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.

Here we are, standing on the beach. The shore is buzzing with activity as seven river guides and two helpers finish preparing four dories and three supply rafts for our imminent departure. A few hours earlier, 13 adventurous men and women were climbing out of warm, cozy beds at a hotel in Flagstaff, Arizona. After breakfast, my wife Caroline and I walked outside to find our fellow passengers, two vans, and two of the guides who were there to ensure we were packed and ready to go. With our waterproof bags loaded into the vans, we piled our sense of excitement on board and took a seat, ready to be delivered to the Colorado River for a launch into the experience of a lifetime.

Lees Ferry, where the Colorado enters the Grand Canyon, is the point designated by the National Park Service as the northern boundary of America’s 15th National Park. We are at mile zero, the put-in location for all craft that depart this shore to shuttle the entrant souls through the approaching funnel of time and history. Can one be prepared for this? Absolutely, for if you find yourself here with a figurative boarding pass in hand, you have already made the biggest decision in getting ready to discover the unknown. We will not leave the way we came in. Fate will play its hand.

I am about to be enrapt by this Grandest of Canyons. Naïveté will attempt to stand guard against the emotional onslaught the river is going to deliver, but it too will be washed away by the force of nature residing here. The naive me of moments ago will disappear as an unimaginable future me emerges 225.9 miles downstream.

Trip leader Rondo Buecheler grabs our attention with the commands, “Do as we say, don’t panic, tighten those straps, get on board, and put your stuff in the hatch.” I clamber aboard the dory named Sam McGee, Jeffe Aronson’s rig, heading up front where I was directed, while Caroline sits in the back. I make a quick inventory of Jeffe’s dory and get to packing my gear into the cramped hatch in the bow. A pump and a hose are on my left; easy enough to figure this is for draining either the footwell or one of the three watertight compartments that are supposed to keep our dory afloat when the rest of the boat is full of water. Thick woven straps are firmly attached to the forward compartment, forming handles. We are to grasp one of these and the gunwale to form a triangulated grip that will stop us from being thrown from side to side, hopefully keeping us in the boat, too. Between the straps is a level, which at first glance appears to be a decoration but instead proves to be quite useful. This small feature allows the boatmen to quickly determine if we are in trim, as a balanced dory is easier to control in whitewater.

It’s 10:30 in the morning, and we are going down this river starting right about now. Hey, wait a minute, I hardly know what is going on! We’ve chased around, listened to safety briefings, donned life jackets, and now magically, I’m prepared to embark on this monumental trip, just like that? But these words are only beginning to form in my mind, long before they are able to find utterance from my gaping mouth, as we approach our first riffle at the confluence of the Colorado and the Paria Rivers. IT’S HUGE. Are we gonna get wet? This water is 46 chilly degrees, right? Hypothermia, get ready to embrace me. I triangulate my white-knuckle grip on the gunwale and that measly strap flimsily attached to the matchstick boat I foolishly paid all that money to ride on, and now I’m facing my own untimely demise as a raging riffle is about to have its way on my pitiful being. We are not riding the rails of the Jungle Cruise in Disneyland; this can’t be the first time the reality of the situation we bargained for is dawning on me, or can it?

Ah, a riffle, kind of like a ripple. Okay, I get it; I thought that looked a lot bigger from back there. I’m cool, phew. I release my grip, allowing color to return to my knuckles, and blood flows back into my lips, pressed together tightly, concealing clenched teeth.

The tension remains high; my senses are fully alert. Moving away from the open expanse of Lees Ferry, we are surrounded by the encroaching walls that will hug the river for the majority of the 18 days we’ll be in the Canyon. I am overwhelmed by the idea that after almost a year of waiting and anticipation, Caroline and I are now on the Colorado, in the Grand Canyon, floating downstream on a dory. Hit by an explosion of details, we are dwarfed under the rising cliffs that are stretching to the sky.

To the right and left, the river flows past rock millions of years old. I look up to the sky and then deep into the Canyon before me. I listen to the water running underneath us and to Jeffe, who has started pointing to sights deserving of my attention. I try to hold on to the many sounds disappearing behind me that are being replaced by the music of a river carving a symphony through the landscape ahead.

Each moment is a new sensation, jolting me to focus on what has just appeared before us. I look for fish below and birds above. With deep breaths, I try to smell the few scents that might be found on a cold river running through a vast desert, but little is familiar. Jagged rocks and broken cliffs offer up an indecipherable geometry that is adding complexity to my ability to try and understand the forms of unfolding geologic architecture designed by the hand of nature. How do time and weather create what amounts to visual noise that a human mind looking for order is able to find so enchantingly delightful?

