Have I woken to life in The Far Side? Like in the comic, most of the scene is normal. There’s just this one anomaly that brings absurdity to the situation. The peculiarity arresting my attention is a tall bearded cow of the Holstein variety standing upright on two legs instead of down on all four. I am facing its flaming pink udder, sporting four teats that point directly at me. Of all the situations I may have dreamt of prior to this adventure, a man-cow shooting a cyclopean beam of light from its forehead was probably the farthest thing from my mind. And just what is this apparition? A dream, a phantasm, a ghost? No, it is boatman Steve Kenney who has traded his dress for a formfitting Holstein jumpsuit. The next question is surely going to be, why? Because he is making breakfast, that’s why. I beg my wife to grab the camera and take a photo of me on bended knees, suckling the bearded Cyclops cow, but she insists she would die of embarrassment if her husband were to throw himself on another man’s udder. This is not when I wake from a dream; this really is my morning.

In dark shadows of the early day, there’s not a lot to be seen. We must wait for the sun to fill the sky with its brilliance to guide us voyagers who are following this path sliced deep within the Canyon. Until then, we are afforded the luxury of enjoying another cup of coffee with our sunrise. We chat with the boatmen, asking who has empty seats we might claim as ours. Early on, it was suggested that we rotate who we are riding with from day to day to allow us the experience of learning how each boatman responds to the river. Soon, it is bright enough for us to continue rowing with the current, and are underway. We venture out on mostly calm water to a point further downstream, where we will embark on adventures yet to be discovered.

Time spent on the Colorado becomes amorphous, lost in the drift. I wonder if seconds, minutes, hours, or days have passed. Reflecting patterns in dancing ripples under rock folds combine with the change in river speed and the varying color palette to hypnotize my vacating mind. My eyes should have arms and hands skilled in pulling even more of these sights into my memories. I wish for a tool capable of harvesting the magnitude of light bouncing off the surrounding environment and then depositing its wealth directly to the optic nerve, carving a permanent image of what I am seeing. Like an appetite for food, my eyes develop a hunger to see more of more. All the while, as my desire for more escalates, my brain reels under the weight of overwhelming stimulation, forcing the body into stillness from the frantic sense of perpetual awe. Small talk is replaced with big silence.

Less than an hour after putting in on the river, we are pulling off the river. Hike number three starts like the previous ones: fill your water bottles and change out of river shoes into hiking boots for those who prefer that option – the majority of us remain in river shoes while the boatmen hike in flip-flops. Let’s go. From down here, most trails have but one direction – up. And that’s where we take aim. The paths are well-worn from the thousands of pairs of feet trekking through these canyons, but precisely where those trails continue is not always apparent. In a landscape full of bare rocks and boulders, it is easy to lose the way, requiring a quick scramble to reconnect to a thoroughfare that is just 20 or 30 feet away but cannot readily be seen thanks to a lack of cairns or trail markings, leaving us novice hikers wondering where to turn. Some quick calculations and we are again catching up with the group. From the front, instructions are passed back, this time advising caution when grabbing rocks for leverage as fishhook cactus burrs in your fingers are painful reminders that you may not have been listening to valuable warnings.

We hike into a side canyon; our attention focused on the person in front of us while trying to make sure that we’re not holding up anyone following behind. The problem here for those of us wanting to spend time sightseeing is that there is little opportunity to stop and get a good long look at the splendid panoramic scene surrounding us. Our quick elevation gain offers views of the snaking river we are traveling and glimpses into the distance where we are yet to go. Look over your shoulder at these sights too long, and you risk finding yourself stumbling into an injury that might necessitate an airlift from your perch, bringing this part of your adventure to an end. We pay attention and watch our steps and where our hands are placed.

Toward the top of the hill, the ground levels quickly, and in a second, we enter a narrow canyon. At the same moment, the desert fades and is replaced with trees, monkeyflowers, ferns, and a small creek. The desire to look up and downriver from on high fades as new curiosity envelops the senses. What is all this greenery? Why is this oasis right here, and for how long during the year is it so fantastically lush? I want to be here just five minutes in an attempt to see and understand it all. No chance, we have a date with a destination in Saddle Canyon.

The trail leads us into a slot canyon, allowing us to see close-up the details left, right, and directly in front of us all at the same time. The mind’s eye buckles the knees of perception. Maybe the Grand Canyon is, in reality, a cascade of beauty designed as a cruel hint of what perfection might look like. Here I am again in a state of awe, reduced to a single-word vocabulary of, you guessed it, “Wow.”

The last part of the hike has us passing through a chest-deep pool of cold, murky brown water before coming upon a chockstone. This king-size rock from elsewhere up in the canyon has wedged into the slot and represents a bit of an obstacle for us. The boatmen reassure us that we can all get up here with a little help. A hidden handhold has been carved into the boulder; we are directed where to place one foot, then the other, now grab up there, push off, and if you need to, grab a boatman’s hand.

I am now on the shelf, flanked in intimacy by red sandstone, facing a clear pool and the hanging moss growing up the sides of this exclamation of a waterfall. The rarity of opportunities to witness this tiny hidden corner of our world is not lost on me. Never will it be possible to parade a million people into this shrine of Saddle Canyon. Maybe after the hike, others might feel that this experience is the most natural thing in the world, to be standing below such magnificence, but I must stop and take stock. How many times during my life will I be given this chance to be present in a space narrower than many a sidewalk, where a waterfall tumbles gently before me, performing a delicate concerto of wonder, gracing my ears with the soft rush of falling water, as it dances in the light, tickling my eyes?

As beautiful as it all is, it is not mine; I will not take a bit of it home. Aside from a few photographs. I can invest every sense of awareness at my muster, and still, the power of recollection is a weak recording mechanism. I keep on looking, observing, listening. I feel the cool breeze and step into the shallow water to immerse myself in the experience of having been in Saddle Canyon. I sit here a while, and still, mere seconds after I leave, the fading mental images will spill into uncertainty that such a beautiful place really ever existed, robbing me of the fleeting memories I try to latch onto. Maybe someday I’ll come back? But then, what of the other still unseen corners passed up for a visit to this place? Would they have been as beguiling? And what of this new thought of returning? It’s not really yet a glimmer of possibility, as this was supposed to be a once-in-a-lifetime trip down the Colorado, well, until this moment anyway.

Our return hike is met with a hint of rain as we retrace the steps that brought us here. The drizzle is easy to deal with, but if that light sprinkling were to grow to something more substantial, we can be happy to be well out of the depths of this slot canyon. After all, it has been the engineering of flash floods that have carved these channels in the first place. As we depart, another band of boaters is on their way in – pay attention, guys.

These are the first people outside of our group we have seen since leaving four days ago. The encounter feels awkward; a couple of nods are exchanged, they go their way, and we ours. How many times in our lives will we find ourselves isolated in a small cluster of less than a couple dozen people without contact with others? Rarely before was I more than hours or minutes away from a TV, telephone, radio, or the possibility of running into a stranger. Now, not 96 hours into this journey, the random passing of other people leaves me wondering: who was this other clan? Where did they come from? Will we see them again? Are they as astounded by this place in the Canyon as I am? Were they just as curious about our tribe? Now they are gone, and never again did our paths cross.

We remain in motion. There’s a keen sense of movement never-ending, from the moment of waking to the second we close our eyes to bid the day adieu. In the daily routine of life away from the Canyon, I can see how a treadmill existence grinds the momentum of awareness to a standstill. As we imperceptibly exercise what we know as adults and ever so incrementally nudge ourselves forward in life, the landscape changes little. Breakthroughs originating from our routines are rare, if they ever occur at all. But when presented with a constant flux of risk, adventure, isolation, quiet, and beautiful scenery, a persistent sense of awe opens, and each step into the next brings another new lesson, another new day. When every blink of the eye opens to the potential of finding memories best kept in the heart, we come alive in a new vibrancy, feeling the radiant glow of our soul. This growing excitement broadens our imagination’s horizon, and what might otherwise become routine is found to be the beginning of another new adventure.

