the shape of Rondo Buecheler. This boatman is the perpetual adolescent, a deity of festivity, wine, and party – in all its 1970s raging river fun. Next up, we encounter the west; with it comes adulthood and Jeffe Aronson. This man is the observant and patient parent, tending to his children while trying to teach them some of the important lessons of life. Finally, hailing out of the north, the wind gives us Bruce Keller, the man of wisdom. His quiet knowledge allows him to stand in the background and, when necessary, offer the tribe a nudge that will set us on our path to finding the sage within.

Boatman Bruce Keller

Boatman Jeffe Aronson

Boatman Rondo Buecheler

Now bring together the four cardinal directions, the four winds, the four boatmen. Bring together the river experience they have earned, the time they have dedicated to exploring this Canyon, the compassion, insight, humor, and expertise, and tie this to the work of moving dories, passengers, food, and everything else that will sustain and carry our flotilla during these days. With all of this, you have the elements that turn a river trip into something that is much more than the component parts it is built from. The layers of experience begin to stack up like so much sediment that collected over millennia to build the Colorado Plateau; the boatmen are the tools that are instrumental in the carving of our personal Grand Canyon of memories.

Parents give us life and all of the potential that will carry us into an unknown future of being our own person. Our teachers offer us the skills to define and interpret our environment that may help us survive a world driven by economic realities. Personal growth shouldn’t stop there. It is a tragedy to fall into a routine until reaching retirement, hoping then to reignite a rusty imagination to explore and learn again. Where is the parent, mentor, or figurative boatman who can guide us through our adult years when we might find ourselves drifting oar-less down the river of life? Will we even have open ears and minds to know the value of shared wisdom when we have been taught to see independence and autonomy as the only ways to be free? Wouldn’t we benefit from truly being a community? Why do we not inspire each other to take a seat at the helm and row ourselves into a new future, as our elders did for us when we were children? Are we so well equipped with the knowledge of life in this ever more complex world that we can really go it alone?

How did we become so self-assured and all-knowing on the day when we transitioned from childhood to being an adult, only to enter a holding pattern instead of continuing to explore the big unknowns? How do we chip through the thick skin of modern life and ego to find our inquisitive mind? How do we keep growing?

We find mentors and those special people who can take us on journeys into life, nature, and, in turn, ourselves. Hold on, as once you make this commitment to your own well-being, the river of life and the rapids of experience have much to show you on their bumpy ride. Remember that your travels and learning are never complete; you should strive to explore the story of what is missing from your evolving narrative. The end of our personal book is only found on the last page, and that last page won’t be written until our last day. Take time to find the adventure and inspiration that takes you into your own story of magic.

Hello, mile 211. Don’t mind us; we’re just passing through on our way to your neighbor, mile 212. A mild bump in the flow here and there reminds us of the previous days when wild rapids threatened to upset our intentions to pass over the rage and exit in the calm. Today is so tranquil it could be considered serene. I can’t really complain, though; if someone were to mount a Spirit of Ecstasy on the bow, I could easily believe we were traveling by the Rolls Royce of boats on a glassy highway. This very embodiment of elegance delivers us to mile 213.

Then, out of the silence, Jeffe gives us the opportunity to jump into the river and ride a rapid while floating downstream. Instead of inspiring Caroline or me, this offer speaks to our timidity, bringing about our only regret on this trip. We don’t accept his offer, but Sarge does – lucky guy. We are given plenty of notice to psych ourselves up and enough time to change our minds, but we can’t muster the courage. On the approach to mile 215, Sarge takes off his shirt and puts his life jacket back on. Then, with a yell of “SEMPER FI,” he leaps from the dory and cannonballs into the river for a ride through the rapid, floating on his back. We could have been there right next to him.

It must have been that Marine training or the steeled nerves from working as a State Trooper, maybe it was an intense love for where he finds himself. Whatever it was, even in retirement, this man’s display of fortitude, jumping right into the cold waters of the Colorado, put me to shame. His example will always remind me not to pass up an opportunity that may never again present itself.

Jeffe turns the oars over to First Light Frank, who typically is found sitting atop our dry bags on a raft. Frank brings the dory around so Jeffe can help Sarge out of the frigid water and back into the boat to warm up in the sun. I wonder if Sarge had watched someone else jump in years ago, on a previous trip down the Colorado, and had similar thoughts of regret as I am now having. Getting back on board, he tells us how he hadn’t done the swim on his other trip and just had to make it happen this time.

Before we know it, mile 216 is moving into the distant memory closet. Mile 217 holds another small rapid and the opportunity for Caroline to crawl up on the bow of the Sam McGee to claim victory that she has taken bow rides on all four dories. She’ll have long ago left the bow when miles 218 and 219 are sailed through. At mile 220, we ready our approach. Like the space shuttle Atlantis connecting to the space station on its final flight, we will make a long, dramatic docking with shore, worth every cent we can earn from the experience. Tomorrow, when we disconnect from camp for our return to Earth, Mission Control will sign out, and the dories will retire for the season.

But the show is not over yet; I’m the fat bearded man, and I’m not yet ready to sing. Following lunch, we depart for one more hike, this time into the teddy bear cholla forest above our camp at mile 221. While heading out I have to ask, “Who turned on the heater?” It is 88 scorching degrees – in November! No matter, intrepid and stout of heart, we can scale escarpments like pedestrians negotiating a busy mid-town sidewalk. Show us your fangs, thorns, broken trails, and cragged surfaces; we have tackled more and haven’t fatigued yet. With all the enthusiasm we entered Soap Creek Canyon with back on day 1, we are now climbing a mountain for one more look up and down this majestic living river.

Gazing upon the Colorado, I see the tears that fell upstream days ago, racing with the current to rejoin the eyes they fell from. We are safe up here; those tears will never make it up the trail we just clambered over. Plus, we have the sun on our side threatening to evaporate any eye moisture, planning on making an appearance this afternoon.

Downriver, less than 6 miles from here, the exit signs are already illuminated with flashing yellow caution lights, signaling us to prepare to merge. I shield my eyes. Those lights are phantasms, and even if they were real, they do not pertain to me. I shift my vision left, as Diamond Peak is pointed out. Oh no, if that is, in fact, Diamond Peak, then behind that must be Diamond Creek, and if that is what I’m starting to believe it is, then, off in the distance, I may be looking right at mile 225.9 or thereabouts. I can feel the tug of the vortex that will soon pick up speed in order to yank me from this perfect sense of being. I quickly look away, but some of those lost tears must have made it ashore, likely stowed away in someone’s water bottle, and have now reached me up here on the burning slope.

Not able to run from these emotions, I sit down, look out, and consider what has been accomplished. I am grateful, I am overwhelmed, and I am changed. I am not the same person I was when I entered this Canyon. Out of the abyss, no monsters will follow me home. I am more centered and more unified than at any other time in my life. Okay, I suppose I’m ready to be ejected. I reach for Caroline’s hand, and slowly, together, we return to the river’s edge.

Back in camp, Rondo has unloaded the remaining alcohol. Beer, absinthe, tequila, and everything else that had been nearly lost in the darkest corners of the dories are made available. What is not consumed must be packed out, and upon reaching the pull-out, things must move fast to make room for the next group taking out. The lighter the load, the quicker we are underway. So drink up, eat to your heart’s content, and get ready for No Talent / Talent Night.

Liquid courage to the rescue. Stage fright easily falls away as a sip of this and a sip of that inebriates the crowd. Caroline will be the first performer to display her amateur No Talent / Talent skills, as hers is a recital that must precede a meal. A couple of years ago, my wife became intrigued by the Sanskrit prayer offered by our Gujarati friends when sitting down to eat. Caroline’s idea was to secretly learn the entire prayer by heart and then surprise our friends on a random night when she would join in the recital. When that evening came around, she nervously joined in, her words merging with theirs. I watched each of those ladies open their eyes to confirm what they thought their ears were hearing. Tears flowed down their cheeks, and smiles graced their faces as they watched my wife, who, with eyes closed in concentration, finished the prayer with them.

Geologist Clarence Dutton was apparently also inspired by Indian culture. It was his awareness of the Hindu trinity of Brahma, the creator – Vishnu, the maintainer – Shiva, the destroyer, that would influence his choices back in 1882 while naming some of these towering Canyon spires. Caroline felt it was appropriate to give thanks and ask for blessings in the tongue of these Hindu deities, who likely had never heard these ancient words from below the peaks that bear their names. Tonight, I was brought close to tears from Caroline’s recital, feeling overwhelmed by her sensitivity to other cultures and the joy I feel in knowing her as my best friend for 21 years.

After a supper of barbecue pork loin, baked potato, candied carrots, green beans with mushroom and onion, avocado & tomato salad with garlic, applesauce, and a fresh-baked dessert of chocolate cake with chocolate frosting, our procession of potential No Talents is ready to take the stage and prove that we are all in possession of at least a small amount of talent. It may not be polished or well-practiced, but it will be offered up with honesty and conviction as we try our best.

Next up is the passenger hailing from the great state of Hawaii, Jakki Nelson. Jakki demonstrates her musical talents, playing guitar and singing us a song. Finishing her performance, she nods a bow to the applause that fills the air.

Jerry Hamilton from Washington tells us a story about a novice hunter and an insightful bear whose encounters with one another proved more painful for the man stalking the bear than the other way around. Laughter erupts. Jeffe steps in with another bear story to add to the moment of hilarity.

Then the lights dim, and a spotlight comes up on Sarge, who has appeared out of the dark dressed as a princess, reviving his costume from Halloween. The now bizarre illusion of femininity in the shape of the former Marine / State Trooper ups the ante of laughter as he slithers into the lap of a boatman with a fantastic impersonation of Marilyn Monroe in an oddly lumpy dress. The hoarse princess tells us, and the boatmen, of her admiration, just how much she loves and appreciates them – this got steamy, I tell ya. I feel sorry for whoever tries to follow this and then make a note to send Sarge’s wife the incriminating evidence.

Boatman Ashley sacrifices herself on the feisty crowd that has been warmed up now, offering us a poem about reincarnation. Sorry, but I cannot recall a word of her No Talent / Talents; it will forever be overshadowed by the story she told us earlier in the trip, which involved an Englishman with his thumb up the bum of the largest Bengal tiger in all India.

Up next, Erin, Jerry’s wife, gifts us one of the greatest treasures collected from our days in the Canyon. Turns out that throughout the trip, Erin had been noting the quotes and sounds that would help remind us of much that was heard here in the Canyon. We listen intently as Erin reads from her list, recognizing how ingrained some of these sound bytes have become. Reveling in the fleeting moments, we ponder the heartfelt inspirations of thoughtfulness shared on our journey.

Boatman Andrea and her mom Linda stand up to flaunt their talents and what talents they have. First, you must bring the tune from On Top Of Old Smokey into your head and then sing the following out loud, with gusto:

On top of a big raft
That carries the shit
Is where my poor mother
Is forced to sit!

She sits in the front
and sometimes in back.
She holds on for dear life
when the waves come attack!
We float down the river
to camp, then we dine.
That’s when my dear mother
wants a full cup of wine!

I give her a little;
she asks for some more,
but then my sweet mother
can’t find the tent door!

Hot coffee in the morning
is her first delight
She won’t move a muscle
‘til Frank shouts “First Light!”

When cooks are in the kitchen
the guides are drinking beer.
They tell stories and jokes
I wish my mom couldn’t hear!