No, really, we’re just 30 minutes downstream? Wow, that leaves a lot more to see; not sure I’m ready for so much looking and seeing. Are you boatmen sure it’s safe to expose the mind to so much intensity all in one hour, one day? Jeffe assures me I am fine. No kidding, more beauty, more adventure, more everything lies ahead? I should brace myself.

The Colorado flows at little more than a leisurely three miles per hour on calm stretches – a snail’s pace. As slow as this is, we are soon passing under the Navajo Bridge. To date, Caroline and I had only driven over this crossing and, on rare occasions, stood on it while watching rafting trips pass below. Today, we are that trip floating by. We have traveled barely five miles since putting in, and I am at once troubled that we have already gone so far, leaving only 220 miles to go, and then again ecstatic that we still have 220 miles to go. How do I slow this rocket sled to allow careful examination and mental inventorying of every square inch I gaze upon?

The unspeakable beauty and infinite detail one sees in the first six miles alone is worthy of a book of poetic observations that should be capable of transporting our spirit to the lofty heights only nature is able to attain. Instead, I offer up a faint murmur of “wow” as I shrink under the Canyon’s epistle of light and gravity spilling into every atom of my being.

Jeffe puts just enough work into the oars to present the world of the Grand Canyon in slow motion – which may still be a little too fast. Good thing the sky is overcast – it offers me a great excuse for not snapping off hundreds of photos per hour. If I wasn’t afraid that this was most likely going to be my one and only trip down the Colorado, I might consider putting the camera away for the duration to allow myself to fall into the lazy mode of the observer. Instead, I feel the need for a record to spark what might someday be a failing memory of how, indeed, Caroline and I had once participated in traveling the muddy red waters of one of America’s greatest rivers.

We are approaching midday. As if reading my thoughts, the boatmen land their vessels onshore and, with programmed precision, jump into action, making lunch. A blue tarp is stretched out on the sand to capture food scraps, keeping the beach clean for those who will follow us. Waterproof food buckets are extracted from hatches, and a table emerges from some hidden corner to be propped up in seconds. Water buckets and a foot pump are quickly put to use for hand washing before a flurry of cutting, opening, slicing, and presenting all the fixings for us passengers and crew to make sandwiches. A potted plant of mums is brought to the table to complete the presentation.

Our waterside picnic must be a first-day treat, as we are offered deli meats, a variety of cheeses, lettuce, tomato slices, red onion, and the luxury of fresh avocado. Apple and orange slices are arranged on a separate table with maybe three different choices of cookies, peanut butter and jelly for those who prefer a PBJ for lunch, and potato chips. With stomachs full, it’s time for the third safety briefing of the day – river and rapid awareness. In a few minutes, we’ll be running Badger Rapid, our first journey into whitewater. Don’t panic if you find yourself in the water; your life jacket will buoy you to the surface in less than two seconds. DON’T PANIC!

Listen to the instructions of your boatman. If he yells, “Right!” you high-side to the right. “Left!” means throw your weight left. This lesson in high-siding is one of the more important reflexes we must adopt and make instinctual. With rigid boats, the weight distribution of the passengers plays a significant role in preventing a dory from flipping over and dumping passengers and boatmen into the turmoil of a rapid. Once again, DON’T PANIC!

Our river guides and their helpers move with purpose to stow things used to make lunch. The mums are hidden away again in one of the sealed compartments of Rondo’s dory. Other than the conversation between boatmen to coordinate what happens next, we passengers are mostly quiet besides the nervous excitement reflected in the expressions we wear. In the final couple of minutes onshore, we adjust our waterproof clothes, tighten drawstrings, and zip jackets up high – maybe believing we can stop the cold water from finding warm skin. Caroline grasps my hand; I squeeze back as we smile at one another with a questioning look that asks, “Are you ready for this?” The boatmen, on the other hand, are calm and casual.

Badger Creek Rapid is in sight; it has been since we pulled ashore for lunch. Watching and listening to its roar surely adds to the tension and the excitement I am feeling. Measuring this rapid’s rage is impossible from my perspective on this narrow beach. What Badger is capable of delivering will be known shortly, as the command to get on board has now been given. We are in our seats and holding on. The boatmen nudge the dories back into the flow, and we are off. In mere moments, the accelerating water pulls us into the rapid, where a well-placed oar and quick turn bring us to our first frothy wet kiss from the river. As the bow begins to dip, coursing down with the flow of water before riding up a wave, thoughts of even larger rapids ahead are the furthest thing from my mind. This must be the biggest whitewater ever.