We return to the dories to continue our epic opportunity of discovery. No more rain or gray sky; the short performance of raindrops was the closing curtain that told us to leave the stage of Saddle Canyon. The next minutes become a new day. As we inch down the river, the sky parts, brightening with fluffy white clouds that intermittently blot the sun, producing the sweeping show of shadow-and-light play on the canyon walls. Yesterday’s lead actor may have been Point Hansbrough; today’s star will surely be our next stop – Nankoweap.

As they were designed to be, the granaries of Nankoweap are nearly impossible to spot from a distance. Even with a person who has visited the Canyon countless times pointing directly at them and accurately describing where to look at the cliff-side, these ancient seed stores remain out of sight. Then, out of the confusion of broken rock and rubble, the pattern of the four – now permanently – open windows is revealed, the regularity standing out as though a spotlight is cast on the granaries. I have admired many a photograph that certainly flatters their beauty, perched high above the Colorado, but the approach from the river below, as we glide by before pulling ashore, offers an appreciation of their veiled location that is hard to convey by word, photo, or film.

The Ancestral Puebloans who chose to live riverside in the desert of the inner Canyon did not stake out the easiest of places to live. Nothing about life down here could have been simple aside from finding intense beauty. Hiking the steep trails between river and rim is hard work. The Colorado would have brought driftwood for fires, but wood to build with would have to have been dragged down from the rim. The rainy season is similar to that of the southwest desert, with heavy monsoonal downpours coming on in July and August when daytime temperatures frequently climb well into the hundreds. After these episodes of torrential rains, the Canyon roars into fury as waterfalls score the cliff-sides and crash with thunderous effects into the river below. Evidence of hundreds of waterfalls can be seen throughout the Canyon. These storms could have damaged trails, made side canyons impassable, and floods may have destroyed crops. Still, the Ancient Ones would persist against this hostile environment for many years before ultimately abandoning the Canyon. Why they left is open to speculation, but some evidence points to an extended period of drought beginning near the year 1150 that appears to have initiated a major migration out of the area.

Part of what they left behind in their departure may be the most photographed and famous granaries in North America; they are found right here, at this bend in the river at mile 52 – Nankoweap. From Little Nankoweap Camp, where we will stay this evening, we track back upriver, passing through another group’s campsite and over a trail that starts out flat but, near the foot of the cliff, changes into a steep scree slope. After ascending the majority of the elevation gain necessary to visit the ruin, the remainder of the trail is a narrow shelf, cutting a switchback up the final yards before we are able to seat ourselves right up in front of these historic granaries.

Here, where I sit on the edge of this cliff-side, at some time in the distant past, another man or woman likely sat after having dragged a part of the harvest to be stored and sealed in this water- and pest-proof, well-camouflaged enclosure. How do I filter the conditioning of modernity to see the world through their eyes? What were the thoughts and feelings of the people who sat here a thousand years before me?

Nankoweap’s four windows into the past now act as reminders of the culture that is long gone. There is no more seed waiting to be planted, no more food to be collected and shared. From below the cliff to the riverside in the distance, the fields that once held crops have long been fallow and will remain so as long as the Grand Canyon is a part of the National Park Service. The Native Americans who visited this corner of the Colorado Plateau for more than 11,000 years left little to help us understand who they were, but as I sit here looking out, I do feel I can know a small part of them. They, too, must have held dear the sense of beauty. Up here, one can see the river continue its timeless flow; canyon walls change color as the day goes by, and shadows chase each other. Unhurried, I embrace the luxury of remaining in the moment, trying to honor and share this humbling recognition of the incredible spectacle nature has created at this bend in the Canyon with those Ancestral Puebloans, in whose home I am a guest.

It is here at Nankoweap that I learn a new reason to appreciate the professionalism of our boatmen. As our group sat next to the granary, a bunch of rafters from a private trip lined up on the trail below us to take our places once we were to depart. That would be a while, as Jeffe was just telling us about the agricultural practices of the Ancestral Puebloans. As we listened, so did the newcomers. It was then that I began to suspect that these travelers likely didn’t have talented storytellers along who would bring the lore, history, and geography of the Canyon to their ears each day and night. How privileged we are to be accompanied by seasoned guides, and how much more may be taken from this journey due to their presence.

Our guides are experts in many small and some large ways, often, this is best evidenced when sharing their knowledge and following in the steps of oral traditions found across time and culture. We are not simply riding the whitewater and hiking; we are being immersed in a totality of experience and wisdom that paints memories with more than the eyes alone can capture. There is no sense of being corralled by teaching lessons; we are free to lend an ear and enjoy learning even more about our temporary home. As we left the granaries, the group that had been waiting patiently thanked Jeffe, each and every one of them, as did we.

How does one get from here to there? Not in the physical sense; I’m referring to the recurring theme of time distortion I keep coming back to. There we were, walking away from Nankoweap on a slow stroll back to camp, lost in conversation, lost in the landscape, lost in history, arriving at who knows what time. Instead of wandering about, following every last ray of light, weary feet, and legs convince the body above them to take a seat next to the crackling fire. The time between sitting down and having dinner could have been spent staring into the fire, admiring the sunset, talking, writing, or hovering near the kitchen, watching the preparation of our evening meal. Whatever it was that kept my attention also captured my sense of time; ate it whole, as a matter of fact. Was it the unimaginable scale of the environment around me, the distance of time stretching into antiquity, or the magnitude of history on display? I can’t be certain which distraction was the culprit, but I do know that from the point when I sat down until after dinner, my mind took an exit from the overwhelming to enjoy the quiet of being still.

Next thing I know, Kenney is reading for us “The Muffler and the Law” from David Lee’s book of poems titled The Porcine Canticles. The poem tells the story of a pig farmer on his way to a hog auction in a truck with a busted muffler. He gets pulled over and fined by a humorless police officer but manages to balance the scales of the perceived injustice with the help of his friend’s big black sow, to the chagrin of this officer of the law. Retired State Trooper Steve “Sarge” Alt is the first to succumb to sidesplitting, infectious laughter; sitting next to him, First Light Frank is second to lose his composure. These two guys are soon rolling around in their chairs, laughing uncontrollably, dragging us all right with them. More than once, Kenney is forced to take pause to bring his own laughter down a notch. He finishes the poem to howls and knee slaps.

This would be a hard act to follow under any other circumstances, but here in the Canyon, we are being groomed to accept whatever comes next. Bruce steps right up to grab the reins and our attention. The encore to the humor is a poignant reminder from desert sage Edward Abbey, who delivered the following words as part of a speech to environmentalists in Missoula, Montana, many a year ago:

“One final paragraph of advice: Do not burn yourself out. Be as I am – a reluctant enthusiast… a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it is still there. So get out there and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, encounter the grizz, climb the mountains. Run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, that lovely, mysterious and awesome space. Enjoy yourselves, keep your brain in your head and your head firmly attached to your body, the body active and alive, and I promise you this much: I promise you this one sweet victory over our enemies, over those desk-bound people with their hearts in a safe deposit box and their eyes hypnotized by desk calculators. I promise you this: you will outlive the bastards.”

Bruce wasn’t finished with us yet; he sent us off with a nightcap. He, too, uses a poem, one that he brings out on longer river trips on which the people along for the journey have made a commitment to go further. It’s not everyone who signs up for an 18-day adventure where neither showers, toilets, cozy beds, room service, nor TV is to be found. Those who opt for the convenience of a few days, maybe a week, maybe simply dipping a toe into the waters, or could be collecting quick trophy locations from their bucket list of 100 places to visit in a lifetime. But for the intrepid souls who make the bigger commitment, he brings out an old poet who speaks to the guts of every one of us on this path; that man is Robert Service. Bruce’s selection is from the book The Spell Of The Yukon And Other Verses, published in 1907:

The Call Of The Wild

Have you gazed on naked grandeur
where there’s nothing else to gaze on,
Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,
Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon,
Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?
Have you swept the visioned valley
with the green stream streaking through it,
Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?
Have you strung your soul to silence?
Then for God’s sake go and do it;
Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation,
The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?
Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation,
And learned to know the desert’s little ways?
Have you camped upon the foothills,
have you galloped o’er the ranges,
Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?
Have you chummed up with the mesa?
Do you know its moods and changes?
Then listen to the Wild – it’s calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence,
not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?
(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)
Have you broken trail on snowshoes?
mushed your huskies up the river,
Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?
Have you marked the map’s void spaces,
mingled with the mongrel races,
Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?
And though grim as hell the worst is,
can you round it off with curses?
Then hearken to the Wild – it’s wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed,
groveled down, yet grasped at glory,
Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?
“Done things” just for the doing, letting babblers tell the story,
Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?