My mom is super
My mom is sweet.
Bringing her down ‘the big ditch’
has been quite a treat!

WAIT!

The song is not over.
We wrote a new verse the other day.
It was Lava Falls morning,
when I swam away!!
Super Mom yelled “Get back here,
this is a fight you can’t win!”
She grabbed for the oars
and pulled my sorry butt in!

Those of us nervous orators should have gotten our potentially weak acts out of the way earlier. What is being delivered here at the No Talent / Talent Night is measuring up to be full of talent. I begin to shrink under the pressure.

Joe brings his voice to work for our listening pleasure with a song about Lava Falls set to the tune of “Wild Mountain Thyme.” Throughout our days together, Joe had sung many a time. In addition to the beautiful hymns he shared with us in Blacktail Canyon, he serenaded us one morning before launch with Jakki singing harmony. We delighted in their very own rendition of “Oh, What A Beautiful Morning.” On other days, Joe would offer us a reading from his notebook of observations. Joe is certainly a devout man of many talents.

Boatman Katrina executes a double-jointed body trick that is met with mouths gaping in disbelief and bugged-out eyes. She clasps her hands together and moves her torso through this loop twice. At this point, a few of the drinkers are probably wondering if they had one too many and if the pink elephants are on their way.

Yours truly picked up the next spot reading an homage I had been crafting since early in the trip, titled:

“How Can One Thank A Boatman?”

You are guides, teachers, storytellers, great cooks, caregivers, bringers of adventure, and a hand when needed. You are life changers, mentors, the knowledgeable ones who brought us back to the tribe. You are river shamans.

You gave us fire, water, earth, and sky. With you, we needed nothing but open eyes, a willingness to participate, and an open heart. You gave it your all.

It is not lost on us how, against the forces of nature, including the sand, river, and wind that cut this Grand Canyon, your backs, hearts, and spirit-guided dories, rafts, passengers, and beer with deft precision and expert skill.

But your task is not simply to supply entertainment to a few lucky souls on this grand adventure. Your gift to us is the sharing of your passion, wisdom, and insight, allowing us to witness this magnificence in ways undreamt of 17 days ago when we were putting in at Lees Ferry.

You alter our imagination, help form profound memories, and better our person. You are changing the lives of your charges like the sand, water, and wind that shape this world that is your second home.

Hugs, handshakes, a shared meal, or a drink can never give enough thanks for how you eroded the calluses of modern life from our hearts and invited us into yours. I can only thank you and let you know that today, I am rich in experience beyond belief because of the boatmen of the Grand Canyon.

Because of all of you, this mighty river will always flow with me. The towering canyons will always stand high above me. Your songs and stories will echo into my future. And your love of your work, your world, what you do, and who each of you are will course through my life like this Colorado River running through the Grand Canyon.

While anyone who knows me will tell you that I can talk, talk, talk some more, and maybe even dominate the conversation, I must admit that public speaking sends butterflies to my midsection. Tonight was no different, but in practicing what I preach, I felt I had no option other than participating. My worst fear was about where my emotions would take me. As I practiced reading my note of gratitude, I found myself close to the water, with the pool of tears maintaining a vigil by my side – so impassioned were my feelings for what I was going to read. A quivering voice, fighting off the impulse to read faster, and with my ears on fire, I got through this – my own personal class 8 rapid.

Physics professor Charlie is handed the proverbial baton and begins to talk about the universe and the stars in the night sky, how there are billions of stars in our galaxy alone, when his wife Mari interrupts what could easily have veered into the overly technical and tells us that they had rehearsed a more lighthearted show of talent. They could hang spoons from their noses. And that is exactly what they did, to our delight.

Quiet, traveling by himself, a man of few words, Phil keeps us guessing as he ‘warms up’ with uncomfortable-looking gulps of air. He explains that he isn’t sure how this will work out, as he hasn’t performed this since his college days. His preparation looks convulsive, and then it begins. Maybe it’s a song, although it could be a poem being presented in a kind of Morse code. Whatever it is, it is definitely the longest sequence of burps any of us will ever hear. I do believe that Phil has offered the strangest displays of No Talent / Talent we are likely to see this evening.

Paul offers us a poem, with the help of Ellen reading the second character’s parts. But it was Ellen’s segue and request to have the brochure rewritten that was the most memorable part of their performance. She made humorous observations about the demands placed on passengers that the brochure did not mention, such as bailing dories that are filled to the rim with ice water. Also glossed over was that we would be pitching tents as though we all knew how. Were outdoor riverside toilets talked about in the literature? She didn’t think so.

Mike Boyles from Oklahoma sings a bawdy song that, even if I had the naughty lyrics, they wouldn’t have found space to be reprinted here without an R rating.

And that is the extent of the passengers’ participation in the No Talent / Talent Night. But it isn’t the end of the storytelling. Bruce takes the floor with a story about a stomach-churning accident with one of the Units. Rondo offers a great tale of his encounter with Secret Service agents during a visit to the river by President Jimmy Carter and a mishap that occurred. Want to know more about this incident? Better find yourself booked on a trip with Rondo before he retires.

Kenney reads another one of his poems, this one about the Ghost Trees. Should you meet him someday on a river, ask him to tell you about the fire he witnessed on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho. Ashley, Bruce, and Rondo, as an encore, each tell us a personal story about their mentor, Martin Litton. It should be noted that back in 1955, less than 200 people had run this river. It would be during that year that Litton would have his first encounter on the river within these walls of the Grand Canyon. With that run, he became the 185th person following Powell to have done so. Martin was inspired to work in collaboration with another river pioneer, P.T. ”Pat” Reilly, to modify the dory’s design in an attempt to popularize this mode of travel on the Colorado. By 1962, these two Canyon enthusiasts finalized a blueprint for what would be a four-passenger craft with a boatman at the center. Soon after this achievement, Grand Canyon Dories was born. From our boatmen, there is no lack of love and respect shown to Martin Litton; he is a giant here in the Canyon.

Katrina closes the show with a performance of two a cappella songs. For a night that was supposed to be short on talent, it is wonderful that not one person held back, and all rose to the occasion to offer one another a glimpse into their sense of silliness or the serious.

Caroline and I spend our final night sans tent. The tarp is spread out, sleeping pads put down, and sleeping bags unrolled. Laying there, we look up to the stars, smell the cool night air, listen to the murmur of the river, and with a heavy heart, we acknowledge the sadness that these sights, these nights and days, are about to be over. A hug, a kiss, one more nod in recognition of our shared love; it is time to sleep and not dwell on what our next steps will be. Tomorrow, we will wake, have a coffee, and take our place on a dory that is heading down Colorado, looking for the next adventure.

–From my book titled: Stay In The Magic – A Voyage Into The Beauty Of The Grand Canyon about our journey down Colorado back in late 2010.

Look around here, and you may find the stupendous. After 16 days on the Colorado, buried in the bowels of this Canyon, my eyes still hunger to see deeper into this colossus of the profound. Layers upon layers rise into cliffs of stark columns. Desert varnish paints the fossilized sediments with a bronzed finish. Ancient ruins whisper mythologies onto the tapestry of history – we listen to the faint voice of their echoes. There is so much to take in. As the author Terence McKenna once said, “The further you go, the bigger it gets.” I think of the first day when we put in at Lees Ferry and have to question whether I was seeing a fraction of what was right before my eyes back then. Now, with little more than 30 miles left between me and rejoining who I once was, I can only hope that my understanding of this Canyon and my place on our Earth has forever improved.

Turn these boats around, boys; we need to drag ourselves back through those shallow constrictions and boulder-choked channels to bring me back to mile zero. We’ll resupply and restart this jaunt into my soul, now that I know something about myself in relationship to All of This. Next time, I’ll be certain to extract a full minute of impressions for every second that ticks by on the clock.

I’m surrounded by blossoming spectacles of nature. On one side of the river, sloping hillsides bathed in green crawl upward to terraces of red and tan sandstone, stained in the patina that comes with age when you are made of stone and live in the desert. On the other side of the river, the surfaces are stripped bare, just the naked sheer rock rising to menacing heights. Between the random forms and chaos of erosion, it becomes apparent why some of the buttes and mesas are called Shiva, Brahma, and Vishnu. The formations and pinnacles stand in as proxies for the temples that have inspired their names – Hindu and Mayan-looking formations too numerous to list can be imagined in this landscape. For some time, we float past these homes of the gods until the river corridor widens again. Serrated edges and dangerous angles give way to softly rolling hills that only last until the next bend in the river. We then enter the world of Chichen Itza, whose temple pyramids have been rendered right here in our desert Canyon.

Ocotillo and other cacti stand like sentinels guarding the treasures in their presence – it’s also possible they are desert lighthouses guiding us, keeping us safe from the tempest. And what of those bighorn sheep seen earlier in the trip? What were they doing standing atop the highest outcroppings, out on the edge of the tiniest sliver of sandstone? They obviously were not foraging, their front legs standing at the precipice, their necks craning over the ledge as though they, too, were looking for something extraordinary.

Just above our heads, there is another flow, another stream, a river of air current. In its path, butterflies don’t flutter about; they dart along, moving with great purpose. Maybe they are riding their own kind of rapids? Butterflies are the civil air patrol of the middle channel of the Colorado. Birds are more often seen up high running thermals, updrafts, and various other unseen currents or taking it easy over onshore. Slicing a trail between them all are the visitors who come in on the breeze from a different world, flying spiders.

These arachnids are the snowbirds of the Canyon. During the summer, they live up on the forested rims, but as cold begins its approach, the spiders give off a shot of silk before tossing themselves off their high-altitude perches. They hold fast to the thread, and, like a kite, they are airborne. They float on a haphazard random course, looking for providence to deliver them from the approaching snows of winter to the desert floor a mile below.

Sitting in our dories, crawling along at sloth speed, we see shiny glimmers and twinkles of the sun reflecting off the undulating silk lifelines the spiders are clinging to. The silks ripple in the sunlight, mimicking wisps of smoke, and then here and there, a strand falls into a shadow, magically disappearing before reemerging in the sunlight. Many a jumper misses its target on the lowlands, to become an evolutionary experiment in which nature tests the spider’s ability to swim. Others kamikaze themselves with direct hits on our craft. I wonder about the survivors who become stowaways, finding a dry corner to hitch a ride in; then, in a couple of days, they will start a cross-country drive to Flagstaff, Fredonia, Angels Camp, Grand Junction, or any number of stops between, depending on the city and state a boatman calls home.

We are taken to the edge of being hypnotized. The dip of the oar, the warm pulse of the sun, and the hundreds of silver threads weaving a slow dance in the sky charm us into a trance. Capturing these fleeting moments in my camera, where the thinner-than-hair spider silks float in the streaming rays of sunlight, would never portray the enchanting play of nature these sights inspire. Do others know the beauty of our world that the senses are able to perceive? Can a man reveal the raw emotions able to be brought on by his encounter with the natural world? Or does he only have some vague idea that something is different? We must learn to swoon in our exploration of the rare; we must let go and let the heart forget what trouble it may have known. We should strive for awareness in these beautiful moments. It’s all love when we are in the wonderful.