Fear sits with me, but before I’m able to transition to panic, we are entering a rapid that looks as stormy as the sky overhead. The calm, dark green water from Lees Ferry is now a brown, murky, and merciless river. My mind is a racing jumble of doubt, asking, do I have any idea what comes next and what is my role here? The dory lurches into a roll to the left and quickly jolts to the right. My mind forces my eyes to get a lock on the situation, but nothing stays the same long enough for me to grasp what action is required. Less than 45 seconds later we have passed through our first encounter with whitewater unscathed and mostly dry.

The route we travel follows the oar strokes of the first men to row this stretch of the Colorado, the Powell Expedition of 1869. Back then, this was a great unknown; it was unmapped and fraught with danger. Led by one-armed Civil War veteran John Wesley Powell and worked hard by the labor of eight other courageous men, the group toiled under incredibly harsh conditions. A footnote in history was to be the reward for these men who were the first to travel the great river through what is now Grand Canyon National Park. Today, the Canyon and the Colorado are still full of danger, but the environment, as perceived in the minds of people, has changed from a barren wasteland to a fragile ecosystem containing immeasurable beauty enjoyed by visitors from around the world.

The remaining few miles that we’re on the river today are spent barely rowing at all. We float downstream, the current gently delivering us to an end we know not. A rain, so fine as to easily be confused with a mist, sprinkles ever so delicately on the now-calm Colorado. We drift along. These lazy moments set the mental pace that assures me that it is okay to relax, slow down, and allow what lies ahead to unfold and present itself in its own time. Our influence on the world around us is being eroded. Our anchor to what we think we know will have to be recast, as our sense of place is deconstructed and rebuilt even as we sit here, unaware that this process is at work on all that is within this Canyon, including us.

The afternoon welcomes my presence while the Canyon ignores it, but I cannot ignore the Canyon. My physical location is easily known, but where else might I be going? Some hours ago, I was filled with anticipation that we were about to begin this journey, but now Lees Ferry is nearly forgotten – full immersion is busy at work. I try my best to find comprehension that not only did I finally arrive today, but that this will be where I will remain for the next weeks. Here, under these massive slabs of earth, I am offered the chance to indulge my curiosity for the mystery of what lies ahead.

It’s only 4:00 pm as we pull ashore at Soap Creek Camp. Eleven miles is what we have traversed, but it has already been a thousand miles of experience for my memories. Out of the dories, on terra firma, the trance is broken; we passengers scatter to identify the piece of real estate that will be our first home down below the rim. Satisfied that Caroline and I have made the perfect choice, and no better site exists to pitch our tent, we mark the spot as claimed with a dropped bag of gear and join the others who are gathering at the beach for another lesson in how to live in the Canyon.

How does one use the toilet in this place without toilets? Take notice: you are about to be potty trained for river life. At lunch, the lesson regarding number one, pee-pee, urination, or whatever you want to call it, was given; it is done in the river by all of us, men and women alike. There are no trees in the river to hide behind, and don’t cheat and pee on the sand; it will turn green and stink – get it in the water. Men, aim like you mean it; women, try not to get stuck in the mud. This late afternoon lesson deals with number two, the BM, aka defecation. Jeffe is the teacher for those of us uninitiated in the use of “the Unit,” also known as La Pooperia, the Groover, and the toilet if you’d like. First of all, everything that enters the Canyon must leave the Canyon – meaning everything! Next, on the ground beside our boatman, is a World War II-style ammunition can with a cozy toilet seat fixed atop. Jeffe drops his shorts, revealing his wetsuit bottoms, and takes a seat. He shows us a plastic box containing a roll of toilet paper, the key to “the facilities.” Do not hover over the Unit! Boatmen do not want to clean up the ensuing mess because your dainty butt is afraid to make contact with the seat that 21 of us other poopers have perched upon. Do not use the Unit for urination; it adds extra weight and unnecessary volume; there is a plastic bucket next to it that we empty into the river – use that. If the “key” is not sitting at the hand wash station, which is a good distance away, the Unit is occupied. When finished with your business, sprinkle with Clorox Crystals from the bottle conveniently placed next to the can, close the lid, cover with the netting that helps keep pests away, bring back the box of TP to the next in line – and WASH YOUR HANDS!