Have you seen God in His splendors,
heard the text that nature renders?
(You’ll never hear it in the family pew.)
The simple things, the true things, the silent men who do things –
Then listen to the Wild – it’s calling you.

They have cradled you in custom,
they have primed you with their preaching,
They have soaked you in convention through and through;
They have put you in a showcase; you’re a credit to their teaching –
But can’t you hear the Wild? – it’s calling you.
Let us probe the silent places, let us seek what luck betide us;
Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind,
there’s a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.

–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.

Wake up, coffee, eat, last call for everything. Get on board. A minute later, everyone get off – we’re here. Here, is on the beach across from camp for a look at a boulder lying just beyond the grasses, not far from where we landed. In a quick second, we will have an up-close inspection of one of the many minute details found in the Canyon, while for the majority of visitors to this National Park today, the view will be from the rim well above us. Up there, we make a snap judgment about what lies down below, thinking we have seen and now know the Grand Canyon. It is convenient then to believe we understand, to some extent, what this giant canyon is that stretches out in all directions.

Down here, things are not so obvious or simple. My head doesn’t wrap so neatly around a compact and tidy explanation or observation. Even with the accumulating details of geology and history as I understand them, there is too much to be experienced here for an individual to find easy answers. The enormity of the Canyon’s story spills through my mind, allowing me to approach but a fraction of what is here. While the scope of it is understood as being in the realm of the possible, I am struck with stunning incredulity that yesterday, I was looking at fossils nearly 100 feet above my head. And now, this morning, after slicing ever deeper through the layers of sandstone, we are looking at another nautiloid fossil embedded right here before us in this rock.

In the coming days, as we descend further into the strata, we will continue to stumble upon the historic record of life that preceded us. We will stand in fascination and awe that locked in stone is the imprint of a life form, peering at us through millions of years, awaiting our arrival to verify that “it” once existed and, for a while, thrived. If you cannot see your own temporal life in these terms, will you be able to cherish this fraction of a second that you have been afforded to explore the surface of Earth during your own time? Our greatest contributions to life are found in the creativity of the written, musical, and visual – the arts of being human. Machines, technologies, and automation may offer us convenience and even longer lives, but what mark will I leave that stand the test of time? An extinct plant or creature can have a presence millions of years beyond the time it was alive. We, like all life, struggle to be alive, to be known, and then to be eternal. How will the record of our own brief layer in the sandstone of geological time be read? Will a distant life shed a tear of joy for the beauty and understand the nature of a long-gone human? Or will it weep that only the fossilized remains of cars, plastics, and radioactive waste etched a record of rapid extinction into the stone?

From the fossilized record of what was, we come to a modern relic known as boatman, oarsman, river guide, and, in my eyes, shepherd. Who are these people of a burly nature piloting the dories we travel on? How did they come to be married to a path that would enlighten, inspire, and lend knowledge from a character so large? And then, instead of holding their treasure of experience to themselves, they sacrifice their bodies and personal relationships to share all, in the remote chance they will bump into that rare individual whose soul needs this medicine of spirit and place.

One day, the man at the helm is a stranger; the next day, he is a book to be learned from; on the third, he’s becoming a giant. Certainly, before this trek is over, he will attain mythical proportions, blending into and becoming one with the river and Canyon. Then, you will begin to understand that you, too, are on your way to being a figurative boatman, a guide, a shepherd in your own right. When this journey is over, you will be back at home in your community, nudging your own flock to find the beauty in all that is around them and within.

Today, that person with responsibility for my well-being sits at the oars wearing a skirt. He is Stephen Winston Kenney, a man as large as the dory in his charge, as woolly of character as the beard adorning his kind face, and as friendly as his southern accent suggests he should be. If ever there was a man who could wrestle these rapids and do so while wearing a dress, yet leave no doubt that this is a man’s man, he is right here in the form of this boatman. With another Steve amongst the passengers, boatman Steve, who we would see wearing various colorful skirts and hats of all types, will, for the duration of the next week’s answer to Kenney; the story of his dresscapades will be told shortly.

While everyone on the river will certainly have their own unique circumstances that brought them to the world of rowing, it was Kenney’s we first learned of, floating here in Marble Canyon. As a graduate of the much-respected institution of higher learning known as Sewanee, The University of the South, Kenney had been offered a relatively easy path into the world of corporate America. This wasn’t to last long, as his father had an encounter with destiny in the form of a stroke and subsequent cancer early in his retirement, denying him his sunset years. Kenney’s house of corporate cards came tumbling down on this particular square peg, which all of a sudden no longer fit the shape he’d been groomed to occupy. Through a series of events, and that proverbial one thing leading to another, Kenney found himself in Terlingua, Texas, and Big Bend National Park. Hello, world of rafting.

Well, that’s not too big a stretch, experiencing the evolution of moments that change one’s life from one of stability and a regular paycheck to earning barely a livable wage, moving human cargo through danger in the face of life-threatening forces of nature. But just how does the dress enter the picture? For that, we travel to Salida, Colorado, and an innocent wager that could have been easily walked away from. Kenney, though, was too busy rowing into change and adventure to let this one pass. It was a silly drinking bet versus a “really dumb wager” that a dare was entered into. Talking with “The Brown Girl,” a woman Kenney knew from Terlingua, these two arrived at a point in the conversation where, who knows how we get to these points, she challenged our guy to throw on a dress before sauntering into the local den of wickedness – a biker bar. If he were to win the bet, Kenney would enjoy a night of drinking at this woman’s expense. He warned her that he would likely drink her entire paycheck away. Her response, “Maybe you could, but I’ll first have the enjoyment of watching you in a dress walk into a bar full of shit-kicking bikers already half-drunk on a Saturday night.”

As the week goes by, Kenney visits the local second-hand store, trying to find something that contrasted nicely with his massive beard, would demand attention and would fit a guy standing 6’2”. Sorry, but the details regarding color, print, or cut are not revealed as we sit on the edge of our seats, waiting for what was to come next. Saturday night is here, the dress is on, the front door only needs a push, and the bet will be won. Like entering a rapid, once the momentum of the rushing water has taken hold, you are not going to go against the current; you may as well gird yourself and hold on. And into the crowd, the man in a dress strode. Next goal was the bar where, as nonchalantly as possible under these circumstances, Kenney would order a beer just as any number of these men, clad in black jeans, black t-shirts, black leather vests and jackets, and head-stomping black leather boots, had been doing prior to the bearded princess strolling in to defile their cave of man-ness.

Well, that was easy enough, “Could I have won a night of drinking with so little effort?” If he had, he probably wouldn’t have had a growing sense of unease. What happened next began in the back of the bar and was related to him by the Brown Girl losing this daring wager. An alpha biker of considerable heft departed his game of pool to move towards the bar with the swagger of John Wayne. In slow-motion tension, reminiscent of a duel at high noon, the crowd begins to part, allowing Kenney’s death wish fantasy to play out like a poorly scripted B movie.

Halfway across the bar, our boatman now senses the sounds behind him are changing and that it is quite likely someone is approaching to discuss a dress code violation. Not knowing who or how many are coming his way, he clenches hard on the beer bottle in his right hand as a potential weapon. The man’s voice reaches Kenney before the sight of him does. Thundering out of this human boulder is a string of curses using a foulness of words that, if it were not for the fact that an altercation was about to ensue, Kenney would have stood in awe. The mastery of the talk-down that is enveloping his manhood, his ancestral past, present, and future, draws in images of depravity that should make hearty men blush. Kenney takes inventory of the situation, recognizing this linguist of the profane is also adequately equipped to clean his clock and toss his second-hand dress to the floor where it will be collected and used as bandages.