I want to extend the view and find treasures never before witnessed. Ones that would allow me to continue my narrative for another 100 pages. I need to enlarge the rabbit hole, tunnel ever deeper, to keep myself falling forever. If I run out of river, will I run out of words? Can separation anxiety be portrayed as a part of my experience without it being a downer? Months ago, when friends had been curious how we would deal with 18 consecutive days of cold and wet primitive conditions, I had remained strong in my resolve and told them it would be easy. Then, a week before we left, I began to question my resolve and fell into doubt that we had fully understood what we bargained for. Now, I’m faced with explaining to my friends how difficult it will be to be amongst them once again. I’ll try to tell them how 18 days in the Canyon were not enough. During the days that became weeks and then months that followed, I sequestered myself in the remembrances of these 18 precious days, requiring another couple of hundred days trying to relate a fraction of what I saw and felt.

This journey should have been sold as the adventure you never leave and that never leaves you. Life-changing, monumentally epic escapes, which take us inside ourselves, happen in terms that may as well be in a foreign language we neither speak nor understand. Perhaps a few of our friends and family members who have experienced similar epiphanies will be able to return the sparkle in our eye or be able to share the knowing smile we offer, which gives a hint at the enormity of growth we encountered. I feel that while I have been awakened, much of humanity will be left simply trying to survive or worrying about the drudgery of routine instead of making time to dream of tomorrow’s adventures.

Yet here I am, trying to extend the cascade of epiphanies, to enlarge my vision and the carrying capacity of my memories. Too many miles have already been rowed today; only 23 miles remain. I have no choice but to start my departure, though my heart may never be ready to leave this experience. While writing these words, I can also see their end, bringing me to the point at which I have to face leaving a second time. There must be some play of color, a contrast of elements, or a layer of earth not yet written of that can be examined in detail, opening a new chapter for my imagination to traipse through and convey on these pages.

Instead, we float. The boatman row. The miles collect. And we close the distance between here and another world – our old world back home. Caroline is out front enjoying her last bow ride on the Lost Creek, rowed by Kenney. The ride wasn’t so much on a rapid as it was on a slightly bigger riffle, but that didn’t diminish any of the delight Caroline took from the most exquisite seat on the dory. At mile 205 a rapid approaches, the last of the “Big Ones.” Good grief, the finality of it all. Mile 209 finds us at Granite Park Camp, and it’s only noon. An early day to allow us the chance to relax and take it easy – which I don’t want to do; I could do that at home on some weekend.

Granite Park is a wide expanse of beach and desert. Sparse plant life sprouts from the living cryptobiotic soil, teeming with microscopic cyanobacteria, lichens, and fungi. A hike is on offer that will take us through this fragile landscape and deeper into the Tapeats layer. As an added bonus, we will be seeing a recently discovered arch named after one of our boatmen. We will be leaving shortly after setting up camp.

Much of the landscape we have traveled through these days has shared the same palette of hues, splashed with flourishes of the entire spectrum of earth tones as though they were painted with the end of the rainbow. And yet, while much of the scenery is likely quite similar to other areas along the river, to me, with senses overloaded, the view is as unique and possibly even improved upon when compared to what I saw minutes or hours before. Motifs surrender their hidden forms from out of the shadows, demonstrating how patterns taken from Earth’s design have influenced the imprint on life. Like looking at the clouds above us to find figures of things familiar, here, too, we can spy the outlines of various creatures and plants in the rock forms. My descriptions of these colors, configurations, and impressions of this living canvas have been hard fought for. My words tell little of the diversity of contrasting nuances that are displayed in dynamic bands, layers, swirls, and punctuations from even this one small corner of nature’s vast inventory. Granite Park is yet another iteration of those qualities that reduce the vocabulary to “Wow!”

“Glorious,” “vast,” “deep,” and “profound” are often among the words used to convey a sense of admiration for this National Park. One could read every line ever penned that has attempted to illustrate the immeasurable Grand Canyon, and still, upon entering this serpentine maze of the sublime, one would know little about what was about to greet their naïveté. Hop aboard, but be prepared, for as you move forward, the world is unfolding. Step ashore and watch as the trail takes you further than your imagination ever dreamt.

With our tents pitched, we are about to walk into another one of these extraordinary visions. We start our hike from the river’s edge. A grizzled and stubborn old tree said to have been here during Powell’s visit has seen firsthand what power the river carries. And while it has a hunched back and obviously looks the worse for wear, this old Goodding’s willow has managed a mighty long visit, judging from the struggle it has made to remain planted here.

Not far up the trail, we come to a panoramic overview of the river, beach, bushes, and towering cliffs in the background – our home for today. Continuing just a short distance, we are soon in the main drainage of the side canyon. It is mostly stripped clean of plants as rock, tree limbs, and debris, carried by the rush of periodic floodwaters, has scoured the channel, leaving behind a rock garden decorated with boulders and stones from further up the canyon. Ahead of us, we begin to see possible paths we might choose to follow. Some routes run into sheer walls that cancel hiking in that direction. A narrow path with a steep climb looks like a potential continuation of our exploration. From our new view, the cliffs that had appeared to be in the distant background have suddenly grown in stature; they are much more formidable now than just 10 minutes ago.

Climbing over ledges and around boulders, we enter the hidden world of a small slot canyon. Two days ago, I had understood that National Canyon was our last slot canyon, but stand corrected. National was to be the last of the “big slot canyons,” this is a mere small one. But small does not diminish its grandeur. The intimacy of finding myself in the narrows of a place where I can at once comprehend its scope and have it act as a kind of blinders to the greater canyon it is buried in leaves me feeling protected. While hiking a slot, there is a sense of being cocooned, of being hidden in a cozy little hideaway, alone and in silence. Like in a cave, yet with the benefit of natural light. I can look around and see it all, move in closer to examine the details of this stone womb, which is not easily done when opposing canyon walls are miles away. Although tranquility can sometimes be deceptive, when the rains come to purge this channel it would be the last place one would want to be caught hanging out admiring the finery.

The trail zigzags as it gains in elevation. Small depressions in the slick rock act like water pockets, one of them feeding a small family of cattails. These plants are powerful reminders of the ancient seas, lakes, and wetlands that no longer exist here, as the environment continues the process of being converted to desert. They are now in their state of winter dormancy, biding their time until spring when warmer days will trigger a signal in the head of the cattail to open with a puff of fluffy wisps that will float off on the wind. Their seeds will fill the sky, looking to find another elusive pool of nourishing water on the way to establishing yet one more foothold before the desert fully takes over.

We reached the vertical rock, but I left my hooves on the dory. To demonstrate where to place our feet, a boatman in flip flops leads the way, and the rest of us follow on a trail that didn’t exist before the imagination of our guides willed it into existence. The thought crosses my mind that we’ll likely be returning this way – but this is not the time to worry about the impossible. We follow in his footsteps and, to my surprise, find ourselves able to leap vertical walls in a single bound or two.

Are those worm fossils? That was the first thought in my head as my eyes tried to decipher what the fossilized tubes might be. Close enough, they are channels in which worms once lived so many millions of years ago. What other remnants of lives past lie just before us that we don’t know how to see, whose shape doesn’t offer a familiar form to give immediate recognition to? Note to self: upon getting home, find the outfitter who brings a geologist, an anthropologist, and a paleontologist to guide us on a return journey of exploring the fossil and historic record of the Grand Canyon, and don’t forget the musicians.

Is that a dead millipede? Sure enough, it is a six-inch-long, desiccated specimen, half curled up in the gravel, and it’s not the only one. Not knowing the first thing about the life cycle of the ‘pede’ species, I wouldn’t be able to explain the autumn die-off that occurred in this canyon. The mystery of the millipede lives on while its life has come to an end.

Basic knowledge of the vast potential of nature seems illusory to my mind. What would basic knowledge consist of when the complexity of existence spans physics, chemistry, biology, ecology, climatology, hydrology, geology, and many other -ologies? How can I hope to have an adequate foundation of information that would allow for a full comprehension of this environment that has recorded the evolution of life? How does the average person gather the knowledge to understand such a magnitude of detail?

Our trail crosses a myriad of layers: solid sandstone, gravel beds, sand, and off to our side on the Canyon wall, shale. Greenish-gray chips of fractured shale fall from the wall, spilling into our path. The pieces we walk on crunch and break underfoot. Over time, they will again turn to dust and be blown to the four corners. Some of these new sand particles we just kicked up will find their way to the river before settling into Lake Mead, further downstream. At some point in the distant future, maybe Hoover Dam will no longer stand where it is today. Maybe, if we are lucky, none of the dams on the Colorado will continue to impound this river, and the sediments can continue their voyage to the sea.

Out of the drainage, our view opens up to the broad expanse that now spreads out around us. We turn left and continue our hike, heading towards the canyon wall further up until, near the sheer cliff wall, if we look up at just the right spot, not too soon and not past a certain stone, we can see Ashley Arch in the distance. This is not an official name but is the name we use on this trip, as the boatmen haven’t been able to identify this weather-worn feature in the literature of what is already known to be down here. It is our very own boatman and guide, Ashley Brown, who spotted the arch on a previous hike, and who has lent her name for its unofficial designation. For the next ten minutes, we mill about. Some small talk is going on between the boatmen and the other passengers, but I’m busy scouring the area for the minute details that stand in the shadow of the arch towering far overhead.

Caroline suggests we start moving down the canyon before the rest of the group so we can stay ahead of the charge back to camp and enjoy a few minutes moseying at our own pace. As we go, we take time to reexamine the sights we had passed on the way in and eyeball what was missed. It begins to dawn on me that this must be a whole new Grand Canyon because it sure isn’t the one I was in yesterday. These rocks are not like others found on previous days in the “other” Grand Canyons. This erosion is not exactly like the patterns I saw back in Saddle Canyon, although there is some similarity. There are cacti here, too, but more of them, as though this were a different ecosystem. The different layering must surely confirm we are in a Grand Canyon unique to river mile 209. Not only have we walked through yet another iteration of the Grand Canyon, but we are also walking through a thousand lifetimes of the amazing.

Entering the Grand Canyon, I had hoped to understand not just a little of something but that I would grow to have become familiar with a lot of everything. While I have grown to appreciate the complexity, diversity, and overwhelming abundance, I feel that I have only peeled open the first layer of the onion, which has given nourishment to feeding a larger curiosity about life itself.

Maybe our group was developing a greater curiosity about where the two of us went because here they came. Just in time, too, as the trail is entering the narrows where, a sure-footed example of where to place our next step would certainly be appreciated. This is not the place to take unnecessary, potentially dangerous risks beyond what we already agreed to by putting ourselves in wooden boats to ply the whitewater of the Colorado. A broken bone of any sort and the flying ambulance is summoned to pluck us out of paradise, to be whisked, dirty underwear and all, to the fluorescent-lit, polished vinyl floors of a sterile clinic, where the crash with reality would probably be more painful than the broken limb.

Here we are again, witnessing the perfect timing boatmen are able to manifest in the sequencing of events. As we are reentering the wide open, flat desert we call camp. Clouds as massive as the Canyon itself have become sponges for the setting sun. Flames stop short of leaping from the fiery sky. This is hardly a sunset; it is the glorious stage performance of a jealous heaven, having played second fiddle to the earth below, that has garnered our undivided attention for too long. Time to stop and enjoy the play, to stand in awe that not only is this Canyon full of wonder, but the sky, too, contains a magic that is capable of taking our breath away.

Dinner. This word is wholly inadequate to describe what we enjoy this night. Dinner is what is eaten as the last meal of a routine day. Tonight’s indulgence can easily be called a miracle. Filet mignon last night was yummy, a real treat for sure, no complaints there, but what do you call this fresh homemade baked lasagna? Don’t go getting the idea that I am ecstatic about a frozen Italian treat that was pulled out of an ice chest and tossed into the fire. This is the real thing, made fresh using ricotta, mozzarella, and dried noodles – from out of the secret food store – topped off with fresh tomato and fresh basil. The vegetarian option? Of course, it is here, too. Fresh squash, zucchini, and onions form the foundation of this lasagna, and like the meatatarian version, it is layered into a Dutch oven and baked for our dining pleasure while we are “roughing it” in the Canyon.

