SOLO #11 – Grand Canyon – 2025
Lee’s Ferry to Pearce Ferry – 280 river miles
Sept. 2 Launch – Sept. 22 Takeout
Running the river solo through Grand 
Canyon is peak life adventure on the razor edge of survivability. It’s only been done by a few throughout history. What follows is the story about an attempt in September of 2025. My first solo run was 32 years ago, and this will be the last one.
While fiddling around in the office recently, the phone rang. I looked to see who it was and it just said “Grand Canyon” in bold letters. Hmm, I wonder what they want. On the line was Matt from the river permit office informing me there had been a last minute river trip cancellation and was I interested? “Yes I am. What is the launch date?” “Sept. 2,” he says, “30 days from today.” I needed to talk to my wife about this, and figure out if the raft could be made ready that fast, so I asked if he would call me back in an hour. He said he would. My dear wife tells me to GO RUN THE RIVER, so he calls back and we get started on the deal. The permit comes via email and I’m off and running. It’s been nine long years since the last Grand trip, and with recent rule changes there was little chance of ever drawing a permit again. It was pure luck that someone cancelled their Grand Canyon river trip so late in the game, and providence that Mathew at Permits called me on it. Yes, it was my good fortune, but what tragic events led up to someone cancelling a highly coveted river trip so late in the game? I wish that I could comfort them about their misfortune, and tell them how deeply I appreciate the chance to run the river in their place. I thank you whomever you are, wherever you are.
The raft is inflated and rigged on the car-hauler. It’s a hard five day drive to my old friend Ken in Page, Arizona. Ken spent twenty years at Lee’s Ferry as the water engineer, then retired up top to Page. Many saw him before their river trip, but few knew who he was. More rigging, loading of food, and I’m ready. I bid farewell to my good friends in Page, then down to the Ferry it is, the required day before launch.
All the rigging was done beforehand so there’s some extra time to burn. I wander around telling all the outfitters that they are welcome to drop in and double camp if they need or want to. The other private trip launching that day were mostly from New Zealand. It was the first time to meet people from that country. They are pleasant folks and experienced river runners. As with most private trips these days, their’s were rented boats, pro food pack, pro shuttle, and pro guides. In other words, a commercial river trip.
A trip leader from one of the commercial row trips came over to tell me that they would be staying at camp XYZ on night one, and that if I was there I would have to leave. What? That’s not quite how it works I says. We bandy it about for a bit then back to the yellow row boats he goes. He told the Kiwis the same thing, don’t stay at XYZ. Campsite Poker, it’s a game I play well, though it started a bit early this time. Otherwise, it was the usual noise and hubbub at Lee’s Ferry. My dear friends and prolific authors of Grand Canyon literature; Tom Martin and Hazel Clarke, traveled all the way to the Ferry from Flagstaff to wish me well on this journey. I am so honored I hardly know what to say. We three chat awhile, smile a lot, and I get back to work rigging.
The checkout ranger didn’t show up until 9:30 that evening. Normally permits are checked and signed no later than 3pm the afternoon before launch. The NPS is short staffed because of the presidential firing of federal employees, and the checkout lady was doing double duty somewhere else, hence late getting back to Lee’s Ferry. Since it’s dark outside, there were no safety inspections except for lifejackets.
Day 1 – Off the beach around 8am after breakfast with the Kiwi’s, and this journey is underway. Excellent. 20 days to Pearce Ferry is the plan, and it’s now day one, finally. Solo #11 has begun. Fantastic! At age 74, I have friends that question the wisdom of such a journey. I’m fit, and a strong swimmer with only minor health issues, so it should be okay.
It’s always a bit nervous drifting under the bridge at four mile. There’s lots of sightseers up there. After that nothing much dangerous should be falling my way. As we drift under the bridges, I wave at a few pedestrians up top, hoping for no apples or rocks coming down, and it’s on down to Badger Creek Rapid, the first of the 208 named rapids down here. Every single one of them can flip a boat in these low flows, and cavalier attitude would be a mistake. The sky is full of high cirrus mares tails, a harbinger of storms to come. The flow is around 8k and Badger Rapid is as big as it gets. I run it clean but get slammed hard in big waves. Man what a thrill! Gato Azul and I are on the run. The Sherriff ain’t gonna catch me now.
Everyone names their raft. I have a blue cataraft which was born in New Mexico, hence the Spanish name, Gato Azul. It has carried me down this river at all times of the year, in both high and low water. Not once has it ever needed a hole patched or repair of any kind. It’s the most bomb-proof raft I’ve ever seen, and I’ve rowed them all.
An attempt was made to reorganize the day box without much luck. One needs to be at camp for that lest things fall in the river. Catarafts are notoriously unforgiving about fumbling fingers. It generally takes about three days to place everything and memorize where it all goes. The good of it is that all gear on a cataraft is right up top and easy to access.
Well now there it is, House Rock Rapid. The theory here is to lean right and miss that gigantic hole on the left mid way down. At a flow of 8,000 cubic feet per second, it’s the meanest smokin’ hole on the river. We roll in, pull hard right and miss it. It’s eerie being that close to something that could end my trip this early in the game. House Rock was a big splash and a fun ride. It’s still hot this time of year and it’s necessary to soak down about every thirty minutes. There’s a bucket handy for that. And since there is no floor I can at least keep my feet wet which keeps core temps down. Not for too long though or Toleo sets in, which is a fungal foot infection that won’t go away until long after the trip is over.
There are motor-rigs galore on the river today. They all offer me ice later on downstream. The luxury of ice after about day ten cannot be overstated. I offer genuine thanks in advance. Ended up camping about a mile below North Canyon. There used to be a nice camp at North, but these days the tie-up is steep and the whole place is full of angry red ants. No thanks. After a hike up the canyon to see the pretty stuff, it’s on down to a big camp about a mile below on river left. I caught a trout in the eddy, which will be dinner this evening.
A commercial row trip pulled in as I was setting up camp and the TL started whining loudly about a one boat trip taking up such a big camp, which caught me off guard. I stopped him mid-rant and told them to move on downstream. They could have stayed here, save for his over-the-top bitching which queered the deal for a double camp. Oh well, his loss not mine. In the thirty-four years of running solo, I have always invited folks in for a double camp, and until now I have never been yelled at. Commercial bookings are down 40% from a decade ago, which may be why some of them are getting a bit testy. Notwithstanding, their business model is not going to improve by harassing other boatmen.
A light rain rolled in, so the tent was set up. It promptly quit raining, so down with the tent. Tents are a thief of time. I decide not to do that again and just sleep under a tarp, rain or shine. And rain it does. Not constantly though. Just enough to wake me up through the night from time to time. Not much sleep. And that’s the way it went for the first three evenings: Plink, plink, plink, water torture.
Day 2 – Breakfast: Apple, carrot, granola. No kitchen. Heavy cloud cover. It’s time to run the roaring twenties. At 8k they will be formidable. The rig is strapped down tight, I don the helmet and we’re off. It’s an early drift, hoping to make Martha’s camp if the trip ahead doesn’t want it.
Whoa, the twenties are raucous! One of them grabbed my right oar, swept it under the raft and bent it about three degrees. Damn it. Must keep better control of the oars. Maybe the oar will be okay. There’s two spare ones, but I go on with the bent one and adjust rowing style accordingly. It takes about two hours to change out an oar because of the counterweights. I’d rather not. The last time I saw the twenties this big was in the nineties during experimental low flows, when BuRec was cycling it between 5k and 8k.
It’s raining so I pull into a lunch beach with an overhang. Ah, most pleasant. The upstream winds are pretty strong today. Making twenty miles feels unlikely. Were it that I could afford my own personal row-bot. My wrists and shoulders are already in a bit of pain, and it’s only day two? Interesting that different boating venues cause different physical issues. Motor-rig pilots typically have bad backs and knees. For row-rigs its shoulders, elbows, and wrists. At age 74, it all hurts (smile). After three back surgeries related to driving motor-rigs back in the eighties, it’s a pleasure to be rowing.
