Rapids form most frequently at the mouths of side canyons. It works like this: when the rain comes, which it does in great sheets during the monsoon season, runoff aims for these canyon drainages that have been carved and gouged by the handy work of prior flash floods. As the rain collects and starts running over the landscape, it rapidly joins forces with a multitude of other rushing torrents, converging down the quickest path gravity dictates. By the time this deluge is approaching the Colorado, it has scoured the surfaces of the Canyon and drainages, picking up all sorts of matter, including trees, trash, rocks, and, when intensely heavy rains have battered the canyon slopes, boulders the size of cars can rush along with the rest of the rubble. This landscape scrub brush works wonders to polish canyon floors and shines slot canyon walls, but somewhere on its journey, the contents of the rushing waters are going to come to a halt. This is usually right in the main river channel of the Colorado.

Clear Creek Rapid is the first whitewater we’ll run today. Just below the side canyon we had hiked yesterday, evidence of those past flash floods has fanned out and piled up in the river, forcing the turbulent waters to find their way over a garden of rocks. As the channel becomes choked on the accumulating debris, the river finds new paths to rush through. Over time, the erosive force of the Colorado will bully these blockages into giving up territory, changing the dynamic of the rapid again. It is this ongoing process that keeps boatmen alert when approaching rapids.

Often, as we move nearer to the pull of a rapid, a boatman will slow his dory, rowing towards the shallows. Standing tall on the deck, he inspects left, right, and center. If conditions warrant, he might sing a “Hey diddle diddle, right down the middle.” Maybe a boulder has shifted since his previous trip, or a dangerous standing wave dictates if he rows left or right of center to avoid a potential boat flip. All the while, the flow, as measured by cubic feet per second or CFS, is impacting the decision process as low water can expose rock dangers not present with high CFS flows. Then, on the other hand, large releases from Glen Canyon Dam can create hazards in the form of larger waves, deeper holes, or camouflaged and hidden dangers that someone not as familiar with the river could run into, risking the viability of a boat and the lives of those on board.

With the larger rapids known for their dangerous shenanigans, our boatmen play it safe, pulling to shore to make a proper evaluation of the liquid thrill ride. Today’s rapids are read-and-run, letting our guides speed us along without stopping for riverside inspections of the tumult. Read-and-run rapids are known quantities; they are familiar, they seldom change, and are runnable at nearly all flows. The experienced boatman will make a quick evaluation, using his knowledge of the river to find opportunities that allow him to enter the rapid in a variety of approaches, offering us passengers a different perspective of how a dory can run whitewater.

Looking at our next river churner, Zoroaster Rapid, rated a mere Class 4, I try to imagine a dory-flip with me in it, allowing a more intimate understanding of the danger and dynamics of river hydrology at work here. My thinking is, better to fall into a reasonably sized rapid than to be dragged through the dreadful leviathans still ahead. It’s not that I am unaware of the potential dangers of rocks hidden just below the surface to break limbs and skulls, and the cold rushing water quickly robbing my core of heat to induce hypothermia, or that once submerged, panic may overtake the brain, elevating the danger by not following safety instructions and putting other lives at risk. I do understand all of this, but that doesn’t curb my curiosity about the worst-case scenario where I could find myself outside the relative safety of a dory. How would I react in the face of a reality where my sense of knowing what to do has been tossed into the labyrinth of chaos? Arriving safely on the other side of another rapid, I remind myself to be careful of what I wish for and give a nod to the skill of these boatmen who are creating a sense of safety that should never be taken for granted. We exit Zoroaster high and dry, with 3 miles of river left to travel before our next stop.

An easily recognizable landmark for those familiar with the Canyon bottom is coming into view – the Black Bridge, also known as the Kaibab Bridge. Built in 1928, this suspension bridge spans the Colorado, connecting the South and North Rim trails here in the Inner Gorge. Prior to this, the only way across was on an aerial tramway with a hanging “cage” that was able to move one mule or a few frightened people at a time. The Silver Bridge further downstream is the new crossing built in the 1960s. This narrower bridge doesn’t allow mule crossings, and while conveniently used by hikers, its main purpose is to support the trans-canyon pipeline that brings water from springs near the North Rim to Grand Canyon Village on the South Rim. Without it, tourism of the scale the South Rim sees today would not be possible.

Once our dories land onshore, it will be a short walk before reaching Phantom Ranch, civilization’s outpost on the Canyon floor. The trail from the sandy riverside leads up to the lush oasis of Bright Angel Creek. Living up to its name, this gently flowing creek runs clear, its surface dancing with sparkling sunshine. Our trail first branches left, then right, before continuing straight ahead. Each step forward brings into focus this idyllic corner of nature that has greeted so many visitors who embrace the grueling hike, have chosen to ride the mules down, or arrived on the river in order to visit the heart of the Grand Canyon.

Astonishment is the best way to describe these sensorial surprises that were no longer expected seven days into our adventure. It would not be an exaggeration to say that after a day or two, maybe three, one could begin to assume that we have been witness to the blueprint for all that lies ahead. After all, when seen from the rim above, each view into the Grand Canyon, from Desert View Tower to Hermit’s Rest, while certainly astounding, is also quite similar. So, as the pleasant surprises of the first days are had, each new wonder suggests that it could surely be the culmination of this phenomenon and that the remainder of this journey will be much of the same. But here we are on the seventh day, and instead of the diversity of scenery taking a rest, it is busy and working hard to demand our veneration.

It would be a lie to say I hadn’t wondered, prior to our departure, what the days or weeks down here might be like if the whole affair became mundane and boring or too dangerous for my sensibilities. Would we reach a point where hiking out of the canyon could become an option worth exploring? To a small degree, I was influenced by many a doubting friend who couldn’t imagine the deprivations we were so eagerly preparing for. They balked at the idea of riverside, out-in-the-open toilets, sleeping next to rapids in the great outdoors where wild animals may lurk, no hot water, and worse – no hot showers. They questioned the quality of food and the drinking of river water that is not only full of reddish-brown sediment but includes a small fraction of the urine of every person traveling this length of the Colorado before it is filtered and made fit for our consumption. No cell phone service or Wi-Fi, no outlet to recharge batteries for portable game machines, no bed to crawl into at the end of the day, and besides all that, we were willing to risk life and limb on precarious trails and raging rapids of bone-chilling ice water. But now that we are a full week into this 18-day river journey, leaving with a hike out right here on the South Kaibab trail is the furthest thing from our minds.

Instead, center stage is the obvious question begging an answer as to what possible reason might exist for why we haven’t been down here before. Ignorance is a paltry and feeble response; there can be no excuse to explain this oversight. A return to Phantom Ranch must be moved toward the top of the to-do list while our knees and hips are still able to carry us down and back up the rocky switchback trail. Maybe more difficult than finding the motivation to take the hike will be trying to work our way through the long wait of being rewarded a much-coveted reservation to camp down here. The closer we get to downtown Phantom Ranch, the more people we encounter. For all the hard work these robust hikers have invested in bringing themselves down here and the respect I feel for their efforts, I can’t help but feel I walk with no small amount of pride. I have been delivered to Phantom Ranch on a dory, and it just doesn’t get better than that.

Soon, we are at the front door of the canteen/gift shop, and the countdown begins – we have about 45 minutes. Passing the counter, I should have felt Caroline’s eyes draw a bead on the souvenirs and her impulse to shop, but she stayed strong as we aimed for the postcards. Seventeen of them, stamped with the message “Mailed By Mule at The Bottom of the Grand Canyon, Phantom Ranch,” are needed. Caroline takes the half destined for Europe, I grab the domestic-bound pictorial souvenirs, and we get to writing. Or at least, that was what we should have done, but all those shiny memorabilia behind the counter are floating their siren song into my wife’s ear, seducing her to their shore. Enchanted by the trinkets, she gives in and tries to leave with one of each, leaving just enough cash for one of the canteen’s famous lemonades. We then had to put pen to paper and burn ink.