Compliments must be paid to Ashley for this mouthwatering delight. While she and Rondo were our cooks tonight, it was Ashley who put down the oars and donned the chef’s apron to give us what seemed to be everyone’s favorite meal of the trip. My taste buds are eternally indebted. Ashley whipped up the culinary equivalent of the magnificent arch now unofficially named after her. The beautiful sunset that parked over our camp must have been a reflection of all the warmth and care she demonstrated in doing her part to ensure our fun and comfort – on that account, Katrina, Andrea, Linda, and Frank must also be included as beneficiaries of my gratitude.

A great meal in the Canyon would rank a notch below that description without the accompaniment of great stories or music, and tonight, we have both. Jeffe has another command performance up his sleeve for us, with a reading from Robert Service. He bows his head; when he comes back up, Jeffe is a gruff frontiersman telling us the story of “The Shooting of Dan McGrew.” Sitting in the dark around the crackling fire, we are listening to the voice of an old miner. Drifting through history, we are lost in the distant tale of an ancestor.

By the time the poem is finished, the fire is starting to fade; it sputters and dims. Someone stokes the ashes and adjusts the last log that was thrown on top. We snuggle in to keep warm. Katrina brought out her guitar and picked up where Jeffe left off. As she serenades us, Jeffe brings over his guitar, and the two of them offer us the folk music lullaby that we will drift off to sleep with. Music never sounded so good; they could have played on till the early morning.

–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.

I wanted to proclaim this as the Big Day; the truth is this is the 15th Big Day. What it will also become, though, is the longest day. The now-familiar propane tank’s metallic whoosh fueling the stove lets us know that coffee is on the way. Caroline stirs and we both wake from a light sleep; it’s 4:40 in the morning. Out of the sack, we waste no time rolling up the sleeping bags, mats, and collecting everything else lying around before stuffing it all into our dry bags. With a toss, our stuff is outside the tent before the wake-up call goes out. It must have been the impending reality of this class 8-10 rapid known as Lava Falls, considered to be the most difficult rapid on this trip, that made for a tough night of sleep for all of us. When we exit our tent, I can see that the others are also awake and readying themselves. The boatmen must feel we are all on the move, as no one made the rounds to ensure we were up and packing.

There’s a strange quiet amongst us. At the coffee table, we talk in hushed tones as though we might disturb those who are still asleep, though no one is. There is a flurry of passersby delivering their bags to the rafts. Breakfast is offered in silence; the other passengers continue walking by, off to grab the rest of their gear as they glance over to confirm that food is now on the table. A soft greeting of good morning is exchanged between those eating and those on the move. Another peculiarity of this day is the darkness; not a hint of daybreak has begun to brighten the black sky. Headlamps illuminate the brush, sand, and us. Stray beams of bright white LED lights crisscross the trails. Trees are painted with streaks of the searching, head-mounted torches; the scene is one from the movies when the search party is looking for signs of something – or someone – lost in the forest.

Finally, the crack of a loud voice breaks the quiet, “Last call for breakfast, last call for bags to be loaded on rafts, last call for the Unit, last call for everything!” The kitchen will soon disappear, the dry bags are mostly on the rafts, and the camp will be given the once over to make sure nothing is being left behind. The sky is transitioning out of dark blue. A last-minute lineup at the facilities is delaying our departure. If you think a family sharing a single bathroom is tough, try dealing with 22 people sharing one metal can. As the crowd thins at the Unit, we line up at the dories and rafts.

With some light in the sky to see where we are going, we push off in the Sam McGee. Caroline and Jakki are upfront, and Jeffe is at the oars. I have tightened and retightened the straps of my life jacket, tugged on the elastic bands of my waterproof jacket and pants to seal me in as much as that is possible, and zipped up the jacket until it sits under my chin. My breathing is shallow and rapid. I tell myself it is because of the tightness of the life jacket, recalling our boatmen’s credo, “If you can’t breathe, you can’t drown!” My hands tire as I practice my grip and imagine where I might be holding on when we run Lava Falls.

After an indeterminable amount of time, we arrive at a small pull-out on river left, where we exit the boats to go scout the rapid. I should be clear here: I will not scout the rapid; I will bow down to its awesomeness and silently beg for mercy. Adrenaline is erasing all senses aside from anxious anticipation. I should be calm, though; we have known for months that this day would come. I have watched every online video of rafts, kayaks, canoes, dories, and the occasional inadvertent body surfer who has left their craft to be tossed through the pandemonium of Lava Falls. Maybe I should have skipped the ones that described the clip with the language of doom, such as Carnage at Lava Falls, Lava Falls Flip, Disaster in Lava Falls, or So-and-So Swims Lava Falls.

Anyway, we have a lucky charm on our side. A week before we were to join this adventure, I saw a video posted by one of the boatmen who, on his 116th run of the Colorado, experienced his first flip in Lava Falls. Everyone survived, and his only injury was a broken nose. As soon as I saw this, the light bulb went on. I called O.A.R.S., “Hi, this is John Wise. In a few days, my wife and I are going to be on your 18-day Grand Canyon dory trip, and I was told about a month ago that a boatman named Jeffe Aronson might be one of our guides.” The woman, with an Australian accent, confirms that Jeffe is indeed on our trip. She also identified herself as Carrie Aronson, Jeffe’s wife. I blurt out how perfect this is and begin telling her, “Jeffe posted a video of his dory flipping in Lava Falls last month. Is it possible to put in an early reservation for two passengers to ride with him on the day we’ll be running Lava Falls?” I’m thinking to myself, what are the chances of lightning striking twice? His will be the safest dory to ride that day. Carrie tells me that she’ll be talking to him in a day or so, as he has left California and is on his way to Arizona. When I called back, I was given the wonderful news that there should be no problem with my request; just remind him when we meet at Lees Ferry.

A short walk delivers us to the overlook above Lava Falls. Out in the Colorado, we see the fervor of rage and maniacal force water is capable of creating. The ominous ledge hole is pointed out, and frightening standing waves are casually discussed, making this all sound as though it were normal. While to me, it all looks like a giant frothing mess, and the furthest thing from normal. Pour-overs and dangers here and there determine that we will make our run on a thin line, river left. I’m trying to picture that within minutes, we’ll effortlessly slice a course through this notorious rapid, exiting with all the grace of a ballerina en pointe.

The four cooler heads determine that Jeffe will be part of the first group to make the run. I don’t hesitate after hearing this and bolt back to the Sam McGee. I check and recheck my life jacket, my helmet, my waterproof closures, and then Caroline’s. My camera is gently wrapped in my fleece jacket and stuffed deep into a small dry bag before being wedged into the hatch behind me. On my right, I have affixed a clamping tripod to the gunwale with my tiny GoPro firmly attached. Extra Velcro straps loop around the tripod legs and are locked tightly before I’m as satisfied as I can be that this camera will still be attached to the dory upon exiting Lava Falls 23 seconds after we enter it. I’m ready.

Here goes the first group, but it’s not my group. A last-minute change determined that Jeffe would be in the second group. I’m too freaked out waiting for our run to consider unpacking my camera and heading back up the hill and video the group that is now running first. I will not be the reason that my boatman is distracted; I will not be the cause of a delay – I stay put, remaining tense, remaining nervous, and more than a little thrilled.

The first group pushes off and floats away. There is no view from this small cove to be able to size up how the other boaters fare once they cross the horizon and disappear into the void. In a few brief moments, a serious Jeffe is moving fast in our direction, “Get in, we’re doing this,” followed by, “Andrea went overboard, but her mom reached in to pull her back onto their raft. Everybody ready?” Startled, I have no time to pop my eyeballs back into their sockets or lower my eyebrows that have shot above my hairline.

Jeffe’s question wasn’t asked with any expectation of an answer anyway. He pushes us off from the shore, steps in behind me, and takes his place at the oars. “We’re going in on the left. When I yell ‘high side’ – be there, and we’ll get through this.” We know the routine by now. No questions, no joking, no distractions. Jeffe asks Jakki to inch to the right to bring the dory into trim; we are level. As if in slow motion, we approach Lava Falls. We are on calm water, so calm that what must be over the horizon doesn’t seem real. Time is dragging me to a halt as every second expands with frenetic anticipation. My grip is fixed, as is my line of sight, on what will shortly trounce all of my senses.

“Okay, let’s pay attention!”

The dory is accelerating as the angle of descent and gravity start to pull the river down into the rapid. I can’t tell if we are on the tongue. I don’t even know if this rapid has one, but as the water starts to whip into white peaks on the left, we are still on a final short stretch of nearly calm water. This all feels too easy. Like a familiar formula unfolding before us, we should go from calm to rushing forward into chaos, then a bit of being tossed about before the exit. But this is Lava Falls.

Then, the frenzy begins. Calm is destroyed, and an infinite field of churn without an inch of pleasantry is about to chew us up. Is that the ledge hole? We drop into the convulsing volcano without ceremony; the waves around us are a blur. A growing lateral beast of water is building an impenetrable wall as we start to turn sideways. There is no time to yell “High side!!!” – we are going into battle with a dory-flipper. Jeffe dives hard to the right, and I follow, just as we had been instructed to do if we can’t hear the boatman’s commands. We are still upright, with all four of us in our seats, as we emerge from the wave that swamped our dory only seconds into our run, but we are completely turned around, plowing through Lava in reverse. The oar that should be in Jeffe’s left hand is missing. While still leashed to the dory, it has jumped its oarlock and is floating outside the boat, too far to reach, as it is being whipped through Lava Falls just as we are.

Blind to what hazards lie in our trajectory, I make a quick decision not to look behind me for three reasons. One, looking back at what should be the front will not help me guide us past whatever approaching horror may lie in wait to yet flip us or smash the Sam McGee to bits. Second, looking around, I might shift the trim of our water-filled dory that is not yet safe to start bailing out. Third, I am transfixed on Jeffe, waiting to see just what he is going to do with only one oar.

I see Caroline and Jakki up front and wonder what is going through their minds regarding our new situation of running Lava Falls backward. During the second that followed our 180-degree turn-around and loss of an oar, the women appeared content watching where we had been and were likely unaware that we were racing through the rapid with but one oar. Two seconds after our fate changing turn-about I become calmer, more relaxed about our situation than I was 30 seconds prior to arriving at the entry to Lava Falls.

I am far from panicking and content in knowing that there is nothing any of us can do but ride into the mystery of the unknown. Early river runners would guide their boats through the big rapids from shore, with attached ropes to “line” the crafts through what they considered unrunnable whitewater. Others would portage their boats. I don’t know which of the two methods one-armed civil war veteran John Wesley Powell employed from rapid to rapid, but I know that right now, we are in Lava Falls, running one-armed in reverse, right down one of the angriest rapids on the Colorado.

Thud, we hit a wave, and water leaps over my shoulders; yet, we are still with our heads above water and moving in a straight line. We run through another wave, but oddly, it almost feels like things are returning to calm. Is the worst over? I’m still apprehensive about turning around. The girls have been looking over their shoulders and certainly know our situation; their expressions are one of, “Okay, that was cool!”