Lunch is finished and it’s on downstream. After rowing a bit, I spot a sand dune smack in the middle of the stream. What?? I’ve never seen that on the river. There’s always something new on every Grand Canyon river trip.
Here comes another rapid. They come pretty fast here in the twenties. Don’t know its name, but there’s three pour-overs in the middle of it. I thread the needle and miss them all. Hitting any one of them would have been a Bad Day at Black Rock. This low water brings out all sorts of challenging stuff, mostly pour-overs. So far, this is the hardest I’ve ever worked to get downstream on a Grand trip. Between upstream winds, slow current, and low flows, the miles are slow and tiring. On the bright side, there’s more time to enjoy that fabulous riverine scenery.
I make camp at Nautiloid mile 35, and end up lugging all the kitchen gear up a steep slope to the camp. Christ, I’m getting too old for this. For dinner it’s a carrot, an apple, and dried steak strips. Breakfast is better: Eggs over medium, crispy bacon, a cooked muffin with butter, fruit, and and, fresh hot brewed coffee. I remember running big motor-rigs back in the mid-eighties. We had great food, because we could carry anything, including an endless supply of beer. As pilots, we were not judged on how well we ran the rapids, but on how good the food was. It’s always been that way. Customers know little about the boating process, and more than us guides when it comes to cuisine.
Well here it is, raining yet again. A commercial trip passed by. They seem miffed that the Camp was taken. Their next option is many miles downstream, and it will be dinner-in-the-dark. Had they stopped to chat, I would have invited them in for a double camp and their customers could have set up their cots while it was still light.
The big battery charger I brought died on day two, so no more satellite texting to my wife, or anyone else. No devices can be charged now. Oh well, maybe it’s for the better. There will be no digital distractions on this trip. I bury all that junk deep and will deal with it post Canyon. My time will now be laser focused on boating, and nothing else.
Day 3 – The decision is made to layover here. Steak and eggs for breakfast. Deluxe. This raft needs some reorganization. All the kitchen gear is laid out, and some of it is pulled and stowed deep. Just trying to get the kitchen down to fighting weight, which will speed up meal preparation, allowing more time to enjoy the neighborhood.
A Park river patrol dropped in late afternoon after I had pulled in for the evening. They were just down checking on river runners and offering help if needed. It was fun lively conversation, as I used to work for the Park many moons ago. They were driving a 20’ motor-rig, the perfect setup for the job at hand. Later on, a Canyoneer motor-rig stopped by, whom I worked for back in the eighties. Joy Staveley, one of the owners had passed away a couple years earlier, and Gaylord was retired from the business and taking it easy. The company is now being run by their son Cameron.
It was off-and-on rain all night, again. The big beach umbrella was set up and it covered the cot pretty well. Of critical importance, the sleeping bag stayed dry.
Day 4 – The camp at Nautiloid is a nice one, with a fascinating side hike. After thousands of years of raging high water, the rock has been polished down, exposing those curious fossilized Nautiloid creatures. Leaving camp was tedious and time consuming. Too much heavy lifting. Must try and camp closer to the river. Off the beach around 8am after a pleasant and constructive layover day. Some of these low water riffles have become rapids. On guard! Pay attention (just talking to myself). It’s slow going here in Marble Canyon and the upstream breezes aren’t helping. The scenery is spectacular as usual and it’s dead quiet once in awhile, with only the sound of birds and bugs. The river is nicely shaded this morning, though the flotsam is moving faster than the raft. I’m jealous. They tell us to drink lots of water so I do but sheesh, having to pee every ten minutes is ridiculous. This old man stuff is slowing the trip down. One more thing to factor in.
I never did catch up to the Kiwis, as the wind slowed forward progress way down and there’s no one to spell me off on the oars. It’s getting late so lower Nankoweap camp it is. Dinner was left over filet mignon, a pear, doritos, and some hard candy. The kitchen was not set up. It is too hard on my back. After working on motor-rigs for three years I ended up needing three back surgeries in the ten years that followed. Those rigs will damage and hurt your lower back eventually. It’s the little secret no one likes to talk about.
There was a flash flood through here recently. The Nankoweap drainage is longer than most and flooding is common. The beaches here are heavily used, hard packed, and overrun with red ants. There’s mud and charcoal everywhere. Nanco is not my favorite place, but I needed a camp.
Day 5 – The morning row starts at mile 53.5 and the up-canyon winds are already going strong. Fortunately there’s pretty good current running through here which balances out the headwind, which is running about 25 knots with a lot of sand and silt in the air. Rattlesnake camp looks good so that will be home for the evening. Finally made twenty miles in one day. The rain seems to have stopped and there is good shelter against the wind here. Christ, the red ants own this place. Deet is sprayed everywhere which slows them down. A private trip dropped in to say hi. They are guides on the Arkansas River, running Brown’s Canyon and Royal Gorge. One of their crew is from Lake Highlands in the Dallas area, next door to my childhood days, so we traded memories for awhile. It’s a small world occasionally. It was a pleasure to meet them.
Day 6 – They fed me a hot breakfast the next morning, and we all stop in to scout Hance. It’s a clear sky, with a smokey haze filling the canyon from the North Rim fire. Three groups ascend the scout hill, one commercial and two non-commercial. Low water Hance is big and tough. There is much conjecture about which line to take and the commercials go first. They made clean runs and now it’s our turn. I go first. Raft drops into the duck pond then it’s a pull for all I’m worth to get left, to no avail. The raft drops over three pour overs. The last one is the biggest and turns the raft sideways, then unceremoniously spits me out below. After that it’s a hard meaningful row to get back right for the wave train down below. Mano y mano and I’m out. All of us made it through in good shape. Whew, glad to be below Hance. The pour overs in Hance are all runnable in low water, so long as the boat noses straight into them. In higher water the big wave below can flip any rig, including the forty footers. The good news is that the monster wave can be more easily cheated as the water rises. Next stop Neville’s Rapid. ‘Twill be big. Sockdolager and Grapevine are raucious in low water as usual. We’re in the gorge rapids now and it’s big powerful stuff. Fun, fun, fun! Gato Azul (the raft) performs flawlessly.
It’s Clear Creek camp for the night. A hike to the waterfalls is difficult, but it’s one of my top three side hikes. It’s getting late, so I hike up in the morning.
There’s a Smokey haze now filling the Canyon from the North Rim fires in progress. They have been burning now for two months, and the stately North Rim Lodge burned up in the fiery conflagration. I’ve stayed there a couple times. It was a very cool place to be, with great views from their back deck along with some nice day hikes. The Rangers said that they may not rebuild it. It would be a shame to lose such a fine piece of architecture and not rebuild it. Not my call though, and I have a different set of concerns down here 3500’ below.
Many motor-rigs pass by. They are the preferred way to traverse the river, by about a margin of three to one. They serve up cold beer/soda and top notch cuisine, because they can. Plus, they get people through in about a week, whereas a row trip takes 14-16 days. I’m in for 20. Altogether eight motor-rigs and three commercial row trips pass by today. Hmmm, am I going too slow? Maybe so. I only made ten miles today. That’s okay. Twenty can be rowed if need be, headwinds notwithstanding. The wind doesn’t blow in earnest until about 10:30, so I start around 7am and quit around 1pm, which leaves time to hike the side canyons and relax a bit.