With fingers cramping, we scribble to the finish line and, after depositing the postcards into a rustic mail saddlebag, scramble outside to visit the holy temple of the flush toilet. Upon entering the cathedral of lavatory splendor, my attention is willingly arrested by the left faucet handle. Could that be connected to hot water? I am certain this crazy idea could not be in the cards. Energy down here is at a premium; who would pump hot water to the facilities? All the same, it wouldn’t hurt to try. Heck, even if it isn’t heated, it might not be as cold as the river down below. My amazement overfloweth right next to the hot water that comes streaming out of cold steel into the porcelain basin. I have found gold.

Itchy, oily head, salvation is on the way. A sink-side soap dispenser never looked so good. While this is likely against the rules, the allure of alleviating the greasy discomfort camping atop my scalp is irresistible. I shove my big head as far as I can and squeeze it under the fountain of spouting hot bliss. I slosh handfuls of the worst-smelling hand soap onto my hair and almost find a lather before my rush to not inconvenience anyone who might be on the other side of the door waiting for this comfort station pushes me to rinse away the soap. My refreshed scalp allows me to feel a year younger and appear far better looking than I had in the previous days. Even my eyes feel brighter. I emerge from the john with a renewed pep in my step, delighted by my clandestine act of hygiene. Caroline swoons at the sparkle in my eye.

Reinvigorated and a degree more presentable, I try to reanimate what social skills I still have in an attempt at conversation with some hikers, who, by their good fortune, nabbed a cabin situated down here amongst the splendor. We sit in front of the canteen, which is decked out with some rather large pumpkins, begging the question, did someone carry Mr. and Mrs. Jack-O’-Lantern down here, or was a mule employed to lug their squashy largesse? We talk a few minutes, obtaining details of where everybody’s hometowns are located and how much time the respective parties are spending down here in this garden of perfection.

The architecture that complements this setting rose from the genius of one of America’s great architects, Mary Jane Colter. Be it up on the rim of the Grand Canyon or down here, her style graces this, the most visited National Park on Earth. It was the creative brilliance of this woman, who, after starting in 1905 with the Hopi House, would go on to design Hermit’s Rest and Lookout Studio in 1914, the Desert View Watchtower in 1932, and the Bright Angel Lodge in 1935. Back in 1922, she was the visionary for Phantom Ranch. Ms. Colter demanded that the Fred Harvey Company, the concessionaire operating the property, drop the proposed name of Roosevelt’s Chalet and adopt the more intriguing name Phantom Ranch, offering the public a more interesting vision of what lies at the bottom of the Canyon. Mystery is still attached to the name, as the camp was never a working ranch, and what inspired Colter to use “Phantom” remains unknown. It may have come from nearby Phantom Rock, Phantom Creek, the Phantom Fault, or, as some prospectors claimed, the Phantom is the mist that fills the area on cold mornings.

The noontime sun beckons us to return to the dories for our midday meal; wishes for safe travels are exchanged with the hikers, and the trail carries us away. Back on our beach between the Kaibab and the Bright Angel Suspension Bridges, between the north half and the south half of the Canyon, our boatmen have set up the tables, brought out the flowers, unlocked the secret compartment of the perpetually fresh avocado, and busied themselves to prepare a meal of taco salad wraps. Guilty indulgence is noshed on while weary backpackers unwrap energy bars. Here goes the inflating ego again. How can one not begin to feel like a millionaire when presented with this luxury and attention to detail?

In my mind, I return to an epiphany experienced a couple of years ago that rearranged my perception of wealth and luxury. Caroline and I were on our first winter visit to Yellowstone National Park. Not one to speed through the park on snowmobiles, nor familiar or comfortable with skis, we chose the more snail-like pace of snowshoeing, fulfilling our dream of a Jack London experience at the same time. Crunching step-by-step, passing Old Faithful and the Upper Geyser Basin, we cut a trail overhill and through deep snow on our way to Black Sand Basin. After our arrival there, we stood alone in the quiet of winter, the only interruptions being the hiss and gurgle of the geysers or the bubbling of hot springs. We shared a cup of tea from our thermos and looked up, admiring the blue sky and the natural beauty before us, feeling it was ours alone for this brief moment. It then dawned on me: if the wealthiest person on Earth were here right now, all the money in the world would not buy him one more moment of the incredible. He would not see any more than I do now; there is no wealth-enhanced vision to be purchased. He would be offered the same priceless view Caroline and I were experiencing. And this holds true right here, right now, down on the Colorado River in this Grand Canyon. We sit here enjoying the sights, sounds and smells that are free for all with the determination and requisite effort to bring themselves to such places, where all are equally rich from the opportunity to be somewhere special.

One might think that by now, this whitewater business was getting easier, but with each day, a new vocabulary is found to describe what we are approaching, spilling vivid detail into the imagination. We require fresh muscles to find new strength to wrestle with “the biggest yet,” “God’s own roller-coaster,” and the sublime “a personal favorite,” which can imply any level of blood-curdling thrills. Fortunately, not all rapids are defined this way. Clear Creek and Zoroaster were lively rapids, while some rapids receive no glorious name or descriptive language that braces the mind. Mile 85 Rapid is just that, a rapid at river mile 85. Horn Creek is a two-in-one ride – not only is it one of Jeffe’s “personal favorites,” it is also our “biggest yet.”

More than a quarter-mile away, and on occasion even a half-mile, we are alerted to the first sign of the watery turbulence we are rowing into, as its roar reaches us well before the sight of the rapid does. Each oar slip moving us closer also raises the volume. As the sound rolls into a thunderous growl, adrenaline starts to pump, and quick breaths of anticipation take me to a low-level panting. Then, through a cruel trick of topology that is a feature of why a rapid is a rapid, the whitewater itself does not fully come into view – the riverbed downstream is going to fall 5, 10, 15, up to 30 feet, hiding the churn beyond the first drop. So, while the boatman can stand up and see what lies ahead, our view from just a few feet above the water only allows the rare glimpse of spray shot skyward by a collapsing wave hidden down below in the growl of the agitated river. Maybe we could find comfort in seeing what the crashing water before us looks like. Or we could opt to walk around the rapid if the view of what we were about to ride through was unobstructed. Since we don’t have those options, our first peek at these bigger rapids is often had in the few seconds before the dory starts its rip-roaring ride on the bucking bronco our boatman will once again try to tame with a successful run. With helmets on, we prepare to enter Horn Creek Rapid.

And then it starts. Reaffirm your grip, scan the waves, and tune your ears for instructions. Never mind the walls of water we’ll slice through, dousing us from to toe. We are in it. Our dory shoots forward with a jolt, accelerating from a lazy three miles per hour to the heart-pounding approach of warp speed. Captain Jeffe yells from the bridge, “RIGHT,” and we high side like pros, then a sharp admonition to hold on, and we instinctually lean forward. We are tearing a path through ragged water, emerging seconds after this all began, and then the urgent command to “BAIL” pushes us into motion. A water-filled dory is a potentially dangerous dory that is unstable and difficult to maneuver. Water weighs about seven pounds a gallon; with a boat carrying an extra 700 pounds on its topside, there is an immediacy to move that water out of our craft. We are already cold enough sitting in this water; there is no need to risk a flip to place us in full immersion. We keep on bailing. Before we know it, we are pulling into Granite Camp, tying down, unloading, and are soon ready for what’s next.