We are near the end of Lava Falls proper, but that means we’ll have Son of Lava to contend with soon. Jeffe jumps into action, dipping left to snatch our fugitive oar from the icy grip of the river. My brain sends me the message, “What if we hit a wave while he’s leaning out there and he falls in? Am I prepared to assume the helm and figure out how, with one oar, we’re going to make it through Son of Lava?” Our luck continues, with Jeffe successfully rescuing the oar and regaining control of the Sam McGee. The tension breaks, and we share a moment of near-hysterical laughter that we have made it. The thought that it was only about 20 seconds ago that this all began is difficult to comprehend. At once, the entire ordeal seemed to have lasted no more than a few seconds, and at the same time, it was minutes before we started to bail.

With helmets still firmly attached, we prepare for Son of Lava. Probably due to its famous namesake, there is no joking or laughter upon entering this rapid. Even after what the giants of hydrology have taught us, we remain serious and focused for what now feels like the Paria Riffle we passed through on day 1.

Fast-cooling lava can form columnar basalt, as seen here. Below the lava, note the gravel layer, which is the former bed of the Colorado River before this lava flow altered its course.

Later, we found out that after Jeffe skirted us past the Hole of Doom, his oar hit a rock, which was responsible for turning us sideways. Now, set up in the wrong position, we were going to slam into that large lateral wave that should have flipped us. Kenney told me that from where he and the other boatmen sat, they were certain we were not going to make it, no ifs, and’s, or buts about it. Had Jeffe not leapt right and I followed, our little dory would have gone over, and we would have had an interesting toss and tumble down the rest of Lava Falls until we either crawled back into our boat or were spat out into the waiting arms of boatmen turned rescue team.

We have now earned the title of ABL – Alive Below Lava. Nothing left to do but float and enjoy the scenery.

Lava Falls received its name due to its proximity to a nearby cinder cone referred to as Vulcan’s Throne. During the previous 725,000 years, lava has flowed possibly four times into this river channel, building dams. The volcanic rock proved to be no match for the Colorado, and before long, the river tore down the blockages and continued its job of slicing through the Canyon. Yet, in spite of all this volcanic activity, Lava Falls was not the creation of molten rock running over the Canyon walls but the work of a major debris flow that washed out of Prospect Canyon in 1939. On our right, evidence of the spilled magma can still be seen in the basalt columns that jut and twist in all directions, creating a puzzle none of us will solve.

We are on the lookout for a sunny beach on the north side of the river; somewhere we can dry off and warm up. Until then, we float. The boatmen row every once in a while, pushing us a hair faster than the current. It is during moments like this when we are witnessing such an amazing display of nature that I want to send out a request to video game programmers and computer animators to put the first-person shooter genre to a brief rest. Create worlds for explorers instead, give those of us interested in history and the sciences a near photo-realistic natural environment that allows us to travel back in time, wander through different eras, and witness nature from throughout Earth’s history. I want the virtual me to have been there on the day when molten lava began spilling over the plateau above the river and into the path of the Colorado. How much lava flowed here before damming the river? As the water pooled behind this obstruction, where might waterfalls have begun spilling over the new rock? What kind of channels would have been carved into the basalt? Computer gaming simulations are approaching the point where the images on our screens are challenging the ideas of what is rendered and what is photographed. Will we use this to practice more killing, or will we venture into new territory in a search to explore our dreams?

Through immersive computer animations, I want to watch torrential rainfalls accumulate, building the force necessary to move debris fields that form rapids such as Lava. Using a 3D kayak, canoe, dory, or raft as my avatar instead of a gun, I would point my craft to shore and exit into a landscape as it may have looked 250 million, 700 million, or 2 billion years ago. I am certain that at some point, we will virtually walk through 3D representations of our past amongst the early life forms to witness how dinosaurs would come to rest in river beds long before they would be found as fossils. And while we are at it, I would enjoy seeing the time-lapse process of organic matter fossilizing on its way to a petrified state. What did the kivas look like when they were in use? And, how were the crops laid out next to the Colorado? Of course, this could be applied to ancient Egypt, Rome, Beijing, and any of the other great cities of Earth, as well as other natural and historic wonders.

Our beach has been spotted. It is glowing in the radiance of the warming sun. In a few minutes, so will we. Upon landing, the boatmen start unpacking the kitchen; we are going to be treated to a hot brunch. Ah, the luxury of it all. While we peel out of our wet clothes to dry our inner layers, our dedicated guides go to work without pause setting up the grill, digging for ingredients from deep within their boats, and putting the kitchen to use. Soon, the product of their efforts will find its way into our hands and then our bellies to warm us from within.

Across the breadth of the beach, our clothes are splayed on rocks and draped over a few tree branches. We each take up the optimal angle to the sun to warm the parts we feel are our coldest. Paul stands far away from all of us, likely to ensure that no one passing him will have their shadows interfering with his absorption of warming sun rays. He has this routine dialed in. Like a cormorant standing on a rock to dry its wings, Paul has his arms fanned out at his side, his head tilted upwards, eyes closed, all the while remaining incredibly still. I’d wager his stillness is used to avoid creating micro currents of potentially chilling eddies of air as he comfortably bakes in the mid-morning sunshine.

Meanwhile, back at Café Sur Le Fleuve, the chefs are fast on the grill, ready to meet the requests of the toasty passengers who have been called in to place their orders. Brunch will be eggs and grilled bagels, with a little of this and a little of that mixed in. With our gullets full, it would be ideal to nuzzle into the warm sand for a short nap; just turn me over before I burn.

Yet the boatmen stay in perpetual motion. As quickly as they finish snarfing their own morsels, they are right back at work, cleaning up and stowing the kitchen before returning us to the river for another beautiful afternoon on the water. Who could ask for more?

As has been the routine during the previous weeks when the river allows, meaning there are no rapids of consequence in our immediate path, a river guide yields the oars of a dory to one of the boatmen who row the rafts. For our afternoon journey to camp at Hualapai Acres, Jeffe turns the Sam McGee over to Katrina. We are continuing our trek through the lava field, at least for a short while, and this includes the still chilly dark shadows, too.

Oh, is that a rapid up there? It sure is. And just where do we exchange our person at the oars for that really experienced person who was at the oars this morning, taming Lava Falls? Precisely where is he, with that little yellow raft? Well, he’s way back there. I shouldn’t worry about Katrina and her boating skills; she’s done great with the raft carrying our gear – no complaints there. But this is a rapid, and we are on a dory.

From where we are on the river, we still have about five minutes to the rapid. It’s called Whitmore, so this much I know, but it is not easy to calculate the size and descent of what is hidden up there. How can I discreetly find out its rating in order to accurately allocate my level of worry? I can’t. We are going to ride this rapid with Katrina, and that’s that. In the back of my mind are the shrewd words of the boatmen: There are three types of boatmen – those who have flipped, those who will flip, and those who will flip again. What type of boatman is Katrina today? She’s a perfect one. Not only does this M.I.T. graduate in geology and physics sing, play guitar, and a mean mandolin, she deftly moves our dory through Whitmore – even if it is a bit on the small side.

The oars dip, pull, and exit the water with the Colorado dripping from the bottom of the blade, and the cycle repeats. Our slow boat to somewhere drifts along until, on river right, a choreography of motion pulls dory and raft alike to a landing. Once on dry land and back in the glowing warmth of the sun, Kenney is leading the way toward the cliffside.

Through a thicket and up a dusty trail, we are on the climb once again. I am soon in a position to experience one of those exquisite overviews offering a panoramic look up the river. If I had but one wish for this trip, it would be that we could have at least one of these views every day. I swing around to see what lies ahead on the trail and spot a rock art panel clinging fast to the cliff face. The others move around to find their best vantage point to both see the rock art and listen to Kenney’s narrative about it. I, on the other hand, continue up the trail, looking at the string of paintings left on this stretch of sandstone, surviving many a decade, maybe even many a century, undisturbed.

My hope is to spot an intriguing figure that I can muse on, dwelling in speculation as to its meaning. In my imagination, I try to envision the person who, after arriving on foot, stood here and took the time to visually describe something from his or her world. As we arrive so many hundreds of years later, it is now up to each of us to take possession of the potential meanings of these paintings. What do these cryptic symbols and characters spell out that could offer a hint telling us who these earlier visitors were?

One thing their visual history tells us is that we humans have an inherent need to leave our mark. Maybe they also are a collection of clever doodles that have no real meaning at all, they are silent symbols meant to intrigue. Stop signs for all those who see them, demanding we halt in our tracks and ponder their meaning. The possible genius is that they are illusions that have tricked their viewers into taking pause right here, at a bend in the river that is nothing less than gorgeous. These early artists, not yet capable of capturing this beauty on canvas or photograph, may have planted these tokens as emblems that say, here is magnificence; this is the art we have found in our gallery of nature.

Back at the river, Katrina remains at the helm of Jeffe’s dory for the final stretch of today’s trek to mile 194. We can’t move slowly enough for me, as I want these hours on the river to forever burn their images onto my retinas and into my memories. The Canyon is quiet this afternoon, with mostly flat water around every corner; the riffles are mild and lazy. If ever there was a time to slow the hands of the clock, that moment is here and now. Two weeks ago, the days before me felt endless. The finish line was standing at a distance that offered no sense of ever reaching it. Today must be enjoyed as long as possible, as long as any one of the first 14 days. I must savor this continuing series of amazements that facilitate my escape from the pull of the artificial reality I call – normal life.

This journey down the Colorado, maybe it, should always remain out of reach for the majority, a story left unread, as not only do the waters strip away layers of earth to create a canyon, but this ecosystem is grinding through human contrivances, stripping away the layers of societal conditioning that have placed artifice in the spotlight, and have painted nature as something false or, at best, a resource to be exploited for our financial gain. You cannot come here and engage yourself in conversation with the Canyon, find its intimacy, explore its beauty, witness the flickers of enlightenment, and not fall in love with this thing that may not be much more than a collection of rocks, water, and cactus to the uninitiated. If one can touch that part of the soul that knows and understands the beauty found in all things and still denies the magic found here in nature, that person cannot be truly human.

As a society, we are condoning cynicism on many levels, and it is, in effect, robbing us of our sense of wonder and hurting our appreciation of the natural world. This blind acceptance of the negativity that cynicism produces is used to push one another into avoiding responsibility for our planet; it is an intellectual act of violence waged against our future. People of today hold the keys to enlightenment, as it is we humans who possess the ability to distill the universe into the observable. We are the inheritors of the creativity that has raised our station on this planet to grand heights. It is time to reawaken these senses of knowledge and imagination from dormancy and prevent their death so that we earthlings can offer our contribution to making the entire world a better place, not just our individual lives. Without bringing someone else, everyone else, on such a river journey, how do we demonstrate or otherwise convey the sense of love and passion found in nature that can be known as intuitively as the lesson that was taught to us at an early age that one plus one equals two? Who does our continued lack of broad knowledge and near halt in learning about ourselves within nature benefit? Is it just me, or are we encouraged to remain in a perpetual state of mental infancy and, in turn, dependent on a herd mentality for our individual validation?

When will society at large learn to understand who their personal boatmen are and what journey they are being guided toward? Why are we taught to be afraid of the mind, the intellectual, the exploration of our own mental canyons, and of nature itself? Might a glimmer of illumination upon the shadowy recesses of the human spirit loft us to a point of happiness and love that can be found here in the Grand Canyon? If you haven’t figured it out yet, I have taken permanent residence on the Colorado River, at least in spirit. A part of me will live here forever. Just as the Native Americans left their imprint on sandstone walls so that they, too, may stay longer than their physical reality allowed, I pen this journal and subsequent book as my pictograph detailing what I found on my visit to this chasm etched on Earth.