The rocks and sand are blasted hot by noon, so the big 8’ umbrella is set up on the boat where it’s nice and cool. The river is about 70 degrees these days. It hasn’t been that warm since they built Glen Canyon Dam forty years ago. When the reservoir is full, the river is 42.5 degrees, big difference. Fall into 40 degree water and it will stop one’s heart in a few short minutes. At 70 degrees you can swim in it for hours. Once the camp is shaded, off comes the kitchen and camp gear and onto the beach. Feet are liberally sprayed with deet to keep the ants at bay. I finally wised up and started watering down the cot area, which makes for nice cool sleeping and no ants. It takes about eight trips down to the river with a water bucket to cool the cot area down, and worth the effort. Fare for the evening? Pan fried filet mignon, fresh salad, and an ice cold Fresca. Man that’s living.
Day 7 – Slept well. Dreamt well. Today is water at Phantom Ranch, then the mighty Inner Gorge rapids below. Rowing today starts at mile 85 and ends at Schist Camp around 96.5. The Kiwis roll in for a double camp. I passed them at Nankoweap and didn’t realize it. Good to see them again. They fed me dinner and we talked about this and that. Slept until pain woke me up. A pill and back to sleep. Crystal clear sky all night and no wind at all. Finally, the overcast rainy skies give way to solid blue above. The raft was not cooperating at camp so a three-way tie off was the solution to not being beached in the morning. Extra work but it did the trick. Raft was floating nicely in the morning and ready to go. At certain camps, the current will foul the raft at night, resulting in a beached vessel in the morning, argg.
Day 8 – Its clear, calm, and quiet this morning. Up around 6am and begin packing the boat. The Kiwis no longer want me in their camp, though not sure why. Oh well. Ran Crystal left after a brief scout and had a merry ride. First wave flipped the raft upside down, then the second wave flipped it right side up again. Luckily I had my scuba gear on. Pulled hard right below, missed the suck wall, and washed out left of the rock bar. Good, onward into the strange and beautiful upper granite gorge, with Crystal Rapid behind.
How rare, a downstream breeze this morning. I turn the boat sideways, ship the oars, and take it all in. The favorable breeze didn’t last more than a few minutes and was soon replaced by it’s more prevalent cousin, the upstream wind, drat. The rest of the gorge rapids come and go without incident. The big hole in Ruby Rapid was a wake-up call however. There are seven trips ahead and only five named camps. Hmmm. So now I’m looking for an unnamed camp to call home. Oh Justice! A spit of sand river right, and it’s about 5pm. Perfecto bueno, though it isn’t a named camp. It isn’t even big enough for a lunch stop. My kind of place. Since humans don’t stop here, there are no flies red ants or scorpions, an added bonus. The virtues of a solo trip are significant. Dinner, dessert, evening pills, then it’s time for the cot, stargazing, and sleep.
It is surprising how many low orbit satellites whiz by. It’s likely the same ones are whizzing by an hour later. I brought along a special pair of binoculars this time, the 10x Canon stabilized unit. Push the button and the image becomes solid as a rock. Best binoculars I’ve ever owned. One battery lasted the entire trip, and the optics are pretty good.
The clearest starry nights on Earth may well be right here at the bottom of Grand Canyon. Truly amazing, and quite the show. For an hour or so each evening while lying in the cot, I gaze at the heavens above. Beautiful and stately is the night sky in the desert southwest. Try as we may, we cannot film, photograph, paint, or describe such a place as this. One must simply go down the river to take in its true beauty. With the rise of river running these past decades, the journey has become safer and more enjoyable. Oh drat! Here comes the full moon, drowning out the stars. Well fine, I get up, grab the Uv flashlight and go scorpion hunting for awhile. The Uv light stays under my pillow for those evening strolls to the river. Stepping on a scorpion can be trip ending, and at the very least trip altering. Bark scorpions are the most common and light up like a Christmas tree as far as 50’ away.
Day 9 – Up early. No breakfast, hoping to get the day’s rowing done early to miss the up canyon winds. We’ll see. Devin with Western River Adventures throws me three blocks of ice and promises eight more when he laps me in about a week. Man, what a pleasant and generous fellow. We chat awhile and he catches me up on company happenings over the last few years. He’s running motor support for a row trip, so he has nothing but time on his hands, along with a boat full of beer, ice, and food. There was about an hour of tailwind this morning, and the rest of the day was headwinds. If the wind continues, I’ll be fit, strong, and ready for love when this journey is done.
Dubendorf Rapid, mile 131.5 – I heard that this rapid changed up from a recent flash flood and that it should be scouted. I was running a little behind schedule so I decided not to scout. Once into the tongue, there was nothing below that looked familiar, and there was a gaping hole at the bottom. The raft was ferried right to miss that hole down below. This was a mistake. I ended up going over a huge pour-over in the middle of the rapid. The boat nosed straight down then shot straight up, all the way out of the water. I lost the oars and was blown off the boat and into the maw of whitewater. One of the big waves slams me hard and takes me straight to the bottom where I am slammed into the rocks, rolling over and over them. Back to the top I grab a breath of air, then it’s back to the bottom of the rapid slamming into rocks again. I swim hard trying to get to air and finally do, just in time for the raft to slam down on top of my head. Down under again, but at least I got some air this time. The water down below is like being in a swimming pool full of Alka-Seltzer. It’s the fizz man. After tossing around under water for a bit, I came back up, finally. It seemed like an eternity down there, but in reality was only a few seconds. The raft is about ten feet away and it’s a hard swim to get there. The rapid is only half way done and I was not able to hang on to it. Down under yet again, back up and the raft is ten feet away again. Finally caught up to it, grabbed a handle on a kitchen box and pulled myself out of the river. Once back on the raft, I hang on to a d-ring until I can grapple with the situation. Back in the seat, oars in hand and its safe again. We slam through a couple big holes at the bottom and then out. The big Wilderness commercial trip on shore saw the whole thing and were getting ready to come out and rescue me. I stood up and waved so they wouldn’t have to row out there to save a cold, wet, and embarrassed river rat. How quickly things can go awry on the river. Dubendorf rapid kicked my ass and almost drowned me. Wake up son, there’s Lava Falls and 232 mile rapids still ahead….
Day 10 – A camp is found and I pull in for the evening. I am simply too exhausted to cook, so it’s bird food then time for bed. Dinner is an apple, dried beef, chips/picante, and hard candy, all sand proof. After looking into the cooler, it’s clear that the raw meat needs to be cooked, or lose it. The wind howls into the evening. Maybe it will be calm by morning. I hate sandy food, and all who cooked last night ate exactly that. Outfitters don’t have a choice. They have to serve sanded food once in awhile. This is a large heavily camped beach, with a full complement of ravenous red ants. I spray my feet with deet, then spray a circle around the kitchen area. Ants won’t cross for a good two hours, time enough, so long as I don’t step on the line. Do that, and they will quickly funnel in through the gap and attack.
Day 11 – Off the beach after breakfast, and on down to Deer Creek, THE most visited place on a Grand Canyon river trip. There are hundreds of river tourists here, along with many river guides who have lots of interesting stories.
The Park Service removed the Cool Tube so no privacy or quiet time at Deer anymore. That’s okay I guess. The lower waterfall at Deer is the most sublime in the Canyon, and there’s probably 200 people here, and another seventy-five up top. Popular place. I was speaking with a European gentleman, explaining that there is a small opening behind the lower waterfall about twenty feet up from the pool, leading to a giant cave that snakes around under Grand Canyon for hundreds of miles. He bit, but I’m sure his trip leader set him straight. It’s all in fun, and I would never fib to hurt anyone.
I leave Deer Creek Falls around noon to secure an early camp. It was looking like afternoon rain, so I swing into Poncho’s Kitchen which has a large overhang and protection from both wind and rain. No guilt. I plan on offering a double camp to whomever needs it. And sure enough, in comes Scottie and his fleet of blue Wilderness rafts, looking for a camp after Deer Creek. They fed me dinner and breakfast, and it was a fun evening communing with new boatmen and passengers from around the world. This is one of the great beauties of a solo raft trip, camping and hanging out with different folks from all over.