The mouths of side canyons are fascinating places, starting off wide and rock-strewn, often littered with twisted trees, low scrub, and the random cactus here and there. They are gateways to magic places not always visible from the riverside. Quickly, the walls close in, narrowing the breadth of potential trails we can follow, forcing us to the most obvious and maybe only hikeable path. Trekking to the south, we have a clear view of the Kaibab Plateau, where visitors to the South Rim stand, looking out in our general direction in anticipation of the setting sun that will paint the panoramic landscape before them in deep reds and warm golden tones. Meanwhile, we are already deep in shadow, scrambling to find the trail’s namesake that will lend understanding as to why it was named Monument Trail. Our pace is quick, taking advantage of the day’s remaining light. At the foot of a steep climb, Rondo reassures us, “Everyone can do this; it’s only 100 yards ahead.” Then, just around the corner, the horizon opens again with a gorgeous view of the glowing rim far in the distance. Sunset has arrived, and so has our first glimpse of the Monument.

We hike on, crawling up the steeper and steeper trail. We go higher for the view of all views when our path splits. The left fork leads to the Tonto Trail that traverses the Tonto Plateau east-to-west, connecting hikers to many of the rim trails, such as the Bright Angel and South Kaibab trails. To the right, the fork leads to the Granite Rapid Trail. We turn right and walk a short distance to an elevated outcropping in the Tapeats Sandstone, the best vantage point to take a rest and appreciate our front-row seats for the Monument. It defies comprehension of how a tiny column of stone has managed to hold this rock highrise growing out of the Earth. But as intriguing as the Monument is, I can’t help looking back at the fork in the trail and imagine, one day, descending the path that leads to this one. The rocky, dangerous-looking route through the Canyon would return us here to stand once again in this place and remember the boatmen, their dories, and our shared time on this river.

No matter that we leave our overlook on the same trail we came in on, we leave changed, different from the people who started up the trail. What has been collected and perceived offers a new filter of how the world will be interpreted a bit differently in some small, maybe some profound, way in the future. Details unseen on the first half of our hike can now be appreciated with a clarity that enlarges and adds dimensions of beauty to the tiniest elements. Contrasts stand in force, demanding our attention to make efforts to digest what must be left behind as we move on. Did you truly see what was there? Did you hear what wasn’t? Will you carry nothing of everything that was or everything of what might have been? If it doesn’t fit in your eyes, let it enter through your ears, and when your ears can hear no more, it is time to take a deep breath; with lungs full, open your mouth and taste the experience with the flavor of life passing over your lips some will surely spill away, grab for it and stuff what you can in your pockets, and as you become weighted down and laden with this wealth, allow it to enter your mind until it, too, is satiated. Upon overwhelming your thoughts, your imagination will become impregnated, leading to a birth of awareness in your heart that your soul will nourish, leaving you the recipient of the magic of life.

Just what is this here that so inspires me? It is the amassing beauty all around me. As the layers of sandstone, limestone, quartz, and schist form the Canyon heights, it is the accumulation of layers of beauty that are growing a mountain of indelible memories within me. Intrusions of purples, ripples of pink set against green, white swirls, and red layers of stone are painting a canvas of such size and scope that no museum will ever be able to play host to such majesty. Should you dare to see this, to really see what is here, you will surely celebrate the geological ecstasy our living planet has given us, just like I am now.

Try not to think too hard about where else on Earth this kind of environment could exist, for you will find yourself wanting to explore it, too. A large part of this path of natural beauty has casually been destroyed by a constriction of cement erected to dam the Colorado north of us. Lake Powell’s waters have buried Glen Canyon and stolen its untold cultural and aesthetic wealth. For now, we will have to be satisfied that this small stretch of wild river we are on still exists. We can dream of how many more side canyons may have been explored and shared with an even greater number of people if the Colorado were still navigable from above Moab, Utah, all the way to the impounded waters of Lake Mead standing behind the Hoover Dam. Better still, we could wish the entire Colorado River system could one day run free.

A book should be dedicated to the poetry not yet written of the side canyon Monument Creek runs through. A proper inventory of each and every object that gives this unique location the character that, in concert with stones, jagged edges, twisted forms, and amazing wild history, offers a visual symphony never before performed for my senses. Do not make the mistake of looking through jaded eyes. Peel back the layers of your age, go back, and find the eyes of your youth. Remember when our vision was not obscured by the definition of what our mind saw when, down on our hands and knees, we could find the grandeur of a universe in the sandbox of our local park? For all that has changed over the years, for all the aches and pains, the gray hair or extra pounds, whatever level of education was attained or successes found, from the time we weighed but seven pounds until now that we are aware and “in charge” of our lives, there has been one constant, one part of us that may be weaker today than they used to be but are the same size and shape as they have been since our birth – our eyes. Let us use them, but not as though they were well-worn, all-seeing, know-it-alls. Let’s wash away the clutter of everything familiar and look at our world through new eyes, through the eyes of innocence, through the eyes of the child.

The scenery here is not composed of “just rocks” these stones and sands are part of the soil of Earth from which we came. Their elements are a part of our very being. Millions of years ago, they were a part of the Earth that gave rise to a plant that, in our day, would become part of the dinner we eat tonight. The water flowing next to our path is part of the water that has always been on our planet; the water our ancestors drank from is here. Their hands scooped from a stream to quench their thirst, and what slipped between their fingers rejoined the waters that I would drink from a thousand years later. Today, we are walking on rock, sand, and dust; once gone from this life, we, too, will return to this dust, offering ourselves back to earth. Our bodies will rejoin the soil that is the medium of growth for a large part of that which sustains life. This cycle has played for countless millennia; nature knows its song, but in our age of modernism, we have not developed a sense to dance to this tune of harmony. Today, we should make that effort to hear the music, see the beauty, feel the unrestrained world, and embrace the delight in knowing we are alive.

What do we do when we find ourselves in nature, in a place we couldn’t imagine being a few hours ago before someone guided us this or that way? Crashing through Horn Creek Rapid earlier in the day, we couldn’t know for certain that soon we would be hiking the Monument Creek Trail. Had Granite Camp been occupied, we would have continued downriver, searching for another site to rest our heads and bones. The trails found at that other site may have taken us to heights that could eclipse the awe found here, or maybe the essence of the amazing is in everything around us. We only need to put ourselves into the place within that allows us to find what is directly before our senses, hidden in plain view behind the cynicism of believing we already have the answers and know it all.

–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.

“Kissing Takes Concentration However Sex Requires More Breathing And Tongue – Very Slowly.” These are not instructions for a late-night rendezvous on an empty dory. This mnemonic helps us learn the rock sequences from the rim top to Canyon bottom. Since starting out on day one, we have passed through many of the primary layers of sedimentary and metamorphic rock types that are to be found in the cliffs surrounding the Colorado River. They are Kaibab Limestone, Toroweap Formation, Coconino Sandstone, Hermit Shale, Supai Group, Redwall Limestone, Muav Limestone, Bright Angel Shale, Tapeats Sandstone, and Vishnu Schist. The more conventional mnemonic, and the one that should be used by children, reads: Know The Canyon’s History, Study Rocks Made By Time.

These sedimentary formations have collected directly above the much older metamorphic layer of Vishnu Schist. They began accumulating about 550 million years ago when shallow seas, tidal flats, floodplains, estuaries, river deltas, and coastal beaches were the local features. Sandstone layers, such as the Coconino, were formed by windblown, Sahara-like sand dunes. Limestone, most often composed from the remains of corals, indicates that the Redwall Limestone and Muav Limestone layers were formed from deeper seas. Below the Redwall and Muav sits Bright Angel Shale, which was likely mud from the bottom of an ancient lake or lagoon. The Hermit Shale layer found high above is believed to have been a coastal swamp. By some estimates, up to 25,000 feet, or nearly 5 miles, of sedimentation, collected was compressed and, to a large extent, eroded over the hundreds of millions of years prior to our arrival. Today, when visitors to the Canyon gaze out from one rim to the other, what they do not see are the 5,000 feet of sedimentary rock that have already eroded, leaving the plateaus we look out upon. This entire area is still undergoing profound change. Just as the developing rock layers were built up and eroded over time, one day, the geologic history we are interpreting in the Canyon will be scattered by the winds and washed to the sea.