Once this most important of all lessons has been completed, we’re off to the next subject. Some of you may have never pitched a tent, here is how these work. Get it? Got it? Good. Now, go set up your camp, we leave on a hike up Soap Creek Canyon shortly. School’s out for the day, but the adventure is not. Apparently, my brain has reached a first-day saturation point, causing me to move into befuddlement because Caroline and I hit the trail without our GPS, extra lenses, tripod, a backpack, or waterproof bag for the camera, should it rain. We brought the camera, a water bottle, and nothing else.

Glistening mud, pools of red water, slick rock, and wet sand. The muck on our invisible trail quickly tugs at a foot, holding fast, trying to keep the shoe it has captured. The majority of the group is ahead of Caroline and me, racing off somewhere, while our curiosity has us taking a close examination of cracked earth, lichen, and the patterns left on still muddy surfaces by the water that must have been flowing here just a day or two ago. Details in the rocks, eroding fissures in boulders, and the contours of the drainage all present new information to our eyes. They hungrily consume every last morsel of beauty that, even under a gray overcast sky, is a delight to behold.

Before we catch up to the others in our group, they have already turned around and are speeding right back at us. In a blur, they are again out of sight. No one presses us to quicken our pace, and so we meander, lingering to gawk in disbelief that we should be finding ourselves here in the Grand Canyon, taking a hike from off the Colorado River. Two of our boatmen, Steve Kenney and Jeffe bring up the rear, seemingly content to chat with each other and give us our space to be here in our moment.

Almost near camp again, a hole opens in the cloud cover, letting the sun pour its late afternoon glow upon a narrow strip of ridgeline far above us. This is in keeping with Caroline’s and my experience that when we are happily traveling together and are accepting what life is delivering, nearly without fail, we will be daily witnesses to at least a fleeting glimpse of blue sky or sun dancing upon a surface, eliciting our oohs and aahs. And so it was as we finished our first hour-and-a-half-long hike from the river into a side canyon.

Dinner is eaten around a blazing campfire. In the kitchen, dory boatman Bruce Keller and Katrina Cornell, who is rowing one of the supply rafts, work the camp stove to prepare tonight’s menu of salmon, asparagus, and a mixed salad. But as good as dinner is, it is a dessert that steals the show – fresh sliced strawberries with shortcake and whipped cream.

The embers of the campfire glow red hot, wisps of golden flame flicker above what remains of the disappearing wood. In quiet disbelief that this was merely the first day, we collectively sat in stunned silence, mesmerized by our experiences and the firelight at the center of our camp circle. Maybe knowing we are incapable of even basic human speech, Jeffe brings over his guitar and, with a wonderful singing voice, begins to heap the icing upon our peach of a day. After half a dozen classic folk songs and a couple of old rock anthems, someone speaks up, remarking that it is already 8:00 pm. Like an alarm working in reverse, this is apparently the cue for the majority of passengers and a few of the crew to peel out of the low-slung canvas chairs and make their way to a tent out in the darkness for a night of sleep. They scamper off, leaving but a small handful of us to wait until the fire exhausts itself.

Lucky us, the entertainment continues. On this first night, we are the only two passengers who remain at the camp circle. Caroline and I hover like moths attracted to the light of the fire, not wanting to miss a minute that might prove valuable to filling our wallets with experience. Still sitting next to the fire, Bruce begins reminiscing about previous exotic river journeys from the Tatshenshini-Alsek in Alaska to the Zambezi in Africa before embarking on this humorous story set in another far away land.

We were in Papua New Guinea, where a difficult, windy, wet day had been tormenting the passengers. On the river, us boatmen rowed into a strong headwind where a tropical storm kept everyone in rain gear. The rain wouldn’t relent. By the time the group pulled off the river, the crew got to work setting up the kitchen and wanted to start a fire so our guests could start drying off and find some warmth. The fire pan is on the ground, wood is stacked in a pile, and kindling sits ready as one of the other boatmen attempts to get the fire burning. With the high humidity, rain, and driving wind, it was proving impossible to light the damp kindling. Try as we might, we could not get the spark to catch hold. Off to the side, a couple of the nearly-naked New Guinea men who were along as the local experts, watched in amusement. We continued to toil in frustration. Finally, the tribesmen approached and offered their assistance. One of the men reached into the only thing he was wearing, his penis gourd. From deep within his gourd, he pulled dry kindling and a match and, in a second had enough fire started to get things roaring along.

No one saw that coming, not the folks on the trip that day and not one of us around our campfire. Howls of laughter for the best story of the night erupted.