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The Recorder – All these solo floats of mine are accompanied by a musical instrument. One year it was a flute, which ended up being tedious and a bit of trouble, so I brought the recorder down this time. It’s a simple small wind instrument that sounds a bit flute-like, is easily stored, and cinch to play. I play in camp after dinner and in smooth flat morning water when the winds are calm. The sound of music reflecting off canyon walls is sublime. Any musician who has ever played down here knows this perfectly well. I know a couple Bach clavichord training pieces, and a few of my own compositions. I don’t mind playing them over and over, as the sound reflecting back to me from canyon walls is never quite the same, and always beautiful. Sometimes the animals perk up and listen, bighorn in particular. If they’re butting heads across the street, they will stop and listen to the music. If the animals stop to listen I just keep on playing notes whether it’s a song or not. The ravens are sometimes pretty hilarious about it and will sing back with their own interesting songs. I’ll throw them a tidbit if they sing good, though it’s never enough. They want a full Snicker bar for their performance.
The binos: I have always carried binoculars downstream. Everyone does. It’s a good way to get a close look at rapids, wildlife, geology, and the girls at camp across the street. Normally six to eight power is about all that’s practical, but this time I found a better way. Canon makes a 10x electronically stabilized set of eyes. It’s impossible to hand-hold 10x glass without major vibration. Push the button on these and the jitters stop immediately and stay that way until releasing the button. The extra things one can see with that kind of magnification is gratifying: Bugs, clouds, walls, birds, everything looks better at 10x. Surprisingly, the twin triple A batteries lasted the entire twenty days. That glass is my new best friend on the river. They aren’t waterproof however, just water resistant. They would be doomed if dropped in the river. Optically they are just average. They aren’t that good in low light, and not as sharp as Leitz or Zeiss. For the price though, they can’t be beat.
The Starry night – The first four days floating were rainy and overcast. When it cleared, it stayed that way for the rest of the journey. At night I would lie there looking up at the night sky for hours, sometimes looking through binoculars. Since that air polluting coal fired power plant in Page was shut down, the atmosphere in Grand Canyon is back to being clear and bright. It is in fact my first time in thirty-five years to be on the river without dirty air, and thank the stars my vision is still good at this age. The air is mighty clear now, and oh my goodness, the night sky is quite populated. It’s fun watching the low orbit spy satellites fly by. Is that one ours, or theirs? Can they see me? What do they think of this lonely boat on the river? Is it a spy platform? Paranoia strikes deep. Into your heart it will creep. Hehe. I’m a rock-n-roller from the sixties.
**** Sometimes friends comment on these journeys down river. Here are a couple of them:
“She is a mistress, this canyon of yours. You long for her sweet smell and languid curves that belie her nature. She makes you wait to gain your strength… no ordinary lover will she have. For she will take the best of you.
She is a lover, a vixen, a temptress you cannot refuse. She knows your hand… so steady, so familiar on her face she almost sleeps. You have mapped her body and studied her depths. And yet, each time with her will be exactly like the first… dangerous and uncharted. She is a river. She is an ocean. She is a goddess and you are her constant companion.
All the secrets that are shared upon that bed of rolling current are kept between the walls… between the veil of dawn and dusk… a tryst, a turn, a little death. And she, the fairest of them all, may bring you to your knees and make you gasp for air. But you will thank her, once again, for feeling life so dear.” – Lisa Lemole
After telling the solo story at a dinner party, my friend texted me this:
“… Then there was the solo Kon-Tiki tripped out pontoon raft viewing, followed by Bruce’s fact filled description of his 20 plus day solo whitewater Grand Canyon adventure. A water sleigh ride through epic rapids, pounding him endlessly day after day. And the revelation of his commitment, 47 trips down the river, of which eleven were SOLO. He should write a book, about his grit and age defiance on steroids. We your fans await! And what a sweet side note at the end, that the two of you [ Bruce’s wife now] actually first met in the Canyon on the river from two separate trips! Thank you for a wonderful evening, Richard and Eugenia.”
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Day 11 – I’m off the beach at Poncho’s around 8am, mile 137.5, hoping to make some distance before the headwinds fire up. There’s a gibbous moon setting and off we go. Row, row, row harder. A little later I have half the sandwich Scottie gave me, along with some potato chip dust. It’s good fuel and we sally forth on downstream. I only make about 12 miles and spot the Kiwi’s river left. There’s two small camps there, so I take the lower one and call it a night. It’s a sweet spot out of the wind and deep enough not to get beached in the night. The cot is far from the boat and out of sight, so no checking anyway. The water level changes by only 2,000 cfs these days so becoming stranded isn’t a big risk. Back in the eighties the water could go up and down by 30,000cfs over night! That’s fifteen times greater than the water changes on this trip. In those days if the water was going down at night, someone had to stay awake and push the raft off every twenty or thirty minutes. If the pusher boatman overslept for an hour, the boat would be hopelessly grounded until late afternoon the next day. Ah, the good old days.
Nigel drops in and helps change out a broken oar blade. It took about forty-five minutes. I sure appreciated that, as it was a two-person chore. Equipment is old and breaking. It just needs to hold up for a couple more weeks. The New Zealanders are such nice folks, and I hope to travel their way one day. And of course I would run a few of their rivers while out there. New Zealand has some world class whitewater.
Had a cold filet migñon for dinner. I need the protein. There’s about three thousand calories per day going into the old food processor, and it seems barely enough. Upset Rapid clocks in tomorrow. It will be big so it should be scouted.
Day 12 – Up with the sun. The load/unload here is up a steep hill and there’s a fall or two moving gear down to the boat. It’s deep sand so no injuries or loss of gear. Havasu is coming up today. Not much to see there anymore, as all the travertine dams were blown out by a flash flood some years back.
Upset Rapid has the biggest waves of the trip so far. It’s run to the left and what a merry ride. The muav limestone is at river level through here, and it looks like those carved stone statues the Rapa Nui left on the Easter Islands there in Polynesia. The tail of the rapid spun the raft round and round about four times. That’s a new personal record.
Past Havasu now, and what an excellent morning on the water. Since everyone is up above at Havasu, there’s no one floating below except me, which makes for the most pleasant drifting of the trip so far. There is so much to see, hear, and do in these parts, so just enough oar strokes are put in to stay in the current and not one stroke more. Well now, here come the up-canyon winds, shortly followed by the drone of motor-rigs. We play campsite poker all morning. Gab, gab, gab. The lonely boatman cries, “Peace, peace, but there is no peace.” About mid-morning the river becomes fairly placid again, and there is no one in sight. There’s a young bighorn sheep down at the river, just sprouting its horns. It’s a welcome respite after the motor-rigs pass by. Don’t get me wrong. I drove motor-rigs down here for three seasons, and would’t trade that experience for any other.
Once in awhile a couple male bighorns mosey down to the beach across the street to butt heads. When they smack together it sounds like a gunshot. They go on with it for five or ten minutes, then disappear back into the canyons. Their camouflage is excellent and they’re hard to spot when up against the wall. A rare white one used to hang out in Spectre Chasm, though I didn’t see it this time around. It has probably aged out by now and passed on. I was never able to get a closeup photograph, as it was definitely camera shy.
After arriving at Fern Glen around lunchtime, the decision is made to camp here. The commercial yellow row boats are there too, having lunch and doing the side hike up to the falls. Their boatmen wander over to lecture me about my camping practices. The two gals start ragging on me about putting my cot so close to the river, then continue on about how tacky it looks, and that other passing trips shouldn’t have to look at that. Also, as a solo boat I shouldn’t be taking up such a big beach. Just who the hell do they think they are, the corridor social directors? That bunch does seem to have a proclivity for complaining. I became a bit agitated with the whole affair so I turn to their their trip leader Tim to have a word. I says to him softly, and out of earshot of his guests, “If you don’t get these two women off my ass, I’m going to duck tape their mouths shut!” There was a pregnant silence as they eased off and huddled a few yards away. They came back shortly and apologized for the encounter. I couldn’t figure that out. Why apologize after harassing me all the way down the river? Maybe they found out that I used to be a guide down here or something. I really don’t know. Remember, this is the group at the put-in who told me I couldn’t stay at various places because those were “their” company camps. They gingerly left the beach and that was the last I saw of them.