It was 1.7 billion years ago that the basement layer, known as Vishnu Schist, was buried many miles below the surface of the Earth. The immense pressure exerted by the oceans and landmasses that stood above it and the radiant heat of the planet’s core transformed the igneous and metasedimentary layers into the metamorphic rock we see here at the bottom of the Grand Canyon today. In some places in the Canyon, between the Vishnu Schist and the layers above is an anomaly: a wedged fragment of tilted sedimentary earth that is called the Grand Canyon Supergroup. What was laid down horizontally is no longer resting in its original configuration but now sits at a fifteen-degree angle. This type of angularity is created during times of uplift, such as when faults in the Earth’s crust are shifting with one side of the fault line being pushed up – creating the angles of tilt, such as can be seen here in the Supergroup.

We are only offered brief views of this slice of history as, unlike the majority of visible layers, the Supergroup is not always easy to find. The sedimentary rock layers of the Supergroup were laid down between 700 million and a little more than 1.2 billion years ago. At that time, a seaway stretched from here at the Grand Canyon eastward to what is today Lake Superior. Yesterday, we were hiking upon one of those elusive Supergroup layers known as the Dox Formation. From our vantage point, we also had a good view of the volcanic Cardenas Lava that sits just above it. Our observations of this mix of shallow sea deposits, basalt, sandstone, quartzite, and shale will be short-lived, as only fragments of this Supergroup still exist, most of it having been lost to erosion.

Between the Vishnu Schist and the much younger Tapeats Sandstone, there is a gap in the historical record called the Great Unconformity. The rocks in this area do not conform to what is a normal pattern of chronologically deposited sedimentary layers. Instead, there are sections where the Tapeats Sandstone or the Supergroup lie directly over the Vishnu Schist, with no intermediate rock layers to mark the passage of time. This gap that spans nearly one billion years asks the question, what was going on between those years where there is no sedimentary record for us to read? Did deposition and erosion cancel each other out, effectively erasing any physical evidence of the passing of time? Or did continental rifting play a role?

From the basement upward, through all of the major layers to the 270-million-year-old Kaibab Limestone on the rim and beyond that, sedimentary deposits continued to accumulate, one on top of the other. Just beyond Lees Ferry, one could reach out and touch the Kaibab Limestone. Today, on day six, that Kaibab layer forms the South Rim almost a mile above us. It is not that we have dropped 5,000 feet of elevation during these 70 miles; far from it, as the river only descends about eight feet per mile. This is some of the evidence that proves the Colorado Plateau has gone through a series of faults, uplifts, and geological processes that have been at work here on this contorted slice of Earth for hundreds of millions of years.

With this cursory geology lesson behind us, it is time to depart camp and set our sights on the river. We put in and, a mile later dance through Unkar Creek Rapid, cutting a path into the Supergroup. After dropping 25 feet, we exit this class 6 rapid. Three miles beyond that successful run, we enter Nevills Rapid, named for Norman Nevills, who pioneered commercial river travel in the Canyon. This section of whitewater is rated between 4 and 7 on the Grand Canyon scale. This system of class 1 to 10 rapids is unique to the Colorado River; all other rapids are measured on the international scale with ratings between class I and VI. It cannot be denied that the rapids are a thrill a second; they take our breath away, they chill us to the bone, they are exhilarating, and many others have shared written images inspired by this whitewater roller-coaster. For truly exciting stories of whitewater thrills, I refer you to River Runners of the Grand Canyon by David Lavender and the excellent There’s This River… Grand Canyon Boatman Stories by Christa Sadler.

On the approach to Hance Rapid, our first encounter with a rapid rated 7 to 8, the boatmen pull to shore to scout what lies ahead. After careful study, they decided that with the Colorado running at 8,000 cubic feet per second, the water level is too low for passenger-laden dories to safely pass through the rapid. The plan is for us passengers to continue walking to the foot of Hance, where we will be picked up by our respective boatmen. Without us, as the dories maneuver the rapid they appear to move in slow motion, on a deliberate and well-calculated track taken to reduce the possibility of damage. This is the first chance we have had to witness the dories in action from the shore. After re-boarding our dories, we bump over Son of Hance and pull to shore again, this time for lunch.

We are deep in the history of the Canyon, approaching the grandfather of ancient rock occupying the crystalline basement – Vishnu Schist. Down here, we step back nearly 2 billion years in time. Our cities are typically built upon topsoil accumulated over the previous 10, 15, or 20 centuries. Even the mountains rising up around us are not so very old when measured in geological terms. But down here at the river level, we are surrounded by some of the oldest rocks on Earth. The schist is streaked with pink Zoroaster Granite, white pegmatite, and gneiss formed within the metamorphic rock after red-hot magma seeped between the cracked and fractured earth. The basement rock has been shaped, compressed, and contorted by convection, heat, gravity, and tectonics back when the Earth was only about half its present age.

Some people will look at the pyramids in amazement at what humanity built 4,600 years ago, while others are more interested in what modern architectural achievements we are currently constructing. For me, the attention grabber is this channel that cuts into Earth’s history, offering an opportunity to reach out and touch a part of our planet that dates back to the Precambrian age. If I should one day find myself exploring an ancient Mayan temple, I will walk with at least some knowledge learned from the volumes penned about the Mayan people, their gods, and traditions. I will have a sense of how they saw themselves in their world hundreds of years ago through their writings, architecture, trash, and their living descendants. Here at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, this Vishnu Schist layer, extending to depths unknown, offers little clue to my eyes of what the planet was like as it was forming. The geological history and processes of how gneiss came to be do not find their way onto anyone’s bestseller list. Environmentalists put polar bears and pandas on display to hook the interest of sympathetic minds to the plight of endangered species. Schist doesn’t make for cute; it won’t get buy-in when broadcast on the evening news. As a people, too many care little for scientific facts that cannot be hugged, understood, or easily deciphered, even when they stand right before our eyes.

But I do. This ancient rock canyon is a part of our evolutionary foundation, resting upon a universe full of matter that gave rise to suns, planets, oceans, plants, canyons, fuzzy creatures, and me. I feel the primordial extension of the elements that would lay the groundwork from where life would emerge. The lowly Vishnu Schist of the Grand Canyon and the mighty Colorado River find a place in my being, my mind, and my history as I embrace the totality of time and matter.

On this corner of the earth, I can imagine the mantle not far below, channeling the heat of the core upwards. Evidence of its presence can be seen in the basalt created by lava flows that have spilled into the canyon as recently as 1,100 years ago. Those eruptions of molten rock have altered the course of the Colorado, creating temporary dams and helping shape segments of the Canyon. Take a moment and either familiarize or re-familiarize yourself with a brief lesson about how our planet evolved to support life, then get up and go to Yellowstone, Yosemite, the Grand Canyon, or even your own backyard and rediscover how amazing nature is.

Long ago, about 4.6 billion years in the past, if you could have stood where you are now, you would have been surrounded by an ocean of magma. North, south, east, and west molten rock would be rumbling, rising, and subsiding. All of the water that would ever be on earth is still locked in this boiling rock and mineral soup. The next 600 million years see a gradual cooling while water vapor escapes the degassing magma. Water that will eventually form the oceans begins to collect.