Then, in a breath, the biker asks our catwalk beauty why he shouldn’t inflict the damage Kenney should know is about to begin. Weighing the beer bottle in his tight-fisted grip, Kenney has less than a second to decide if he should try to get one good blow in or resign himself to a new reality of pain. Instead, he leans back and, with his soft-spoken southern drawl, calmly and almost in a whisper, offers this: “Brother, I have no doubt you can kick my ass, and if you do, your friends back there will congratulate you on kicking the crap out of a man in a dress. But if by chance, and yes, it is a big if, if I were to somehow get a couple of good shots in and I kick your ass, you will forever be known as the guy who got the shit kicked out of him by a man in a dress.” Fair enough, says the biker and returns to his pool table.

Kenney’s dory, the Lost Creek, continues to float through Marble Canyon. It would be here on this calm water where I figure out that there is nothing quite like a man in a dress to distract and disarm folks into finding some levity when faced with a situation that might appear tense and dangerous. I hope Kenney has packed some pink chiffon for the scarier whitewater that lies ahead.

That we are here in Marble Canyon at all could be considered a great gift. Thirty-nine point seven miles from Lees Ferry and enough experience in these short 48 hours that if this were the extent of a Colorado River trip, one could not feel cheated. There has already been so much beauty to behold, so much to appreciate, and so much river that could today be under 300 feet of water. It was here, near mile 39 in Marble Canyon, that a proposed dam came close to being built back in the 1950s. Thanks to the efforts of Grand Canyon dory pioneer Martin Litton and the Sierra Club, the development of yet another dam on the Colorado was halted.

Had Marble Canyon Dam not been fought off, Lees Ferry may have been the put-in point for a 40-mile long lake trip, but never again would a boat find a launch onto the greater Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. Today, we stand in the shadow of Martin Litton, who hoisted himself atop the shoulders of John Wesley Powell, ecologist Aldo Leopold, and founder of Friends of the Earth David Brower, before tearing a page from John Muir’s book of positive action to work on behalf of humanity to save this important corner of Earth. Our boatmen understand this legacy and are proud to share a small part of the life of an extraordinary man who helped gift them this career of guiding dories, rafts, and passengers down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon.

Our stop at the proposed dam site allows us to take inventory of our good fortune. Boreholes drilled through the rock formation scar the view. Large, rusting bolts are still embedded in rock. Attached to them are pieces of the cables that once stretched from river to rim for moving men and supplies to work. Two rotting, wood-hulled boats that were part of the operation lay in ruin; the boatmen point out that they have shifted since the previous month’s torrential rains. One day, these reminders of man’s invasive actions will crumble into the river, dragging away a small part of what had been an attempt to desecrate a place many insist is the greatest canyon on Earth and home to one of the planet’s most incredible rivers. A place where the curious can enjoy what is quite possibly the most unique river trip a person will ever take.

How strange the idea that some can find beauty in a place while others can be dismissive of any other value aside from the money to be made by its exploitation and, ultimately, its destruction. I suppose the two sides could be seen as equals while simultaneously being polar opposites. We are both, in a sense, greedy, one for the aesthetics found in the random display of natural beauty to be shared with all humanity, the other greedy to feed their pocket. But while one’s pocket may find temporary fulfillment, it will soon be emptied, while my mind and imagination, once fed, will forever carry my wealth of experience. I, for one, must join in thanks to Martin Litton for this day because, without his tireless efforts against the crushing bulwark of bureaucracy, none of us would be running the Colorado, not on dories, rafts, powerboats, kayaks, or naked on inner-tubes.

From river stories and history to technical skills and experience, passing on this body of knowledge and tradition happens on many different levels. Back on the river, another hand-off of the baton is about to take place. The women who row our supply rafts are volunteers trying to accumulate enough experience to graduate to Grand Canyon Dory guides. They are already great boatmen and guides on other rivers, but down here, they are journeymen, honing their skills until one of the coveted positions is vacated by a boatman moving on. Kenney offers Andrea the Lost Creek for a stretch. The next miles will be rowed by this woman in command of a strong nature and tremendous ability, who, from the seat she occupies, will gently dip the oars into the river and pull us along. Andrea guides us slowly and surely to our next shore.

Far above us, shadows of the Ancient Ones alight upon our senses. A footbridge, long unused and now in disrepair, stands as a fragile signpost that this trail was once taken by people who are long gone. Ever-present whispers of the Ancestral Puebloans still echo between these walls of stone. Their graffiti will frequently litter our way forward, a kind of fossilized language of symbols – the neon signs of their time are now burnt out and mostly unreadable. During their lives, they found a home here in the Canyon, built shelters, and grew crops, saving food and seed in the scattered granaries for when these items would be needed in the future. Abandoned mano metates used for grinding corn and grain, commonly known as mortar and pestle, could be dispersed anywhere in the Canyon, confused with any one of the billions of rocks strewn about. The fingerprints of the early inhabitants of the Grand Canyon are found lingering far beyond their physical presence, just like the crumbling bridge seen here showing us their path. If you should look down and find a discarded pottery shard, make a close inspection, as you may see the impression of a palm or thumbprint, looking as though it were pressed into wet clay just yesterday. Maybe the Ancient Ones never really left or are never very far away at all.

One more small bit of whitewater to contend with today. We cruise through President Harding Rapid, named by the 1923 United States Geological Survey expedition. Upon hearing of the death of the President, these ten men, on a mission to create a more accurate map of the Canyon interior, saw it befitting Harding’s memory to designate this rapid in his honor. By the time of their summer run in 1923, only 27 others had made this journey down the Colorado. After the rapid, there is but a short run around the corner to mile 44 and lunch.

Our midday meal stop will also mean an early end to our time on the river here on day three. This will be our home for the night; we have landed on the beach at Eminence Camp. Rafts are unloaded with haste, as is the routine when reaching our stopover. While we set up tents, the crew chooses their kitchen location, the Unit site is scouted, and it so happens on occasion that campers must be told that they are setting up where the toilet will stand. With the sun at full shine, the solar shower is rigged up riverside; using an oar, a length of rope, and a sand stake, one of the black shower bags that have been basking in the warm sun rays is hoisted – a modern-day pirate flag. Water is gravity-fed to a small shower head, letting those who want a hot shower fare better than those who will opt for the cold river and a quick APC bath – Arm Pits & Crotch.

Rondo shouts over the noise of the river that hikers need to gear up, fill water bottles, and be ready to go in ten minutes. Those not hiking are invited to hang out and chill, enjoy a book, a shower, or a nap. Shortly thereafter, the group is assembled, and with Rondo leading the way, we walk upriver a short distance, turn right, and look up the steep, nearly invisible trail tracking up Eminence Break. If ever there was the idea that this was going to be a relaxing vacation, those thoughts are about to be banished. By the time we reach our observation and resting point, after climbing up nearly 1000 feet over Muav Limestone into the Redwall Limestone, touching upon the Supai group, blisters have taken hold of my flatlander’s feet, and the pause to catch our breath is greatly appreciated, not to imply I hadn’t rested multiple times already while bringing up the rear.

Point Hansbrough towers across from us; the Colorado flows around it, forming a horseshoe bend. From this perspective, I can witness the panorama of the Canyon, the scale of this turn in the river reinforcing my sense of largeness. On the river, horizons shrink and narrow; I become small and grow distant from the civilization I left behind. Sitting on dories inches above the river, I look over our domain, and while on calm water, we are the humans in control – rapids change that equation, but hopefully only for seconds. The canyon walls stand high, blocking the view of how far we are from the civilization of familiarity we have left behind. From a thousand feet above our campsite, the boats are tiny; people are difficult to see unless some movement lets one differentiate between tree, rock, and person.