Later on that day, a two boat Canyoneer motor-rig trip pulled in looking for a hotel. I invite them in and what a great evening we had! There was AJ, Shoney, Ethan, and Conner. I worked for Canyoneers back in the early eighties so there was much to talk about. The owner, Gaylord Staveley, is in his nineties and still has his mind, so I ask the crew to thank him for giving me a chance when I had no boating experience whatsoever. They fed me dinner and breakfast, though not because I needed the food. It was so we didn’t have to set up two kitchens and two porta-potties on the same beach. Logistics man. AJ snuck away from the crowd and was trying to nap between the tubes. And though his eyes were closed, there was a tortured grimace on his face from the back pain. I know that look. After doing the motor-rig deal for three years, it was necessary to have three back surgeries during the subsequent seven years. That’s the price of driving motor-rigs sometimes, yet we still do it for love of the canyon. No regrets. It’s the opposite result for row rigs, which tend to strengthen a back. Oarsmen smile knowingly.
The Canyoneer crew were all fascinated with the cataraft, so I let each of them row my little cat-boat around in the eddy for awhile. There was some trepidation on my part, but they did just fine. Later that evening I took out the Uv flashlights and we all went scorpion hunting. About half of their customers had never seen a scorpion. There are two types of Uv flashlights: 365nm and 385nm. The 365 is the best for spotting scorpions. There are other bugs that light up as well. The scorpion hunt was a big hit.
Day 13 – It was great fun catching upon on Canyoneer history as I bid farewell to their cast and crew the next morning. I am alone once again in the canyon, and I decide to layover here at Fern Glen. It’s a beautiful place and well worth an extra day here. Who will I camp with tonight? The Kiwis dropped in for awhile for a day hike then moseyed on downstream. Later on a commercial row trip drops in looking for a camp. CRATE was the name of it, an acronym for Colorado River And Trail Expeditions out of Fredonia. I chat awhile with their TL, then invite them in. Their crew is: John Toner the TL, Max, Abel, Sybrena, Allison, Brent, and Chase. Nice folks one and all.
Day 14 – They fed me breakfast and coffee. They were appreciative for the double camp and I enjoyed their company. I ask if they will run the Falls with me for safety. They say yes, so there we shall meet for the run of Lava Falls Rapid, the most famous stretch of whitewater on planet earth. I leave camp first and they’ll catch up after their hike up to the waterfall.
This raft is the slowest boat on the river and I’m not sure why. There’s shade for a bit, then here comes the sun, along with the upstream winds that go with it. Despite the wind it is a beautiful morning. It’s exciting to think about seeing all these lava flows as they happened a million years ago, and the 800’ high waterfalls each would have created. All this flat water above the Falls belies the chaos to come. I will be tired before even getting there. Must row though, so John and his crew don’t have to wait for me.
Hands and feet are beginning to crack from exposure to so much sun, wind, and water. I have no hand softener, so sunscreen is used as a substitute. Not great, but better than nothing.
The running of Lava Falls – Everyone goes up top for a look, and there’s the usual boatmen confabulations about how to run it. None of that really matters though, and it’s mostly for commercial customers to see what the rapid looks like. In lower water like this, only the right run is open, and the current will take you where it wants to go. That’s it, no choice. It’s pretty big business down there, and into the maw we go, Gato Azul and I. A scissor turn here, one there, then line up for the two big waves down below, wham-bam past the cheese grater rock then out. It was in fact the cleanest run of Lava Falls I’ve ever made. We handled it with aplomb and it was a good run. After pulling in river left behind cheese-grater, I sit tight and run safety for the blue boats. The commercials did fine as well, no flips, no drips, no errors. Once everyone is through safely, we drift on down below for lunch.
CRATE serves lunch on the shaded tappeats shelves below. Being a bit wet and cold I opt for the sunny eddie across from them. Round and round I go while eating lunch. It feels good to be down below the big rapid now. Onward ho, and it’s time to make miles.
The columnar jointing below here is stunning, and continues for a good twenty miles. This jointing consists of six-sided vertical crystals of various sizes. Some of the faces are only a few inches wide, while some can be measured in feet. Crystals are formed when molten minerals cool slowly, in this case basalt. The cooling time determines the size of the crystals. All are spectacular. Fluting of rock near the river happens when water flows over the rock for millions of years, thereby sculpting it. All rock formations down here will flute and schist is the most sinuous and beautiful of it all. Add to that the columnar jointing and some unusual rock formations occur. Fluted schist is found in only a few places on the planet, and in abundance here in Grand Canyon.
As lava flowed over the cliffs and down into Grand Canyon, massive dams formed and the river stopped at each one, forming a lake. There are remnants of numerous 500-800’ high lava dams on river left and right. It would have been quite something to watch the river turn into a series of lakes. Once filled, the lava dams would become massive river-wide waterfalls. Just one of those dams would have made a lake all the way back to the put-in at Lees Ferry, 179 miles back upstream, and would have left one very big and challenging rapid to run. And the curious boatman wanders aimlessly around in the past.
It’s time once again to make miles against the wind, so downstream it is, hoping for around twenty miles or so. The current is decent through here and that helps. I’m tired of looking at maps and bargaining for camp, so it’s just rowing until the sun gets low, then a stop on river right to camp. It’s a major camp, but I have no idea which one, and have no idea where I am for the moment. That’s okay.
A raven dropped by for a chat near the boat. We agree not to talk politics. It just wants a Snicker Bar. Since I have none, it will have to settle for whatever I toss it’s way. Since there’s no ice, it’s going to get a cooked but spoiled filet migñon. I toss it one and man, the bird is in hog heaven about it. It flies off squawking the whole way home. Too bad I was unable to eat all those. The remaining meat will have to be thrown out from spoilage. It lasted for two weeks. Not bad for a summer trip, not bad at all. It will be dried jerky and bird food from here on out, unless a motor-rig slings me some food and ice, which is a possibility. Being a former motor-rig pilot, I may be able to finagle something.
From this camp is a first glimpse of the White Wall. It’s about 800’ thick and the top most rock layer of the Canyon. It’s off in the distance and quite a sight. It turns deep orange as the sun sets on it. And here I sit, 3500’ below the rim, right here on this river, enjoying the show, for twenty straight days and nights.
I sit in the shade of the umbrella while waiting for the sun to fall behind the cliffs, after which time the whole camp/dinner affair moves ashore. Every part of my body is tired, right down to my toenails. I’ll feel better in the morning. Ha! Famous last words. The Raven returned about an hour later so I gave it a stale lamb chop. It was sing-song happy about that one as well. It grabbed the meat and took off for the evening. Sometimes those affairs end up as a mid-air dog-fight however. One evening a red-tailed hawk dove from above and whacked the crow, dislodging the meat from its mouth. The prize is now free falling down towards the river. The hawk went into a high speed tuck hoping to snag it mid-air, but the morsel hit the river, sunk, and became fish food.