There is no oxygen in the atmosphere yet; you’ll have to hold your breath for another billion years for its arrival. Right now, the sky is rife with ammonia that the sun has been turning into nitrogen, an important element of breathable air. However, there is enough weather and surface activity to begin the erosion process of the unstable volcanic surface. On a base of young igneous rock, ash, silt, and sand begin settling in water where Earth’s first metamorphic rocks are being born. Uplift and subsidence, colliding crusts, and the continuing upheaval of the surface push layers up and sometimes down.

From these early metamorphic rocks, cratons formed; they were to act as the stabilizing roots on which our continents would one day anchor themselves. Molten rock was still busy altering the Earth’s surface; along the way, granite was forming – the continents were taking shape. On the sea floors, magma was exposed in rifts and ejected from underwater volcanoes. Cooling rapidly, the liquid rock turned to basalt. These geological processes have never stopped.

Fast forward a couple of billion years, in the oceans and on their shores, in rivers, lakes, swamps, and maybe anywhere else water is collecting, a single cell life form has been busy for hundreds of millions of years using photosynthesis to produce oxygen. This organism is known as cyanobacteria; today, its descendants are found in blue-green algae; one of its cousins is the food supplement spirulina. Without these bacteria releasing oxygen from the various water sources on Earth, we would not have had this essential element that is required for an atmosphere that could one day support us humans.

Then, the Great Oxygenation Event occurs, nearly extincting the anaerobic (oxygen-intolerant) single-cell side of life, allowing blue-green algae to begin its rule of Earth. Prior to this, most of the oxygen entering the atmosphere was sequestered by different elements on the planet, such as iron. Once the oxygen-absorbing matter became saturated, oxygen was able to start entering the atmosphere. Around the globe, we find stromatolites, the fossilized evidence of cyanobacteria that became trapped in structures of sediment and calcium carbonate that formed around them. The historic record of this bacteria is most famously viewable from their fossil remains found standing above the water in Shark Bay, Western Australia. Stromatolites are also found here in the 1.2 billion-year-old Bass Limestone layer of the Grand Canyon Supergroup.

Not long after the introduction of oxygen to what will become known as air, the thickening cratons and growing early continental landmasses converge to form the supercontinent, Columbia. Like all continents, not only is the land attached to cratons, but the entire structure sits upon tectonic plates that are in constant motion due to the convection current of heat transferred from deep within the Earth’s core that pushes and shoves the mammoth weights of crust, continent, and ocean this way and that. We experience these movements through the many earthquakes that occur between fault lines and the tectonic plates that are still changing the surface of our planet, altering existing continents on their way to making new land masses. One effect of these movements is to produce what is referred to as orogenies: mountain-building events. Those early mountains that likely stood to great heights on Columbia crumbled over time, rivers redistributed their remains, new sandstone layers settled, and the slow transformation of our planet continued.

Dramatic change wasn’t finished yet. Oxygen continued to alter the atmosphere for another 800 million years until the first simple multicellular life took hold. That was about 1 billion years ago. Those early multicellular lifeforms would stew for almost 550 million years before oxygen levels hit the sweet spot, and then life really began to flourish. Record of this rapid development shows up in that sandstone layer that sits above the Vishnu Schist in the Tapeats. Supercontinent Columbia is long gone, replaced by Rodinia, but it too has broken apart as more complex life forms start to populate Earth.

As time plods forward, simple animals such as sponges and jellyfish evolve out of the entanglement of the primitive multicellular life. This is followed by the emergence of the ancestors of the insects and spiders. These more complex animals give rise to fish and early amphibians. Before you know it, it’s just 300 million years before the arrival of humanity; plants and reptiles start to populate the surface of Earth. A new supercontinent has begun forming; it is called Pangaea, and it is the happening place. Life is now bolting forward. The dinosaurs began to crawl through the jungle about 225 million years ago. Fifty million years later, Pangaea is ready to split into two new subcontinents and a bunch of fragments. One of those subcontinents is Laurasia, it’s traveling one way, while Gondwana heads in the other direction. In the gap that is forming between these prehistoric landmasses, the Atlantic Ocean is born. The wandering lands of floating crust surf the world. After stomping on Earth for 135 million years, the dinosaurs disappear. This was just 65 million years ago.

Time speeds along, and so do the continents of our planet. With a crash, the fragment of land that would be named India plowed into the Asian continent 35 million years ago. This collision triggers an orogeny that will lead to the forming of a mountain chain that will reach the heavens as the tallest peaks on Earth; they are called the Himalayas. This spectacle of crumpled and deformed rock would have a 29-million-year head start before the Grand Canyon would begin to be carved out of the northern lands of Arizona. Mount Everest reached many thousands of feet above sea level long before a river running over the Colorado Plateau would begin cutting a scar into Earth’s surface that would ultimately expose the bowels of geologic history to humanity’s curious eyes.

Over a period of 6 million years, the river, weather, volcanic and seismic activity wore through that plateau, carving the channel we know today as the Grand Canyon. And now, during our time, man has dramatically changed these lands. A great length of the Colorado River is no longer navigable, halted by man-made dams and now buried under lakes. Even if the dams were removed, hundreds of feet of toxic silt and sunken trash now fill former river channels. Sandstone has been washed of desert varnish by the cold, clear waters of the various lakes. Political and corporate interests are looking to exploit the lands above the water, seeing them as worthless beyond lucrative uranium, oil, and mineral mining and maybe some negligible tourism. The riverside, the fossils, the human record, and whatever natural beauty or history a few environmentalists, archeologists, hikers, adventurers, or just some average folks might find down here don’t hold importance to distant interests who see an opportunity for profit. Right now, the need for money and resources stands well above any towering beauty to be found on our incredible planet. When will we honor the majestic beauty of nature and find our inspiration to move off the sideline to help leverage common sense upon money-blinded special interests? People of all walks must seek out the beauty of their special places; they must speak and write about what moves their hearts, share it with others, and join in the refrain that sings out to keep wild places – wild.

German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche was prescient with his quote, “Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster, and if you gaze into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” From the rim of the Canyon, as one looks into this formidable expanse, a quick and all-encompassing assumption of what we are seeing can be adopted: “It’s a giant hole.” This simple idea allows us to conquer the Canyon with a brief one-hour visit. This is a monster of unsophisticated thinking looking into us, and we have reflected its face of ignorance through our naïveté. From high above, the Canyon stretches as far as the eye can see, and not two dozen miles directly across is the other rim. Side canyons feed the main channel where the Colorado must be, although it remains mostly hidden in the depths. Down in the chasm, as one tries to look up and out from below, the abyss forces us to look within, as the infinity of intimate details works to inspire the imagination. This perspective teases our senses with countless potential experiences. The abyss is at work crushing our monsters, bringing us back to nature by forcing us to become one with it, to grow larger than our petty selves.

We gain intimacy with a tiny fraction of the nature carrying us through the Canyon and will leave with but a minor impression of our host. Here, we ride the river, drink its waters, bathe in it, cook with it, and hike on its shore; it is our womb supplying life, and under the wrong circumstances, it may take it, too. Like an infant, we will be birthed at the end of this gestation of experience, knowing little of our new mother. Only after a life of dedicated love might we come to learn who, or what, this life-giver is and was. We must learn her language, customs, habits, pleasures, moods, friends, and enemies so we might better communicate with her and protect her.