Up here, everything around me is bright and sunny. There are no shadows besides the ones we cast as the sun attempts to fill all nooks and crannies; that isn’t the story down on the river. And yet, our place up here is not the total “up high.” That is still far above us, up even steeper cliff-sides, climbing to a rim where I can only imagine cars and busy people might be. But I don’t want to think of that world, the noise or the urgency afflicting the minds and actions of people who feel everything must be done now and consumed now. Maybe I could just sit here like a cactus, waiting for the next nourishing rainfall, growing atop rocks and a thin layer of soil, content to not move at all. Me and my thorny nature at one with and belonging to the Canyon, not an inch out-of-place, just another small element in this perfect scenery.

But a cactus I am not; time to be the rolling stone and get moving down the mountain. The jagged, narrow trail tests my ability to place a well-anchored foot if I want to remain free of injury. The climb downhill is hardly any quicker than the scramble up. With the speed of confident bighorn sheep adept at gliding over precarious ledges, the hikers out front are gone in a flash. If I, too, race from here to there, will I have ever had the chance to collect the finer details of what this trail looked like, how the elevation change shifts the overall view, or what plants, insects, or small animals hide just the other side of what I ran past?

It’s late in the afternoon when Caroline and I limp back into camp. The cooks are in the kitchen, and it’s still warm out here in the red glow of sunset, the perfect time for a dip to clean up. Not that there really is a perfect time to become acquainted with this cold Colorado water, but the dirt of the trail, the sweat, and that it is Sunday have coincided with an alignment of planets, suggesting that now may be my best chance to doff the clothes and find myself in my birthday suit glory for what could be my one and only river bath.

Caroline goes first, taking her place a good distance from Paul, who is using the solar shower while Jeffe and Bruce are cleaning up in the shallows upstream. With her best imitation of nonchalance, she strips off her modesty and, standing as discreetly as a woman can who is naked to the world, proceeds to be initiated in the ritual of a Colorado River bath. Heed the cautious tales of those who have found themselves sinking slow and imperceptibly into the suck-mud. Once it has a sturdy grip on your foot and ankle, panic may not be far away as you and your bareness grapple with trying to yank one limb from the mud while sinking deeper with the other, and your mind raises the question of just when do you yell for help? Luckily, Caroline, buoyed by her laughter at the situation, is able to free herself without attracting the attention of anyone else in camp.

Now it’s my turn. Having been knee-deep in a dory full of cold river with waves crashing overhead, water sneaking past waterproof clothes pulled snug, I have confidence that my parts know what I’m about to step into. Sure enough, the feet and ankles enter the river with nary a flinch; it’s everything above the shins that is shocked and sensitized by the frigid immersion of a body fighting the impulse to flee. I grab Dr. Bronner’s Magic Soap and start lathering the essentials before uncontrolled shivering might flop me into the river like a fish out of it. I scrub fast and furiously, a little dab here and a hint of soap there, and then 7 seconds later, it’s time to rinse. What in God’s green earth was Dr. Bronner thinking when he put peppermint into his soap concoction anyway? The last thing I need right now, in addition to the bite of cold river water, is a tingling in the nethers. On the other hand, this leaves no doubt as to what precisely was washed. There, I did it! I have had my official baptism in the heart of the Canyon. Should I decide to live in full raunch for the next two weeks, I will forever know the feeling of naked skin to icy cold water on the day I, of my own volition, bathed in the oldest all-natural tub I may ever step into. Back on dry land, I quickly jump into my clothes and make a beeline for camp and a hot meal.

Do tarantulas like fajitas? Probably not, but one large, hairy specimen of the arachnid family is sauntering up our beach, doing its best to bring horror movie thrills to dinner. Our eight-legged visitor is allowed passage, slowly making its way home, or maybe it, too is looking for dinner or a warm spot near the fire. Around our glowing and warm camp circle, a noticeable comfort sits with us. It could be our full bellies, but my guess is that we are relaxing away from our fear of the rapids, we are becoming familiar with one another, and we are finding the rhythm of life on the Colorado.

This wonderful day of terrific moments, gorgeous weather, fantastic sights, and a great crew combined with delightful passengers conspired to deliver nothing to complain about. Drama was kept at bay; silly antics were not to be part of the itinerary.

From my notebook of that night:

Twenty-two people sitting in the dark, canyon wall sentinels surrounding us, stars high in the sky. Civilization is disappearing. We are some 40 miles from the memory of what our other lives were. These 22 people are slipping into the historic, the tribal; we are transitioning to a point where we are alone but one with the Canyon. We cannot leave one another. We are being brought together by these tribal leaders, four men and three women, who guide, feed, entertain, and teach us how to live as a small community. We help each other to not be alone in a world bigger than our limited experience, with a view that has been narrowed by the needs of a society that doesn’t cherish the individual or honor the nature that is our shared home. I have to wonder if we as a nation have lost the nomad and replaced the campfire with a television. When did we lose the curiosity to explore, to sit around and talk, to know that we were part of a community?

The circle of these 22 souls has drawn closer. The fire whips in the wind while the voices of our boatmen fill the air with song and story. Some of us share this with a loved one, some shed a tear, and some must celebrate within themselves. But tonight, we have all begun to share with one another.

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

It’s 5:00 a.m., and the combination of full bladder and restlessness jostle me awake. The crew introduces me to a sound that will become all too familiar in the coming days: the metallic whoosh of pressurized propane, firing the stove that heats the water for our coffee. I give in to the idea of waking and would happily step outside, but I’m finding the pull tab of my sleeping bag stuck, requiring minutes of mummy-like wrestling with a zipper that only wants to eat more bag. Cursing my predicament, I would rather be outside emptying the little blue bucket we had picked up last night to ease the pressure of the bladder, but I’m a prisoner right now. One and all, we were encouraged to place a bucket next to our tents before retiring for the evening. In the past, trips to the river at midnight while half-asleep have resulted in passengers taking a fall or a swim, later to be found sleeping in the sand or floating downstream, and not in a good way. Finally, having escaped my entrapment, I deliver our bucket to the river for emptying and rinsing before finding relief for myself. Maybe two buckets last night would have been in order.

Back at the tent, I help Caroline pack our waterproof sacks, called “dry bags,” trying to get an early start. We are still unfamiliar with the process of getting organized on a river and don’t want to be laggards. The dark blue-gray twilight will soon give way to the pastel blues and pinks that accompany the rising desert sun. The call for coffee goes out, but we focus on pulling down our tent and dragging bags riverside so they may gain passage aboard the rafts that accompany the dories.

First call for breakfast. Boxed milk and dry cereal is what I was expecting, but that isn’t on the menu today – well, it is if one really wants it. The hot choice is apple banana pancakes, butter, warmed real maple syrup, bacon, and fresh sliced cantaloupe. A loud pronouncement of “First light!” breaks through the morning quiet. It is customary in the Canyon for the person who sees the first golden rays of sunlight falling on the rim above to make the announcement that first light has been seen. We have now learned how First Light Frank earned his nickname. Frank’s official title is Swamper; this is an unpaid position for a couple of lucky individuals who are along to help the boatmen in exchange for free passage on one of the supply rafts. More than half an hour passes between eating breakfast, washing our dishes, and getting lost in our first ever sunrise on the Colorado within the Grand Canyon. Where did the time go?

The call of nature and my body are moving towards synchronicity, with an apparent intent to cooperate. While it shouldn’t, or wouldn’t, normally show up in a book, this movement is not like that of normal times. This reference must surely be categorized as too much information, but the coffee and breakfast bring on that old familiar downward pressure, signaling me that I’m about to have my first encounter with the Unit. The luck of it all is that the key sits alone, allowing me to head directly to La Pooperia. Up and over hill and sand dune, this moment of exercise adds urgency, blotting out any idea of considering what must happen next. Snap, zip, up with the lid, and hello river view. Now, while the Unit is a good distance from camp and offers great privacy from your fellow passengers, it will remain set in plain view of the bigger world for the duration of this trip, with a startlingly clear window of everything else but camp. Settled in, comfortable, and content with the ease with which I adapt to what yesterday seemed awkward, I take up my best imitation of Rodin’s famous statue, the Thinker, and quickly begin to think too much. What if another boat trip was floating downstream right now? Would I clamp down on the plumbing and try to slink away unseen through the grasses? Or would I put on a big happy smile and wave enthusiastically? No need to test my fight-or-flight response, and without crisis or issue, my business is done, and the key is handed off to the next person now in line. I wash my hands.