The cot is set up 15’ from the river, then the area is wetted down with the only remaining bucket. Doing so reduces the local temperature by about seven degrees, and the added rise in humidity is a bonus. I wolf down some food, and it’s now time for binoculars, stars, galaxies, satellites, and sleep. Oh man, oh man! With the new binoculars I spot a spiral galaxy. Beautiful. I wonder how many millions of light years away it is. Right now we live in an expanding universe. One day gravity will cajole it into a contracting one. All that matter and energy will coalesce into a pinpoint then KABOOM, the really big bang creates an all new universe, starting the process over for another 45 billion years; new galaxies, new stars, new planets, new life. Think about such things one will, while staring at the sky, lying in bed, on a solo Grand Canyon river trip. Now below Lava Falls Rapid, the relief is welcome and I must say, ‘twas an exhilarating day, and certainly one of the best of my life. Thanks to Mother Nature for this, the most sublime and spectacular place on planet earth. Good night and pleasant dreams.
Day 15 – Nice night. Good sleep. Time to load up and make some miles into a headwind. Most commercial passengers either chopper out at Whitmore or bus out at Diamond Creek, which are in this area. Seems a shame to miss so much of the Canyon, but that’s the most profitable business model.
Passed the Kiwis this morning. No whitewater on this stretch. Rowing is done early, hoping to avoid those relentless afternoon up canyon winds. The river is at its most placid here at about mile 193. All the ancillary shore sounds can be heard: Bugs, birds, and the occasional pebble falling from cliffs. It’s a beautiful aural and visual morning. I don’t disturb the water with oars unless necessary. Well, here comes a riffle. Silence over. This kind of quiet is almost impossible on a group trip. It’s another strong selling point for the solo float, and an endearing quality of the river from time to time.
It’s amazing how far down canyon the lava flowed. There must have been quite a few eruptions in the area. A welcome bit of shade arrives from the skies above. Great, a brief cool-down. The shores are now dotted with Ocotillo Cactus. We’re entering the Mojave Dessert life zone, which is another way of saying that it’s London Broil down here during the summer months. It’s not too bad today however. Still, it’s hot out here in the flats so out comes the umbrella. I forgot about the extension pole while unpacking, and it promptly fell into the river and sank. It isn’t used on the raft, just the beach. The river always claims a few pieces of gear. It’s the nature of things on a river trip. We’re now drifting by Parashant Canyon. A person could hike all the way out of the Canyon from here. Not many side canyons offer that.
205 Mile Rapid – Holy smokes! Biggest I’ve ever seen it. Low water increases the size of most rapids down here. It was a merry ride and luckily the waves didn’t grab the umbrella, which I forgot to take down. The hardest part of running 205 Mile Rapid is staying off the wall down below. Big work. The fun part here is a giant eddy which allows one to run the rapid over and over. After about five rounds with it, I quit and head on downstream. Later on it’s a pull-in to Indian Camp for the evening. It’s a bit early but I’m tired of rowing the flats, and the camp has early shade against the wall. The skies are stark clear blue, and not a cloud in sight. It’s the Mojave alright. Barrel cactus grow sideways out of solid rock. Across the street is a giant lava sill. There would have been scores of lakes behind a number of lava dams that proceeded down canyon for many miles. Hard to imagine, and quite a spectacle it must have been; A series of deep lakes with seven hundred foot high waterfalls. However today on planet Earth it is far more tame than the Pleistocene Epoch, and fortunately, without the likes of T-Rex or Velociraptor chasing me down for dinner.
A couple motor-rigs whiz by full blast, so it must be around 4 o’clock. The kitchen hasn’t been pulled out in days. No frozen food left, so no need to. It’s nuts, granola, and jerked meat from here on out. It’s the home stretch now but there’s still a world of things left to see and do. The last danger is 232 mile rapid, colloquially known as “Killer Fang.” I’ll fuss with it when I get there in a few days. That one is a boat wrecker like no other down here.
Day 16 – I’m up early to walk the side canyon. It’s nothing spectacular, but new to me. Breakfast is nut-mix, chips, and dried fruit. I’m officially tired of the rig-derig deal. Maybe a layover here would be good….
Off the beach at Indian Canyon around 8am, no layover and on we go, rowing the flats with a few rapids sprinkled in. A prayer is offered to the god of wind for a quiet day on the river.
209 Mile Rapid – There’s a wicked shelf on the right which should be avoided. It’s not that hard to do frankly, and the raft ambled on by the shelf without incident. One day in the eighties John Gray, a friend of mine and fellow boatman, decided to run that hole in a 40’ Canyoneer motor-rig. It didn’t go well. The aluminum boat frame was so severely damaged that it couldn’t be repaired or used again. Also a few of the passengers got bruised up on that ill-advised run, including me. Gaylord (owner of the company) left the mangled frame hanging up in the shop for awhile, as a reminder not to pull stupid stunts on the river with HIS equipment.
A couple of Western motor-rigs jet by and we all end up at Pumpkin Springs. It’s the usual boatmen chit-chat, and they throw me a welcome block of ice. Cool. River left is columnar basalt, sitting atop fluted Tappeats sandstone. It is austere desert beauty, while slowly drifting downstream this morning. It’s getting too hot to be in the sun so out comes the umbrella.
After 217 mile rapid it would appear we are now in noseeum bug biting territory. Beggars. I had forgotten about that. Out comes the bug spray. One of the endearing aspects of a river trip here is the low bug count and zero mosquitos. Virtually no other environment on planet Earth can claim zero mozzies, except for maybe the polar ice caps. There were stops to look at a few of the camps in the 220’s, out of nostalgia and curiosity. This area is last camp for a lot of the outfitters. The ground is hard packed, abused, and riddled with ants and micro-trash, but stay here they do. There aren’t many viable camps below, and staying too far above throws the schedule off.
Onward ho, hoping the first camp below Diamond Creek Rapid is available. The rapid is entered on the right side and half way through, that first camp comes into view. Voila! The camp is empty and it’s mine all mine. Most excellent. The raft is pulled in, tied up, and the chair and umbrella are set up until the sun is gone in about thirty minutes. It was a fifteen mile row, with a few rapids and a bonus camp at the end. Living large today no doubt.
There were two more days left before needing to pass Diamond Creek, but there’s nothing much to do above Diamond and plenty to do down here. This camp is used occasionally so the red ants are out marauding as usual. Every body part is sprayed liberally with deet while relaxing in the lounge chair. Out front old man river rolls on, trying its best to get to the ocean. It used to, and it will again one day. It seems odd that untold millions of people in California drink the mighty Colorado River dry every single day. Not one drop from here makes it to the ocean anymore.
John and his CRATE crew roll in for another double camp. There’s much fussing about trying to get all the rafts tied off, as it isn’t a good beach for multiple craft. They finally get tied off, the kitchen unloaded, and it’s another pleasant evening indeed. I enjoy the company.
Of the three distinct life zones on a Grand Canyon River trip, we are now in the Mojave, the last one. Showing up on shore now are the zone distinct cacti; Prickly Pear, Barrel, Saguaro, and Ocotillo. And there are other exotic desert dwellers, only found in the lower canyons. It’s the desert alright, with heat to match. It’s a different world down here from where the trip started.
Day 17 – John and his crew fed me breakfast then we’re off to Travertine Springs to enjoy the waterfalls. After about an hour there, it’s time to get serious about running 232 mile rapid: Killer Fang. It’s named that for good reason. We all stop to scout it on river left. Down below right in the middle of the rapid is a large sculpted line of sharp Vishnu Schist fangs. To go over that in a raft means certain and severe damage. Life threatening? Yes it is. At flows above 14 thousand cubic feet per second, the fang rocks disappear and it becomes an easy rapid to run. Today 232 is running about 10k, and it is downright evil down there. HayZeus Marimba, this thing gives me the shivers.