I had glimpsed hints of what was in store for me on earlier travels when Caroline and I ventured into National Parks such as Yellowstone, the Redwoods, and Death Valley. Each of these locations, and hundreds more, have all kept some small part of us that then acts as a magnet, tugging at us for our return. But the force here in the Canyon feels like a superconducting electromagnet that will hold our presence, demanding a future return to bring us back to reconnect with what we will leave behind. But how will I ever again find all the tears that have been shed, all the love that has been spilled, and the fleeting images of beauty that were to be had for an instant before having to let them go?

We’ll float a few more minutes before checking in at the Hualapai Acres Beach Side Resort, although the resort side of things never really got a foothold, this being a National Park and all. A sandy patch of land will play home to our tent castle this night; who needs resorts anyway? A beckoning to start the “Parteeee!” is announced over the public address system called Rondo: “All hands on deck, we are meeting on Ashley’s raft. Let’s go; everyone can make it; we’ll get you there.” Armed with a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of scotch, the celebration of being Alive Below Lava is about to get underway on the party boat.

While fairy tales often begin with “Once upon a time,” a boatman’s story opens with, “No shit, there we were!” This is a popular refrain here this early afternoon. Camp is set up, tents pitched, and the Unit deployed before the alcohol starts to flow at 3:00 pm. Within minutes of the first shots from the communal bottles, Rondo bellows off a “No shit, there we were” and then treats us to a story about dangerous rapids, the fate of a blow-up doll posing as a passenger being tossed into the river, and the ensuing panic of the boatman who wasn’t in on the joke.

Andrea Mikus was one of the three boatmen who worked hard to provide any and all assistance required on one of these arduous trips. Their payoff: to be a Grand Canyon guide.

Katrina Cornell. Here in The Big Ditch, the job of river guide is an honor that only the rare individual will ever be awarded. These three women are close to reaching that goal.

Ashley Brown. Expertise, knowledge, heart, and soul are the tools of great boatmen. We were fortunate to have all of that and more from these future Canyon guides, our swampers.

Laughter is the unifying emotional expression that acts as a temporary remover of burdens and stress; there must be a deity out there just for the purpose of bringing levity. Stories of boat flips, drinking, and broken rules push all of us into rolling laughter. The best stories end with the now familiar “I can’t make this shit up” in place of “and they lived happily ever after.” If you learn nothing else about boatmen, it should be that these people on larger-than-life quests for adventure are full of great yarns that are woven out of a life of chance encounters and peculiar situations. The enthusiasm of our river guides brings us right into these tales as though we were there when they happened.

Jeffe uses a break in the storytelling to leave the group. The determination he departs with tugs at my curiosity, and so I follow. He’s on a mission. First, Jeffe grabs the big orange five-gallon coffee thermos, then heads over to the kitchen. Next, his quest takes him deep into the hull of a dory, digging up an assortment of things. Out of view of the others, he opens four half-gallon cans of pineapple juice and dumps them into our empty coffee pot, along with two bottles of coconut cream and a half-gallon of rum. Then, picking up the thermos and another half-gallon of rum, he returns to the party boat.

“Listen up,” he says. “The tradition down here is to be democratic about how strong we make our celebratory pina colada for toasting being Alive Below Lava. It will be determined by the group how much of this now open bottle I am going to add. Here goes, just tell me when it’s enough rum. Did I mention that I already added a half-gallon? Well now, here we are approaching half of this bottle and if one were to feel that this here pina colada was about strong enough, it would be a good time; oh, the bottle is empty!”

Drink up and be merry. After the group leaves Ashley’s raft to fetch their cups and take a dip from the communal bucket, the girls move back to the raft while the guys take up seats around the fire. As time went on, giggly outbursts would explode from the raft while us guys seriously go about the business of solving the world’s problems. Now, with everything set into motion that would cure humankind’s ills, it is time for another amazing dinner.

I still don’t know how anyone could see through the alcohol to prepare dinner, though this is just what our cooks do. Of course, it is seriously dark by the time we eat – great camouflage for what may not have been flawless, except this really was a perfect meal.

Before digging in, Rondo gets up with a drink in hand, “Tonight, for your dining pleasure, we are having steak made to order, mixed vegetables of baby corn, green beans, fresh broccoli, quinoa, and a salad. After dinner, we will have a light and tasty dessert.” The vegetarian option, a veggie cutlet, Caroline insists, is tasty as well – I offer, “Sure it is; after enough alcohol, you could eat my river shoe and enjoy it.” I am the first one done with the carnivorous extravagance; in all likelihood, this is due to the fact that I may be the only one not moving in alcohol-induced slow motion – I’m not a drinker, but I am, however, a voracious eater. Like a dog, I start milling around the grill, secretly hoping for scraps. Kenney reads me like a book and offers me the last steak – that scrumptious and delectable filet is mine; the feast continues.

Rondo calls out, “Hey, you guys, and especially you new guys. Oh my gosh, what a day! Let’s hear it for Linda, who saved our swimmer in Lava.” A big “Woo-Hoo” goes up. Andrea tries one last time to clarify things about her time overboard in Lava Falls, but the truth will not get in the way of a good story; the legend is already set – Mom Saves Daughter! “During the past two weeks, you have been entertained, told stories, and sung to by us boatmen. In two days, on our last night in the Canyon, it is your turn to entertain us on the ‘No Talent / Talent Night.’ You have two days to prepare. In a moment, Frank and Linda will start delivering dessert, which, of course, is a personal favorite: Dutch Oven brownies. Hey, you guys, I LOVE MY JOB!”

It’s 7:30, and most of us have been going for 15 hours now. Paul and Ellen are the first to stumble away from the fire, laughing into the darkness in their attempt to find the tent they set up five hours ago while still sober. Joe is snoring before his head hits the canvas. To clarify, this 76-year-old guy never once set up a tent. He would unfold a tarp, unroll his sleeping bag, and, as close to the river as he could get, he would sleep under the stars. On the nights we had a bit of rain or high winds, he would pull a second tarp over his sleeping bag and continue sawing logs. Out in the distance, the laughter of the lost campers, Paul and Ellen, keeps us chuckling around the fire. A voice insists the tent is this way, with a giddy answer coming back that it is not to be found over here, either. We decide not to help but to stay here, being entertained by their antics.

The next couple of hours are spent around the fire. There may have been some music, maybe another story or two; it could also be that we listened to the crackle of the fire. But what really stood out was a poem. A poem about life on the river, written somewhere on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River, by our boatman Stephen Winston Kenney.

A State Of Grace

All my life I have searched for a Sense of Place
To find the tempo to set my Sense of Pace
River life creates such an amazing Space
Running water finds me in a State of Grace

Those long flat stretches floating on liquid glass
Living in the present and not the past

The water’s silence as you feather your oars
No matter the stretch, it leaves you wanting more

The undulating curves at a rapid’s edge
The serenity fades as you drop the ledge

Once you have committed to the Mother’s tongue
Your fate to the river cannot be undone

The mixture of Power and Fragility
Rapids in their glory are a sight to see

Enjoying low water runs and springtime floods
Running crystal clear, sometimes like liquid mud.

Each time she has a nature all of her own
You never forget the wildness she has shown

The bright Dories running high, wide, and handsome
Taking your everlasting Soul for ransom

Driving a sweepboat down alone in the Church
It’s another place where your soul may be searched

Hearing a Canyon Wren at the break of day
The smell of cowboy coffee floating your way

Catching reflections of the cliff sides above
Side canyon hikes that can’t, but fill you with love

Late afternoon light that envelopes us all
Fiery sunsets which ignite the Canyon walls

The casting shadows at the end of each day
The Quiet that surrounds you in such a way
Our hardships and friendships blend with laughter
Touching so many lives, making them better

The look in the eyes of a fellow brother
Raised apart but wedded to the same lover

Some memories are momentarily lost
But I know the feeling each time I push off

I am blessed to have been shown such majesty
I shall ever dream of her great mystery

In this World, I have found that Sense of Place
Heavenly waters set my Sense of Pace
My River Life creates my personal space
Running water finds me in a State of Grace

–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.

My brain commands my fingers to remain motionless lest the movement tears painful cracks into my parchment-thin, dry skin. Zippers are wicked little devices best operated by nimble digits, not sore, numb fingers on the verge of a blood offering. Still, someone must zip up our gear and finish packing. As bad as it is now, it is going to get worse. The clasps that secure the tent to the tension poles must be undone. Our fingers want to fail; they are unable to apply the strength needed to unlatch the locking mechanism, so we try the side of a knuckle or edge of the thumb to give leverage, hoping that there will be enough spring in the downward compression for the hook to pop up and away before we can tackle the next clasp.

Our hands may be what suffers most on this trip. The boatmen are unambiguous when it comes to clean hands, “We do not want any type of potentially debilitating virus to infect one of us or worse, the entire group.” This has happened in years past and motivates our guides to ensure it doesn’t happen now. The need to have a Groover nearby and ready to be deployed at all times due to explosive “number 3s” is a challenge. We do not want fecal contamination from unwashed hands to grind our river trip to a halt, as one’s own inner river of fury is a rapid no one wants to ride. Everyone must wash their hands following toilet use. Before getting in line for food, we must wash them again, even if we just came from the handwashing station near the toilet. Then there are the two hot meals a day that require us to wash and rinse our dishes.

Regarding the dishes, I should take a moment to describe how our kitchen operates. Three collapsible steel tables are used for breakfast and dinner preparation and presentation. One table holds the stove where water is boiled, a grill set up, pots, pans, and skillets are staged. On the same table, a Dutch oven will stand ready to hold warm pancakes or other delectables as they are set aside until enough are ready to be served to the group. The second table serves two purposes; first, it is the food prep area where a small number of people may lend a hand to slice and dice veggies, then, when the meal is ready, it is transformed into the serving table.

The third table holds another bane of our hands: the dishwashing station. On top of the table sit four galvanized tin washtubs. On the ground at one end stands a trash can for the food scraps left on dishes. Prior to our meal, water was taken from the river and allowed to settle. Some of that water is then brought to a boil on the stove before being used to fill the first three of the tubs. The fourth one contains cold water, with a splash of finger-eating bleach added as a disinfectant. Each dish and utensil undergoes a four-step cleaning process. In the first soapy basin, the dish is scrubbed free of food; then the dish enters the second soapy basin for another scrubbing; from there, it is rinsed in the hot, soapless water and then transferred to being disinfected in the bleach water before ending up in a mesh bag strung under one of the other tables to drip dry.

Add this up. Wash your hands after the toilet, wash them again before eating, and back into the water they go to wash your dishes. On the dories, your hands are going to get wet along with most of the rest of you. Bailing out the dory, hands stay wet. Lunchtime, wash those hands again. Back on the river means more wet head-to-toe action. Pull into camp; if you bathe, you are going to get wet, including your hands. Dinner call, time to wash your hands, and when you’ve had your fill, wash your dishes one more time. Last call at the Unit, you know the routine.

I already knew before leaving for this trip that our hands would be wet and cold most of the time, not a good combination, so I did some research on how to best care for these delicate instruments. Internet forums for the obsessive-compulsive hand-washer seemed a good place to start. They recommended Cetaphil hand cream – I bought a pound. We put this lardy cream on no less than twice a day, sometimes as much as four times a day. While our fingers didn’t crack wide open, they were often quite painful and extremely sensitive when they weren’t numbed by the cold water.