In quick order, rafts are packed and bags tied down, the kitchen is stowed, last call for the toilet before it’s resealed and dropped on a raft. If you are not in your waterproof gear, you should soon get that way – Rondo promises us a Big Rapid Day. Just before 9:00 a.m. Caroline and I push off on the One Eyed Jack with Bruce at the oars. We are the second dory in line and, within seconds, are making our way into Soap Creek Rapid. Sitting next to my wife, I believe I can feel her adrenalin pumping in rhythm with my own. Blinking one’s eyes is slower than the speed at which the first splash comes out of nowhere, crashing into the dory. The cold water begins to compress the air from my lungs, a second bigger wave finds entry into my jacket and a path down the back of my neck – my remaining oxygen is now gone. I gasp and try to refocus my river-washed eyes in time to see a third wave about to finish filling our floating pool. With feet chilling faster than thighs, the water is almost bearable around my waist compared to the ice wrapping my shins as body heat retreats into my torso. The command to start bailing is a terrific distraction. We unhook the plastic laundry soap bottles with their bottoms cut off and caps screwed on tightly and begin heaving water out of the dory at a gallon per throw. Hysterical laughter of having survived grips us, alleviating some of the cold. We keep on bailing.

Anxiety gives way to exhilaration, the skill of the boatman moderates the fear, and the falling of tension allows our minds to relax into observing our environment clearly. Our eyes not only focus on the white turbulent chaos of the rapid but are now beginning to take aim at what else is here as the river begins its churning descent through the constriction that whips the calm into whitewater.

The first element of beauty our gaze takes pause on is the “tongue.” The tongue is the part of the rapid where the water is at its deepest. In these seductive yards of river that drag us into the heart of fury, the flow becomes a smooth undulation of glass where, for a few brief moments, an almost frictionless silent calm delivers the dory into perfect harmony with its environment before crashing into reality and thrusting us into the rapid. Next up are the “pour-overs,” where a smooth sheet of water tumbles over a buried rock wall or large boulder, creating a water curtain hiding the danger before the falling water begins its churn into whitewater. On our sides, shallow rock gardens, often covered in tendrils of algae, agitate the water, acting as dire warnings to stay away from the edges of the river.

We are learning the language of the river with the hope of finding a growing comfort with its expression. The better we can read the fluid signposts, the easier it becomes to pay attention to the complexity of details and anticipate what our boatmen require of us to maintain an upright dory and dry passengers. Today, it is dawning on me that our boatmen read a rapid as we might respond to cues as we drive our cars at home on city streets. We are taking our first baby steps in learning how to navigate the road ahead.

Anonymous sandstone cliffs rise above us, casting long shadows. They have names we’ve heard before, but today, they elude us. This layer cake of history stretches over hundreds of millions of years, represented by what at one time was more than 25,000 feet of earthen deposits. Some are of marine origin, while others formed as mountains crumbled, deserts came and went, and winds scattered what was left. As geologists moved into the Canyon, they identified the age and composition of the geologic record in this grand display. They brought order by assigning names to layers, helping one another know what period in the historical record others might be referring to. Tapeats, Coconino, Kaibab, and a multitude of other indecipherable names would come to identify the rock from top to bottom. Deep below, in the basement, they found Vishnu Schist. Two billion years of Earth’s history were exposed to the prying eyes of a people looking to understand our origins.

Canyon details begin to move into focus and become defined as the boatmen point to specific features. Folds, uplifts, fault lines, erosion, rocks, falls, patina, coves, and seeps will enter our vocabulary and take their place in our memories. We will encounter fossils underfoot and high overhead throughout these days. Plants grow from impossible locations: on quarter-inch-wide barren rock ledges or next to the tiniest trickle of water being squeezed through millions of tons of petrified sediments.

Fluted rock must surely be some of the most intriguing displays created by a chance encounter between a random stone, solid rock, and water. First, a stone of appropriate size must find its way into a depression or chip on the top of a stationary rock. Water flowing over the surface of this rock and the loose stone produces turbulence, spinning and rattling the abrasive stone. Years pass with the tumbling agitation slowly drilling a cavity to form an ever-deepening pit until one day; it has created the distinctive flute-like shape we see next to the river. Over time, the loose stone causing this phenomenon erodes and disappears from the pocket it created. The process takes a pause until another stone on its way to the river falls into the flute, and the excavation continues.

We are about to get serious. It was announced this morning that we would be wearing helmets today; that point is here. On the approach to House Rock Rapid, we pull ashore. The boatmen need to scout the conditions of the river, which has broken into a loud roar. They huddle, point, and confer as their collective experience brings the group to a decision on how they will guide us safely through the next giant. “Helmets on!”

Our dory glides sideways on the tongue of House Rock Rapid, and with a deft and mighty pull at the oar, Bruce points our boat downstream in an instant. We skirt a wall of water, slice through a wave, and shimmy over raucous whitewater while excitement rules the flow of things. In seconds, it’s over; the helmets come off. This was the first rapid where helmets were called for, and there weren’t two gallons of water in our footwell. Our appreciation for the skills of the boatmen soars.

Soon, we’ll be passing mile 19 and entering the Twenties, the 10-mile stretch of river with the highest concentration of rapids in the Canyon. We are promised that more thrills are approaching. For me, the thrills have been coming on for quite some time. It was almost a year ago in November when we first learned of the cancellation that would allow us to sign up for this adventure. Over the ensuing eleven months, not a day went by that didn’t see me thinking of our launch date and what this trip might have in store for us. I read a dozen books, studied maps, sought out photos, watched videos on YouTube, and devoured every Grand Canyon documentary I could put my hands on. Our deposit check was signed on my wife’s birthday during a walk in the snow along the South Rim of the Grand Canyon. On Memorial Day weekend, a short road trip from Phoenix brought us to the North Rim for a couple of days of hiking. On the way, we stopped at Lees Ferry to stand on the beach and imagine that in less than 60 days, we would be boarding dories from here for the beginning of what we anticipated to be the most exciting adventure of our lives so far. In other words, that a big rapid should hold any particular excitement is muted by the fact that each and every second today surpasses any ideas I had during those months of waiting and wondering what the best part of a Grand Canyon river trip would be. Add to that a growing recognition that it will prove impossible to extract any single greatest moment, as I have already experienced so many of those in just the first 24 hours.

And before you know it, another small beach is taken as our midday dining room. Today’s lunch plans move like lightning. Within minutes of landing, the Pringles, PBJ, and sliced fruit table is up and being crowded with hungry explorers. The main table requires an extra few seconds before last night’s leftover salmon is unpacked and set next to two large bowls of cream cheese, one colored reddish by sun-dried tomatoes, the other green by chiles. Sliced avocado, tomato, lettuce, and onion to be stacked thick on a variety of bagels completes the offering. Forty-five minutes later we are fastening our life jackets and taking our seats to see what’s next.

Once more, the river is still and we float, forward, backward, sideways. Sometimes, we are close enough to other dories that the boatmen chat; at other times, we drift alone. Bruce directs our attention overhead on “river left.” River left and right is based on the perspective of facing downstream. Up there, he points higher, there in the overhang – the fossilized impressions of nautiloid shells are seen. Maybe 100 feet above the river lies the record noting the existence of early mollusks. They are now locked in the petrified sediments of the Kaibab Formation after coming to rest on a seafloor at the end of their lives a couple hundred million years ago. These nautiloid impressions are a fragment of Earth’s past on display for a few lucky people rowing by millions of years later. For a moment, we are like worms tunneling through the planet’s history.