There’s a big rock and pour over on the far left bank. Theoretically, running left of that big rock then down the pour-over should put a raft well left of the fang rocks below. To me it doesn’t look runnable over there but the guides assure me that it is. I ask if I can run last in order to watch their run. They agree. Into the maw we go and sure enough, the far left run puts us all well away from the sharp fangs and we’re out! I row over toward the fangs to get a closer look, knowing they can’t get me now. And brother are they dangerous, sitting right there in the middle of the rapid, waiting to rip apart anything that comes their way. This place has wrecked many a boat over the years, and a few have died trying. It is the most dangerous stretch of water in Grand Canyon at these low flows, and one good reason many trips take out above at Diamond Creek. It’s expensive to take out at Diamond though, as the Hualapai Indian Tribe charges huge fees for the privilege.
Down below we all stop to shake out the jitters. They give me a sandwich for lunch and we split up from there. I have no idea what time it is, but I pull over for half of that sandwich. This stretch of river has the finest fluted schist of the whole trip. It is absolutely gorgeous sculpture. The hand of man could do no better. I am alone on the river once again.
Bridge Canyon Camp looks good for the evening. It is the last of the whitewater and I savor the sound of it. Bridge Canyon is an emotional place. There was this BuRec engineer named Floyd Domini, who had the bright idea of damming up the Grand Canyon so Los Angeles could have cheap drinking water. He cleverly renamed a part of the maps in Grand Canyon, and called it Glen Canyon. Since no one ever heard of “Glen Canyon” he was able to get permission to put a dam in just above Lees Ferry at a narrow part of the canyon, which now forms Lake Powell. This dam destroyed much of our national heritage. A heritage that will be under water for all time. ‘Tis ashame that Domini and his cohorts were able to pull the wool over American sensibilities by damming up a river and wrecking a huge part of Grand Canyon, our most famous and treasured National Park. Floyd Domini, I spit on your grave, along with all the other politicians who allowed this travesty. Grand Canyon would be twice the size, were it not for that god forsaken dam up above.
Anyway, the journey is nearing its end. Soon now I will be drifting a dead river on its way to a dead reservoir, all because Los Angeles demanded cheap drinking water. Let them drink salt and sand. I envy those river runners of the past who could drift the Colorado River all the way to the ocean down through Baja, Mexico. Such opportunity is now lost and gone forever, like tears in rain.
It’s a steep hike up the sandy shore to make it to camp here at Bridge Canyon, and there are red ants and flies everywhere. No problem, there’s plenty of bug spray and no need to be cooking this far downstream. Been camping a lot with John and his blue boats lately. They have had two passenger exchanges and three different groups of people on their trip. Seems like almost every day there are new passengers. Crazy, but that’s their business model. Lots of helicoptering in and out of customers. Never seen anything like it.
I’ve dined with commercial outfitters often on this trip. Not because I wanted their food, but rather they wanted my camp, and they are always welcome. It’s still a solo float however. Nobody but me runs this boat down the river, through the longest and most storied stretch of navigable whitewater in the world. It’s 280 miles of canyon, carved by nature for over ten million years. Only a handful of people over the last 150 years have run it solo. There’s a few who didn’t make it. It’s always a risk no matter how good you are.
It’s a steep hike up soft sand to a flat spot for the cot. Hmm, this must be a popular stop. There are flies and red ants everywhere. No problem. There’s plenty of bug spray left, and the kitchen will stay packed away. The stove hasn’t been unpacked in quite awhile.
I’ve been camping and dining with CRATE lately. Their guests enjoy new stories, scorpion hunting and the like. I enjoy meeting new people, and the guides as well. Their trip leader, John Toner, runs a good fun trip.
A non-commercial trip passed me by headed for Pearce Ferry, and they plan on floating through the night. I may do the same. Silt bars litter this stretch for at least forty miles. Fall asleep and one may find themselves quietly stuck on a sand bar, thirty miles from the destination, which would add another one to two days to the schedule. I may try and do that stretch by day, don’t know yet.
Dinner tonight? A pastrami and cheese sandwich, courtesy of my good friends at CRATE. They are ahead of me now and it’s doubtful I will see them again. They were fun boatmen/boatwomen. I enjoyed their company with gusto. They also gave me three sodas and ice enough to keep them cool. I am eternally grateful for such things this far down the run.
Their company operates out of Freedonia, right next to their sister city, Paydonia. I found CRATE to be a top shelf outfitter whom I would be proud to work for. So thanks again to you John, and your friendly capable river guides. You made my trip more enjoyable indeed.
I miss my wife. I miss the dogs. I miss my friends and neighbors. I will see them before long. For now, I am still smack in the middle of my favorite place on Planet Earth, still giddy as a kid with a new trike. Though close to the end, it ain’t over yet.
Man, the red ants are fanatical here at Bridge Canyon. I liberally spray their nest down with deet, which will keep them occupied for awhile. Well, now it’s sprinkling again, so I rig that crummy green tarp over the cot to keep the bedding dry in case of a downpour. Well, here comes the wind, but at least the rain stopped. Rain in the Mojave Desert, what a riot. This is the driest real estate in the country, but not this evening.
It’s getting dark, it’s windy as hell now, and that muddy rain keeps spitting at me. By gawd I’m filing a complaint with the Park Service about all this brew-ha-ha. They need to run a tighter ship down here. So I eat something, don’t even know what, then get out the stabilized binoculars for a few hours of stargazing after the rain let’s up.
Well up above at the South Rim is the top rock layer, the so-called White Wall which is made of Kaibab limestone. There are untold thousands of people up there looking down here, hoping to get a fleeting glimpse of the river. In fact, the river is rarely seen from the rim. One can drive/hike for miles up top and never catch a glimpse of the river. One of those few places is Hermit camp. One evening in the summer someone shined a flashlight down my way at this camp, so I got out my highly focused flashlight and we all played flashlight tag for a spell.
Day 18 – Woke up to sprinkles of rain, so I don the tarp and umbrella. Sheesh. I’ve never seen such an extended on-off rain event down here. No matter. Bedding is still dry and so am I. This is the day I was supposed to pass Diamond Creek, so I’m running a little early. Life is mighty good here at Bridge Canyon. It’s got it all: A deep port, nice cot spot, shade, noise from the rapid, maniacal red ants, and a partridge in a pear tree. This will be a layover, so an extended side hike, breakfast, and some binocular gazing across the street are in order. John from CRATE invited me to attend the GCRG gathering at the Hatch warehouse. It’s a yearly three day event for professional guides to get together, to both have fun and talk business. I may go. Any reason to get near the river again is good.
After breakfast it’s time for a hike. Note that the hike up to the bridge is an easy trail to start, but most of the way up it is serious bouldering. This morning’s jaunt was really neat. I was in the creek bed on the way up when stopped dead in my tracks. Just ahead is a big mature pink diamondback rattler laying quietly in the creek bed, right where I was fixing to step, waiting for a rodent I presume. I had heard about these, but never in thirty-two years out West had I ever actually seen a pink rattlesnake, and wondered if they really existed. We sized each other up and decided we were no threat to each other. I crouched down to its level then sat motionless, about three feet away. It didn’t display a warning rattle or any other aggression. The snake seems unconcerned, so we sat and stared at each other for awhile. It is the most beautiful reptile I have ever seen down here, or anywhere else for that matter. I guessed it to be about six feet long, and maybe 9” thick. I bet it weighed fifteen or twenty pounds, and its bright pink color against those jet black diamonds was haltingly beautiful. I was close enough to see the slits in its lavender eyes. After a few minutes of tolerating each other’s company, it eased off to the right and into its dark sandstone cave on creek right, about ten feet away. Its cave was the perfect snake hacienda. It never rattled, nor did I, and it was an altogether pleasant encounter. Sometimes it pays to get off the beaten path. An event like this is one of the beauties of running the river alone.
On up to the bridge, and now I remember how easy it would be to twist or break an ankle on this hike. The bridge is worth the effort though, and I hang out for about thirty minutes, then it’s back down to camp, being careful not to step on any rattlesnakes. It’s one of the best natural bridges of the whole trip, but few ever come up here. It’s a dicey hike, even for the most agile rockstars.