Journeying to discover the identity of Mother Nature, we find ourselves confronted by a thing far greater than ourselves allowing us to recognize the granularity of who we are, but should we fear that great unknown found in the natural world? When the veneer of society is stripped away, and I am alone with myself, who do I find? If honesty could be part of this answer, my guess is that many of us would find a media-contrived monster of immense shallowness. This image in the mirror should frighten the beholder as recognition befalls the mind that, after so much life, little of real self-defined identity is to be found. We are left impoverished with a superficial, unsympathetic figure lacking the compassion and intellect to see one’s own mother in the Earth around us.

Without the distraction of electronic devices, artificial noise, or the burden of consumption, one has the opportunity to find familiarity with nature and one’s self. We will only discover the smallest amount of what is here as we crawl through this multiverse of geologic history, natural beauty, and the infinite number of Grand Canyons unfolding before and all around us. One will never know too much of what the Canyon holds. This knowledge should be applied to ourselves as well to encourage us to raft our own inner rivers, hike the canyons and trails within, and find some understanding that we, too, are a great unknown, needing intense exploration.

Eighty-four miles downriver and already we have traveled through countless Grand Canyons: eighteen days will never suffice. No wonder those who give themselves up to being boatmen make a life of leading the uninitiated. Once taken by this immensity of possibilities, one’s gaze will never be contained. The tendrils of the mind and imagination entangle with the threads of history and nature, intertwining us inextricably to a piece of land that our more rational politicians have recognized as having the significance that requires us to protect these treasures with the designation of National Park. The longer one stays here, the stronger the manacles of nature will hold fast, training the senses to lock on to the hues of earth, the smell of grasses, the flight of damselflies, spider webs, clinging moss and lichen, waters of varied colors, the stars, sound, and silence. This and more is what engulfs my every moment in the Canyon with its constant shift and recontextualization of yet another iteration of this unfolding universe.

This was where the Canyon took me today. Sure, there was the river, rapids, and small talk, but the exploring mind of curiosity tempted me to assemble a sense of place from the parts and pieces I was familiar with. We are well-equipped, as the curious people we are, to search for meaning, find beauty, and learn from all that has come before us. Failing to be inspired, languishing in bad habits, and allowing our minds to fall into sloth as the preferred state of consciousness will never push humanity to scale new heights of potential. We must seize the mental oars of our inner raft, head for land, and get climbing.

We are rowing towards shore; it won’t be long before we land. Camp arrives early this afternoon at Clear Creek, a place most accessible during low river flows. The beach here is narrow, set up against a steep canyon wall, except for one big patch of sand where our fire circle will form around dinner time. The tents are up and made cozy before Rondo gives out the call that we are about to go on a hike.

Nine of us, with Rondo upfront, begin the trek through schist, marble, quartz, gneiss, and other rocks and minerals that I would like to recognize at first glance. The problem might be that while, from a distance, there is a similarity in appearance with these earth fossils, closeup, there are far too many variations of patterns, colors, and textures to be certain that I could accurately identify what I was looking at. There are canyon wall sections on the early part of our trail that are burnished to a luster, displaying what looks like wood grain and a smoothness that begs us to run our hands over their sensuous curves. Too many details confront my senses while the need to keep moving never stops

River shoes were required for the dozens of wet crossings made in this narrow slot of a canyon. We travel right up the middle and on the edges of Clear Creek, over slippery rock in the cool and quiet largeness that is all inspiration. As I take in the scenery around me, I need to dwell in the quiet. I want to look and listen, hear the babbling creek and its dance through crevices as it flows through the maze of broken stone. Glistening, the thin layer of shallow water trickles and tumbles over rocks and pebbles.

Fractured purples and shades of blue stain and slice the sheer rock surfaces with simultaneous complexity and the order of chaos. I must stop my feet, slow my mind, take a calming breath, and find my way to becoming lost in here. Language fails me, as my vocabulary is again inadequate to construct the magnitude of verbal detail that would be needed to explain an entire universe tucked away in a side canyon. Thinking is now forbidden; thoughts only tick away seconds where time should stand still. I should find myself here through eternity, discovering the infinite.

Up ahead, we are about to discover the feature we were promised before starting on this short 45-minute hike – a horizontal waterfall. The first thing one notices at the end of our trail is a stream of water flowing over a rock shelf. This recognition is followed by the idea, “Maybe this isn’t the end of the trail yet?” For a moment, it appears we have been tricked into believing we were to see such a sight as a horizontal waterfall, but there it is! To the right of the larger flow is a small channel funneling water into a rounded pocket that is ejecting the falling water horizontally.

One should be careful when charging into the unknown; there is much to be missed by senses not tuned to channel immensity. It is conceivable when returning on the same road just traveled, that we should find a kind of familiarity. That is not the case when only seeing fractions and flickers of all that is present. Heading back to camp, I wonder, where did this rock come from that I missed on my way in? And this big green cactus growing from the blue wall, why did it not attract my attention then? Were we really this high over the river and that close to the edge? Where was my mind?

The brain may be on vacation, but the body plays “Follow the Leader.” Back to camp, we march, arriving at a kitchen hard at work preparing our evening meal. Jeffe and Andrea, who share tonight’s duties, have drawn in plenty of help. Time to find a chair and start sinking into the fading light.

This night winds down with stories filling the margins of our minds not occupied with the day’s events, while full stomachs bring a lethargy best enjoyed by relaxing around the fire. The convergence of comfort, contentedness, and heavy eyes begins our launch tentwards with the hope of sleep. Not long after crawling into the sack, the wind sounds its alarm.

It isn’t so much the blowing of the tent that keeps me awake; it is the attack from trillions of grains of sand that have broken free of the eroding landscape. The sand sent aloft in the howling wind pummels our tent, painting a desert rendition of a snowdrift burying us. We may disappear, Sphinx-like in the desert, hidden from passing boat trips come morning. What is not seen or heard in the darkness is sand as fine as corn flour, finding gaps in the seams and zippers scarcely large enough for large molecules to gain passage. We will wake with our teeth, hair, nose, ears, and sleeping bags holding enough of this fine red dust to assemble a small sandcastle.

–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.

Food is often just that, food. But here, where you wouldn’t expect culinary frills, the ritual of the meal has become theater. Can the kitchen performers best their earlier stage calls? They can, and they do. It is not necessarily that what is offered here can be said to be of gourmet preparation, nor is there anything exotic on the menu. Last night, we dined on barbecued ham with mac and cheese. Tonight, the boatmen will boil spaghetti to be served with a meat sauce and garlic bread. And this morning we are enjoying blueberry pancakes and sausages, but what strikes a chord are the fresh strawberries that have found their way into a fruit salad with sliced kiwi. Fresh strawberries on a nearly barren desert beach, five days downriver! Did someone parachute them in while we slept? Somewhere deep in the bowels of a raft or dory must be a magic compartment where avocados materialize, lettuce never wilts, and tomatoes don’t bruise. When will the pouches of dehydrated astronaut food come out for boiling? Or will our cooks soon resort to hidden caches of canned food stashed riverside by a supply raft that plies the river stealthily during the cover of night?

Fireside hors d’oeuvres on the river? Sure, if you are on a spring or fall trip. After all, who would dare dream of a roaring fire in July when it’s still 105 degrees after the sun sets? I’m sure appetizers during the summer are yummy in their own right, but last night’s baked brie with caramelized walnuts and fresh apple slices can only reach the heavenly delight of supreme comfort food while on a slightly chilly beach in autumn, warmed by a campfire, under the lofty cliffs of the Grand Canyon. Maybe someone paying tens of thousands of dollars for this experience could expect epicurean treats, but to me, having the good fortune to simply be here on the Colorado is already worth millions. What we paid for this trip was a bargain in light of how wealthy our memories are becoming. I could be fed a diet of twigs, sand, and coffee and still feel like royalty. This gastronomic dream-state must have been designed to enhance the experience of travel enchantment – as long as the passengers remain in perpetual bliss, they will forever be the greatest ambassadors of the Canyon, reminiscing of those days when from waking to falling off to sleep everything was perfect.