A few minutes later, the remaining boatmen abandon the fire with wishes to rest well before returning to their boats where they will stay for the night. Now facing the dark solitude of the chilling night air alone, we decide to retire as well. Off to our tent, we go. Even with a three-person tent, we are crowded. Waterproof bags and our backpacks compete for space, as we hadn’t realized in our exhaustion that they should have been left outside the tent.

Sleep this evening is fitful. Too hot, too cold. The noise of Soap Creek Rapid is crashing behind our heads, along with the Canyon sounds still unfamiliar to our resting ears. This canyon orchestra works to toss us about and keep us from fully embracing sleep. Mr. Sandman apparently does visit us, but instead of carrying us off to the land of deep slumber, he simply sprinkles the tent and sleeping bags with a bit of sand and is quickly away.

–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.

As you don’t have my book in front of you, I need to explain this first entry before getting into the day-by-day journey we made starting back on the 22nd of October 2010. A year earlier, in late November 2009, we signed up with the OARS Company, hoping for a journey down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. We were informed that those trips were sold out. Not a few days passed before OARS blasted out an email that they had a cancelation on an October trip; I was on the phone within 60 seconds of receiving it. Informed that this was a dory trip for 18 days, I told the person I was talking with that I had to check with my wife, she too thought that was a good idea. We hadn’t really considered a dory trip down the river as, at $12,000 for the two of us, this would be the most expensive trip we had ever taken.

One of the rules of the company was that we couldn’t pay with a credit card, cash only. I called Caroline, outlining where we could cut costs, and felt comfortable that by July 24th, 2010, we could pay off the more than $10,000 balance we’d have open after making the mandatory $1,500 deposit to reserve two spots for us. Excitedly, she agreed that we should throw caution out the window and go for it. Then, on December 12th, Caroline’s birthday, we drove up to the Grand Canyon, and on a snowy ledge with the Colorado River in the background, we wrote and signed the check.

We changed our diet; cut back on travel, we watched where every penny was going. Not only would we need to save, save, save, but we also had a bunch of things we’d need to buy before we left in October of the next year. I also had a logistical problem to solve as I had and have sleep apnea, which required me to travel with my CPAP. A full breakdown of what that took and looked like was posted the following January in 2011; you can read it by clicking here.

The book opens with this image on the first page; it is a map of the camps we stayed at during our trip, starting up at Lees Ferry – Mile Zero. There are many others down in that 226 miles, but these were ours. And then my dedication:

For Caroline Wise…

My wife is the other half of me which allows my senses to fully appreciate the beauty in life. Through our incredible love, life takes on greater depth; it is more profound and more full of passion. In a world of possibility, our horizons appear boundless, even in light of limits to time and all things manifested by our fragile emotions and the uncertainty of physical being. But from my perspective, today is a perfect day to be in hopeless, never-ending love. We are four eyes, two minds, and two smiles dancing through a wondrous life, celebrating its rewards and travails.

When a crack in the earth of our perception opens wide and time dilates our senses, stretching us to a breaking point, when experiencing one more grain of sand threatens our idea of self with certain dissolution, we pull the straps of our mental flotation device tight and hold on. Pray our mind is going to rise above the surface of the swirling maelstrom that is engulfing us. We are now in the Grand Canyon.

And that’s how the book opens. Next up: Day 1 of Stay In The Magic – A Voyage Into The Beauty Of The Grand Canyon.

Ten years ago, I started a blog entry that quickly spiraled out of control and grew so long that it became a book titled Stay In The Magic – A Voyage Into The Beauty Of The Grand Canyon (pictured above). As I went to publish it, I was exhausted with the process and wanted nothing more to do with it, so I never created a digital version for eBook readers, nor did I really share much of anything online about the experience.

Over the next few weeks, I hope to post a chapter a day that will represent each day of the trip down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon National Park. This was a life-changing moment in Caroline’s and my routine and has played a role in many of our subsequent adventures.

Now that this is becoming a blog entry, it’s going to be extraordinarily long, with 85,000 words and about 300 images. I’ll be doing my best from day to day to keep up with transferring the text and images over here, but I’m not really sure how much work will be involved with this endeavor.

I’m still considering if, at some point, I’ll remove this from being out of sequence on my blog and redate these entries so they fall sequentially into where they belong; maybe I’ll have two copies among the 2,250 blog entries.

My big hope here is that I can avoid cringing at what I wrote so long ago, as I’ve never returned to its pages.