Man, five groups dropped in to chat today. Of note was the NAU trip with boats full of Rhodes Scholars. The Rhodes folks were a pleasure. I asked one of the ladies I met to be sure to tell their well educated friends about what a fabulous and important place this is. “Tell them how truly fortunate we are to have this very grand canyon here in the United States, where it can be protected and appreciated. True, not everyone can come down here to personally see the river, but knowing it’s here should be enough. Tell them all of that would you please, and tell them how much greater it could be if the river were allowed to flow free and un-dammed. Tell them, and thank you for taking the time and making the effort to educate yourself into becoming Rhodes Scholars, and thank you for coming down here on your NAU sponsored river trip. Have a safe and enjoyable journey through my favorite place in the world. You are now important ambassadors for the protection of the Park.” After my little talk there was a halting silence, and the lady stood there speechless for a moment. Her eyes watered a bit, and she told me not to worry, and that she would tell her friends what I said. The rest had quietly gathered close around me to hear the conversation, and to ask questions. I showed them my raft and explained how it all worked, and what it meant to run this river solo, and then they were off.
It’s going to be crowded at the few beaches below. Many trips passed by today, and most would be pleased to stay at this one. I offered double camps to all who came by, but the pull-in was too dicey so onward ho they go, playing their best campsite poker. Rowing early as I do, it’s rarely necessary to negotiate for camps.
Beach reality: I have never seen so damn many flies at the dinner table in my life. Ants and flies know exactly what time dinner is on, and those four table posts in the sand are a dead giveaway, and there’s not even any food out yet. Several drops of rain hit my bare shoulders, which means a halt to dinner prep and rain proofing the area. Flies, ants, rain, and a setting sun signal the end of this day. Sheesh, it was a busy little sunset. A couple Western motor-rigs cruise by, moving with authority. It’s quite late to be looking for a camp. They may end up cooking on the boat and sleeping their guests on the boat as well if they can’t find a camp. We did that on a Canyoneer trip back in the eighties. It wasn’t pretty, but the guests were good sports about it and we got everyone fed and bedded down for the evening while drifting downstream.
Well now, here comes the evening up canyon wind, just in time to blow sand on everyone’s dinner. I don’t fall for it and wait another hour before dragging out anything to eat. It’s getting late, and the flies and red ants have begun to retreat for the evening. The ants are given a bit of extra incentive with a drenching circle of deet sprayed into the sand around the table. They respond accordingly and bug out for the evening. It isn’t e=mc2 down here.
Looking out at the river, it’s running clear again. All those early flash floods have finally run out of gas. The river is sharp looking when clear, and the trout are easily spotted, though most of the fish this far down are bass and suckers. Those striped bass can easily reach eighty pounds and it’s a long arduous fight to land one that big. They are damn good eating though. A bit of a rainbow shows up east of here. Nice touch and a pleasant way to end the day. The clouds are turning orange so the kitchen is shut down and the cot prepared for sleep. Brush brush brushing of teeth, floss, a pill or two then off to bed. Good night my friend, and pleasant dreams.
Day 19 – Up early. Slept well with the last sounds of whitewater still with me. The bats make their last sweep and head home. After breakfast it’s off the beach for the run of Bridge Canyon Rapid. It was a fun splash, and it’s on downstream. There’s a few more riffles below that might have been rapids before the dam at Lake Mead. After the rapid I turn and gaze back upstream, thankful to dear Mother Nature for carving out the most magnificent canyon on Earth. I drop my head and close my eyes in melancholy remembrance. All those former rapids below are now lost under the lake. There’s a lonely little riffle up ahead called Seperation. I turn to it, square up the raft, and run it like it was Lava Falls. It’s the last one.
Man, Separation Riffle is trying it’s darn best to become a rapid again. Surprisingly, Lava Cliff Rapid still has a push to it. This used to be the biggest rapid down here. It will come back to life one day, though not in my lifetime, and not at my age. Onward ho with not much wind yet and that’s a blessing. The silt bars begin showing up now, 50’ high some of them. The thought of a lake this far back into Grand Canyon is somewhat depressing. I row on. Sheesh, there must have been 15 tourist helicopters rage by right at sunset. Less thermals later in the day I guess. What a noisy conflagration of clueless sightseers. Pulled in for the night on a small silt island. Great. No ants or bugs here, and it’s nice and cool. It’s dead quiet now. It’s almost spooky how quiet the place is. A bit of stale food is pulled out. There’s still some apples. Apples, they are the single best food source to have on a long wilderness trip. Good deal. Once again it’s a flashlight dinner in the dark on the boat.
Day 20 – Last day. I awake with the morning light to a calm quiet river. There’s a few birds hunting early, along with the odd bug, aimlessly prattling about in the sand. Looking out at these stately walls, I feel a bit small and insignificant in the presence of the immense architecture before me. Books don’t do it justice. My eyes don’t see what’s truly there. My mind cannot possibly know what it means to be an everyday part of this place. The Anasazi tribes knew better than the rest. Generation after generation of their clan garnered the deepest understanding of where they were, and what it took to remain there, for hundreds and hundreds of years. They knew the canyon alright, and knew it well. Their settlements at Nankoweap and elsewhere provided food, shelter, and protection from the marauders above. I would like to have met them. I would like to have given some of them passage down the river. But even that would be wrong. After exiting the canyon, there would be no way for them to return to Nankoweap Valley alive. Yeah yeah, more mindless rumination.
The raft is loaded and off the little silt bar we go, just drifting for now, enjoying the cool quiet morning. It’s bittersweet leaving this small island. I turn the raft to look up canyon, wishing I could stay. There’s a million reasons why I can’t, so I swing the raft around and it’s on down to the takeout.
Grand Canyon ends abruptly. 3,500’ high cliff walls shoot straight down to the flat and seemingly infinite Mojave desert. It’s visually and psychologically bone jarring. Up ahead I can see the truck sitting on top of a hill. Alright, good deal. The shuttle was successful and I should be off the river and on the road shortly.
Around the corner and onto the takeout beach and there’s Tom and Hazel to greet me. I couldn’t believe it, they came to greet me off the river! I was so excited to see them and start telling stories, but they couldn’t stay long so we briefly spoke and then they were off. At no time in 35 years has anyone seen me off AND welcomed me back from a river trip. They are dear friends, and have been for over thirty years. After arriving at Pearce Ferry, there’s three other parties taking out so it’s a bit crowded. After backing the trailer in, I normally manhandle the raft onto it, but not today. The current was too swift to get it on, so a couple people came over and helped me out, and now it’s time to rig the raft for the two thousand mile journey on the highway home.
After rigging I go up top of a hill next to the takeout to get a look at that class six un-runnable Pearce Ferry Rapid just below the takeout. It’s a monster, even at these low flows. In the old days I ran it when it was just a small rapid. Each time down it got bigger and bigger, until finally it became the most dangerous and maniacal stretch of whitewater on the river. Technically it’s not a rapid but rather, a nick point. After the last time I ran it, they built a road to the new Pearce Ferry takeout, just upstream of the nick point and thank goodness. It is no longer necessary to take my chances in that dangerous cataract just below here.
From this same hilltop I look back up to the Grand Wash Cliffs and into the Grand Canyon. I can’t help but take a deep uncontrolled breath, and then a small tear or two trickles down my face. There’s no one left at the Ferry now, and no one left to see or hear my emotions about it. Once again I am all alone with my first true love, and I must say goodbye. It was a fabulous float downstream, the best one ever, and the last of the solo sojourns. It’s on down off that hill now, and after a bit more rigging, the raft is made fast to the trailer and I’m off.
The 47th Grand Canyon river trip is now over. It was the journey beyond fantastic. I tip my hat and bow in reverence. Roll on dear river, roll on. I shall leave you now.
Finis
Bruce W. McElya – Copyright 2025