Give and Take in the Grand Canyon
Souvenirs from the Canyon
Just a few days ago, I returned from a 9-day adventure to the bottom of the Grand Canyon. This trip was my 50th birthday gift to myself, and an adventure reunion with my friend Holly after 5 years of raising teenagers and COVID cancellations put a halt to our yearly wilderness trips. We had said we’d make up for our lost time with an epic trip. I’m not sure we knew what we meant by that, but the word “epic” couldn’t have described it more.
What we had was true epic adventure, featuring elation, misery, terror, and wonder. Rafting 137 miles on the Colorado River through otherwise inaccessible wilderness. Scrambling over sharp rocks and walking a narrow ledge above a slot canyon more than 50 feet down. Swimming for my literal life as the hungry River slurped me in like a hapless morsel on a soup spoon. Opening my eyes in the dead of night to discover that the Milky Way has nebulae that reach away from it like arms, floating on an infinite backdrop of impossibly black ink and more stars than I’ve seen in my lifetime put together. Paddling over angry frothy waves and navigating around eddies that would as soon churn you to butter as swallow you whole. Witnessing daring river guides skillfully subvert the whims of the River. If these events aren’t something akin to Homer’s works, high school English has failed me.
The 7.5-mile hike down to the River started with an unbothered Bighorn sheep and optimistic bouncy steps in the cool shadows of tall red rock walls, crossed through a welcome green refuge of shady trees, descended into a torturous spiral of hot agony called the Devil’s corkscrew, and ended on a rocky shadeless beach where other adventurers were impatiently urging us to unpack our 30-pound backpacks into scorching rubber dry bags. After that, we quickly resigned ourselves to the idea that not every day was going to be our favorite. This turned out to be both realistic and accurate. Some days, there were just no breaks and I fantasized about faking an injury so I could get flown out. Other days blessed us with laughter, celebrations, an occasional cool breeze, and impromptu drunken sing-a-longs led by a river guide in an Elvis getup.
Day 2 on the river gave us a pointed lesson on the gamut of personalities the River embodies. At different times it is docile, playful, petulant, and violent, but always in charge. Clearly, the River felt challenged by our willful attempt to conquer its most wicked rapid. As we entered Crystal, our crew of three whooped joyously, riding high on the first two heaving waves that blessed us with an icy soaking. The third wave was a massive liquid wall that hurled me over the boat like a crumpled paper lobbed at a trash can. My initial response was annoyance at the interruption of my plans for a lazy day of recovery and relaxation. As I surfaced, astonished and disoriented, my aggravation turned to a sickening panic when I saw the slick blue underside of the raft. I remembered an item from our safety training, and dorkily patted myself on the head to signal the guide that I was ok. The look on his face begged to differ. I was away from the boat and getting farther as the roiling current pulled me with it. The sight of the guide’s outstretched hand as he clung to the side of the boat brought to life some adrenaline-fueled Katie Ledecky version of me and I swam furiously toward him. His hand disappeared and reappeared as the waves flung us apart, but I stroked and kicked doggedly toward it until I reached him. The moment he grabbed my wrist and pulled me to the boat was sweet affirmation that I wasn’t going to die that day… probably. I worked my way to the front of the raft, swallowing mouthfuls of water as the waves dunked me repeatedly like a high school bully at the city pool. Not content with my punishment just yet, the River gave me a final “eff you” when in one mighty swish, the current depantsed me just as I was about to be pulled out of the water by my rescuer. I emerged head pounding, half-naked, and thankful for my life. Holly, having just been rescued from her own near demise, lay next to me, sodden, stunned, and relieved. We grasped each other’s hands as she confessed, “I thought that was it”. “Me too”, I admitted. We would later laugh at the irony that we met on the high school swim team. AquaJays forever!
There was an upside to that day: I was finally cool. The extended submersion brought my core temperature down from a high simmer to something like normal, and the blazing sun felt downright pleasant. There are not enough words for the heat we experienced in the Canyon. The misfortune of having our trip fall during a record streak of 110+ degree temperatures was amplified by the high rock walls that served to absorb and reemit heat as if they were pulsing embers at the bottom of a raging bonfire. Making simple decisions became difficult and I often bumbled around unproductively, near delirious from the heat. The searing sand melted the glue on the bottom of Holly’s Chacos, leaving her shoes soleless and her feet unprotected from the harsh ground. One night the relentless hot wind washed over us in waves, stealing sleep from our tired bodies. I doused my head in water three times during the night to get some fitful rest.
Constant wetness served as the only remedy for the brutality of the sun and the persistent oven-like temperatures. Sleeping required covering ourselves with what Holly dubbed “a wet turd” — a sopping sarong that stuck to us like… well, like what she said. The constant moisture and abrasion from hiking in wet shoes tore holes in my feet that are still trying to heal. The Canyon though, as much as it took, offered us the gloriously cold River water that has nurtured life there for eons and, even though it may have nearly killed us once, provided the means for our unexaggerated survival.
The Canyon had other gifts for us too. Cool, mossy grottos decorated with hanging ferns that dripped water like crystals. An oasis called “the patio” made of wide flat rocks surrounding a sparkling creek that rivaled the frolic-ability of any water park, yet in quiet moments whispered of hundreds of generations of families past that drank, played, and honored their ancient religious traditions there. Bighorn sheep enacting a preseason mating ritual on a narrow ledge. Freedom from timekeeping, overconnectedness, availability, and obligation. The creation of memories and bonds with fellow adventurers that can only be made through shared hardships and belly laughs. The exhilaration of soul-thrilling rides high on the swooping rapids. The kindness of an exhausted guide who fashioned riotously comical foot protection for me from rubber gloves and ace bandages, while another guide serenaded the process with an equally ridiculous ballad he wrote on the spot. The mosaics of colors, lines, and textures displayed in a grand outdoor museum that offers exclusive viewing only to those dedicated and fortunate enough to find it.
As you descend 4,800 feet down the trail to reach the River, you are reading a story in the changing layers of rock, written by nature in prose both powerful and delicate. Rafting the River is following geological history through one cataclysmic event after another, and some of those events have been erased from the record by even more spectacular phenomena. We can’t see the remnants of those “missing time” events, even though science can prove they happened. Much of the evidence of my trip is still visible: painful foot sores requiring a round of antibiotics, sunburned lips, a toasted marshmallow suntan (yes, I did use plenty of sunscreen), stronger legs, and a contact list of new friends. So many other “souvenirs” from my trip will be like the geological secrets of the Canyon, not visible but unquestionably, they happened, and they exist: indelible memories, an even deeper love for my wilderness soul sister Holly, respect for our badassery and increased confidence in my own wilderness abilities, and some serious river cred courtesy of our membership on the elite Crystal Rapid swim team. The impact of my epic trip into the Grand Canyon will be profound, and just like the weather, water, wind, and geologic processes that have formed and reformed the Canyon, it will shape me too.