From a yummy breakfast at sunrise to the river and another great trail, we seamlessly transition through the moments as naturally as the day becomes night and then day again. The imperceptible fluctuation in the flow of air, earth, and river synchronizes with our internal clock, tuning us into the speed of nature. Old habits are temporarily ditched as new routines guide us. Down here, we are not getting ready for the day as much as we are preparing to be intently aware. Eyes open wide, the lungs breathe deeply, the ears are alert, and then it’s time to put the body back into action. All aboard!

The wooden oars slice into the calm river and exit with a “slip.” A delicate sound of “plink” is heard as water drops fall from the oar blade back into the Colorado. This auditory impression is impossible to capture with the written word, as verbal frailty foils the desire to adequately share the exact impression of the faint sound, though we hear it over and again. Listening with ears tuned to each detail, I find this sound akin to a marriage and separation of oar and water. Part of the uniqueness of this voice of the oar may lie in the spatial relationship only found here on the Colorado. The shape of the low-slung wooden and fiberglass dory, the distance of the hardwood oar, and the quiet on a calm stretch of river made more so by the heavy canyon walls weighted in silence, dampening sounds, all working to build this acoustic trinket of subtlety.

We glide along, passing mile 55. The oars touch the water and, for a second, appear to float on the surface tension. A long pause, and then into the river they sink, to be pulled by the oarsman, rowing us forward. Mile 56. Out of the water, the oar momentarily hangs in space with a drip, drip, drip. At mile 57, the dory is gliding downstream with us spellbound passengers, each drifting within. Mile 58 must have been there somewhere, too; likely that 59 slipped by similarly. Passing mile 60, we spring back to total awareness.

For here we are, where the Little Colorado River joins the really big Colorado at mile 61.5. Actors one and all, how else to describe our deceptive lack of drama upon our arrival? Who taught us this act of feigning subdued composure? Maybe it was conditioning for conformity? Was it a parent who told us not to run to the next ride at the amusement park? Or maybe it started back in high school when we were trying to convince ourselves of what was cool. Somewhere in our past, we lost the innocence we had when the sight of a birthday cake with candles flaming brought us to ear-piercing shrieks of joy. And you should know that I would surely be one of the first to raise an eyebrow of disapproval at the disturbance of nature’s solemn quiet, should the sounds of elation fill the air. At the same time, I hardly believe the rocks and river would care. So I scream a silent hoot and holler, jumping up and down inside, that this really is the Little Colorado.

The boatmen had anticipated its water to be a muddy, turbid flow due to the recent rains, which could have had it looking much like the larger river it was joining. Had that been the situation, flexibility would have played a hand in deciding that we would move on to points further south. But to our delight, the river is a beautiful opaque turquoise. At the confluence of the two rivers, a rippled border easily delineates the limestone-saturated Little Colorado from its chocolaty-red bigger brother. Toward the end of these rivers’ merger, when the combined waters pass into the main channel, evidence of this tributary is already lost.

In a couple of minutes, the rafts and dories are tied down, life jackets are secured, and our group collects, waiting for the boatmen to join us. Containing myself to the best of my ability, I stop short of breaking into a sprint to run ahead to see it all by myself, knowing that a minute later, the view will be shared with the others who follow. Four or five steps are all that I make before I have to stop to take closer examination of the water flowing over and adding to the travertine ledges the Little Colorado has built. Then, I take another few steps before gazing at the swirling stream of water descending through a pocket of carved rock, where the limestone solution’s various depths determine how clear or milky it appears. When the sun shines on deeper pools, the river gains luminosity as though lit from within. Red rock, white water, blue sky, chocolate river, tan sands, and green brush – who dreams this stuff up?

Here at “Life in the Grand Canyon 101,” this immersive class for living in the wild offers me the materials and experiences to become acquainted with nature on her terms. We lightly touch upon a multitude of potentialities that exist here, but the heavy subject-specific lessons exploring the fine details and depths of Canyon knowledge will have to be taken up after graduating from these 18 days. Our instructors walk a relatively short distance with us up the Little Colorado channel. The trail ends for us across from an old ruin of a house, said to have been built around 1889 by the miner and pioneer Ben Beamer. Ben placed his home right on top of a prehistoric Native American ruin that John Wesley Powell had identified two decades earlier. The story goes that the old miner lived down here for almost three years, never making contact with anyone else nor leaving the Canyon during that time. We gaze at the small dwelling and the Little Colorado until it is time for us to leave; what was closer to an hour feels like not much more than a few minutes. It only takes another second before the rear-view mirror on the dory loses sight of that limestone-saturated river. Goodbye, little brother, it’s time to become a man.

Not much further downstream, we are nearing the Hopi salt mines. A briny mixture is seeping from the cliff face that lines the river; dripping crusts of the white mineral collect and adorn the canyon wall. We keep our distance as we are reminded by the boatmen of our obligation while on the river to observe and respect the areas held sacred by Native Americans. The salt that forms here is collected by boys who have traveled the Salt Trail from Third Mesa on the Hopi Reservation to the river in a rite of passage.

The Canyon widens at our approach to the Unkar Delta, also known as Furnace Flats. Spring and fall are the times to stop here because, during summer, you will learn the true meaning of the term Furnace Flats, as life is baked right out of you. After getting a bite to eat for lunch, we depart for a hike. As is usual, we are going up, and as has happened before, the view expands, stretching far and wide. As also happened before, that part of my heart and mind used for sensing the spectacular opened up to points equally far and wide. I try to understand that at these junctures of physical, mental, spiritual, and aesthetic dilation, it is only natural that, as the eyes attempt to reach beyond their sockets, extra tears are necessary to ensure the eye remains moist and effective in relaying the unfolding beauty to the heart.

Petroglyphs, etchings on a boulder, an unknown language, a signage of direction, maybe a history for others, whatever these markings once meant, they are mostly indecipherable now. We can guess that the image of the antelope was an indicator that this stretch of trail is popular with these animals, giving hunters hope of finding a meal, a source of tools, and clothing in the area. The shapes, swirls, and designs, though, do not easily lend themselves to interpretation. Maybe because we can only speculate on their meaning, the ancient graffiti intrigues us into imagining there are hidden secrets locked into this primitive trail-side billboard. Wearing amateur anthropologist hats, we investigate the glyphs that I wish could speak to us, allowing insight into their missives. We continue our hike on this trail, leaving behind found mysteries to search for new ones.

Further up the easy trail, we approach Solstice ruin. We are in the Dox layer. The rock in this area is relatively soft, which explains why shortly after leaving the Little Colorado, the hard-edged riverside cliffs gave way to the more wide-open Furnace Flats. The softer rock erodes faster, producing hills with gently rounded surfaces. At the ruin, not much more than a short wall above the foundation remains standing. In its day, the neighbors might have envied this house, sitting on the hilltop with commanding views upriver and over to Comanche Point, 4,300 feet above the Colorado. A discarded metate lets us know that mesquite beans or corn was ground here as part of the local diet back when the owners of this dwelling called it home. Around the perimeter, hundreds, if not thousands, of pottery shards invite closer inspection. Various patterns and designs attest to the artist’s creative ability and, to my untrained eye, are reminders of pottery seen in Southern Colorado on the Ute reservation.