Again, rapids approach, but this time, Bruce invites one of us upfront to try our hand at bow-riding. Caroline takes the honors and climbs out atop the bow for a ride through Silver Grotto Rapid. She grabs hold of the bowpost and crosses her feet to lock her ankles together, thinking, “Just how different is the view of this rapid going to be? Will I get wetter up here? What are the chances of falling off?” On the bow, you sit high above the dory, seeing all sides of the rapid. The bow dips momentarily and then begins to climb the first wave, thrusting you to thrilling heights before reaching the fulcrum of the wave and dipping again on a race deep into the trough that appears much deeper than it really is. Just as you think there is no end to going down and you are about to submerge, the dory starts its ride up the next wave. The bucking bronco is in full swing. Going from an exhilarating lift and thrust forward to plunging down and low, Caroline holds fast to the bow post, but the ride is all too soon over. Climbing off her perch, the excitement is reflected in her eyes and is captured in her smile. She exclaims, “That was amazing!”

With so many other things occupying the senses, I had hardly noticed the overcast skies following us until the cloud cover started breaking apart and blue began to peek through. As the shroud lifts, not only are blue skies showing promise for the day ahead, but the sun is spilling onto the landscape, heightening my appreciation for the complexity of color, depth, and warmth being displayed down the river. On top of it all, the lighting director in the heavens sends fluffy clouds streaming across the sky, with pillowy shadows running over ancient canyon walls. Nature performs her billions-year-old encore, and I am there to witness it.

As if on cue, enter wildlife stage left. A lone bighorn sheep, standing on a rise, demanding our attention. Each and every boat slows to a stop, allowing us to ogle this tough animal that has adapted to survive in this hostile environment. Patiently, he stands his ground, affording all who wish to admire him a moment of reverence. This guy must be a late bloomer; I think I count four rings on his horns, putting him at about four years old. Alone, either he hasn’t found his own harem, or a more dominant male has taken his ladies. Judging from his size, he is going to have to toughen up before taking on one of the older alpha males who has had many opportunities to engage in the ritual of violently butting heads with young bucks, as is the requirement for maintaining a grip on the herd.

A great blue heron resting on a mangled pile of boulders was spotted before lunch; it was blending in with the brush behind it. Standing nearly four feet tall, it should have been easy to see, but these birds are masters of camouflage in their perfect stillness. We might have been able to catch a fish or two by now, but no one brought a fishing pole, so they will remain safely below the surface of the river, out of sight. Bird calls echo along the cliffs. The few remaining otters and beavers that live here are rarely seen. Only the slick mud paths on the river banks that identify where they have slid in or out of the river offer a hint of their presence.

Bruce offers me the catbird seat for the next spectacle. My perch is also on the bow but in a slightly different position. I’m instructed to lie on my back and look up. Bruce then maneuvers the dory closer to the 600-foot sheer wall of Redwall Limestone. Just as we’re about to collide, he turns the boat so my head is perpendicular to the rock face, stretching up like a highrise whose top has disappeared into the heights above. We float sideways downstream as the rust-colored wall scrolls by like a giant papyrus roll. This is my first encounter on the river with giddy, nearly tearful ecstasy. I am struck with astonishment that this perspective shift should be affecting my emotions so powerfully. For these moments, the dory, river, and everyone else is gone, leaving a sheer rock face as the only reminder of the Earth that is floating below the sky.

Minutes pass, though it could be hours, one turn around a corner, maybe a dozen miles were traveled, or had the boatmen only made three oar strokes? Time and space have expanded. An out-of-place wall of green snaps back my attention that was wandering in dreams of beauty. My eyes follow the climb of plant life upward from the waterline to where monkeyflower blossoms, ferns, moss, and poison ivy grow until, to my surprise, I recognize what feeds this riverside garden – a waterfall pouring from the solid rock wall. And now I, too, have discovered Vasey’s Paradise just as John Wesley Powell did back in 1869. For this one time, I wish the dories to move faster, to bring us closer in the blink of an eye. And once our dories finally close in on this lush oasis, I’ll do my best not to blink again, or else I might miss a fraction of the detail appearing before me in this hanging garden of wonder.

Here, I learn the first curse of a river trip down the Colorado. We are on a schedule. Not a rigid, daily schedule necessarily, but under guidelines from the National Park Service, our time in the Grand Canyon is limited. We are only a few of the 15,000 people annually who receive permission to spend vacation time in an environment that can only accommodate so much traffic before the ecosystem is overwhelmed. Of these, only about 300 travelers will make the journey on a dory – how lucky we are. While one can dream of sitting here at the foot of this waterfall, named by Powell himself, for the stretch of time that would allow full appreciation of this slice of perfection, we will not find ourselves here for long, as we have a date further downriver and must move on.

A dip of an oar spins the dory, and entirely new perspectives unfold. Now receding from our view, the hanging garden shines in a different light, asking if I shouldn’t consider this to be the best view of paradise. And then, with a heavy heart, we are gone, and it, too, must now compete for headspace in my memory.

The pace quickens. Rondo guides the way, rowing with determination, pulling dories and rafts into his wake. The narrow canyon begins to fill with the light of the golden hour of the afternoon as the lead boat shrinks in the distance under the approaching sunset. Ahead, we are not seeing a mirage but an epic landmark, confirming that its existence is not only a mythical, often photographed legend but a real place. A place that we are rowing toward and about to land on. Redwall Cavern grows larger and more amazing with every dip of the oar propelling us toward its giant beach. Was it mere chance that delivered us to an absolutely silent and empty Redwall Cavern that would be ours alone? Or are these boatmen masters of their domain, in tune with the seasons, the sun, and the schedules of others who may be sharing the river with us?

We have landed. Stepping from the dory is like exiting the Apollo capsule to place one’s foot on the surface of the moon. Climbing through the deep sand simulates the slow-motion, low-gravity walk that lets me know I have left my own familiar planet. As quickly as my legs can carry me, I race to the back of the cavern so I can have the view from within, looking out. This is the stage many others before me have stood upon; now it is my turn to explore the shadows and bask in the red glow of the reflecting canyon wall from across the river that is shining its spotlight into the depths of the largest riverside cavern in the Canyon.

The rest of the group is crowding around a boulder not far from where we disembarked. A cluster of fossils, including a crinoid and a mollusk impression, are closely examined and discussed. A Frisbee sails into the cavern, and the chase begins, as some will play a brief game here on the Colorado River for what is likely the one and only time in their lives. Others just walk around, taking in the immensity of this natural shelter. Then, out of the quiet, standing in the center of this nearly 60-foot wide, 20-foot tall, clam shell-shaped cavern, our boatman, Katrina, has begun singing a cappella, “Nothing But The Water” by Grace Potter. In full volume, she lets go and fills every inch of Redwall Cavern with her commanding voice. To everyone’s delight, she delivers an encore with a rendition of “A’Part” by Elephant Revival.

Sadly, camping is not allowed here, although this makes perfect sense as neither our visit nor anyone else’s would be as delightful if, upon arrival, we found ourselves maneuvering around tents, chairs, and a camp kitchen. Speaking of camp, with the warm light of sunset fading fast, it is time for the 22 of us to go find a home for the night. Luck remains on our side, as not a mile downriver, Little Redwall Camp is empty and about to be ours. Dories and rafts pull up to the steep beach; boatmen drive their sand stakes deep into the shore to tie down and secure their boats. We, passengers, form a relay, passing gear up the beach to get rafts unpacked, allowing us to set up our tents and the boatmen to start the pampering dinner ritual.

By the time we are settled in, appetizers are on offer, and we start to relax, except for one of us. The first display of Great Determination has me gasping in shivering empathy. Fellow passenger Phil, armed with his soap and a lot of courage, steps gingerly into the icy waters of the Colorado in an attempt to bathe. While knowing I should respect his privacy, and although I wouldn’t normally make it a habit to watch another man wash away the accumulated grime of the day, I stand mesmerized at his ambitious move to be first among us to immerse himself in the mighty Colorado. Mind you, Phil is wearing his river shoes so he does not stand fully naked before us. The shorts that adorn his lower torso also help keep the view family-safe. Trying to get his head underwater is no easy feat, as poor footing nearly threatens him with a swim. Phil quickly wisens up, opting to splash water over head and shoulders, as I feel it’s time to drop the staring and let him do what I’m still far too afraid to attempt. I’d have applauded his gumption had I not been trying to be at least a little bit discreet, though I do feel I learned something from his experience in how to make the best out of trying to clean delicate parts with ice water.