Our feet weren’t used for washing dishes or needing to be washed after a visit to the toilet, but they, too, were wet for hours on end. Our first lesson regarding wet feet happened back on Eminence Trail, though we weren’t aware of it at that time. My advice from that experience for future whitewater newbies who want to hike the dusty trails: upon arrival in camp, get your river shoes off and start drying your feet immediately. Warm sand works great to that end. During those early days after leaving Lees Ferry, we did not get out of wet river shoes right away, and when we did, we pulled warm socks and our hiking boots over damp feet. With the excitement of our first big hike and the delirium of being in the Canyon, a large part of our logical brains was turned clean off. For this oversight, we paid dearly with blisters that would plague us for the duration of the trip.

The final consideration regarding water would be to give attention to your sensitive bits, especially those areas of skin where friction could create problems. You will be sitting in wet shorts, on wet benches, and not infrequently in lap-deep water. Coming from the river, we often hit the trail in moments where, depending on your particular body architecture, there should be consideration made for when or where diaper rash could raise its magic wand of discomfort. Raw thighs on the trail may give you the cowboy swagger that lends authenticity to an old west persona, but out here, trying to have fun, day after wet day, inflamed inner thighs will not take your mind off the blisters on your feet. Instead, you will feel pain from butt to toe. A lifesaver here that was suggested to me just before our departure was A & D Ointment. Seems that vitamin A and vitamin D suspended in a gooey salve work wonders; just ask any baby.

I may as well make a theme of this and move through more body stuff before putting this topic to rest. In the suggested packing list our outfitter sent us regarding what might be needed on a river trip, we were told to bring resealable plastic bags for our trash. We would be responsible for dragging our own rubbish from the Canyon. There is no central repository for waste on one of the rafts, nor are there campsite trash receptacles. In that very same inventory recommendation was the hint that we might want to consider bringing camp wipes. These are essentially oversized moist towelettes or baby wipes for adults. Camp wipes proved invaluable. As one begins to ripen to a potent odor, bringing offense to the olfactory, a thick, moist wipe comes to the rescue if one is hesitant to dip the parts in cold river water every other day.

The wipes even come with instructions suggesting that you use the man-sized towelette on your face first, just in case you blunder and accidentally use it on your butt before applying it to your face. I’m certain this couldn’t happen more than once. The camp wipe ritual proved almost fun as we would scrub our face, ears, and neck with the towel draped over a hand, creating an ochre-tinted handprint on the once pristine white towel, supplying us with seconds of amusement. The next swipes over various other parts of the anatomy will be left to the imagination of what visual details graced this now disgusting, greasy towelette. Pleasingly refreshed, we stuff the used and unsightly camp wipes into one of those resealable bags.

This process goes on for days. Between the occasional river baths on a sunny afternoon, this method of getting cleaned up, even using the wipes on our itchy heads as a kind of shampooing, proved to be a soothing balm for a person not accustomed to these hygiene deprivations. If this had been a summer trip, I’m sure the phenomenon I am about to describe would have struck us within a few days. The resealable bags, with their evil, despoiled wipes and various artifacts of trash, eventually developed a full-spectrum bouquet. It would only take one time unzipping one of these plastic bags bubbling in fermentation to convince you never to open this particular bag ever again. If you had up until this point been trying to be environmentally friendly and were attempting to use a minimum of these bags to conserve plastic waste, it would be on this day, at this very instant, that you would find yourself tossing that frugality, along with this pouch of wretched stench, into another resealable bag that you can’t zip shut fast enough. You stuff the fermenting pocket of unbearable putrefaction into another bag, and maybe yet another, as you now fear that these bags could somehow break open while packed in your dry bag, with the clothes that don’t smell a fraction as bad as this bag of malodorous rot. Don’t forget to have your spouse smell the thing before sealing and storing it for the duration of your trip.

Time to put the aches, pains, and foul odors behind me and get moving up the trail. We are on our way into National Canyon, the last of the narrow slots that we’ll be able to visit over the remaining 59 miles of our river trip. I feel as though I sipped from the bottle labeled “Drink Me” and have shrunken to insignificance when measured against the immensity of this wonderland. Moving away from the wide expanse of the beginning of the trail, the narrowing path brings us past seashells peering out at us through 335 million-year-old Muav Limestone. The next steps deliver me through the fossilized lungs of some giant stone creature of lore. I am on my way to the heart.

Someone forgot to carve a polite trail through this boulder-strewn oversized artery. We crawl over and around rocks, the size of tanks, walk through the creek’s cool, clear water, and step into the moist sand. Our hike through the canyon pries open the imagination. A single tree stands firm, pushing hard against a slab of limestone as it insists on taking hold of two handfuls of dirt that have collected in a crack on the solid rock. Defiantly, the leaves are coaxing the branches to extend the tree beyond its reach, as though it might one day be successful in finding its way to the sun.

We walk as a silent caravan of nature’s revelers, celebrating our good luck to be amongst a group of like-minded travelers who are showing the demeanor and respect of people in a library, a church, or a hospital. It must be the sense of awe that reduces our need for words, leaving us content to remain speechless. Maybe there is no language for that which is beyond comprehension?

Our muted steps add to the well-worn edges of the illustriously smooth rock terraces. Beauty abounds where man-made noise does not distract the focusing mind. Is this reverence a buried instinct that once allowed our earliest human ancestors to explore their world and leave nothing more than a few mysterious symbols giving notice to others that someone else had passed through this land? Maybe there is no real need to despoil the environment when we are truly in the abundance of nature.

The outdoor, all-natural library of the Grand Canyon offers its vast wealth of knowledge to all who pass its towering bookshelves. All that is required is for us to open our minds to the invisible words writ large on the landscape and turn the page. On that next page, and below the steeple high above us, our walk takes us through the pews in a church, where our prayers are heard by the mighty ears of these canyon walls. The presence of nature is felt easily and experienced in tangible emotional ways. Some see this as the divine making itself known in an affirmation of what they knew was already there, although they might be in need of a reminder. For others, the emotional peaks and valleys of their own mind and soul may be an awkward first encounter with an awakening that is difficult to interpret or define.

The Canyon is also a hospital, offering us sanctuary to heal that which ails us. Psychic surgery is offered on the third floor, rebirth on the fourth floor, while humbling arrogance-ectomies are available free of charge on the first floor after you check in with Dr. Lee Ferry here at the Colorado Plateau Medical Center. Knowledge, spirit, and body are being restored here in the greatest of all intensive care units. Once reaching the 225th floor, you should be fully recovered and able to see life again with renewed clarity and vigor; good day and watch your step.

A little further up the trail, we reach the altar. This wasn’t supposed to be the end of our venture into these parts unknown, but a deep flooded pool is blocking our progress. Ahead, the slot canyon narrows into a twisting passage that leads further back into things begging at our inquisitive minds. Rondo tells us of the beauty that exists just beyond our view. We will have to leave only knowing his story of what has been shielded from our eyes. We are not to collect the cherry on top of the cake of experience this time, but the view we are offered at the end of this trail is sweet and yummy all the same.

We throw it in reverse, retracing our steps only to find ourselves in a parallel universe where things are the same, only different. Certainly, we are still in National Canyon, but hiking back to camp, the scenery, while familiar, does not seem to be precisely the one I just walked through. This works in my favor. My return to camp feels like a brand new trail, and the time saved from cutting this morning’s destination from our malleable schedule offers me more time to stroll along in leisure.

I cannot say that I have ever been more aware of the role of reflected light in changing the characteristics of a place as I am here, deep in the Grand Canyon. Up on the rim, it is precisely this charm of light and shadow spilling across the vistas that pulls folks out of bed early in the day to witness the sunrise and then again late in the day when they drop everything to watch the sunset as it bathes the Canyon in reds, purples, and burnt orange.

The late morning light is falling in a cascade of radiance, splashing downward from golden cliffs. The sun inches across the sky, its slowly changing light altering the terrain ever so subtly. The colors, shapes, texture, shadows, and complexity of features are undergoing an artful transformation that will have us questioning if the place we saw 20 minutes ago is the same one we are looking at now. This is a large part of the attraction that begs of us to linger, to absorb all we can in this rare moment we have been offered, to be present in this place.

Consider that during this particular moment, the vibrancy of color, the depth of shadows, and the reflection of what we bring to this experience will be interpreted differently, dependent upon the time of the week, month, or year when the sun is higher or lower in the sky. Clouds may be diffusing the light, or instead of being here in the morning, we might arrive at noon or late in the day. So, if someday you should find yourself standing right here, know that you are seeing the world in a way no one else has ever seen it before. Take a mental snapshot and compare it to what you thought you would see, and you will likely recognize a richness of detail that must have been put on display especially for you in your moment. You may never know this phenomenon, though, if you do not break out of your routine and find yourself somewhere in life, stumbling into the extraordinary.

We look into the infinite, trying to find meaning in the small corner of reality we occupy while simultaneously recognizing that we are sentient beings that have the ability to distill the universe into the observable. This is the wisdom of old nature.

I take a few steps forward, blink my eyes, and rub the disbelief from them. Yes, nature actually does coordinate itself in such delightful configurations. I’m not the only one noting this; Joe stands next to nothing in particular, looking at the rocks. Not just any rocks either; these are rocks that have captured Joe’s wonder. As he investigates the show of color and contrast between the shades and hues and everything else that brought him to a standstill, I stand here equally entranced, watching this man almost 30 years my senior, looking transfixed at the beauty he is taking in, much the same as I have felt so many hundreds, maybe thousands of times during the previous two weeks.

My wife, who I am sure was cut from the same cloth as me, is also lost in searching for details easily missed by the casual glances of those who walk through with nary more than a desire to have been here. Strangely enough, there are passengers who will not put themselves into every situation offered on these journeys, even when very little exertion is required. The impression given is that they may be here to humor someone else whose desire to be here was greater than their own. Caroline pulls me over, taking my attention from watching Joe in his curiosity in order to share with me something she is marveling at.

Water. The reflections, sparkles, ripples, splashes, and delicate sounds created when thin sheets of it are running over wild earth draw Caroline in to lose herself in the subtlety of the scene. In this fascination with detail, we were made for one another. Together, we follow the stream, watching in wonder as it meanders over the gray and purplish limestone. It enters and exits half-bowls and depressions, spills over shelves and ledges, and dips to swirl through seductive contours. Up ahead, it washes over short drop-offs, producing waterfalls an inch or two in height. We smile at each other with eyes that ask, “Can you believe how lucky we are?”

But we do know how lucky we are. The symbiosis found in our love has encouraged us to see the world and all of its beauty through four eyes, two hearts, and two smiles as we walk through life hand in hand. This act of sharing is a large part of the chemistry that has changed our perspective of what lies before us. During our exploration of the Canyon, my thinking matured, with the idea that extending our circle from two to many can have a positive effect on our ability to appreciate even more. Conversely, I believe it is loneliness that diminishes the vibrancy of our vision. Humanity is not programmed to go it alone. It is difficult to celebrate in isolation when you want to rejoice in the life emanating from your fascination. The art of images and the words from our language of exuberance turn to riches when they escape the confines of our hearts and are shared with others.