Standing at this long-abandoned dwelling, I attempt to bring together the extent of my knowledge of the Puebloan people. I want to envisage their trails and travels so that I might follow them east through canyons and desert, over the Hopi ancestral lands, and into those of the modern-day Navajo, where, on occasion, their journey could continue to ceremonies and festivals held in Chaco Canyon, over in what is now New Mexico. Did these Puebloan pilgrims walk through the Four Corners region, where various tribes such as Cliff Dwellers, Plains Indians, and other indigenous peoples from across the land might have crossed paths and enriched one another’s culture? Would one band of Native Americans trade pinyon nuts for some of that tissue-thin, blue corn piki bread made by the Hopi? Maybe plant dyes were on offer, or needed medicines exchanged? I don’t really want answers or the specifics, instead, I rather enjoy the conjecture of what might have been without the filter that suggests people throughout history are war-like, prone to violence and conquest. This potentially Pollyanna-ish delusion suits me fine. The daily routine and curiosity of someone on a trek of exploration, traveling without marauding ideas, only the desire to know for oneself what lies over the horizon and to learn who those people on that distant land are. These are the people whose eyes I want to look through. Who were their storytellers, and how was the history of their people shared with others, not of the same tribe? What songs and dances were enjoyed around a fire that may have accompanied celebratory feasting for good weather, healthy crops, and a peaceful life?

Who was born here in this crumbling abode? I can imagine their descendants walking the same earth as I do today. Are they constrained by a reservation where traditional ways and freedoms have all but disappeared? What sadness might an indigenous person feel, standing on the birthing ground of their ancestors, where ownership and rights of visitation are controlled by an occupying people? It is tragic that we must protect these historic treasures from those who would profit from their theft or those of low wit who might damage these relics for no other reason than their compulsion to flaunt their disrespect. Fortunately, our National Park Service has a good working relationship with our Native American neighbors, allowing those on ancestral journeys to follow in their fathers’ footsteps.

From this old home’s front yard and sweeping views, we move to explore the backyard. Contrasting those expansive vistas and distant horizons, the trail out back narrows with the line of sight, interrupted by a blizzard of rock that will soon surround us. Like snowdrifts made of multi-hued stone, the terrain undulates and disappears behind taller drifts of earth. The path is at times unseen; it is only the intuition, or previous trail memory, that guides the boatmen through this labyrinth. The walls are smooth in places, cragged in others; they are mottled rust with swirls of purple. Leeching salt crystals find a place to grow on protrusions; red stains drape over green rock, broken lava folds heave to form sharp edges, with pockets of empty space created by processes at work during an unwitnessed history long before modern humans arrived.

The various types of rock represent a multitude of minerals and composite materials, and with each comes just as many ways that it can erode. Where softer and harder rock were married millennia ago, the passage of time has weathered their relationship; thin ribs of hard rock stand like a skeleton above the recessing, softer sandstone. Overhangs form where harder upper layers stand in resistance to Mother Nature’s onslaught, but down below, its softer foundation is slowly washing away. Rainwater finds its way from high on the canyon rim, the surrounding areas, and various drainages to spill over cliffs and flow through gullies, scrubbing away loose sand and soil, depositing it in the Colorado somewhere below. The friction of this abrasive action shapes and polishes this tapestry of twisted form. Out of that chaos, the art of the planet emerges on a scale almost comprehensible.

It is as though the painter’s palette spilled over, and the primordial hand of nature laid down strokes to offer inspiration to a future Jackson Pollock. No matter my efforts, I will not find a method for merging myself into this stone canvas and disappearing into the beauty that paints this landscape. I can only try to share in the thousands of years of admiration from those who have visited this gallery dedicated to the monumental work of Earth art surrounding us.

Could Salvador Dali have found inspiration from the melting forms of travertine? Might Van Gogh recognize art imitating nature after looking at crumbling walls of chipped shale and fractured debris? Are there undiscovered motifs here only awaiting the creativity of a passerby to find their value? How do we know where and when our land transcends utility, elevating it to the sacred? If crude oil were found in the paint used for the eye of the Mona Lisa, would we gouge it out to operate a car for one more millisecond? Could we imagine melting down the mask of Tutankhamun to personally enrich ourselves? So why do these unseen corners become worthless to a city-bound society? How can others dream of damming a river to produce a bit of electricity or drilling into a canyon, filling it with noise and the clutter of machinery in order to extract more natural gas or uranium, when we now have the ability to harvest our energy needs from the sun and wind?

We can work smarter to harness alternative methods to power our world. They may not be easy or expedient, but we can learn to do without some convenience, as humankind will never build a Grand Canyon. Man will not learn how to create a mile-deep gorge, hundreds of miles long, that can bring us to tears of joy while standing before such resplendent sublimity. When will we stop our sprawl and outward expansion? Look around the Grand Canyon; it is eroding, disappearing. While not in our lifetimes or our immediate future generations, the Canyon is going away. When it is gone, only photos and stories will tell of what was lost, hopefully not due to faults of our own. The same will not be said for what man intentionally destroys in his quest for domination and his petty sense of ownership.

Our time to experience this side canyon is over. We’ll leave it just the way we found it. Should you visit this exact place, you may not see precisely the things we have seen, not because we altered anything, we leave that to the forces alive and at work crafting these sights. An earthquake could rattle through, a boulder or a cliff face might fall, or a flood of biblical proportions could roll over hill and dale, forever burying a place everyone’s senses should have had the opportunity to enjoy at least once. For now, I depart but not without a manifest full of glorious memories from just one more of the many unnamed and anonymous side canyons hidden here in the Grand Canyon.

From our mile-and-a-half-per-hour trail pace, we return to rowing downriver, clipping along at better than three miles per hour and flying over Tanner Rapid shortly before sunset as we sprint into the end of the day to prepare our evening shelter at Cardenas Camp – mile 71. And a race it has been. In these five days, we covered 71 miles of the Colorado, clocking in at a whopping average of 14 miles per day. There must certainly be a kind of magic at work within the Canyon regarding our perception of time versus distance. Pardon the math and numbers as I try to reconcile my memories of time spent on the river and just how we will have ultimately passed from mile zero through mile 225 at Diamond Creek – our exit. We have been on the river only three to five hours per day. If I calculate that we average four hours per day on the river, we will amass approximately 72 total river hours over the distance of 18 days. Dividing the distance traveled by these hours, our speed figures out to a shade over three miles per hour. But with the river flowing at three miles per hour and rapids crashing along significantly faster than that, it leaves the impression we did nothing more than float downstream. This is not a complaint by any means; it is the strange recognition that, while my memory tells me the boatmen worked hard to row us down the Colorado, delivering us to incredible adventure, I am now beginning to wonder whether their efforts may have in reality been used to slow our progress. Can I find clarity of memory to see if our dories moved with the current, faster than the current, or were we being passed by the flowing waters?

This then begs the question, what secrets of human perception do these boatmen know and utilize to their mystical advantage? To a growing list of words describing the boatmen, including guide, cook, and teacher, must I now include the profession of magician? How else does one explain that we eat three meals a day, ply the Colorado running whitewater with fierce rapids, hike, explore ruins and side canyons, investigate the fossil record, listen to stories and the song of guitar, mandolin, and campfire with all of this fitting into the shortened days of fall leading into winter? Only an illusionist could fool the perception into thinking it has seen more or less than it really has.

So how do days without end, delivering experiences that should require a week, a month, or even a year, come to a close? This one does so under the majestic light of a rising moon, illuminating the palisades off in the distance. In camp, a dwindling fire and an even thinner crowd brave the cool night for another moment of it all. Raft pilot Ashley Brown, who has been quiet until now, takes up the proverbial podium. Seated near the fire, she reads from John Wesley Powell’s account of his historic first journey down the Colorado in 1869. With a world and 141 years between us, I listen with half an ear while taking notes about my first trip, following in his larger-than-life footsteps. He was exploring the wilds of nature; I exploring the wilds of the mind.

–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.

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.