We warm ourselves around the night’s fire, some pulling in to inch their feet closer to the source of toasty delight. Neighbors talk with each other to discuss the events of the day, and we learn headlamp etiquette to avoid blinding one another with these piercing LED beacons protruding from our foreheads. Here and there, a beer removed from cold storage is being enjoyed, and others are content getting lost staring into the soft flames of our well-groomed campfire. Behind the fire circle, Andrea Mikus, whose day job here on this river trip is to row the raft that carries the toilet, prepares our evening meal with Jeffe by the light of a lantern.

Some passengers talk, others are journaling. Out of the dark, the trumpet of a conch shell sounds, and its mighty echo pronounces that dinner is now ready. We line up, and within minutes, plates are full, but nearly as quickly, they are once again empty. The sound of the conch highlights a special connection for me as more than a few of our friends are Hindu. In Hinduism, the god Vishnu carries a conch. It is said that the sun and moon reside in it, along with Varuna, the god of sky and water. Also represented in the conch are Ganga – the river goddess – and Saraswati – the goddess of knowledge, music, art, and science. The sound of the conch is thought to drive away evil spirits and is linked to the sound OM said to be the breath of Vishnu. Here in the Canyon, we will find ourselves learning of the basement rock called Vishnu Schist and the peaks known as Vishnu, Brahma, and Shiva – named after the gods of the Hindu Trinity.

Just when you think it’s all over, dessert is announced. Slabs of Dutch oven-baked chocolate cake are handed out. While we are devouring the sweet, Rondo interrupts the wolfing of the last of our crumbs, “Hey, you guys, and especially you new guys! How about those cooks?” A rousing applause goes up. Rondo proceeds to go over what was accomplished since our launch this morning, recapping our time on the river and in the Canyon. This leads to what our loose agenda for the next day might be, “Coffee club will be really early, followed by a yummy breakfast.” He continues, “We would like to be out of camp before 9:00 – tomorrow will be similar to today, only different. From there, we will do any number of things that will be determined by factors to be considered over the course of the day.” Out from the darkness, Bruce speaks the sage words, “Indecision is the key to flexibility.” If other details or options were spoken of, they were lost to a mind filled with the enormity of the day’s experience.

The conversation fades further from my hearing as my attention is lost to the brightening night sky. Somewhere out of view, the moon is providing evidence that it is crawling over the horizon. The stars that were set against a dark sky began to fade with the increasing blue luminance that was crowding out the black. I sit next to the fire, but I am hardly here.

My reference points of familiarity are gone. No streets, lights, or signs are here to direct what is where or what comes next. The sliver of sky overhead offers not a hint of the cardinal directions unless one can read the stars at night or spot the sun and glean the arc it is tracing overhead during the day. Depth is immeasurable as each view is infinite, the eyes and mind unable to catalog the magnitude of what is present. Any attempt to see it all is quietly answered with a calm sense of surrender. It is as though an inner knowledge or instinct is ready to leave dormancy and remind my frantic being that not all is to be known, understood, and then anticipated. There is mystery left in nature, but we must shut down expectations and allow ourselves to find calmness that will invite the inexplicable to show us what has been forgotten in our rush to certainty.

Drifting here through self and Canyon, I grow ever more distant from my own contrived universe of time and location. I shrink, moving further and deeper into the unknown world. My sense of the primitive grows larger but is far from being embraced; it feels alien and odd, just as I was taught in school. Escape velocity from the known universe occurred; it must have, but just when that happened, I cannot tell. The known is lost in this extended moment of infinite possibility. When precisely did I leave? How far away am I? Lees Ferry might be the starting point, the physical node of entry for sure, though if I think long about it, I’ll likely see the starting point stretching back as far as I can recognize my own rise in life. But for the here and now, it was there in the gravel next to the Colorado River where a couple of vans dropped me and these fellow travelers on that day we piled into dories and bid farewell to the familiar and the certain.

Considering all that has been seen and experienced, from riffles and rapids to fossils and stories, canyon walls and wildlife, hot meals, cold lunches, song, and campfire, I must be further away than I am because I cannot find the exact moment I left, and without that, how should I figure how much time has passed between then and now? Asking the others in my immediate proximity what day it is, they demonstrate the same dawn of awareness as I – they, too, cannot be sure. Someone guesses Sunday, which brings up the question, “Well then, what day did we leave?” Another voice interjects, “I think it is Saturday,” and then, “I thought we left Friday.” But that would be….yesterday? Eyebrows dip, foreheads furrow as the wheels turn to determine if we believe this information to be correct. It is on all our faces, disbelief that it may very well have been just the day before, less than 36 hours ago, that we got underway.

But we’re not done with this day yet. Jeffe is about to tell us a story, the story of his friend Joe Biner. He begins with a question, asking if anyone objects to some rough language; no one does. Jeffe then reassures us that his impression of Joe is offered with all the respect and love his friend deserves.

Joe is a fishing guide. He has an incredible love of adventure, dry humor, and a blistering tongue when it comes to cursing, and he also has cerebral palsy. Moving into character, one admired and complimented on for accuracy by Joe himself, Jeffe starts to speak in a contorted, twisting and writhing, cerebral palsy-inflected voice of strained and stammered cursing, mixed with brilliant humor, telling us about Jeffe’s and Joe’s traveling down the Colorado together. We also hear of a particularly funny story of Joe meeting a client who had contracted him through his outfitter service for a weekend of fishing. After arriving at the tiny rural airport, the client waited for his guide to show up until just the two of these men were left in the terminal.
Joe holds his ground while his potential client paces, looking for his fishing guide. Well aware that this man is not considering that the guy in the wheelchair could be his guide, Joe looks on as though he, too, is waiting for someone who hasn’t shown up. The waiting continues with an occasional polite smile and nods exchanged, but not a word. Finally, it happens:

“Man, I wonder where my ride is?”
Joe speaks up, “Yeah, I’m wu-wu-wondering wu-wu-where the guy I’m supposed to take f-f-fishing is?”
The wheels turn, but not on Joe’s chair; the dawning of awareness takes rise on the client’s face.
“But I’m supposed to go fishing this weekend.”
Joe says, “Wu-wu-well then, llllet’s get going.”
“Um, well, how….?”
Joe then blurts out, “I’m about to leave this fu-f-fucking airport and drag that b-b-buh-boat waiting outside to the river for a wu-w-weekend of great fishing, but mmmaybe I’m going alone. You c-c-c-can get over yourself and get to fishing, or you c-c-c-can go back home.”

The two went fishing, and we learned that Jeffe, in addition to being a great river musician, is a talented storyteller, too.

At the end of the story, the majority of the campers depart to do just that – camp. Into the darkness, headlamps mounted to foreheads trace trails to the camper’s respective tents, each disappearing with a zipper pull that seals the occupants in for the night. Most of the boatmen have quietly left to take up their floating beds on the river. Once more, we remain with a small group around a dimming fire. Andrea gently strums her guitar. The unseen but present full moon is still on the rise; just a couple hundred feet across from where we sit, the canyon wall has started collecting moonlight. If we can stay awake long enough, I hope to see moonbeams sparkling in the Colorado. Andrea softly sings “Harvest Moon” by Neil Young while the tiny fire’s warm flickers offer momentary glimpses of faces still holding on to experiencing every second this perfect day has brought. Linda, who is Andrea’s mom and is along as a swamper and guest of her daughter, wipes the tears that have spilled down her cheeks, obviously touched by the moment next to the river, feeling the music, seeing the moonlight, and being with her child in her element.

Caroline and I leave to slip into our riverside nest, skipping the tent in order to better watch the effect of the full moon brightening the walls around us. Not yet 9:00 p.m., we fight heavy eyes with minds that want to forever hear the river and to always remember this moonlight-infused night. Right now the Earth is nothing more than a narrow crack that is the Canyon we are lying in, with a gentle river flowing through. The music of the Colorado plays on, and we fall to sleep.

–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.