While I can see the magic of this place at work within my wife, amongst the boatmen, with Joe, Sarge, and the others, any open exchange or sharing of where we are inside is stilted and awkward, as though we have lost our ability to speak of what resonates deep within. It’s possible that nothing meaningful is lost from this lack of expression; intuition may be a more powerful force than we know. Maybe real communication has been crippled due to our obsession with the superficial nonsense of episodic television or worthless statistics easily parsed and used as a poor example of knowledge of important things. How is it that as a species claiming self-cognizance, with an ability to manifest an impact on its own destiny, we have dissolved our sense of community while simultaneously creating ever greater population densities? Why does the mass of an urban society foster anonymity, breaking up hope for a thriving, cohesive environment that should be functioning to bring us together? How can polarization and insignificance be considered an acceptable norm emerging from an intellect that is qualified to do so much more? We are destroying the air, water, land, and the quality of life for other species, and in all likelihood, our own too. Is this how we display the current apex of our hope and potential? How did pettiness, greed, and division overtake our capacity to know better? It has been the compassion, determination, and a love of life that sustained humankind through plagues, disaster, pestilence, starvation, war, and the other deprivations that have haunted our time on Earth; let’s hope our positive attributes can carry us through these difficult times, too.

When will we throw off these shackles of stupidity? When will we remember what true friendship is and begin to move each other off the rock of arrogance, intolerance, and isolation? Our self-respect and sense of belonging need to survive beyond economic disasters, terrorism, and personal tragedy. I want to live in a community where I know my neighbors. I want to share in the telling of our adventures, epiphanies, and educational milestones, and I want to know the stories of my friends – not their viewing habits or the number of kills scored in their favorite video game. People shouldn’t have to feel abandoned and neglected by family and society alike as we race to possess stuff while failing to own the wisdom derived from kinship, positive experience, and community.

I do not purport to want a communist or socialist utopia. I understand that all things are not equal, but I also know how having nearly nothing is more tolerable when a shared sense of standing together with my fellow human beings will not leave me feeling abandoned and alone. Despair and civil ugliness are the only outcomes when the glue of community is weakened, and our sense of self-preservation is exploited. I would rather shed another tear for the beauty of nature and friendship than have to mourn for another random person who had to die in an act of violence caused by greed, intolerance, or fear.

This is where my thoughts are taking me when staring into the reflecting pool of my heart. It is what I see when watching fellow travelers embrace, who are still able to weep when overcome by a shared experience. My dreams, hopes, and aspirations push me to find a string of thoughts that will act as my mantra to maintain this state of perpetual awareness that nature wants us to reach so that we might glean a peek into our higher selves. With the love, sharing, and familiarity I find with my wife and friends, and ultimately with the world at large, I wish to see the day that the power of our hearts and convictions to do what is right will squash what is holding humanity back. If only we were as free as this water coursing over the limestone here in National Canyon, maybe then we, too, could attain this level of beauty.

Eventually, we must leave National Canyon and find ourselves back on the liquid highway, though glide time here is brief. Our trajectory points us to a muddy, wet riverbank and a steep hillside trail. Stepping from the dory into the mire, I wonder how deep I will sink and ask myself if this is the famous suck-mud that doesn’t easily release the extremity it captures. For me, with my camera clutched firmly, the objective is to not fall into the goo. I try to mimic the actions of the water striders that walk on the surface tension with quick light steps.

Once on dry, firm ground, I look back at the strategy of the others. I am impressed and in admiration of those who threw off their shoes and are experiencing all the tactile sensations of stepping into the cold mud gushing between toes and wrapping their feet in earth socks of fine sediment. Orange hard-plastic mallets hammer sand stakes into mud that quivers with every downward blow. With the boats secured to terra – almost – firma, we are ready to conquer another trail.

At the beginning of our hike, we cannot see where we are headed beyond a dozen feet in front of us. This has been true the entire trip, come to think of it. No one announces if we will travel half a mile, two miles, or five hundred feet. Where we stop, turn, or detour is always a surprise.

Thick brush lines the first section of narrow sandy trail until, a few minutes later, we reach a cliff face and a steep, even narrower, rocky path. The majority of the trails we find ourselves on are primitive and, at one time, were likely animal trails or the routes used by early inhabitants of the Canyon. Passing one another here on the cliff-side is not an option; the trail is strictly one way. A funny thing about perspective going up a trail is that they never look so steep. But once atop a spot where one can comfortably pause and catch a breath, looking back to see the others in your party, the sudden elevation gain is abundantly apparent and – for me at least – occasionally intimidating.

Thanks to the now-familiar knowledge that we have been traveling through layers of fossilized sediments, I am always on the lookout for signs of petrified plant and creature remains. Nothing from the distant past stands out here, though I’m sure given some time to do nothing but search for fossils, I would turn up something. Then, lying sandwiched between the sandstone layers next to the trail, an antique! It is a fragment, a piece of something larger; it is the broken metal housing of an outboard motor. This keepsake is the casualty of an encounter between hard rock and not so durable machine. Scratched into the metallic surface are some fading dates that tell us this motor met its end back in 1965. That it has been allowed to stay here, like a treasure sitting on a mantle, for more than 40 years without finding its way back off the river as a stolen souvenir is remarkable. I wish for it to remain a river memento for another 40 years, as a reminder of those pioneering early days of recreational exploration here on the Colorado.

The trail is short, but before we reach the optimal arch viewing area, there are views up and down river that are singing out to be seen. I oblige, giving audience to the symphony reciting this operetta of gorgeous delight. The mud, brush, rocks, cliff, river view, blue sky, and the finishing touch of a crescendo offered by Alamo Arch all work in harmony to bring the piece into a cohesive whole. No longer is the hole in the rock a solo performer, nor is the sight of it the destination. We have been on a miniature expedition, playing a small part in the bigger journey. Even during these brief side excursions, I choose to go further than the most obvious end location. This philosophy is, in large part, the trail I have taken in life’s journey without ever really knowing the final destination.

Not far downstream from Alamo Arch, Below Red Slide Camp is a mere spit of land at river mile 176 (yes, “Below” is part of the name of the camp). It’s still early in the day but not late enough for the previous guests to have broken camp yet. The others who are hanging out did not arrive by boat or foot; they are intruders who landed on a wing; they are flies. Lots of flies; flies by the gross. A baker’s dozen would have been tolerable, but these pesky waste-eaters smelled a feast rowing in on the wind that signaled our arrival. A buzz of fly-shouting must have been broadcast far and wide that a ripe group was on approach because, by the time the rafts were unloaded and bags delivered to campsites, a horde of flies that had been lying in wait flew out to welcome our presence. The flies let us know in their raucous song of merriment how much they were enjoying the invitation to dine on the funk and detritus we carried to their dinner table. Caroline and I took the fly orgy as a clue that a bath was in order.

Leave the lavender Dr. Bronner’s behind; this cleaning requires the extra-strength spearmint funk annihilator. Stepping into the water, I tremble at the thought of the big day tomorrow and the reason we took an early camp – Lava Falls. This rapid of monstrous proportions is just out of sight, 3 miles downstream, but never too far from our imaginations. All of a sudden, I feel as though I’m preparing my body for the coroner, and the flies are a hint of what’s to come. No matter, I must clean up as I’m reminded of what my mother taught me: wear clean underwear every day, you never know when you might find yourself under the care of a paramedic or doctor. Looks as though the rest of the group shared the same lesson from their own mothers, with most everyone taking the opportunity for a shore-side sudsing this afternoon.

Here we are, sparkling and fresh from our dip in the Colorado, with no side canyon hike or any more rapids today to keep our minds distracted. No action in the kitchen either. Nothing much to do in this early camp but sit here, letting the tension mount and wondering what tomorrow’s white-knuckler at Lava Falls will deliver. About 75 miles ago, after passing through Crystal Rapid, we earned bragging rights that we were ABC – Alive Below Crystal. There can be no one who takes a river journey through the Grand Canyon who doesn’t know about the legend of the Canyon – Lava Falls. Tomorrow, we all hope to be ABL – Alive Below Lava. Our group has been lucky so far: no falls of consequence, no dreaded boat flips, no stomach viruses, no one overboard. If there is a rapid that holds all the potential of doom, it is surely our next ride.

On previous nights, Rondo’s review of the day and preview of what comes next has been held around the dinner hour. Tonight, he is giving his spiel with no food in sight. This can only be part of the tension ploy to ensure our senses are highly alert to be fully responsive early tomorrow. The announcement holds the nugget of surprise that we will be woken at 5:00 am, in the dark of the day. We will need to pack up faster than we have on any of the preceding days. Breakfast will be bagels and lox, to be wolfed down by the light of our headlamps. We are urged to visit the Unit and make quick business of things. The rafts and dories will be untied and launched by 6:30.

The goal is to thrust ourselves into the maelstrom of Lava by 7:30, to experience 23 seconds of controlled, reckless abandon, well, as much control as a boatman, two oars, and years of experience can bring to bear once we enter the madness of Lava Falls. Why so early? The daily water level fluctuations triggered up at Glen Canyon Dam will make Lava Falls more difficult to run as the flow decreases throughout the morning. In spite of my healthy dose of fear and respect for this infamous landmark, there is a part of me that wants us to make the run at minimum gnarly flow, to better flirt with death and danger.

It is now after 6:00 pm, and I lay prone in debilitating anxiety on the sand, writhing in anticipation, not for Lava Falls, but where in tarnation is dinner? The stove is working hard, and the Dutch oven is baking at its own slow, steady pace. Finally, a guitar arrives to serenade us – or to distract us from the long wait. Shortly afterward, the call goes out to wash them hands and start the lineup. Pork in green chile sauce, coleslaw, and the treat of all treats – Dutch oven cornbread – are on the menu.

This isn’t just any old dry, moisture-robbing, semi-edible desiccant one tries to choke down. This special recipe must be the cake Marie Antoinette lost her head for. Tonight, we dine on the deluxe cornbread of the comfort-food gods.

It would be unfair to now withhold this recipe, denying you the opportunity to taste the single greatest river treat I laid taste buds upon. Here it is:

1 Box Krusteaz Honey Cornbread Mix
1 Egg
1 Small Can Diced Green Chilies
1 15 ounces Can of Whole Corn – drained
½ to 1 pound of cheddar or cheddar-jack mix
Just enough milk to make a thick dough, between 4 and 8 ounces
1 stick of melted butter – Who cares about fat down here? We are working hard and are near the precipice of death anyway.

In a large mixing bowl, add the cornbread mix, egg, green chilies, corn, and milk. To add the cheese, break up the block into small pieces – about the size of small coins – and stir them into the batter. If you are making this at home, pour the melted butter into your baking dish, add the cornbread mixture, and bake at 375 degrees for approximately one hour. If you are making this in a Dutch oven in camp, fix a couple of paper towels into the butter-filled bottom to help in the removal of the cornbread. Place about eight briquets under the oven and about 20 on the cast iron lid – this all depends on the size of your oven. Bake for 45 minutes before cracking open the lid, as you do not want to let the heat escape. Stick a knife into the cornbread; if it comes out clean, the cornbread is finished; otherwise, replace the lid and cook for another 10 to 15 minutes. When the cake of corny delight is finished, grab a big stick to fend off your friends and family, who will attempt to come between you and your cornbread.

M&M’s are passed around for dessert as though they are needed. Now, in full-blown, carb-induced ecstasy, the thoughts of tomorrow’s tumult in the bowels of Lava Falls are far away. Approaching fast is a pillow and cozy sleeping bag that want to help celebrate cornbread euphoria – who needs sheep?

–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.